Wrong Side of the Paw

by Laurie Cass

  The phone book didn’t have a Boggs listing, so after debating the wisdom of heading out to the house of a complete stranger, I walked home, wrote my intentions on a white board as I’d sworn to my mother I would always do when I went somewhere solo, patted a sleepy Eddie on the head, and got into the car.

  Though there was still technically an hour and a half before the sun set, so much cloud cover had moved in that I felt compelled to turn on the car’s headlights. I almost turned them off, but sighed and left them on. It would be dark soon enough and it was always better to be seen than not seen.

  It was about ten miles to the address, and in spite of the growing murk, I enjoyed the drive over forested hills that opened up to a wide valley. All around were the bright colors of autumn or what would have been bright colors if there had been some sunlight. Even still, the reddish-orange of the maple leaves and the occasional yellow of birches and aspens penetrated the darkening sky with color that was both breathtaking and heartrending with its fleeting beauty.

  “Get a grip,” I told myself. It wasn’t like me to wax poetic, especially with a melancholy tone. Maybe what I needed was a dose of Kristen. She’d been too wrapped up with preparations for seasonal closing of her restaurant to make dessert for me the other night, but we were set in stone for the coming Sunday.

  I turned right on the road that led to the Boggses’ house and, one mile later, bumped off the end of asphalt and onto gravel. After a half mile of bouncing over washboards and steering around potholes, I saw their house number on a mailbox in a cluster of five.

  “Hmm.” I studied the driveways, looked at the map I’d printed from the county’s website, and aimed the car down the middle driveway. It was little more than two tire tracks through the woods, but the tracks were definite enough and I didn’t have any trouble following them down the winding path. The driveway wasn’t in any better condition than the gravel road had been, and as I bounced toward the house, I hoped my car’s suspension would hold up on the return trip.

  One last bump around one last corner, and a house came into view.

  A dark house.

  With a For Sale sign stuck into the front lawn.

  I sat there, engine running, staring at the place. Clearly, there was no one for me to talk to. Not only was it dark and for sale, but it had that abandoned air that houses take on when their owners have departed. I hadn’t even considered this possibility; now what was I going to do?

  After a moment, I got out of the car, climbed the front steps, and peered in through the window in the door. “Huh,” I said out loud. Dark, for sale, and vacant. The front hall didn’t contain so much as a stick of furniture. The Boggses obviously didn’t believe in staging a house.

  I walked sideways down the porch. The only thing in the living room was the grate in the fireplace, and the dining room’s only ornament was a hanging light fixture that was made from either driftwood or deer antlers. In the dark I couldn’t tell, but if I had to guess—

  “Can I help you?”

  “Yah!” I spun and took a jump away from the voice, bashing my head against the house in the process. “Ow!” I held one of my hands to my chest in an attempt to keep my rapidly beating heart inside where it belonged, and with the other I rubbed the back of my head.

  The man standing on the lawn chuckled. “Sorry about that. You didn’t hurt yourself, did you?”

  “Not enough to need an ambulance,” I said, still rubbing. “But houses don’t move much when you bonk into them.”

  “If any house would, it’d be this one.”

  I stopped my self-ministrations and looked at the guy. He seemed affable enough. Sure, I was looking at him through a half light that was growing darker every second, but his hands-in-pockets pose, along with an easy smile and a baseball hat that proclaimed him the WORLD’S GREATEST GRANDPA, combined for a nonthreatening persona. “What makes you say that? Are you Ray Boggs?”

  “Neighbor. Or I was until they stuck that in the ground and headed off.” He nodded toward the real estate sign. “I told them I’d keep an eye on the place, so when I saw your headlights, I came over to make sure that someone wasn’t up to nefarious deeds.”

  By this time I’d walked off the porch and stood in front of him. “Minnie Hamilton,” I said, offering my hand. “Assistant director and driver of the bookmobile for the Chilson Library.”

  “Fred Sirrine. Retired from Ford Motor Company.” As we shook hands, he asked, “So what are you doing out here? Hope you’re not chasing down overdue fines; the Boggses haven’t been around in weeks.”

  “Not today.” I debated how much to share. “A minute ago, you implied the house wasn’t built well.”

  He glanced at the structure. “I shouldn’t have said that. All I have to go on is what Ray and Gail told me. Secondhand information isn’t a good way to form an opinion.”

  I started to wonder what Mr. Sirrine had done for Ford. “Sometimes secondhand information is the only kind available.”

  “The formation of an opinion should wait for solid data,” he said firmly.

  “Oh, dear,” I said. “Then I’ll have to take back the opinion I’m already forming that you’re a nice man.”

  He laughed. “Point taken. But getting back to my question, what are you doing out here?”

  “I’m not looking for overdue fees, but I would like to talk to the Boggses. Do you know where they moved?”

  “They had a place in Royal Oak when they built this for a weekend getaway, but they sold that when they thought they’d stay up here year round. After last February, though, they’d had enough of snow and cold. They put it up for sale and rented a condo near Santa Fe.”

  “So they’re in New Mexico?” If so, I didn’t have much chance of finding them.

  He shook his head. “That was only for the winter. They said they’d be staying at their other place in Michigan, but who knows?” He eyed me. “You going to tell me why you’d like to talk to my former neighbors?”

  “Dale Lacombe, the contractor who built the Boggses’ house, was killed two weeks ago.” My new friend nodded, and I went on. “His daughter is a friend of mine and I’m just . . .” Just what? Think, Minnie, think! “Just following up on some of the clients he’d had troubles with.”

  Fred eyed me. “Following up,” he said.

  “Yes.” It was my story and I was going to stick to it. “I’m trying to help,” I said. “The family is . . . having a hard time.”

  “I imagine.” He looked at me, at the house, then back at me. “You do realize that the Boggses and Lacombe ended up in court.”

  “Yes, and I was hoping to talk to them about that. To clear the air, if nothing else.”

  He pulled his hands out of his pockets and adjusted his Grandpa hat. “If Ray or Gail had been in town when Lacombe was killed, then you’d have some ideal candidates for the murder. They could hardly say his name without spitting. I assume that’s what you’re really doing here? Trying to find out who killed your friend’s dad?”

  Was I that obvious? I sighed. “Leese is a lawyer. She grew up around here and moved back home this summer to open her own business and . . . well, she’s having a hard time right now.”

  Fred flicked another glance at the house. “Please tell me she’s a better lawyer than her dad was a builder.”

  I smiled. “She and her dad didn’t get along.”

  “Good to know. Well, good luck to you,” he said. “It’s commendable that you’re trying to help your friend, but take care. Don’t forget there’s a killer out there.”

  And with that comforting thought, he gave me one last nod and headed back into the woods.

  • • •

  The next morning I woke up, put one foot outside the covers, then pulled it back with a yelp. “Hokey Pete! It’s cold out there!”

  I carefully reached out for my cell phone, keeping my han
d under the sheet, blankets, and comforter until the last possible moment. Even then, my skin went all prickly with the temperature change. I ducked all the way back under the covers, turned on the phone, and opened the weather app, which showed a temperature of twenty-nine degrees.

  That couldn’t be right. The weather people had predicted a low in the mid-forties.

  I poked at the phone and checked the current temperatures in Petoskey, Charlevoix, Mackinaw City, and Bellaire. All were hovering just below freezing.

  “How could they be so wrong?” I asked out loud.

  “Mrr,” said Eddie’s muffled voice.

  “At least you have a fur coat,” I said, then made a few more taps that resulted in my aunt’s voice saying, “Let me guess. You want to move to the boardinghouse today.”

  “Yes, please,” I said meekly. “Very much, please.”

  She laughed. “Come on up, dear heart. You know you’re welcome any time.”

  Immediately after the bookmobile day ended, the Eddie delivery took place. He studied his surroundings, emitted a very loud “Mrr!” and promptly jumped onto the back of the couch, where he’d spent a large portion of the previous winter. I drove to the marina and started heaving things into boxes.

  It wasn’t the most organized of moves, but the unexpected cold snap was motivating and Aunt Frances, Otto, and I hauled the last item out of my car and up the stairs just past ten o’clock that night.

  Aunt Frances surveyed the array of boxes, totes, and grocery bags strewn across my bed, the floor of my bedroom, and the hallway. “Do you know where anything is?” she asked.

  “Not a single thing,” I said cheerfully. “Except for this.” I hefted the small duffle bag that I used for overnight visits.

  Otto looked around. “I’m surprised you could fit this much stuff into that little boat.”

  “Cabinets and drawers can hold more than you think. It’s all in the packing.”

  “But why do you move everything back here in the winter? Couldn’t you leave most of this down there?” He grinned. “Certainly the kitchen equipment we hauled up won’t get used.”

  I laughed. “Are you kidding? I hardly use any of this stuff on the boat. To answer your question, though, the first winter I did leave a number of things in place. Then a squirrel got in.”

  “Ah.” Otto nodded. “Thus the moving.”

  “Thus.” I pointed at the boxes. “Aunt Frances, I promise I’ll have everything organized and either put away in my room or up in the attic by Sunday afternoon.”

  “Take your time,” she said. “That is, as long as you have everything out of the hallway before you go to work on Monday.”

  I held up my hand, Girl Scout promise style, and vowed to do so. I’d have to go down to the boat one more time to do what my brother called a Paranoid Check, making absolutely sure one final time I hadn’t left anything behind, but I’d already called Chris Ballou, the marina’s manager, and asked him to get it out of the water.

  Otto rubbed his hands together. “All righty, then. I say it’s time, don’t you, Frances?”

  “Way past,” she said, and the two turned and started to make their way downstairs. “Minnie, are you coming?”

  “Where?” I called after them. “To do what?”

  Neither one of them answered. I did hear laughter, but since that didn’t explain anything, I abandoned my unpacking without a qualm—after all, my aunt had invited me to follow them—and I wandered downstairs, curious and mystified.

  By the time I reached the living room, where Eddie was still sleeping on the back of the couch, I’d come up with all sorts of theories about what it might be time for. An evening cocktail was a strong possibility, but somehow that didn’t seem to fit. Other ideas ranged from going for an evening walk (a little late, but possible) to making a crank phone call (nine point nine on the unlikely scale of one to ten) to choosing colors for their wedding (about nine point eight on the same scale).

  I followed the sounds of voices and tracked down Aunt Frances and Otto in the kitchen, where they were looking into the cupboard that held baking supplies.

  “How about red?” my aunt asked.

  Otto nodded. “Cheerful, yet not over the top. An excellent choice. Then again,” he said thoughtfully, “with Minnie here, it’s a sort of celebration. Perhaps we should go with gold.”

  “Or blue,” my aunt said. “Choosing her favorite color might be appropriate.”

  Nope, I had no idea what was going on here. “What are you two doing?”

  Aunt Frances glanced over her shoulder. “Picking sprinkles for the Thursday night ice cream, of course.”

  I blinked, then started laughing. “You sound like you’re choosing a wine to go with a meal you’re serving the president of the United States.”

  “Sprinkles are a serious business,” Otto said with a straight face, which made me laugh even harder.

  “When the last boarder left in September,” Aunt Frances said, taking out the canister filled with gold sprinkles, “we had a dish of ice cream. It happened to be a Thursday night, so we’ve had ice cream every Thursday since. I don’t remember why we started the sprinkles.” She looked at Otto, who was getting three small dishes out of the cupboard. “Do you?”

  “Already lost in the mists of time.” He opened the utensil drawer and brandished the scoop. “Is it your turn to scoop, or mine?”

  “Yours.”

  Amused, I watched the ice cream assembly. “You two have quite a tradition going here.”

  “One of many,” my aunt said. “I’m sure you and Ash do things that are just as silly. Would you like whipped cream?” She took a closer look at my face. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing,” I said quickly. “I’m fine. And yes, please, on the whipped cream.”

  We sat at the round oak kitchen table, ate ice cream, and chatted about nothing in particular, laughing and enjoying each other’s company.

  But all the while, part of my mind was far away. Ash and I had fun together, like Aunt Frances and Otto did, but they had something we didn’t. They had sparkle. Together, they were more than the sum of their parts. So much love flowed between them, it was almost visible. Nothing flowed between Ash and me except friendship. We were good friends, but no more than that, and it was time to say so. It wasn’t fair to either one of us to keep on going like this.

  “Minnie,” my aunt said, frowning. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “My feet are warm and my tummy is full of ice cream. What could possibly be wrong?” I gave her a bright smile. From the expression on her face, she wasn’t convinced I was telling the complete truth, but she nodded and let it go.

  Tomorrow, I told myself. I would have a conversation with Ash tomorrow.

  • • •

  The next day was just as cold as the previous day had been, and I stopped feeling weak-willed for moving to the boardinghouse early. Aunt Frances didn’t care, the marina didn’t care, and Eddie would yell at me no matter what I did, so why endure a few cold and miserable days for the sake of a self-imposed plan?

  At lunchtime, I walked downtown, my head bent against the blustery wind. As I walked, I started composing portions of the long talk with Ash I needed to have as soon as possible.

  “You’re a great guy, but . . .”

  No. That was a horrible start.

  “Ash, we need to talk.”

  I winced even as I was saying the words. It might be possible to be more trite, but probably not.

  “Do you think something is missing from our relationship?”

  Still not great, but better. Satisfied that I had something to work with, I strode forward, head up and eyes forward. Which was why I noticed the efforts of a man wearing a floppy hat trying to maneuver something out of his vehicle. Whatever it was, it was giving him fits. He was yanking at it with great force and thr
eatening it with unimaginative curses. He also looked vaguely familiar.

  As I looked at him, trying to remember where I’d seen him before, he gave a loud grunt, a massive tug, and then he and his walker almost fell back into the street when it came free.

  “Three Seasons,” I said out loud, hurrying forward. That’s where I’d seen him, the night Ash, his mother, and I had eaten together at the Three Seasons.

  The man caught my gaze. “You have a problem?” he asked, practically hurling the words at me.

  “Not right now,” I said, smiling and stepping off the curb. He was still struggling with the walker, trying to unfold what looked like, but couldn’t possibly be, seven legs. “Just wondered if you needed a hand, that’s all.”

  “I don’t need your help,” he snarled. “What makes you think I can’t take care of myself? Just because I have to use one of these things doesn’t mean I’m an imbecile.”

  And just because he had to use one of those things didn’t mean he had the right to be rude to strangers, either.

  “My mistake,” I said mildly. Giving him a nod he didn’t return, I mentally shrugged and went back to my main mission, which was hunting down lunch.

  Honk honk!

  I jumped at the noise and turned to see my friends Cade and Barb in a small SUV, laughing hard enough to hurt themselves.

  “You know,” I said, stepping into the street because they hadn’t pulled up to the curb, but were just sitting in the middle of the quiet road, idling, “don’t you both have better things to do than to scare a mild-mannered librarian out of her wits?”

  “We do,” Barb said, smiling. “That doesn’t mean it wasn’t funny to see you jump like a rabbit.”

  I looked across her to Cade, who was still laughing. “Don’t you have a masterpiece to paint? Or at least a greeting card?”

  “Ouch,” he said, putting his hands to his chest. “That got me right here.”

  “Pish,” said his loving wife. “You don’t seem to have any problem cashing the fat checks from the greeting card people. Don’t go acting as if it’s beneath you.”