Free The Truth According to Us by Annie Barrows Page B

white face looked up from his desk. He was rabbity and soft. “No, ma’am,” he began.
    “A dame!”
    Layla looked up, startled, and noticed a jail cell tucked away in the corner of the room. From within, a florid prisoner eyed her avidly. “Dale! Help the lady!”
    The rabbity man turned around and glared at his captive. Then he swiveled back. “The library’s upstairs, ma’am. Third floor.”
    Layla smiled. “That’s an unusual combination—jail and library.”
    “They didn’t mean for it,” the prisoner said eagerly. “It was courthouse and jail once, but they built a new one for the courthouse.”
    “Hushup, Winslow,” said Dale. “Third floor, ma’am.”
    “The judges didn’t like to see what they done,” Winslow went on. “It ate at them. Now they can lock a man away and never look on him.”
    “Thank you,” said Layla to Dale. She turned to go and nearly collided with a policeman packed firmly into his dark uniform. He had an old-fashioned walrus mustache.
    “Look, Hank! A lady!” bellowed Winslow.
    Layla laughed as she looked up at the newcomer. “I guess you don’t get many lady prisoners,” she said.
    The policeman bowed slightly. “No, ma’am. Not what you’d call ladies.”
    Winslow was delighted. “Aw, you got such nice manners, Hank! Looka-you, bowing! See that, Dale? That’s what you shoulda done.” His yells followed Layla down the dark corridor. “You come back and visit, lady! Bring me a book from the library! I can read!”
    The library was dim and quiet and, except for some children deep in the thrall of their books, empty. Layla took an appreciative sniff as she stepped through the door: dust and paper and glue. She walked on her toes to the desk.
    “You can put your feet down,” said the librarian, glancing at her over gold-rimmed glasses.
    “I was trying to be quiet,” murmured Layla.
    “I wouldn’t worry about that,” said the librarian crisply. “Winslow keeps us from being too persnickety about quiet.”
    “Is he—intoxicated?” asked Layla.
    The librarian smiled. “No. If he were intoxicated, you’d know it. You’re the one from the WPA, aren’t you?”
    Layla laughed self-consciously. “How’d you guess?”
    “I’ve never seen you before.”
    Layla laughed again. “I forget, I’m in a small town.”
    “It’s not so small, but I’ve lived here thirty-nine years and I know everyone in it.” There was a pause. “I’m Caroline Betts.”
    “Layla Beck.” They shook hands over the desk. Caroline Betts’s handshake was, like her composure, firm and cool, and Layla was beset by the sudden certainty that the woman before her would have been the best possible author of
The History of Macedonia
. It was obvious; her competence was so solid and complete it could have taken a chair. “Mrs. Betts—” began Layla.
    “Miss Betts.”
    “Miss Betts, I wonder if you can help me find a general history of Macedonia, so I can get some background—”
    “Aren’t you writing it? A history of Macedonia?”
    “Well, yes, but just for background,” floundered Layla. “I’d like to read what’s been written on the subject—”
    Miss Betts’s amused laughter was not especially soothing, Layla thought. “Nothing’s been written, Miss Beck! You are our first historian!”
    “But—” Layla’s forehead folded into anxious furrows. “I don’t know anything about the history of Macedonia. The town council has given me a list of topics that must be included in my book, but how am I to research them? How am I to write about them?” Notwithstanding Layla’s efforts, the last sentence ended considerably higher than it began.
    There was a slight pause. “You ask,” said Miss Betts.
    “Pardon?”
    “You’re not supposed to know. You’re supposed to ask.”
    It was as though she had risen to the surface of dark water. She took a breath.
    Miss Betts smiled. “Feel better?”
    “Yes, thanks,” said Layla, grateful that a heart beat under Miss