Free Sugarplum Dead by Carolyn Hart

Cummings, who, in a very different fashion from Pamela Potts, knew everything worth knowing on the island of Broward’s Rock.
    Clutching her cell phone, Annie bluntly asked, “Pamela, do you know Dr. Swanson?” It was not necessary to be indirect with Pamela. It would never occur to Pamela to wonder why a question had been asked.
    â€œOh, Annie.” Pamela’s voice might have quavered with the same unease had Annie presented her with a box of tarantulas.
    Annie braked for a half dozen deer trotting across the road. “You don’t like him?” There was a pulsing pause. Annie curved around the front of the three-story Greek Revival mansion that housed the library and pulled into a parking spot next to a line of palmetto palms. “Pamela?” Annie switched off the motor.
    â€œSome things are wrong.” The words came slowly. “God warns us not to deal with black magic or the occult—”
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    Annie could picture Pamela, her blue eyes wide and serious, her hand tightly gripping the receiver.
    â€œâ€”things which are not of this world. Annie, that’s what Dr. Swanson does. That’s why, even though I am a member of the Library Board, I got up and left in the middle of the lecture he gave there.”
    Annie knew there could have been no more brave or telling act on Pamela’s part.
    â€œAnnie, don’t have anything to do with him. Please.” A gasp. “Is Laurel involved with Dr. Swanson? Oh, Annie, you must save her!” A ragged breath. “Forgive me if I have said too much.” She hung up.
    Annie clicked off her cell phone. As she walked to the back steps of the library, unease swirled within her. Annie knew a sophisticated listener might smile with quiet amusement, but Annie knew, too, that Pamela, earnest, kind, literal and serious, represented basic goodness. And basic goodness was not a laughing matter.
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    â€œMmm, sexy.” Edith Cummings, a reference librarian with enthusiastic appetites, winked at Annie. “Laurel may be interested in more than his crystals.”
    â€œCrystals?” Annie pictured chandeliers glittering at a winter ball.
    Edith placed her hands on the Information Desk counter and leaned forward, dark eyes gleaming. “Emory Swanson.” She emphasized each syllable. “His name’s a mouthful, but I’d pick him for Bachelor of the Year anytime. He spoke to the Friends a couple of months ago and I’ll have to hand it to the man—he gave a spiel any medicine man would envy while managing to look like a banker. You know, inspire confidence.” She smoothed back a strand of wiry black hair. “And lust. But not for money.”
    Annie had a confused image of a sloe-eyed Harrison Ford in pinstripes. “What does he look like?”
    Edith glanced around the Lucy Kinkaid Memorial Library. “Everybody’s Christmas shopping,” she observed. “Except me and thee, and I’m only here because I’m a working stiff.” Edith reached beneath the counter and lifted up the SECTION CLOSED sign. Plopping it next to the computer terminal, she pointed a thumb toward the stairs. “C’mon. You’re a library patron. I can help you find the materials you’re seeking even if it requires deserting my post and relinquishing the pleasure of addressing the serious inquiries that I receive this time of year. Such as, ‘Do you have “Jingle Bells” available in Icelandic?’ or ‘What kind of buttons does Santa Claus have on his jacket?’” She bustled out from behind the counter.
    Annie followed her up the stairs, Edith bounding eagerly ahead. Annie hadn’t been upstairs since last summer and some momentous meetings involved in planninga Fourth of July celebration that culminated in fireworks and murder.
    Edith was already tapping on the third door to the right of the stairs. Gold lettering on the panel read: FRIENDS OF THE LIBRARY