Open it up.Ī rubber-stamped boat, or rather a ship, graced the ivory envelope in the upper left corner.
I bit my tongue to keep from telling her what I thought about pain pills in general. Doc gave me some pain pills and I’ve been taking those pretty regularly, but today they don’t seem to be helping much. I couldn’t imagine walking around in pain all the time, and Margaret was only in her early forties. She reached for the wrought iron banister and hauled herself up the few steps.Īre your feet bothering you more today? My feet hardly ever hurt, but when they did, it was awful. She rummaged in a dark blue gift bag and pulled out an envelope. She paused to pat the stone lion on her left and grinned up at me. And some that weren’t so gracious, if truth be told. That is to say, I was straightening the books while Marmalade sniffed around the bottom of the shelf.Īs Margaret trudged up the walk, I opened the heavy front door and stepped out onto the wide porch, that standard feature of all the gracious old houses in town. The day was mild enough for open windows, and Marmalade and I happened to be close to one in the Reference section, straightening up the Funk & Wagnall’s Encyclopedias someone recently bequeathed to the Martinsville library. Iheard Margaret Casperson’s 1933 Duesenberg pull up in front of the library where Sadie’s yellow Chevy usually sat. She was tied up and blindfolded and her head hurt like the dickens, but a little kid had the cinnamon buns. You just finish that sticky bun I brought you. Why would anybody knock her out and steal her cinnamon rolls?Ī child’s voice said, Mommy, is that lady sleeping? Now they filled her car with their smell of homespun comfort, the aroma of a leisurely breakfast.
#Watch thelibrarian 3 cracked#
That’s what she’d been putting in the car when somebody cracked her over the head. Then somebody would have expected her to be someplace. She’d bought some at the Delicious to drop by her aunt’s house in Hastings, a spur-of-the-moment visit designed to save gas and kill two birds with one stone. She knew that because she smelled the cinnamon buns. She had hated playing Blind Man’s Bluff when she was a kid, and she liked blindfolds even less now as she lay in the back seat of a car, bumping over a rutted gravel road that threw stones against the undercarriage. She came to with her ankles hobbled and her hands tied behind her back.