Cruelest Month

“So nothing really unusual?” probed Ray.

“Well, book buyers are sort of unusual, more all the time, don’t you think?” Phillip raised an eyebrow and looked thoughtful. “There was one thing more than a bit unusual. Nothing to do with Vi

“Hasids, or Amish?” asked Ray.

“The second, the ones with the buggies.”

“Were they looking at Fox’s book?”

“No, I don’t know what they were looking at; I don’t think it was his book. They did buy something, quite curious at the time, but I can’t remember what it was….” Phillip snapped his fingers. “You know, it might have been a map or a calendar. And after they left I went out to see if there was a buggy on the street,” he confided. “I was wondering if some of them were moving to the area. Might be good for the tourist trade. They do crafts and furniture.”

“And?”

“Nothing. No buggy, they just disappeared into the crowd.”

Ray set the volume of poetry on the counter and placed a credit card on top. Phillip picked up the card and ran it through the reader. Handing Ray a slip to be signed, he said, “See, with this sale your name gets recoded twice: once for the charge, and once as a member of our discount club. But I’ll never disclose this purchase to anyone, especially potential opponents.” He winked. “By the way, whatever happened to that guy that ran against you last time? What was his name?”

“Hammer.”

He chuckled. “Yes, Hammer.”

“Last I heard he’d moved to the Texas, border country somewhere. Bought a gun shop.”

“Ahhh.” Phillip picked up the store receipt and shut it in the register. “I must say your elections are, how should I put it, well I hate to see one coming. You just can’t watch the telly without one or more bits of outrageous propaganda at every break.”

“It does get noisy,” said Ray. “In your home country, politics are rough and tumble, too. And nothing more outrageous than British press coverage.”

“You’re right on about the tabloids, little truth there. At least we don’t have the adverts, there just isn’t that kind of money. And our politicians, well, our scandals are… But there is one important difference.”

“What’s that?” asked Ray, enjoying the banter.

“When our politicians are hearing voices and talking to God, they end up in hospital. They don’t get to stand for Parliament, let alone become Prime Minister. We don’t allow people, even politicians, to embarrass themselves completely.”

“How about Thatcher?”

“She wasn’t talking to God. She was God.”

“This has been fun,” said Ray, “but I’ve got to scoot. I do need a favor, however.”

“Anything for a loyal customer.”

“If you ever notice that I’m talking to myself or seem to be hearing voices, get me out of public office and into treatment.”

“No problem, old friend. I’ll just put out the word about the pacifist poets. I’ll even organize the recall.”

Ray found Pe

“I can’t tell you much, Pe

“What’s that?”

“Two things, actually. First, what can you tell me about Fox’s book? And secondly, Phillip at Ye Olde says you told him you’ve had two copies stolen….”

“That’s right,” Storrer sniffed. “We checked them in, put them in circulation, and they disappeared.”

“When did you notice they were missing?”

“Vi

Ray looked up from his notebook. “Is it normal to have books stolen from the library?”

Storrer shrugged and brushed back her shoulder length salt and pepper hair with the writing end of a pencil. “Well, yes and no,” she said. “It doesn’t happen much. Here anyway. Our loss rate is way below the national average. And, as you know, we don’t have any of the electronic detection gear at the door. We’ve never really needed it.” She looked to the ceiling, thinking. “There’ve been a few cases where particular books have disappeared, like new Harry Potter books, the Twilight series too. Our way of dealing with the problem is to put those titles behind the circulation desk. Patrons must ask for the book in person. Anyway, it’s not a common event. Not here.”

“Any idea who might have walked away with Fox’s book?”

Storrer shook her head. “I don’t know. I’ve never thought about things that way.”

“But you were familiar with the contents of the book,” said Ray.

“Yes, very.” She smiled. “In fact, I helped Vincent with his research, the Capone part—Cicero and Chicago. I had to get most of the books he used via interlibrary loan, as there’s not much demand for Capone material up here. I also pulled things off the Internet for him. Have you read the book?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Then you know,” she said, her smile growing weak. “The first part of the book might be termed historical fiction with emphasis on the fiction, and the rest is just over the top, Vincent having fun. I liked to kid him about his story, but he’d say, ‘It’s all true!‘ The couple of times I pushed harder, he’d amend that to, ‘Well, it’s mostly true.’ And he would sit there and sort of laugh with a Cheshire cat grin, like we both knew he was just blowing smoke.”

“So you can’t remember anyone lurking about, reading Fox’s book?”

“No.”

“The new patrons at the library, anyone looking out of place?” asked Ray.

“No one comes to mind. We have our regulars; some people come in daily to read the papers and periodicals. Others are here once a week, or every other week, to get a new supply of books. And then there are the walk-ins: summer people, weekenders, or people just passing through town who come in and use a computer or our Wi-Fi to check their e-mail. We try to be helpful without being intrusive.”

“Any Amish?”

“Amish?” Pe

“Fox was reportedly dropped off near here last Saturday afternoon. We haven’t found anyone who saw him after that time. Did you see him? Did he come into the library Saturday?”