Lending a Paw: A Bookmobile Cat Mystery (Bookmobile Cat Mysteries)

by Cass, Laurie

  “They were going to ask me anyway. What difference does it make?”

  He shook his head and took another drink.

  “What did they ask you, Josh?” Holly looked at the vending machine that was filled with chips and candy bars and turned away. “It didn’t seem like you were in there very long.”

  “Nah.” Josh leaned back against the table I’d talked Stephen into buying. “Did you know they were detectives, not deputies?”

  I had, actually, and I was sure Holly knew, too. That is, unless the officers had been misrepresenting themselves when they’d introduced themselves as Detectives Devereaux and Inwood.

  Holly pressed Josh. “What did they ask you?”

  “Not much.” He glugged down more soda. “Did I know Larabee? No. Did I know about the will? No. Do I have any idea who’d want to kill him? No, not unless Stephen wanted to get his hands on that money sooner rather than later.”

  “Josh Hadden!” I cried. “You didn’t!”

  He smirked. “Would have been fun if I had. Just think of it, Stephen considered a person of interest, his reputation shattered. The board loses confidence, and—”

  “Stop it,” I commanded. “That’s not funny at all.”

  “Sure it is,” he said, laughing.

  I glanced at Holly. She’d slumped into a chair. “What’s the matter? Are you okay?”

  “They asked me a lot of questions,” she said dully. “Lots more than they asked either of you.”

  That was weird. “Why would they have more questions for you?”

  She fiddled with the collar of her pale pink polo shirt. “I’m not sure. Say, the Tigers won last night, did you hear? Ten innings.”

  Josh looked at me. I looked at him. Holly was not a sports fan.

  “What were they asking, Holly?” Josh pulled one of his sodas out of his pants and pushed it in her direction. “What did they want to know?”

  “Oh, nothing.”

  I popped the top of the can and turned the opening in her direction. Holly always talked when she had a drink. Didn’t matter if it was coffee, tea, water, soda, or an adult beverage. To Holly, a fluid in her hand meant she was supposed to be talking. “Here you go,” I said. “Drink up.”

  One sip was all it took. “Stan Larabee was my cousin,” she said.

  I frowned. “What kind of cousin?” Couldn’t be a first cousin—the age gap was too wide.

  “No, no. Second cousin, twice removed. Something like that.”

  A muscle at the back of my neck loosened. “He must have had lots of distant cousins. Everybody does. Six degrees of cousins, right?”

  Which I thought was fairly funny, but Holly wasn’t listening. “It’s not that, well, not directly. It’s because . . .” She took another drink. “It’s because I asked him . . .” Another gulp. “I asked him to lend me some money.”

  Josh went still. “You did what?”

  Holly clutched the can. “You know how Brian and I want to buy our own house. That’s why he’s out in Wyoming working at that mine. He’s making good money, really good, but there’s this house I just fell in love with and we don’t have enough for a down payment and I thought . . . I thought maybe . . .”

  “Everybody knows that Stan Larabee doesn’t lend money,” Josh said. “Not to anyone.”

  Didn’t lend money, I thought. Past tense. So very, very past tense.

  “Yeah,” Holly said. “But since we were cousins, I thought maybe this time it’d be different.”

  Josh made a rude noise. “No wonder the police were asking you questions. Bet old Stan kept that begging letter in a file.” He grinned. “Does Brian know you asked Larabee for money?”

  Her eyes went wide. “No! He’d hit the roof. He’s coming home for the Fourth of July. Don’t you tell him, Josh. Don’t you dare! It’ll ruin his whole trip home.”

  “It’s going to cost you,” Josh said, his grin going wider. “There’s this whole stack of data entry I’ve been putting off, and—”

  “Time to get back to work,” I said. “See you two later.”

  I left them to their wrangling. If past experience was any guide, Josh would try to get a little too much out of Holly, she’d retaliate by reminding him that she was a neighbor to the attractive young woman he was thinking hard about dating, and they’d call it a draw.

  So Holly had tried to get a loan from Stan and failed. Who else, I wondered, had done the same thing?

  • • •

  After work I stopped to pick up some fresh whitefish for dinner. The moment I unwrapped the white butcher paper, Eddie was on the back of the dining area’s bench seat, sniffing and twitching his whiskers.

  “Pulled out of Lake Michigan a few hours ago,” I told him, “so quit criticizing. It’s not going to get any fresher unless you go get it yourself, and I really don’t see that happening. It would require a little too much exertion on your part. And it’s for me, not you, anyway.”

  Eddie sat down and looked at me.

  “Okay, that was a little harsh.” I kissed his head. “Sorry. It’s just been a weird day.”

  “Mrr?”

  It sounded like a question, so I started talking as I dipped the fish into an egg wash. “For one thing, Stephen’s a mess. He’s never a mess, and I’m wondering if Josh was right, that the police think maybe Stephen killed Stan to get the money. But why would he do that? The library could use more money, sure, but we’re doing okay.”

  Eddie started digging at the upholstery with his claws.

  “Hey, quit.” Since my hands were all fishy, I pushed at him with my forearm. “And Holly’s a mess, too,” I said, laying the fish into a bowl of breading Kristen had sent me home with the previous night. “I wish she wasn’t so nervous about telling her husband she asked Stan for a loan. Maybe Brian will be mad for a minute, but he’s a good guy. He’ll understand.” Or . . . would he? He seemed nice, but how well did I really know him?

  “How well does anyone know anybody?” I quietly asked the fish. “Can anyone really depend on someone else?” I felt a flash of longing for a love long gone, a love I’d once thought would last to the end of time. Most days, most weeks, I was happy with the places my choices had taken me, but every so often, every once in a while . . .

  A flash of black and white went past my left shoulder and landed on the counter.

  “Eddie!” Laughing, I elbowed him away from my dinner and encouraged him onto the floor. “You are a horrible cat.”

  His four paws hit the linoleum with a quadruple thump and he gave me a look that, if the universe had been created by cats, would have instantly frozen the blood in my veins.

  “Oh, here.” I gave him a small piece of fish.

  “Mrr,” he said, and slurped it down.

  Chapter 7

  The next morning, Eddie did his best to accompany me throughout my showering, dressing, and breakfasting. He blinked at me all the way through the assemblage of my peanut butter and jelly sandwich, the bagging of a handful of potato chips, the shoving of food and a jug of water into my backpack, and the writing of a note on the whiteboard.

  When I zipped the backpack closed, he bounced into action. Off the bench, across the floor, and up against the door before I’d taken more than a step in that direction.

  “Oh, no, you don’t.” I picked him up, gave him a small noogie, and put him back on the bench. “It may be Bookmobile Day, but you’re not coming with me. That was a onetime deal. I’ll see you tonight. Have a good day.” Not that Eddie could understand what I said, of course. Still, it was kind of like wearing your favorite underwear to a job interview. You knew it didn’t make any difference, but why take the risk?

  I opened the door. A fraction of a second later I heard Eddie’s front and back feet double-thump the floor. The sound of elephant feet raced toward me and I slammed the door shut before either of us got out. “Not a chance, pal.”

  He slid to a stop. Stood on his hind legs. Pawed at the door.

  I blew out a breat
h. “Listen, buddy. Remember that long talk we had? Cats don’t belong on a bookmobile. And no bringing up Dewey. He was in a library. Different situation altogether.”

  Still scratching, he looked over his shoulder. “Mrr?”

  “You are pathetic. Adorable, but pathetic. And now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to work.” I picked him up again, put him on the bench again, gave him the gentlest of shoves to send him off-balance, and raced to the door. By dint of sliding out sideways like one of those skinny fish, I got safely outside before Eddie could get a paw in the doorway.

  I heard his yowls as I walked off the dock and across the marina’s dewy grass. Even halfway to downtown I thought I could hear poor Eddie calling to me. My steps slowed . . . but, no. It wouldn’t work.

  I put my fingers in my ears and walked on.

  • • •

  “Where is she?” A portly, gray-haired man looked around the bookmobile.

  “I’m sorry?” Thessie, my seventeen-year-old volunteer, looked puzzled. “Minnie is the bookmobile librarian.” She pointed to where I was standing, maybe ten feet away from the man, working with a six-year-old boy to find a book about butterflies.

  “No, no.” The man brushed away her gesture. “The cat. I heard there’s a cat on the bookmobile. I like cats. Where are you hiding her?”

  “A cat?” Thessie’s eyes went big. My stomach instantly clumped together in a tight mass. “There’s no cat here,” she said.

  “Sure, toe the party line, I get it.” He winked broadly. “So where is she?”

  I handed the kid a book on snakes—“Try this”—and moved to intervene. “Sorry,” I said, putting on my most gracious and helpful smile. “There’s no cat here today.”

  “Why not?” He frowned. “It’s a great idea.”

  “Thanks, but . . .” I tipped my head to the side and we adjourned to the back of the bus. “It was a onetime deal,” I told him quietly. “Eddie was a stowaway last Friday. He wasn’t supposed to be here, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t spread the word.”

  “Stowaway Eddie?” His lips twitched.

  I looked at Thessie. She was engrossed in explaining rattlesnakes to the six-year-old. In a low voice I asked the man, “Who told you the bookmobile had a cat?” Forget the consequences, full cover-up ahead!

  “Well, now.” He rubbed his chin. “Seems like I heard it Sunday morning at church.” More rubbing. “Or was it yesterday at the Rotary meeting? Sorry.” He shrugged. “Can’t say for sure.”

  Yes, life as I knew it was over. But Stephen couldn’t fire me; only the library board could and they wouldn’t meet for another three weeks. Timing is everything. I could polish up my résumé and send it out . . . where? There wasn’t anywhere else I wanted to be.

  The man read my expression of woe. “Ah, don’t worry about Stevie.” He slapped me on the shoulder. “He’s so stuck in that ivory tower he built for himself that he’ll never hear a word about Eddie.”

  “You know Stephen?” A small hope beat in my heart.

  “He’s the same now as when he was a kid. Smart, but not really seeing anything.”

  I blinked and tried to imagine a young Stephen. Somehow he looked just like he did now, only shorter, buttoned-down shirts and all.

  “Downstate,” the man said, “he and his folks lived on the next block. And here I end up retiring practically down the street from him. Funny old world, eh?”

  Life up north was full of odd coincidences like this. On a ferry ride to Mackinac Island last summer I’d sat in front of my high school biology teacher. And two winters ago I’d been skiing at the nearby Nub’s Nob, and ridden up the ski lift next to a guy I’d had a class with in graduate school. Things like that happened when the region’s major industry was tourism on a grand scale. Up here, the odds of running into your grade school crush were about the same as running into the latest American Idol idol.

  Stephen’s old neighbor asked, “So, you going to bring Eddie around next time, right?”

  I smiled. “Not a chance.”

  • • •

  During the drive to the next stop, I kept the conversation tight on the complexity of tasks involved in being a librarian. Thessie was a high school senior and considering library science as a major. Ergo, her volunteering on the bookmobile. “There’s a lot more to being a librarian than most people realize,” I said.

  “Yes, I know. Um, that man? What did—”

  “Dealing with odd questions is one of those things they don’t tell you about in college.” I tossed off a careless laugh. “Another thing they don’t tell you about is working with library boards. Chilson’s board is wonderful, but I could tell you stories.” And I did, on and on without a break until we came to the next stop. “Well, here we are,” I sang out. “And we have people waiting for us already. Isn’t that great?”

  Thessie may have been only seventeen, but she was no slouch in the brains department.

  “So if anyone asks about the cat, what do I say?”

  “There is no cat,” I said firmly.

  “Yeah, but maybe there could be.” She gave me a sidelong look. “I mean, if there was a cat, it might be fun having it around.”

  I rotated the driver’s seat and brought the laptop to life. “Will you pop the roof vents? Thanks.” Thessie, at least eight inches taller than me, could reach the ceiling easily. “No cat. There’s no way Stephen would allow a fuzzy, furry feline on the bookmobile.”

  “Not a cat guy, is he?” Thessie asked.

  “He’s not an animal person.” Neither cat nor dog nor feathered friend was held in esteem by the library director. “Says all pets do is eat and make messes that other people have to clean up.”

  It was easy to see the gears whirling around in Thessie’s pretty dark-haired head. I shook mine. “There’s no use bringing it up. Even if we get around his dislike of pets, he’ll say that people are allergic and we can’t possibly run the risk of exposing anyone.”

  “Okay, but the bookstore downtown has a cat and they don’t have any problems. And wasn’t there a library in Iowa or somewhere that had a cat living there?” She glanced around. “A bookmobile’s smaller, I guess, but if we vacuumed every time to get the hair and dander out—”

  I was shaking my head. “Not going to happen.” I unlocked the back door and pushed it open. “Good morning! Come up and into the bookmobile.”

  Up the stairs first was a young man of about twelve. Red springing curls, bright blue eyes, and braces on his teeth. “Do you have anything about fishing? There’s this bass in the lake I want to catch and my grandpop said you might have something.”

  Thessie took him under her wing and escorted him to the high shelves at the rear end of the bus.

  Next up the stairs was an elderly couple, hand in hand, looking for books on gardening. After I got them settled, I noticed a young woman coming aboard. Twentyish, long sun-washed blond hair, tan, wearing flip-flops, shorts, and a tank top covered by a flowered-print short-sleeved shirt, she looked the image of a California surfer girl.

  I watched as she ran a finger over the books, scanning the titles, her head tilted to one side. She went through half a dozen shelves like that. Hunting for something, but not asking for help. Hmm. “Are you looking for something special?”

  She jumped. “Oh! Um, no, thanks. I’m just looking. Is . . . that okay?”

  A shy surfer girl? I didn’t know that was possible. Then again, I’d only been to California once, and that was when I was six and we took a family trip to San Francisco, so what did I know?

  “Absolutely it’s okay,” I said. “If you have any questions, just ask.” I turned away, then had a thought. “If you’re looking for something in particular, I can get it from the main library and bring it out on the next trip.”

  “Oh . . .” She opened her mouth, shut it, glanced around. “Um, no, thanks.” She scurried down the stairs.

  I stared after her. What had that been all about?

  “What did you say t
o her?” Thessie asked. “She looked . . . well, scared.”

  Frightened as a rabbit had been my thought. “All I said was we could pull a book from the main library and bring it out to her.”

  “Well, there you go,” Thessie said comfortably. “That’s pretty scary, for sure.”

  I stared at her, then started laughing. Which is a good way to end a bookmobile stop.

  • • •

  The last stop of the morning was the rutted gravel parking lot of a middle-of-nowhere gas station and what you might have called a convenience store except that it didn’t stock anything that travelers might have found it convenient to purchase. Bottled water? Soda? “Nah, we don’t carry that crap.” Snacks? “Got some beef jerky the wife made last fall.” Map of the area? The grizzled proprietor would nod at a map stuck on the wall in 1949, long before paved roads reached this part of Tonedagana County.

  The points in the location’s favor were a tolerably clean bathroom, the large amount of shade cast by a huge oak tree, and that it was a nexus point for a number of homeschooling families. As soon as the bookmobile’s purchase had been publicly announced, a representative mother had called me and begged for a stop.

  We drove into the shaded parking lot, which had more cars in it than I’d ever seen.

  “Are all these people here for the bookmobile?” Thessie’s gaze was stuck on the group of adults and children milling about.

  I studied the adults, trying to see if anyone looked familiar. One mother, two . . . “All of them,” I said. “There are six families around here who homeschool.”

  “Lots more than six kids.” She sounded apprehensive.

  “It’ll be fun,” I said, stopping the bookmobile in front of a knot of cheering children. “What’s the matter?”

  “Kids I like just fine. It’s tight spaces I’m not good with.”

  I stared at her, then stared at the aisle that would soon be filled with youngsters and moms and a dad or two. Houston, we have a problem. “Tell you what,” I said, flipping the driver’s seat around. “You sit here and run the computer. I’ll take care of all the questions and send them your way to do checkout. It’ll be fine.”