Borrowed Crime: A Bookmobile Cat Mystery

Chapter 4

Many, many hours later, I knocked on the door of a condominium in Charlevoix, a small town in the next county. It was a very quiet knock, one that lacked energy or interest or much of anything except an overwhelming sense of fatigue.

Tucker opened the door. He was barefoot and dressed in his typical posthospital wear of jeans and a black zip sweatshirt. “Minnie. I wasn’t sure if I heard you or not.” He stood aside. “Come on in.”

“Can I . . . ?” I paused, not sure what I wanted, not sure I had the strength to move.

“What?”

“Can I have a hug?”

Then he looked at me. Really looked at me. I don’t know what he saw—if it was my red-rimmed eyes or the fatigue that drooped at my shoulders or what must be my woebegone face—because he immediately swept me inside, shut the door, put his arms around me, and embraced me fully and completely.

I clung to him, needing his strength, needing his comfort, wanting him to make everything better. Which he couldn’t do, of course, but maybe he could keep the sadness at bay for a little while.

He released me and kissed the top of my head. “Any better?”

Sniffing, I nodded. “A little.” Sniff. “Thanks.”

“Let me take your coat.” He unzipped it and turned me around, then pulled on the cuffs, de-coating me fast and easy.

As he hung it on the coat tree, he said, “I’m guessing you need a couple of things.” He held up one finger. “Food.” He held up another finger. “A nice, long talk. You go get settled,” he said, gesturing toward his living room. “I’ll order the pizza. Mushroom and sausage on your side?”

When I nodded, he picked up the phone and started to order.

I shuffled over to the beige couch and flopped down, exhaustion dragging at me. In the months I’d been visiting Tucker in his condo, I don’t think I’d once sat down before standing at the window for a few minutes, enjoying the view of the channel that connected Charlevoix’s Round Lake to Lake Michigan, but today I couldn’t bring myself to stand any longer than I had to. Self-preservation, really, because it was only sensible to sit before I fell down.

“Now.” Tucker sat down in a leather chair that matched the couch. “Talk to me.”

I wanted to protest, to say that what I wanted most was just to have him hold me, but held back. He was probably right. If we snuggled, I might break down into a bucket of tears. What I really needed was to talk, and I could do that best if he wasn’t within arm’s length.

“Okay.” The word came out so slowly, it was almost pitiful. I told myself to buck up, and, according to my mother, the best way to start feeling better was to sit up straight and put your shoulders back.

So I did.

“Okay,” I said again, and felt my spirits rise. Not by much, but anything was good. Once again, Mom was right, and maybe one day I’d call and tell her so. Not today, though. Monday, maybe. Or Tuesday.

“Okay,” I said, this time with feeling. Only . . . I wasn’t quite ready to talk.

I let my gaze wander around the room. Beige furniture, hotel room–quality art on the walls, and bland carpet. The only Tucker-type things in the room were the bookshelves he’d bought and the books he’d filled them with. Knowing he’d be too busy at the hospital to equip even a small house properly, he’d leased a furnished two-bedroom condominium. It was nice enough, but no more than that. A wise choice for a busy bachelor, I supposed, but there was no life in the room, and I suddenly couldn’t bear it.

I stood and went to the window. The sun had set long ago, but evenly spaced lights illuminated the wide walkway that ran adjacent to the river channel, all the way out to the pier. While I couldn’t see the lighthouse itself, I could see the reflection of its circling light on the water. Around and around and around and . . .

“Minnie?” Tucker asked gently. “What’s the matter?”

And, just like that, I was ready to talk.

I told him about what had happened that day. Told him about Roger. “He was dead,” I said quietly, watching the water ripple in the glow from the lights. “I called nine-one-one, but I knew he was dead before they showed up.” There had been no chance he’d still been alive. Not with no pulse, not with his skin growing so terribly cold.

“He’d been bleeding?” my doctor boyfriend asked.

I laid a hand flat against the left side of my chest. Over my heart. “Yes,” I whispered.

Tucker stirred, and I figured he wanted to ask medical questions, but there was no way I’d be able to answer them. “The ambulance came and took him to the Petoskey hospital,” I said. “A sheriff’s deputy came out, but there wasn’t much I could tell him.” There hadn’t been much to tell my boss, either, though I’d dutifully called Stephen and told him what had happened.

“It was those shots you’d heard earlier?” Tucker asked.

I nodded. Shrugged. Nodded again. “Hunters are all over the place today. Poor Roger was in the wrong place at the wrong time, I guess. Just a stupid hunting accident.” They happened. Rarely, but they happened often enough to stay in everyone’s minds.

“It’s not your fault, you know.”

I put my forehead against the cool of the window. Part of me knew he was right. It wasn’t my fault; it was the fault of the guy who’d held that gun. Then again, if it hadn’t been for me, there wouldn’t have been a bookmobile for Roger to have been on.

Did that make me partially to blame? Not in a court of law, but what about the court of public opinion? How about my own opinion? With my own self blaming me, how would I ever sleep tonight—or any other night in the foreseeable future? And even if I did sleep, what sort of dreams would I be likely to have?

I shivered and wrapped my arms around myself.

Tucker got up and put his hands on my shoulders. “Repeat after me: It was an accident.”

I managed a smile. “It was an accident.”

“It’s not my fault,” Tucker prompted.

“It’s . . .” I shook my head and blew out a breath. “It’s not my fault.”

“I will spend the rest of the evening eating pizza and breadsticks and watching old movies, and will not think about this again until tomorrow.”

Somehow, magically, I laughed. Not a big laugh—a very small one, actually—but still a laugh. It was good to have a boyfriend who could make me feel better when all I’d wanted to do half an hour ago was wrap my arms around my knees and bawl. “I’ll do my best.”

“That’s my girl.” He reached around me to begin a serious hug, but a knock on the door stopped him. “Must be the pizza guy.”

He went to the door, and I went to the kitchen for plates, napkins, forks (two, even though Tucker wouldn’t use his), and drinks.

“Movie time?” he asked, holding the two boxes aloft. “I recommend something with a happy ending.”

“Can we watch The Sting again?” I carried my stack of food-related items to the living room and piled them on the coffee table.

One of the first things Tucker and I discovered we had in common was a love of movies. One of the second things we discovered we had in common was a love of staying up late watching movies.

“Only if we can watch The Andromeda Strain, too,” he said.

I smiled. There weren’t that many movies that featured medical research, but Tucker had all of them on DVD. He also had many of my favorites, from The Wizard of Oz to The Princess Bride to Shakespeare in Love. He didn’t have Ghostbusters, but I was planning on giving it to him for his birthday.

We settled in, immersed ourselves in Depression-era Chicago, and when the food was gone I was content to sit back with Tucker’s arm around me.

Five minutes later, his cell phone rang. It was the ring tone for the hospital.

I tensed. “I didn’t think you were on call tonight.”

He was pulling the phone from his pocket. “Had to switch with somebody,” he muttered, then into the phone said, “Dr. Kleinow.”

There was a short pause when he didn’t move, but when he sat forward to listen with that intent expression on his face, I knew our evening together was over. I should have been sad that some patient at the hospital was in such bad shape that they needed Tucker to come in, and on most days I would have been, but tonight I needed him. Needed his comfort, his calm, his voice, his kiss, his presence. And he was going to leave.

“Okay,” Tucker said. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

I was already on my feet and reaching for my coat.

“Minnie, you don’t have to leave,” he said. “I won’t be long.”

The last time he’d said that, I’d waited in the car while he went to check on a patient. I’d reached into my purse for my e-reader, opened up The Hunger Games, and was wondering how much rest Katniss was actually going to get sleeping in a tree, when Tucker returned.

“No, thanks,” I said now, a little shortly.

“I’m sorry.” He grabbed his own coat. “This wasn’t how this night was supposed to end up.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t. And I’m sure that person in the emergency room needs you a lot more than I do.” My words came out a little childish and a lot whiny, but they were said and I couldn’t take them back. Besides, they were true. I sighed. “You’d better get going. I’ll be fine.”

“Minnie, please don’t go. Stay, at least for a little while. I’ll be back as soon as I can—you know I will.”

But I couldn’t stay, not here alone in this room that had no life. “I’m sorry, Tucker. It’s just . . .”

I shook my head and left.

* * *

Late that night, up in my room, lying on my side with Eddie curled up next to me, I wept the tears I’d been keeping in, the tears I couldn’t shed in the bookmobile for the sake of rule number one. I wept for Roger, for Denise, for their children, for their entire extended family. I cried for all his friends and neighbors and coworkers.

At the end, I finally wept a little for myself, gulping down sobs of sorrow and loss for a good man I’d barely known.

Then, with Eddie purring comfort into my bones, I fell into a dreamless sleep.