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

by Cass, Laurie

  “A few weeks ago?” I echoed. “Around when Stan Larabee was killed?”

  “Uh, yeah. I guess. A little before, maybe.” He put his index finger on the screen, guaranteeing a streaky fingerprint I’d have to clean up later. “Is that where that farmhouse is? Can you turn on the picture?”

  I clicked a few clicks, changing the base map from property lines to aerial photography. Though the resolution wasn’t anywhere near CSI standards, it was easy enough to make out the straight lines and regular planes of a roof. “There it is,” I said, trying not to see into my memory.

  “That’s the place? Huh.” Mitchell rubbed his jaw, which, since it looked like he hadn’t bothered to shave in three days, made a sandpapery sort of noise.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Sometimes your brain just clicks things together, you know?”

  I wasn’t sure I wanted to know what things were rattling around in Mitchell’s head, but I asked anyway.

  “Well,” he said. “Two things. That Olson guy. I asked him why he came to Chilson instead of Petoskey or Traverse, and he said his dad used to bring him up here hunting. From what he said, this is the place.” He left another fingerprint on the screen, one that was centered on a property maybe half a mile south of the old Larabee farm. “He said there was this old junky cabin they stayed at. Wonder if it’s still there?”

  The back of my neck tightened. “What was the other thing?” I whispered.

  “What’s that? Oh, the other thing. When I was out there, cutting that wood, I saw some guy on a quad going up the hill behind that farmhouse where you found Larabee. Pretty sure, anyway.”

  “Pretty sure that was the house or pretty sure you saw a guy on a quad?”

  “Huh?” He stared at me. “Oh. Both, I guess.”

  “You have to tell the police,” I said.

  “Why the . . . I mean, why should I?”

  I gave him the Librarian Look and started the lecture. “Because Stan Larabee was killed there. Because, not too far from there, someone on a quad shot out the bookmobile’s tires. Because it could be important. Because—”

  “Okay, okay.” He reached up and reset his baseball cap. “I’ll stop by the cop shop, uh, later on.”

  “Today,” I told him, but to Mitchell, the term was a fluid one. Later, he’d said. That meant he’d stop by the sheriff’s office when he got around to it. Or when he happened to remember. Mitchell-time, Holly called it. There was a reason Mitchell spent so much time at the library reading books and magazines he could have checked out; his overdue fines were nearing the three-figure mark. Right after Christmas, Stephen had laid down the law—no more lending books to Mitchell Koyne no matter how much he begged and pleaded, not until he paid up his fines. And maybe not even then, Stephen had thundered.

  But this was too important to leave to Mitchell-time. The police needed to go back to the farmhouse and search for quad tracks. And I needed to tell them about Gunnar. Sure, Detective Inwood had said they were looking at Stan’s business associates, but how many of those associates had hunted near the old Larabee farm? If the cabin was still there, Gunnar could have hidden the quad and walked down to the farmhouse. How that worked with Gunnar’s lack of transportation, I wasn’t sure. Maybe he had a car stashed somewhere at the airport and only hired Mitchell to drive him as a cover and—

  “Which reminds me,” Mitchell was saying. “It’s what, Wednesday? Do you want to, maybe, go out to a movie or something with me on Friday?”

  Thanks to a good fortune I didn’t deserve, my mouth did not drop open and I didn’t blurt out the first thing that popped into my head. I took a breath, smiled kindly, and said, “Thanks, Mitchell, that’s very nice of you, but I’m seeing someone else right now.”

  “Oh, yeah? Anybody I know?”

  “I don’t think so. He’s the new emergency room doctor in Charlevoix.”

  “Oh.” Mitchell’s shoulders drooped.

  My heart ached for him. It was a brave thing to do, to ask someone on a date, and here I’d crushed his ego with one short sentence. He’d be despondent for weeks and—

  He raised his head. “Say, do you think your friend Kristen would go out with me?”

  I blinked, then smiled, remembering the night she’d barged into my date with Tucker. Paybacks can be glorious. “Why don’t you ask her?”

  • • •

  Late on Friday morning I decided I couldn’t wait for Mitchell any longer and decided to take matters into my own hands. Besides, I hadn’t taken a break yet and what better way to spend a morning break than at the sheriff’s office?

  I passed the front desk, but stopped when I saw Holly, biting her lower lip and staring at nothing. “What’s the matter?” I asked. She shook her head and didn’t meet my eyes. “Hey, are you okay?”

  Her head went up and down in a slow-motion nod. “It’ll be fine,” she said. “Right? The police . . .” She stopped, either not knowing where to go or not liking where she was going.

  “It will be fine,” I said firmly. “Very fine. Matter of fact . . .” But then I stopped, too. I had no right to give her hope, no right to promise anything.

  She turned to look at me. “What?”

  Think, Minnie, think! “Matter of fact, I have the perfect thing to make you feel better. What do you think about a cinnamon roll from the Round Table?”

  A wan smile came and went. “That sounds nice.”

  “If anyone asks, I took a late break. I’ll be back in a few, okay?”

  Out in the warming sun, I walked down the backstreets as far as I could, staying out of the heavy pedestrian traffic that was bound to be in the downtown’s core. At the last possible street, I dove into the downtown flow, stepping around a stroller, avoiding a woman talking on her cell phone, slowing down to avoid bumping into a tall, thin man walking with a short, round one who looked as if they’d just come out of the cookie shop.

  Tall and thin, short and round. The letters I and D.

  Serendipity was my friend. I fell into step behind the two men, then surged forward to split them apart. “Hello, Detectives, how are you this fine morning?”

  They came to an immediate halt, one on either side of me. Since even the short detective was taller than I was by a good seven inches, this wasn’t a position of power for Ms. Hamilton. I took a quick step away from them. “I’m fine, thanks,” I said in response to their nonresponse. “Has Mitchell Koyne talked to either of you recently?”

  Detective Inwood shook his head. So did Detective Devereaux.

  Mitchell-time had struck again. “He said something you should know.” They exchanged a glance that was over my head. Literally over my head, not figuratively. I could guess what that glance was all about. It meant, I bet this is nothing, but we have to listen to her, don’t we? Why, yes, you do. “A few days before Stan was killed,” I told them, “Mitchell was cutting down some trees near that farmhouse. He saw a guy on a quad.”

  Their faces, which had been politely blank, stayed that way.

  “A quad,” I said. “It was a guy on a quad who shot out the tires on the bookmobile, remember?”

  Detective Devereaux said, “Ms. Hamilton, do you know how many quads are in this county?”

  I didn’t know and I didn’t particularly care. What I did care about was that the detectives apparently hadn’t followed up on the tire-shooting incident. They’d chalked it up to a kid messing around and hadn’t bothered their pretty little heads about it any further. A sharp anger started to heat up inside me. Somewhere, I heard my mother saying, “Now, Minerva, don’t lose your temper. You know it never helps anything,” but she wasn’t talking loud enough for it to have any real effect.

  “It seems to me,” I said, “that you should look for quad tracks near the farmhouse. Maybe the guy cleaned up the tracks close by the house, but maybe there are still tracks nearby.”

  Detective Inwood started to say something, but I wasn’t done.

  “And you said you were investigating Sta
n’s business associates. Have you come across Gunnar Olson by any chance?” My sarcasm was starting to show and I knew I needed to dial it down. I released the fists that my hands had become and went on.

  “He has a summer slip at Uncle Chip’s Marina and was partners with Stan in a development deal. Gunnar lost out big-time. He still carries a huge grudge. And what I just found out is he used to hunt up in the hills behind the farmhouse. There was a cabin up there.”

  This part seemed to matter to them. Devereaux took some notes, and even made sure he had the correct spelling of “Olson.”

  “Thank you for the information,” Detective Inwood said. “We’ll follow up on this.”

  He made a move as if to go, but I wasn’t done yet. My anger was still too hot. This was when Mom really should have spoken up. “Will you? Will you really?” I asked. “You’re detectives for the Tonedagana County Sheriff’s Office—at least that’s what your badges say—but what detecting have you been doing?”

  “Ms. Hamilton,” Detective Devereaux said. “Give us time to do our job. Can we investigate as fast as you’d like? No. But—”

  He was patronizing me. I hated that. “But meanwhile,” I cut in, “Stan’s killer is running around free, and innocent folks are suffering because you’re questioning the wrong people.”

  “Ma’am, we’re doing the best we can.”

  “I’m sure you are,” I said with exquisite politeness. “But the killer isn’t in jail, is he? Maybe it’s time to contact the state police. I’m sure the post in Petoskey would be happy to talk to me.”

  “Gaylord,” said Detective Inwood. “The regional post is in Gaylord. There’s not much going on in the Petoskey post these days.”

  I stared up at him. He stared down at me. Neither one of us was going to budge a fraction of an inch. We were both going to die in this spot, frozen to death come January.

  An electronic ringing sallied forth from Detective Devereaux’s chest. He thumbed on his cell. “Yeah . . . yeah . . . okay. We’ll be there.” He slipped the phone back in his pocket. “Let’s go, Hal. Ms. Hamilton, you have a nice day, now.”

  They swung around and headed off.

  I stood there, watching them go, my hands on my hips, then started walking in the opposite direction. The detectives were blowing me off. They were ignoring everything I said. Had they done a single thing I’d suggested? No. If they had, I’d surely have known.

  Holly was a mess, Aunt Frances wasn’t much better, and the detectives were ignoring the person (yours truly) who was handing them clues on a freaking platter.

  Oh, Stan . . .

  “Working on it, Stan,” I said out loud, startling a middle-aged couple who were walking toward me, hand in hand.

  Not only was I working on it, I was moving it to the top of the list.

  Chapter 17

  In spite of the odd hour of eleven a.m., the Round Table was packed with people. Half of them were having a late breakfast; half were eating an early lunch.

  I waited my turn at the cash register, listening to the conversations about boat rides and weekend plans and where the next meal was going to be eaten. When I got to the front of the line, I asked if there were any cinnamon rolls left.

  “Not sure,” said the young woman. “Hang on, okay?” She scurried off through the narrow double doors that led to the kitchen. On the wall behind the register hung a calendar displaying a picture of the Petoskey breakwater and lighthouse. I simultaneously admired the photo and wondered where the month of June had gone. It was the last Friday of the month, a month to the day that Stan was killed.

  Oh, Stan . . .

  I turned away, looking for a distraction. And there, in the back corner, I found it. Bill D’Arcy’s booth was occupied by someone else. Four someone elses, to be exact, and they looked as if they’d been there for some time, judging by the breakfast detritus scattered about.

  I spotted Sabrina, weaving through the crowded tables with plates of burgers and fries. When she’d distributed the meals, I called to her. “Morning, Sabrina. Where’s your best customer?”

  She made a face. “Mr. Won’t-Talk D’Arcy? Don’t know and don’t care.”

  That sounded a little harsh. “Has he been in today at all?”

  “Nope.”

  Just like the day Stan had been killed. One month ago, exactly. I frowned. Something was tickling the back of my thoughts. What would take someone away from a favorite haunt? What would be four weeks apart? Did men get their hair cut that often? But how could that take all day or even half a day?

  WHUMP!

  The entire building shook. There was a short second of silence; then children screamed, women shrieked, and men yelled. Dust filtered down. “Earthquake!” someone yelled. But I was already running through the front door with Sabrina and half the restaurant patrons on my heels.

  It wasn’t an earthquake. Not only were earthquakes exceedingly rare in this part of the country, but through the window I’d seen the cause of the whump.

  Half a dozen running steps and I’d reached the passenger door of the car that had struck the building. I grabbed the handle and flung the door open. “Are you all right?” I hunched down and saw large hairy arms flailing around, shoving aside the released air bag. I half sat on the passenger seat. “Sir? Are you all right? Do you need an ambulance?”

  “No!” he yelled.

  “Bill?” Sabrina ran around to his side of the car. “Bill! Are you okay?”

  It was Bill D’Arcy. How Sabrina had recognized his voice, I didn’t know. I wasn’t sure he’d ever spoken more than one word in a row.

  “Yes, yes, yes.” He shoved aside more air bag and opened the car door. “I’m fine.” He stood, swayed, put his hands out.

  Sabrina was right there, supporting him, guiding him. “You get back down. You’ve had a nasty little scare and you need to sit.” She got him settled back into the driver’s seat, ignoring his bleats of disapproval. “You need to get your breath, hon. Just sit for a minute.” She looked around at all the people. “Anybody here a doctor?”

  “Don’t need a doctor,” Bill said.

  Sabrina gave him a considered look. “Oh, you don’t, do you?”

  “Just came from one.”

  “Oh, really?”

  He should have recognized the tone in her voice. And if he’d taken one look at her just then, he would have seen more danger signs. Hands on her hips, eyes thinned, chin jutting forward. No good was in store for Mr. D’Arcy.

  “And what, pray tell, did this doctor say?” Sabrina asked.

  “None of your business,” he muttered, staring straight ahead.

  “Really.” She folded her arms on her chest. “I’ve waited on you every day for weeks. I know how you like your coffee, I know how you like your hash browns. I know you don’t read the sports section, I know what stocks you watch. I know you’re less grumpy when the sun is shining and that you don’t like to go out in the rain. I know you have high blood pressure and are trying to do something about it. I know—”

  “You don’t know anything!” he roared.

  She bent down, pushing her face closer to his. “Because you don’t tell me anything! How can I know what you won’t tell?”

  “I didn’t want to worry you!”

  Over on the sidelines, I blinked. He didn’t want to make her worry? What on earth . . . ?

  “Do I look like someone who would worry?” Sabrina shot back. “How about you, sitting with that laptop, never looking up, never seeing what’s going on around you? You’re hiding from something, and that means you’re worried. Tell me what it is.” She poked him in the shoulder. “Tell me!”

  He kept staring straight ahead, seeing nothing but car dashboard, windshield, and the brick wall he’d whacked. “I have a bad case of macular degeneration,” he said. “I do nothing but read because I won’t be able to for much longer. The doctors say my sight will be gone within two years. I’ve been seeing a specialist in Traverse City for treatments once a month
, but that’s just slowing the inevitable.”

  Sabrina stood up straight. Looked up at the bright blue sky. Swallowed. Then bent back down again. “You drove to see an eye specialist? Let me guess, you got those shots, and then you drove all the way back here.”

  He nodded.

  “Are you insane?” Sabrina yelled. “You must be certifiable. Too bad the hospital in Traverse isn’t a psychiatric hospital anymore—you could have checked yourself in for a nice long stay.”

  “I thought—”

  “That’s the trouble, you weren’t thinking! Driving after an eye treatment? And here I thought you were smart. Do you realize what could have happened?”

  “I’m only fifty-two years old.” He pulled himself out of the car and faced her, eye to eye, glare to glare. “And I’m not blind yet.”

  “You going to keep driving until you are? How many buildings do you have to run into?”

  “This was the only one!” He waved his arms around. “It was an accident! Everyone has accidents.”

  “Up here most people hit deer, not buildings that haven’t moved in a hundred years,” she said drily.

  “Look, I’m sorry I hit your precious restaurant, but—”

  “I don’t care about the stupid building.”

  “You . . . don’t?”

  “No, I care about you.”

  “You . . . do?”

  She crossed her arms. “Don’t be more of an idiot than you can help, okay? Of course I care about you. Why else would I be yelling at you like this in front of fifty strangers?”

  Bill D’Arcy didn’t look at the fifty strangers. He didn’t look anywhere but at Sabrina. “You care about me?”

  She heaved a huge sigh. “For now. Keep up the stupid questions and the stupid driving habits and I might change my mind.”

  “Sabrina . . . my darling Sabrina . . .” He lifted a hand and held her face gently, caressing her cheek with his thumb. “I had no idea. I . . .” He leaned in for a kiss and I could almost see the fireworks going off.