Rainy swallowed a lump in her throat as she read the description above the cartoon: “A tribute from children’s book illustrator and Clock Island cover artist Hugo Rees ran in over five hundred newspapers two days after the death of Maxine Blake.”
No words? She still had plenty of words. Three of them for that recalcitrant redheaded mystery writer, whoever she was.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Rainy walked through the library, following the sound of piano music. Under one of the floor-to-ceiling arched windows, a man sat at a baby grand playing a piece she instantly recognized from the score toThe Red Shoes;it was called “Vicky’s Last Dance.”
She had a feeling Maxine had chosen the music herself.
Rainy looked up from the piano player and saw that the woman in the bathroom had been right—it was standing room only in here.
Hundreds of people filled the atrium. Most sat in folding chairs, but some sat on the floor, others on the stairs, and many more stood by the walls. A dais sat in front of an enormous fireplace, and on it was a speaker’s podium.
When Rainy reached the main floor, the woman she’d met in the bathroom saw her and waved.
“I found us seats,” she whispered as Rainy slid in beside her.
“Thanks,” Rainy whispered. “I never got your name.”
“Frankie. What’s yours?”
“Ra…chel. Rachel.”
“Hi, Rachel.”
The music changed to a song Rainy didn’t recognize, but a woman with gray hair sitting in front of them clearly knew it because as soon as the notes hit the melody, she laughed.
“What is this song?” Rainy whispered to her.
“It’s the Beatles. ‘Paperback Writer.’ You’re so young,” the woman said, shaking her head.
“I’m fifty,” Rainy whispered, but the woman didn’t hear her. Everyone who was seated stood as three people walked out a side door and onto the dais.
Two women and one man. The man had white hair. Rainy recognized him from the mirror on Maxine’s bedside. Anthony. Her husband. No, not her husband. Her widower. And what did that make Rainy? An orphan? Again?
The other woman, the older one, Rainy didn’t recognize. But the younger one? The younger woman had red hair. The redheaded March Heir.
“Who is that?” Rainy asked, pointing out the redhead.
“That’s Jessa Charming, the mystery writer,” Frankie said. “She’s giving one of the eulogies.”
Eulogy? So that’s what this was—Maxine’s funeral. Held not in a church or a temple or a mosque, but on the sacred ground of all writers—the public library.
The woman with white hair nodded toward the pianist, who let the music trail off gently. She stood at the podium and adjusted the microphone. Silence filled the atrium, silence broken only by the sounds of people quietly crying or trying valiantly not to cry.
The white-haired woman coughed once, then smiled at the hundreds of people gathered there. “You know already Maxine Blake was a very special woman,” she began, “to get this many introverts to leave their houses.”
At the punch line, the crowd laughed, and the heavy blanket of sorrow seemed to momentarily lift.
“It’s good to see so many faces here today,” the woman continued. “Thank you all for coming. My name is Nancy Kendell, and I’ve been director here for seventeen years. And yes, if you’re wondering, I was named for Nancy Drew. A show of hands, please…Do we have any Rainys in the room?”
Rainy didn’t hold up her hand, but she saw three other hands go up.
“Mama was a Book Witch reader,” Ms. Kendell said. Lots of head nods, more laughter. “Although this is a sad occasion that brings ustogether, let’s all remember that in the midst of our sadness, we are here also to celebrate Maxine Blake and her stories. Before I turn the mic over to our special guests, I want to share some numbers with you. And don’t be afraid. These are not math problems.”
Ms. Kendell pulled a piece of paper from her pocket, then placed her reading glasses on her nose.
“The numbers are…one hundred seventy-two, ninety-six, seventy-eight, one hundred eighty-eight. Those,” she continued, “are the numbers of holds on the first four Book Witch novels at this branch of the library. Almost five hundred total holds in our community. For books that are fifty years old. That tells me two things. One—we need to order more copies of those books.” More laughter rippled through the atrium. “And two—Luigi Pirandello was right in his playSix Characters in Search of an Authorwhen he wrote,The writer, the man, the instrument of the creation will die, but his creation does not die.”
