I have a tradition: every week I go to the library to read Sunday’s New York Times. I ask for it at the desk, the librarian asks for my library card, I give her my card, she gives me the paper, then I read it in a room where I can spread the paper over a long table.
Today I noticed that my favorite room had been boarded up. “What’s going on?” I asked the librarian.
She said, “That will become our new Mystery Room. All the mysteries will be shelved there and we will have events.”
“I love mysteries,” I said. “Will authors speak?”
She hoped so.
Then I asked for the paper, and she asked for my card. I looked in my purse. No library card. I could not figure out what had happened to it.
It was a mystery.
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