Laurie Cass - Bookmobile Cat 02 - Tailing a Tabby (13 page)

The phone in his hand buzzed. He looked at the readout. “Sorry. I have to take this. Sit down, if you can find a spot.”

I tried not to listen in on his conversation, but it was a little hard to pretend I couldn’t hear him when we were less than ten feet apart. I picked up a pile of Crown Yachts brochures, sat down in the chair where they’d been, and did my best to show an interest in boats I would never be able to consider purchasing.

As soon as that phone call was over, another one began. He held up his index finger, indicating that he’d be with me in a minute, and I contented myself with choosing what color fabric to upholster my yacht’s master suite in.

“No more.” He turned his phone off and tossed it, skittering, across the boat plans. “Hugo Edel. What can I do for you?” He came around the desk to shake my hand.

I introduced myself, adding that I was the bookmobile librarian.

He smiled, and ten years dropped off his face. “I’ve seen you driving around. That looks like a great job. I’m a little jealous.”

“It’s not all fun and games.” I said, then grinned. “But to tell you the truth, a lot of it is.”

He laughed and leaned against the edge of his desk. “So, what does the bookmobile librarian want with Crown Yachts?”

I made my smile as warm as I could. “As the library’s assistant director, I get stuck with doing everything that the director doesn’t have time to do. In this case, it’s fund-raising. I’m contacting the area’s most successful businesses and asking them to consider a donation.” It was a brilliant idea, and I was glad I’d thought of it that morning.

Edel was losing interest fast. “I’m afraid our donation budget is tapped out for the year.”

I nodded. “Sure, I understand. That’s why I’m talking to you now, so you can keep a donation in mind for next year.” I handed him my card. “Do you have any questions? Lots of people want to know about the bookmobile.”

Sadly, he didn’t have a single one. This meant I was forced to take a more direct approach to the Carissa question than I would have liked.

“Say,” I said, “I know where I’ve seen you before. Didn’t I see you having dinner with Carissa Radle a couple of weeks ago? You know, that poor woman who was killed?”

“Rotten thing to have happen,” he said. “But sure, I had dinner with her. There’s lots of wining and dining in this business. She was asking about boats for some car client of hers from downstate.” He tipped his head back, considering me. “You’re not thinking that I had anything to do with her death, are you?”

I opened my eyes innocently wide. “What? Oh, gosh no. I just remembered seeing you, that’s all.” Well, technically Faye had seen him, but that was close enough.

“Okay, then,” Edel said. “Because if you thought she seemed interested in me, you’re wrong. Once we got done talking about boats, she mostly talked about how much fun it was to hang out on the set for that TV cooking show they film around here.”

“
Trock’s Troubles
?” I asked.

“That’s the one.”

And I suddenly had another lead to follow.

•   •   •

The twentysomething guy waved at me as I left. “Have a nice day!”

I walked into the small vestibule area, and, with my hand reaching for the doorknob, came to a sudden halt.

A trim, fiftyish woman was using the door’s glass as a mirror. She pushed a stray strand of hair into place, patted a little color into her cheeks, checked for lipstick
on her teeth, gave herself a bright smile, then opened the door.

“Oh!” She stopped abruptly. “I didn’t know anyone was there.”

I’d stepped backward, but there was no getting around the embarrassing fact that I’d caught her primping. There were two options here, either politely ignore the incident or make the most of it. I smiled and said, “You look great.”

A faint red stained her cheeks. “Thank you,” she murmured. “I hope you have a nice day.” She gave me a nod and walked into the showroom.

“Hey, Mrs. Edel,” I heard the twentysomething say. “How you doing?”

So the woman who was so concerned about how she looked was Annelise Edel, Hugo’s wife.
Hmm,
I thought, as I left the building.

Definitely
hmmm
.

I
’d been wanting to check on Aunt Frances, so I headed over to the boardinghouse after work on Wednesday.

As I was trotting up the porch’s wide steps, I spotted young Harris and the approaching-elderly Zofia sitting side by side on the porch swing, Zofia with her legs tucked up underneath her, Harris using his long legs to push them gently to and fro.

“Hey, you two,” I said. “Do anything fun today?”

Zofia patted the strong shoulder next to her, the colored glass of her costume jewelry rings flashing bright in the sunshine. “This gentleman spent the day updating the statistics for his fantasy baseball team. A nice task for a summer day, don’t you think?”

All I knew about fantasy sports leagues was that they could occupy an inordinate amount of time, even more so at the beginning of your sport’s season. I knew this because the upcoming professional football season was all that Josh wanted to talk about, in spite of the facts that it was barely August and that no one else on the library staff cared about football.

Once, Holly had told Josh to talk about football to someone who cared, like maybe Mitchell Koyne. Poor Josh had looked so hurt that I’d felt obliged to ask a couple of questions about his picks. Two years later, I was still paying the price. So instead of asking Harris about his fantasy baseball team, I gave him a smiling nod and headed into the house.

Inside, young Deena was practically sitting on the lap of the balding Quincy. They were paging through an old scrapbook of vintage postcards, their heads almost touching. While their gazes were ostensibly on the book, it was clear from the lingering touches and sidelong glances that they were only interested in each other.

My genial wave in their direction went unnoticed. I passed through to the empty kitchen, poured two glasses of lemonade, checked the cookie jar, put four oatmeal cookies on a plate, got out an old Coca-Cola tray, and carried the lot onto the screened-in porch that overlooked the forested backyard.

Aunt Frances smiled up at me from the rocking love seat. “Just what I needed. How did you know?”

“Years of experience.” I put the tray on a low table and sat next to her. “It’s what you always brought me whenever I was upset.”

As soon as I was old enough to be put on a Greyhound bus, I’d begged to be sent north to stay with Aunt Frances for the summer. She’d nursed me after I’d fallen out of a tree and broken my arm, hugged me when the boy I’d liked had called me a Mini-Munchkin, and wiped away my tears when I’d been rejected by my top college choice. Every occasion had been eased with lemonade and cookies.

She reached forward, broke a cookie in half, and handed me the larger share. “And it’s what my grandmother always brought me.”

It was a cozy thought. We rocked back and forth, eating cookies and sipping lemonade, enjoying each other’s company in companionable silence.

Finally she said, “I’m worried, Minnie. Nothing is working out like it’s supposed to.”

Never before had I seen my aunt look so anxious. It didn’t suit her at all. “Things will work out,” I said.

“Do you really think so, Minnie?” Her light blue eyes gazed at mine with intensity. “Do you really?”

I had no clue if it would or not, but at that moment I would have done almost anything to wipe that look of desperation from her face. “Absolutely.” I hesitated, then said, “And I’ll do everything I can to make it happen.”

“Oh, Minnie!” She reached out and hugged the stuffing out of me. “You’re the best niece ever!”

“And you’re the best aunt,” I said into her shoulder. I gave her a squeeze. “Thessie had an idea. What do you think about hosting a party?”

My aunt looked dubious. “What good would that do?”

“Invite dozens of people, including the boarders. Then we’ll prime people to say how nice Deena and Harris look together, how Paulette and Quincy seem like the perfect couple, and how Zofia and Leo already seem as if they’re married. If we can get those thoughts into their heads…”

But Aunt Frances was shaking her head. “It’s not a bad idea, but either one or another of them has day-trip plans the next three weekends. After that it’ll be too late.”

“Okay. Let me think a minute,” I said, deciding not to mention any of Thessie’s more outlandish theories, especially the one about love potions. I was almost sure she’d been joking, but not completely.

My thoughts brushed up against the ideas of love and companionship and friendship, and how it can be found in the most unexpected places. Look at me; who would have thought I’d find a boyfriend while taking Rafe to the emergency room? And then there were people who looked too hard for a companion.

Was that what Carissa had been doing with Hugo Edel? He said no, but Faye had said they looked cozy, and that was a hard thing to mistake.

Edel had to be at least fifteen years older than Carissa, but age didn’t matter. I glanced over at Aunt Frances. I knew her well enough to be sure that she wasn’t concerned about the age differences between her mismatched boarders; it was just that they weren’t setting up to be the matches she’d so carefully constructed.

“Maybe it’s time for a more direct approach,” I said, getting to my feet.

In the living room, Deena and Quincy were still pseudostudying the scrapbook. I plopped down on the couch across from them. “Hi,” I said. “Where’s Paulette?”

They looked up at me. “Uh…” Quincy blinked. “Paulette?”

“You know,” I said. “Nice lady, early fifties, likes to wear flip-flops, could make a fortune selling her needlework projects online. Her.”

Deena laughed. “She reminds me of this neighbor of my parents, only Paulette doesn’t have eight cats.”

“How do you know?” Quincy asked. “Have you ever asked Paulette if she has cats?”

For some reason, the two found this hilarious.

They were still laughing when Harris came in through the front door. I called to him. “Come on over,” I said. “Have you seen this scrapbook?”

“Sorry,” he said. “I’m going kayaking and I need to get changed.” He waved and headed up the stairs.

“Kayaking,” I said brightly. “Doesn’t that sound like fun, Deena?”

She squinched a face. “Sounds wet and probably cold. I hate being cold.” She gave a fake shiver.

“We can’t have our Deena cold,” Quincy said. He put his arms around her. “Is that better?”

The stars in her eyes told me the answer to that question, and more. I murmured a good-bye that they didn’t hear and went to report my failure to Aunt Frances.

•   •   •

On Tuesday, I’d sent Rafe a first draft of his after-school reading program, so that night he was finishing up the electrical work on my boat. Or what I hoped was the finishing up of the work. School was starting in less than a month and soon he’d be too busy doing middle school principal–type tasks to think about much else for weeks. Not that you could tell. Maybe someday, somewhere, Rafe would look harried and frantically busy, but right now he looked as if he had all the time in the world.

“You know,” I said, “this would get done a lot faster if you didn’t stop to look at every good-looking female who walks past.”

“Not every one.” He glanced up from the
spaghettilike tangle of wires that surrounded him. “I skip right over any female who looks younger than twenty.”

Which was probably true. Rafe was many things, but he would never dream of being age-inappropriate. On the low end, anyway. “Do you have an upper age limit?” I asked.

“Nope.” He pulled out a long wire and eyed it critically. “I mean, someday I’m going to be old. Wouldn’t make sense if I couldn’t appreciate the female form in its later years. Plus, have you taken a close look at your neighbor?” He tipped his head in the direction of Louisa and Ted’s boat. “I don’t care how old she is, she’s downright hot.”

“I’m sure her husband would appreciate the sentiment,” I said.

Rafe was impervious to the sarcasm. “Yeah, he probably would. I mean, who wouldn’t like to have a hot wife?”

He went on about the happiness of hotness, but I’d gone backward a little, to thinking about neighbors. “Hey, Rafe?”

“What’s that?”

One nice thing about Rafe was that he didn’t mind switching topics in the blink of an eye. Did that come of working with middle school kids? Or was it his innate ability to do so that made him good with the kids? I pushed the questions away. “Do you know a Rob Pew? He lives in a duplex up the hill, in the unit next door to where that woman was killed a few weeks back.”

“Pewey Lewey?” Rafe grinned, his teeth showing white against his skin, which, since it was late summer, was a deep burnished red. “Sure. He’s one of my hunting buddies, come November.”

Ha. I knew what “hunting” meant for any group of guys that included Rafe. It meant a week of staying up late, playing cards, imbibing copious amounts of adult canned beverages, sleeping late, then waking up and doing it all over again. “When was the last time you actually got a deer?”

Rafe’s grin went even wider. “Need-to-know basis, Miss Minnie. Anyway, what about Pewey?”

I started to frame my question, but Rafe was still talking. “Wonder if Pewey’s going to make it up to deer camp this year. He works nights for what’s their names, that company making interior panels for cars. They got a big new contract and Lewey’s been signed up for double shifts, afternoon and midnights for over a month now.” Rafe squinted at a green wire. “Nuts, if you ask me, but he’s trying to save money for a log cabin up near Newberry. Why do you want to know?”

So there was no way Rob Pew could have killed Carissa. And so much for that gut feeling of imminent danger that I’d had when he answered the door in such a surly fashion. All I’d been reacting to was the man’s response to extreme sleep-deprivation, just as Abby had said. Still, I was glad I’d corroborated with a second knowledgeable source. “Does anyone call him Rob?”

Whistling, Rafe picked up his wire cutters and stripped off the end of a yellow-coated wire. “Not even his mother.”

•   •   •

At noon the next day, I pushed back from my desk and looked at what I’d accomplished so far.

I’d moved Stephen’s notes on employee handbook revisions from one side of my desk to the other. I’d
tidied up the books sent to the library for donation purposes and for which thank-you letters should be sent. I’d scrawled out a short list of possible Thessie Replacements, made a few phone calls, and subsequently had to draw a line through each of the names.

So, how much had I accomplished that morning? Basically nothing. Clearly, what I needed was a hefty dose of caffeine.

My empty Association of Bookmobile and Outreach Services mug and I made our way to the break room, which was also empty. Odd, for noon, but I reminded myself that I wasn’t there to socialize. No, indeedy, I was there for fluid replenishment and to stretch my legs.

Still, I took my time, sipping at my coffee until it was half-gone, then filling the mug again slowly. I watched the dark liquid stream down, watching its smooth texture, thinking about the long history of coffee, wondering how far these particular beans had traveled, guessing that they’d come much farther than I’d ever gone and—

“Hey.”

My arm jerked, coffee spilled, and a small brown puddle spread itself across the counter. “Hey, Josh.” I put the carafe back on the burner and yanked a paper towel out of the holder. “How was your weekend?”

I heard a male grunt followed by the whir of a dollar bill being sucked into the soda machine followed by the
thunk
of a can dropping out of the machine. I tossed the sodden paper towel into the garbage and got out a fresh one.

“That good, huh?” I asked Josh. “I thought it was the big second date with Megan. Weren’t you going up to the Side Door?” The Side Door Saloon in Petoskey, with
its multiple televisions, was a hot spot for the sports-minded. It had excellent food, too, but I wasn’t sure Josh cared much about that.

Megan was a neighbor of Holly’s, and ever since Megan had stopped by to talk to Holly about babysitting Holly’s children, Josh was smitten. He’d been casting goo-goo eyes at her for months, and we’d all cheered when he finally found the gumption to ask her out.

Josh shoved the can of diet soda into an outside pocket of his baggy pants and whirred another dollar into the machine.

I finished cleaning the counter and turned to face Josh. “Are you okay?”

The second soda can dropped down. He picked it up, popped the seal, and slugged down half the contents. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “We got talking about baseball.”

Josh was a big football fan, but he was a
huge
baseball fan. Huge with a capital H, U, G, and E. He cared about things like spring training and openly pitied anyone who didn’t understand the infield fly rule. He could recite baseball statistics from before he was born and was too much of a purist to consider putting together a baseball fantasy league.

“You know,” I said, “it’s okay if she doesn’t like baseball. Some really smart, funny, and good-looking people don’t know much about the sport.” I tossed my hair back, but he wasn’t catching on. “Maybe you could teach her. Maybe—”

“She likes baseball just fine.” Josh upended the soda can, tapped its rim against his lower teeth, then tossed the empty can into the box of returnables.

“Well, that’s good, isn’t it?” I tried to imagine a scenario in which having a baseball-fan girlfriend would upset Josh. Remembered one of his rants and dredged up a comment. “She’s not a fan of the designated hitter rule, is she?”

“She’s a White Sox fan,” he snapped.

I almost choked on the coffee I’d been swallowing. Josh was a true-blue die-hard Detroit Tigers fan. Listening to him talk about his team often brought to mind the reality that the term “fan” was short for “fanatic.”

“Her parents are from Chicago.” He shoved his hand into his pants pocket and extracted another dollar bill. “She said going to the old Comiskey Park is one of her earliest memories.”

I watched him jab the dollar into the machine and made a mental note to call the vending guy for an early refill. “Well,” I said lamely, “at least she’s a baseball fan.”