Booking the Crook

by Laurie Cass

  “And now you’re saddled with me.” I tried to smile, to make a joke out of it. Didn’t work.

  “Hah. You’re nothing compared to some of those folks. Maybe someday I’ll tell you about Crazy Larry.” Jared tossed the newspaper under the counter. “Come on back. This will be fun.”

  And despite my trepidations, it actually was. Jared held my figurative hand all the way through the process, and at the end I was almost giddy with happiness over the final choice: brushed nickel, with oval knobs for the doors and drawer pulls that looked like what had been on the old card catalog drawers in my elementary school library. I’d toyed with the idea of Petoskey stones for the knobs, but figured those would be better in a bathroom.

  “Take some pictures,” Jared suggested, “and send them to Rafe.”

  I did so and an instant later got a return text: What book?

  Smiling, I texted back: Moby Dick

  Rafe, after a long pause, sent: Kidding?

  I texted back with: Yes. You’ll enjoy War and Peace far more, and quickly put away my phone. It was tempting to send a text to Kristen, telling her I’d finally triumphed over the hardware conundrum, but at this time of day she was probably in the middle of a run through the Key West heat and I didn’t want to distract her. “Thanks so much for all your help, Jared. I couldn’t have done it without you.” I smiled. “Maybe you should get into kitchen design.”

  “Not a chance. I’d rather pull off my fingernails with a pair of needle-nose pliers,” he said, but then looked off into the distance, as if he might be considering it.

  I started to get up, then sat down again. There had been two reasons I’d stopped by the store. “Last time I was in, a couple of weeks ago, we talked a little about Bax Tousely and the account with the City of Chilson. Is that . . . did that turn out okay for you?”

  It was an awkward question, awkwardly phrased, but I hadn’t been able to figure out a better way to ask. Luckily, Jared either didn’t feel the awkwardness or paid no attention to it.

  “Sure,” he said. “I remember. And it had been weird, the way Bax came in, no joke or anything, then left without saying a word. Turns out it was no big deal.”

  “Oh?” I asked, tipping my head, silently imploring him to go on.

  “Yeah. Bax stopped by last week for something else and explained. He’d been feeling like crap with the flu or something, and on top of that, he’d been up at three to start plowing. He was practically sleepwalking, sounded like. And when he was in the back here, he got a phone call from his boss saying he’d found the part they needed in the city’s shop, and that he, that’s Bax, should get his butt down to the job site five minutes ago or he, that’s Bax again, would be busted back to low man on the totem pole.”

  “That’s bad?”

  Jared smiled. “Means you’re the first to go down into a manhole or a trench to fix whatever needs fixing. Means you’re the one who gets cold, wet, and dirty first and longest.”

  “That would get old after a while,” I said, now understanding the city’s pecking order a little better. And I now understood that Bax’s odd behavior on the day Rowan died had nothing to do with Rowan. But there was one question remaining: Why had Leese seen Bax driving past the Bennethums’ house?

  * * *

  • • •

  “Hi, can I help you?”

  The young woman in the toy store looked bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, as my father might have said. Her long blond hair was tucked behind her ears, her smile was wide, and her name tag read TAYLOR.

  In my backpack was the list Mitchell had e-mailed me of the significant dates in the Bianca-Mitchell relationship. I’d stopped by to go over it with him. “Is Mitchell around?”

  Taylor shook her head. “He’s off today. Is there anything I can help you with?”

  “Thanks, but I’m just looking around to get ideas for . . . for my nieces’ and nephews’ birthdays. They aren’t anytime soon,” I added quickly. “I just want to be, um, prepared.”

  It was my day for awkward statements, but just as Jared hadn’t seemed to notice, neither did Taylor.

  “That’s a great idea,” she said, nodding. “I wish more people would do that. This gives you time to learn what’s available, what’s in your price range, what the kids really want, and”—she grinned—“what the parents want you to get.”

  “It’s complicated, isn’t it?” I asked the question a bit slowly, because I was beginning to see that giving a great gift truly was. Mitchell had been a big help to me with the last cycle of young relative gifts, and odds were good that he’d trained Taylor to use that same approach.

  “All part of the fun.” Taylor smiled.

  I thanked her and said I’d flag her down if I needed anything.

  “Perfect,” she said cheerfully. “Just give me a yell.” She walked behind the counter and started tapping away on the checkout computer’s keyboard.

  My phone, which until now had been blessedly quiet, beeped with an incoming text. It was from Anya. Collier just failed a big test. Any chance of finding Mom’s killer soon?

  I read the message over and over again until I heard Taylor’s footsteps approaching.

  “Find any good ideas?” she asked.

  “Not fast enough,” I muttered.

  “Sorry?” Taylor’s face was open and questioning.

  “This is a great store,” I said, mustering up a smile as I shoved the phone back into my coat pocket. The girl was trying to help and I needed to be nicer to her. “How long have you been working here? I stop in fairly often, that’s all, and I’m surprised we haven’t met before now.”

  “I started right after Thanksgiving. But my schedule is all jumbled because I’m taking classes at the college and working at Fat Boys. Mitchell works it out for me, though.”

  “Mitchell’s a good boss?” A question that, a year ago, I would have bet all the money in the world I’d never, ever ask.

  “The best,” she said, with small earnest nods. “Not that I’ve had that many jobs, but he’s really nice and really patient with me. I mean, like you said, this stuff is complicated and it takes a while to figure things out.”

  “It does, doesn’t it?” I asked.

  And maybe that was my problem. Maybe I’d been thinking too simply about Rowan’s death. Maybe instead of my usual method of trying to break things down into bits to make it easier to get at the truth, maybe the truth was that it was complicated, that it couldn’t be broken down because it all hung together in one big tangled lump.

  Still thinking, I sketched a vague wave at Taylor and headed back out into the cold.

  * * *

  • • •

  The next day I was still troubled about Anya’s text message. Since I’d fallen asleep early, I hadn’t been able to talk to either Rafe (at a middle school basketball game) or Aunt Frances (evening woodworking class), so I told Julia about it on the way out to the first bookmobile stop, the township farthest south and east in the county.

  “Did you text her back?” Julia asked.

  “As soon as I got out on the street.” I tried to remember the exact message, but since I tended to have the memory of a plush blanket, I had to paraphrase. “I told her we were all working hard to help and that I hoped to give her good news soon.”

  “Bet that wasn’t much comfort.”

  Her words were like a physical blow. Don’t cry, I told myself. Do not cry. After a deep and raggy breath, I said, “I’m sure it wasn’t.”

  “Hey, you’re not blaming yourself, are you?” Julia asked. “Oh, bugger, you are. I’m sorry, honey, I didn’t mean any of this is your fault. You’re doing all you can, and the sheriff’s office is doing all they can. But even still, Anya and Collier and Neil are suffering. And they will continue to grieve, even when the murderer is slapped into prison, because no matter what, Rowan will be dead and noth
ing anyone does will bring her back.”

  Which, of course, was the one thing they all wanted and the one thing that wouldn’t happen. Then a quiet whisper wandered through my brain—did Neil want Rowan back? He hadn’t returned any of my calls, which seemed like something a grief-stricken husband would do straightaway.

  Then again, there were probably good reasons for his silence. I couldn’t come up with any, but there had to be at least one out there.

  The first stop of the day was one of my favorites, primarily because of Lawrence Zonne. The octogenarian Mr. Zonne had lived in Tonedagana County most of his life, retired early to Florida with his wife, then moved back to be closer to children and grandchildren after his wife passed away. He was smart, funny, and had a memory far better than mine had ever been. Plus, he and Eddie were great pals.

  “Good morning, bookmobile ladies!” Mr. Zonne said as he bounded up the steps. He pulled off a colorful knit hat and his thick white hair sprung out in all directions. “How are you this fine morning? And Mr. Edward, you are looking very handsome.”

  “Mrr.”

  “Likewise, likewise.” He patted the top of Eddie’s head, then after pulling off his gloves, he rubbed his hands together. I couldn’t tell if it was to warm them or if he was making a gesture of anticipation, but it could well have been both.

  “What do you have for me today?” he asked. “I’m in the mood for medieval adventure and derring-do.”

  Julia pondered the question. “Wars and battles?”

  “I’d prefer more of the white knight rescuing the young maiden who is perfectly capable of saving herself, but allows herself to be rescued in order to maintain the illusion of male ego and thereby assists with the propagation of the human species.” He brandished an imaginary sword and slashed at an imaginary foe.

  “Mrr!” Eddie batted at Mr. Zonne’s left foot.

  “Are you for me or against?” Mr. Zonne thundered. “One ‘Mrr’ if you’re a friend, two if you’re an enemy!”

  I laughed as Eddie chose that particular moment to lick one of his back feet. “Sounds like you should be writing romances, not reading them. Sure you don’t want a second career?”

  “Too much work. Especially the research.” He shuddered. “Having to get the historical details right is too complicated. I would inevitably do something horrendous like having Britons eat tomatoes before they were available in that country, and I wouldn’t be able to live with the scathing reviews.”

  Again with the complications. “Do you know the Bennethums?” I asked. “East of Chilson.”

  “You mean Rowan? That poor girl. She was a Funston, yes? Or was she a Raferty?” Neither Julia nor I happened to know her maiden name, but it didn’t seem to matter much. “That group was all in the generation between,” he said. “Ten-ish years younger than our offspring. I don’t know them at all.”

  So even more complications.

  At the end of the stop, Mr. Zonne went away happy with a sack full of novels by Edward Rutherfurd and Robert Graves, with one by Michener, just in case.

  “Another satisfied customer,” Julia said. “In you go, Mr. Ed.” She opened the door to the cat carrier, tossed a treat inside, and shut the door behind Eddie, who bounded inside after the food.

  We buckled ourselves in and I started us down the road to the next stop. “Someday he’s going to stop liking those treats,” I said, “and my life will never be the same.”

  “All you have to do is find a treat he does like.” Julia tapped the carrier with the toes of her boots. “How hard could that be? I mean he eats bread, for crying out loud, so you’d think any cat treat would be—”

  “Mrr!”

  Julia instantly stopped tapping. “Sorry, Master Edward. You usually don’t mind.”

  “MRR!!”

  The insides of my ears cringed. “Geez, Eddie, quit it already, will you? This is an enclosed space and—”

  “MRRR!!!”

  I braked to as quick a stop as I could, because that last howl had sounded so horrible that I was sure he was being drawn and quartered by the unseen foes Mr. Zonne had been battling. Julia opened the carrier door and I laid myself across the console, putting my head at cat level. “Are you all right, pal?” I asked, peering in.

  Eddie was sitting smack in the middle of the carrier’s floor, staring at me with that look he was so good at giving, the one that conveyed contempt, irritation, annoyance, and a teeny bit of tolerance for the antics of his staff.

  He didn’t say anything, so I reached in. A deep purr started almost immediately.

  “You are a rotten cat.” I gave him a pat and latched the door.

  “He’s really okay?” Julia asked, frowning.

  “As okay as he’ll ever be.” I pushed myself back upright and reached over for the seat belt. In doing so, I noticed the house on the opposite side of the road.

  Around us, the land was wide and rolling. The trees had been clear-cut for lumber a hundred years ago and, due to poor soil, they hadn’t fully regrown. Properties out here tended to be multiple acres, and neighbors were often barely within shouting distance. As a result of low density and disinclination for governmental interference, many of the townships on this side of the county had few regulations, a situation that could allow circumstances that would draw neighborly ire in more populated areas.

  Like the house over there. Even in February, its huge front yard was occupied by a row of cars facing the street. They were, of course, snow-covered, but I’d seen them often enough in warmer times to know they were all for sale at Low, Low Prices!

  “Hmm,” I said.

  “What’s that?” Julia asked.

  I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel, then pulled out my cell phone. “Listen in,” I told her, and dialed the phone number for Deputy Ash Wolverson.

  “Hey,” he said, answering straightaway. “You guys okay?”

  I looked down at my arms and legs. Looked over at Julia and Eddie. All safe and sound. “Sure. Why wouldn’t we be?”

  He blew out a sigh. “Lots of accidents today. The direction of the wind yesterday drifted shut most of the back roads, and you drive that bookmobile all over, and . . . well, anyway, what’s up?”

  A warm and fuzzy feeling curled up around my heart. Though Ash and I hadn’t worked out as a couple, our new friendship was turning into something solid, something I hoped would last for years. “Did Leon Clohessy call you?” I asked. “About that SUV with a missing headlight he saw leaving Rowan’s house?”

  “He did.” I heard the tapping of a keyboard. “Anything else?”

  It occurred to me that friends could be as annoying as cats. “Yes. I assume you’re going to be checking car part stores.”

  “On my list,” he said. “But I have to be honest, it’s not high up there. Hal says—”

  Since I was pretty sure I didn’t want to hear what Detective Inwood had to say, I talked over him. “I was just thinking that if it was the killer in that SUV, he might have bought a new headlight from a junkyard for cash, so there’d be no money trail.”

  I heard a sigh on the other end of the line.

  “Yeah,” Ash said. “He or she might have.”

  I felt a pang of guilt for the extra work I was tossing into his lap. He was starting to sound as tired as Hal. “Tell you what. The bookmobile route eventually goes past most of the junkyards in the county. How about if I stop and ask about headlights? If I learn anything, I’ll pass it on.”

  “Knock yourself out,” Ash said. “I have to run. See you later.”

  “Okay. Stay safe—”

  But he was already gone.

  * * *

  • • •

  That evening, I mulled over the events of the day. “The complications of the day, more like,” I murmured.

  “Sorry?” Aunt Frances asked.

  We
were in the kitchen, cleaning up after dinner. Rather, I was cleaning up because my aunt had (luckily for all involved) done the cooking, and she was sitting at the kitchen table sorting through the last few days of newspapers, getting ready to read the 911 reports out loud to me.

  I hesitated, then blurted out pretty much everything, starting with Mitchell’s list. By the time I was telling her about my junkyard call to Ash, I was putting away the last of the silverware. “So maybe it’s just . . . complicated,” I summed up. “What do you think?”

  Aunt Frances looked at me over the top of her reading glasses. “I think you should call Anya Bennethum. And by call, I mean an actual call, not a text. The poor girl is trying to be a mother to Collier and she’s floundering.”

  “I don’t know anything about being a mother,” I protested.

  “No, but you’re the one she’s reaching out to.”

  It took me roughly two and a half seconds to grasp the obvious. “You’re right,” I said.

  “Of course I am.” She tapped the stack of newspapers. “And as soon as you finish talking to Anya, we can get back to the evening’s entertainment.” My aunt was a big believer in the carrot and stick approach, at least when it came to managing Minnie’s behavior, primarily because it worked.

  “Back in a few,” I said, and headed upstairs to my room to make the call, pausing briefly to pat Eddie, who was curled up in a corner of the couch, snoring loud enough to rattle china.

  “Hey, Minnie,” Anya answered a little breathlessly. “Have they arrested someone?”

  “Not yet,” I said. Then, since I was still hearing panting breaths, I asked, “Um, what are you doing?”

  “Oh. Sorry. I can stop.” Her breathing returned to normal. “I don’t like elevators much and my apartment is on the building’s fourth floor. Mom always said it would be good for me either way, that I’d get used to elevators or I’d get lots of exercise.”

  “Your mom was a wise woman,” I said.

  “She—” Anya stopped. Breathed deep. Then, “I miss her,” she said in a small voice.