= Dewey Decimated
  by Jennifer Spray

It was a gray and windy morning. Not a good sign for our school carnival, and a miserable condition for this librarian -- or I should say, media specialist -- to be walking through at 7 A.M. On a Saturday, no less.

Why was I doing this again? I asked myself as I tried the main doors. I had been volunteered to help sell raffle tickets by the PTO President, a former library volunteer. Margaret Wainright had rapidly gone on to bigger and better things, culminating in this, her final, glorious year as fearless leader. But she hadn't forgotten us little people in her rise to the top and had chosen the library's sadly deteriorating collection to be a big beneficiary of this year's festivities. Selling tickets to hundreds of screaming, cotton candy coated children and their indulgent parents would be a small price to pay for a book-buying spree, I kept reminding myself.

But first, I needed to finish up some work in my office. Usually, this is the last way I'd spend my weekend -- my husband had recently retired from the police force and felt he had years of rugged, out-doorsy activities to make up for. But I had talked him into some cozy, indoor sports last night, at the cost of the piling up paperwork. Priorities! I smiled. Coming in an hour earlier was a small price to pay, I figured as I struggled with the key.

Everything was constantly locked nowadays; kids even had to be keyed into the building to go to the nurse's office during recess. Once inside the building, I could see down the long hall, through the window into my library, lights glowing and cozy. That meant Chandra had come, thank goodness. Her position had recently been cut to part-time, but she's still dedicated. Before facing my stacks of books and paperwork, I dodged into the teacher's lounge to check for coffee. Greeted by that percolating aroma -- almost as rich as the scent of a new book, and a helluva lot tastier.

"Hey, Vivian," from behind me. I lifted my cup in greeting to Alfred Green, our ubiquitous janitor. I'm not too conversant before that first full and complete dose of coffee.

"It's gonna be a great carnival," he looked wistful. "Too bad Jorge's going to miss it."

Thanks, Al, I thought. I had managed to put the untimely and admittedly bizarre death of a classroom aide and sometimes handyman out of my mind. But he and Al had been friends.

"It is, it was, so terrible," I tried to commiserate. "Who knew that popcorn machines could be so dangerous? Have you heard if his family is going to sue?"

Jorge had volunteered to man the rental popcorn stand for the carnival, it was always a big hit. He'd been testing it out at his home the previous weekend; there'd been some kind of electrical short and too much hot water.... The school had thought about canceling or postponing the festivities, but Tom Waite, the principal, and Margaret had agreed that the show must go on. Jorge would've wanted it that way, after all, for the good of the school, and ten percent of today's take would go to the Jorge Gonzalez Memorial Fund.

Coming out of the lounge, I screeched to a halt, slopping coffee down my front, to avoid running over a pair of gossiping parent volunteers.

"Can you believe him?" said one to the other.

"No, he's like a fifth grader. Worse. My Devon would never act like that," answered the other.

"Should we remind him that the helium is for the balloons?"

That must be David Davidson, everybody's favorite stay-at-home dad and a turkey. Really, at the Turkey Trot, Fitness Fun for the Whole Family, he's the guy in the turkey suit, sweating it out on the track with every grade level. He swears he sweats off ten pounds.

Detouring by the nurse's office, I overheard Dave squeaking "I'm a little teapot". I almost lost it but managed to keep the professional librarian -- I mean, media specialist -- face. He was on three committees this year -- it must finally have gotten to him. Nothing worse than good parent volunteers gone bad.

I pitched my now-empty styrofoam cup into the nearest trash receptacle (and cringed guiltily, thinking of all the new recycling books, 333.7, I've marked in catalogs) and headed back toward my domain. Those books weren't about to organize themselves, nor would the month-end summaries print themselves out.

It will probably sound overly dramatic, but, I could tell the minute I stepped into my library that something was wrong. The too-old and too-damaged books we were taking out of circulation were still stacked on the tables. The clutter still covered most of my work area, as it had last night. And the place still smelled of that mix of book and dust and kid that is every elementary school library. But something was not right.

The room persisted in looking perfectly normal, although I could tell Chandra hadn't gotten started yet. In fact, I had probably been mistaken about her being here; no purse, no coffee. I set down my purse, turned on the computers, and picked up a few books to shelve while it booted up. That's when I saw them.

Feet. Where they didn't belong. "Hey," I called out. Just what I needed, a passed-out parent in non-fiction. I threaded through fiction, around the Newbery winners and new releases, to find a long, masculine body sprawled on the floor, the back of his head bashed in like a hideous pinata. Not Chandra, Steve. Steve Romm, Computer Specialist and my partner in all our video and multi-media productions. The chess trophy, normally front and center over the return bin, lay cock-eyed on the floor next to him, its castle bloodied and misshapen. His right hand was flung out as if shelving a book -- 595, insects. Or had he been pulling it out when he was so cruelly rooked?

I tried to feel for a pulse but found nothing. Dewey didn't cover this. CPR, First Aid, even those awful horror stories kids were crazy for a few years ago, now taking up shelf space, had all been coded by the master. But nothing like this could ever fit into my tidy book-lined world. I closed his eyes and tried not to notice he was still warm . Then I headed straight for the sink in the back and tossed my cookies and coffee.

I reached for the phone, but it rang at me first. I picked it up, still staring at his soles.

"Hello?" I jumped at the voice at my ear. "Vivian, is that you? Hello?"

"Tom," I tried to speak, but I think it came out "awk." I tried again. "Tom, you've got to come down here." Hoarse, but better.

"Vivian, you know I can't do that, I'm up to my armpits in parents here. I need the raffle information for the P.A. team."

Tom was always busier-than-thou, and it never failed to irritate me. "I'm not the raffle chairperson, that's Wanda Prudeau, call her. But Tom--"

"Thanks, Viv, I'll get on that." Click. Buzz. Asshole.

I dialed the office extension.

"Vivian?" he tried to sound omnipotent, but I knew he had intra-school ID on his phone.

"Tom, you need to come down here. Now. There's been a--"

"Yeah, yeah, I heard from Chandra already. I'll be there when I get there, but right now I've got to make these calls. If we don't get this money, there won't be a library for me to come to next year."

Pompous nit. And was that a desperate edge to his normally oily voice? Suddenly, I got chills down the back of my neck. As if someone had stepped over -- well, I guess I had just stepped over someone's 393.9, graveyards and burial ceremonies.

"Right, Tom, later then," and I let it go. I called my husband and asked him to get hold of the right people and bring them in quietly. I had no idea how to stop this day.

I knew I should probably stand guard, make sure nothing was disturbed. But I was disturbed myself and I couldn't stay in here alone -- or not alone enough, depending on how you defined Steve. And I couldn't shake the feeling that whoever had done this was somewhere close.

Nothing had been stolen as far as I could tell, and my desk was just as I had left it. But where was Chandra now, if she'd already called Tom? I went to check the computer lab, trying not to panic. After all, the lab was now also part of my responsibilities. It's not enough anymore that librarians read to children, instill in them a lifelong love of reading. not enough that we keep the library stocked with the latest nonfiction on bugs and space No, now, to keep our jobs and paychecks, we become "media specialists," we are computer savvy, techno-lingual. We test the latest software, we add on hardware, we zip-disk, double-click your child's education. And people wonder why kids don't read.

The door was unlocked. It shouldn't have been. "Chandra?" I called. My voice wasn't as loud as I'd have liked, but it ws the best I could do. No sign of her.

The computers, printers, video equipment all seemed fine. It hadn't been a thief or student vandal or techno-phobe. The CD burner was turned on, but Steve had probably been working on that this morning. He was always in here tinkering with it between his computer classes and part-time fifth grade teaching gig (to fill his hours); he'd convinced the tight fists back at the district office that the kids really needed access to a CD burner. And he, Steve, could make a heckuva year-end video presentation, great publicity for the school. They'd bought it, in both senses of the word and after the last fund-raiser he -- and the students -- had the latest equipment.

I'll admit, I'd been ready to dislike Steve Romm on sight, when I heard we were getting another 'specialist'. And he had majored in film production, which could only mean those twit glasses, bad attitude and teaching job only until the screenplay sold. It didn't help that when he finally did show up, he was cute, in a friendly, all-American kind of way. Rumors had paired him with many faculty wives, more than a few mothers, and even one energetic grandma, but I tried to ignore the scuttlebutt. Steve had really cared about getting the students excited about technology and using it in a fun way. Now that dimpled smile would be warming no more fifth graders' hearts, encouraging no more shy nerds to develop their talents. Why?

I went out through the lab door. I just couldn't face going back into that library. I needed companionship; someone living and breathing would be a welcome change. And where was my aide in all of this?

"Good morning!" a voice chirped at me. It was Helen Crane-Weston, professional wife: blonde do, well-filled shirt, shapely leggings. "I'm so glad I made it in time," she gushed. "Gosh, would you be a dear and get the door for me?" Fortunately for both of us, she didn't seem to expect any answers. But I couldn't help noticing the tower of confection she carried ahead of her.

"For the cake walk," she confided. "Gluten-free flour, soy milk, organic fruit bits and lactose free whipped cream. It's my specialty." This would explain why her stepson Quenton was pale, thin, and liked to check out commando adventure books. Apparently she had decided to back up her not-inconsiderable trophy wife charms with culinary skills. Keep Mr. Weston's power lawyer tastes at home this time.

"This carnival is so much bigger than my little Craftique," she mused, eyes roving the hallways and outdoor set-up. "Although mine was the biggest fall money-maker ever!" she brightened at this, "and I think the kids have really enjoyed the new equipment."

I trailed along after Helen as she enumerated her accomplishments, wondering if she had her eyes on Margaret's lofty position.

"I think the cakes are being set up in the art room," she nudged me.

"Oh, right," and I took the lead and opened the door. She was right, the room was rapidly filling with unthought of combinations of dough and sugar. A couple token batches of old-fashioned chocolate cupcakes, which the kids would probably choose first, but mostly layers of raspberry cream torte or cinnamon dusted frosting and the shapes ... a basketball, a castle, a car ... these parents either knew how to cook or where to shop. As Helen squealed in greeting to the woman in charge, I backed out.

And into Margaret and Wanda.

"Vivian! Just the woman we wanted to see!" smiled Margaret.

Wanda looked ruffled. Well, that was no surprise; years ago when lace and frills were in style Wanda must've stocked up, and she sees no reason to change now (391, historical fashions). Or maybe she thinks they flatter her thin, even skeletal, frame. But she did seem surprised to see me. Maybe it was the stress of the raffle, although she always managed to pull it off, just never get promoted to anything bigger. Maybe next year.

I was rambling. "I need to sit down," I told them. I grabbed onto the nearest bench. Were they selling beer yet? Even water would help. I was starting to shake.

Margaret sat down next to me. "You're early! And you look terrible," she peered into my face.

"No, I just had some work to do--"

"I bet Ron didn't like that!" Wanda teased. She had volunteered in the library the semester I married Ron (my second husband, and so much different, thank goodness) and was always handy with the nudge-nudge, wink-wink comments.

"He should be here soon," I told her. I scanned for his tall figure past the balloons festooning the basketball hoops, the tables, the trees. But I really needed to tell someone before he got here, to get the carnival stopped, the scene secured.

"Margaret," I reached out to her, "you've got to stop this."

For an unguarded moment, I think she looked hopeful.

"Margareeeettt!" came a desperate voice behind her. It was the cake room parent, calling over the bobbing head of David Davidson. Margaret rose, turned on her heel, and strode toward them., disappearing into the cake room.

"Well, I just wanted to thank you so much for coming in on the first shift." Wanda lowered her voice, "Originally, I'd scheduled you-know-who," and she tilted her head toward the cake room, "but he switched to balloon duty, and we all know what that means." She nodded knowingly over her frills.

Margaret returned, a bit red in the face and frothing at the mouth. No, make that frosting. I motioned at her, she swiped it off.

"He's been transferred to food preparation," Margaret looked grim. "I should've seen that coming...."

"Oh, no, Margaret," Wanda fluttered in wide-eyed innocence, "he was always the nicest man."

"Nice doesn't get us new books," Margaret shook her head, "or teacher raises or decent bus service for our children," a vein was pulsing in her tanned cheek. I didn't figure this was the time to push for closing down the biggest money-maker of the year.

And there was Ron, weaving his way through streamer-laden tables. His eyes caught mine -- damn, he still spikes my blood pressure -- and I tilted my head towards the building. I stood up. "I'm sorry, Wanda, Margaret, I've got to go." My head was splitting. I hoped there was still some aspirin stashed in my cupboards.

Margaret peered at me, "You're not coming down with anything, are you? Is anything wrong?"

I took a breath. This might be my only chance. "Margaret, there's been an emergency--"

"Oh, why didn't you say so?" Wanda laughed conspiratorially, then began digging through her enormous purse. "Here," and she handed me a little bag which contained, when I looked inside, tampons, aspirin, and Tums. "That should take care of every contingency. You've got to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in the raffle booth!"

Margaret had somehow escaped when I had looked down into my gift bag. I could see her pointing and waving to a scruffy-looking dad atop a ladder.

"Wanda, I--"

"Wanda, just the woman I'm looking for!" Tom's booming greeting almost scared Wanda right out of her ruffles. I turned quickly, searching for my quiet husband somewhere in this growing melee.

There is nothing for calming nerves like the smell of your husband's neck, just beneath the ear, above the shoulder (615.5, alternative medicines). Fortunately he's used to this. When my breathing seemed back to normal, he gently released me but kept his hand on my elbow.

"Where is he? I can take a look, but we'd better not touch anything till Cooper and Alvarez get here."

I unlocked the library. Everything seemed just the same. Too bad -- I'd been halfway hoping for the requisite return to the scene of the crime, wouldn't that be easy? I would like to say I perched delicately but I probably collapsed into my chair and thankfully downed the two Advil Ron handed me. Someone on this campus was a murderer, unless they had--

"We've got to block the exits! They could get away, if they're not gone already."

Ron shook his head, "When I got here I ran into, what's-his-name, who's always here?"

"Alfred, the janitor?"

"Right, Alfred, and asked him to keep on eye on who's leaving. Seems like mostly people are coming in."

"But Alfred was here this morning and he knew Jorge...." but why would he possibly want to murder Steve? Or had Steve rigged the popcorn machine and Alfred was avenging his friend's death? If we're going for messy motives, why not 306.7, sexual ethics? I'd heard rumors about Steve and Tom's wife, but those were old news and she was 'visiting relatives,' had been for months. Is that why Tom wouldn't come down here, he didn't want to be found near his victim?

But he had said Chandra had called, and I didn't believe she had even come in today (smart, if underpaid, woman). Why would he would make that up? Unless he did get a call, from the library -- I was feeling a familiar roiling in my stomach. I waved to Ron for an Advil reinforcement.

"Hey, Coop, over here," Ron called. The police had arrived. I backed away, trying not to see what they were doing, and my mind couldn't let go of that phone call. A woman must've called from the library, called Tom to get him to come down here. Who? And why?

Margaret would've known that Tom would hide the body, anything to keep the carnival on. His salary, probably even his next year's contract, depended on that. Had she found the body ... but why would she be in the library? Although she definitely knew her way around, and nobody would question her right to be anywhere on this campus, today of all days. But did that make her a murderer? Motive? 332, money -- if we lost Steve through attrition, would the district bother hiring a replacement? Jorge's, too, was kind of a secondary position. Margaret was definitely rabid on the subject of funding, but surely this was going too far.

If not Margaret, though, the phone call must have been from ... the murderer.

"It must've been a woman," I said to Ron et al, trying not to watch them at work.

"A strong one," Cooper replied, "that was quite a blow."

Well, that let out Wanda, didn't it? But who knew with weight training (613.7) these days. Did Steve spurn her too crudely and she let him have it? But why in non-fiction, why not romance? Or maybe she and Helen teamed up to ruin Margaret's carnival so he'd get ousted in ignominious defeat and they could split the plum job next year? Had Steve been merely a pawn in their Machiavellian PTO plotting? This was going nowhere.

Who called Tom; and how on Earth were they planning to get away with it?

You can't just off a media specialist and walk away, people will notice. Unless, unless....

Then it hit me, like a ton of bricks. Or actually, like a ton of frosting (which would weigh the same; librarians have heard them all -- 818.54, joke books).

"The cakes, Ron, to the cakes!" but I couldn't be sure he heard me over the squawking of the loudspeakers, warming up before announcing the opening of the carnival.

I tore out of that library, through the meeting area, out into the balloon-festooned quad, dodged around parents and children, children everywhere.

"Get her out of here!" I pointed Ron at the cake mom. "OUT!" I ordered to the staring children. They kept staring.

"Free ice cream at the raffle booth!" and they were gone. The volunteer was arguing, but weakly, Ron got her out, and I slammed and locked the door.

"Check the parking lot," and I began the obstacle course, almost running into Alfred with Margaret and Helen in tow.

"Vivian, aren't you supposed to be at the Raffle--" Margaret started.

"What is going on here?" Helen was holding her own in the loud and indignant category.

But they were both aced out by the loud, yet creamily muffled BOOM that echoed across the playing fields, shaking the streamers and rattling the food booths.

"Cuff her!" I pointed my accusing finger at Helen.

Of course, Ron didn't have any cuffs, he was retired, but he got the picture and firmly took her by the arm.

It was almost a relief to see the fury in her eyes, the snarl twisting her pink lips. It was probably the most honest expression I'd ever seen on her.

"You interfering little bitch, you don't know anything."

"I know all about you and Steve, cozying up after the Craftique, and I know about his little video taking, CD burning hobbies--" which I didn't, not first-hand, but I'd heard enough to guess--"and I know you've got an awful lot to lose if your husband finds out."

Alfred turned on her in horror. "And Jorge? Was he just a little warm-up exercise?"

She sniffed derogatorily. "Jorge was an accident. I was trying to explain to him how to clean that artery-clogging butter out of that machine but he just wouldn't listen closely enough. You can't let poison like that into the bodies of our children. I had no idea it was so easy for people to die."

But once she did, it was easy going from there, I'd bet.

"So you decided you'd just get Steve out of the way? What, was he cluttering up your perfect lifestyle?" I needed to keep her talking, get her to admit something.

"Steve thought I might prefer backing his screenplay to having my husband see our little video. Do you have any idea how much he wanted? More than our kitchen and bathroom remodels, combined. Even Sheridan wouldn't believe our three-quarter acre lot could need that much 'landscaping.'"

"Besides, you know how painful divorce can be." That was below the belt. "And I can't stand what it would do to the children."

Not to mention her monthly spending money.

She continued, a modern-day family-values Joan of Arc (92, biography). "Look at Tom's kids, since his wife left, and he might even lose his job next year. What kind of a life is that?"

And if he'd gotten his fingerprints all over the library, he would've been suspect number one. That explained the phone call.

"But hold on a minute. Exploding cake?" Ron asked.

Helen tossed her professionally dyed locks. "If Tom had gone straight to the library like he was supposed to, and the police had come rushing in like they are paid to--" she glared at one and all, "then I would have had... difficulties returning home to take care of my family."

I turned to Ron. "Actually, that's what clued me in. How could anyone hope to get off this campus without being noticed, especially once the police were here? You'd need a diversion, a big one. I thought of that cake: so unnatural, only an incendiary device could justify its existence. Timed to go off to cause maximum disruption, letting Helen here minivan her way back to the arms of her well-connected husband."

Helen looked like she wanted to spit, but didn't know how. "It's an SUV, not a minivan and he's a lawyer. If certain librarians had done their work on time and kept their noses out of it, everything would have been perfect." She seemed most bothered that Tom and I hadn't followed her schedule.

"We can't all be organizational geniuses, Helen." And that actually seemed to mollify her.

"Call Sheridan," were her last words before she refused to talk any further.

The police cordoned off most of the building (except the bathrooms), most notably the Art Room (cake walk destruction) and my library. Ron was busy with the Chief, whose kids come here too, and we were not supposed to leave yet. So I found David Davidson with a cooler of beer and some opaque plastic mugs and we hid out from Wanda. I figured I had done my bit for the school today.

Ron joined us pretty quickly. "There was a CD in her backpack, they're checking it out. But how could you be sure it was Helen?"

I turned to David. "When Dana was in second grade, what was the big project they all did, decorating the hallways for weeks?"

"Bugs!" he smiled, "Why?"

I shrugged in an attractively humble fashion to Ron. "See? Everybody knows bugs means second grade. And that's where Steve was, 595, insects. She must've asked him to help her with a book and when he was turned around, smash. And she could pocket that X-rated CD he'd made of the two of them, get Tom to come down and muck things up, and lay low until her scheduled arrival. Then wait a little more, then bang, and she's gone."

Ron laughed. "What's so funny?" I wanted to know.

"So you procrastinating on that work last night, then coming in early, and Tom's blowing off her phone call -- which he thought was Chandra's, anyway -- really did ruin her best-laid plans."

"Don't say laid.... " I could feel my laughter bubbling up.

"Helen and Steve? In bugs?" David struggled to put it together. "Like Dana's report," he smiled widely, "the praying mantis, fashinating creashures...."

Margaret walked up, recognizing the pow-wow of people who know something, "Mantises? But did you know that they don't kill all the guy mantises, just the ones that aren't any, you know, good?"

That was a new one on me. But I knew where I could look it up. Later.

JENNIFER SPRAY is a writer and educator who spends lots of time in libraries, although rarely with murderous intent. A long-time fan of quirky mysteries and a member of Sisters in Crime, she is thrilled to be published at HandHeldCrime.com.

Copyrights (c) 2002 Jennifer Spray

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