Death In The Library
Connie Caskett works in the library and is a death metal fan…
Connie Caskett stamped the return date on a copy of Introduction to Thermodynamics. She did it with a rhythmic, percussive thud that would have made the drummer of Rotting Corpse proud. Her Doc Martens tapped a syncopated beat against the leg of the issuing desk. Today’s ensemble featured a cropped tee. Decorated with a skull that spat snakes. Wearing a leather mini-skirt that broke the library’s dress code. And fishnets that had seen many mosh pits. Her septum piercing glinted under the fluorescent lights.
The double doors swung open. In marched Mrs Humber-Smithers, a woman made of tweed and exuding disapproval. She stopped. Her eyes scanned the desk, bypassing the “Librarian on Duty” sign to search for a cardigan or a pearl necklace. Finding only skulls and heavy eyeliner, her lips pursed into a thin, white line.
“I wish to speak with Mrs Higgins,” Mrs Humber-Smithers announced. “The proper librarian.”
Connie offered a smile that showed a surprising amount of genuine warmth. “Mrs Higgins is on holiday in Mallorca. I am running the desk this week.”
The older woman clutched her handbag. Her gaze drifted down to Connie’s fishnets, then up to the snakes on the t-shirt. She sniffed. “This is quite unusual.” A place of learning requires a certain… decorum. One expects professionalism, not a costume party.”
“I assure you, I know the Dewey Decimal System better than the fretboard of a Flying V guitar,” Connie said. “How may I assist?”
Mrs Humber-Smithers looked around the empty foyer. She leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper. The haughty posture crumbled. “I have got a reservation.”
Connie tapped the keyboard. “Name?”
“Humber-Smithers. It should be under the counter.”
Connie reached below the desk. Her hand brushed past a leather-bound history of The Black Dahlia Murder. It landed on a pile of mass-market paperbacks. The covers showed shirtless men holding swooning women. She pulled them out: The Duke’s Forbidden Caress, Ravished by the Stable Boy, Passion in the Pantry.
The cover of the top book showed a Fabio-like figure. His shirt had given in to gravity. Connie slid the stack across the counter.
Mrs Humber-Smithers snatched them, her face flushing a deep, violent crimson.
“Excellent choices,” Connie said, her tone deadpan. “I hear the stable boy has a very compelling character arc in the third act.”
Mrs Humber-Smithers shoved the books into her tote bag. Burying them beneath a sensible wool scarf. She mumbled something about “research” and dashed for the exit. The squeak of her sensible shoes echoed in the quiet. Connie watched her go, then turned up the volume on her headphones. Slayer began to play. It was going to be a good shift.