Bernadine Fagan - Nora Lassiter 01 - Murder by the Old Maine Stream by Bernadine Fagan Page A

might as well check it out, for nostalgia reasons, if nothing else. My lifelong love affair with books had begun here. I was at home here.
    I should return the overdue library book I found when I unpacked my books in my new apartment about two years ago. I wondered what the fine was for twenty years. I had a book about Abraham Lincoln that I used for a fifth grade history report. We’d moved before I had a chance to return it.
    Feeling a little guilty about the book, I walked up to the librarian’s desk, solid oak, from another century. The years vanished in an instant as I closed my eyes and breathed in the place. Even after all this time, I could identify my library by scent. Warmth and books and a hint of lemon oil polish.
    A woman around forty years old, dressed in a green skirt, a severe gray blazer and cream-colored blouse, and looking tidier than any woman should ever look, unless she was in a convent, greeted me with a perfunctory—and a neat, I must say—smile, when I entered. Every hair on her head was in place. I immediately guessed she was a customer of that mad sprayer, Mary Fran.
    “Good afternoon. May I help you?”
    If I said I was just snooping, I suppose she would have asked me to leave, so I said, “I’d like a library card.”
    She handed me an application. “Just fill this out, in pen, and add a reference at the bottom. That’s essential. Without a reference, you cannot take out books. When the application is complete, I’ll approve it and give you a number.”
    Approve it? Was it possible that I wouldn’t be approved? And I needed a reference?
    They still used numbers here instead of computer-read cards. I already had a number. I figured after all this time it was not on record. Good thing. They could open up a new wing if I paid my fine. Ms. Efficiency would not like to hear about that book.
    “I need a reference?” I asked, wondering if I’d misheard.
    “Certainly.”
    “Sounds like an exclusive club. What people are you trying to keep out?”
    “We like to know our patrons.”
    I reached across the desk to shake her hand. “My name is Nora Lassiter.”
    She took my hand hesitantly. “Related to the Lassiters in town?”
    “Ida, Hannah, Agnes, Ellie, JT.  Well, I could go on.”
    “No need. They’re a wonderful family. One of their ancestors founded this town.” She flashed a smile as big as Alabama. “But I suppose you know that. My name is Margaret. Happy to have you as a new library member.”
    There was a possibility that one of the people Ida overheard that day had returned a book. Not likely that they stopped to take one out, of course, but that could be checked, too. I wondered if the sheriff had looked into that.
    For now, I filled out the application, turned it in and got a number.
    “Each time you check out a book,” she explained, “I’ll stamp a date on the card and you’ll write your number on the card and in the book.”
    Very high tech, I almost said, wondering where they kept the files that matched up the names with numbers. I asked about it and she indicated a drawer beneath the desk. “We keep all our lists on file here. When a book is overdue, we call the person. If that doesn’t succeed, we mail out a card.”
    I thought about that, then asked, “Margaret, if a person returns a book, do you keep a record of the date it was returned?”
    She nodded. “Naturally. But only for a week or less. No need to collect unnecessary paperwork. That’s what garbage cans are for. Efficiency is my watchword. Every Monday, the previous week’s returns’ list is tossed. Anything still owed is noted.”
    Since today was Tuesday, last week’s returns were already in the garbage. I was a little disappointed.
    Could you have heard the librarian? Ida had been asked.
    Oh, no. This woman had a harsh voice. Not soft like Margaret’s.
    Margaret, sweet though she appeared, and soft-spoken as she was, could not be eliminated as the woman Ida overheard. Almost any woman