The Librarian of Boone's Hollow - Kim Vogel Sawyer Page 0,10

be displayed.

Four of the five rods held folded sheets of newsprint. Addie scanned the titles—Mount Vernon Signal, Public Ledger, Kentucky Irish American, Lexington Leader—and stifled a little huff of irritation. Where was the Lexington Herald? Sometimes patrons didn’t return items to their rightful places. How many times had she found books on the wrong shelves or magazines lying on chairs? She scanned the room, seeking a newspaper discarded on a desk or tucked on a shelf. At the far end of the row of tables, in front of the single tall window in the corner of the room, a lone figure hunched over a newspaper. No doubt the very newspaper Addie needed.

She remained in place for several seconds, observing the man. His stiff pose and unwavering focus on the newsprint in front of him spoke of deep concentration. She wanted to ask if he was nearly finished, but she’d been taught to treat others the way she wished to be treated. She didn’t appreciate people interrupting her reading, so she’d have to be patient and wait her turn. In the meantime, Agatha Christie’s new novel was waiting.

Addie spun on her heel and returned to the checkout desk, moving as swiftly yet as quietly as possible. Miss Collins slid the crisp new checkout card across the desk with a smile, and Addie wrote her name on the first line. Then, with the book tucked safely in the crook of her arm, she hurried up the stairs and chose the table closest to the periodical room door. She sat facing the door so she’d be sure to notice the gentleman leaving, and she opened the book.

It was in June of 1935 that I came home from my ranch in South America for a stay of about six months…

As expected, she was pulled immediately into the story’s world. She turned page after page, eyes swallowing paragraphs of text. Sometimes smiling, sometimes nodding, occasionally biting her thumbnail or pressing her hand to her chest. She flipped a page and encountered the heading, Six: The Scene of the Crime. She gave a start. Chapter six already? How long had she been reading?

A tall grandfather clock, its chime silenced, stood sentry in the corner of the room. She glanced at its face and gasped. Almost three o’clock? She’d been caught up in the book for well over an hour. Was the man still reading the newspaper?

She leaped up and darted around the table and into the periodical room. The table near the window was empty, and the newspaper was draped neatly over the top rod of the rack. Inwardly berating herself for being so unaware of her surroundings, she yanked the paper from its rod and flopped it open on the closest table. She turned to the final section, where the classified ads were always printed.

The entire page where help wanted and rooms-to-let posts should be was missing.

“That creep!” She clapped her hand over her mouth and sent a quick look left and right. Not another soul in the room. She smacked the tabletop and spoke aloud again. “What an absolute creep.”

Emmett Tharp

EMMETT RECORDED THE ADDRESS FOR the last job opportunity listed—feather plucker at a chicken plant outside town—then wadded up the sheet of newsprint. He started to toss it into the small wastebasket next to his desk but paused, his hand in midair. Maw would say he’d stolen the section from the library’s newspaper, and she’d be right. Paw would snort and say, “A feller who’s s’posed to be so smart can sure act dumb.” It pained Emmett to admit it, but Paw would be right. All his studying for final examinations must have numbed his brain if he forgot to take something as basic as paper and a pen to the library.

He balanced the crumpled ball of paper on his palm, frowning. Should he return the page to the library? He didn’t care to make that long walk from his room in Bradley Hall to the library for a second time in one day. Especially with it being so hot and muggy out. Still, someone else might need to read the help wanted ads. Not that there were countless options. He smoothed the page as flat as possible on the desk. Wrinkles, smudges, and little tears on the edges marred the sheet of newsprint. The library wouldn’t want it now. He turned it into a ball, lobbed it into the wastebasket, then put his head in his hands and groaned. He might