An excerpt from my first novel

      Murder by Dewey Decimal was the first novel I wrote and finished. It's not particularly well-written -- the first chapter has enough exposition to choke you -- but it lit the fire in me and I have a lot of affection for it. Written 25 years ago on a Tandy 1000 computer using Wordstar, the book brings back that time for me as few things can.
      I liked Bernard M. Worthington and Abigail Trent (unseen in the following excerpt) enough that I wrote two more books about them. Since I don't have time to post lately, I thought I would share excerpts from that first long ago book. What follows is the beginning of the first chapter.

Excerpt from Murder by Dewey Decimal
Copyright 2007. All rights reserved.

      Later, Bernard would remember he had looked around for more blood -- not that he knew how much blood there should be. It had just seemed to him that there should have been more. He would also remember how small Agatha Ryton-Storer looked in death; although her considerable poundage remained the same, without the vicious fire of her life, she seemed shrunken, tiny, even feeble. Later, he would remember those things. But, at that moment, he stood, frozen by shock, unable to think, his eyes tracing the thick red line that marked her open throat.
      Her death had crossed Bernard M. Worthington's mind before. He had often fantasized about it as a way to end her tyranny. In fact, earlier that morning, as he drove to work, he had indulged in one of his favorites -- the old crone boiling in a pot of oil surrounded by screaming natives who were preparing to sacrifice her to the deep, dark god of libraries. He smiled at the image as he turned the car onto Main, driving past the still-closed shops and businesses that lined the street. He was so lost in his thoughts he barely remembered to turn his head away as he passed Wyatt Real Estate. Seeing the name of her father's office always reminded him of Sherry and the wreck she had made of his life. Of course, he admitted wryly, trying to remember to not look also made him think of her.
      He sighed and concentrated on the drive to the Ryton Memorial Library, his mind fogged by another sleepless night. He didn't know why he was going to work early; the library wouldn't open until nine, but he needed to go somewhere. And this early in the morning, he would have the library to himself for a couple of hours before Hagatha (he liked to add the 'H') arrived.
      He never looked forward to her arrival, but on this he was dreading it. Every Tuesday afternoon, Agatha held her weekly library meeting where she would rave about the wrongs that Bernard and the library aides had committed to her domain. Bernard rated the meetings in his list of favorite things to do right below having a root canal without an anesthetic. And he expected to be fried alive in today's meeting because he was responsible for allowing Jay Jones, the library janitor, in her office yesterday while she was gone for her usual two-hour lunch.
      Her scream of rage had echoed throughout the library and brought Bernard running down the stairs. When he reached her office, he paused at the door. Her tantrum was already in full tirade. Jones stood in the middle of the room, a vacuum cleaner by his side.
      "How dare you come in here!" she snarled, stabbing a finger at the hapless Jones. "This office is private, do you hear me, private!"
      "I was going to clean --" Jones began, his face flushing with anger.
      "You are to clean my office only on the second Monday of each month," she cut in. "That is the way we've done it for years. And this is not the second Monday! This is the first Monday! Or did you forget how to count?"
      "Mrs. Ryton-Storer, I told him to do it," Bernard said, immediately regretting it as she turned on him.
      "Who do you think you are?” she shouted. “I'm the Head Librarian here! And as long as I am, this staff answers to me and me only!" Wisps of graying hair were escaping from her tight habitual bun.
      "Jay is going to take his vacation next week," Bernard said, feeling his stomach knot up. "He asked me about it while you were gone, and I told him to take care of it now."
      "You have no right to make any decisions," she snarled. "Just because he will be gone means nothing!"
      "I'm sorry --"
      "Shut up! SHUT UP! Get out! Both of you get out!"
      Bernard and Jones got. She slammed the door behind them.
      The two men looked at each other.
      "That was pleasant," Bernard said. "I'm sorry I got you into that."
      "Wasn't your fault," Jones grunted, picking up his vacuum. "She's always in a tizzy about something. Been that way the whole time I've worked here and I've been here nearly twenty years. She's not going to change." He started to walk away. "But, you know, she can't live forever." He laughed. "No, sir, she can't live forever, and no one will care when she goes." He headed for the storage closet, chuckling.
      Agatha sulked in her office and refused to talk to anyone for the rest of the day. Bernard was certain, however, she would have plenty to say at the meeting.
      He was dropping her headfirst in a vat of acid when he noticed her car was already in the parking lot. Agatha never arrived before ten, and it was only eight now. He frowned and considered going back home for a while but decided that he might as well go on in since he was already there. And the library -- even with Agatha in residence -- was better than the emptiness of his apartment.
      Bernard had attempted to like Agatha, but it was a doomed effort from the beginning. Agatha Ryton-Storer had held the library in her claw for the past thirty years, and she was not impressed by Bernard's masters degree.
      "It's nothing but a piece of paper," she snarled. "Experience is the only thing that counts."
      Unfortunately, for all her thirty years, she was a terrible librarian. Bernard had discovered so many misshelved books that he wondered if she and the aides even knew how to count, much less understand the Dewey Decimal system. And half the books in the library weren't even in the card catalog. The Library Board had recognized she was slipping when she started refusing to allow people to check out books. As she put it, "How do you expect this library to have any books at all if we allow trash off the streets to take them at will!"
      The Board had politely suggested retirement; she had politely told them to eat dirt and die. They would have fired her, but they couldn't. When Eliah Ryton, her grandfather, donated the Ryton mansion to the city to be used as the library and gave a generous endowment for the care of the same, he made one condition: Any of his direct descendants must be given the Head Librarian's job for as long as the descendant wanted it. Agatha Ryton-Storer had wanted the job for the last thirty years.
      Fresh out of college with a masters in library science, Bernard seemed perfect to modernize the Ryton Library. The City Council told him that Agatha would resent him, but she would slowly be won over. They told him his title would be Assistant Librarian, but he would have the real authority. They lied.
      "You'll change this library over my dead body," Agatha said, shaking her finger under Bernard's nose. This was in the first five minutes of their introduction. Bernard thought the relationship couldn't get worse, which was definite proof he was not a prophet. Any idea he wanted to try was treated as if he'd suggested they all strip naked and dance down Main Street singing "The Star Spangled Banner." He complained to the Councilmen who, collectively, sighed, shook their heads and changed the subject. Sherry had told him to just wait Agatha out. He stopped that thought immediately. Thinking of Sherry could only make this already dreary morning worse.
      Bernard closed his car door and walked down the sidewalk to the side entrance. After six months, he spared the library only a short glance. At first, its architectural style -- which could only be classified as Colonial Gothic -- had sent his mind spinning into conjectures about Eliah Ryton and whatever had possessed the old man to add a tower and a turreted roof to a huge house already well on its way to ugly. He did notice that the shrubs along the street badly needed to be trimmed. He made a mental note to tell Jay about it -- again. He hated to nag the janitor, but it seemed to be only way to get any work done. If I mention to him enough, Bernard thought, he'll take care of it to shut me up. That or run a mop through my body. Either way, I win.
      A piece of paper fluttering in the breeze caught his eye. He picked it up. A shipping invoice for new books. I'd better make sure this gets filed or Hagatha will hit the roof, he thought. He opened the door. He found it odd that the lights were off; Agatha was not one to stumble around in the dark, and she certainly didn't care about conserving energy.
      He flipped the light switches, and the overhead fluorescence bulbs flickered on and illuminated the rows and rows of books. He turned left, slowly walking up a narrow aisle to the front of the library, taking time to savor the quiet. Despite Agatha, the library had a fair number of patrons, and during open hours, it echoed with sound: pages turning, people whispering, footsteps as people walked across the marble floors, the occasional book falling followed invariably by the giggles of teenagers. These sounds would return when the library opened at nine. Just a few minutes before that time, Millie Sader, the librarian day aide, would rush up and unlock the doors, and the Ryton Memorial Library would be open to the public.
      He furtively glanced at the door to Agatha's office. It was shut. Good, he thought, if luck is with me, I'll be lost in the shelves before she thinks to look for me. Agatha's more than ample size was maintained by her love for sweets of all sorts and her hate of work and anything resembling it. She would rather lie in wait than hunt him down.
      Quietly he took a cart filled with books that needed to be shelved and wheeled it toward the elevator. Once it had carried him to the second floor where the nonfiction was kept, he sighed in relief. Another confrontation avoided for a while.
      As he shelved books and spot-read the shelves, he began to weigh the job offers he was considering. Any of them would be better than staying in Ryton where he ran into Sherry at least three times a week. He grimaced and tried to think of something else, but he failed this time. Sometimes he had to scratch at the wound.
      It unrolled for him again as it had so often the past few weeks. Meeting Sherry Wyatt in college and falling in love. The way her hair caught the light. The walks by Theta Pond. Her sharp wit and force of will. The way she walked. The soft hairs at the base of her neck that felt cool when he ran his lips across her neck. Her calm when he asked her to marry him. His delight when she said yes. All the laughter. And all the pain that followed.
      She was the reason Bernard was in Ryton. With his degree, Bernard could have gone almost anywhere and set his own salary, but Sherry had convinced him to come to her hometown of Ryton to live. It would be good place to raise their children, she said. Her father had pull in the town and convinced the City Council to hire him. And so here he was, in a rotten job, and Sherry, while still in Ryton, was not with him. In fact, she had made it plain that she would never be with Bernard again.
      "You just don't have it anymore," Sherry had said.
      "What does that mean?" Bernard asked. "Have what?"
      "It's just not there." Sherry turned away. And then she said the words that nearly shattered him. "I don't love you anymore. Don't you understand? I just don't love you anymore."
      Bernard gave himself a mental shake. It did not help to replay the fights which followed over the next few days. It had been two months now. Sherry was not coming back. He would leave Ryton and find a life somewhere else. He tried to push the cart forward, but it caught on something. He looked down. The cart's wheels were lodged against someone's ankle. His eyes traveled up the dark-hosed leg to the polyester plaid skirt to the crumpled sweater and to a dark line of blood that marked the slit throat of the quite-dead Agatha Ryton-Storer.
      And so later he would remember the lack of blood and how small she seemed, and he would also decide that he handled the situation well. He walked to the front of the library, called the police, hung up, met Millie at the door and told her that Mrs. Ryton-Storer had suffered an accident and was dead and that the library should remain closed until the police arrived. Millie was agog with curiosity, but he firmly told her to wait outside. He went into the restroom, splashed cold water on his ashen face and shaking hands, and then threw up until the police arrived.

End excerpt. Copyright 2007. All rights reserved.

      Next, Bernard meets reporter Abigail Trent, and they, each for different reasons, set out to solve Agatha's murder. The bodies pile up as the two delve deeper into Ryton's secrets, and the Ryton Police may not be able to save Bernard and Abigail from being the murderer's next victims.
      I hope things are going well for you. Talk to you later.