Wrong Side of the Paw

by Laurie Cass

  I blinked. Church? For years, the only times my aunt and I had attended church was Christmas Eve and Easter, if we were in town. I glanced at Otto, who must have been the reason behind this change.

  He smiled at me, and I felt a rush of affection for this man who was making my aunt so happy. After all, sometimes change could be good. Sometimes even very good. I pushed away my concerns about the future of the boardinghouse and smiled back.

  “Sure,” I said. “That sounds nice.”

  • • •

  That evening, Leese whooped with delight. “It’s the blond bomber!” She threw her arms around a grinning Kristen. “As skinny as ever and I bet just as sassy.”

  Kristen hugged her back. “Sassier every day, just ask my staff. And I hear you could have been partner at that multi-name law firm downstate. Nicely done.”

  The two former competitors slapped each other on the back one more time, then the three of us pulled around stools to sit at one of the stainless steel counters in the Three Seasons kitchen. Out in the dining room, we heard the distant grumble of the vacuum cleaner being run by Kristen’s maintenance guy.

  It was a standard part of Sunday evenings for me to stop by Kristen’s restaurant for dessert, and though we’d never expanded beyond the two of us, that didn’t mean we couldn’t. I’d called Kristen in the afternoon, asking if she objected to me bringing along a visitor.

  “Male or female?” she’d asked.

  “Female.”

  “Is she fun?”

  “Do you seriously think I’d bring someone who wasn’t?”

  She’d acknowledged my point and readily agreed. Now, I watched the two of them catch up on fifteen years of life events.

  “Could have made partner,” Leese said, nodding acceptance at the glass of red wine Kristen held out, “but that would have meant having to, you know, work downstate. I was tired of all the traffic and the lights and the noise.”

  It was a familiar story for people who’d been raised in the north country. Young people often headed downstate to Grand Rapids or the Detroit area to find jobs and to get away from a place where everyone knew—and expected to know—everyone else’s business. After a few years of expressway rush hours and half-hour waits in line at the grocery store, many yearned to return, but only a fortunate few were able to do so.

  I looked at two of those lucky ones, reached for my wine, and kept listening.

  “You couldn’t talk them into opening a branch up here?” Kristen poured her own glass and pushed the cork back into the bottle.

  Leese sipped her wine, made appreciative noises, then shrugged. “If I’d tried hard enough, maybe. But I was tired of the office politics and the quest for billable hours. I went to law school so I could help folks, not to make a huge pile of money.”

  “Hear, hear!” Kristen toasted Leese. “I wish you good luck and a small pile of money. And if anyone asks me for a lawyer recommendation, I’ll send them your way.”

  “She specializes in elder law,” I said.

  “And cottage law,” Leese added. “It’s like estate planning with a twist.”

  Kristen grinned. “You’re in the right place, my friend. Half the talk I overhear in this restaurant is about how the kids and grandkids will be able to afford the property taxes on the family cottage. Get me some business cards and in the spring I’ll start handing them out like dinner mints.”

  I read Leese’s slightly puzzled look and explained. “The name of Kristen’s restaurant is also a descriptor of when she’s open. Three seasons.”

  “You’re closed in the winter?”

  “Hate snow,” Kristen said. “Always have. In a few weeks, maybe less, I’ll skedaddle down to Key West. During the week I spend a lot of time in a hammock inspecting the insides of my eyelids, and on the weekends I tend bar for a friend.”

  “Sounds like a good plan.” Leese smiled. “How long have you had this place?”

  “Going on four years.”

  “Have you been in the restaurant business since high school?”

  I kept my gaze firmly on the shiny countertop, wondering what version of the story Kristen would tell this time.

  “Nope.” My best friend hesitated, then said, “After I got a bachelor’s degree in biochemistry, I got my doctorate. Then I spent a miserable couple of years working for a big pharmaceutical company. I came home one Christmas and spent the whole time whining about my job. Someone got tired of hearing me complain and said if I didn’t want to be unhappy the rest of my life I should think about doing something else.”

  At the end of the sentence, Kristen kicked me.

  I kicked right back. My recollection of that conversation wasn’t the same as hers, but whatever.

  “Less than a year later, I’d opened this place,” she said, spreading her arms wide. “I work my tail off spring through fall, then bask in the sun most of the winter.”

  For once, she’d mostly told the truth. The only thing she’d left out was the intensive and exhaustive training she’d embarked on before opening her own place and the brilliant way she’d convinced the bank’s loan manager to sign off on the commercial loan—by bringing him lunch.

  The two chatted for a few minutes about former softball teammates: about who moved away, who was still around, who had kids, and who didn’t. Then Kristen asked, “What about your family? Is your dad still—”

  This time I kicked her a lot harder.

  She slapped a hand over her mouth. “I am so sorry,” she said through her fingers, her blue eyes wide with regret. “I forgot, I just totally forgot.”

  Leese half smiled. “I’d forgotten, too, for a few minutes, so don’t feel guilty, Kristen. It’s not a good look on you.”

  “But I am sorry for being so stupid.”

  “This wasn’t nearly as stupid as you were in that tournament when your team played Traverse City St. Francis.”

  Kristen sighed. “I still dream about that game. How could I have been that dumb?”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m sure there will come a time when you’re even more stupid. Just have patience.”

  “What would I do without you to prop me up?” She shook her head in fake wonderment.

  Leese smiled, looking at us. “You two act more like sisters than just friends. It reminds me of my . . .” Her words trailed off.

  “Of your stepsister?” I asked gently. “Your stepbrother?”

  “The police are questioning Brad and Mia.” Leese pushed her empty wineglass away and shook her head at Kristen’s gesture toward the bottle. “They’re talking to my stepmother, Carmen.”

  “But they must know you didn’t have anything to do with your father’s death,” I said.

  Leese’s sturdy shoulders had slumped. “It’s not their answers so much as the questions.”

  “What do you mean?” Kristen asked.

  “It’s not Brad or Carmen I’m worried about,” Leese said. “It’s Mia. She’s been doing fine for years, but something like this . . .” She shook her head. “Bad enough that our father is dead, that would be hard enough for her to deal with. But having him dead like this? And for the police to put me in jail for a day, and then to grill her as if she had something to do with his death?”

  I exchanged a questioning glance with Kristen, then phrased my next question as tactfully as I could. “Mia has had issues?”

  “It was when she was in high school,” Leese said. “My baby sister was diagnosed with anorexia.” She looked at us, tears glistening in her eyes. “She was hospitalized and she . . . almost died.”

  Not knowing what to say, I reached out and took her hand between mine.

  “Something like this,” Leese whispered. “It could send her backward. It could kill her.”

  Kristen stood, came around the back of Leese’s stool, and hugged her from behind. And we stayed li
ke that, saying volumes without saying a word, for a long time.

  Finally, I broke the silence. “We’ll figure this out,” I whispered to Leese. “I promise.”

  Chapter 5

  I sat at my computer the next morning, determinedly searching for ways to cut the bookmobile’s budget in a way that didn’t sacrifice services. Halfway through the morning I came to the conclusion that my self-appointed task was impossible unless fuel prices dropped to twenty-five cents per gallon or unless I cut my own salary by a significant amount.

  Stephen, my old boss, hadn’t been big on pay increases, and inflation was far outpacing the raises we’d reluctantly been given over the last few years, so I wasn’t keen on a wage cut. I was on pace to pay off my last student loan within a year and I wanted to bulk up my savings before I even considered buying a house.

  When noontime rolled around, I’d found a way to revise the bookmobile’s route that would save fifty miles and the accompanying driving costs. It wasn’t much, and it would take some rearrangement of the outreach efforts to the homebound folks I’d picked up, but it was the only real thing I’d found to cut. It wasn’t enough to make Jennifer happy.

  I pushed my chair back, stretched until my neck and shoulders gave satisfying pops, and grabbed my coat.

  Out front, I stopped at the main desk. “I’m headed to Shomin’s. Does anyone want anything?”

  Donna looked up from the books she was sorting. “Reva’s salad with extra dried cherries, please. And that apple vinaigrette dressing.”

  “So healthy,” I said. “Why can’t I be more like you?”

  She smiled. “Someday you probably will. Until menopause I ate like a college student.”

  “Is that when you started running marathons and doing all that snowshoeing?” When she nodded, I said, “Then I have fifteen or so years left to enjoy myself. Hot diggety!”

  Donna laughed. “If you do exercise the right way, it’s enjoyable.”

  “Then I must be doing something wrong,” I said, grimacing.

  “Oh, I don’t know, when I see you and that adorably handsome Ash Wolverson out running or bicycling together, you don’t look as if you’d been dragged out there by force.”

  “It’s an act,” I told her, heading toward the front door, and wondered how many levels of truth there were to my words.

  One of the big wood and glass doors opened and Mitchell Koyne slouched in. Mitchell, one of the tallest men I’d ever met, was a library regular. He was Rafe’s age, or thereabouts, and while the two of them weren’t bosom buddies, they had enough in common that I grew concerned about the universe if they spent more than one consecutive hour together.

  “Hey, Minnie.”

  I glanced at the wall clock over the door, not that I truly needed to. “Afternoon, Mitchell.” One of Mitchell’s curious habits was that he never set foot in the library before noon. For years, Holly and I had tossed around theories on how Mitchell managed to eke out a living. Summers he worked as a laborer on construction jobs; winters he worked at a local ski resort. In spring and fall he helped put in and take out docks. None of that could have provided much income. Of course, since he lived in an apartment carved out of his sister’s attic, he probably didn’t need much.

  No one expected much from Mitchell other than weird questions and the occasional bit of trivia. Not that Mitchell was dumb—far from it. He read far more widely than I did, wasn’t afraid to ask questions, and retained the essence of everything he had read or taught. He was blessed with a combination of innate intelligence and, until recently, a complete lack of ambition.

  Mitchell’s über-laid-back attitude toward life had changed when he’d started dating Bianca Sims, a real estate agent out of Petoskey. Bianca seemed normal enough, so we were all curious if the romance was going to last.

  I looked up, way up, at Mitchell, weirdly pleased that no matter how hard he was working at his jobs in hopes of impressing the fair Bianca, his library schedule was still the same. Today he was dressed in his typical worn jeans, ratty sneakers, ancient T-shirt under an untucked plaid flannel shirt, and a cap with a logo for the Traverse City Beach Bums, a minor league baseball team.

  “Guess what?” Mitchell asked.

  “You’ve painted your pickup truck all one color.” His truck was easy to identify from a distance because the hood, body, doors, and bed had all come from different junkyards at different times and were a variety of colors.

  He frowned. “Why would I do that? There’s hardly any rust anywhere. Guess again.”

  “Do I get a hint?”

  “Nah, I’ll just tell you. I’ve been promoted!” He bounced up and down on his toes, grinning widely. “At the toy store downtown. They’re making me manager.”

  For a stunned second, I couldn’t think of a thing to say. Finally, I managed to get out, “That’s great, Mitchell.”

  “Yeah, I’m going to get health insurance and everything. Pretty cool, huh?”

  “Very.” And it was cool. “Congratulations.”

  “And now that I’ll be full time with benefits, want to know what I’m going to do with my first paycheck?”

  Not in the least. “What’s that?”

  His grin went even wider. “I’m going to pay off my library fines. All of them.”

  “You’re . . . what?”

  “Hah. Thought that would surprise you. But I mean it. I’ll come in on payday with the cash.”

  Mitchell’s fines were the stuff of legends. Over the years his monetary transgressions from overdue and lost books had come close to the four-figure mark. It had mainly been because of Mitchell that Stephen had created a hard-and-fast rule of not allowing any borrowing from any adult account with overdue fines more than a dollar.

  This had resulted in Mitchell spending lots of time in the reading room, poring over his choice of books, magazines, and newspapers, which wasn’t exactly what Stephen had intended, but as I’d told my former boss over and over, ours was a public library and Mitchell was part of the public.

  Not having Mitchell’s name at the top of the fine list, though, was going to take some adjustment.

  “That’s outstanding,” I said. “Let me know when you come in, okay? I want to take pictures so I can send one to Stephen.”

  Mitchell held up his hand for a fist bump. “Good plan.”

  He continued inside and I headed out into the halfhearted October sunshine, a little wistful. It was good that he was becoming a more stable citizen, of course it was good, but a part of me was already regretting the disappearance of the old Mitchell.

  • • •

  I was in the break room, putting my lunch onto a plate, when Jennifer walked in. “Have you been to Shomin’s Deli?” I asked. “Their sandwiches are outstanding.”

  Jennifer glanced at the container while smoothing the line of her black and white checked jacket. She wore this over a white silk shell, on top of a black pencil skirt and high-heeled boots. It was a sleek look, and if I’d tried to wear that same outfit, I would have felt like a little kid dressing up in Mommy’s clothes.

  “Chalkboard menu?” she asked. “Wooden booths with hooks at the end for hanging coats?”

  She made it sound provincial and sadly out of date. “That’s the one,” I said cheerfully. “Have you tried their Reuben? People say it’s the best in the state.”

  “I don’t care for corned beef.” She flicked another glance at my lunch. “When you’re done, I’d like you to come up to my office for a few minutes.”

  “How about now?” I stood, shoved my sandwich into the fridge, then did my best to make idle chitchat as we walked down the hallway and up the stairs, but when you’re the only one asking questions (“How was your weekend?”) and the responses you’re getting are single syllables (“Fine”), the conversation tends to lose momentum quickly.

  My last effort, that of asking
Jennifer if she’d ever vacationed in this part of Michigan, died a quick death as she opened the door of her office and pushed it wide.

  “Oh,” I said. “Oh. This is . . . new.”

  It certainly was. The formerly wood-paneled walls had been painted a sleek gray; the carpet was a speckled black and gray. The deeply stained desk and chairs were now a shiny black. The draperies had been replaced with starkly white Venetian blinds, and the light fixture was a flat fluorescent panel that clung to the ceiling for dear life. The murky abstract paintings she’d added did little to bring any brightness to the space.

  “Isn’t it wonderful?” A smiling Jennifer admired the space. “This is the office I’ve always wanted. I went a little over what the library board gave me for a budget, but I have no problem making it up out of my own pocket.”

  At least it was her wallet and not the bookmobile’s budget. I struggled to find something kind to say. I didn’t want to blurt out to my new boss that her dream office belonged in Chicago and not northern Michigan. That in spite of the accessory heating Stephen had purchased, the room was going to feel cold until May.

  “I’m glad,” I finally said, “that you’re happy with how it turned out.”

  “Thank you.” She sat at her desk and held out a hand, indicating that I do the same. “Please, have a seat.”

  “Um, thanks.” I looked askance at the object she was pointing toward. Until then I hadn’t been exactly sure it was a chair; it could easily have been a piece of modern art, something sculpted to look sort of like a chair to make a point about post-modernism in the twenty-first century.

  Gingerly, I lowered myself and perched on the edge of what had to be the seat. “I’ve made some cuts to the bookmobile’s budget,” I said, trying to preempt her. “I should have preliminary numbers to you by the end of the week.”

  “That’s exactly what I want.” Jennifer leaned forward, putting her elbows on the glossy black desk and lacing her fingers together.

  I flashed back to the many times Stephen had summoned me upstairs and then used the exact same body language, which had always meant he was about to tell me something I didn’t want to hear.