Page 37 of By the Book

“We have to get out of here,” Stewart said. “You have to get us out of here.”

“Let’s all calm down,” I tried.

“But the circulation desk—”

My mom scoffed. “Like our biggest worry is someone running off with a stolen Danielle Steel.”

I pretended not to hear that. Instead, I said, “Why are you here?”

“I work here,” Stewart said.

I rubbed my eyeballs to keep them from popping out of pure frustration. Finally I managed to say, “Not you.”

“We’re doing what the sheriff asked,” my mom said. “We’re solving the mayor’s murder.”

“And the killer is right there.” My dad pointed at Stewart. “We were about to beat a confession out of him when you interrupted us.”

“You were going to—” I stopped myself. I held up a hand. “No,” I said. “Absolutely not. I will not engage.”

“He made repeated tweets and posts threatening the mayor,” my mom said.

Stewart’s eyes got huge behind the Coke-bottle glasses. “I did not!”

But my dad nodded. “Kept saying she’d get what she deserved. And bang—she did.”

“That’s not—I didn’t mean—”

“He disappeared from the party shortly after the diary was discovered missing,” my mom said.

“And,” my dad said, “he doesn’t have an alibi for last night.”

“How could you possibly know that?” I asked. “You didn’t even have time to beat a confession out of him.”

My mom’s expression suggested she was not amused, but all she said was “Ask him.”

We all looked at Stewart.

“I live alone,” he said. “I went home and went straight to bed.”

“That’s exactly what the murderer would say,” my dad said.

“Wouldn’t the murderer try to come up with an alibi?” I asked. “Wouldn’t that be a better plan?”

“Don’t be naïve, Dashiell.” My mom took out her phone. “Now, I think it would look better if we could solve this murder as a family. So, let’s make sure we’re all in the frame when Stewart confesses.”

Stewart’s cheeks were pink, and he was breathing rapidly. It was hard to tell behind those thick glasses, but it looked like his eyes were shifting back and forth. To my immense disappointment, he looked—in a word—guilty. “I didn’t do anything,” he wailed.

“Why would he kill the mayor?” I asked.

“To recover the book,” my dad said.

My mom nodded. “Save the library and punish the mayor, all in one fell swoop.”

I had my doubts about that—although if anyone loved a library enough to kill, Stewart and Mrs. Shufflebottom would have made the list. What I said, though, was “But the diary was a fake; I’m almost positive. And Stewart’s the one who keeps telling everyone it’s a fake.”

“Then the diary is a red herring, and he only wanted to get revenge on the mayor.”

Okay, that actually wasn’t a terrible theory. I gave Stewart another considering look. He was sweating, and his glasses were slipping down his nose in slow motion.

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