by Laurie Cass
“Well, precedent counts,” I said, smiling. “And that’s what the offices of the other five junkyards in the area looked like. How was I to know you’d be the single solitary exception to the rule?”
The guy laughed. “Point taken. Sorry about that; you’re the first person I’ve seen today and I’m told that I can forget to be polite.” He stood and held out a hand. “Rob Caldwell.”
I introduced myself and said, “Nice to meet you. Um, if you’re Rob, who’s Buster?”
“No idea. I bought this place a couple of years ago and never changed the name. It’s been Buster’s for decades. So what can I do for you? I hope you don’t want parts for that,” he said, nodding at the office window, through which the bookmobile was visible. “I specialize in unusual parts, but all I have for that is a recommendation to contact a yard in Ohio.”
“I’m looking for an SUV headlight.”
“That I can do.” Rob sat down and tapped his computer to life. “Make, model, year?”
“No idea,” I said, then jumped ahead of his protest. “What I’m wondering is, has anyone else bought a headlight in the last few weeks?” Rob frowned, but his fingers were still on the keyboard, so I kept talking.
“There was a . . . crime committed just over a month ago, and someone saw a car with a broken headlight driving away. The sheriff’s office is following up, they’re checking auto parts stores, but they’re pretty much convinced that whoever it was ordered a new one online and they’ll never be able to track that.” I took a deep breath. “So I’m talking to the junkyards, figuring that maybe, just maybe, that’s where the guy bought a replacement.”
Rob leaned back. “I don’t have to look that up. No one has bought a headlight from me since before Christmas.”
“Oh.” My shoulders slumped. “Well, it was worth a try. Thanks for your time.”
“Hang on,” Rob said, and I turned back. “I said no one bought a headlight, and that’s true.” He half smiled. “But someone did steal one. And before you ask, no, I never reported it to the police, because who’s going to arrest anyone for stealing a ten-dollar headlight from a junkyard?”
The insides of my wrists tingled. “From an SUV?”
“Don’t remember, but I could tell you if—” The telephone sitting on his desk rang. “Buster’s Junkyard, we have exactly what your wife hopes you won’t find. How can I—oh, hey, honey. What’s up?” His gaze flicked to me. “I have a customer here, but—okay. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Love you, too.”
He hung up the phone. “Sorry, but I have to get going. My husband’s family is coming up for a long weekend and half of them showed up early to beat the weather.”
“You started to say something, that you could tell me it was an SUV if . . . what?”
Rob clicked his mouse, making the familiar motions of tidying up his computer desktop before leaving for the day. “Not without looking at the security video. I can do that for you on Monday. Just give me a call.”
“Could you please take a minute and do it now?” I asked.
“I really have to go. Sorry.” He stood.
“Please?” How could I convince him? How could I communicate how important this was? “This isn’t about the headlight. That crime I mentioned? It was a murder,” I said flatly. “And your headlight thief could be the killer.”
Rob sat down slowly. “Murder? I heard something about a woman who was poisoned. Is that what this is about?”
“If you could just look at the security video,” I said. “Please.”
He glanced at the wall clock. Hesitated, then said, “Sure. I’ll have to do some explaining, but sure.” He started clicking away on the keyboard and chatting about the security measures he’d put in place since he’d bought Buster’s. He talked about fencing and lights and how a fresh coat of paint could deter thieves and, still clicking, talked about how he’d decided to buy cameras after he’d noticed an absence of hood ornaments. “The system I installed out there is a glorified trail cam. The cameras cover the entire yard and only turn on when there’s motion. I get raccoons mostly.” He smiled as he clicked. “Cute little buggers, unless you’re trying to keep them out of your garden. Last year Tony was at his wit’s end with—ah, here it is.”
Rob angled the monitor so I could see. “Yeah, that’s an SUV he’s pulling it out of. I meant to get out there and take a look so I could revise my inventory, but haven’t got around to it yet.”
I leaned forward. On the screen was the fuzzy image of a man who looked to be about six feet tall, in a dark coat wearing dark gloves and a hat. A very distinctive hat.
“Thanks,” I said quietly. “One more thing. Could you please e-mail that video clip to the sheriff’s office?”
Chapter 18
Mrr.”
I buckled my seat belt and started the engine, talking to Eddie as I did so. “How was I supposed to know that video clip was too big to e-mail? If I have tech questions, I ask Josh, and he’s not here, now is he?” Luckily, because I was sure he would have made fun of me for my lack of knowledge.
“Mrr!”
“Sure, I could have called him, but it’s a little late now, isn’t it? And anyway, until we get out of this valley, there’s no cell service.”
“Mrr!”
I slid a glance over at Eddie, turned on the headlights, and dropped the transmission into gear. “If you’re asking about what I saw on Rob’s video, you’ll be glad to know there’s no way it was Neil.” Neil wasn’t that tall, and he was far bigger around.
But my sigh of relief had frozen when I’d studied the image more closely. The man had been wearing a dark winter coat resembling coats worn by Hugh Novak and Stewart Funston. Far more telling was the hat, that unusual earflap fedora I’d seen both men wearing, a kind I’d never seen on anyone else’s head.
“It was either Hugh or Stewart,” I said out loud, easing my foot onto the accelerator and exhaling with relief when the bookmobile’s tires found traction and inched us forward. Yes, we had great tires and the weight made winter driving reasonably easy, but the current road conditions were less than stellar. “Let’s think about motive.”
“Mrrr!”
“Exactly.” I steered us out of the gravel parking lot. “We haven’t the foggiest idea why Stewart might have killed Rowan, but we know what Hugh’s motive probably is. At the township meeting, Hugh was furious at that guy in the audience. And if you’re that angry in a public meeting, what would it take to tip you into murder?”
I thought about it as I looked both ways—no traffic, such a surprise!—and pulled onto Lolly Road. “Whoa, speaking of tipping . . .”
The time I’d been in Buster’s had been long enough to turn the dusk into complete darkness and, unhappily, to freeze the road’s slush to ice. The bookmobile, usually the epitome of driving stability, seesawed left and right on the slick surface. “Don’t, don’t, don’t,” I murmured in a sort of a prayer as adrenaline shot through me. “Please don’t . . .”
After a few more slips back and forth, we hit a patch of actual asphalt and straightened out.
I blew out a breath and tried to release the tension in my neck. “Anyway, it was either Hugh or Stewart. Thanks to Rob, I have the video clip on a flash drive, and as soon as we get into cell phone range—and find a place to pull over because, as you know, I don’t use my cell while driving the bookmobile, per library policy—I’ll call Ash.” Or Hal, but I’d rather talk to Ash.
“Mrr!”
“What’s that? Hugh’s exact motive? Huh. I thought I told you. Rowan had been organizing people to speak up against the new township hall. After the meeting, I talked to a few people, and they said she’d gone door to door, handing out information about building costs and advising folks to make up their own minds. Apparently she told everyone that if they felt strongly one way or the other to show up at the board meetings for publi
c comment.”
Even over the noise of the bookmobile, I heard the unmistakable sound of Eddie’s body as he flopped against the wire door of the cat carrier. “Well, I agree with you, a new township hall doesn’t seem worth murdering over, but if it’s built, Hugh could make a lot more money from a business on his property if a new hall goes in.”
Eddie’s head clunked against the door.
“Why do you do that?” I asked. “One of these days you’re going to give yourself a concussion.”
“Mrr,” he said, then, from the sounds of it—I didn’t dare look away from the road, so sounds were all I had to go on—he started chewing the door.
“You are so weird. But back to murder motives. I’ve read that domestic disputes are the number one reason for murder, with money number two, but it sure seems to me that there’s a lot of overlap. I mean, aren’t most fights between couples about money? And if a fight gets bad, isn’t . . . oh, geez.”
I eased my foot off the accelerator and said in a voice even I could hear was tight with tension, “Okay, this could be bad. Really bad.”
“Mrr?”
I ignored Eddie’s question. Not intentionally, really, it was just my brain was too busy trying to figure out what I was going to do in the next three seconds. Because up ahead, gusting toward us furiously, was a nearly solid wall of white. Snow. Snow coming down thick and fast. So thick and so fast that all I could do was hold tight and pray that we’d make it through.
The snow hit the windshield and we were instantly inside the whitest whiteout I’d ever endured. All the other whiteouts I’d driven through and thought were the worst had nothing on this.
“Oh, geez,” I heard myself murmuring again. “Oh, geez, oh, geez.” I also heard a low growl that must have been coming from Eddie, but either the snow and wind were transforming his sounds, or he was making a noise I’d never heard.
“We’ll be okay,” I said, almost shouting to make sure he could hear me over the noise of the snow and wind and road. “All we have to do is get through the next few miles.” I wasn’t exactly sure where we were, but my guess was we were halfway between Rob/Buster’s place and a highway that was bound to be in better condition than Lolly Road.
“Sure to be,” I murmured. “Has to be.” Because if it wasn’t, we might spend the rest of the winter out here, encased in a snowbank, waiting for the spring thaw.
“Rrrrrrr,” Eddie said, his growl growing louder.
“Doing all I can, pal.” I peered through the windshield and saw what I’d been seeing—white. “We’re still on the road. Down on the right, there, I can see the edge of the asphalt.” Not the actual asphalt, since everything was covered in snow, but I could make out the change in elevation from roadway to ditch. As long as I could keep that in sight, we’d be fine. At least that was my plan.
“Rrrrr!”
Once again, I ignored my cat. “You know, I used to complain about not having a white line on the edge of these roads, like on highways, but maybe it’s better on these roads. What good would it do, really, and—”
“RRR!!” Eddie’s growl turned into a spitting hiss, sounding like he was in a fight for his life.
“Chill, buddy,” I said. “We’re okay. Honest. We just have to—what in the—”
Out of nowhere, an SUV had appeared, pulling up alongside the bookmobile.
Seriously? Someone was trying to pass in these conditions?
I shook my head and inched the bookmobile as far to the right as I dared, but the SUV didn’t go around. Instead, it moved closer.
“You have got to be kidding.” Trying to give the driver the benefit of the doubt—maybe it was a guy with a wife in labor and he was trying to rush her to the hospital but she was terrified of passing the bookmobile in the snow so he was trying to get more space to go around—I steered us a teensy bit farther right and instantly felt the tires ride over the outside edge of the asphalt.
The SUV moved closer.
I did about the last thing I wanted to do—took one hand off the steering wheel. I jammed the heel of my hand into the middle of the steering column and laid on the horn.
It did no good; the SUV moved even closer, its headlights merging with ours. If it moved any closer, it would hit us and there was nowhere to go. Except . . .
I took my foot off the accelerator and started a gentle brake. Let him go around if he wanted to drive that much faster. Eddie and I weren’t in a hurry. Getting back safely was far more important than getting back on time.
But the SUV slowed, too.
And moved closer.
Frightened that it was going to hit us and furious at the driver’s stupidity, I did an equally stupid thing. I slammed on the brakes.
This, of course, violated a vitally important rule of winter driving, which is: Never, ever slam on your brakes. If you’re on an icy road, all it’s likely to do is put your vehicle into a slide in a direction over which you have no control.
Which was exactly what happened.
It was a long, slow slide and I had plenty of time to review all the mistakes I’d made, not only that day, but throughout my life, starting with the time I’d cut my own hair at age four and ending with not checking the weather forecast before driving out to Rob/Buster’s.
“Hang on, Eddie!” I called, because there was nothing else to do. I felt a bump, and the bookmobile slid off the road, onto the narrow shoulder, and thumped into the ditch.
Hundreds of books, CDs, and DVDs tumbled to the floor, Eddie howled, I yelled, and a thousand years later we came to a stop.
I unbuckled my seat belt and scrambled over the tilting console. The strap holding down the cat carrier had done its job; the carrier was still in place and Eddie looked up at me, unblinking.
“Are you okay?” I opened the wire door. “Please tell me you’re okay.”
Eddie leapt out of the carrier and onto the console, purring and rubbing his chin against my shoulder.
“Thank heavens,” I said, snuggling him close. “I never would have forgiven myself if anything had happened to you.”
“Mrr,” he said, still rubbing.
I kissed the top of his head and looked out the windows to see what I could see. “Uh-oh.” Though I was mostly seeing the white of blowing and gusting snow, I could also make out the headlights of the SUV that had run us off the road. One of the bumps we’d felt while sliding must have been it hitting the bookmobile’s bumper. It had spun around and was in the opposite ditch. Facing us. With a broken windshield.
My hand automatically reached for my cell phone. It usually lived on the console, but the Ditch Episode had moved it elsewhere. I scrabbled around on the floor, found it on the far side of Eddie’s carrier, and turned it on.
There was, of course, no service. At all. I’d figured as much, but I’d had to try.
“First things first,” I said. “Yes, it’s best to stay with your vehicle in a situation like this—because it’s way easier to find a bookmobile in a snowstorm than it is finding an efficiently sized human like me—but I have to go see if that driver is okay.”
“Mrr?”
“Well, no, I don’t particularly want to,” I said, pulling my hat down and tugging on my mittens, “but it’s the right thing to do. I’ll be back in a minute.”
At least I hoped I would. If the driver was hurt, I’d do what I could to help, but if he or she was hurt badly, I’d have to run back to Rob’s place. And if he was gone, because his house could be in the opposite direction, I’d break in and use his landline to call for help. Then again, it might be Rob over there in the ditch. He had been in a hurry to leave, hadn’t he?
I walked a zigzag path around the fallen library materials, and opened the door. This was harder than normal, because the floor was tilted at a ditch-defined angle and I had to push the door open over a snowbank. My brain was doing another type of p
ushing, that of pushing away thoughts about damage to the poor bookmobile. I would think about that later.
Outside, away from the headlights, I realized how dark it had become. And how much the temperature had dropped. And how hard the snow was coming down. And how hard the wind was blowing.
I shivered and sincerely hoped I wouldn’t have to run to Rob’s. “Hello?” I called as I walked across the road. The SUV had stopped at a steeper angle than the bookmobile, and even from the road, I could see that the passenger-side fender was a crumpled mess.
“Hello?” I approached the driver’s door. “Um, are you okay?” I peered in through the tinted window. The front seats were filled with released air bags . . . and nothing else.
No one else.
What on earth had happened to the driver?
I frowned and looked down, hoping to see tracks I could follow. Maybe he or she had been dazed by the crash and wandered off into the snow. I couldn’t let that happen. Without shelter, in this weather you wouldn’t last overnight, maybe not even a few hours, depending on how you were dressed.
The tracks were there, but they were already filling with snow. I followed them, head down, to the back of the SUV, around the back bumper, and—
“There you are,” said Stewart Funston. “Took you long enough.”
“Stewart! What are you doing out here? You were driving that SUV? What were you thinking? But you’re okay, right? Eddie and I are shaken up, but we’re fine, and—”
My slightly anxious babble came to an abrupt stop when Stewart stepped closer. By the red of his taillights, I could see he was holding up his right hand in an oddly familiar position.
He was pointing a handgun at me.
Since I was Minnie and didn’t always think before I spoke, I said the first thing that came into my head. “You’re kidding, right?” Because maybe he had one of those weird brain tumors that was making him act out of character. Or maybe he’d banged his head when his SUV had spun into the ditch and thought I was an enemy.