Booking the Crook

by Laurie Cass

  “Don’t know about down,” I said, “but burned enough so they can’t have the wedding there.”

  “Oh, poor Frances.”

  I wasn’t so sure. Yes, of course she’d be a little disappointed, but in all the years I’d known my aunt—which was all of my life—she’d never let anything truly upset her. She was the person I wanted to be; she stayed calm, never panicked, and always kept a sense of perspective. I was pretty sure she’d spend a moment being shocked and surprised, and would then roll up her sleeves and figure out another way to reach the goal. It was my aunt’s fiancé I was more worried about. “Poor Otto, too,” I said.

  Julia glanced at me across the bookmobile console. “I’ve only met him a couple of times. Frances and I keep trying to set up dinner dates, but you know how those things can go. What’s he like?”

  Though I knew my aunt and Julia had known each other for decades, I sometimes forgot how time had shifted their relationship. Back in the day, when she was still getting leading roles on the New York stage, Julia had spent her spare time in Chilson. She and Aunt Frances had developed a solid friendship, but things were different now. I lived with Frances, Otto was in the picture, and Julia and her husband lived here year-round, which you’d think would let you see your friends more often, but the reality of life’s busyness has a way of interfering with good intentions.

  “What’s Otto like?” I repeated. “Well, what do you think?”

  “Charming,” she said immediately. “Smart, but not the kind of smart that has to show off. He can listen. And I think he has a very clever sense of humor, but I haven’t seen it come out yet. Maybe he’s hiding it until he gets to know us better.”

  I smiled. “All that. Plus, he loves Aunt Frances very, very much.”

  “Ah.” Julia tapped the top of Eddie’s carrier with a booted foot. “Did you hear that, Sir Edward? Otto loves Frances. Do you agree, and think that he will take care of her in the manner she deserves? Will he love, honor, and cherish her as long as they both shall live?”

  “Mrr!”

  Julia nodded and settled down in her seat. “Okay then. If Otto gets the Eddie stamp of approval, who am I to disagree?”

  I rolled my eyes. Sometimes Julia took our so-called conversations with my cat a little too seriously. “You do realize he was just complaining about you thumping the top of his carrier.”

  “Your interpretation is yours and yours alone. I prefer mine. Right, Eddie?”

  “Mrr.”

  If she’d tapped the carrier that time, I couldn’t detect it. I shook my head and said, “If we’re running on schedule this afternoon, I’d like to make a short detour on the way back to town.”

  Julia clapped her hands and smiled like a small child being offered ice cream. “Ooo, a detour. Anywhere fun? Please, please, let it be fun!”

  I smiled. “You’ll just have to wait and see, little one.”

  * * *

  • • •

  The final bookmobile stop of the day had wrapped up exactly on time, an anomaly for that particular stop because Lisa and Mort Neely, a downstate couple who had retired Up North the previous summer, tended to linger.

  They were very nice people, but Julia and I agreed they were still getting acclimated to winter. People who only spent summer and perhaps early fall up here didn’t tend to recognize how sparse humans were for eight months at a stretch, and it was a harsh reality for many.

  More than one retired couple, whose original intentions had been to live up here the rest of their lives, ended up finding a place to live in Florida or Arizona in the dark months and came north only when all chance of snow was gone. Julia was betting that the Neelys would turn into snowbirds, but I’d caught a calm look from Lisa as she’d gazed out the bookmobile window at the snowy landscape and was sure they’d be staying.

  That afternoon, Mort had come to the bookmobile alone. “Lisa’s in a cleaning frenzy,” he said. “Our youngest is coming up with her boyfriend for a skiing week. Apparently a house that’s clean enough for us isn’t anywhere near clean for them.”

  “Well, of course not,” Julia said.

  I nodded agreement. “Especially when there’s a boyfriend involved. He might turn into a husband, and then you’ll have his family members up to stay. Standards must be established early.”

  Mort gave us a pained look. “Then I truly hope she doesn’t marry this one. He has seven siblings.”

  We laughed and a few minutes later he checked out the small stack of mysteries and thrillers they’d reserved online, stuffed them into his backpack, and went out into the cold for his short walk home.

  Julia turned to me. “Is it detour time?” she asked, her face bright and shiny.

  “You got it,” I said, closing the door on Eddie’s carrier and buckling myself in. “Let’s roll.”

  Twenty minutes later I steered the bookmobile into the parking lot of the Wicklow Township Hall, a fieldstone building I’d never set foot inside. Julia scrunched up her face. “This is the detour? Seriously?”

  I laughed. “Did I say it was going to be fun?”

  “Well, no, but detours should be entertaining, at the very least. This isn’t a detour, it’s . . .” She frowned. “What is this?”

  “Work,” I said. “You know the church lot where we normally park? I got a phone call the other day that their guy who plows the lot for free broke his shoulder blade skiing. He can’t plow the rest of the winter. The church has a snowblower, but the whole lot is too much for it, so they’re not clearing the back part.”

  Julia nodded, following along with the saga. “And if they don’t blow the snow back there, the bookmobile doesn’t have room to turn around, so we need a new stop spot.”

  “You are just as smart as you look,” I said. “This shouldn’t take long. I’ll leave the engine running and you and Eddie can stay here.”

  The suggestion was unnecessary, as Julia had already unbuckled her seat belt and was wriggling around to get comfortable. “Hand me that new book by Kent Kruger, will you, please?”

  Inside, the township hall felt a lot like it looked, as if it had been here for a hundred years without many changes since construction. Wood floor, wood paneling, wood ceiling, all had been put in place during the boom years of lumber, when the cheapest possible building material was whatever they were hauling out of the closest woodlot.

  A bulletin board next to the front door was posted with agendas of upcoming meetings and minutes of past ones. In a place of prominence was a memo noting the day property taxes were due. To the right of the small lobby were the double doors of a meeting room; to the left was a hallway leading toward offices where I could hear a rumble of male voices.

  “Hello there, dear.”

  And at my immediate left was an office separated from the lobby by a counter with a sliding glass window above. A generously sized sixty-ish woman with thoroughly blond hair was smiling. “Can I help you?”

  “If you’re Charlotte, you can. I’m Minnie Hamilton. I called the other day about using your parking lot for a bookmobile stop.” With my thumb, I gestured over my shoulder. “If you want to see it, it’s out there.”

  Charlotte leaned over to look, but didn’t get up. “You drive that big thing?” she asked. “And you’re such a little scrap of a girl!”

  I smiled. This was a familiar conversation. “Power steering and an automatic transmission make life easier for everyone.”

  “Isn’t that the absolute truth?” she said, laughing. “I talked to the supervisor and the other board members, and no one sees any problem with you stopping here, so let’s figure out schedules. Come in and have a seat.”

  Ten minutes later, we were wrapping up dates through the end of the year. I could have shifted the stop back to the church when all danger of snow had passed, but I didn’t want to move the location twice in one year. Just as we were ma
king sure the December dates worked for both of us, the male voices I’d heard before grew louder, to the point where I could make out what they were saying.

  “We’ll have to see what happens at the meeting, Hugh. I’m only one vote.”

  “But you’re supervisor.”

  “And I cast all of one vote,” the supervisor said mildly. “There are four others. Democracy and all that.”

  “Yeah, I suppose. See you at the meeting.”

  “Will do. Say, don’t forget your hat.”

  Footsteps came toward us down the hall, then whooshed past without slowing down. I got a glimpse of a dark winter coat worn by a tallish man with brown hair just starting to go gray. In one hand he carried a hat, a fedora with an oddly low profile and with earflaps down. I smiled. Apparently Stewart wasn’t the only one around with that new hat.

  Then something clicked in my head. “Was that Hugh Novak?” I asked.

  Charlotte glanced in the direction of the front door, paused until it shut, then said, “He’s been pushing for us to build a new township hall for years, and with the board we have now, he just might get what he wants.”

  “A new building?” I looked around. “How old is this place?”

  “About ninety years, so our maintenance expenses are creeping up. Nothing we can’t deal with, though.”

  “Do you need more space?”

  “Just like everything else up here, in the winter no and in the summer yes.” She shrugged. “I figure we can muddle through for the three or four busy months. It’s not worth it to build something big that’ll go mostly empty most of the year.”

  There was something I wasn’t grasping. “Then why does . . . I mean, why would Hugh . . .” I stopped, not sure how to phrase the question.

  Charlotte helped me out. “Why on earth would anyone want to spend taxpayer money on a building we don’t need, even if we happen to have the money right now? If you’re some board members, you want to leave a legacy. If you’re some other board members, you feel the need to spend money on something reasonable to keep a stupid future board from wasting it on something stupid. And if you’re Hugh Novak . . .” She glared in the direction he’d gone. “If you’re Hugh Novak, you want the township to build on the property you own on the state highway, which happens to be property right next to a parcel you bought. If you’re Hugh Novak, you think a new township hall out there will increase traffic, creating the perfect climate for the business you want to start.”

  “What business is that?” Hadn’t Neil Bennethum, Rowan’s husband, mentioned that Hugh and Rowan had been arguing about township politics? Could this be the topic?

  Charlotte made a hmph-ing noise. “With Hugh, it changes every time you talk to him.”

  I thanked her and, as I walked out, pulled out my cell and called Neil. It went to voice mail, of course, so I left him a message.

  Back on the bookmobile, Julia looked up from her book. “How did that go? All set?”

  I blinked. All set about what? Oh. Right. “Good to go,” I said, sliding into my seat and buckling in. Yes, we were all set. With the bookmobile stop and with another clue that might lead to tracking down Rowan’s killer.

  * * *

  • • •

  I’d unscheduled myself from the library for a couple of days in order to help Kristen with wedding plans, but when I texted her the next morning, she texted back that she was doing restaurant work instead.

  Me: Decisions need to be made.

  Kristen: no kidding . . . need a new strawberry supplier and someone who can grow black carrots . . . plus have lined up two chefs to interview.

  Me: Don’t you have a wedding to plan?

  Kristen: priorities missy priorities.

  Me: What I’m saying.

  Kristen: wedding will be fine . . . you have the day off . . . go play!!!

  Me: But

  I paused with my thumbs over the phone’s tiny keyboard. But what? If Kristen preferred to procrastinate on her wedding plans, there wasn’t much I could do about it short of dragging her around by her hair, and since she was taller, stronger, and far more fit than I was, I didn’t see how that strategy could possibly succeed.

  So I deleted the But, and instead sent, Let me know when you have time to do wedding stuff, and clicked off the phone. “What do you think?” I asked Eddie.

  My feline friend didn’t say anything. This wasn’t a surprise since he was curled up into a tight ball half the size of a regular Eddie. What was a surprise was the location—the precise middle of the doorway between the living and the dining room.

  He was directly on top of a low threshold—Aunt Frances said she removed the physical door years ago to open up the space—so how he could find that particular spot a relaxing location, I did not know, yet I could hear the dulcet tones of Eddie snores.

  Which somehow reminded me of one thing I could do.

  “Sleep tight,” I said, reaching down to pat Eddie’s head. Fifteen minutes later, I was knocking on the toy store’s front door. Mitchell appeared and let me in. “Hey, Minnie. What’s up?”

  I came in, stomping my boots on the mat. Six or so inches of snow had fallen in the night, and though the main roads were clear, the side streets and sidewalks were still waiting for plows and shovels. “Could you make me a list? When you and Bianca started seeing each other, when you met her family, when she met yours, that kind of thing. Approximate dates are fine.”

  “A list of . . .” He frowned. “Yeah. How is that—”

  “Great.” I wasn’t sure how a list would help me figure out anything, but it couldn’t hurt. Data was always good, especially if it kept Mitchell busy for a few days. I edged toward the door. “E-mail it to me when it’s done, okay?”

  “When do you want it?” Mitchell glanced at his watch. “I have a couple of things I need to do first, but I bet I can write that up before noon.”

  I blinked. The slacker Mitchell, the Mitchell I’d known for years, the one who’d dragged any task out for days if not weeks, the Mitchell I still kept expecting to turn up, was gone forever. “Whenever you have time.”

  “This is something I’ll make time for,” he said.

  For some reason, his grim tone made me want to cry. I didn’t, of course, because I hated to cry in front of anyone, let alone Mitchell Koyne, but I did sniff once or twice and was pleased to be distracted by an incoming text message. “Sorry,” I muttered, fishing my phone out of my coat pocket. “I should check this . . .”

  Rafe: Snow day. You busy with Kristen’s wedding?

  Frowning, I looked outside. The snow didn’t look any worse today than it had on days when the superintendent hadn’t canceled school, but the ways of school administrators were mysterious. My image of a superintendent calling a snow day involved charts, radar, satellite images, and phone calls to secret phone numbers, and I’d firmly told Rafe not to disillusion me.

  Me: Nope.

  Rafe: Cool. Want to drive to Traverse with me?

  Fifteen minutes later, we were in Rafe’s SUV, southbound on US 31. “Isn’t it a little wrong to head out of town on a snow day?” I asked.

  “How?”

  “Well, doesn’t a snow day mean the roads aren’t safe to drive? Shouldn’t you be staying home, staring out the window, and worrying about your students?”

  He made a rude noise in the back of his throat. “When I was a kid, a snow day meant I’d call whoever had access to a car. I’d make a pile of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, stuff them back into the bread bag, and we’d head to Nub’s to ski. And before any of us could drive, we’d walk that trail north of town and go sledding.”

  “Um, doesn’t that hill drop right into Lake Michigan?”

  He grinned, his white teeth gleaming in the morning light. “My parents still don’t know. But even if they found out now, the statute of limitations for ch
ildhood punishments is long over.”

  Though he spoke confidently, I wasn’t so sure his mom and dad would agree. Over dinner someday, the subject would come up and we would all see what happened.

  “What are you smiling about?” Rafe reached over and squeezed my hand briefly.

  “Oh, just happy to spend the day with you.” And I was. It had been weeks since we’d done anything other than work on the house or grab a quick meal somewhere. “But if I’m going to be completely honest—”

  “Yes, please.”

  “I’m also happy to get some time in Traverse City. I haven’t been down there in months, and even then I didn’t have a chance to stop at the bookstores.”

  “Bookstores?” His eyebrows went up. “What makes you think we’re going anywhere near downtown?”

  Cold stole into me, all the way down to the marrow of my bones. “You said . . . I mean . . . I thought . . .” Just like that, my happiness vanished. No browsing at Horizon? No seeing what Brilliant Books was recommending? No checking to see what treasures the used bookstore, Bookie Joint, might happen to have?

  Rafe grinned. “Breathe deep. I was just messing with you. We can spend all afternoon downtown if you want.”

  I squiggled around and readjusted myself in my seat. “You are a horrible person,” I said comfortably, “and remember what they say about paybacks.”

  “That’s what the school sends me twice a month, right?”

  “I’m glad you’re not really as dumb as you sound.”

  “You ain’t seen nothing yet.”

  I laughed, happy inside and out. An unexpected day with my boyfriend—what could be better?

  * * *

  • • •

  Two hours later, I knew exactly what could be better. That the unexpected day would have included only ten minutes in a specialty wood store, not the hour it was starting to become. Ten minutes had been interesting; the different woods were pretty and learning what countries the exotics had traveled from was fascinating, but my mind started to wander when Rafe and the sales guy—Rafe’s new best friend—started talking about wood density and humidity factors. When I murmured that I wouldn’t go far, Rafe nodded and continued the conversation.