“I don’t like the look of this.”
I had to agree with Mrs. Berns. “Maybe it’s not as bad as it seems.”
She and I stood near the Battle Lake Library’s front desk, hands on hips, staring down. “I want to poke it with a stick,” she added.
I nodded. “That’s a good plan. But we don’t have a stick.”
She reached for a pencil out of the public cup. She waved it in front of my eyes. “You’re the one who keeps buying these stupid short pencils. You get to poke it. I don’t want to get that close. You’ve watched The Blob?”
I had. When I was eight years old. I spent the next week sleeping in my parents’ bed. I could call up at will the image of the pulsating red lava crawling up the branch and onto the man’s hand, absorbing him as he screamed.
“Those are standard issue, library—length pencils,” I said.
“Do not get defensive with me,” she said. “And only an insecure man would market those as ‘standard issue.’ Those are itty—bitty pencils. Now poke it.”
I leaned forward and then thought better of it. “Maybe I could tape two pencils together?”
She pinched my arm, the soft flesh underneath, her hand in and out before I had a chance to swipe at her. For a woman in her late 80s, she was quick. Scratch that. For a human, she was quick.
“Ouch!” I yelped, jumping away from her. “What was that for?”
“For being a scaredy—cat.”
“You’re not poking it, either.”
“Not because I’m scared.” She fluffed her apricot—tinged hair, not taking her eyes off the center of the desk. She was a small woman, 5’2” in heels
not that she’d ever wear them
, but she carried herself like she was six feet tall and bulletproof. Her eyes always sparkled, her lipstick was frequently drawn outside the lines, and while she dressed for comfort, it wasn’t unheard of for her to strap on a set of cap guns for a little flair. In short, she was perfect.
“It’s because I’m smart,” she finished.
She wasn’t wrong. I thrust my arm as far away from my body as I could, stretching the shaking pencil toward the mystery box. The container had been waiting for us when we’d opened the library, dead center on our front desk. Where we couldn’t miss it. After we both checked our keys to make sure they hadn’t been stolen, we’d tiptoed over to it. It was a shallow wooden crate, covered in a soft—looking fabric, approximately the dimensions of a small delivery pizza box. We had no idea what was under the cloth.
My heart hammered the nearer I got to it, and I couldn’t help but notice that Mrs. Berns was keeping a bit behind me.
“I think it’s gonna be a box of fingers,” she whispered.
“What?” I hissed. “Why fingers?”
I sensed her shrug. “It could be toes.”
“It could be a gift,” I said, unable to hide the doubt in my voice.
She snorted. “You’re awful pie—eyed for a woman who’s averaged one dead body a month for the past year. Hey!” She stopped in her tracks and grabbed my arm.
“Ack!” I’d nearly been close enough to lift the covering. “Don’t grab me without warning.”
“I was just thinking, maybe this is an anniversary present for you? You know, because you’ve been living in Battle Lake for a whole year? Maybe the Chamber of Commerce got together and bought you a thank—you gift. They meet at City Hall where a spare set of keys to the library are stored. Probably they snuck it in last night, or early this morning.”
“That’s a great theory.” I jabbed the baby pencil toward the box. “Are you confident enough in it to peek inside first?”
She shuddered. “We both know I was just blowing sunshine up your skirt. Probably looks like a toe—finger junk drawer in there.”
I threw a glance at the doorway we’d walked through moments before. We could walk right out it, but then what? Call the police and tell them that ohmygosh, there was a box on the library counter?
What’s in it, they’d ask.
Too chicken to peek, we’d say.
No way was I going to sign myself up for that level of embarrassment. So I stepped closer, close enough to lift up the corner of the fabric covering the box.
My jaw dropped.
Mrs. Berns couldn’t stand the curiosity, and so she scuttled forward, just enough to peer inside.
“What the hell?” she asked.