Booking the Crook

by Laurie Cass

  My boots made a squishy splash! splash! noise as I walked downtown, which amused me to no end. I was enjoying the sound and the sight of the spurting snow so much, and enjoying the fact that my earlier bad mood was gone, that I jumped when someone spoke to me.

  “Having fun, Minnie?”

  Tom Abinaw, or Cookie Tom, as most people called him, was standing on the sidewalk outside his bakery, shovel in hand, smiling at me.

  I spent half a second hoping my face was already red with cold, which meant he wouldn’t see the slightly embarrassed flush creeping over my face. “Absolutely,” I said. “You should try it. It’s fun.” For a three-year-old, but did that really matter?

  He laughed, shaking his head. “Snow and I are not good friends. Besides, baking is enough fun for me. Speaking of which, you haven’t stopped by lately.”

  Tom gave me a deal on the cookies I bought for the bookmobile patrons. However, there was nowhere in the library budget for expenditures like that, and I paid for them out of my own pocket.

  “Christmas,” I said, by roundabout way of explanation. “Every year I set a budget and every year I zip past it at light speed. One more cycle of credit card bills and I’ll be paid off, so expect me soon.”

  “I’ll be waiting,” he said, nodding, and went back to his slush-shoveling.

  Once again I wondered how a baker, a person surrounded by cookies and cakes and doughnuts, could stay as thin as Tom did. Maybe he was an ultra-long-distance runner, one of those people who regularly ran twenty or thirty or fifty miles at a time. Or maybe he was allergic to almost everything, and subsisted solely on oatmeal and carrots. But you’d think that would make him grumpy, and Tom was one of the most contented people I’d ever met in my life.

  “You look happy,” Carl, the deputy at the front desk, said after sliding open the glass window. “So you can’t possibly want to talk to Hal.”

  I laughed. “He can be a fun-killer, can’t he? But yes, I would like to talk to him if he’s around. Or Ash.”

  “You might be in luck,” Carl said. “Or unluck, if that’s a word. I think they just came back in. Hang on.”

  While I waited, I checked my phone and saw a new text from Anya.

  Anya: Anything new?

  Me: At the sheriff’s office right now.

  Anya: Hope so Collier isn’t going to classes

  Me: Tell your dad.

  Anya: Tried but nothing in days

  My jaw firmed. Something had to be done to help that boy. I started typing. Get Collier to a doctor. I’m—

  “Ms. Hamilton? When you’re ready.” Detective Hal Inwood held the door open.

  —I’m going to light a fire under someone’s you-know-what.

  Smiling, I pushed the Send button and slid the phone into my coat pocket as I walked into the interview room. “Thanks for seeing me.”

  “Is it too much to hope for that someday you’ll call and make an appointment?” Hal sat in one of the plastic chairs.

  “Not too much, no,” I said. “But if the past is indicative of the future, it’s not going to happen anytime soon.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of,” he said, sighing. “Ash, have a seat.”

  Ash, who had just come into the room, sat across from me. “Hey, Minnie.”

  “Have you been in contact with Rowan’s family?” I asked. “Keeping them up to date with the investigation?”

  There was a quick exchange of glances on the other side of the table. “When there’s something to report, Mr. Bennethum is called,” Hal said.

  “Not the kids?” I heard the tone of demand in my voice and didn’t back away from it. “Not Anya and Collier?”

  “Ms. Hamilton,” Hal said, “there are only so many hours in the day. Mr. Bennethum is our primary contact with the family. If he isn’t communicating with his children, they should take it up with him.”

  “But they are!” I hopped my chair closer and leaned forward. “They’re trying, anyway, and he’s not responding. I’m not sure they know where he is.” I caught another silent exchange. “Do you?”

  “Our information is confidential,” Hal said.

  I wanted to bang my fist on the table, but could hear my mother’s voice in my head, admonishing me. Instead, I took a deep breath. “Fine,” I said. “But you should know that Collier Bennethum is probably sliding into clinical depression. His sister says he’s not going to classes and is sleeping all the time and the only thing he talks about is their mom’s killer is alive when their mom is dead. I told her to tell Neil, but she says her dad hasn’t answered a text in days.”

  Hal stirred. “I’m sorry for young Mr. Bennethum, but we’re doing all we can.”

  “What about the broken headlight? What about the sugar packet? Stop shaking your head,” I snapped, because my anger was now well and truly stoked. “That packet matters. Ask your wife. Ask Sheriff Richardson, if you don’t believe me.”

  “Ms. Hamilton,” Hal began, but I stood up abruptly. It was a waste of my time and theirs to sit any longer.

  I whirled and left the room. Somewhere behind me I heard someone call my name, but what was there to say? I nodded to Carl and walked straight out into the cold.

  Chapter 16

  I spent the night in fitful sleep, rolling from one side to the other in a vain attempt at finding a position that would send me into slumber. Eddie gave up on me about two in the morning and did a loud thump-thump! to the floor. When I got up, bleary eyed and still tired, I found him curled up on the big living room couch.

  “And here I thought you loved me,” I told him.

  “Mrr.”

  “Well, sure, I was moving around a lot last night, but that doesn’t mean—”

  “Mrr!” he said, then shut his eyes firmly.

  Smiling, I kissed the top of his fuzzy head. “See you tonight, okay?”

  He didn’t move a muscle as I pulled on boots and the rest of my winter gear, but when I paused at the front door and looked back, his eyes were open the tiniest of slits.

  “Love you, too, buddy!” As I closed the door, I could have sworn I heard one more “Mrr,” which wasn’t surprising since cats have an innate need to have the last word.

  “Well, Eddie does, anyway,” I said to myself as I started the car. One of these days I was going to have to compare notes with other people who lived with cats. Maybe Eddie wasn’t so unusual. Maybe all cats ate bread, dropped toys in their water dishes, and held complete conversations with their human companions.

  I was still thinking about it when I pulled into the Red House Café’s parking lot. My aunt had spent the night at Otto’s house, and upon waking, I’d decided that a big breakfast was what I needed to fuel me for the rest of what was going to be a long day. And since I obviously wasn’t going to cook my own food, what better place to go than Sunny’s?

  There were no other cars in the parking lot, but that almost made sense. It was half past eight, a little late for the early Sunday morning breakfast crowd and too early for folks who liked to sleep in.

  Still, it was eerie walking into a completely empty restaurant. Really, really empty. No one was at the front counter; no one was in the dining area. “Hello?” I called. “Is anyone here? Sunny?”

  The front door had been unlocked and the lights were on; it was all a little too much Mary Celeste. “Someone’s here, right?” I asked, primarily to hear a human voice. “Anyone?” Back behind the swinging kitchen door, I heard . . . something. Relieved to get a sign of life, I headed back, but when I raised my hand to knock on the door to the inner sanctum, I stopped.

  The noise was someone crying. The kind of deep sobbing that racks your insides, the kind that makes you feel as if you’ll be weeping the rest of your life, the kind that comes from despair.

  I pushed the door open.

  Sunny was on a stool, her face in her hand
s, shoulders heaving. She looked up and wiped her face with her fingers. “Minnie,” she managed to say. “Sorry, I’m just—” A sob overtook her and she put her face back in her hands.

  I hurried to put my arms around her. “It’ll be all right,” I said. “Whatever it is, it’ll be all right.”

  She shook her head against my shoulder and talked through her sobs. “No, it won’t . . . It hasn’t been right in years, but I didn’t know . . . I can’t believe I didn’t . . . I’ve tried so hard, but there’s nothing . . . nothing I can do.”

  I hugged her tight as she continued to cry. Her sobs eventually subsided and I released her, rubbing her back gently. “If you want to talk about whatever this was about,” I said, “I’m here to listen. If you don’t, that’s fine, too.”

  Sunny gulped down a final sob and looked at me. “Come to the Red House Café, where you come in for breakfast and end up with a front full of tears.”

  I looked my coat, which was indeed a bit damp. “It’ll dry.” Eventually.

  “Sorry you had to see this.” Sunny pulled in a deep breath and let it out shakily. “Breakfast on the house.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” I said.

  “Of course I do.” She stood, expertly tore a single paper towel off a handy roll, and blew her nose. “Let me wash my hands and I’ll make you whatever you want.”

  A few minutes later a plate heaped with chocolate chip pancakes was placed in front of me, with a jug of real Michigan maple syrup alongside. I took a bite and moaned with pleasure. “This is amazing. Better than Kristen’s, and I can’t wait to tell her so.”

  “Kristen?” Sunny’s eyebrows went up. “You’re not talking about Kristen Jurek, are you?”

  I chewed and swallowed, and said, “She’s my best friend. Do you know her?”

  “She’s my idol,” Sunny said reverently. “I want to be her when I grow up.”

  That, I would not pass on to Kristen. “Well, you make better pancakes than she does, so I’d stick with who you are.”

  Sunny looked into the dining area. She’d propped the kitchen door open while she cooked for me, but it was still empty of life. “Not sure that’s a very good choice.” She pulled a stool over. “And not just because I don’t know if my restaurant will make it to summer. I owe you an explanation for my crying jag.”

  “Not if you’re uncomfortable with talking about it,” I said.

  “Tell you the truth, it might be a relief.” Sunny stared at the counter. “Do you have siblings? Are you close?”

  “A brother.” Were we close? Matt was nine years older and he lived in Florida with his wife and three children. “Middling close, I guess.”

  “Then maybe you’ll understand and maybe you won’t.” She sighed. “My sister and I are only eleven months apart. We grew up almost like twins. Together all the time, hardly ever fighting. We finished each other’s sentences, traded clothes, all that.”

  Her smile faded. “Three years ago, she was in a car accident and hurt her back. To make a long story short, she got addicted to opioids and we’re afraid she’s going to start on heroin.” Sunny’s voice wobbled. “We’re trying to find the money to get her into rehab. The only places with beds open are private facilities, and they’re so expensive. I tried getting a loan, but that didn’t work, so now we’re scraping together what we can. I mean, even a week has to help, right?” Her expression begged me to agree.

  “Absolutely. And no matter what, it can’t hurt,” I said.

  “That’s what I say.” Sunny nodded. “Mom isn’t so sure, but the rest of the family is on board. We’re trying to keep my sister’s addiction quiet. She works for a big company, she’s in line for a big promotion, and if this gets out . . .” She pounded one fist on top of the other. “We can’t let it get out, we just can’t. It would ruin her reputation.”

  The front door opened and closed and the voices of prospective customers trickled into the kitchen.

  “Looks like I get to cook some more,” Sunny said, attempting a smile. “Thanks for listening.”

  With my fork I speared another small wedge of pancakes, thinking that I’d finally found an answer to the question of why she hadn’t admitted to having an alibi, an answer that I wouldn’t have guessed in a thousand years.

  Which led me directly to another question: What else hadn’t I guessed?

  * * *

  • • •

  The man sitting at the center of the long curved table banged a small wooden hammer. “The regular meeting of the Wicklow Township Board is now called to order.” He laid the gavel down. “We will now recite the Pledge of Allegiance.”

  As one unit, the audience of about thirty people stood, me along with them, hands on our hearts. When the pledge was done, we all sat down. I settled into my hard plastic seat, trying to find a comfortable position and failing completely, and looked forward to an interesting evening. Up front were the five members of the township board. I recognized two: Charlotte, the clerk who’d given the bookmobile permission to stop in their parking lot, and the supervisor, who’d walked out with Hugh Novak.

  The board’s names were spelled out in nameplates sitting in front of them, so I could see that the supervisor’s name was Ralph Keshwas. The nameplates of the other board members were hidden by the heads of the many people sitting in front of me, so I mentally gave them names of Young Man (he looked about my age, which made him about thirty years younger than all of his fellow board members), Serious Lady (she was reading the pile of papers in front of her with great concentration), and Eyebrow Guy (his were remarkably bushy).

  “Next is approval of the agenda,” Ralph Keshwas said, dropping his reading glasses from the top of his head onto his nose. “Are there any additions to the agenda?”

  It turned out there were. Charlotte requested the addition of a budget amendment, Eyebrow Guy asked to add a grant application, and I started to get the feeling this was going to be a long meeting. To my left, a woman was using her purse as a clipboard as she wrote on a piece of paper. I peered at it surreptitiously, and I realized it was a copy of the meeting’s agenda.

  Huh.

  I turned in my chair and saw, right next to the doorway into the meeting room, a small table with a stack of papers atop. Could it be that I’d walked past the agendas without even noticing? I stood as quietly and unobtrusively as I could, tiptoed to the back, picked one up, and started to read as I went back to my chair. Next would be—

  “Public comment,” Ralph said. “Young lady, please state your name and address.”

  Dead silence.

  I looked up. Every face in the room was turned to me. “Um,” I said. “None, thanks.” The faces stayed stuck in my direction, so I did what I did best in times of stress: babbled. “Public comment, I mean. I got up to get a copy of the agenda, that’s all, I don’t have anything to say, really.” And since that was very clearly true, I sat down as fast as I could.

  “Thank you,” Ralph said, so straight-faced that I suspected an underlying foundation of irony. “Next? Okay, I think your hand was first. Step up to the podium.”

  “Hugh Novak, 2978 Maple Lane.”

  I’d been reading over the agenda, but my head snapped up.

  “Tonight,” Hugh said, “you have an action item of ‘New Township Hall,’ and I’d like to cite the reasons you should go ahead with that.”

  “Besides it being next to your property?” someone in the audience called out.

  Hugh whirled and pointed directly at his heckler. “You’ve lived here two years and now you want everything to stay the same for, what, the rest of your life? If you don’t like the way things are run here, then move back downstate!”

  The audience murmured, with some people nodding, others shaking their heads. A sharp rap up front quieted them all. Ralph laid down the gavel. “This is the board’s public comment period,” he sa
id calmly. “Everyone will have their turn to speak, but your comments must be directed to the board and the board only.”

  I was sitting in the back corner, so my view of Hugh Novak was from the rear, and I could clearly see his clenched fists.

  “As I was trying to say,” Hugh growled out, “here are the reasons you should go ahead with a new township hall.” He listed a number of items, ranging from easier voting access for the elderly to new revenue that would result from rentals of the new meeting space for high school open houses, family reunions, and wedding receptions.

  When Hugh had finished his list, he gave the board a long look. “Building a new hall is clearly in the best interest of the township as a whole. Do the right thing.”

  He sat, arms crossed, and spent the rest of the meeting staring forward. Even when the board voted to postpone their decision on a new township hall until the next meeting, Hugh continued to stare them down, his face blank and eyes barely blinking.

  * * *

  • • •

  “It was weird,” I told Eddie as I climbed into bed. “And not a good weird. More a creepy weird, like how your tummy feels after eating that fourth cookie.”

  “Mrr?”

  “That was what you call an analogy. I didn’t actually eat four cookies, I was just comparing that feeling to how I felt at tonight’s meeting.” My only purpose for going to the meeting had been to learn what I could about Hugh Novak, and I’d been more than successful.

  “Point to Minnie,” I murmured, pulling the sheets and comforter to my chin. I patted the space next to me. Eddie jumped up, completely ignored the space I’d indicated, walked across my legs, and settled down on top of my stomach.

  “Okay, then,” I said. “Let’s review the progress to date. There were originally five suspects, and two have been eliminated.” At least by me. I had no idea if the sheriff’s office had the same point of view and wasn’t about to ask.