Introduction: Grace Darby first appeared in a few episodes of a suspense serial in New Jersey Life and Leisure. The story below actually has no relationship to the story line formerly published. I hope to develop that story line, The Poetry Stalker, into a novel, and perhaps, some day, there will be two mystery series, one for Grace and one for Andy Westin and Jack Donegal, aka the Action Men. This first segment of a short story is a bit different than Action Men with Silly Putty but still a bit on the light side.
The Lit Club Mystery
Grace did not know why she
noticed the book. This was a library, and it was not unusual for
libraries to have books. It was just that this book was so perfectly
centered on the table, in a private study room with no students, as
if it were waiting for someone who never came. She'd passed the room
several times now, and its red cover caught her eye.
Perhaps, she needed some
distraction, some procrastination, but she came closer to the glass
door of the room and read the book's title, Masterpieces of
Mystery Selected by Ellery Queen: The Supersleuths. This caught
her attention, because she liked mysteries. She didn't come to the
library to read mysteries however. She'd come to delve into the
Brownings, Robert and Elizabeth Barrett, and prepare for her class of
lit major sophomores. Procrastination won out, and she entered the
room.
She picked up the book and
soon regretted it. She would never be able to get it back to its
exact former position. She had a feeling it was placed there by a
careful person who would notice its misplacement. For some reason,
she did not want to sit with her back to the door but sat on the
opposite side of the table facing it.
The first story in the book
was “The Adventure of the Abbey Grange” by Arthur Conan Doyle, a
nice one. She then noticed there was a single underlined word on the
page, “do,” underlined in pencil. Why? As a professor, she'd seen
lots of books with all sorts of handwritten notes, but why outline
that single word and no others? Did it make any sense for emphasis?
She read the whole sentence it belonged in. “'Why do you not write
them yourself?' I said with some bitterness.'” No, it did not make
sense. If any word should be emphasized, it should be “yourself”
or maybe “why.” She flipped a page, and there was a word
underlined on this page also, on the right hand side. The word was
“not.” She flipped another page and, again, more underlined
words, this time two together, “pick up.” She flipped another
page still and the underlined word was “articles.” Very odd. “Do
not pick up articles.” The underlined words formed a perfectly
grammatical sentence. Coincidental or not? And were these articles as
in newspaper or magazine articles or articles in the Conan Doyle
sense as in things?
“Oh Grace, you're a little
idiot,” she said aloud, with no one to hear her but the book. “It's
just paranoia. That's all there is to it. Paranoia, and
procrastination and too much imagination and late nights watching
thrillers in an empty apartment.”
Focus, Grace, focus. How
do I love thee? Let me count the ways … let me count … let me
count … let me … count … count
She was
sitting in a velvet lined armchair at 221b Baker Street, listening to
Watson recite Elizabeth Barrett Browning to Mary. How sweet Mrs.
Hudson was bringing her a cup of tea, Earl Grey. Mrs. Hudson or was
it Miss Lemon? No, this was all wrong. For Pete's sake, she'd jumped
books. Miss Lemon, Poirot's secretary, didn't belong in the 19th century or in
Arthur Conan Doyle.
Grace
woke up seeing red … the red book, its embossed leather cover
leaving scalloped impressions in her cheek. She sat up and fumbled in
her purse for her cell phone to check the time. 8:30 a.m.? 8:30
a.m., not p.m.? I've slept here all night? They must not have
noticed her in this room when they closed the library for the night.
She breathed a sigh of relief, remembering her next class was not
until 10:00. Even so, what a royal mess she was.
She saw
a male figure in gold and royal blue pass the glass door, seeming to
look her way. The careful person? She rubbed her eyes, scooped
up her things and hurried out the door of the study room.
She
charged out with her armload of books and ran into a hard obstacle,
the figure in gold and royal blue who had paced back to where he had
started. Poetry books fell like hail all around her.
“Ms.
Darby!”
“Hi
Zach.” She recognized the student. He'd been in her freshman
English requirement class last semester. He wasn't a literature fan,
but he seemed like a nice boy. She reached out her hand. If he was
the careful person, the sort with germophobic tendencies, she thought
he'd shy away from this
He
grasped her hand and gave it a squeeze and a shake. The right side of
his mouth pulled up in a sort of crooked smile. “Ms. Darby, your
hair. It looks different.”
She'd
slept all night with her face smashed into a book. She was quite sure
her hair looked different!
“You
look like one of those girls in the vintage Coke ads.”
“A
Gibson girl? I look like a Gibson girl?”
“Sure.”
He shrugged. “If that's what it's called.”
She
reached up a hand and felt at the back of her head. She'd been
wearing a French roll which had come partially loose. “Is that a
good thing?”
“It
suits you, Ms. Darby.”
She made
a mental note that if she fell asleep with her head on a desk, she'd
have the perfect look for the turn of the century.
“Well,
let me get those books for you.” He kneeled down and began to
collect the books. Grace squatted down as well. Zach read off titles
as he handed her a few volumes, “Sonnets of the Portuguese? Love
Letters of Robert and Elizabeth Barrett Browning? Ms. Darby, if I
ever need to impress a girl, I'll know who to talk to.”
“You
can always join us at Lit Club on Thursday nights.”
“I
know.”
“I see
you've gone Greek,” she said, noting the Phi Sigma Delta pin on the
collar of his rugby shirt. “I remember you said you were pledging
when you were in my class.”
“Good
memory.”
“Well,
thank you for picking up my books, and speaking up picking up things,
have you any plans to pick up … some … some articles?”
Zach
stared at her like she'd grown a fifth appendage. “Articles? I
usually read articles online.”
“Me
too,” said Grace, clearing her throat. “I do most of my article
reading online. Well, I just thought that if you were going to pick
up some articles … that maybe you shouldn't.” She suddenly
remembered that the sentence spelled out from the underlines had said
not to pick up. Perhaps she gave the wrong advice. “Or maybe you
should.” She cleared her throat again. “Let your conscience be
your guide.”
He
continued to look at her like she was an alien life form, and she
felt fully deserving of that.
“I …
I haven't had my coffee yet,” she said, glad to be able to grasp at
this excuse.
He
smiled his crooked smile again. “I understand the feeling, Ms.
Darby.”
To Be
Continued …
© 2016 Susan Joy Clark
No comments:
Post a Comment