Molly was minding her own business, reshelving the books she’d neglected earlier that day and keeping Elijah away from Story Time—she’d secured a copy of It for him, and he seemed engrossed enough—when Meschelle Davies came bursting in, as breathless and sweaty as Molly had been at lunch.
“Great news,” Meschelle said, not even bothering to whisper, despite Story Time. No one bothered to whisper in the children’s section or anywhere, really, in the Little Bridge Public Library, but some respect might have been given to the volunteer story reader, Lady Patricia, a kindly drag queen who generously gave up an afternoon a week to read to toddlers.
“What?” Molly asked. “Is the photographer here?”
“Not just a photographer. Molly, I wrote the story and filed it—I always write best with a little white wine in me—and it went live online and already got picked up by the Miami Herald. I told you, people love an abandoned baby story. And now Miami Channel Seven News has choppered a film crew down to interview you!”
Molly stared at her. “Meschelle,” she said. “That isn’t what we agreed. You said you were just—”
“I know what I said. But isn’t this better? Think of the publicity this is going to get your library! Donations are going to roll in.”
Molly chewed the inside of her lip. This was bad. Really bad. She’d promised the sheriff she wouldn’t talk about the investigation with anyone. Being interviewed by a Miami news crew would definitely be breaking that promise.
On the other hand, she’d only promised not to talk about the baby’s mother. Surely she was free to discuss Baby Aphrodite.
“Do it!” Henry had appeared from nowhere—as he was wont to do—and was hissing from behind the junior nonfiction section. “Come on, do it, Molly!”
“See?” Meschelle turned her bright eyes back upon her. “You have to do it, even your colleagues say so. And besides, the film crew is already here. They’re in a taxi coming from the airport as we speak.”
Which is how Molly found herself, a half hour later, standing beneath a very bright light being interviewed on camera by a handsome young man named Trevan Wilkinson.
“And how did you feel when you realized what was inside the box?” Trevan asked her.
“Scared,” Molly said into the microphone, exactly the way he’d coached her. “I was really scared.”
Trevan, smiling handsomely, brought the microphone back to his own lips. “Because you were worried for Baby Aphrodite’s life?”
“Exactly,” Molly said. “She was so little, and so cold.”
“Is it true,” Trevan asked, “that you used your own body heat to warm Baby Aphrodite until the paramedics arrived?”
“Yes,” Molly said. “She was freezing.”
Trevan turned to face the camera. “So there you have it, folks. A librarian giving warmth from her own body to save the life of one of her most vulnerable—and tiniest—patrons. Now that’s what I call a true hero. I’m Trevan Wilkerson, Miami Channel Seven News.”
“Cut,” said the producer, whose name was Naomi. “That was perfect. Let’s get some more shots of Molly in the toilet stall, and then we can head over to the hospital for some exteriors.”
“What’s going on here?” thundered a new, particularly deep, male voice, and Molly turned, her heart sinking, to see Sheriff John Hartwell and a young girl in a cheerleading uniform standing in the doorway.
“Cheese it!” cried Elijah, who’d long since put down his copy of It, apparently finding the filming of the newscast a little more exciting. “It’s the po-po!”
The cheerleader looked at him and, her cheeks reddening, asked, “What are you doing here?”
Molly was surprised to notice that Elijah’s own cheeks had darkened a shade or two, and that he suddenly appeared flustered. The two teens obviously knew each other. “I—I could ask the same thing of you.”
The girl pointed at the sheriff. “He’s my dad. He made me come.”
“Well.” Elijah couldn’t seem to meet the pretty girl’s gaze. It was the first time Molly had ever seen him at a loss for words. “That . . . that sounds unlikely.”
The girl’s jaw dropped. “What? What are you even—”
“The two of you knock it off.” John Hartwell didn’t look or sound as if he was in the mood to put up with any kind of shenanigans, teen or otherwise.
So Molly felt a little bit for Naomi when she stepped up to him, her right hand extended, and said, “Sheriff, great to see you, Naomi Hernandez, Miami Channel Seven News. You might remember me from when I was down here with my crew covering Hurricane Marilyn. I wonder if we could have a word with you about that baby you helped save yesterday.”
“I’m unable to comment at this time.” The words seemed to tumble as automatically from the sheriff’s lips as if he’d been saying them all day—and perhaps he had.
Molly knew she had nothing to feel guilty for—she hadn’t uttered a word about the girl she’d found in the new library, and fortunately, Meschelle hadn’t mentioned her in her story, so no one had asked.
But she still felt as if she’d betrayed the sheriff somehow.
“But, Sheriff,” Trevan said, putting on the charm, which was easy for him since he had as much of it as he had good looks. “It’s a real heartwarming story, and our viewers could use good news like that right now. Just a few quick words on camera, like maybe about how the baby’s doing now, and your search for the mother—”
“Absolutely not.” The sheriff looked as if he was longing to throw the news crew off the property, but he couldn’t, because the property belonged to the people. “When I have something to say on the record concerning the matter, I will let you know. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my daughter and I were just leaving. Come on, Katie.”
He took his daughter by the arm and began to drag her from the premises, but she pulled back, reluctant to leave. “Da-aad,” she said.
“Katie.” The sheriff looked sterner than ever.
Molly watched in consternation. This was a disaster.
“Excuse me,” she said to Trevan and Naomi, as well as the cameraman and boom operator, whose names she’d forgotten. Then she darted after the sheriff and his daughter.
“I’m so sorry,” Molly said when she reached them. By that time they were by the reception desk, where Henry was busy pretending he wasn’t eavesdropping on their conversation. “But I swear to you, Sheriff, none of this was my idea. It was Meschelle—I mean, Ms. Davies. And I didn’t tell them a thing about the girl from this morning.”
He looked down at her with those hypnotically blue eyes. “I sure hope not.”
“I didn’t. I only want to help.”
Now his face creased with irritation. “Miss Montgomery, I’ve told you, I don’t—”
“—need my help, I know. And it’s Molly, please. And even though it may not look like it at the moment, I’m staying out of it.” She wasn’t going to mention how the only reason she’d ended up in this mess was that she’d been pumping a journalist for information about the case. “But there must be some reason you brought your daughter here.” She smiled at the girl in the cheerleading uniform to whom Elijah had been so rude. But then, Elijah was rude to everyone. “Hi, I’m Miss Molly. Is there something I can help you with?”
It was a relief when the sheriff’s daughter, keeping her gaze on Molly and well averted from Elijah, replied by reaching out her right hand and saying, “Hi, I’m Katie Hartwell, I don’t have a library card. My dad wanted me to get one. Also, he seems to think you have books or videos or something that teach dancing? Because he needs to learn how.”
As Molly shook Katie’s hand, she felt a rush of warm feelings toward the girl, but also toward her father—especially when she saw his face reddening at his daughter’s words, and he began to stammer, “That’s . . . that’s not . . . I mean, yes, about the library card, but not—”
Molly was used to patrons, particularly male patrons, expressing embarrassment over their reading requests, so she hurried to quell his anxiety, even though, internally, she was bursting with curiosity. Why did he need to learn how to dance? Was there a special occasion coming up? Could it be the Red Cross Ball?
But there wasn’t dancing at the Red Cross Ball. Both Joanne and Meschelle had already assured her of this. It was more of a dinner party, although there was a silent auction and games of chance to raise additional money for the charity. It was only called a ball because of the formal attire.
“I can help you with both those things,” Molly said, swallowing down her inquisitiveness, even as the voices inside her clamored, Is there a special lady in his life who is asking him to learn to dance? If so, who is this lady, and why isn’t she simply taking dance lessons with him? And why do I care? “We can set you up with a library card, Katie, and also help you find some nice books and videos—I think you mean DVDs?—on how to dance. What kind of dancing do you want to learn, Sheriff? Is this for a wedding or some other event you’ll be attending?”
There, that didn’t sound too nosy.
It was his daughter who answered.
“It’s for the Snappettes,” Katie said proudly. “I’m a Snappette, and my dad’s agreed to dance with us at the next mother-daughter performance because he and my mom are divorced and she lives in Miami. It’s sexist, anyway, not to let men perform. But first he needs to learn to dance, so that’s why we’re here.”
Molly wasn’t certain she’d heard all this correctly, because it sounded so incredible, so she glanced up at the sheriff for confirmation and knew the second her eyes met his, and she saw the sheepish look on his face, that it was all true.
“Yeah,” he said with a shrug. “I’m gonna be an honorary Snappette.”
Molly was just as astonished as she’d been when she’d learned that Carolyn Keene, the author of her favorite book series from childhood, Nancy Drew, was not one person, but a whole team of authors, all writing under a single pen name.
Only that discovery had been disappointing. The one she’d just made about Sheriff John Hartwell was pleasant. So pleasant that she was too stunned to speak. It was as if every preconceived notion and prejudice she’d had against the sheriff had been blown away in a second, and she was seeing him in an entirely new light.
As she just stood there, staring, Henry came popping up from where he’d been hiding behind the reception desk, having heard every word. He said, matter-of-factly, “Okay, then, you need one library card and some how-to books and videos on dancing. I can help you with that.”
Later, when Katie and the sheriff were gone, Henry allowed himself to guffaw.
“Oh my God. Your face. Your face, Molly, when he said he was going to be a Snappette!”
“Stop it.” Molly took a sip from her water bottle. She’d been carefully hydrating ever since lunch, but now she felt as if she needed more water than ever. “It isn’t funny. Men can dance, too, you know.”
“Um, I think I know that more than you. I’m the gay man with season tickets to the Little Bridge Theater, where they routinely put on Naked Boys Singing! What I’m saying is, our sheriff is going to dance onstage with a bunch of teenage girls and yoga moms. I’m going to post this all over the Little Bridge Facebook community page tonight and love every minute of peoples’ reactions.”
Molly banged her water bottle onto the desk. “Henry, no. Don’t.”
“Why not? It’s going to be public knowledge soon enough.”
“The man has a hard enough job. Let him have his dignity.”
“He already dressed in an evening gown on a float in last year’s pride parade, Molly. I don’t think his dignity is something he worries about too much—unless . . .” Henry grinned at her. “It’s not his ‘dignity’ you’re interested in.”
She felt herself blushing. “Stop it.”
“I knew it! Librarian’s got a crush on the sheriff.”
“Which librarian’s got a crush on the sheriff?” Elijah demanded, appearing at the end of the desk, his copy of It in his hands.
“No one,” Molly said quickly. “It was a joke.”
“Phew.” Elijah wiped his brow in mock relief. “Because if it was you, Miss Molly, I’d be real disappointed, you fraternizing with the enemy and all.”
“Law enforcement officers are not our enemies, Elijah.”
“The po-po? Are you kidding me?”
“No, I’m not kidding you. Not all of them are—”
“Wrong. Plenty of them’ll pull a brown brother like me over and shoot him, especially when they find out I’m the guy who’s been robbing all those houses down by the new library. They’ll fry my brown—”
“Elijah,” Henry interrupted. “There is no way you are the High School Thief.”
Elijah rolled his eyes. “How do you know? Imagine how dumb you’re gonna feel when you find out it’s me, and all those girls back in school like Katie Hartwell, who won’t even give me the time of day, realize that the great High School Thief they can’t stop talking about was me all along.”
Molly was starting to feel annoyed. In the brief time she’d lived in Little Bridge, she’d come to love Elijah, despite how irritating he could be at times—and how much cologne he doused himself in—much in the way she’d come to love Fluffy the Cat, who constantly hung out at the hotel, even though he clearly belonged to someone else. Both Elijah and Fluffy were equally exasperating and yet adorably vulnerable, each in their own way.
“Elijah,” Molly said, in her best strict librarian voice. “You spend all of your time when you’re not in school here. And you spend the rest of the time playing video games or sleeping. When would you possibly have time to go around robbing houses?”
Elijah opened his mouth to protest, but Molly cut him off. “Look, I get that you want to be famous, and you’re going to be. I believe that in my heart. You’re smart, funny, and very, very intelligent. But give it some time. You don’t have to be famous at sixteen. And you should never want to be famous for doing something that hurts other people—especially something I know you’re not doing.”
Elijah looked a little sulky, lowering his head toward his copy of It, but didn’t seem quite ready to give up yet. “Okay, fine, Miss Molly, you might have a point. Touché. I get it. So how about if it turns out I’m not really the High School Thief, but I help the po-po catch him, like the kids in this book you gave me are helping to catch this evil guy? Then I could be on the news, like you were for finding Baby Aphrodite. That’d get me some cred with the popular kids for sure, right?”
Now Molly felt a different kind of emotion toward Elijah: anxiety.
Was this why the sheriff kept asking her not to get involved in his cases—because he worried for her safety?
No, certainly not. He hardly knew her.
He simply didn’t want his hard work compromised by an amateur sleuth, a literary know-it-all who was new to the island but still full of ideas about how she could do his job—the job he’d been doing for years—better than he could.
Now she understood how idiotic she must seem to him. As idiotic as Elijah—Lord love him—seemed to her now, declaring that he was going to help catch the High School Thief.
Of course, Elijah was only a child, and Molly was a full-grown woman with a master’s degree. And of course she had seen every single episode of Forensic Files and read just about every mystery that existed, both children’s and adult, except the truly gory ones, because who needed that in their life?
But still.
She’d never stopped to consider that the sheriff might actually be concerned about her stepping into danger, as she was for Elijah. Was that why he had stopped by on the flimsy pretext of getting his daughter a library card (and some how-to-dance books and DVDs, which he hadn’t really needed)? To check up on her?
If so, how cringeworthy. A part of her wanted to go home and never show her face in town again.
Another part of her, of course, wanted to solve the crime and show the sheriff just how wrong he was about her.
“Elijah,” she said in her most serious tone, “leave the crime solving to the professionals. You work on what you’re best at.”
Elijah was still sulking. The encounter with Katie Hartwell seemed to have really thrown him. Molly had never seen him like this. “Oh, yeah? And what’s that?”
Henry laid a friendly hand upon his shoulder. “Comedy, man. You’re the funniest guy I know.”
Elijah lifted his head, looking slightly less disconsolate. “You mean that?”
“Yeah, man,” Henry said. “That cookie porn you did the other day was comedy gold.”
Elijah cracked a smile. “It was pretty good. I should do it again, only, you know, at home, and film it, and put it up on YouTube.”
“Totally,” Henry said. “Get some subscribers.”
“And advertisers,” Elijah said. “What I need is a brand.”
Satisfied that her favorite patron had been warned off any attempts at amateur crime solving, Molly went back to her own desk, telling herself that she would do the same. No more looking into the Sunshine Kids, no more combing social media for possible updates on the case. She was going to be a good, law-abiding citizen from now on and stay out of the sheriff’s business. In fact, she was going to avoid him completely. The sheriff was dead to her. She was never even going to glance his way again.
This resolve lasted until Saturday night when she attended the Red Cross Ball and saw how mouthwateringly good Sheriff John Hartwell looked in his dress uniform.
