Jeanne Glidewell - Lexie Starr 05 - Just Ducky Read online

  “Does Paul have a key to the library?” I asked, just in case the situation ever arose when I needed to get in the library and couldn’t locate my key.

  “No, it wouldn’t bother me if he had one, but it would be against library policy,” Ducky said, as we walked back up the stairs and then turned off the light switch.

  We meandered through the back break room, and on to the main section, where all the books were shelved. This room had what appeared to be at least fifteen-foot ceilings, with large log beams traversing the room. Ducky led me to a little nook with several overstuffed chairs, and a comfy-looking sofa, situated around a floor-to-ceiling river rock fireplace that was being utilized on this cool October morning.

  A young woman was curled up on the sofa, absorbed in the novel she was reading. Observing the cozy scene, I felt certain I’d enjoy working in this old-fashioned, but alluring, library. We stopped momentarily while Ducky rather curtly instructed the young reader to get her shoes off the couch. The twenty-something gal apologized profusely and put her feet on the floor. When the patron turned to glance at me, I merely shrugged apologetically. I couldn’t see how she was doing any damage to the already well-worn leather couch.

  When I expressed my impressions of the library to Ducky, she replied, “Too bad everyone doesn’t have such a positive opinion of it, or at least of its location. The city manager, Elroy Traylor, wants to raze the building and have the city build a modern one down on Mulberry Street, which would be a very inconvenient location for a public library.”

  “That’s for sure,” I agreed. “I can’t imagine why anyone would want to eliminate this building. One of Rockdale’s charms is its abundance of historic homes, antique shops, and quaint little mom and pop shops. The library is the perfect complement to the very things that draw tourists here, and tourism is one of Rockdale’s primary sources of income.”

  “I don’t think Traylor cares about what’s best for Rockdale and its citizens. As you know, there’s a shortage of long-term rental properties in this town. He wants to build an apartment complex on this property, and the vacant lot next door, which he already owns. He’s convinced the owners of the Subway on our other side to sell out to him if it comes to pass, but fortunately so far, Elroy’s been unable to convince the city council to appropriate the funds a new library would require. Traylor’s nothing but a pompous prick. We’ve been at odds for years. It’s a mutual dislike between us that goes far beyond the fate of the library.”

  I didn’t know what their mutual dislike was based on, if not just the location of the library, but I felt a bit sympathetic for anyone who had the misfortune to be on Ducky’s shit list. I was doing everything I could do to stay off that particular list.

  I spent the next two hours walking on eggshells, afraid to do something that would result in being chastised by Ducky. She seemed to go out of her way to be unpleasant toward me, as if she resented the fact I was going to replace her in a few days. I had to remind myself on several occasions that I’d only have to work with her a couple more days before her retirement took effect, which was now scheduled for Friday.

  As Ducky explained all the intricacies of the Rockdale Public Library to me, people were milling about, studying at the tables provided, and occasionally returning or checking books out at the front desk. After watching Ducky handle the first customer, she let me assist with the rest; something I was very accustomed to doing. She only scolded me twice; once for making needless small talk with a customer, and then again for taking a short bathroom break. I guess I was expected to pee on my own time. I wondered if Paul and Carolyn were forced to wear catheters to work. I guess that’s why some, no doubt incontinent, individual invented Depends. At least while I was in charge of the library, visits to the restroom would be at one’s own discretion. Unfortunately, one could not always accurately schedule bowel movements.

  Later I was checking out a couple of newly released mysteries to a young college-aged man when I saw Ducky involved in a heated conversation with a tall, raven-haired woman, who appeared to be very fit and quite striking in appearance. I couldn’t tell what the dispute was about, but even though they were in the far corner of the library, I could hear raised voices and saw Ducky pointing her index finger in the other woman’s face. After a few minutes of arguing, the other woman turned and rushed out the front door in obvious discontent.

  When Ducky returned to the front desk, she didn’t mention the confrontation. Despite my curiosity, I didn’t want to ask her about it in the event it was a personal matter, entirely unrelated to the library. If she wanted me to know what the quarrel was about, she’d tell me. I was disappointed when she didn’t. The woman may have just asked for the hours the library was open, and it rubbed the temperamental librarian the wrong way. “There’s a sign on the front door. Read it, and don’t waste my time!” I can imagine her shouting at the woman. I’d come to learn that any given transgression, no matter how insignificant, could result in a tongue-lashing from Ducky.

  By lunchtime, I’d relaxed somewhat. I’d chosen to heed Wyatt’s advice and take anything Ducky said to me with a grain of salt, turning a deaf ear to her when she snapped at me over something inconsequential. I asked her to repeat herself several more times, and actually, felt a little disappointed the one time she forgot to give me “the look.”

  While Ducky sat in her office and ate a sack lunch, I went next door to get a turkey sandwich at Subway. I reflected on what I’d learned throughout the morning and realized I was getting anxious to begin my tenure as the acting head librarian. There would be a few things I’d have to learn, but for the most part it would be repetitious of the tasks I’d performed during the duration of my volunteer work as an assistant. I wasn’t thinking I knew everything there was to know about running a library, as Ducky had insisted I not do. But, I did feel I knew enough to muddle through while I learned the intricacies of the job.

  After lunch, we picked up where we’d left off. By mid-afternoon, I was beginning to find Ducky almost endearing as she loosened up and talked about some of the things she looked forward to doing during her retirement. Some were quite predictable. She wanted to do a little traveling, and take up a couple of hobbies, such as needlework and gardening. And, not surprisingly, she wanted to spend more time with her grandchildren, Melissa and Barney.

  But a few of the things on her bucket list I found almost unimaginable, if not ludicrous. Motivational speaking? Yeah, right. What could she possibly inspire an audience to do? Drink poisoned kool-aid en masse? That was one dream she fostered that I knew would never come to fruition. But, I guess it never hurt to dream.

  And ballroom dance lessons? Really? Ducky was married, or so I presumed by the wedding ring on her left hand, so a dancing partner was probably not an issue. But, sprightly as she was, I couldn’t quite picture her waltzing around the dance floor, with her having been blessed with the gracefulness of a newborn giraffe.

  Last, but not least, skydiving? Seriously? I didn’t even want to try to picture her abandoning a plane three thousand feet up in the air. It sounded like a disaster waiting to happen. Was that not a prelude to a hip replacement at her age, which I guessed to be in the mid-sixties, if she even managed to survive the plummet to earth? I guess I just couldn’t understand why anyone would want to exit a perfectly functioning airplane, that didn’t have its wheels on the ground at the time.

  But the item on her bucket list that amazed me the most was her desire to have a Harley Davidson logo tattooed across the top of her left breast, which I imagined pointed straight to the ground when not secured in place by an industrial strength Playtex Cross-Your-Heart bra. For a tiny lady, she was well endowed in that department, which should be a real thrill for the local tattoo artist, a twenty-five year-old skinhead named Max, who had recently inked a small rose on Wendy’s left ankle. I tried to picture Ducky lying on a table with her chest bared, while Max performed his artistry above her ample breast. I couldn’t even go there in my mind without f
eeling highly amused and slightly repulsed.

  Apparently, her husband, Quentin, had a Harley Big Boy. He and Ducky planned to take a coast-to-coast excursion on the bike, and then commemorate the trip with matching tattoos. Quentin planned to get his inked on his chest too.

  While I was trying to picture Ducky getting a tattoo, she bent over, tugged her slacks down a few inches, and flashed me the top of her left butt cheek, revealing a tatted depiction of a half-full hourglass, and the phrase Carpe Diem below it. Ducky was turning out to be a surprisingly eccentric character, and I didn’t doubt her desire to seize every single day of her retirement.

  Just before the end of the workday, she surprised me yet again by telling a joke while we stood in the “how to” section of the library.

  “Do you know where we keep the books about suicide?” she asked.

  “No,” I replied, a little taken aback by her question.

  “Well, they should be right here, but once we check them out, we never see them again.” She nearly lost her balance, as she slapped her knee, and laughed at her own joke. I chuckled along with her. Even though her joke was a bit distasteful, it was also kind of amusing, especially since I’d never have imagined she’d even tell one to begin with.

  I thought back to Wyatt’s comment that Ducky was the kind of person you either loved or you hated. Well, I couldn’t honestly say that I was beginning to love her, but I did find myself developing a little fondness for her. I certainly didn’t despise Ducky, as I had feared I might by the end of the week.

  As I prepared to leave for home, Ducky raked me over the coals for straightening up her desk without permission.

  “Now how in the hell do you expect me to find anything tomorrow? I had everything exactly where I wanted it. When you take over, you can do anything you want with this desk, but in the meantime, please refrain from rearranging my stuff.” She had practically snarled at me. I, of course, apologized, and then let her disdain run off me like water off a “Ducky’s” back. I chalked it up to her almost bi-polar personality. I would probably never understand her, but I was learning how to deal with her turn-on-a-dime mood changes.

  Ducky was still muttering to herself about my audacity in moving things around on her cluttered desk, when I wished her a pleasant evening and left her to lock up the library. In the parking lot there were only two other cars, and they were situated on either side of mine. I tried to guess whether Ducky drove the pale yellow VW Bug, or the shiny black one-ton pickup. With Ducky, I figured either one was possible, and neither was what I’d expect a tiny, senior citizen librarian to drive.

  I headed home with a much brighter outlook than I’d arrived at the library with earlier that morning. I was anxious to get back to the inn so I could tell Stone all about my day. Having a husband to go home to at the end of a long day was so nice after twenty years of living alone. I knew he’d be pleased with my renewed spirit, and relieved I’d found something as sedate as working at the local library to cure my boredom.

  Chapter 4

  Suppertime found Wendy, and Andy, Stone’s nephew, at our dining room table. The two had been living together for several weeks now, and seemed to be growing closer with each passing day. I couldn’t wish for a better son-in-law than Andy, who was so much like Stone, and I prayed the relationship would result in a marriage some day.

  Andy had sold his private charter business back in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, where both he and his Uncle Stone had formerly resided. He’d purchased a cattle ranch near Atchison, Kansas, and moved to the Midwest to be closer to his uncle, and also to my daughter, I’m sure. He still owned his five-passenger Cessna, and occasionally picked up charter flights as a side-job. Andy had drastically changed his lifestyle so seamlessly it was hard to imagine he hadn’t been a cattle rancher his entire adult life.

  As I was placing bowls of au gratin potatoes and peas, and a fish-shaped ceramic platter of grilled flounder on the table, Andy was telling Stone and Wendy a story about a couple he’d flown to a private airstrip outside of Climax Springs, Missouri, so they could attend their daughter’s wedding. Their daughter and son-in-law lived near the fifty mile-marker on the Lake of the Ozarks, and owned a number of alpacas.

  Andy was now negotiating with the newlyweds to purchase a pair of two-month olds, which were descendants of a herd in Ecuador. They were a smaller version of llamas, with expressive eyes, and valuable fleece that could be any of a number of colors, Andy explained. He was enamored with their curious personalities, and their friendly, gentle nature, and was hoping to raise them on his ranch.

  I didn’t comment, but was hoping Andy wasn’t gradually taking on more than he could handle, even though he was a young, energetic man with a good head on his shoulders. When Andy bought the ranch, which encompassed a full section of land, he not only took on a large herd of cattle, he’d also inherited hogs, chickens, and a goat. He’d even adopted the previous owner’s golden retriever, Sallie, who, along with his rottweiler, Rebel, now followed Andy around like the pied piper.

  After giving it some thought, I decided two more animals to take care of would probably not alter his day-to-day responsibilities all that much. And by the remarks Wendy was making, I could tell she was encouraging him to purchase the animals. She loved babies of any variety, and I knew she was picturing how adorable a newborn alpaca would be.

  After supper, we all sat in the living room, chatting over cups of coffee, and pieces of apple crumb-cake. We discussed the couple who’d be checking in for a few days in the morning. Angus, a Nebraska state senator, and Olivia, a retired teacher, were attending a political fundraiser, and would also be celebrating their fiftieth wedding anniversary over the weekend. I’d spent an hour sprucing up the nicest suite in the inn for the Spurleys. I also put a bottle of champagne and a vase of red roses on their nightstand to commemorate their milestone anniversary. A congratulatory card hung from a ribbon around the neck of the bottle of Dom Perignon. Stone and I took special pride in our reputation for going the extra mile to indulge our guests. Word of mouth advertising is what had brought most of the customers to our lodging establishment.

  I ruminated over what else we could do to make the Spurley’s stay special, while Wendy discussed the gruesome details of a head-on collision on Highway 36. As usually was the case, Wendy told us the drunk driver, who’d crossed through the median strip and caused the crash, had walked away from the accident without a scratch, and the law-abiding young woman with two toddlers at home, who was driving the other car, had been killed upon impact. Thinking about the Spurley’s impending arrival distracted me enough to block out Wendy’s colorful descriptions that were making it hard for me to keep down the perfectly prepared fish Stone had grilled, and I didn’t want to hurl and spray everyone in the room with the peas I’d eaten, like bullets whizzing out of a machine gun. Something like that could throw such a wrench in a dinner party.

  After Wendy spoke at length about the autopsy that resulted from this horrifying wreck, I wanted to lighten the mood and steer the conversation away from severed appendages and ruptured spleens, so I told everyone about my day at the library, and all about the head librarian I’d be replacing temporarily. I may have embellished a bit, as I had a tendency to do, to make the story as entertaining as possible, but it didn’t take much exaggerating to portray Ducky as the enigmatic creature that she was.

  Everyone laughed at my description of my day. After the lively discussion, my daughter said, “I’ll bet you’ll be relieved to see the last of her!”

  I explained that dealing with Ducky was much easier once I’d paid heed to Wyatt’s advice to take her with a grain of salt, but I had no way of knowing how prophetic Wendy’s statement would turn out to be.

  * * *

  I woke up early, anxious to get to work and start another day of on-the-job training. I drank far less coffee than my caffeine addiction hankered for, but I didn’t want to take the chance I might actually have to dispel any of it during my working hours.
As small as Ducky was, I suspected she had a bladder the size of a camel’s, for I’d yet to observe her visiting the restroom at the library. Perhaps she’d invested in a case of Depends at the drug store across the street, I mused.

  She’d promised to give me free rein today while she observed me from a distance. I wanted to impress her with the fact that I’d paid attention to all she’d told me, and had a few tricks of my own up my sleeve from several years of working at a library. I suspected that, with Ducky, one or two of those tricks might come back to bite me in the ass.

  I’d found a nearly new book at home in the inn’s library, about herb gardening, something Ducky had expressed a desire to learn more about, and I was going to give it to her as an early retirement present. Giving a librarian a book as a retirement gift seemed kind of redundant, like giving a box of blueberry muffins to a baker, or a fedora to a milliner, but it was all I could come up with at the last minute. I picked it up off the kitchen table, drained my one meager cup of coffee, and kissed Stone goodbye before heading out the back door of the inn.

  * * *

  When I arrived at the library, the only other vehicle in the parking lot was the Volkswagen Beetle, parked in the same spot as it was the day before. I had actually guessed the car to belong to Ducky the day before, because of her diminutive size, but I’d learned over the course of the last two days that there was nothing predictable about her. I wouldn’t have been at all surprised to see her tooling around town in the massive truck that had been parked beside me the previous evening. How her feet could reach the pedals, or her eyes could see over the dashboard of the massive truck, was beyond me, but I had to smile at the image the thought provoked.

  I was surprised to find the front door of the library locked. Maybe the yellow VW wasn’t Ducky’s, I thought, because she must not have arrived yet. I cupped my hands around my eyes to peer in through the window, situated to the right of the door. The mirror-like finish on the outside of the glass made it difficult to see inside without shielding out as much sunlight as possible. I didn’t see Ducky, but I did see a ten-to-twelve-foot ladder propped up against the wall in the section that housed the young adult books. I found this odd, knowing it hadn’t been there when I’d left the previous evening. I’d spotted the extension ladder in the back storeroom earlier in the afternoon when Ducky toured me through the building. She told me she often used it to reach a book on the top shelves of the bookcases, but I couldn’t imagine why Ducky would have placed it there before she locked up the library. Paul had returned all the books to their rightful places on the shelves before he’d left to go home a half-hour earlier.