A Shush Before Dying: Meg Booker Librarian Mysteries, #1

By Dale Ivan

Brand-new librarian Meg Booker is just supposed to be checking out books.

Instead, it's the patrons who are being checked out--permanently.

 

April 1985. Fir Grove Library, Portland, Oregon: Big hair. Leggings. Card catalogs. Kicking kids with giant boom boxes out of the library. Meg's got it all handled—until her boss takes off on a way-too-long vacation and leaves her in charge.

 

Right away, things start going wrong. Historical records disappear out of the archives. The hot new library page skateboards into work—or doesn't—whenever he feels like it. A simmering feud boils over between two prominent and universally loathed patrons—nicknamed "The Witch" and "Leisure Suit Lothario"—leaving Meg scrambling to keep the peace.

 

Then the Witch turns up dead in the library conference room. The police say it's natural causes, but Meg suspects murder—and no librarian worth her reference desk credentials leaves a question unanswered. Aided by the library's mystery book club, and armed with mad research skills, she sets out to prove what really happened.

But when there's another death—and one of her friends is arrested –Meg must unmask the real murderer before it's too late.

 

A Shush Before Dying is the first book of the Meg Booker Librarian Mysteries—a cozy library mystery series set in the 1980s.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dale Ivan Books
• Release date: Apr 17, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223585770

Book preview

Chapter One

April 2, 1985

The Rose City Transit bus shuddered as it pulled away from the stop at the Glenwood Apartments where Meg Booker lived, in the Fir Grove neighborhood of Portland, Oregon.

Meg had reached the stop out of breath just before the Number 61 appeared. Heart still pounding, she boarded the bus, showing her transit pass to the driver.

She took a second-row window seat opposite the driver’s side, trying not to stumble in the high heels she’d worn for work today, adjusting the skirt of her fancy red-and-black peplum dress so that she didn’t wrinkle it. Dressing up for her first day as temporary supervisor of Fir Grove Library Branch had seemed like a good idea first thing this morning, but now she wasn’t so sure.

Across the aisle sat a young woman who looked a couple of years younger than her, dressed in a bright striped cowl-collar shirt and high-waisted, pleated corduroy pants. The other woman held a Walkman with headphones, the music turned up loud enough that Meg could hear the strains of Howard Jones’s Things Can Only Get Better playing faintly.

Meg had just turned twenty-five, but suddenly she felt old.

Back when she started college in the fall of 1978, she’d thought by now she would be most of the way through her doctorate in ancient history, rather than taking another break from her master’s. Her job at the Fir Grove library was supposed to be part time. She had started late last fall, but when her boss Lillian announced she was finally taking a long-overdue vacation, around the world no less, how could Meg say no to running things in while she was away? She couldn’t. It was good experience for someday, when she might be the head of an academic department.

Besides, it was the library. Meg smiled at the thought. She had always loved libraries, ever since she first visited the Vernon library as a kid with her parents and older brother and sister. Now she worked at one. Now she would be in charge of one for three months. Her smile faded. She should go over her list for work, and make sure she hadn’t overlooked anything.

Meg pulled the notepad from her backpack and went down the list she had written, tapping a toe nervously. It looked good. She checked it again just to be sure. It still looked good. She wanted everything to go smoothly today. She glanced at the list a third time, sighed, and closed her eyes, listening to Things Can Only Get Better play, tinny and faint though it was through the other young woman’s headphones. The song ended and the next song on the cassette began playing, Life in One Day. Meg opened her eyes and gazed out the window, forcing herself not to look at the notepad she still held in her left hand.

The bus turned a corner onto Maine Street and passed by a line of craftsman-style houses, shaded by tall hemlocks and spruce trees, with the occasional maple or oak tree in between. A few blocks later, Meg stood and tugged on the pull cord to signal her stop. The chime sounded and the bus slowed. Meg stuck her notepad in her purse as the bus stopped.

She thanked the driver and left through the open front doors.

The April morning was bright, and the scattered clouds were already departing. She breathed in the spring air, with its mingled scents of flowers, spruce, and hemlock. A crow cawed at her from atop a split-rail fence. The library was half a block away, on the opposite, west side of Maine street. She crossed the street to the sidewalk.

The library’s red-orange Mediterranean roof tiles were faded by age, but Meg loved the time-worn look of them, even if the tiles could be a challenge to maintain nearly seventy years after the library had been constructed. Her now-vacationing boss had told her that they were overdue to be replaced. The building itself was brown brick with high windows framed in white.

She passed the side yard with its rhododendron bushes. People already waited outside, standing around the white pillars that flanked the double-doored main entrance. Mothers with their toddlers ready for the Tuesday Tots story time, seniors looking to read papers and magazines, and a couple in business dress, perhaps needing some information.

The scene gave Meg a warm glow that, for an instant, banished her nervousness.

She went around the north side of the building to the parking lot and the staff entrance door at the rear of the library. Fifteen minutes until the branch opened—she’d made it. She wasn’t scheduled to arrive until opening, but she wanted to get there early today.

She smoothed her skirt, unlocked the rear door, and slipped inside as the door closed behind her.

Couldn’t wait to get here, could you? A familiar voice said off to her right. Meg turned. The owner of the voice was Sassy Neale, head page at Fir Grove Branch Library. She gave Meg a mock-serious look.

Sassy’s spiked blond hair was high on top and tight on the sides. Her faded jeans had iron-on patches at the knees. The gray sweatshirt she wore had a photo of a beaming George Michael across the chest and was fashionably two sizes too big for her petite frame, the neckline wide, showing the edge of a maroon tee. Her nails were painted emerald. The New Wave was her wave, she had told Meg when they first met.

I see you decided to go with office serious today, despite my advice, Sassy said, fake frowning. An instant later she flashed a grin at Meg. Things are running smoothly so far.

Meg’s chest felt lighter. There weren’t any problems, not yet at any rate.

You were worried the branch would burn down on your first day, weren’t you? Sassy asked. She followed Meg into the break room.

Meg pulled her lunch sack out of her backpack and put it in the refrigerator, and then just managed to get her purse into her cubbyhole shelf.

Not exactly burned down, but I was worried that there would be a crisis, she admitted.

Well, I still wish the new guy had been able to come early for a couple of hours, Sassy said.

Meg tried to keep a straight face, but ended up grinning. That’s not exactly a crisis.

It will be if he doesn’t get trained properly.

Meg patted Sassy’s arm. That’s where you come in with the on-the-job training. She headed back out of the break room and to the door into the main room, which was propped open by a doorstop.

Very funny, Meg, Sassy said behind her, but her tone indicated she was less than annoyed.

I’ve got faith in you, Meg said over her shoulder, and went into the main room.

The front counter was off to her left. Gwen Sumulong stood beside the white bulk of one of the two computer terminals used to check out and check in books, and create library cards. The other terminal sat five feet farther down the counter toward the front doors. The stamp pads beside each were freshly inked, a Date Due stamp" beside each. Gwen wore a pink oxford shirt, blue jeans, and sensible light-blue flats. Her feathered black hair had a gleam Meg wished her own dark, curly hair possessed.

How’s things? Meg asked.

Gwen turned. Her finely featured face wore a playful expression. She broke into Survivor’s Popular Girl.

Meg stopped dead, eyes wide.

Gwen sang a couple of lines, then stopped and smiled.

You’ve been taking lessons from Sassy, Meg said, surprised at her friend serenading her.

Gwen’s cheeks dimpled. I just thought you deserved something special on your first day running the branch.

"Really, we’re running it, I’m just taking the credit," Meg said. She would be sunk without Sassy and Gwen, and the rest of the staff.

She crossed the room, passing reading tables and rows of bookshelves more than a foot taller than her own five and half feet. She went down the last aisle to the conference room’s open door.

The conference room had been cleared of chairs and tables, except for one chair against the far wall and a table beside it. The table had a blue felt cloth covering a pile of what Meg knew had to be children’s picture books. There was a bottle of bubble juice, and a tambourine. Fir Grove Library’s children’s librarian Amber Cassidy sat in the chair, one hand manipulating a furry monkey hand puppet while the other held up five fingers. Five little monkeys jumping on the bed.

Amber saw Meg and smiled. The blond hair responsible for her name had been recently permed, and was now an envy-inducing mass of luxurious curls. A Russian-green fringed scarf covered the big shoulders of her cobalt-blue draped dress. Her silver-toned hoop earrings complimented her hair perfectly. Amber was in her early thirties and always seemed both poised and carefree at the same time. Meg envied that poise much more than Amber’s beautiful mane.

I know this song by heart, mon cheri, Amber said, standing. But I always sing it before each toddler story time. She laid the puppet on the table and walked gracefully over, her green eyes searching Meg’s face. I can tell you’re a little worried about being in charge today. That means you care. Which means you’ll do well.

Meg sighed. I appreciate your confidence.

It’s natural to feel like you’re not up to the task, Amber said. But you are. You’re a quick learner. We’re grateful you agreed to take a semester off from your graduate studies to run this place.

I’m happy to help. She was doing her best not to think about her master’s thesis while on break, even though she already felt a pull to get back to it. The powerful women of late Rome would have to wait a bit longer.

Still, we appreciate what you’re doing, Amber said. Oh, and remember, I’m going to Maplewood branch after my story time, but I’ll be back to cover your dinner break.

Thank you, Meg said.

Amber smiled. Everyone needs to eat, including you.

We’re opening, Sassy’s voice echoed from the main room.

Showtime, Amber said.

Meg headed for her information desk as the patrons filed in. The toddlers and their moms headed to the conference room, while the seniors went to the periodical section. Meg pointed the couple in business dress to the Standard and Poor’s stock directory, and then settled in behind the information desk.

Tuesday was officially underway.

Meg held the title card for Ray Bradbury’s A Memory of Murder in her left hand while her right flipped through the M’s in the catalog drawer open before her as she sought the correct spot to insert the card. Her first day as temporary supervisor was off to a good start, provided the new library page actually showed up. The glow from helping that adorable little four-year-old girl and her mother find Whistle for Willie a few minutes ago lingered. She might be working toward becoming an academic, but there was something special about seeing a child and their parent find a new picture book to read together.

Music blared, shattering the afternoon quiet inside the main room. Everybody Wants to Rule the World echoed off the corniced ceiling. Meg jerked and the title card slipped from her fingers. It fluttered to the linoleum floor and under the catalog cabinet.

A loud shushing erupted from the reading area in the form of a sharp, high-pitched hiss that could penetrate brick. Alice Morrison’s shush. Meg knew it well.

She stood, wobbling in her high heels, and raked the room with her gaze, frantically trying to find the source of the music. A familiar tangle of BMX bicycles leaned against a pillar outside the front doors. Her stomach knotted. The Boombox Kids were here. They must have come straight from middle school.

The song played from somewhere in the nonfiction stacks. She cocked her head. The music sounded like it was coming from the 700s. A middle-aged woman at the encyclopedias looked entreatingly at Meg. I’ll take care of it, Meg mouthed to the woman.

She strode across the room, her heels clicking on the floor. She needed to bring things down to at least a modicum of quiet, and quickly. She found the Boombox Kids, three black-haired boys and a redheaded girl, in the 795s, looking at books about card games, their backpacks forming obstacles in the aisle. The boombox sat on a footstool, playing a cassette tape of the new Tears for Fears. All four kids had the bi-level hairstyle, spiked on top, trimmed close on the sides, and long in the back, running down to their denim jacket collars.

You know you’re not allowed to play music in the library, Meg said, the words tumbling out in a rush. Please turn it off.

They ignored her. Alice Morrison shush-hissed again from the reading area, louder this time.

Meg faced the ringleader, the redheaded girl. Tara, Lillian’s told you no music in the library.

Tara looked up from Winning Blackjack, her lip curled in disdain. You’re not Lillian.

The knots in Meg’s stomach grew bigger. She tried ignoring the feeling.

I’m in charge while she’s away, she told them.

Lucky us, said one of Tara’s cronies. He laughed.

Meg reached down and pressed the off button on the boombox, cutting off Tears for Fears mid-note.

Hey! Tara said. We were listening to that.

Meg forced a smile. Like I said, you can’t play music in the library. We need to keep things down to a dull roar at least.

Fine! Tara put the blackjack book back on the shelf, in the wrong place. The three boys followed her lead, the now-formerly laughing crony shoving his poker book spine first between two unrelated books. They hefted their backpacks and silently left, the girl carrying the boombox. As soon as they reached the lobby, Everybody Wants to Rule the World resumed.

Meg watched them skip out of the library and hop on their bikes. Tara balanced the boombox on her bike’s handlebars as they rode off, still defiant. Meg sighed, reshelved the books, and returned to the card catalog. She knelt and picked up the card for A Memory of Murder from beneath the cabinet.

A voice thundered from the conference room’s open door.

I don’t care that you and your cronies want to make a buck off the side lots and crummy bungalows you’ve bought. Eunice Stump’s gravely alto reverberated off the white, corniced ceiling. People browsing shelves turned and stared in the direction of that open door, hidden from the view of everyone in the main room by the fiction stacks.

Meg hurriedly tucked the catalog card between The Memory Book and Memory of Old Jack, pushed the drawer rod through the punch holes in the cards, closed the catalog drawer, and twiddled the knob to tighten the rod. She slipped around the cart holding the new catalog cards in their cardboard sorting drawer, and headed toward the conference room.

Times are changing. Fir Grove needs to change, too, Aunt Ewe, a patronizing voice replied. The voice belonged to Doug Foster, Eunice’s nephew, a trust-fund baby extraordinaire.

Don’t call me that. Eunice’s voice dropped half an octave, her tone getting even more threatening. I detest that.

Meg caught Gwen’s eye at the front desk as she passed. Has he arrived yet? she mouthed at her friend.

Gwen shook her head no, then nodded gravely at a patron trundling up to the desk with a stack of books. Gwen seemed unhappy, but there was no time to ask her what was wrong.

Fairchild House has got to go, Aunt Ewe. Smugness dripped from Doug’s echoing voice. Nothing lasts forever.

Development will happen over my dead body! Eunice shouted. Alice Morrison shushed loudly from the reading area by the far wall, near the magazines and newspaper racks.

Meg finally reached the open conference room door and saw the two patrons squaring off inside. Eunice Stump faced toward Meg, glowering through thick glasses at her nephew. Her eyes loomed huge in the thick lenses. Her brown wool coat wrapped around her like armor, buttoned up all the way. Her navy-blue trousers would have been new thirty years ago.

Her nephew had his back to Meg. His blond toupee squatted on his head like a dead mammal. Today’s leisure suit was beige, the dress shirt chocolate brown. Patent black leather ankle boots gleamed below the flared trouser leg. Doug always showed up at the library like it was still the seventies and he was about to head to the disco.

That dump makes the House of Usher look like a five-star resort, Doug said. It should have been condemned years ago.

Eunice jabbed a finger at her nephew. "Fairchild House will be on the National Register of Historic Homes."

Meg took a deep breath, bracing herself to deal with Eunice. She inhaled the smell of peanut butter. Eunice was always eating peanut butter crackers, in defiance of the rules about food in the library. She always had a jar in her purse, too, along with a butter knife wrapped in tin foil and saltines.

Mrs. Stump and Mr. Foster, could you please lower your voices? Meg kept her voice level. She ignored the pounding of her heart. Technically the conference room was only open for meetings, story times, and other events, but Meg let that slide and instead focused on the issue at hand.

Doug turned around to face Meg. She was sure that the rug he wore was going to slide off, but the tape underneath must have been extra sticky.

His round face creased into a leer. We-ll, hell-o, Meg-o babe-o. He dropped his voice to a stage whisper. Sorry about the noise. People—he nodded fractionally at his stone-faced aunt—have gotten a bit worked up. He rubbed one of his brass cuff buttons in his fingers. We’ll keep it down, sweet stuff, I promise.

It’s Miss Booker, she told him. His awkward come-on reminded her why the other library staff called him the Leisure-suited Lothario among themselves.

He winked conspiratorially at Meg. Sure thing.

This is not over, Eunice growled at him. She hefted her shopping bag, filled with books and her bulging file folder. She glared past Meg at the open doorway to the main room.

Harold!

Alice Morrison’s shush answered her.

Eunice ignored it. HAROLD! she boomed.

Harold Stump appeared in the doorway, a sallow-faced, bald man in a dress shirt, pullover sweater, and slacks. His worried gaze darted over Meg and Doug, and fixed unsteadily on his mother. He held a brown cardboard accordion file case. Sweat beaded on his forehead.

Harold Stump was Eunice’s son and currently vice president of the Fir Grove Neighborhood Association. He was in his late forties, a couple of years older than Doug. In the four months Meg had worked for the branch as a para-librarian, she had never seen Eunice there without Harold, and vice versa.

Of course, Meg normally worked four days a week as a part-time employee, two full days and two half days, so she could have been absent if Harold ever dared to visit the branch without the looming presence of his mother. However, now Meg was full time for the next three months while Lillian was away.

Eunice scowled at her son. You’re a waste, you know that? You should be opposing the rezoning initiative, not aiding this jackal. She jerked her head at Doug.

Harold’s face reddened. Doug grinned mockingly at him, while Meg felt a sickly surge of pity for the man.

There wasn’t enough evidence to support nominating Fairchild House for the National Register, Harold mumbled, eyes downcast. There’s no proof that Grover Cleveland stayed there.

You should be supporting your mother, she boomed. I know what I’m doing.

Yet more shushing from the direction of the reading table.

Harold flinched in the face of his mother’s ire. I don’t see anything wrong with wanting affordable housing added to the neighborhood.

Bah! Eunice snapped. Affordable housing? If people want a house here, they need to work enough for one, not expect to have it handed to them on a silver platter.

Doug snickered. Face it, Aunt Ewe, you don’t have ammunition to win this fight. I’ve got the votes in the neighborhood association to pass the measure to support rezoning Fairchild House and the adjacent lots. The investment group will buy the house next week in the city property tax auction. If you want to save it from the wrecking ball, you’re going to have to outbid us, he sneered. And then you’ll have to pay for a ton of repairs. Do you really want to sink the money into that dump, on top of the money you’d have to spend to win the property tax auction? His sneer faded. If you really wanted to save that dump, you’d have paid Cora Fairchild’s property tax bill. Assuming she’s actually still alive. But you didn’t. You’d rather snap it up for yourself.

Cora Fairchild? Meg asked. She didn’t know who that was.

Eunice gave her a baleful look. "The owner of Fairchild House. Cora. Fairchild. Her tone made it obvious she thought she was speaking to an idiot. I understand you have a degree in history. Obviously you missed this piece of local history."

Meg repressed a retort. Her degree was in ancient history, specializing in the Roman Empire, but she wasn’t going to correct Eunice. She was also still very new to the neighborhood, and didn’t know the local history.

Cora Fairchild has shown she can’t maintain her property, Eunice said. It’s a disgrace. She inherited wealth from her late parents. She had no siblings. She must have squandered that wealth.

Assuming she’s still breathing, Doug said. But you’re right about the place being a disgrace. Which is why we’re going to pass the rezoning recommendation to the city at the neighborhood association meeting on Friday. His expression turned gleeful. I have a couple of very sympathetic ears on the Portland City Council who agree with my plan.

Hah! Eunice jabbed at him again with her finger. "You’ll see. My presentation tomorrow for the Southwest Historical Society will prove the historical value of the home. The society will