Borrowed Crime: A Bookmobile Cat Mystery

Chapter 9

The next morning I did my best to sleep late, but the combination of my aunt’s jovial singing and Eddie’s ongoing efforts to find a comfortable sleeping position on my head woke me long before I’d hoped.

“It’s mostly your fault,” I told my furry friend as I toweled my hair dry, post shower. “I’ve heard Aunt Frances sing the theme song to Gilligan’s Island so many times that it’s something I’ve learned to sleep through. But I don’t see how I’m going to ever learn to sleep through you flopping yourself across my face. You might suffocate me, you know.”

Eddie, however, was playing Cat Statue. In this mode, his ears didn’t work, which was often very convenient for him.

“Then again,” I said, “if Aunt Frances ever sang anything other than theme songs to old television shows, who knows what it might do to my sleep habits?”

The thought humored me, mostly because there was little chance she’d ever sing anything different. Her brain, she’d said seriously, didn’t maintain a hold on any other song lyrics. I was very grateful her brain didn’t stick on Christmas songs, because the idea of hearing “Frosty the Snowman” every Saturday morning October through April made me want to scratch out the insides of my ears. Hearing “Frosty” in December was fine, of course, but, in my opinion, a little went a long way.

“You know,” I told Eddie, “I almost feel like singing myself.” Because it was a beautiful day for the Saturday before Thanksgiving. Clear skies and no wind, and what more could you really hope for at this time of year?

“Any requests?” I pulled an almost-cat-hair-free sweatshirt over my head. “‘Cat’s in the Cradle’? ‘The Lion Sleeps Tonight’? No, wait, I have it: ‘Stray Cat Strut.’”

Laughing, I looked around for Eddie, but all I saw was the end of his tail as it whisked out the bedroom door.

“How about ‘Cat Scratch Fever’?” I called. “‘Honky Cat’? And don’t forget ‘What’s New, Pussycat?’” I waited for a positive response to at least one of my suggestions, but all I heard was the thumping of his feet on the stairs.

Cats.

I smiled a Saturday-morning-that-I-didn’t-have-to-work smile, and headed down the stairs after him.

* * *

After a breakfast of slow-cooked oatmeal and orange juice, I decided to go for a walk while the sunshine lasted. “Do you want to come with me?” I asked my aunt.

Aunt Frances turned the page of a cookbook. It was one of many that were scattered around the kitchen table. “I’ll go later,” she said absently. “I want to try a new stuffing recipe for Thanksgiving, and I know I saw something in one of these books last summer. All I have to do is find it.”

I looked at Eddie, who was lying Sphinx-like on the newly installed padded shelf underneath the window. “How about you?” I asked. “A walk would do you good.”

He turned his head and closed his eyes.

“Well, it would,” I said, but all I got in response was a tighter closing of his eyes and another page turn from my aunt. Smiling, I headed for the outside world by my wild lone.

Once there, though, I wasn’t sure I’d made the correct decision. Last night’s wind had been a north one, and it had brought air so cold that it belonged more in January than in November.

I didn’t see another soul out and about on this chilly morning, and I felt almost as if I were the only person on the planet. For a moment I played with that idea, and decided that I would be a gibbering madwoman within a month. Maybe less.

Just as I was starting to feel what that might be like, I heard a distant noise. Mechanical, and in no rhythm whatsoever. It was clearly human in origin, and I felt as pulled to it as a child being led by the Pied Piper.

A few blocks later, I figured out where the noise was coming from: Bryant’s Repair, the garage that helped me take care of the bookmobile. Darren Bryant, mechanic extraordinaire, had willingly done a vast amount of research so he could do whatever maintenance and troubleshooting the vehicle would inevitably need. He’d even developed an e-mail network of bookmobile mechanics across the country. “If one bus has something going on, odds are good another one has already had the same problem,” he’d said.

Darren was a treasure, one of those mechanics who could talk car stuff both to enthusiasts and to people like me, who just wanted their vehicles to function. He was patient and he never used that annoying, condescending voice, and if he hadn’t been a little too old for me and married to a very nice lady who regularly checked historical fiction out of the library, I might have wanted to marry him.

I opened the shop’s door, and the noise, which had been muffled from without, was extremely loud within. Darren was standing on the front bumper of a large white pickup, leaning over the engine with what I now knew was an impact wrench in his hand.

He looked over at me. “Hey, Minnie. What’s up?” He triggered the wrench one last time while I put my fingers in my ears; then he jumped down and put the tool on the bench.

At most, Darren was an inch taller than I was, which had created a bond between us that we would never, ever, discuss. He grabbed a dirty rag and wiped his hands. “Anything wrong with the bookmobile?”

I shook my head. “Just my normal worries about the generator.” From everything I’d heard and read, generator issues were the bane of a bookmobile librarian’s existence. A generator was critical to the bookmobile’s operations, since it powered the lights and heat when the engine wasn’t running.

Darren switched to a slightly cleaner rag. “And I’ll tell you again, there’s nothing to worry about. It’ll be fine.”

I looked at him askance. “Are you saying that just to make me feel better or do you really mean it?”

“Don’t ask questions,” he said, grinning, “unless you really want to know the answer.”

I laughed. “I need to remember that. I’ve run into trouble more than once, because . . .” Something on the other side of the garage caught my attention. I couldn’t remember what I was saying, so I let the sentence trail off.

“Are you okay?” Darren frowned.

“Um, sure,” I said, peering at a crumpled SUV in the far bay of his shop. “Is that Denise Slade’s?” I pointed.

“Got it in yesterday morning. The insurance guy’s coming in to look at it on Monday. They’ll probably total it.” His face went from friendly and cheerful to thoughtful and considering. Maybe even troubled.

“Is something wrong?” I asked.

He redirected his considering look from Denise’s SUV to my face. I don’t know what he saw there, but he gave a small nod and said, “If you were anyone else, I wouldn’t say anything, but you were there when Roger was killed.”

That didn’t make sense to me, but maybe things would become clear if he talked a little longer.

“Yeah.” He tossed the rag he was still using on his hands onto the workbench. “I know I don’t need to tell you to keep quiet about this, so I won’t. Denise’s SUV over there? I was poking around at it, seeing how much damage there was to the front end, and I think . . .” He stopped, sighed, and shook his head. “I think someone intentionally sliced the radiator hose. That’s why the engine seized up—I’m sure of it.”

The world around me tilted. I wanted to grab onto something, anything, to help steady me, but there was nothing that wasn’t scary, expensive, greasy, or all three, so instead I pulled in a deep breath and waited for the tilting to stop. “Did you tell the sheriff’s office?”

Darren laughed shortly. “I’m not telling those yahoos anything I don’t have to. I talked to Scott from the Chilson Police.”

I looked at him curiously. “You have a problem with the sheriff?”

It was the wrong question. He immediately launched into a long story involving an open trailer, a pile of metal he was hauling to the scrap yard, and an overeager deputy who ticketed him not only for an unsecured load, but also for driving too fast for conditions. And for having expired plates.

Darren, red-faced, was waving his arms and saying that his birthday wasn’t until the end of the month, and why should he pay for registration any earlier than he had to? But I wondered how quickly Detective Inwood would learn about the cut in the radiator hose.

Because he needed to know.

He needed to know that Roger had been murdered, that Denise had been the intended victim all along, and that Denise’s life was in danger.

* * *

I burst into the sheriff’s office. “I know it’s Saturday,” I said breathlessly, “but is there any chance that either Detective Inwood or Deputy Wolverson are here?”

The heavyset woman behind the counter nodded. “Both. You want to talk to them?”

I nodded, gave her my name, and I was soon admitted to the back, into the interview room.

A short time later, the detective came in. “Ms. Hamilton, what brings you to see us on a Saturday morning?”

I looked at him suspiciously. “You’re smiling.”

“My wife tells me I should do it more often,” he said, sitting at the table.

“She’s right.” His face transformed completely when he smiled. And in a good way. He didn’t look nearly the dour everyone-is-guilty-of-something cop when he did. “Why are you so happy about being at work on a Saturday morning?”

His smile went even wider. “You’ll be glad to know that we have a solid lead on the person responsible for Roger Slade’s death.”

“You . . . do?”

“No arrest, but with the help of the area’s conservation officer, we have a very good idea about what happened out there.”

“You do?”

Detective Inwood’s smile slipped a bit. “Don’t look so surprised, Ms. Hamilton. We may not solve crimes in an hour, but we actually do know what we’re doing.”

“It’s not that,” I said quickly. “It’s just that Denise, Roger’s wife, she had a car accident a few days ago, and her mechanic just told me that the radiator hose had been cut.”

I waited for the light to dawn, but instead he simply nodded. “Yes, we know about that. The city police notified us.”

“And?” I asked. “Does that fit with the guy you think killed Roger?”

His smile took on a polite cast. “Ms. Hamilton, anyone truly trying to kill Denise Slade would have cut her brake lines. A slice in a radiator hose?” He shook his head. “She’s been known to call nine-one-one and report loud parties. Most likely she left her car in the drive, and one of the neighbor kids took the opportunity.”

“What if it wasn’t?” I leaned forward. “What if Denise was the target all along? What if Roger was killed by accident, because he was wearing her hat? What if Denise is still in danger?”

The detective stood. “Thanks for the information, Ms. Hamilton. We’ll consider what you said, but please let us do our jobs.”

I started to protest, to try to convince him that he was wrong, but he was already gone.

* * *

When I left the sheriff’s office, it was past ten o’clock and the stores were opening. The Round Table, our local diner, had been serving food for hours, but now the signs on the retail stores were being flipped from CLOSED to OPEN, lights were being turned on, and there was an overall feeling that the town was stretching its arms, yawning, and waking up to another day of business.

“Good morning, Minnie!”

I looked around for the origin of the voice and saw a woman waving at me from the entry of an antiques store. It was Pam Fazio, the owner of Older Than Dirt, and I didn’t understand why she was there.

“And a fine morning it is,” I said, smiling at her as I crossed the street. “But aren’t you going to be late for the Friends of the Library meeting?” For decades, Friends meetings had been held once a month on Saturday mornings.

Pam scowled. “Funny, Minnie, really funny.”

I blinked at her. “It was? I wasn’t trying to be.”

She blinked back. “Oh. Sorry. You must not have heard.”

No, I hadn’t, and whatever it was, I was getting a bad feeling about it.

“It was at the last Friends meeting,” Pam said, wrapping her arms around herself. She’d stepped outside to talk to me, and the cascading purple cardigan she wore over black pants and ankle-high shiny black boots wasn’t keeping out the cold.

“I guess you were out on the bookmobile that day,” she said. “By the time you got back it was all over.”

Yep, I was getting a very bad feeling. “What happened?”

“Denise Slade happened,” Pam practically spat. “I know I should feel sorry for her, with Roger being killed and her crash and everything, but that woman is impossible! Why Roger stayed married to her is a huge mystery.”

“What happened at the meeting?” I asked.

Pam rubbed her upper arms. “Typical Denise, really, but something about that day just sent me up the wall. Just because she’s the president doesn’t mean she has executive privilege to make decisions. She told us—told us!—that from now on the Friends were going to open the used bookstore on Wednesdays and Saturdays and not have it open any other time.” Pam’s face was a fierce scowl. “No vote, no nothing—just Denise changing the way we’ve done things for years because she thinks she knows the best way to do things.”

That sounded like Denise, all right.

She clutched at her arms, her fingernails digging deep into her sleeves. “No one else said a thing. Denise has them beat down to nothing. I said something like we should have a vote, or at least a general consensus. Denise gave a smirk—you know the one, right?”

I did, and my expression must have shown how much it annoyed me.

Pam nodded. “Yeah, well she gave that smirk and said there already was consensus, and if I didn’t like it, that I knew where the door was.” She stopped. Smiled a little. “So you know what I did?”

An uneasy feeling crinkled around in my stomach. “Do I really need to know?”

She grinned. “I lit into her the way I’ve been wanting to do for months. And you know what? It felt great.”

“Minnie? Minnie!” A woman was waving from the passenger’s window of a dark sedan.

“Surprised to see us?” she asked, laughing. “We’re headed to the gallery, if you have a few minutes.”

I stared at the mid-fiftyish couple in the car, who were both smiling broadly.

They weren’t supposed to be here. They should have been long gone. Why were they still in Michigan?

“Please say you can stop by,” the woman said. “We have a lot to tell you.”

I bet, I thought grimly. And I have a thing or two to tell you.

I turned back to Pam. “Sorry, but I have to go.”

“That’s okay,” she said, smiling. “All I was going to do was complain about Denise, and I’m sure you get enough of that without me.”

“Even the most tolerant of people have their breaking points,” I said. “And though I understand how you feel about Denise, I hope you’ll consider rejoining the Friends someday.”

Pam laughed. “Not as long as she’s there, but you’re a sweetie for trying. Anytime you want morning coffee, just let me know and I’ll bring an extra mug onto the porch.”

She ducked back inside to the warmth of her store, and I hurried the three blocks to my new destination.

By the time I burst in the front door of the Lakeview Art Gallery, I’d built up a nice head of steaming outrage. I shut the door firmly behind me and faced my good friends Barb and Russell McCade with my hands on my hips and my chin up. Behind them was a middle-aged woman I assumed was the new gallery manager, but introductions would have to wait.

“Why are you still here?” I asked, glaring at the smiling McCades. They were standing next to a large canvas, the back of which was to me. Though I was excited to see the painting, I didn’t move. There were things that needed to be said.

I kept glaring. “You promised you’d be gone before the first snowfall. You took solemn vows that you’d be in Arizona before there was any danger of driving on snowy roads. You promised me—”

Russell McCade, known to most as Cade, an internationally famous artist, grinned and turned the painting around. His left hand lost its grip, but Barb caught the painting before it hit the floor. “What do you think?” Cade asked. “Not bad for an old man still recovering from a stroke, yes?”

Oh, yes. I drank in the glorious colors, the uneven brushstrokes, the shapes and images and impressions taking me straight back to the end of summer, to dark blue evenings on the lake, to cool air and the knowledge that winter was coming. It was powerful and beautiful and haunting, and I didn’t want to look away.

“Sentimental schlock,” Cade said, quoting one of his few critics.

“But well-done sentimental schlock,” Barb added, quoting one of his thousands of supporters.

“I couldn’t finish this painting in Arizona,” Cade said. “I had to work on it here, and I couldn’t leave until it was done.”

He had a point, and a good one at that. It wouldn’t have been easy for him to visualize the greens and blues of summer in northern lower Michigan in the middle of the reds and browns of southern Arizona. Still, there had been a promise made, and I wasn’t letting them off the hook that easily.

“You promised,” I said, trying not to sound like an eight-year-old. “You said—both of you said—that you’d leave before snow, and if you didn’t, you’d call me instead of driving yourselves anywhere. It snowed ten inches barely a week ago, and did I get a phone call? No.”

I crossed my arms and waited for their answer. It wasn’t long in coming, and it was about what I’d expected.

Cade laughed, and Barb made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a giggle.

“My dear Minnie,” Cade said. “I know you’ve taken a proprietary interest in my health since you and your bookmobile rushed me to the hospital, and there is no question that your rapid response is what helped me recover from the stroke so quickly, but Barb and I aren’t exactly elderly. Neither one of us is even sixty.”

Barb took her husband’s hand. “Besides, we didn’t drive anywhere while there was snow on the roads. We just stayed home. I read some of those wonderful books you’ve recommended, and Cade finished his painting.” She nodded at the canvas.

“Plus,” Cade said, “our bags are packed and we’re headed for the airport the moment we leave here.”

I gave a mock sigh. “So you’re on the way out of town?”

“Decidedly,” Cade said, smiling a little.

I couldn’t help it; I started laughing. Last summer the McCades and I had become acquainted over Cade’s hospital bed, and it had solidified into a permanent friendship over the use of words that started with the letter D. To have him pull one out now was a top-notch use.

“You’re incorrigible,” I said.

“Are we doing I words?” Barb asked. “Because I’ve always wanted to use the word ‘irrefragable’ in a sentence.”

“You just did,” Cade said. He smartly stepped out of the way of her elbow and smiled at me. “How is that fuzzy feline of yours?” Cade and Eddie had become good friends over the past few months, but I finally had to forbid Cade from bringing him any more treats or cat toys until next spring. Even Eddie could only eat and play so much.

“Fuzzier than ever,” I assured him.

“You can expect the portrait by Valentine’s Day,” Cade said. “I’ll have it crated and freighted direct to you.”

“Oh, wow, you don’t have to do that. Really, you don’t have to—”

Barb cut into my babbling. “Minnie, dear, hush. We’ve been through this before, and you’re accepting Eddie’s portrait. If you don’t, Cade will paint you.”

The threat had been made before and it still sent a shiver of unease down my back.

“Ha,” Cade said. “Look at her face. You’d think I did abstract art with a nasty twist, the way she’s looking.”

“Distraction is in order,” Barb said. “Give her the other news.”

Grinning, Cade rubbed his hands together. “It’s all set, Minnie. The painting the Radles have chosen to donate is scheduled for auction the week after Thanksgiving.”

“It . . . is?” After Cade had been involved in a murder case last summer, he’d told the parents of the murder victim that he’d donate a painting to a charity of their choice. And even though the victim hadn’t been a patron of the Chilson library, her parents had said her favorite times as a child had been spent in their local library. I hadn’t expected the grieving parents to choose a painting until next year, though. “They’re still willing to donate the money to the library?”

Cade nodded. “Every cent.”

I wanted to thank him, to thank Barb, to thank everyone and everything in the whole wide world, but all I could manage to do was nod.

“Look at her.” Cade nudged his wife. “Now, that’s a face worth painting.”

I tried to smile. Couldn’t quite, thanks to the emotions clogging my throat. “You’re irredeemable,” I managed to say.

“Incurable,” he agreed.

“But not irrefragable,” Barb said.

We all laughed, and if I wiped away a tear or two, the McCades were polite enough to allow the fiction that it was from the laughter.