Mayhem in Circulation: A Larkspur Library Mystery by Leah Dobrinska | Book Excerpt

“What do you think? Is he dead or just stunned?”

As the town of Larkspur’s library director, Greta Plank got her fair share of unique inquiries, but this wasn’t the type of question she was used to fielding. Greta glanced up into Dolores Jenkins’s pensive face and opened her mouth to respond, but Dolores’s best friend, Celeste, beat her to the punch.

“How are you so sure he’s a he? Could very well be a lady, for all you know.”

“Oh hush, Celeste.” Dolores waved her off. “Does it matter at this point?”

“I can’t imagine the poor thing would appreciate us getting something so wrong,” Celeste huffed.

Greta sat back on her heels. She’d usually laugh at the familiar, good-natured squabbling of two of her favorite Larkspur residents. But, given the present circumstances, she kept her expression neutral. Because what she was staring at wasn’t funny.

Matters of life or death never were.

To be fair, in this case, the life in question was that of a crow—an extremely common and, to many, an extremely annoying bird—but still.

It was early on a Thursday morning in mid-October. She was kneeling in the middle of a group of her neighbors in the median of Larkspur Lane. They had all congregated to assess the situation.

“What’s the verdict, Greta?” Dolores, clad in a snug-fitting bathrobe with hair still tucked into her bonnet, crouched next to Greta—as well as she was able given her recently broken leg. Dolores had gotten quite adept at navigating life on crutches.

“I wouldn’t consider myself an expert on birds, but I think this one’s a goner.” Greta dropped the stick she had used to prod at the lifeless aviary and stood to her full five foot two-inch height. She wiped her hands on her pale green dress, tucked her curly, strawberry-golden hair behind her ears, and stuffed her hands into the pockets of her camel-colored Sherpa jacket. At just shy of thirty years old and still relatively new to the town of Larkspur, she guessed she should be grateful people took her seriously…at least seriously enough to ask her input on matters of bird deaths.

“Poor little tweetie.” Celeste clicked her tongue. She was tall and lanky, with blonde hair that had turned white with age. Greta had never seen her without a full face of make-up and a wrist full of bangles. This morning was no different. “Natural causes or foul play? What do you suppose?”

A bark of laughter echoed from the back of the circle of neighbors. Greta isolated a teenager as the source of the guffaw. Landon Diddle, if she wasn’t mistaken. She recognized him from his participation in the summer reading program at the library.

His mom, Cassie, was shooting daggers at him. “Landon! Show some respect for the dead.”

“What?” Landon held up his hands, a grin curling at his lips. “She said foul play. Get it? Fowl? Foul?”

“Not. Funny,” Cassie bit out.

“Come on. It’s punny,” Landon whined.

Cassie shooed him toward their house, lecturing him about manners and the fine art of reading the room on the way.

Greta had half a thought to call Landon back and tell him she agreed with him, but Dolores grabbed her attention.

“Do you suppose the bird’s death had anything to do with the rest of this destruction?” Dolores looked down the street, and the circle turned to assess the damage.

The usually picturesque boulevard that cut through the small town of Larkspur was a mess. Dirt, egg yolk, and the dead bird were flung across the road like bloodshed. The mums that just yesterday filled the planters in the median with deep jewel-toned blooms and made the spine of their quaint, small town seem almost regal were ravaged as if someone had taken a machete to them. The heads of the autumnal flowers were strewn about the roadway, some crushed by traffic, some wilting from the early morning sun. Eggs were smashed against the trunks of the trees, which, given the price of a dozen these days, seemed a particular crime. All in all, Larkspur Lane looked like a completely defeated garden war zone.