See Also Deception by Larry D. Sweazy Page A

unless it wasn’t there. It was cool inside, just a little warmer than a tomb, and the comforting smell of books and paper wafted about casually, expectedly. Only I found no comfort in anything about being inside the library. It was the first time that had ever happened to me.
    â€œDo you have a name?” I finally asked.
    â€œYou may call me Miss Finch,” the woman snapped. “I am Delia Finch.”
    â€œI don’t know any Finches around here.”
    â€œI suppose you don’t. My family hails from Minnesota. I’m on loan from Bismarck for the foreseeable future.”
    â€œBecause of Calla.”
    Delia Finch lowered her head and for the first time showed a modicum of humanity. “Yes, because of the unfortunate circumstances this facility has found itself in.”
    For the first time since I had arrived, I looked past the woman, Miss Finch, to the closed door that led into Calla’s office. It had a frosted glass window marked LIBRARIAN, and it was easy to tell that the room was dark. I imagined that the door was locked, but there was no outward sign of that or that it was blocked off by the police for any reason. Everything looked normal.
    Miss Finch caught my gaze. “May I help you? Or did you just come in here to return these books you say you found?”
    I didn’t know how to answer her. Tears welled up in my eyes as the reality of Calla’s death became more and more apparent. The tips of my fingers trembled, and I suddenly felt like I was standing out in an open wheat field in the middle of January.
    â€œI had a question,” I whispered, as a tear escaped my right eye and trailed down my cheek. So much for keeping a stiff upper lip .
    â€œOh, dear,” Miss Finch said. She leaned down and almost magically produced a box of paper tissues. There wasn’t an annoyed look on her face, but it was obvious that she was uncomfortable with such a show of emotion.
    I took the tissue she offered and blotted away the tears the best I could. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m usually not like this.”
    Miss Finch stared at me like she didn’t believe me, but said nothing. I wondered if she’d always been so rigid.
    â€œCalla was my friend,” I continued. “I just can’t imagine what made her do what she did. It’s unthinkable. She never indicated that she was unhappy or capable of doing such a thing.”
    Capable of doing such a thing  . . . echoed inside my mind and in the empty library at the same time. The words flew away from me on wings of disbelief. I couldn’t bring myself to accept that Calla Eltmore had killed herself. Especially not at the library, on hallowed ground. It would be the last place I would have expected her to taint with the memory of a desperate, final act. I shook my head and said nothing else. I was tempted to turn around and walk out of the library and never come back. It was such an unimaginable impulse that my feet hesitated and failed to react to what my mind and my heart wanted to do. I was frozen in place, as lifeless as a fence post.
    Miss Finch cleared her throat, then said, “It is a difficult day for the library, ma’am. As you would think it would be, but it is business as usual. The calendar was not marked for this tragedy, and the doors must remain open. Now, what was your question?” Her humanity fell away almost as quickly as it had appeared.
    â€œI’m sorry?” I couldn’t believe the callous tone emitting from the woman’s tight lips. She was moving me along. It was almost like she was tired of my presence and wanted me to leave.
    â€œYour question, the one that brought you here.” Miss Finch paused, then said, “You could have called.”
    â€œI guess I had to see for myself that Calla really wasn’t here.”
    â€œThe street has been full of traffic this morning. Curiosity seekers, I suppose, driving past,