Free Murder Brewed At Home (Microbrewery Mysteries Book 3) by Belle Knudson Page B

from my slip of paper to the computer screen.
                  He lifted his head up, then down. Seemed to mumble something to himself. Then he walked over to a large book on the desk and flipped back a few pages. The librarian didn’t seem to care much about what he was doing, and even peripherally moved her coffee cup out of the way for him. I could see that the pages of the book were transparent with little plastic pockets in which held the library cards of patrons using the computers. He stopped on one page and took a card out of the pocket. He then walked back over to where Mitch and I were standing in Reference.
                  "Here you go," he said to Mitch, eyed me without a word, and then turned and retrieved his large pail.
                  Mitch handed me the card.
                  "What's this?" I said, a bit stupefied by the whole procedure.
                  "That's your guy."
                  "You mean to tell me—"
                  "He knows the place inside out. He's here after hours. He cleans up after everyone who walks in and of those doors. You have to know where to go for information. For me, it’s a guy like old Bill there who keeps his eyes and ears open 24/7."
                  "You're amazing, Mitch. I mean it."
                  He nodded. "Now can I get back to my research in peace?"
                  "Of course," I said. I started to walk out, and then turned. "Wait, why am I holding someone else's library card?"
                  He shrugged. "It’s not like Bill to just up and steal it. My guess is that it was left here and they tried contacting the person to no avail."
                  It was only now that I looked at the card. That is, I looked at the name on the card.
                  Vernon Abel.
                  You don't have to have a degree in advanced mathematics to figure out whom I was going to visit next.
     

Chapter 7
                  I left the library reeling. My head was spinning. I needed a long walk and some fresh air. Little did I know I was only going to be getting one of those things.
                  There's a country club across the street from the library. And there's a golf course behind it. I was headed toward the opposite end of town where my wonderful beach was. Nothing like the calming rush of the water to help get the fuzz out of the brain.
                  A golf cart came speeding up to the edge of the country club parking lot just as I was passing it.
                  "Miss Darby?" said the driver, an older man with thinning salt and pepper hair, tanned, well-built, wearing white pants and a yellow polo shirt.
                  "Yes?" I said.
                  "Hop in," said the stranger.
                  I looked around. "Sorry?"
                  "Hop in," he said with a smile. He patted the seat next to him for emphasis.
                  "No thanks," I said with a wave. "I'll walk."
                  "I insist," he said, still with the smile.
                  "Nope. Thanks again."
                  I started walking and heard the whirr of the golf cart following.
                  I turned around. There he was, that smile still on his face.
                  "You know," he said, "this could be difficult, Ms. Darby. I'm making it easy. Kyle Young's death isn’t too hard to understand, you know."
                  I stared at him. It was a country club. There were witnesses. And how far could a golf cart go? And how fast? If I saw that I was in danger, I'd hop off. Plain and simple.
                  So I hopped in with a total stranger.
                  He smiled at me and we took off, heading toward the