By Book or by Crook by Eva Gates Read Free Book Online Page A

Austen collection.”
    “What’s that?”
    “We have a full collection of Jane Austen first editions. That’s the reason for tonight’s reception. They’re on display in the alcove in the main room. I won’t have them handled by inexperienced people.” A sudden thought filled me with horror. “You can’t even think about dusting them for fingerprints.”
    “Jane Austen. Didn’t she write that movie my wife’s so fond of? Some English thing with fancy accents and long dresses.”
    I didn’t bother to explain. “Yes.”
    “Are her books valuable?”
    “Literally priceless. The first one was printed in 1811. This collection is of incomparable quality.”
    “That so?”
    “We don’t own it. It’s on loan here for three months.” My chest swelled with pride, even if just a tiny bit. Despite the chaos and my fears for Bertie and the library, I had remembered my duty to protect the collection.
    “I’ll dust ’em if I have to.”
    My chest deflated.
    “We won’t be releasing details of the murder at this time,” he said. “I expect you to keep whatever you saw upstairs to yourself. Think you can do that?”
    “Of course I can.” I tried to look offended at the very idea I’d been planning to spread the story far and wide.
    “Make sure of it.” Watson nodded to the policewoman, and she opened the office door.
    I hurried back to the main room, intending to stand guard over the Austen collection all night if necessary. Only the library staff and the police remained. “Bertie didn’t do it,” I said to Butch.
    He gave me a long look. Upstairs someone shouted for him, and Butch hurried away.
    “They’re saying Bertie has been arrested,” Ronald said to me. “I can’t believe it.”
    “That’s ridiculous,” Charlene said.
    “Ridiculous, yes. Arrested, no. At least I don’t think so. Watson’s in her office now. It’ll all be cleared up soon.”
    “Are they sure it was murder? Maybe he had a heart attack, fell, and hit his head?”
    “I saw him, Ronald.” I shuddered at the memory. “I think he was stabbed.”
    “What do you suppose Mr. Uppiton was doing on the private level, anyway?” Charlene asked.
    “I’ve no idea.”
    Charlene glanced around the room, taking in the discarded wineglasses, dirty mugs, half-eaten baking, crumpled paper napkins illustrated with colorful sketches of overfull bookshelves, matching paper plates scattered with crumbs. The room was quiet—too quiet. The partygoers had left, the music had ended, and even the police were temporarily elsewhere. Outside, the wind had dropped and waves no longer pounded the distant shore.
    The deep silence reminded me of Charles. Even the library cat had gone quiet.
    “Guess the party’s over,” Charlene said. “Still, no reason we can’t have some music.” She went to the CD player and swapped discs. Jay-Z again.
    I left her to it. Might as well annoy the police.
    I stuck my head around the corner and peered down the hall. The policewoman guarding Bertie’s office had gone. A plaintive cry came from behind the closet door.
    I slipped in and closed the door behind me. I suspected Detective Watson wouldn’t be pleased at having Charles disturbing his crime scene. The cat’s food bowl was empty, but the litter box was definitely not.
    “Whew,” I said. “I’ll get that cleaned out for you.” Charles wound himself around my ankles. I dropped to the floor, stretched my legs out in front of me, and arranged my stiff skirt and petticoats. He climbedinto my lap, rolled over, and presented his belly for scratching. I rubbed the soft, deep fur, and he began to purr.
    What,
I thought,
will happen to the library—to my job—if Bertie is jailed?
    I shoved the thought away. My job was not the important thing here. In the short time I’d worked for Bertie, I’d found her to be a kind, thoughtful woman, passionate about her library, her yoga practice, and the Outer Banks. Bertie had not murdered anyone. Of that I was