Borrowed Crime: A Bookmobile Cat Mystery (7 page)

T
he next day Aunt Frances insisted on indulging me. She brought me breakfast in bed, dug around in her extensive bookshelves for the entire Mrs. Tim series by D. E. Stevenson, and only let me come down for lunch when I promised I wouldn’t try to help with the cooking.

I sat at the kitchen table, watching while she sliced bread off the loaf she’d baked the day before, then watched while she made grilled cheese sandwiches at the same time that she put together a salad of spinach, mandarin oranges, and walnuts.

“Some people,” I said, “say that cooking is therapy.”

Aunt Frances raised one sardonic eyebrow. “Obviously those people haven’t seen you at work in the kitchen.”

“Hey, I can cook.” I thought about that and amended it a little. “If I have to.”

“And how often do you have to?”

She had a point, and I was not about to argue with a woman who said she loved me too much to let me eat my own cooking while I lived under her roof. In the summer, I lived on breakfast cereal, peanut butter and
jelly sandwiches, and take-out meals, along with a healthy dose of leftovers from Kristen’s restaurant.

I grinned at my aunt. “Often enough to remind myself that I’d rather wash someone else’s dishes than cook my own food.”

“Not today,” she said. “After what happened yesterday, you’re going to let me take care of you from sunrise to sunset.” She glanced out the kitchen window at the backyard. “So to speak, anyway.”

I looked out at the gray sky. It was one of those days of low, thick cloud cover, a day during which it would be hard to wake up completely. The temperatures had risen, and the white world was turning into a dripping, sodden mess. It was a day made for reading in front of the fireplace and maybe watching a movie or two.
Movies . . .
I sighed.

“What’s the matter, my sweet?” Aunt Frances asked. “You never did say why you got home so early last night.”

I shook my head, not wanting to talk about it. Tomorrow, maybe. Or the next day, after I got things figured out.

“Mrr.” Eddie jumped onto my lap, pushing aside my elbows on his way up. He turned once, twice, and flopped down into a tidy meat-loaf shape, his chin resting on my arm. “Mrr,” he said quietly.

“Don’t we have a rule about no cats at the table?” my aunt asked.

I rested my hand on Eddie’s back. “You do, and I do, but I’m not sure he’s signed the agreement.”

“Well.” She put the bread onto the sizzling griddle. “He can stay until the food’s ready. We have to draw the line somewhere.”

I looked down. “Did you hear that, pal? You’ll have
to—” My cell phone, which I’d laid on the table after texting Kristen, buzzed and rattled. I picked it up and read the screen. A text from Tucker. I blinked, looked out the window at the soggy afternoon, then steeled myself to read the text.

You were right,
it said.
Got back at two a.m. I was wrong and I’m sorry.

I texted back,
I’m sorry, too.

Tucker:
Can we be sorry together sometime soon?

Me, smiling
: I’ll have my secretary get with your secretary.
This was our code for saying we’d check our schedules and make plans for a date as soon as possible.

Tucker:
On it. See you ASAP.

My observant aunt eyed me and said, “Good news, I take it?”

I wrapped my arms around Eddie and hugged him until he gave a squeak of protest. “Very good.”

*   *   *

The next day I donned my bright red, hooded raincoat and squelched my way over to the library. The grayness of yesterday had evolved into an even grayer today, complete with a rain that, if it continued, would melt the weekend’s snow within a few hours.

“November at its finest,” I said to the wet sidewalk. The sidewalk didn’t answer, which was okay, and perhaps even preferable, because I wasn’t sure I wanted to know what a sidewalk would have to say.

It probably wouldn’t be concerned about its hair, which would make it different from me. Curly hair and rainy weather are not good friends. By the time I got to the library it would be Frizz City, and there was nothing I could do about the situation except drive instead of walk, and that seemed silly for a commute of less than a mile.

I kept my head down and my attention fully focused on stepping around the puddles and what remained of the snow. Happily, that took a lot of concentration, and I barely had time to think about what the day would inevitably have in store for me.

Just outside the library, I shook a gallon of water off my coat and onto the sidewalk, then went in, keeping my mind firmly on the tasks ahead.

There would be phone calls to make to reschedule the stops I hadn’t been able to make on Saturday afternoon, there would be the book returns from Saturday morning to reshelve in the bookmobile’s separate circulation room, and that was just the start of it.

I started a pot of coffee and purposefully headed to my office. Lots to do, all sorts of things to do, and I needed to get to work. Focus—that was the thing.
Stay focused.

That plan worked fine until the next staff member arrived.

Donna rushed into my office, her arms wide open. “Minnie, oh, Minnie. I’m so sorry!”

I took a deep breath.
Here it comes,
I told myself, and stood.

She wrapped her arms around me, enfolding me into a great big grandmotherly hug, the kind of hug at which she excelled, since she had (at last count) seven grandchildren. “How are you holding up?” she asked. “What a horrible, horrible thing. That poor man. Poor Denise. And their children—they’ll be devastated.” She sounded as if she was about to cry.

I gave her some calming pats and started to say something, then realized I didn’t know what to say. So I just patted her some more.

“Oh, look at you.” Donna sniffed. “Trying to comfort
me when you’re the one who should be getting comforted.” She gave me one last squeeze and stepped back, reaching into the pocket of her cardigan sweater for the tissue she always kept there. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose. “Do you want to talk about it, or would you rather not?”

I knew I’d have to say something, and, while eating my fortifying Aunt Frances–made bowl of oatmeal, I’d actually planned what that would be. But right at that moment I couldn’t remember a word of it.

“Minnie—oh, my gosh—how are you?” Kelsey rushed in. On her heels was Holly. Donna backed away as the two younger women took their turns at giving me hugs. They were being nice, being supportive, being the best coworkers anyone could want, but I really wished they’d go away and leave me alone.

“I’m fine,” I said, returning their hugs. “Thanks, but I’m fine.”

“We should do something,” Donna said. “I’m sure he’ll be at Scovill Funeral Home. Should we send flowers?”

The three of them started talking about the pros and cons of cut flowers versus live plants, and I breathed a sigh of relief. I’d already decided to send my own card and flowers, and here at the library it was far preferable to talk about floral arrangements than to repeat the details of Saturday’s events. Telling the story to anyone would be like reliving it, and that was the last thing I wanted to do.

“What about the bookmobile?”

We all turned. Josh was standing in the doorway, with his hands making knobby bulges in his pockets.

“What about it?” I asked.

“It’s okay, right? I mean, it didn’t get shot, did it?”

I wasn’t sure whether to be appalled or touched.
Appalled, because Josh was concerned about the bookmobile when the loss of a man’s life was what really mattered, or touched because he cared about the bookmobile so much that he could consider its status in a situation like this.

“It’s fine,” I said, deciding to go with
touched
. He was a guy, after all, and there were lots of people in the room on the edge of weeping over Roger. It was only reasonable that Josh would be the one to ask about the car. Not that the bookmobile was a car, but it had an internal combustion engine, and that was close enough.

“And how about . . . ?” Josh glanced over to the women, who were talking about fern varieties. He used both hands to give himself what could only be cat ears.

“Fine,” I said quietly, glad that I’d chosen the touched option.

The phone on my desk rang with the short ring of an internal call. I took a quick head count. Everyone who was scheduled to work this morning was in my now-crowded office. Everyone except the library director.

I picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

“Minnie, I need to see you in my office right now.” There was a short
click,
and then nothing.

Though I’d known this was going to happen, I’d hoped it wouldn’t take place for a few hours. At least until after I’d finished my first cup of coffee. I put down the receiver and looked at my coworkers. “That was Stephen,” I said.

The conversation that had been going on around me stopped in its tracks.

“He wants to see me right now.” I picked up my mug and got down a few healthy swallows.

“Oh, dear.” Donna wrapped her arms around herself. “Oh, dear, dear, dear.”

“What does he want?” Kelsey asked, her eyes wide open. “Is he going to yell at you?”

Holly bit her lower lip. “He won’t make you get rid of the bookmobile, will he?”

“He won’t fire you,” Josh said confidently. “I’m sure of it. Who else would he get to work so many hours for so cheap?”

I rolled my eyes. “Gee, thanks for the pep talk.”

Josh snorted. “Like you need one of those to talk to Stephen.”

“Yeah,” Holly said, smiling. “You’re the one who gives them to us whenever we have to talk to him.”

“Which is hardly ever, now that we have an assistant director to run interference.” Josh cuddled an imaginary football and shouldered away an invisible attacker.

“For which we thank you very much.” Donna patted my shoulder.

My relationship with Stephen was, of necessity, very different from everyone else’s. For one thing, I was his assistant director, and took my marching orders directly from him. For another, I’d learned very young that bluster and size were things to ignore. I was five foot nothing. Most people were bigger than me, and by the age of ten I’d become more or less immune to the subtle coercions of size, gender, and voice timbre.

I gulped down the rest of my coffee and headed up the stairs.

Stephen had the only office on the second floor. The rest of the space was occupied by conference rooms and the book-sale room, and Stephen’s aerie wasn’t anywhere I would have liked to work. Sure, he had a corner office with windows that gave a great view of Janay Lake and even Lake Michigan when the leaves
were off the trees, but in spite of the heavy drapes and the auxiliary heating unit, to me it still felt like a cold and unwelcoming place.

Of course, that could have been due to the nature of the occupant.

Stephen looked up from his computer when I knocked on the doorjamb. “Ah, Minnie. Come in and shut the door behind you.”

The action seemed pointless. It wasn’t as if anyone was going to be following me up the stairs to eavesdrop, since they all knew I’d soon be sharing everything Stephen said, but I shut the door anyway and stood in front of his desk, my hands clasped together lightly, my head slightly bowed. It was my Penitent Pose, and I’d perfected it as a child. I hadn’t been a bad kid, but I’d hadn’t always seen the need to do exactly what my parents told me to, especially when it came to putting my book down and going to sleep at my prescribed bedtime. I mean, how could I when I was in the middle of a chapter?

I stood there waiting, and eventually Stephen sat back in his chair. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. If I hadn’t known he’d been at his desk fewer than thirty minutes, I would have guessed he’d been laboring for hours. And, judging from past history and the general emptiness of his desk, all he’d been doing was reading online newspapers.

He put his glasses back on and looked up. “Minerva, you do seem to have a knack for finding trouble,” he said, sighing. “Roger Slade was a good man. He will be missed by many.”

A commonplace platitude that held a deep truth. I tried to swallow a sob, but it got stuck halfway down and I had to cough it away. “I didn’t know him very well,” I said quietly. “He seemed like a great guy.”

Stephen peered at my face. “Do you need some time off?” he asked. “Although Roger wasn’t a relative and the bereavement policy wouldn’t apply, I’m sure you have vacation time accrued. I can approve a day, should you need it.”

I murmured my thanks, but said I’d be fine. I’d never used all of my annual vacation hours; why should I start now?

My boss nodded, clearly approving of my ability to keep a stiff upper lip. “But do you realize,” he said, putting his elbows on his desk and folding his hands, “that you have placed the library at risk?”

“I . . . what?”

“Under your direction and care,” he said, “a bookmobile volunteer was killed while on the bookmobile.”

I wanted to point out that Roger hadn’t actually been on the vehicle, but I managed to keep quiet.

“How,” Stephen asked sadly, “could you have let this happen?”

My jaw dropped. “
Let
it happen? Stephen, it was an accident. A horrible, tragic accident.”

“On your bookmobile. This makes it the library’s problem.”

“It was an accident,” I repeated, this time a little louder. “Awful as it was, it was an accident. We could have an accident here.” I waved at the walls. “A library Friend could be carrying a box of books, trip on the stairs, and fall. Or—”

“Roger Slade is dead,” Stephen said, cutting into my theoretical list, “and his sister is suing the library for negligence.”

“His . . . sister?”

“Tammy Shelburt.”

The name thudded into the middle of the room.
Tammy Shelburt was Roger’s sister? My spine lost its starch. I wanted to flop into Stephen’s uncomfortable guest chair and put my head in my hands.

Tammy Shelburt had made a name for herself as one of the region’s most energetic business owners. She’d taken an unsuccessful fast-food restaurant in Gaylord and built it into an extremely lucrative regional franchise. She was known for making hard decisions and for not backing down from any fight she deemed necessary. And there were a lot of them.