by Laurie Cass
While he wasn’t exactly oozing with gratitude, this was probably as close to a thank-you as I was going to get. “You’re welcome,” I said.
The detective had cleared his throat. “Deputy Wolverson spoke highly of you. He said it was due to your efforts that Ms. Korthase didn’t wound or kill Ms. Slade. He said you kept calm in an emergency situation and, if not for you, things could have turned out much worse.”
What could have been worse was I could have charged up that hill and been shot, something I wasn’t about to tell my mother. Ever. This was definitely a case in which what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her, and Aunt Frances, who had known my mother long before I came along, had already made a pinkie swear not to share that particular bit of information.
Heavy, male-sounding footsteps came across the front porch and were followed by the double stomp of boots shedding snow and a knock on the door.
“I’ll get it,” Aunt Frances called, hurrying to the entryway. “Minnie, don’t you dare get up and disturb that cat.” She opened the door. “Tucker! I didn’t realize you were stopping by tonight. Come on in.”
“Thanks,” he said, smiling at her and hanging his coat in the closet.
Aunt Frances made her way back through the living room. “Next bowl of popcorn, coming up fast.”
Since I hadn’t known Tucker was stopping by, either, I wondered what was up. “Eddie’s right here,” I said, once again seeing that female hand reach across the cafeteria table. “And so is all his hair and dander.”
Tucker sat next to me. And started petting Eddie. With his bare hand. “It’ll be fine,” he said. “I dosed up before I left the hospital.”
“Oh. Well, if you’re sure.”
“You’re mad, aren’t you?”
I shrugged.
“Listen, I’m really sorry about the other night, but I was having a conference call with some med-school friends of mine, talking about a fellowship opening they thought I should know about.”
“And a fellowship is what, exactly?” I’d heard of them but wasn’t clear on the details.
“It’s more training,” he said. “Specialized medical training that you can get after your residency.”
I frowned. “This is something you want to do? I thought . . .” I’d thought he was happy doing what he was doing. I’d thought he was content.
“It’s a great opportunity,” he said.
“You’d do this in Charlevoix?”
“Well, no. This is a fellowship for sports medicine.” He paused. “At the University of Michigan.”
“But that hospital is in . . .” I tailed off.
“Ann Arbor,” he said. “I could stay with my parents; it’d be a long commute, but it’d be a lot cheaper for me.”
“That makes sense,” I said slowly. “How long would this last?”
“Two years.”
The words were short, but the implication was long. Two years long.
“But it won’t be like it’s two years,” Tucker said. “First off, I may not even get it. Most likely I won’t—there will be a lot of competition. And it’s not that far from Ann Arbor to here, not even a four-hour drive, so we’ll be able to see each other lots of weekends. And this is a research fellowship. I’ll have regular hours, not like now.”
It sounded okay. Not great, but okay. Still . . .
“Why haven’t you said anything?” I asked. “You never even told me you were applying.”
“I wanted to surprise you. I thought you’d be excited about this. It’s a real opportunity.”
It was an opportunity for him, not for me. “I’m not sure I like surprises anymore.”
Aunt Frances came in as I was saying so and plopped the popcorn on the low table.
“Please forgive my niece, Tucker. She’s had a number of shocks today and they’re obviously going to her head.”
Tucker stopped petting Eddie. “Shocks? What’s the matter?”
But I wasn’t going to be distracted so easily. “The other day I stopped by the hospital. It was dinnertime, and I found you in the cafeteria, with . . . with . . .” I couldn’t make myself say the word.
“With Rita.” Tucker nodded. “Sure. She’s a nurse in the ER, one of those people who like to hug everybody in sight. Her husband is a big movie fan, and I was giving her some trivia for her to stump him with.”
Husband. The world brightened into a beautiful place. Silly old me for not being up-front and asking Tucker about her in the first place.
I smiled at him and he smiled at me. My heart started beating a little faster, and I felt myself leaning forward. Behind us, Aunt Frances cleared her throat. “Goodness,” she said, yawning, “it’s almost my bedtime. Maybe I’ll head upstairs to—”
Knock, knock.
Aunt Frances looked at me. “Are you expecting anyone else?”
“Not that I can . . . Oh!” I heaved Eddie onto Tucker’s startled lap and jumped to my feet. Ignoring the questions my aunt was flinging at me, I hurried to the door and opened it to the white night.
“I’m so glad you came over,” I said. “And you brought flowers—how nice!” I took the bouquet and ushered the new arrival to the living room. “Aunt Frances, this is Otto Bingham, our across-the-street neighbor. Otto, this is my aunt, Frances Pixley.”
Otto smiled at my aunt. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Ms. Pixley.”
Aunt Frances looked at him, put her hand to her hair, and turned the lightest shade of pink. “Frances, please.”
“Only if you’ll call me Otto.”
“You know,” my aunt said, “I’ve always liked that name.” Her face got a little pinker and she started to babble. “Well, what I actually like are palindromes, and especially names that are palindromes. The last one I met was an Izzi. I knew an Anna once, and a Hannah, but I can’t think of any other male palindromes. Too bad, isn’t it?”
I’d never heard her babble like this, not ever. I knew it was because she was nervous, and she wasn’t used to being nervous, but would Otto know that? I clutched the flowers and hoped.
Otto threw back his head and laughed, a deep, rich sound that put me in mind of summer vacation, clear skies, and new books from my favorite authors. Which was when I knew that everything would be all right in the end.
I smiled at my aunt, at Otto, at Tucker, and finally at Eddie. “What do you think of palindromes?” I asked.
Eddie jumped off the couch, padded over to me, and rubbed his chin against my leg.
“Mrr,” he said.
Read on for a preview of the next Bookmobile Cat Mystery,
POUNCING ON MURDER
Coming from Obsidian in December 2015
Throughout the long winter, I’d often dreamed about the month of April. It will be warm, I’d thought. Sunny. There would be baby lambs and fluffy white clouds and daffodils and we’d be able to walk outside without boots and hats and thick coats and mittens.
In the northern part of Michigan’s lower peninsula, however, the reality of April was a little different.
I switched on the bookmobile’s windshield wipers. They groaned as they tried to move against the slush spattering the glass, but inch by inch they gained speed and finally arced across, shoving the white stuff away.
“Remember the April eight years ago?” Julia Beaton asked. There was an element of wistfulness in her expressive voice.
“Nope,” I said cheerfully. “This is only my fourth spring in Chilson.” I’d spent many a youthful summer with my aunt Frances, but I hadn’t lived in Chilson until I’d had the great good fortune of being offered the job of assistant director of Chilson District Library. It had been a decision that had taken less than a second to make. A job in my favorite place in the world? In a region teeming with lakes of all sizes? In a land of forested hills, in a small town filled with outstanding restaurants an
d eccentrically original retail stores, and in a library building lovingly converted from an old school? Sure, there was winter to deal with, a season that could last a solid five months, but I loved to ski, so where was the downside?
“It was the best April in the history of Aprils.” Julia sighed. “The April to beat all Aprils.”
“No snow?” I nodded toward the falling flakes.
“None whatsoever,” she said dreamily, rearranging her long strawberry blond hair into a loose bun. “Blue skies, warm air. It was a page from Anne of Green Gables.”
Right then and there I decided there was nothing better than a coworker who knew the same children’s books that I did. Julia was the perfect bookmobile clerk and I would be forever grateful to my aunt for finding her.
Back in December, the library had received a large donation to fund the bookmobile operations. I’d immediately advertised for a part-time bookmobile clerk, and the sixtyish Julia had been my happy hire. Born and raised in Chilson, she’d moved to New York City right out of high school to find fame and fortune as a model. That particular career path hadn’t worked out very well, but her fall-back career as an actor had worked out just fine. She’d found a satisfying amount of Broadway fame, saved her money, and waved good-bye to the bright lights as soon as the offers for leading roles slowed to a trickle. These days she taught an acting class at the local college, turned down every community theatre role that came near, and was always looking for ways to spend her considerable energy.
My aunt Frances, who taught woodworking classes at the same college, had made a paper airplane of the clerk’s job description and sailed it into her classroom. Julia, one eyebrow raised, had unfolded the paper and scanned the text. When she started to nod, Aunt Frances had smiled and walked away, dusting off her hands at a job well done.
I grinned, not taking my attention off the road. “If you don’t like winter, maybe you should consider moving to Hawaii.”
“Winter I like just fine,” she said. “It’s April that’s the trouble. No matter what temperature it is, you always want a little bit more.”
“Except for eight years ago, you mean.”
She ignored my teasing and looked at the large plastic carrier snugged up next to her feet. “What does Eddie think about April?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Why don’t you ask him?”
Julia leaned forward and over, looking into the cat carrier through the wire door. “Good morning, young sir. How do you feel about the current weather conditions of cold, slushy, and wind tossed?”
“Mrr,” said my black-and-white tabby cat.
Eddie and I had been together for almost a year. It had been an unseasonably warm day in April that had lured me from my inside chores to take a long walk outside that ended at the local cemetery. Which sounds odd, but this particular cemetery had an outstanding view of Janay Lake and beyond to the bulk of massive Lake Michigan.
I’d been sitting on a bench next to the gravestone of one Alonzo Tillotson (born 1847, died 1926) and had been startled by the appearance of a large black-and-gray cat. He’d followed me home, whereupon I’d cleaned him up as best I could, turning him black-and-white. I dutifully ran an ad in the newspaper and was relieved when no one claimed him. Because of my father’s allergies, I’d never had a pet. Eddie was my first, and I wasn’t sure how I’d ever lived without my opinionated pal.
“Eddie, you must,” Julia told him, “learn how to enunciate more clearly. Theatergoers in the top rows will never grasp your nuances unless you work on the consonants.”
“Mrr!”
Julia sighed and settled back. “He does not take advice well, does he?”
The interviewing process for the bookmobile job had included a tour of the bookmobile and an introduction to Eddie, because Eddie had been part of the bookmobile from the beginning. He had stowed away on the maiden voyage and quickly become an integral part of the services we offered. Books, magazines, DVDs, video games, and Eddie hair, not necessarily in that order.
For months I’d felt the need to hide the feline presence on the bookmobile from my follow-the-policy-or-else boss, Stephen Rangel, but it had turned out that Stephen had known about Eddie’s adventures from the very beginning.
I really should have known better.
And I really should have known to stop interviewing after I’d talked to Julia. She was the best candidate for many reasons—and had the added bonus of being eight inches taller than five-foot-nothing me, making the job of reshelving the top rows of books easy to delegate—but the butter-cream frosting was how she’d immediately started talking to Eddie, the same way that I did, which was as if he understood what she was saying.
We both agreed that this was ridiculous, of course, but still, there were times when his comprehension of human speech seemed to go far beyond his name and the word “no.” Not that he paid any attention to either, but the twitching of his ears gave away that he heard us.
“Cats aren’t big on taking advice,” I said. “They’d much rather give it.”
I flicked on the turn signal and started braking. It was time for our first stop of the morning, in the parking lot of what had originally been a gas station, and was now a . . . Well, I wasn’t sure exactly what it was. A store, sure, but a store that defied description. The owner stocked everything from apples to taxidermy supplies. On the surface, it fit the definition of an old-fashioned general store, but there was also a corner with tables, copies of the Wall Street Journal, and free Wi-Fi.
“General stores don’t stock the Wall Street Journal,” I muttered, bringing the bookmobile to a stop.
Julia laughed. “Wake up and smell the twenty-first century, Minnie Hamilton.”
I pretended to sniff the air, then frowned, shaking my head. “I like my stereotypes and I’m going to keep them.”
“Mrr,” Eddie said.
“You two are quite the pair.” Julia unbuckled her seat belt and reached forward to open the pet carrier’s wire door. “There you go, Mr. Edward. You are free to move about the bookmobile.”
“Mrr.”
“You’re very welcome,” she replied.
Julia and I fired up the two computers, took the holds out of the milk crate we used to haul books from the library to the bookmobile, un-bungeed the chair at the rear desk, and unlocked the doors. Eddie watched our activity from his current favorite perch, the driver’s seat headrest, and made the occasional critical comment.
“What do you think he’s saying?” Julia, who was straightening the large-print books, cast a glance Eddie-ward.
I snorted. “That he wants a cat treat.”
“Maybe,” she said in the tone indicating she was about to get creative, “he’s saying that every day is a gift. That today, especially, is a gift and we should—”
The back door opened and a few sturdy-sounding footsteps later a man came into view. Henry Gill could have been a young-looking eighty or an old-looking sixty, but with his bald head, fit frame, and complete and utter crankiness, he was one of those people you just didn’t think of in terms of age.
“Good morning, Henry,” I said.
The look he gave me as his return greeting made me wonder whether my hair, which was black and shoulder length and far too curly, had gone up in flames without my noticing.
Eddie gave Henry a long visual examination, then jumped down from the console and trotted down the aisle. He bonked Henry’s shin with the top of his hard, furry head, then started twining around his ankles in the cat-standard figure eight.
“What’s that cat doing?” Henry asked.
Intentionally annoying you, I thought. “Sorry about that,” I said, then picked up my cat for a small snuggle. “If you’re in the market for biographies today, we have a new one of Theodore Roosevelt you might like.”
Henry grunted but didn’t nod, so I wasn’t sure whether he’d me
ant “Why, yes, Minnie, that sounds wonderful. Thank you for being such an outstanding librarian,” or “Whatever.” I gave a mental shrug, patted Eddie on the head, then left Henry alone, or as alone as you can leave someone in a bookmobile.
Other people came on board, and the time passed quickly. Julia and I were kept busy with helping people find books and checking them out, and at the end of the forty-five-minute stop, Henry was the last patron to leave.
I checked his books into the computer and slid them back across the counter to him. “Would you like a plastic bag?”
He picked up the books, shaking his head, then put them back down again. “Here,” he said shortly, reaching into his coat pockets with both hands. He drew out two brown paper bags and handed them to me. “For you and her,” he said, tipping his head toward Julia, then picked up his books and tramped down the steps and outside.
“What are those?” Julia asked.
“No idea.” I gave her one.
“Everyone says Henry Gill has turned a little strange since his wife died,” Julia said, not opening the bag. “Rock, paper, scissors to decides who opens theirs first?”
Patrons bearing questionable gifts were another thing no one had warned me about in college. Before I could scare myself into imagining what could lurk inside, I opened the bag, reached in, and drew out a mason jar filled with a golden liquid.
“Oh, my.” Julia’s voice carried reverence and awe. “It’s maple syrup. I take back every unkind thought I ever had about that man.”
I held the jar up to the light, admiring the liquid gold, and, once again, came up against the reality that we never really knew what goes on inside people’s heads. Henry as a maple syrup Santa? I would never have guessed it. “Who would have guessed?” I murmured.
“What’s that?” Julia asked.
“Henry,” I said. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like him.”
She nodded. “He could have made a fortune as a character actor. Never would have gone a day without work.”
“You’re probably right,” I said, laughing, although I couldn’t imagine Henry living anywhere but northern Michigan.