Lending a Paw(28)

Only it turned out that Stephen had convinced someone to donate insulated curtains and someone else to donate a high-efficiency space heater. November through April, Stephen’s office was the warmest in the building.

I pushed open the hinged solid slab of wood that served as the gate separating the public space from the employee area. My Saturday stint in the bookmobile collection had been productive, but there were a few things I needed to do in here. I’d originally been thrilled at the title of assistant director, but I’d quickly learned what it really meant.

“Minnie.”

I jumped. “Stephen! When did you get here?”

He had the rumpled, harried look of someone who’d been working hard for hours. Which was difficult to fathom. While Stephen was organized, effective, and politically connected, he was also of the firm belief that nothing important got done before ten in the morning, and planned his arrival at the library accordingly.

Stephen took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “I need you to put together a staff meeting for this morning. Ten o’clock in the conference room. I want everyone there.” He replaced his glasses. “Everyone. Call them all in.”

A comprehensive staff meeting two hours from now? It couldn’t be done. He knew that. He had to know that.

“Everyone,” he repeated, and this time the command was delivered with steel.

I watched him go. What being assistant director meant, at least in this library, was that I did whatever the director wanted me to do. I went straight to my office, riffled through my desk drawers for a staff directory, and picked up the phone.

It took a fair amount of cajoling and some outright bribery to get everyone to come in. Most of our staff was part-time, and many had young children who needed watching, or a second job, or both. I promised doughnuts, tracked down a high school kid to babysit in the children’s section, and swore that the meeting wouldn’t take longer than an hour.

At ten o’clock I taped signs to the exterior doors that the library would be open by eleven and shooed everyone upstairs.

Stephen had seated himself at the head of the long conference room table. He was in a pensive pose, elbows on the polished wood, fingers interlaced, brow furrowed. The chatter and laughter that had accompanied us on the climb up the stairs fell away as we entered the high-ceilinged room. The signs of pending doom were all too easy to recognize.

I came in last, closing the door behind me.

Stephen glanced around. “Is this everyone?” At my nod, he positioned his glasses on the table and rubbed at his face. Which, I noted with something akin to shock, was stubbly. Stephen was always dressed impeccably. Shoes shined, pants ironed to a crease, button-down collars buttoned firmly. I felt a twinge of misgiving.

“I’ve called you together this morning,” he said, “because I have news that could drastically change the Chilson District Library.”

The twinge became a tremor. I clasped my hands together and leaned against the wall. A chair would have been better, but the only empty one was next to Stephen, so I decided the wall was perfectly comfortable.

Stephen cleared his throat. “I assume everyone has heard the news that Stan Larabee is dead.”

Heads nodded.

“In the last two years, I’ve had many discussions with Mr. Larabee. Matter of fact, I had the privilege of getting to know him quite well.” Stephen fingered his glasses. “In his youth, Mr. Larabee was mentored by a Chilson librarian. He always felt the books he’d been encouraged to read had much to do with his financial success.”

If Stephen had called this meeting to tell us how libraries and librarians could be a power for good, I was going to—

“Which is why Mr. Larabee left a generous portion of his large fortune to our library.”

There was a short, stunned silence, which quickly erupted into a conversational babble that filled the room.

“Sweet! Can we get new computers?”

“But I thought his family would get all the money.”

“Someone told me he was going to set up a foundation, you know, one of those places that gives away a little money to lots of people.”

“I heard he was leaving everything to some university.”

Stephen thumped the table. When everyone quieted, he said, “I have no idea of the size of Mr. Larabee’s estate, or who the other beneficiaries might be. Frankly, it’s none of our business. But there is the serious matter of Mr. Larabee’s murder. Before anything else, the killer must be found. I expect the police will be questioning each of you. I also expect each of you to cooperate fully.”

And with that, he left.

The buzzing started before he’d even closed the door.