“Looks like everything else has proper author names, so much for mysteries, but there’s some fiction and nonfiction. I’d help you find them but I’m stuck on the desk until eleven.” She clicks again and the ancient printer next to the desk whirs to life. “As far as I can tell there were more books in the original donation, it’s possible that they were too fragile for circulation or damaged. These twelve are what’s out there, maybe the one you have is a second volume of something?” She hands Zachary the printed list of titles and authors and call numbers.
Her hypothesis is a good one and not something Zachary had considered. It would make sense. He looks over the titles but nothing jumps out as particularly meaningful or intriguing.
“You are an excellent library detective,” he says. “Thank you for this.”
“You’re welcome,” Elena says, picking up her Chandler again. “Thank you for livening up my workday. Let me know if you have trouble finding anything.”
Zachary starts in the familiar fiction section. He peruses the shelves under the unreliable lightbulbs, picking out the five fiction titles on the list in alphabetical order.
Appropriately, the first is a Sherlock Holmes novel. The second is This Side of Paradise. He’s never heard of the next two, but they appear to be regular volumes, with proper copyright pages. The last is Les Indes noires by Jules Verne, in the original French and therefore mis-shelved. All appear to be regular, if old, editions. None of them seem to have anything in common with Sweet Sorrows.
Zachary tucks the pile of books under his arm and heads toward nonfiction. This part proves more difficult as he checks and rechecks call numbers and backtracks. Slowly he procures the other seven books, his enthusiasm waning as none of them resemble Sweet Sorrows. Most of them are astronomy- or cartography-related.
His last option brings him back near fiction to the myths. Bulfinch’s The Age of Fable, or Beauties of Mythology. It looks new, as though it has never been read, despite bearing a date of 1899.
Zachary places the blue volume with its gilded detailing on his stack of books. The bust of Ares on the cover looks contemplative, his eyes downcast as though he shares Zachary’s disappointment at not finding a clear companion for Sweet Sorrows.
He heads back upstairs to the almost empty reading rooms (a librarian with a cart organizing books, a student in a striped sweater typing at a laptop, a man who looks like he’s probably a professor actually reading a Donna Tartt novel) and heads to the far corner of the room, spreading his books out on one of the larger tables.
Zachary methodically inspects each volume. He peers at endpapers and turns every page, looking for clues. He refrains from removing barcode stickers but none of them seem to be covering anything of importance, and he’s not sure what another bee or key or sword would tell him, anyway.
After seven books with not so much as a dog-eared page, Zachary’s eyes are strained. He needs a break and probably caffeine. He takes a notebook from his bag and writes a note he suspects will be unnecessary: Back in 15 minutes, please do not reshelve. He wonders if reshelve is actually a word and decides he doesn’t care.
Zachary leaves the library and walks down to the corner café where he orders a double espresso and a lemon muffin. He finishes both and heads back to the library, passing a Calvin and Hobbes–worthy army of tiny snowmen he hadn’t noticed before.
He returns to the reading room, even quieter now with only the librarian organizing her cart. Zachary takes off his coat and resumes his careful perusal of each book. The ninth volume he checks, the Fitzgerald, has occasional passages underlined in pencil but nothing obtuse, just the really good lines. The next two are unmarked and judging by the state of their spines, don’t even appear to have been read.
Zachary reaches for the final volume and his hand lands on empty table. He looks back to the stack of books, thinking that he may have miscounted. But there are eleven books in that pile. He counts them again to be certain.
It takes him a moment to realize which is missing.
The Age of Fable, or Beauties of Mythology has vanished. The contemplative bust of Ares is nowhere to be seen. Zachary checks under the table and chairs, on nearby tables and on the closest bookshelves, but it is gone.
He walks back to the other side of the room where the librarian is shelving books.
“Did you happen to notice anyone take any books from that table over there while I was gone?” he asks.
The librarian looks and shakes her head.
“No,” she says. “But I wasn’t paying much attention either. A couple of people came in and out.”
“Thanks,?
? Zachary says and walks back to the table, sinking low into his chair.
Someone must have picked up the book and wandered off with it. Not that it matters, since eleven books told him nothing, the chances of the twelfth being a revelation were slim.
Though the chances of one of them vanishing into thin air probably weren’t all that high, either.
Zachary takes the Sherlock Holmes and the Fitzgerald to check out and leaves the rest of the volumes on the table to be reshelved, which should be a word if it’s not.
“No luck,” he tells Elena as he passes the reserve desk.
“Bummer,” she says. “If I encounter any other library mysteries I’ll let you know.”
“I’d appreciate that,” Zachary says. “Hey, is it possible to find out if someone checked a book out in the last hour or so?”
“It is if you know the title. I’ll meet you at the circulation desk and check for you. No one’s come by all morning for reserves, if they do now they can wait five minutes.”