by Cass, Laurie
Oookay. I took the top book—Moby-Dick—and opened the front cover to scan the tag. “You know,” I said, “this is the only book I ever used Cliff’s Notes for. Just couldn’t get through it. I keep thinking about trying it again, but somehow I haven’t made time.” I laughed.
Bill D’Arcy didn’t.
Next book down was Anna Karenina. “I always cry when I read this book. Matter of fact, I think I cry when I read anything by Tolstoy. I wonder what he was like in person. Do you ever wonder if he had a sense of humor?”
No comment.
I checked out 11/22/63 and The Historian, said a little something about each, and scored exactly zero responses from Bill D’Arcy. Not that I was a brilliant conversationalist, but the guy could have at least grunted a response or two. As an interrogator, I had a lot to learn. “You’re all set,” I said, pushing the stack over to him. “Good for two weeks.”
His mouth was starting to open—he was actually going to say something!—when Mitchell Koyne barged up to the desk, his baseball cap on straight for once.
“Min. Hey, Min! You won’t believe what happened the other day. I was out with my buddy in his boat and we almost got this huge fish, a sturgeon. It would have been a record catch, I just know it.”
“Just a second, Mitchell, okay? I was talking to—”
But Bill D’Arcy was already gone.
Chapter 10
I looked at Eddie.
He looked back.
Well, sort of. Even when everything indicated that he was looking at me directly, it still felt as if part of his cat brain was elsewhere.
“You go here.” I pointed to the picnic basket I’d bought. The store owner had looked at me oddly when I’d carried in a tape measure, but she’d accepted my story of needing a basket of a particular size so I could carry the oval bowl my great-grandmother had given me to a family reunion. “She always brought potato salad,” I’d said, spinning out the tale longer than it needed to go. “And it wouldn’t be a real family reunion without it.” Such a coincidence that Eddie and the imaginary bowl were the same size.
“Here,” I repeated. “It’ll only be for a little while. I’ll carry you to the car, we’ll drive up to the library, I’ll carry you into the bookmobile, and then you get to sleep in the cabinet until we get on the road.” I showed him the fleece-lined cat bed already nestled into the bottom of the basket. “See? What could be better?”
He twitched his nose.
“There’s cat food and bowls in the backpack and a bottle of water in the cooler.”
“Mrr,” he said.
“Yes, I have thought of everything, how nice of you to say so.” I picked him up and put him on the top of the bench seat, then had to wait while he yawned and stretched. There’s no hurrying a cat. “Okay, you ready to listen?”
He rubbed the top of his head against the seat.
“Ground rules. No yowling. You have a great big voice and the bookmobile is small. I don’t want you scaring the little kids.” Or the adults. “And no scratching. If you scratch anybody or anything, it’s off to the vet for declawing. No ifs, ands, or buts on that one, pal.” He started purring. “No pulling books off the shelves. No hair balls. And if you could cut down on the shedding, I’d appreciate it.”
It was a stupid lecture to bother giving. If he understood any of the words, it was “no,” a word he knew but had never paid any attention to.
I blew out a small breath and looked at the wall clock. “Ready, Eddie? It’s time to go for a ride on the bookmobile.”
He leapt to his feet. “Mrr!”
• • •
I made the introductions. “Thessie, Eddie. Eddie, Thessie.”
My teenage volunteer held out her hand. “Nice to meet you, Eddie.”
Eddie put a paw on her palm. “Mrr.”
“He said hello!” she exclaimed. “He really did, did you hear him? What a sweetie of a kitty cat. Can I hold him? Aww, you’re just adorable,” she said in baby talk as I handed him over. “Just the sweetest little Eddiekins ever, aren’t you?”
Appearances could be so very deceiving.
“How could Mr. Rangel not like you?” Thessie held Eddie up in the air, dancing him around. “You should be on the bookmobile every single time.”
“Eddie is here to make Brynn happy,” I said.
“He’s like another volunteer, then, right?” Thessie snuggled Eddie close. “A really cuddly purry one.”
“We need to get going.” I pointed at Eddie’s cabinet. “There’s a cat bed in there.”
Thessie’s eyes flew wide open. “Not in that tiny dark place. That’s kind of almost like cruelty, isn’t it? What if he’s claustrophobic? What if he’s scared of the dark? What if—”
“If we don’t get going, we’re going to be late to the first stop.” I took Eddie from her and closed him into the cabinet. “Sleep tight, pal.”
My young companion frowned, but sat in the passenger seat and buckled up. “Are you sure he’s going to be okay in there?”
I clicked my seat belt and paused before turning on the engine. “Hear that?”
She tipped her head sideways, listening. “The only thing I hear is a funny rumbling sound. Is that some kind of fan? It doesn’t sound right.”
“It’s Eddie. He’s snoring.”
Thessie blinked, I laughed, and we set out for another day in the bookmobile.
• • •
My grin was a mile wide. Thessie’s, too. Michelle had tears streaming down her cheeks. Brynn paid no attention to the adults around her as she and Eddie rolled around together on the bookmobile’s floor.
“This was so nice of you,” Michelle said. “I can’t believe you’d go to all this trouble. My husband is really allergic and the pills aren’t covered by his insurance, so the kids could never have a cat. I wanted so much to . . . but . . .” She shook her head and let it go in favor of concentrating on her daughter’s joy.
“Not that much trouble,” I said, ignoring the startled glance Thessie sent my way. “And if it makes Brynn happy, it’s worth it.”
“Look!” the little girl said. “I have Eddie hair on me!” Beaming, she held out the hem of her dark blue shirt, which was now coated with short black-and-white former bits of Eddie.
“Um, sorry about that,” I murmured to her mother.
Brynn rubbed at Eddie’s thick fur with both hands to gather up more hair, then smeared it across the front of her shirt. “Now I’ll have Eddie with me all the time!”
“Oh!”
The gasp came from behind. I turned and saw last week’s surfer girl. “Hi,” I said. “Hope you’re not allergic. This is Eddie. He’s with us for the day.”
“Every day,” Brynn said firmly. “Every bookmobile day.”
“Now, Brynn,” her mother said, “Miss Minnie can’t bring Eddie with her every time.”
“Why not?” The small lower lip trembled. “I love Eddie. He loves me. See?” She grabbed him around his middle and hugged hard.
I made a quick move forward. The one time I’d done that to him, I’d ended up with howls in my ear and a hint of back-claw marks on my stomach. If he did that to Brynn, I’d never forgive myself. I’d never—
Eddie closed his eyes and purred.
I stopped and stared. That rotten, horrible, completely wonderful cat. How had he known to be kind to her? And why wasn’t he ever that nice to me?
Thessie was asking surfer girl if she was looking for anything in particular.
“No, not really. Just . . . something to read. It’s okay if I look around?” After being assured that, yes, she was free to browse, she started her routine from last week all over again, running a finger over every book with a quiet thup-thup-thup, reading each title, but not pulling out a single volume.
Thessie looked at me with raised eyebrows. I shrugged. Brynn tugged at the hem of my crop pants. “Miss Minnie? Will Eddie be on the bookmobile again?”
I crouched down. “As soon as he can. He’ll
miss you.”
“I know.” She patted his head. He flattened his ears, but let her whack away. “He’s my best friend. He told me so.”
“That’s great.” I put on a smile. So much for my hopes of a single dose of Eddie lasting a lifetime. Thanks to his atypical tolerance, we now had an Eddie addiction on our hands. Outstanding.
“When is he coming back?”
I pictured the bookmobile schedule in my head. “I’ll call your mom tomorrow and we’ll figure it out.” Unless Michelle was willing to drive halfway across the county, Brynn wouldn’t see Eddie again until we were back in the area in two weeks.
“So I’ll see Eddie tomorrow?”
“No, honey.” Michelle scooped up her daughter. “Soon, though.” She looked at me with happiness on her face, hope in her eyes, and sorrow everywhere else.
“Soon,” I agreed.
The pair went down the steps, Brynn waving to Eddie over her mother’s shoulder and chattering about the dress she wanted to bring for Eddie to wear next time.
“Pretty cat,” Surfer Girl said.
“Pretty much a pain in the butt,” I muttered.
“Sorry?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said, turning, “he is a good-looking cat. My name’s Minnie, by the way.” I held out my hand. She shook it briefly, but didn’t give her name, and didn’t stop looking at the Edster.
“Where did you get him?” she asked.
A sudden and paralyzing fear struck at me. What if Surfette here was Eddie’s real owner? What if he’d done the running thing on her, run for miles and miles, and ended up in the cemetery? What if she’d been looking high and low for months? No wonder she was acting so weird.
“I, um.” I couldn’t lie, not on the bookmobile. “I got him from a friend.” Alonzo Tillotson, if I remembered the name from the headstone correctly, born 1847, died 1926.
“Oh,” Surfette said, still staring at Eddie, who had settled himself on the carpeted step that ran underneath the shelves.
The fear continued to pick at my stomach. “We only have a few more minutes at this stop,” I said. “If you’ve found a book you’d like to check out, please take it to the front checkout. If you’d like to order a book for us to bring next time, we can do that. All we need is your name and—”
“Oh, no, I’m good. Thanks.”
She fled.
Thessie looked from the door to me and back. “What was that all about?”
I put on a puzzled expression. “No idea.”
• • •
Happily, the rest of the bookmobile run went without a hitch. Eddie and Thessie engaged in a mutual admiration society. He purred, she cooed, and I tried not to make gagging noises. Back at the library, Thessie helped me get Eddie into the picnic basket and spotted for me during the transfer from bookmobile to car.
“Same crew next time?” she asked, winking.
“We’ll see,” I said.
• • •
The next day I got to the library early. With the numbers from the bookmobile continuing to exceed expectations, I wanted some time to think about how to get more runs into the schedule.
I was in the act of carrying my first cup of coffee into my office when I heard the unmistakable sound of Stephen’s footsteps.
“Morning,” I said, toasting him with my Association of Bookmobile and Outreach Services mug. “Can I get you . . .” But once I got a good look at him, I could see that coffee wasn’t going to do him much good. In addition to the previous danger signs of rumpled hair and clothing issues, now Stephen also had the ashen skin that spoke of exhaustion. What the man needed was sleep.
“The library board . . .” He slid his index fingers under his glasses to rub his eyes. When he opened them again, he spied my mug. “Is that coffee?” He held out his hand peremptorily.
I held the mug out to him. “Stephen, are you okay? You look beyond tired.”
He knocked back half the contents of the mug, paused, then drank the other half. “I’m fine.”
Riiiight. And I was the Queen of the Library. But if he didn’t want to discuss whatever it was that was bothering him, I wasn’t going to badger him to talk. Not today, anyway. Tomorrow was a different matter.
“The library board,” he said, “has been in contact with the executors of Stan Larabee’s estate. His relatives have indicated that they’ll be contesting the will.”
Just as Rafe had said. For once the word on the street had been right. “They won’t be able to break it, will they?”
“Extremely doubtful. But the issue could tie up dispensation of the will for as long as his family wishes to pay lawyers.”
“I heard he had a lot of sisters.”
“Six,” Stephen said.
I’d often wondered what it would be like to have a sister or two. I’d never once wondered what it would be like to have six.
“The library board is concerned,” he went on. “If the news gets bandied about that the library is losing Larabee’s bequest, they fear we’ll lose other sources of money, and you know how much this library depends on donations.”
“But that’s nuts,” I blurted out. “No one except you and the board knew the library was getting money from Stan’s will until a week ago. And, anyway, why would any potential donor care?”
“The library board is concerned,” Stephen repeated. “It’s our job to allay their concerns. With that in mind, we need to consider alternative sources for donations. As I recall, you are meeting with Caroline Grice this evening. The gallery will be closed, yes? Good. Sound her out for becoming a library supporter. A onetime ‘no’ isn’t necessarily a permanent no. You have a certain expertise at noting people’s reactions and emotions. Notice hers and exploit them.”
“I . . . what?”
“The library is depending on you,” Stephen said.
“It . . . is?”
“We need to head off any financial troubles before they start. Now is the time, and you’re in the right place at the right time. It’s up to you, Minnie.” He upended the coffee cup, swilling down the last drops. “I’ll expect a complete report first thing tomorrow morning.”
And off he went, taking my favorite mug with him.
• • •
“Minnie? Hey, Minnie!”
I slowed, then stopped in the front lobby, as Holly hurried to my side. The day had passed quickly, and now late-afternoon sun spilled over both of us, blinding me and putting Holly into dark silhouette.
“Sorry, sorry to bother you,” she said, her words running over the top of one another. “I wanted to catch you since I won’t be in tomorrow. Do you have a second?”
“Sure. What’s up?”
“Remember, a little while ago, I was downstairs and you said . . . you said that you’d try to help prove I didn’t kill Stan Larabee . . . and I was wondering, you know, if you really meant it?”
“I promised,” I said, stepping close to her and lowering my voice. “So, yes, I meant it.”
“Right.” She smiled, relief washing over her face. “So, um, have you found out anything?”
What I’d discovered was that many residents of Chilson were getting far too much enjoyment speculating about murder, that rumors did, in fact, travel faster than the speed of light, that the new doctor in Charlevoix was appearing in my dreams, and that it was going to take hours and hours to clean the Eddie hair out of the bookmobile.
I started to say something to that effect. Luckily, I took a good look at Holly before I opened my mouth.
Her brown hair, normally shiny and smooth, had a straggly look. Her face looked almost gaunt and her hands didn’t know what to do with themselves. They were in her pockets, cupped around her elbows, around her upper arms, back to her pockets.
She was worried and scared and she was relying on me. But what could I tell her? Rumors? No way was I going to repeat those stupid stories. Yet what else was there to say?
“There’s a chance,” I said, “that I’ll learn something soon.”
“Really?” Hope shone in her eyes.
No, not really, and I was already sorry I’d said so. “Just a chance,” I said. Firmly. “It’s not as if I have any experience doing this. All I can do is listen and—”
“But you’re so good at listening!” Smiling, she nodded, apparently reassured by my seeming confidence.
Unfortunately, she was the only one.
• • •
“Thank you so much for meeting with me, Mrs. Grice.”
“Caroline, please.” The older woman smiled. She wasn’t showy or even glamorous, but the simple lines of her white shirt spoke of a tailoring that was designed to flatter without being revealing, to complement without drawing attention to itself.
Not to mention the fact that her shirt was whiter than I’d ever been able to get my own shirts.
“Thank you,” she said, “for giving our artists a more public audience.” She tipped her head at the gallery around us, a head that didn’t have a hair out of place. I had a hunch I was looking at a hundred-dollar hairstylist’s creation.
Not that I begrudged Caroline her money. And I liked to work. Work was worthwhile. If I didn’t work, what would I do with myself? Of course, I could always volunteer. Maybe at hospitals. In, say, Charlevoix, where there was a new doctor who—
“If we can,” Caroline was saying, “I’d like to represent every single one of our artists at the library. All have work that is deserving of purchase, and, to be honest”—she gave a wry smile—“all of them could use the money.”
That was another thing that separated the wealthy from the rest of us. They could afford to purchase original art.
“I’ve talked to the artists, and to a soul, they would be glad to be displayed in the library.” She smiled at the walls. “If you see anything in particular you’d like displayed, please let me know.”
Since my knowledge of art didn’t go much beyond the Mona Lisa, I made a positive yet noncommittal noise. “Have you thought about a schedule?” I asked. “We’ll want to advertise and the sooner the better.”
“Of course.”
She opened her leather-bound planner, and I pulled out my phone. We agreed that a mid-July date would give us enough time to plan yet leave enough time in the season to catch the summer visitors.