Laurie Cass - Bookmobile Cat 02 - Tailing a Tabby (10 page)

The next day was a library day. I spent the morning working on a new policy for the display of artwork, a policy I’d thought about writing only after I’d helped put together a display of local artwork earlier that summer. I’d suffered pointed comments from two library board members about the inappropriateness of displaying seminude sketches in a public library and it was time to formalize things. My lunch hour was spent speed-reading reviews for books to add to the purchasing list, and then it was back to drafting the artwork policy.

By early afternoon, my eyes felt as if they were permanently focused at computer-screen distance. I pushed
myself back from the desk and stood up, stretching, then winced at the tightness in my muscles. Maybe all those articles about getting up to move every half hour were right. I made a mental note to start doing that. Starting tomorrow. Next week at the latest.

The break room was empty, but considering that it was only an hour past lunchtime, that was only fitting. I poured myself a cup of coffee and stood there for a moment, feeling somewhat bereft. Not that I had to have someone around to talk to every minute of the day, but a certain amount of companionship was expected in a library. So, where were my companions?

I moseyed down the hall. At the front desk, Donna was helping a young mother and her two children check out teetering stacks of picture books. In the main library, Holly was showing a middle schooler the secrets of the Dewey decimal system. In the back room, Josh was elbow-deep in cables and electronics parts, muttering words that sounded suspiciously like curses.

Well.

I was walking idly down the hall when I noticed an extremely tall and baseball-capped figure leaning against the wall outside the doorway to the reading room. “Mitchell, what on earth are you doing?” I asked.

Mitchell Koyne looked down at me and put his finger to his lips. “I’m helping,” he whispered.

I eyed the leaning Mitchell, who had recently begun sporting a scraggly beard. Whether the facial hair was intentional, was a result of sheer forgetfulness, or was due to the lack of a razor, we hadn’t yet decided. “Thanks,” I said, “but I’m pretty sure that the wall is going to keep on standing, even without your help.”

The building itself had kept its upright position for
almost a hundred years in its various incarnations as K-12 school, elementary school, vacant building, and, starting just a few years ago, the Chilson District Library. I would have laid down money, and lots of it, that Mitchell’s efforts weren’t going to make any difference.

“Well, duh.” He peered over his shoulder into the reading room. It was a large space filled with current newspapers and magazines, upholstered furniture, a fireplace, and a long window seat. “Ah, there’s no one in there. Dang.”

“Are you looking for someone?”

Mitchell nodded, the bill of his tattered baseball hat moving a fraction of a beat behind. “Yeah, I’m trying to help the cops catch whoever killed that woman the other night.”

Right. “Do the police know that you’re helping them?”

“Nah. Not yet, I mean. What I’m going to do is watch.” He gestured at his eyes with the first two fingers of his hand. “Watch and learn, just like you did last month with who killed Stan Larabee.”

My friend Stan. My mouth crumpled a little, but I straightened it out fast. “What makes you think the killer spends time in the reading room?”

He shrugged. “It’s a good place to read the paper. Lots of people come here, you know? It just makes sense that whoever killed that lady will, too.”

Maybe in Mitchell’s world it made sense, but I wasn’t sure it would to anyone else. The amount of time he spent in the reading room was directly related to the amount in fines he’d managed to accumulate for overdue books. Since Mitchell had no apparent intention of paying off the near-four-figure number, Stephen had cut him off from borrowing privileges. Any other
patron would have found the money. Not Mitchell; he just spent more time in the library, reading in-house the books and magazines he would have borrowed otherwise to Stephen’s displeasure—which I had been conveniently ignoring.

“Say,” Mitchell said. “How about you and me team up together to find this killer? With your brains and my local know-how, I bet we’d figure it out in no time.”

The thought of conducting an investigation with Mitchell curdled everything in my stomach, from the morning’s cold cereal to the peanut butter and jelly sandwich I’d had for lunch to the coffee I was currently sipping. “That’s nice of you to offer, Mitchell, but I’m pretty busy.”

“You sure? Because I have these ideas all sketched out and—”

I patted him on the arm. “Thanks, anyway.”

He took off his hat and scratched his head. “Well, if you’re sure.”

“Absolutely. But thanks again.”

I headed back to my office and tried not to think about the conversation. Because though I was absolutely sure that I’d done my best to persuade Mitchell to leave off investigating, I was equally sure that he wouldn’t pay attention to a word that I’d said.

“Minnie.”

I stopped dead at the sound of Stephen’s voice, then turned around to face him.

“It would appear,” he said, “that you haven’t made any progress regarding the situation I presented to you.”

I sipped my coffee and tried to think of something to say. “I’ve… been busy this week.”

“It’s been more than two weeks since I tasked you with this issue. At the least I expected an outline of possibilities. A progress report would have been even better. Visible results better yet. What I’ve received from you, however, is nothing.”

His face was getting a little red. “Nothing,” he said, “and it’s getting worse. Every afternoon, Koyne lurks there”—Stephen nodded down the length of the hall— “distracting the staff and annoying other patrons. As assistant director of this library, you need to learn to get to the heart of the matter. Do something about this, Minnie. And do it fast.” He spun on his heel and marched up the stairs.

I sighed and took a sip of my coffee. Cold.

“Wow,” Holly said, opening the door to the supply closet and stepping out, her arms laden with reams of paper. “Was Stephen saying what I think he was saying?”

I looked at her. “Did you jump in there when you saw him coming?”

“Anybody with the sense of a stick would have.” She grinned. “Plus, we need more paper in the copy machine.” She looked in the direction of Stephen’s departure. “Was he really saying to kick Mitchell out of the library?”

“More like lure him away.”

She snorted. “With what? This place is like his second home.”

I had no idea and said so.

“Hmm.” Holly twisted her mouth into a sideways shape and hummed a few bars of “The Wheels on the Bus.”
“Got it,” she said, brightening. “Watch this. Come on.”

We headed down the hall. She plopped the paper at the front desk and kept steaming ahead toward the reading room.

“Hey, Mitchell,” she said. “Do you know what my husband told me?”

Mitchell twisted his baseball hat around. “Isn’t he out west somewhere?”

She nodded. “He’s in Wyoming, working at that big mine. He just got a promotion. He’s making good money, really good, and he says there are jobs out there for pretty much everyone.”

“Huh,” Mitchell said. “He got a promotion? That’s cool.”

Holly’s lips firmed, but she smoothed them out into a smile. “So, what I was wondering was, have you ever thought of going out there yourself? All those blue skies and open spaces, a big guy like you would get hired right away. I’m sure of it.”

It was a good sell, so good that I almost wanted to go out there myself, but Mitchell was shaking his head.

“Leave Michigan?” he asked. “Leave God’s country? Leave all of you? Not a chance.” He reached out with both of his long arms and enveloped Holly and me in a big hug. My face was mushed up against the top of Holly’s shoulder, and her chin was digging into the side of my head.

“It wouldn’t be the same without you,” I said, and escaped down the hall with as much grace as I could muster. Holly came along with me, whispering in my ear, “I’ll see if I can get Josh to help. Sometimes he has really good ideas.”

And sometimes his ideas were horrible, but right now I was willing to listen to anything.

•   •   •

“What I really need,” I said to Eddie that evening, “is a magic wand. Wave it, say some really long words, and we’ll find out who really killed Carissa. Wave it again and the boarders at Aunt Frances would get straightened around. One more wave and Mitchell would find something productive to do with his life. What do you think?”

Eddie didn’t say anything.

“Yeah.” I patted the top of his head. He squinched his eyes at every pat, but he didn’t move. “I kind of figured that’s what you’d say.”

We were sitting on the roof of the houseboat, watching the sunset. At least I was watching the sunset; Eddie was still looking for the sparrow that had lured him onto the roof in the first place. Fifteen minutes ago, we’d been sitting on the chaise longues, me reading, him gently purring. Then the bird had zipped past.

Eddie exploded into action. He tore after the low-flying bird, jumped up onto the railing in hot pursuit, then launched himself onto the roof.

I’d put my book down and watched the activity with bemusement. When the bird flew into the wild blue yonder, Eddie had looked down at me.

“Mrrwr.”

“You got yourself up there,” I’d told him. “You can get yourself back down.”

“Mrrwwrr!”

I could have left him there to figure out his own way, but I didn’t want the entire marina and half of Chilson to suffer the yowls of an unhappy Eddie. Muttering about the uselessness of cats, I’d borrowed a ladder from the marina office and climbed up onto the roof.

“You know what?” I asked Eddie now. “If I don’t figure out a solution to the Mitchell problem, Stephen might fire me. We’ll be out on the street with no job in sight. Aunt Frances doesn’t have room for us in the summer, and Kristen’s living above the restaurant, so I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t want a cat in there. We’d be homeless. What do you think of that?”

“Mrr.” He butted his head against my cell phone. I’d brought it up onto the roof with me, just in case.

“And ‘mrr’ back at you.” I ran my hand along his long tail. “For a cat who might be out on the street soon, you don’t seem… Hey!”

He was still butting his head against the phone, and the furry action had turned on the calendar function.

“Cut it out.” I dragged the phone out from underneath him. He gave it a swipe with his paw as I pulled it away, and the calendar rolled to last week. “Stop that, will you?” His white paw snaked out again, but I held the phone out of his reach.

“Leave it alone.” I turned the phone off. “This is way too expensive for a cat toy.”

He gave me a
but, Minnie, those are the best kinds of cat toys
look.

“Not this time.”

“Mrr.”

“Or ever.”

“Mrr.”

I gave up. It’s hard to get the last word when you’re having a conversation with a
cat.

“W
ho’s going for lunch today?” Donna asked late the next morning.

“I went last week,” Kelsey said.

“Pretty sure I went the week before.” Josh kept his hands in his pockets, dodging the list that Donna was trying to pass to him.

Over the last couple of months, the library staff had fallen into the habit of ordering Wednesday lunch from the Round Table. Whoever happened to be at the main desk took orders, and the fetching task rotated among everyone else.

I was pretty sure that Josh had no idea about the last time he’d walked down for the orders, but I was very sure that the topic wasn’t worth pursuing. “I’ll go. It’s a beautiful day.”

Donna grinned and handed me the paper. “It’s all yours, toots.”

Toots? I looked down at the lengthy list. “All right, who’s ordering onion rings? You know how Stephen hates the smell of onions in the library.” I kept reading
the list. “Four orders of onion rings? Are you kidding me?” I looked up, but they had already scattered.

“Weenies,” I called. “You’re all a bunch of weenies.” Laughter came back to me and I shook my head, smiling. They
were
weenies, but I didn’t know what I’d do without them.

I headed out into the warmth of a July day. In the not so far distance, Janay Lake was dotted by sailboats and powerboats with long tails of white-edged wake. Here in town, cars lined every street within three blocks of downtown. Ah, summer.

As I walked, I played the license plate game. Mostly Michigan plates, of course, but once I got to the main drag I hit the mother lode. An Ohio plate. New York. Missouri. California. Wisconsin. Colorado. And two Illinois for a total of eight out-of-state plates in a five-minute walk. A new record for Minnie!

I walked into the Round Table. Since it was summer and it was lunchtime, the place was packed with people I didn’t recognize. Instead of the familiar faces I saw September through May, I saw sun-kissed cheeks and windblown hair and felt the infectious high spirits that people get when they’re on vacation and having a good time.

“You’re here for the library’s order, right?” the young woman at the cash register asked. “It’ll be up in just a couple minutes. You want to pay now?”

I handed over the bills that Donna had given me along with the list and smirked a little on the inside. “Keep the change.” It would serve them right for the onion rings.

“Hello, Ms. Hamilton.”

Behind me were Detectives Devereaux and Inwood,
the two police officers I’d dealt with a few weeks ago. Though we’d started off on the wrong foot, and then found that the other foot was also wrong, we’d ended up… well, perhaps not actually liking each other, but with grounds for mutual respect.

I nodded at the men. Both were in their late fifties; both had graying hair and tired looks. Then the similarities ended. I’d had trouble remembering which detective was which until a smart young deputy had told me about the letters. Detective Inwood was tall and thin, like the letter
I.
Detective Devereaux was shorter and rounder, exactly like a D, making him the embodiment of a
D
word.

“Detectives.”
D
words, everywhere you looked. “How are you this fine day?”

Inwood grunted noncommittally. “So, how long have you known Russell McCade?”

“I know Barb a lot better.” Which was true and didn’t exactly answer his question, but I was okay with that.

“So you’ve known the McCades for some time?”

I put my chin up in the air, the better to stare him straight in the eye with. “Is this an official questioning?” I asked. “Because as I recall, Mr. McCade was released the other night. Seems to me that Daniel Markakis wouldn’t take kindly to this line of questioning, not after what the medical examiner’s report showed.”

Detective Devereaux chuckled. Inwood sighed. “Ms. Hamilton, we’re doing our job. All avenues have to be explored.”

“Seems to me this one’s a dead end,” I said. It came out a little snappy, but these two had a gift for bringing out the snark in me. “There must be other streets to go
down.” I smiled, trying to be jovial. “Lanes, even. Alleys. Courts. Roads.”

“Or drives,” said a male voice. “Don’t forget drives.”

The three of us turned. Deputy Ash Wolverson stood a few feet away, looking from the detectives to me and back. Too late, he’d sensed the mild tension fizzing in the air. “Uh, Detectives. Ms. Hamilton, right? With the bookmobile.”

I nodded. “Deputy.” He was at least two decades younger than the detectives, making him maybe a few years older than me. He was also what many women would have called hot, with his muscular build, square jaw, and short brown hair. Right now, however, I would have called him uncomfortable. Which amused me on many levels.

“The library’s order is up.” The girl at the register hefted two large white plastic bags. Deputy Wolverson made a move to pick them up, but Detective Inwood blocked him and did the honors.

“Ms. Hamilton,” he said, handing me the bags. “We’re doing all we can to find Ms. Radle’s killer. It’s unfortunate if this offends your friends, but that’s what police work can be like.”

I sighed. “Yeah, I know. I don’t suppose you can tell me if any of those other avenues are looking productive?”

“Inquiries are proceeding,” Detective Devereaux said.

So, no, they couldn’t tell me. I nodded and headed out but had to wait for a large family group to come in before I could get outside. While I waited, I craned my neck around to see the back corner. Bill D’Arcy, a new Chilson resident, was sitting in his normal spot, reading away on his computer, as per usual.

Sabrina, the diner’s forever waitress, filled his coffee mug and leaned over to kiss the top of his head. As she did, the sparkle of her new engagement ring caught the light and flashed back to me, bright and shiny.

I grinned. Every once in a while, things really did work out.

•   •   •

Halfway back to the library, I stopped, put the bags of food on a bench, and dug my phone out of my purse. Seeing Sabrina and Bill’s happiness made me want to talk to Tucker. And though Tucker had, in fact, called me as he’d promised, I’d been at the library with my phone turned off. Since then, we’d carried on a serious game of phone tag and it was getting a little silly.

I stared at my phone. Maybe a call wasn’t the best idea. Maybe a text would be better. I squinted my brains into gear and thumbed out a message.
Miss you. When can we get together?

The phone was in my purse and the bags were in my hands when I heard the
ping
of an incoming text message.

Down went the bags. I got out the phone and peered at the screen.

Me not Rafe?

I sat. What on earth was he talking about? So I typed that out.
What are you talking about?

After a short but endless wait, he texted back.
Batteries in bedroom?

“Oh…” Suddenly all was clear. When Tucker had stopped by the boat, Rafe had needed a new battery for his volt-doohickey. The only reason Rafe knew where things lived in my bedroom was that every spring he helped me open up my houseboat and get it in the
water in exchange for my helping him with his spring yard work. But Tucker didn’t know that. Tucker must have thought… I wanted to gag. Rafe was a good friend, but if we ever spent more than a single uninterrupted hour together, one on one, I’d have to muzzle him.

My thumbs got busy. I sent Tucker a long message about the spring chores. Before I hit the S
END
button, I added the part about the muzzle.

Less than a minute later came a new message from Tucker.

Okay. Sorry I freaked out.

Right after that came a longer message that included his work schedule for the next couple of weeks, ending with
How about you?

My schedule, naturally, was almost the complete opposite of his, but I did have a Saturday off in the not too distant future that matched up. I pointed that out, and he sent back a text.
We’ll do something fun.

A happy feeling filled me, lifting me, and making me grin like a kid on Christmas morning. I texted him back.
Count on it.

•   •   •

At noon the next day, I headed off to do something I’d never thought I’d do—I drove onto the premises of Talcott Motors, the place Carissa’s obituary had said she worked.

Sleek, shiny cars were placed just so on the grassy area between the road and the parking lot, cars that even car-challenged me knew were outrageously expensive. Cars from Germany, Italy, France, Scandinavia—and those were the ones I could identify.

I parked my sedan, which looked like something a
teenager of the hired help would drive, and walked into the showroom.

Car doors were invitingly open, hoods were propped up, and that new car scent was everywhere. Even though I knew I was being manipulated, I couldn’t help walking up close to a sports car that looked fast even when it was standing still. “Wonder if Eddie would like this,” I murmured.

“Eddie’s your husband?” A middle-aged man, as smooth as the car against which he was leaning, smiled at me. “It’s a beauty, isn’t it?” He stepped toward me, one hand held forward for shaking, the other holding out a business card. “Bob Slocum, assistant manager of sales, at your service.”

I shook his hand and took his card. “Hi, Minnie Hamilton, assistant director of the Chilson District Library.”

His eyes, which had lit up upon hearing my title, dulled down at the mention of the library. The man clearly had a good idea of my salary. “Looking for a summer car?” he asked. “This is a top seller for us. Clients tell us that driving it is more fun than anyone should be allowed to have.” He waved me toward the driver’s door. “Take a seat, see what it feels like.”

I put my hands behind my back and edged away. “Actually I’m looking for someone.” Who exactly, I didn’t know, but surely the line I’d prepared would work. “A friend of Carissa Radle’s.”

His gaze flicked briefly toward the row of offices lining the showroom’s far wall. “Minnie, I’d love to help, but I hear my phone ringing. If you’ll excuse me.” He strode off, entered an office, and shut the door. Through the glass that made up the row’s outside wall, I watched him lean back in his chair and pick up a magazine.

I mentally shrugged at the casual rejection—he was so good at it his coworkers probably called him Brush-off Bob—and walked toward the small office at which he’d glanced. It was occupied by a woman in her late thirties. Her sandy brown hair was cut short and stuck out into cute multiple spikes. I approached her open door, read her nameplate—Jari Mayes—and knocked on the doorjamb.

She looked up from the papers piled high on her desk. “Hi. If you’re looking for a salesguy, they’re down that way.” She jerked her head. “If you have a bookkeeping question, though, you’ve come to the right place.” Her smile was friendly, but her attention was clearly on the papers.

I introduced myself and said, “Could I talk to you a minute?”

“Uh, sure. What can I do for you?”

“It’s about Carissa Radle,” I said.

“About…” She swallowed and put her hand to her mouth, showing fingernails that were ragged from chewing. “. . . Carissa?” She blinked, once, twice; then the tears spilled over and down her cheeks.

•   •   •

After the tears that had overwhelmed Jari abated, I suggested that we head for lunch at the Three Seasons, my treat. Jari had sniffled, blown her nose, and agreed.

Once we were settled into a quiet corner, I’d spun Jari a story about being a friend of a friend who’d known the dead woman, that said friend was so troubled by Carissa’s death that sleep was becoming impossible, and that I’d promised I’d try to find someone who could answer some questions about Carissa, that maybe this would help the friend sleep at night.

None of which made much sense if you thought about it for any length of time, but I was finding out that if you spoke well and sincerely, people tended to believe what you told them.

“So you and Carissa had known each other for a while?” I asked.

Jari sipped her water. “She started doing sales at Talcott, oh, around three years ago, I guess. I’ve been there since I graduated high school.” She took another, deeper sip. “Probably be there until I die,” she muttered.

Our server approached, carrying a platter laden with Kristen-directed food offerings. “Here you are, ladies,” he said. “We’re starting you off with Waldorf salads and rolls fresh from the oven.”

I pushed the bowl of rolls over to Jari’s side. “Have you had these before? Melt-in-your-mouth good.”

She reached for her knife. “Oh, I shouldn’t,” she said, taking a roll and buttering it. As she took her first bite, her eyes closed and she gave a slight moan. “Oh, wow, this is so good.”

Exactly. “You and Carissa were good friends?”

Jari dabbed at the corner of her buttery mouth with a white cloth napkin. “We ended up as friends the first week she started at the dealership.” She looked at the roll in her hand as if she had no idea how it had gotten there. “Carissa was so much fun. One of those happy people, you know? It’s just so wrong that she’s dead.” Her lower lip started to crumple.

I waited a short moment, then said, “Don’t let your food get cold. I know for a fact the owner hates it when that happens.” This was true. In the privacy of her office, Kristen had been known to stomp and rave at the
top of her lungs about good food gone to waste. My hope, however, was that the eating and drinking process would keep Jari talking. My library friend Holly always talked when she held a beverage of any kind. I wondered briefly if her young children were aware of that quirk, and decided it was up to them to figure it out on their own.

“You know the owner?” Jari took another bite, then swallowed. “That’s pretty cool.”

It was, but I wanted to talk about her friend, not mine. “What did Carissa like to do? Did she have a boyfriend? Did she ski or have a boat or anything like that?”

“Ski?” Jari smiled. “The only place Carissa would have been at a ski resort was in the bar. You know, I bet she would have made a great bartender.” Her pensive look was back.