Booking the Crook

by Laurie Cass

  “One of the kids has been diagnosed with cancer,” he said.

  All my breath rushed out in an instant, as if I’d been punched in the solar plexus. “I’m so sorry,” I said, wishing there was something better to say. But what else was there? Guilt surged through me. One of the middle school students had cancer, and I’d been making fun of Rafe for being quiet. “And I’m sorry I called you stupid.”

  He frowned. “You did?”

  “I suggested the possibility.”

  “Oh. Well. That’s okay. I am pretty stupid sometimes.” He took a bite of steak, then pushed away his plate, on which remained half his sweet potato and most of the squash and carrot mix. “The prognosis for this little guy is good, but . . .” He left the sentence dangling, so I finished it for him.

  “It still sucks.”

  “You know it.” He formed his right hand into a pistol and shot the air near my head. “And now’s the time to explain why you’ve been so abnormally quiet. Are there more wedding problems for your aunt?”

  “Not that I’ve heard. We still haven’t fixed the last round.” Aunt Frances and Otto had been e-mailing daily with people in Bermuda, but at this point there was no solution. If there wasn’t an alternative found within the next week or so, they’d have to abandon the island idea altogether.

  “So what’s up?” He reached out for my hands. “Put that knife and fork down a second and talk to me. You haven’t eaten a bite in five minutes anyway. All you’ve done is cut that poor slice of meat to tiny ribbons.”

  His hands, warm and strong, were dinged with scratches from working on the house. I traced a short reddish line, remembering how he’d picked that one up from trying to hold too many screws in one hand.

  “Talk,” he said. “Tell me whatever it is that’s bothering you. I want to know.”

  I looked up. “Truly?”

  “Absolutely.” He lifted up one of my hands and kissed it. “If it’s something ridiculous, I reserve the right to make fun, but I promise not to laugh out loud.”

  It was as much as anyone could expect. I remember my aunt’s words of wisdom, that I should be honest with Rafe about working with the sheriff’s department, that I needed to be open with the things that were important to me, that if I hid things now, what would I hide later? And if I wanted him to be honest with me, I should do the same in return.

  So I told him. About how I’d been in regular contact with Hal and Ash. How we were exchanging information on suspects. About the stupid sugar packet. About why I wanted so much to help Anya and Collier. When I got all the way to the end, he just looked at me.

  “What?” I asked.

  He suddenly grinned, and his expression lightened the dim room. Lightened my life. “I knew most of that already.”

  “What?” I asked again, far more stupidly this time. “How?”

  “How not?” He tapped the back of my hands with his thumbs. “Remember where we live? People talk.”

  “Um.” There were numerous benefits to small-town life, but this wasn’t one of them. “Are you mad?”

  He shook his head. “It was obvious after the First Argument that you weren’t going to stop. And I understand why you’re doing it. So mostly I was just wondering when you were going to tell me.”

  “You’re not mad about that, either?” I asked, my voice soft. “Because you have a right to be. I should have told you earlier.”

  “No, I’m not,” he said a bit wonderingly. “I’m really not. Weird, isn’t it?”

  “Nope. It’s great,” I said quickly. “Thanks. You’re the best ever.”

  “Naturally. But there’s one thing.”

  I knew there’d be a catch. “What’s that?” I asked warily.

  “Let me help.”

  * * *

  • • •

  The next day was a library day, and I spent most of the morning doing my best to come to grips with the fact that Rafe wanted to help find Rowan’s killer.

  “It’s happened before,” he’d said during dessert. “Couples chasing down bad guys.”

  “Nick and Nora,” I said, nodding.

  “Who?” He frowned. “Do I know them?”

  Clearly not. Though Rafe did, in fact, read books, he preferred nonfiction, and I should have known the reference to the Dashiell Hammett books would be lost on him. “Who are you talking about?” I asked.

  “Almost every movie ever produced has a couple figuring something out, whether it’s how to save the world, like in War Games. Or tracking down precious objects, like in Raiders of the Lost Ark. Or finally recognizing how much they love each other, like in When Harry Met Sally . . .”

  He had a point, and since he’d ended with a movie that bore some similarities to our relationship, I’d given him a kiss. “It’s nice that you’re so familiar with old movies, and I appreciate your offer. If I can think of anything you can do to help, I’ll let you know.”

  Now I was doing my regular late-morning walk-through of the library. This not only got me out and about and let me chat with library patrons, but also kept my body from freezing into a desk-bound position. I could almost see my mother nodding in approval, so I nodded back to her across the miles.

  “Good morning, Minnie.”

  I blinked out of my parental-induced daydream and focused on the young woman in front of me. “Morning, Anya. I didn’t know you were still in town. Doing some research at the famed Chilson District Library that you can’t possibly get done at your silly old university library?”

  She smiled. “Sort of.”

  “Anything I can help you with?”

  “That’s why I’m here.” She looked around, saw no one, and moved closer. “Collier told me not to bother you, he said it doesn’t mean anything, but I think I have to.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Is this about your mom?”

  She nodded. “And Land Aprelle, do you know him? After Dad started working downstate, Mom hired Land to do some of the bigger chores around the house.”

  I had a feeling I knew where this was going, but I let her keep talking.

  Anya took hold of a small lock of her auburn hair and started twisting the daylights out of it. “A few days before Mom died, she and Land had this really big argument, and—”

  I nodded. “I’m glad you are telling me, but your dad already talked to me about it. You don’t need to relive it again if you don’t want to.”

  “Oh.” Anya sighed. “Good. I don’t, really. Just so long as you know everything.”

  There wasn’t much to know, as far as I could tell. I was about to ask what else there might be, but the creaking of the back door distracted me, and when Graydon walked through it, my attention was good and diverted. He’d been downstate attending an undoubtedly fun-filled training session on the library’s software, and I’d thought he was due back the next day, not today. Odd.

  I swung back to face Anya. “I’ll call you later, okay?” She hesitated, then nodded, and I hurried after Graydon. His legs, however, were far longer than mine and I had to jog to catch up to him.

  “Good morning,” I said, just before he opened the stairway door that led up to his lair. “I didn’t think you’d be back until tomorrow.”

  “Morning, Minnie.” Graydon set down his briefcase and pulled off his gloves. “I’d scheduled an extra day to meet with the state library folks, but there was a mix-up with the dates. I’ll have to meet up with them next time I’m in Lansing.”

  State library? Next time? None of that made any sense to me. I mean, it might be useful that Graydon had contacts down there, but I couldn’t come up with a reasonable scenario. But determined not to get sidetracked, I ignored that shiny distraction. “Do you have a minute? We can talk in my office.”

  He looked at his heavy boots, which were dripping snow and ice onto the tile. “Right now?”

  Ye
s, because if he went upstairs to take off his winter wear, he’d ask me to go with him. Which meant I’d be forced to have this conversation on his turf and I wanted every advantage I could get, teeny tiny though it was.

  “This will only take a minute,” I said.

  “Okay, but if Gareth comes after me, I’m going to confess that you forced me.”

  I laughed and ushered him into my small office. That he was sparing a second of concern for our maintenance guy made me think, once again, that Graydon was a good and decent guy and had the potential to be a fantastic boss. And yet . . .

  Graydon sat in the spare chair and I sat at my desk. A little role reversal never hurt anything, right? Then, before there was any awkward delay, I jumped right into the big question.

  “Why are you and Trent asking so many questions about the library staff?”

  “Um.” Graydon looked at the floor. At the walls. At my desk. Finally, he looked back at me. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  My invisible antennae, the ones that everyone has, the ones that detect lies and evasions and off-kilter situations, twanged something fierce. If everything was kosher, if they’d just been asking questions because they were new to town and the library, then he would have said so.

  “At lunch the other day,” I said. “You asked me about personnel.” I ticked off the comments I’d heard from others, finishing with Denise. “I’m your assistant director,” I said, trying to keep my shoulders back and chin up instead of my natural inclination, which was to curl up in a ball and howl that the library was changing and I didn’t like it. “If you and Trent are thinking about changes in staffing, I hope that you’ll include me in the conversation.”

  “Um,” Graydon said again. Silence descended upon us, a silence so complete that the sound of my breathing was almost embarrassing.

  After about a million years, he said, “You’re absolutely right.” He glanced at his watch. “Wow, look at the time. I have to get going. After being downstate I have a lot of e-mail and . . . things . . . to wade through.”

  Graydon practically bolted out of the room. I stared after him, and realized that I’d learned two things. One: Something weird was indeed going on. Two: My boss was a horrible liar.

  * * *

  • • •

  When noon rolled around, the sun decided to make an appearance. It felt like months since we’d seen blue sky, and despite the sandwich I’d packed, I decided what my psyche really needed was a walk, and since in winter the best-cleaned sidewalks were downtown, clearly it was best to walk those sidewalks, and if I was going to be downtown at lunchtime, it was only reasonable to eat down there, too.

  Having thus convinced myself that I was doing the right thing, I kicked my shoes off into their winter home underneath my desk, pulled on my boots and other outerwear, and headed out to the big white and blue world.

  Just as I leaned on the front door’s release bar, the door from the lobby to the vestibule clicked open behind me. “Minnie. Headed out for lunch?”

  I turned, seeing first only a dark winter coat, then seeing who it was. “Hey, Stewart. That’s right. You?”

  Stewart Funston, designer of electronic manufacturing thingies who sometimes telecommuted from the library, possessor of a Maple Staples sugar packet, cousin to Rowan, wearer of a fedora, and on the list of murder suspects, nodded as we walked together.

  “Hard to stay inside on a day like this, isn’t it?” He looked up at the sky and pulled in a long, deep breath. “Ahh. I just love winter.”

  Smiling, I said, “Days in winter that are sunny and calm, right?”

  He chuckled. “Well, these days are a definite bonus. But I’m one of those freaks who actually likes winter. It helps that I don’t have to drive much.” He glanced at me. “How’s the bookmobile in the snow?”

  “Not so bad.” I actually thought it was outstanding. Though its weight and long wheelbase made the acceleration sluggish and braking distance long, it handled predictably, which was more than I could say about any other vehicle I’d ever driven in winter.

  But I also didn’t want to tempt fate. I had the sneaking suspicion that as soon as I bragged about the bookmobile’s fantastic winter driving capabilities, I’d slide into a great big ditch, a great big tow truck would have to be summoned to haul us out, everyone in town would hear about it, and I’d hear bad jokes for months, if not years. This was a situation to be avoided if at all possible, so I said again, “Not so bad,” and shrugged. “So what’s new with you? Designed anything interesting lately?”

  “Yes, and it’s so boring even my coworkers’ eyes glaze over when I talk about it. I’ll spare you the description. Think of it as a gift from me to you.”

  “I appreciate that.” Smiling, I really hoped that Stewart had not killed Rowan. Surely someone with that kind of self-awareness couldn’t possibly have ended a life.

  “The big news,” he said, “is that my divorce is final.”

  Divorce? I hadn’t even realized he and his wife had separated. “Um, should I offer my congratulations or my sympathies?”

  “Both.” His voice was light, but something about his diction gave me an uneasy feeling. “Congratulations for the final result,” he said, “and sympathy for having lived with someone almost twenty-five years who was continually lying to me.”

  The harshness in his voice now made sense. “I’m sorry. That must be hard.” And I was sorry, even though at bottom I didn’t know Stewart all that well. I’d never met his wife and didn’t even know if they’d had children. Still, I was sorry for any human pain, whether physical or emotional.

  He nodded. “Thanks, I appreciate that. Our friends are all taking sides, and it’s turning out I don’t have as many friends as I thought I did.”

  “Your real friends will stick with you.”

  “That’s what I hear,” he said grimly. “But what else could I do, other than divorce? She’d been stashing all this money away in a secret bank account and never said a word. Who knows what else she was hiding? It could be anything!”

  He waved his arms about, and I ducked a little to avoid being thumped.

  “Oh, sorry.” He gave a little laugh. “I get carried away. I’ll get over this in time, I’m sure, but I just couldn’t live with someone who lies to me. I just couldn’t.”

  I made noises of sympathy and understanding. And I was also very glad I’d come clean to Rafe the night before about my involvement in Rowan’s murder investigation, because hearing Stewart’s anger made me realize, way deep down inside, how Rafe could have interpreted my not telling him as a lie. Which was what Aunt Frances had said.

  “She’s smart,” I murmured to myself, and was once again glad I was related to her. And that I should take her advice far more often than I did. Except for any cooking advice. That just wasn’t going to happen.

  “What’s that?” Stewart asked.

  “Nothing,” I said. “I hope things get better for you soon, that’s all.” I pushed away the fleeting thought that I might be walking down the street with a killer and concentrated on the clear blue sky.

  * * *

  • • •

  “Tell me one more time?” I asked.

  “Mrr!”

  “Okay, you’re absolutely right. You’re more than right. And I agree one hundred percent.”

  “Mrr,” Eddie said more quietly.

  The two of us had been enjoying a cozy evening in front of the fireplace with popcorn and Netflix when, during an episode of Gilmore Girls, my furry friend had, for no apparent reason, stood on my lap and started yelling at me.

  My agreement seemed to appease him, although I had no idea what he was trying to tell me. But he didn’t need to know that. Or . . . did he? Did I need to be completely honest with my cat? There was no way that he understood ninety-nine point nine nine percent of what I was saying, but if I didn’t tell
Eddie everything, was I establishing a habit that would transfer to Rafe?

  I paused the television and looked deep into my cat’s yellow eyes. “Confession time. I have no idea what you were talking about, but whatever it was, I’m sure you’re right.”

  Eddie put his front paws on my chest. “Mrr!!” he yowled, his cat food breath hitting my face. “MRR!!” He gave me a disgusted look, stalked to the other end of the couch, and flopped down.

  “Sorry I’m so stupid.” One of his ears twitched back, so I knew he was listening. “And going on the assumption that I should be telling all the important beings in my life the important things that are going on in my life, I need to tell you that Rafe now knows I’m looking into Rowan’s murder.”

  Both his ears swiveled.

  “I hope that’s good news for you. But now things are going to get more complicated because Rafe says he wants in. That he wants to help.”

  Eddie started purring.

  “Really? You’re purring?” I sighed. “Is this a guy thing? Because I have to say I’m not looking forward to being tag teamed once we move into the house.”

  The purrs continued.

  Cats.

  “The next question is, how do I involve Rafe? It’s not like I have a task list I could split in two. It’s more of a winging-it thing for me.”

  Eddie continued to purr, which was comforting but no real help. I picked up the remote, then laid it down. “Out of all the suspects—”

  “Mrr?”

  “Right.” I nodded. “Let’s review. We have Sunny Scoles, restaurant owner, but not an owner of a food truck due to Rowan’s loan denial, which could be because of an inflated dollar request.”

  I waited, but Eddie didn’t say anything. “Moving on. We have Land Aprelle, handyman and woodworker, who had a huge fight with Rowan soon before she died.” I suddenly remembered that Anya had more to say about that. And I would have texted her about it, but my phone was out of reach. Later. I’d text her later.

  “Then there’s Stewart Funston, cousin with the sugar packets, and Hugh Novak, who wanted sugar packets and who is moving heaven and earth to get the township to build a new hall, something that Rowan was committed to preventing.”