“Yay, for me.” I finished my tea and had just set it down when my cell phone chimed.
“This is Myra.”
“Where did you get off to, young lady?” Hatter’s voice was low and slow like molasses. All of us were convinced he put on a southern accent to get the ladies. When he got drunk—really drunk—that accent sounded more like Brooklyn than Nashville.
“First, if you treat me like a child, you’re pulling the shit shift until the end of time.”
“What’s the second thing?” Hatter asked, suitably sobered.
“I’m up at the library doing some research. What’s wrong?”
“We got a rash of calls, and Shoe and I can’t cover them all.”
“Where’s Jean?”
“She’s been conscripted by Bertie for the next four hours. If I call Jean away, Bertie will, and I quote: ‘Make you the acting president of January’s Naked Seniors Pudding and Polar Bear Swim.’”
“Chicken.”
“Guilty.”
“Who’s with Kelby?”
“Jean. She figured volunteering for Bertie would go over better if she had backup.”
So much for locating the book today. “Okay. Lay it on me. We’ll divvy the calls.”
“Cat in a tree, penguin missing, Bigfoot sighting, drunk singing by the river, offensive graffiti at the restroom on 24th, abandoned car on the beach…”
“We’ll take the penguin, Bigfoot, and graffiti. You take the cat, drunk, and car. Good?”
“Ten-four. Oh, and say…how’s it going with our new recruit?”
“We’re going to find out. Do the abandoned car first,” I suggested.
“Tide’s coming in,” he said. “Got it.”
He disconnected the call, but not before I heard him yell at Shoe to “put down the chocolate before she finds out you’re in her good stash again.”
“Son of a bitch.” I stabbed at my phone. “If he eats all my good chocolate, I will put him on public restroom duty. In August. During the all-you-can-eat oyster and booze festival.”
Harold chuckled. “No time for another cup?”
“No, we have to go.”
We walked back into the main room. There, I pulled a small volume off the shelf. A very sad peasant girl watched me as I thumbed through the pages. When I found a small fold of thin cloth and pulled it out, she nodded and disappeared. Inside that cloth was a dried flower.
This.
And since I wasn’t going to ignore my gift, I tucked the cloth and flower into my pocket.
The spirits called out goodbyes in their written language, those who were visible waved.
“Myra,” Harold said just before I walked out the door.
“I’ll be back soon, I promise,” I said.
He rested his fingers on my shoulder. Harold wasn’t a ghost, so his contact wasn’t cold or spooky. Still, being touched by a spirit made of words, a book’s soul and personality, was a heady experience.
