Page 7 of Open Season

“You may have argued with her, dear, but I couldn’t hurt Evelyn’s feelings that way.”

“We didn’t argue,” Daisy protested. Her throat had grown so tight she could barely speak. My god, did the whole town consider her so hopeless that she couldn’t do anything without her mother’s permission? No wonder she never had any dates! Humiliation mingled with anger that Mrs. Simmons wouldn’t even think Daisy would be insulted. “On second thought, Mrs. Simmons, I don’t think the apartment would be right for me. I’m sorry to bother you.” It was rude, but she hung up without the usual good-byes. Mrs. Simmons would probably tell all her friends how abrupt Daisy had been and that she was having a disagreement with her mother, but she couldn’t help that. And Mrs. Simmons might not snoop in the apartment, but she would certainly monitor all of Daisy’s comings and goings and feel obligated to report them back to her mother. Not that Daisy intended to do anything bad, but still. . .!

The humiliation burned inside her. Was this how all their friends and acquaintances saw her, as someone incapable of making a decision on her own? She had always considered herself an intelligent, responsible, self-supporting woman, but Mrs. Simmons, who had known her all her life, certainly didn’t!

This move was way, way too late. She should have done it ten years ago. Back then, changing her image would have been easy. Now she felt as if she needed an act of Congress—and a permission slip from her mother!—to change the way people saw her.

Maybe it would work out better not to live in Mrs. Simmons’s garage apartment, anyway. She would be out of her mother’s house, yes, but still under “supervision.” If she wanted to change her image, she had to give the impression of complete freedom.

The ugly condos were looking better by the minute.

She dialed the number in the ad. Again, the phone rang and rang. She wondered if the condo manager had arthritic knees, too.

“Hello.” The voice was male, and sleepy.

“I’m sorry, did I wake you?” Daisy glanced at the clock over her desk; ten after nine. What kind of manager slept this late?

“S’ all right.”

“I’m calling about the rental listing—”

“Sorry. The last one was rented yesterday.” The man hung up.

Well, damn.

Frustrated, she stared down at the newspaper. She was left with the house on Lassiter Avenue, the duplex containing the Farrises, and the mobile home on the bad side of town. The duplex was unthinkable.

She couldn’t back down now, or she’d never be able to face herself in the mirror again. She had to see this through. Maybe the mobile home or the Lassiter Avenue house wouldn’t be too bad. She didn’t mind a run-down neighborhood, so long as it wasn’t dangerous, with drug dealers lurking on every corner and shots ringing out in the night.

She was pretty sure if there had been any shots ringing out in Hillsboro, night or day, she’d have heard about it.

The discreet little bell over the door rang as someone entered the library. Daisy got up and smoothed her skirt, not that the action would help its looks any. She was the only one working until noon, because they seldom had anyone in during the morning. Most of their traffic was in the afternoon, after school was out, though of course during the summer that pattern changed. The bulk of people still came in the afternoon, maybe because they were too busy doing other stuff during the relatively cool mornings. Kendra Owens came in at twelve and worked until the library closed at nine, plus Shannon Ivey worked part-time from five until nine, so Kendra was never alone there at night. The only one who was alone for any length of time was Daisy, but she figured the greater responsibility was hers.

“Anyone here?” a deep voice boomed, before she could step out of her small office behind the checkout desk.

Daisy took two hurried steps into view, a little outraged that anyone would shout in a library, even if there weren’t any other patrons present at the moment. Seeing who the newcomer was, she checked briefly, then said briskly, “Yes, of course. There’s no need to yell.”

Chief of Police Jack Russo stood on the other side of the scarred, wooden checkout desk, looking impatient. Daisy knew him by sight, but had never spoken to him before, and she wished she wasn’t doing so now. Frankly, she didn’t think much of Mayor Nolan’s choice for chief. Something about him made her uneasy, but she didn’t know exactly what. Why couldn’t the mayor have chosen someone local, someone already on the force? Chief Russo was an outsider, and from what she’d seen in town meetings, he wasn’t averse to throwing his weight around. It was easy to dislike a bully.

“I wouldn’t have yelled if anyone had been in sight,” he said tersely.

“The door wouldn’t have been unlocked unless someone was here,” she replied just as tersely.

Stalemate.

Physically, Chief Russo was a good-looking man, if one liked jocks with thick necks and broad, sloping shoulders. She wasn’t silly enough to automatically assume anyone athletic was also stupid; still, Daisy had never cared for the type. There had to be something basically narcissistic about a man who worked out enough to maintain that sort of muscularity, didn’t there? She didn’t know how old he was; his face was unlined except for a few squint lines around his eyes, but his short-cut hair, while still mostly dark on top, was gray everywhere else. At any rate, he was too old to be devoting hours to lifting weights. Nor did she care for the cocky arrogance in his eyes, or the way his full lips always seemed to be on the verge of sneering. Who did he think he was, Elvis? Moreover, he was a Yankee—he had been a cop in either Chicago or New York, she had heard both—with a brusque, abrasive manner. If he’d had to run for office, as the county sheriff did, he would never have been elected.

Daisy stifled a sigh. She was in the minority in her opinion of the chief. Mayor Nolan liked him, the city council liked him, and from what she heard around town, most of the single women thought he was the cat’s pajamas. So maybe she was wrong in her instinctive dislike of him. Maybe. She reminded herself it was only neighborly to keep an open mind, but she was still glad she had the checkout desk between them.

“May I help you?” she asked in her best librarian’s voice, both brisk and friendly. Working with the public was a science, especially in a library. One had to encourage people, because of course you wanted them to read, but at the same time you had to impart a sense of respect for the library and other patrons.

“Yeah. I want to sign up for the virtual library.”

He couldn’t have said anything more likely to bring a beaming smile to her face. His stock automatically went up a few points. She was justifiably proud of the state’s virtual library; Alabama led the nation in that category. Any citizen of the state could register at any library and have on-line home access to thousands of newspapers, magazines, articles, encyclopedias, research material, medical journals, and the like. Some of the categories were targeted to specific age groups of children, for work in the classroom and for help with their home-work, or as general interest. Other states had virtual libraries, but Alabama’s was by far the most extensive.

“You’ll love it,” she said enthusiastically, lifting the hinged countertop that allowed her to step out from behind the security of the checkout desk. “Come with me.”

She led him to the reference section, where their on-line computer sat quietly humming, always ready. She took the chair in front of the computer and gestured to him to pull up another. He hooked a chair over, positioning it much too close to hers, and settled his large frame on it. He immediately leaned back and hitched up one long leg, crossing his right knee with his left ankle. It was the automatic position of a dominant male, that of a man accustomed to physically commanding the space around him.

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