Page 19 of Booked for Murder

“I see I have rendered you speechless for once in your life.”

“I’m having a hard time trying to imagine this drama unfolding at the library.”

“You should know that the library is where all the drama comes to happen. Romance in the stacks, whispers of teenage treachery, and don’t get me started on the researchers.”

Librarians had a love-hate relationship with most researchers, especially the ones in the history field. The main branch library had a lot of old volumes, volumes the historians wanted to get their dirty hands on. The good ones agreed to wear gloves and avoid breathing on the old pages. The snoots went out of their way to create problems for everyone.

Once, an idiot wearing the guise of a researcher spilled soda on a journal written in 1792, which had required magic to repair—a very rare form of magic that had cost the idiot a substantial amount of money, as the library took care to record the handling of all old books in addition to the disclosures about how patrons were to behave.

“How is that poor book from the soda incident?” I asked, honoring the new tradition of inquiring on the abused book’s health.

“It’s good, although there’s been a request for it, so we’re putting it through therapy before allowing the requesting patron to have a look at it.”

“That poor book.”

“Seriously. Who knew that title could be so popular? I mean, it’s a journal with excellent insights on life during that era, but you’d think it held the damned secrets of the universe in it!”

“Well, it was written during the initial rise of magic usage,” I reminded her. “It’s some of the earliest known instances of magic becoming a part of everyday life in the United States.”

“Magic has always been a part of everyday life everywhere, people just didn’t realize what it was,” Beatrice countered.

I sighed, aware we could lose hours on the argument without either one of us making any ground. “In any case, while that specific journal is useful for historians, we’re way off subject.”

“Well, almost off subject.”

“Almost? Wait. How are we almost off subject?”

“Senator Godrin was on the list of patrons interested in seeing the journal. The police requested a list of all books he was interested in, checked out, or used. Your branch is being hit with the requests next, and don’t be surprised if someone comes knocking at your door. Tawnlen said you often handled his submitted requests because of your general knowledge of the library’s stock. Mickey then commented that you’d also run around looking for things when the senator or his companions made requests because it kept you out of sight from them. Because of your rating.”

Uh-oh. I recognized Beatrice’s tone. On a good day, we had trouble getting along, but she hated when I faced undeserved prejudices because of my foot or my rating. In that regard, I couldn’t ask for a better friend.

Hell, it’d be nice if we got to the point we could be friends rather than prickly colleagues forced to work with each other. Then again, why couldn’t we?

I could change—or at least try a little harder to have relationships with people.

Smiling, I replied, “I had a cop, an adept, and my boss in my apartment before my alarm went off this morning because of my rating. They wanted to see my documentation.”

“That doesn’t sound promising, Janette.”

“It was fine. The adept reviewed my paperwork, seemed satisfied with it, and asked a few questions before leaving. It seemed pretty routine to me.”

“Routine for what?”

“An investigation? They asked me about my relationship with the senator.”

“Non-existent relationship, as his hatred of the lower ratings is rather established,” Beatrice muttered.

“The police must be having a devil of a time with the investigation because of that. Everyone who isn’t a perfect 90% has likely been targeted by him.”

“Everyone knows his tolerance range is more like 85-95%, but 90% was his optimal. You know, to be just like him. He has to allow for some variance, or he’d have to disown his entire family. But conveniently, that’s the range of all members of his family.”

“Surprise, surprise,” I muttered. “Anything else I should know?”

“Actually, yes. It’s about your renovation project.”

Yet again, my day could get worse, and I braced for the inevitable. “What about it?”

“They’re bringing in a sensor, which means no one can go into the building for at least a week. You’ll have to adjust your timetable based on that. You should give it two weeks to be safe. In the meantime, here’s some other relevant news. The donor heard about the murder and offered to pay all salaries of displaced staff until the investigation is complete. That call came in early this morning.”