Unraveling Isobel by Eileen Cook

it.
    The library on Nairne is in the center of downtown, the term “downtown” being used fairly liberally. The entire thing is only four blocks long, over half of which consist of stores that cater to the tourists and are only open during the summer months. If you want a T-shirt, cheap fudge, or homemade soap with seashells floating in it, then downtown Nairne is your shopping paradise. The library is in a converted house and shares the space with the post office.
    The librarian (who also does double duty as the postmaster) watched me very carefully when I walked in, as if she thought I might suddenly start stuffing paperbacks under my shirt and make a run for it.
    â€œCan I help you?” Her smile was so tight, I wondered if she’d been sucking on lemons. I could see from where I was standingthat her lipstick had bled into all the creases around her mouth. It was like her lips had grown tentacles. She also needed to do her roots. She had a halo of gray all around her face.
    â€œI’m fine, thanks.” I glanced around the room.
    â€œI’m afraid only residents can check out materials.”
    â€œI am a resident.”
    Her eyes widened and her lips pressed together even more tightly. “Ah.” She shifted like she’d just noticed her shoes were too tight. “Well. I heard Mr. Wickham’s new wife had a child. Welcome to the island.”
    â€œThanks. Is there a computer I can use?”
    â€œOf course. It’s over in the corner. There’s a teen section too, under the window. I’ll get a card made up for you so you can check things out. Things can be borrowed for two weeks, with a maximum of ten items. There’s a twenty-minute rule on the computer if someone else wants to use it. We also forbid anyone going to pornographic sites.”
    â€œGot it. Two weeks, ten things, twenty minutes, and no porn.”
    The librarian gave me another lemon-sucking smile. I could tell she was one of those people who hated teens and secretly believed we were all drug-taking hooligans. I smiled back and began to wander up and down the aisles between the shelves. The bell over the door rang again and a woman backed in with two large boxes that she carried over to the postal counter. I could hear the women whispering, and when I looked over, they were both staring at me.
    I sat down at the computer and pulled up Google. There were a few travel articles on the island (apparently Melanie’s Sea Shanty Bed-and-Breakfast had the best blueberry muffins on the West Coast) and some random articles on its history, but other than a short piece mentioning a funeral, I couldn’t find anything on Dick’s first wife and daughter. The story might have been too small to be picked up by the larger papers. I tried a few other searches. I found an article on West Coast architecture that mentioned Morrigan. Apparently the Wickhams used to offer house tours during the summer. In the summer of 1957, one of the tourists took a nasty fall down the stairs, and after that the house had been closed to the general public. The article didn’t mention whether the tourist had recovered, but it would have said something if the tourist had died, wouldn’t it?
    â€œAh. Morrigan,” a voice said behind me. I jumped and spun around. Jesus. She must have been wearing super-quiet librarian shoes. It was another librarian, younger than the first. She had a nice smile and I noticed she was pretty, but she needed some major fashion advice. Her outfit was heavy on the pastels and had shoulder pads. Her name tag said Mandy . She looked over my shoulder at the screen, and I cringed.
    â€œUh.” I couldn’t tell if this was worse than being caught with porn.
    She looked me in the eye. “Researching the island history for school?”
    Was she really going to give me this easy out? “Um, yeah. I have a paper.”
    â€œYou might want to check out the archives section. There are