Death By Library

Death By Library

(Pismawallops PTA Mysteries #3)

by Rebecca M. Douglass

This book is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, events and places portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and are to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2019 Rebecca M. Douglass

Cover art and design by Danielle English

www.kanizo.co.uk

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 9780463465875

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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This book is available in print at many online retailers or from the author at https://www.ninjalibrarian.com /p/blog-page_11.html

Praise for the Pismawallops PTA Mysteries

For Death By Ice Cream:

This was a fun cozy mystery with lots of surprising twists and turns that had me guessing who dunnit and why right up until the end. --Ellen Jacobson, author of the Mollie McGhee Mysteries

"[I got Death By Ice Cream] from the library on Sunday and haven't been able to put it down except for life essentials since I started reading it Sunday afternoon.  It has been a long time since I have found a book so well written and with subtle humor… I was both entertained and fascinated by this delightful book and want to thank you for such a treasure." --Carol Malcom, reader, from a personal note

For Death By Trombone:

Death by Trombone is an enjoyable weekend read, sure to please fans of small town cozy mysteries. --View from the Birdhouse

Douglass has a great series here. JJ’s a colorful and complex character, well-developed and likable. --Christa Reads and Writes

For Death By Adverb:

Douglass paints a wonderful picture of the small town of Pismawallops in the Pacific Northwest, bringing to life the joys and challenges of living in a remote tight-knit island community. --Ellen Jacobson

What the reviewers say about Death By Library:

[Douglass’] writing style is punchy, sleek and enticing and I adored the glorious helping of saucy romance she artfully weaves into the story… This was an enthralling, classic whodunit with great dollops of humour thrown in and a fabulous finale. It was my first novel by this superb author, and I know it won’t be my last. --Brianne's Book Reviews

The writing is both easy reading and smart, the plot has been cleverly worked out. Red herrings abound, but no leaps of faith are needed. --Author Jemima Pett

"Death By Library… is an amusing tale of a small town, a natural disaster, and murder . . . I like the mystery, characters, and setting." --Baroness' Book Trove

CONTENTS

Title Page and copyright

Praise for the Pismawallops PTA mysteries

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Acknowledgements

About the Author

More from Rebecca M. Douglass

Death By Adverb—sample chapter

To everyone who has ever given her heart to a library, and to all those who make libraries available for us to fall into, fall in love with, and get lost in.

1

JJ, grab your purse and meet me at the end of your driveway right now! Kitty Padgett disconnected as soon as she’d delivered her message, leaving me holding a dead phone. What in the world was going on? Kitty wasn’t given to hysterics, and she never issued orders. Baffled, but responding to her urgency, I grabbed my purse. Rain drummed on the porch roof, and I added my jacket and boots.

Dag-blast it! I’d jammed the zipper again.

I shouted up the stairs to my son. Brian, Kitty needs me for something. Don’t know when I’ll be back! Finish your homework and don’t stay up late!

My sixteen-year-old grunted an unintelligible response from his room, where I hoped he was holed up with his homework rather than games and texts and the vast black hole of the Internet.

Not my problem, I reminded myself. As a high-school junior, Brian was old enough to take responsibility for his homework and his sleep. I was trying to train myself not to hover. In another two years he’d be doing it all on his own, away at college… I shook my head to derail that train of thought, and shut the door behind me. My jacket flapped open as I ran down the driveway. Within a few paces my shirt clung damply where the rain drove in.

I reached the road as Kitty pulled up with a screech of brakes. I plopped into my seat, and she took off in a squeal of tires. What happened to her usual overly-cautious approach to driving?

What the dickens is the matter, Kitty? I caught my breath and shoved strands of dripping strawberry-blonde hair back from my face. Had something happened to one of the kids? To her husband, Mike? To—my heart skipped a beat—Ron?

We are going to the school board meeting. Her words set my mind at rest about her family and my sweetheart, but left me more puzzled than ever.

The board meeting? Whatever for? In eight years on Pismawallops Island I’d never attended a school board meeting. Why should I start now? My service was to the PTA, where Kitty was the president. We had plenty to do without worrying about the district’s management.

We’re going because they are voting on the bond for the pool, and I heard there’s a movement afoot to shoot it down. Kitty’s tone, usually as moderate as her looks—understated brown hair and eyes and a pleasant smile—was sharp-edged with anger.

I suppose that’s old Fingal, I said. He’s the world’s biggest skinflint.

That’s putting it mildly. Kitty gripped the wheel and peered through the rain-streaked windshield.

I suppose he’ll say they didn’t have a pool when he was a boy, so why do we need one now? I ventured.

Plus, I gather he wants a football field. At the thought, Kitty stepped a little harder on the gas. I grabbed the panic bar and held on.

Why would we need a football field? Pismawallops hasn’t had a football team for twenty years. Slow down, Kitty. We won’t get there faster by skidding into a ditch.

I breathed more easily as she backed off to something like the speed I would drive, still fast for her but no longer terrifying.

That’s why we have to go to the meeting. We can make the case for the pool and convince the other board members that Fingal’s idea of bringing back the football team is insane. Think of the liability, she added. I wasn’t sure if she was serious or if it was a suggestion about how to get the attention of the board. Maybe both.

I wondered about the other members of the board. I don’t know anything about the other two guys. Who are they, anyway?

Gilead Andersson and Shaw Newman.

How come I don’t know who these people are? I complained. I thought I knew most of the movers and shakers on our island. And why are they all men? When they want something done, they ask the women to form a PTA. But we elect a bunch of men to run the district?

Their day jobs are off-island, and their kids graduated before Brian started high school, so you’ve never seen them around the school. That answered my first question. I suppose we haven’t elected any women because none have been on the ballot. Are you thinking of running? Kitty added.

Since I had no desire to turn politician, I peered out the window instead of answering. The darkness and rain told me nothing, but we had to be close to the high school by now. Board meetings were held in the lunch room, which doubled as a theater and assembly space for the whole island. Orcaville High—to give it its official name, which we seldom did—wasn’t big enough to have a real theater. With just the high school and Shuksan Elementary, the district was too small to have a separate office for management, either, let alone a meeting space. The high school principal doubled as the district superintendent. Was that good or bad for our plans?

I don’t know if we can count on Alice Fong, Kitty echoed my own thoughts about our new principal/superintendent. I can’t get a grip on her, though I’m sure she’s doing her best.

That was classic Kitty. She wouldn’t criticize anyone if she could help it, and unlike me, she could usually help it. Anyway, I knew what she meant about Alice. The school was running well, but she didn’t seem to have any strong connections there. I might have blamed it on her living off-island, but I also felt that something about her was… closed off. I hoped she wasn’t too shut off to give the students what they needed.

That wasn’t the issue at hand. Yeah, but, I said to prove I knew something about how the school board worked, she doesn’t have a vote. It’s those other two guys we have to persuade.

Gilead Andersson and Shaw Newman, Kitty repeated, knowing I’d already forgotten the names.

Yeah, them. Even if we get this to go through, will our kids get to use the new pool? I asked, playing devil’s advocate against my own convictions. Without a pool, too many of our children weren’t learning to swim. I’d gone to the Mountain View Beach Park—our only swimming beach—on hot days in summer, and even then it hurt to stay in the water for long. Puget Sound never warms up, and those taking lessons at the park courted hypothermia in the chill waters.

I figure it’s two years at a minimum, from passing the bond to the first swim, Kitty said. More likely three. I believed her. She’d been around the schools for long enough to know how slowly things move no matter how much they’re hurried along. She let me do the math—aside from her sixth-grade son, our kids would graduate before the pool opened.

We pulled into the parking lot and dashed for the front door as the rain cut loose with new ferocity. I tried my zipper again, to no avail. It wasn’t just stuck, it was defunct. Some bits of it came off in my hand. I tried not to think what it would cost to replace the jacket. I’d have to live with it, unless my ex-husband had a change of heart about supporting me, a development I considered less worth hoping for than sunshine in November. I pulled the jacket tighter around me as we dodged the puddles in the unpaved lot.

At least it was warm inside the school. I shed the annoying garment with a sigh of relief, adding it to the other wet jackets on a row of hooks outside the cafeteria. We slid into a couple of empty seats next to two teachers from the high school—Brett Holt and Muriel Rayne. Between them they coached a lot of the school’s sports, so it figured they had an interest in the pool. I eyed them uncertainly. Were they on our side, or did they want more playing fields? Or did they want to avoid having to add swim-team coach to their list of extra-curricular jobs?

Russ Ammon, who had been interim principal until Alice arrived, sat a little way away with Ms. Day—none of us had courage to use her first name—who served as vice principal. She taught PE, giving her a legitimate interest in the pool as well. A few seats beyond them sat a young woman I didn’t recognize. Three women I thought were parents of grade school kids occupied the back row, with Sally Lee, the president of their PTA. Our PTA secretary would be around somewhere—Carlos was the custodian. He was paid to attend school board meetings and straighten up afterwards.

It’s a pretty good crowd, Kitty whispered in my ear. We called everyone we could reach when Sally heard about Fingal. Of course the grade-school parents had responded most—their kids would be around to benefit from the pool, unlike those already in high school.

The meeting had just started, and we sat through the routine business of the district—approval of the old minutes and of the checks written in the last month, and a report on the district finances, which I was able to follow well enough to decide we were solvent, but money was tight. Was that the problem? I’d heard the teachers griping about the board being too stingy over everything from class size to salaries. But the whole point of a construction bond was that it didn’t come out of the operating budget. The taxpayers covered the cost. Which, I reminded myself with a gulp, meant me. An increase in my property taxes would pinch, hard. But I’d do it. For the sake of a pool, I’d vote for the bond and squeeze out the extra thirty dollars a year from somewhere. Would enough people?

For now, the question was whether we’d even get the chance to vote ourselves more taxes. Bud Fingal was introducing the item at last, with a bit of grandstanding on the side. Fingal explained the combination of school and county funding that would build and run the pool. He looked up from the agenda. My family has donated the land next to the two schools—the field between them, in fact. That land has been in my family for nearly one hundred years, but I wanted to give it to the schools so the district would own all the land surrounding the schools, and so that there could be more playing fields. In particular, I believe we need a football field, so we can bring back that sport, which makes men out of boys.

Or vegetables out of them, I whispered to Kitty, who nodded but kept her attention on the men at the front of the room.

This wasn’t the first time we’d heard about the land donation. Everything the district had shared about the gift, which had come during the summer after some awkward issues with a member of the Fingal family, had made it clear that Bud Fingal was the generous donor. Now he scanned the audience from behind his tinted glasses, and added, You know, back when I was a kid, and I grew up right here on this island, we swam in the Sound in all kinds of weather. And football was the glue that held the community together. He opened his mouth to go on, but the secretary, who had been recording his speech, held up her hand, passing him a note.

Fingal closed his mouth, read the note, harrumphed, and said, We will take public comment before we begin our debate over this ill-advised expenditure.

Old fart, I whispered to Kitty. So much for an impartial presentation of the item. I guess it’s obvious where he stands.

He’s terrified of debt, and he hates anything new, she agreed. He never wants to do anything that hasn’t been done before in the thirty years he’s been on the board, or maybe since he was in school back in the Year One. When anything new is suggested, half the time he says, ‘We tried that back in 1987, and it didn’t work.’ The other half, he says it costs too much.

I made a face.

Or maybe he really does think football is more important than swimming, Kitty added, with a more open-minded consideration of the possibilities than I could manage. I put in speaker cards for both of us, she continued. Be ready to talk about how important it is for kids to learn to swim. I’m going to push the value of the pool to the community as a whole. She handed me a pen and we began scribbling notes on the back of our agenda sheets.

Sally Lee was called first and spoke about the need for children to learn to swim, and that meant having a pool that was accessible and comfortable all year. In passing, she noted that football offered only boys a chance at sports, while a pool and swim team would be open to everyone.

When she sat down, Fingal picked up another card, frowned at it, and with obvious reluctance read, Jolene Smethers.

The woman I hadn’t recognized popped up from her seat and stepped to the podium.

I am sure a pool would be a valuable asset to the community, she said, flashing a fake smile at Sally. I took an instant dislike to her, whoever she was. She didn’t care about the pool, so what was her game?

The woman turned back to the microphone. Members of the board, Superintendent Fong, members of the public. She flashed her smile around the room again. My name is Jolene Smethers. I am an investigative reporter, and I consider it my duty to keep a close eye on every aspect of government on Pismawallops Island.

Oh-oh, whispered Kitty under the general susurration that followed Ms. Smethers’ statement. Here’s trouble. I would ask Kitty after the meeting who the heck the woman was. Right now, I wanted to hear what she’d say.

Jolene Smethers went on, ignoring the murmurs. While it was no doubt generous of the board president to donate land to the school district, it might have been better if he had ensured that the land was his before doing so.

At this point the audience gave up on murmurs and burst into excited exclamations, causing Fingal to bring down his gavel with a sharp, Order! As soon he could be heard without shouting, he demanded of Smethers, I suggest you explain yourself. I would be most interested to hear why you think you know better than I do what land I own. His face scrunched up like he smelled a dead rat, and his voice shook with anger.

I had to admire the woman, whatever stick she was poking in the wheels of our progress, because she didn’t flinch in the face of Fingal’s hostility. She tapped her notes into a neat pile without looking at them, and announced, That land belongs to my family and always has. Your grandfather stole it from my great-grandmother. You have no right to give it away. If the school district wants it, they ought to purchase the land from the rightful owner. Which is to say, from my grandmother.

That bombshell started everyone talking at once. Fingal struggled to shut us all up, pounding his gavel so hard this time I thought it might break through the table. Order! Or I’ll clear the room! His bellow cut through the babble even better than the gavel.

I can assure the board, Fingal boomed as soon as the hubbub died a little, that I damned well did own the land I donated to the district! He glared at the woman who held her ground at the podium. I am sure Miss Smethers is merely confused, he added.

Shaw Newman spoke up, suggesting they needed to get to the bottom of the question before proceeding. I couldn’t fault his logic, though I deeply regretted it. Gilead Andersson seconded Newman’s motion to table the discussion, and Fingal had no choice but to stop fulminating and call for a vote, which was unanimous. The pool was officially in limbo.

Fingal had to have the last word, though: he told us, as he voted, that he didn’t approve of the district taking on debt and putting it on the backs of the taxpayers. Someone behind me called out, Even if the taxpayers want it? but he rapped the table and called for order. I noticed he didn’t say anything more about football, which someone might remember doesn’t come cheap, either, and can’t be funded with a bond.

Fingal brought the meeting to an end in a hurry, and we found ourselves back outside. I tried to catch the eye of our new principal, but she shook her head and hurried to her car. A glance at my watch told me she was hoping to catch the 9:05 ferry.

Jolene Smethers trotted to a car at the other end of the parking lot, maybe trying to avoid the group of angry parents and teachers, maybe just hurrying to get out of the rain. I looked at Kitty, then around at the teachers, who looked back and shrugged.

What the blazing deuce just happened? Brett Holt expressed what we were all thinking. He wore his teaching clothes, since we were between cross country and track seasons, and now he loosened the tie that helped him look older than the students.

Honestly! Muriel Raynes huffed. Is that woman crazy? She didn’t put much force behind the question, but it was what we all wondered.

I don’t know whether she’s crazy as a coot, or if Fingal’s been pulling something sneaky, said Russ Ammon. I wouldn’t put it past him to have put her up to it, to avoid holding a vote on the bond. The idiot is set on having a football team. Russ was enjoying not being principal any longer, leaving him able to speak his mind. I can promise fielding a team would cost more than running the pool. We trusted him. Russ Ammon might not be an athlete, but the math teacher knew his way around numbers.

We would need every single boy in the school to play if we wanted to field a real team, Brett pointed out. It was an exaggeration, but not by much. Orcaville High boasted about a hundred and fifty students in four grades. I thought a little less than half were boys. I didn’t know how many you needed to field a football team, but it was more than the dozen we had on any other team, if somewhat less than seventy.

Lots more was said, but it all came down to the same thing: no one knew if Smethers had any basis for her claim, and no one knew what this might mean for the pool.

One thing was clear to all of us. We have got to get this on the February ballot! Sally Lee wailed. Otherwise they won’t be able to break ground next summer, and it’ll be another whole year before they can start work!

To make her point, the rain started coming down harder. Not much could be done outdoors in November weather, when water stands on hillsides.

Can’t you get to the bottom of this, JJ? Sally begged. You’re good at figuring things out. She meant, things like who killed people, but I was already considering what resources at the library might help with this problem, and who might know about a family feud from the previous century. When would it have happened if it involved Fingal’s grandfather? Based on my guess about Fingal’s age, I imagined we were talking about the 1930s, maybe even the ’20s.

Yeah, Kitty agreed. And since you work at the library, you should have plenty of opportunity to research it.

I considered pointing out that I worked at the library. As in, I had things to do when I was there, things I was being paid to do.

I’d recently started a part-time job as a library page, meaning a general dogsbody who mostly sorted and shelved books. The position was a godsend for me, because the job came with access to health insurance. I was in turn a godsend to the little old ladies who’d run the library forever, because they were getting a bit ancient to be crawling along the floor squinting at the spines of skinny picture books, or lifting oversized books to the top shelf. I’d lost five pounds since I started, thanks to all that crawling and reaching. I had also accumulated a two-foot-tall pile of unread library books on my nightstand. I was a bit like a drunk working at the liquor store, but the goods I was addicted to came free, thank goodness. And they wouldn’t rot my liver.

Russ Ammon brought me back from my ruminations about my new job. If you could do a bit of research, JJ, we’d appreciate it. I’ll be talking with Ms. Fong about what our options may be, but anything you can learn would help.

Ms. Fong. That the senior teacher at Pismawallops High referred to the principal by her surname bothered me. Alice Fong was so reserved, none of us had been able to get to know her. That meant we didn’t know if we could count on her, either.

In the end Kitty and I simply gave up on the informal gripe-session in the parking lot, which showed no signs of coming to an end. It wasn’t getting us anywhere, and the rain was coming down harder. With my zipper broken and my jacket flapping open, I was getting wetter than I wanted.

Who the heck is this Jolene Smethers? I asked while Kitty negotiated the car around the mud puddles in the parking lot.

I have no idea.

That was a first. Every time I had ever asked Kitty about someone on the island, she’d known all sorts of things about them. She’d been born on Pismawallops Island, and she and her husband, Mike, ran our only gas station, so one way or another she really did know, or at least know of, just about everyone. For someone to show up claiming deep roots on Pismawallops and Kitty not know anything about her could be considered a suspicious circumstance.

I thought you knew her, from your comment about her being trouble.

"What? Oh, that was about her being a reporter. There have never been any Smetherses on the