Read Online Halfway Dead by Terry Maggert - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Terry Maggert
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is exhausting, but, as a librarian, he might be the finest example of smiling efficiency in this lifetime or any other. His deep-set green eyes twinkled at me as I made my way to the reference desk. There are only three stations in the humble library and his is constantly covered with odds and ends. He’s a collector of some renown, his specialty being All Things Adirondack. Even sitting, he towered over me, but not in threatening way, unless you consider good customer service to be a menace to your person. I did not, so I smiled.
“I have a research question,” I began without prelude, knowing that if I didn’t launch directly into my query we would be caught in the ten minutes of awkwardness that has existed since he first met me. He is the least direct male I’ve ever met, and his concept of flirtation consisted of a detailed account of salamander migrations in the local mountain area. So, yeah. I pushed onward in hopes that we could get to the good part, despite his being rather sweet and earnest.
His brows shot up. I was singing his song. “Go on. I’m listening.” He cocked his head like a dog, bringing the weight of his intense stare onto me without a hint of tact.
“I need to find anything about a place called Thendara,” I said.
His answering look was blank.
“It seems to have been a sort of place named during an abortive attempt to build a canal through the mountains?”
That rang a bell. “Okay, now I have something to go on.” His hands were flying over a keyboard at his desk. He hit one last key with a triumphant clack and turned back to me. “I’ve never heard of it, but we have a single mention in our database. It isn’t a book, though.” He hmmmmd and resumed his punishment of the keyboard. “It’s not a newspaper, either.” His narrative deteriorated into stylized grunts as he searched, eyes locked on his computer screen. “Not that, no. Nor that. Nope, not a painting . . . maybe. . . .” After a long rumination, he snapped his long fingers with a crack loud enough to make me jump. He really had impressive digits, and I found myself looking at his pianists’ hands with something akin to fearful respect. “We have plates.”
“Plates?” I asked dumbly. The idea of scanning dishes from yesteryear to solve a murder was one of the more unorthodox ideas I’ve encountered, but I was game.
He shook his long face with a muffled laugh, inferring my confusion at his answer. “Not dinnerware. Photographic plates.”
My knowledge of photography consists of me pointing my phone at something and tapping the screen. It’s not my strong suit. When Brendan saw the blank look on my face, he spread his hands apart in a resigned gesture. “I know a little about them, we actually have quite a few. Okay, they’re glass, not paper. Good so far?”
I arched one brow at him to tell how close he was to either being hexed or kicked. He hurried on when he saw my eyes flash with anger. Librarians can be a little full of themselves. They’re like Alex Trebek that way.
“They’re glass plates that are coated with one of two chemical compositions. Ours here are mostly wet plates; it’s a kind of silver salts that are sensitive to light. They make beautiful negatives, really quite crisp.” His tone was admiring, and I found myself wanting to see these relics.
“Can I see them, or are they too fragile?” I asked. I respect my library and their collections. It’s a habit born of practicing magic. Take care of the things that take care of you.
“Sure. The wet plates are a thicker glass, you can hold them up to light and get a clear image, even if it is reversed.” Brendan rose and we made our way upstairs.
The stairs uttered mellow creaks, and the railing felt smooth and a bit oily under my hand, like the wood was alive. In a way, it was. Many people touching something could imbue a sort of echo in an inanimate object. I trailed my finger along the railing, wishing it could speak of the
“I have a research question,” I began without prelude, knowing that if I didn’t launch directly into my query we would be caught in the ten minutes of awkwardness that has existed since he first met me. He is the least direct male I’ve ever met, and his concept of flirtation consisted of a detailed account of salamander migrations in the local mountain area. So, yeah. I pushed onward in hopes that we could get to the good part, despite his being rather sweet and earnest.
His brows shot up. I was singing his song. “Go on. I’m listening.” He cocked his head like a dog, bringing the weight of his intense stare onto me without a hint of tact.
“I need to find anything about a place called Thendara,” I said.
His answering look was blank.
“It seems to have been a sort of place named during an abortive attempt to build a canal through the mountains?”
That rang a bell. “Okay, now I have something to go on.” His hands were flying over a keyboard at his desk. He hit one last key with a triumphant clack and turned back to me. “I’ve never heard of it, but we have a single mention in our database. It isn’t a book, though.” He hmmmmd and resumed his punishment of the keyboard. “It’s not a newspaper, either.” His narrative deteriorated into stylized grunts as he searched, eyes locked on his computer screen. “Not that, no. Nor that. Nope, not a painting . . . maybe. . . .” After a long rumination, he snapped his long fingers with a crack loud enough to make me jump. He really had impressive digits, and I found myself looking at his pianists’ hands with something akin to fearful respect. “We have plates.”
“Plates?” I asked dumbly. The idea of scanning dishes from yesteryear to solve a murder was one of the more unorthodox ideas I’ve encountered, but I was game.
He shook his long face with a muffled laugh, inferring my confusion at his answer. “Not dinnerware. Photographic plates.”
My knowledge of photography consists of me pointing my phone at something and tapping the screen. It’s not my strong suit. When Brendan saw the blank look on my face, he spread his hands apart in a resigned gesture. “I know a little about them, we actually have quite a few. Okay, they’re glass, not paper. Good so far?”
I arched one brow at him to tell how close he was to either being hexed or kicked. He hurried on when he saw my eyes flash with anger. Librarians can be a little full of themselves. They’re like Alex Trebek that way.
“They’re glass plates that are coated with one of two chemical compositions. Ours here are mostly wet plates; it’s a kind of silver salts that are sensitive to light. They make beautiful negatives, really quite crisp.” His tone was admiring, and I found myself wanting to see these relics.
“Can I see them, or are they too fragile?” I asked. I respect my library and their collections. It’s a habit born of practicing magic. Take care of the things that take care of you.
“Sure. The wet plates are a thicker glass, you can hold them up to light and get a clear image, even if it is reversed.” Brendan rose and we made our way upstairs.
The stairs uttered mellow creaks, and the railing felt smooth and a bit oily under my hand, like the wood was alive. In a way, it was. Many people touching something could imbue a sort of echo in an inanimate object. I trailed my finger along the railing, wishing it could speak of the
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