His favorite sergeant’s voice was as unruffled as usual. “You got it, Sheriff. Castillo and Martinez are on their way.”
That task completed, John stepped forward, deciding that he should start with the new librarian, since she was the one who’d found the baby, and not at all because she was so attractive and a possible, though not likely, suspect.
“Miss, er, Ms., ma’am?” They’d recently gone through a four-hour sexual harassment–awareness training program at the department, at John’s own request, after what had happened with the last sheriff. But even with the training and a teenage daughter at home to constantly remind him when he was saying something that could be construed as sexist, he was never sure when he might be offending someone. “Ms. Montgomery?”
As the librarian tore her gaze from the baby and brought it to his face, he was startled by how large and dark her eyes were. This had to be some kind of trick of the makeup she wore. No one’s eyes could possibly be that wide and beautiful on their own.
“Yes?”
“Sheriff John Hartwell.” John touched the rim of his hat, nodding politely, his standard greeting toward all members of the public. “I understand you’re the one who found the baby. If I could just ask you a few questions?”
“Oh, of course.” The librarian turned from the baby and began walking toward a cluttered desk a few feet away.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
John observed several things at once, the first being that Molly Montgomery’s voice was quiet but pleasantly melodic, exactly how a children’s librarian’s voice should sound. Mrs. Robinette’s voice had sounded that way, back before time and dealing with a constant stream of badly behaved children like himself and his friends had robbed it of its youthful vitality.
The second was that her desk was one of the messiest he’d ever seen. Piled high with books of all different sizes and thicknesses, it was also littered with scrap paper of assorted colors and the kind of stubby pencils they gave people at bowling alleys—and golf courses—to fill out their scorecards.
More upsetting to a type A individual like himself was the plethora of brightly colored Post-it notes stuck everywhere, including on the librarian’s computer screen. Post-its like that would leave a sticky residue on a computer monitor that could be hard to clean.
If the desks of any of his deputies back at the department had ever grown even remotely this disorganized, he would have referred them to human resources for counseling immediately.
But none of these was the most disconcerting thing John observed. The most disconcerting thing he observed was that the librarian’s backside was every bit as appealing-looking as her front side.
He quickly averted his gaze, however, as he knew from both his sexual harassment training and his many years of experience on the job that eyeing the physical attributes of witnesses was inappropriate.
“Would you like a seat?” the librarian asked, gesturing to an empty chair beside her desk. Unfortunately, it was a child’s chair. Everything in the children’s department was child-sized, except for the librarian’s desk. “Or something to drink? We have sparkling apple juice today. We were having a cookie decorating party when one of the mothers came out and said she thought there was something unusual in the restroom.”
“Uh.” He eyed the small table littered with cookies and frosting. “Gingerbread cookie decorating? In April?”
“Oh.” She glanced in the direction of the table and gave a rueful little smile. “Yes, well, I wasn’t here during the holiday season. And I’ve always wanted to do a cookie decorating program. So it was a non-holiday-specific cookie decorating party. Though I’m not sure now that it was the best idea.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Why not?”
“Well, it got a little messier than I was expecting.” She pointed at the tile floor beneath the table, which was littered with cookie crumbs and a rainbow of sprinkles. “And though the program was intended for younger children, we had a teenager show up, which ordinarily would have been fine, but this particular teenager—”
It could not possibly be this easy. “Any idea of her name?” He drew his notebook from his belt.
“Oh, no.” Smiling and shaking her head, she said, “Elijah’s a he. And the baby couldn’t possibly be his. Elijah’s sixteen, but there’s no way he . . . I mean—” The librarian sank down into the chair behind her desk, the smile gone, her hands fluttering a little nervously. “Sorry. What I meant is, Elijah is a wonderful boy, but he couldn’t have anything to do with the baby. He barely has any friends, let alone a girlfriend. And besides, he was here with me the entire time.”
John nodded. Of course she was nervous—not because she was guilty of anything, but because of what she’d been through. It wasn’t every day someone found a newborn baby in their workplace bathroom and then got questioned about it by the authorities.
He knew it wasn’t helping that he was towering over her in his uniform. It was time to sit, even though every bone in his body cried out at the thought of folding his six-foot-three frame into that tiny little chair beside her desk . . . especially remembering how, twenty odd years ago, he’d easily fit into similar chairs in this very same room. Now the chair creaked beneath his weight.
The librarian didn’t appear to notice the great sacrifice he was making, however, just as she didn’t appear to notice that she had white frosting smeared across her black floral top, and a little bit in her dark hair, too. She was simply too upset.
“She’s going to be okay, right?” she asked him anxiously. “The baby?”
“Oh, yes,” he said, shifting his weight in the tiny chair. “I have it on excellent authority that she’s going to be fine. Are there security cameras in this building?”
She nodded. “Yes, of course—”
His heart leaped, until she added, “But they don’t work.”
“Excuse me?”
“We’re having state-of-the-art ones installed in the new library, of course, to help enhance the safety of our patrons and to prevent theft and vandalism. But the cameras here are ancient, and stopped working ages ago, and since we were moving anyway, we figured, why spend money on new ones—”
He decided it was best to skip to his next question.
“And you didn’t notice anything—or anyone—out of the ordinary this morning?”
“No. But it’s been so busy, because of the cookie party. And honestly, anyone could come in anytime holding a box that size and I wouldn’t give them a second glance. We accept donations year-round.” She must have noticed his puzzled look, since she elaborated, “Of books. We have a used-book sale every other weekend, so people are constantly dropping off boxes of books. We do a very brisk business in paperbacks, especially romance novels and thrillers, what with all of the tourists on vacation.”
He nodded like he knew what she was talking about. “And you’re certain the box wasn’t there when you arrived this morning?” he asked, opening his notebook so he could record her answer, trying to appear professional in his absurd position in the children’s chair, with his knees sticking up higher than his elbows.
“Oh, yes,” she replied, her large eyes huger than ever. “I always check all the rooms when I get in, just to make sure there isn’t a From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler situation going on. And the box certainly wasn’t here then.”
“A what situation?” he asked, more confused than ever.
“From the Mixed-Up Files of—oh.” She flushed a little when she realized he didn’t know what she was talking about. “Nevermind. It’s a children’s book about a girl and her brother who run away and hide in—it doesn’t matter. The box wasn’t here, but the cleaners had come overnight. So far, since I’ve been here, they’ve never missed a night.”
This was his chance to find out why he’d never seen her around before. “And how long have you been in this position?”
“Oh, not long.” She shook her head, the ends of her black hair—some of which were coated in white cookie frosting—swaying. “I only got this job at the end of December.”
“And before that you were?”
He told himself he wasn’t asking out of personal interest. He definitely needed to know for the investigation. Due to her accent—flat and inflectionless—he suspected she was from somewhere in the Midwest, and so he wasn’t surprised when she replied, “Denver. I’ve known Phyllis—Mrs. Robinette, the former children’s librarian—for ages. We met at ALA.” She said it as if she expected him to know what it was, but he had no idea. American Lung Association? Alaska Airlines? “When Phyllis told me that she wanted to retire but was having trouble finding a replacement due to Hurricane Marilyn—you of all people must know about the housing shortage here since the storm—well, I just jumped at the chance to apply, especially since my mother’s best friend, Joanne Larson, owns the Lazy Parrot Inn. Her husband, Carl, hasn’t been doing so well lately, and they’ve really needed an extra hand. They’ve got a spare room since the night manager quit, and, well, everything just fell into place. Who wouldn’t want to live and work in paradise? Especially now, with the new library opening up soon.”