Borrowed Crime: A Bookmobile Cat Mystery

Chapter 3

Thursday and Friday passed without any major incidents, assuming you didn’t call the Thursday delivery of six boxes for the Cheboygan Area Public Library to our library and the delivery of our books to Cheboygan a major incident.

Stephen had summoned me after taking one look at the stack of boxes. “Minnie. Take care of this.” He’d spun around and left me standing there.

I’d squinted at his retreating figure, shrugged, and called Cheboygan’s library director. That noon, we’d met at a restaurant near the halfway point between our two fair cities, had a nice lunch, shared some library stories, and left with the appropriate boxes.

Aunt Frances had enjoyed the story immensely, and even Eddie had seemed amused.

Friday morning arrived with a forecast that could excite only small children and die-hard skiers.

“Snow,” Kelsey said, frowning at the front-desk computer screen and shaking her head so hard that her short blond hair flew around her head. “It’s only the middle of November. They should not be predicting eight inches of snow for tonight. That’s just wrong.”

Kelsey was a part-time clerk and my most recent hire. Well, sort of. She’d worked at the library years before, but had left when she’d had her first child. The kids were older now, and Kelsey didn’t mind leaving them with her mother a couple of times a week. One of our part-timers had relocated to Arizona in July, so it had all worked out.

“What about you?” Kelsey asked. “Have you driven anything like the bookmobile in winter?”

I smiled. “It’ll be fine. The heavier the vehicle, the easier it’ll go through the snow. Besides, the roads should be plowed by the time we get out.”

Her eyebrows went up. “On that route? You’re kidding, right?”

For the first time, I had a moment of pure panic. What was I thinking? Surely driving an incredibly expensive vehicle out on snow-covered and slippery roads was misguided at best, and dangerous at worst. I was going to put the bookmobile, Eddie, and Denise in danger, and for what? To say that the bookmobile always made its appointed rounds? For the sake of my pride?

Then my common sense asserted itself. You’re not stupid, it told me. If the weather is truly horrible, you won’t go out.

“No need to make that decision now,” I said. “We’ll see what happens overnight. If it looks bad in the morning, I’ll call the sheriff’s office for a report on the road conditions.”

Kelsey shook her head. “You’re a braver woman than I am, driving that big bookmobile beast all over the county. There’s not even cell-phone reception in a lot of places, you know.”

Beast? I puffed up a little at hearing my beautiful bookmobile called a beast. The only beastly thing about the bookmobile was Eddie, and he slept a lot of the time. Maybe hiring Kelsey hadn’t been such a wise decision.

“Hey,” she said, snapping her fingers. “I keep meaning to tell you. A friend of mine lives over in Peebles—you know, one of those little towns where Stephen shut down their library a couple of years ago? Anyway, you have a bookmobile stop there, and my friend says that getting the bookmobile is the best thing that’s happened to that town since the grocery store reopened. Pretty cool, right?”

Then again, Kelsey wasn’t so bad.

I had dreams that night of freezing rain and howling winds, and woke up to the smell of bacon cooking.

My shower was fast, and I hurried down to the kitchen just in time to see Aunt Frances filling two plates with eggs and bacon and hash browns.

“Wow,” I said, bumping Eddie to the floor and sitting in my chair. “What’s the occasion?”

Aunt Frances nodded to the wide kitchen window. “Thought you could use a hearty breakfast before going out in that.”

I half stood so I could see outside. Nothing but white and more white. “Huh,” I said, sitting back down. “That’s, um, a lot of snow.”

“More than six inches,” she said cheerfully. “Let’s eat.”

While downing crisp bacon glazed with maple syrup, my aunt regaled me with tales of winters long, long ago. “And then there was the blizzard of 1978,” she said almost wistfully. “Remember?”

I didn’t, since that had been two years before I was born, but I nodded anyway, figuring it counted if I remembered seeing the pictures Mom had stuck into the photo album.

Our plates were soon empty. I thanked Aunt Frances for the wonderful breakfast, and as soon as the table was clear, I fetched my cell phone and dialed the sheriff’s office.

“Deputy Wolverson,” said a male voice. “How may I help you?”

“Oh, uh.” I hadn’t expected someone I knew to answer the phone, let alone a man who was about my age, with a muscular build, short brown hair, and a squarish jaw. Hot was what Holly called him, and I supposed she was right. “Hi. This is Minnie Hamilton. From the library. I didn’t expect you to be answering the phones.”

“Hey, Minnie,” he said. “I don’t usually, but I’m covering for someone this morning. What can I do you for?”

The old-fashioned phrase made me smile. “Today is a bookmobile day, and I was wondering about the road conditions.”

“Hey, that’s great that you called to check,” he said. “Not many people think to ask. Where are you headed?”

I gave him the road names and heard the click of a few computer keys. “You should be fine,” he said. “Those are primary roads, so they’ll be clear by nine o’clock.”

I thanked him and hung up. Aunt Frances was at the sink, doing the dishes against my objections. “We’re on,” I said, and looked around for Eddie. He was nowhere to be seen. “Hey, Eddie,” I called. “Ready for a bookmobile ride?”

Though he hadn’t been in the kitchen half a second earlier, there he suddenly was, sitting in the middle of the floor as if he’d been there the entire time.

“Mrr,” he said.

* * *

Half an hour later, the bookmobile was out of the garage, warming up while I made sure all was ready for the day’s adventure.

I’d run through the outside checklist and was halfway through the inside list when there was a knock on the door. This was strange, because people rarely knocked at the door at stops, let alone while the bookmobile was sitting in the library’s back parking lot, but maybe the handle had frozen shut with the snow and Denise couldn’t get it unlatched.

Mentally shrugging, I went to open the door.

Outside, a man in jeans, work boots, and a brown Carhartt jacket stood with his back to the bookmobile. He was doing what I often did in the mornings, drinking in the view of the downtown Chilson rooftops and Janay Lake. Even on this snowy day, with a sky still morning gray, it was a sight worth taking in, and I was already liking the guy, whoever he was.

“Hi,” I said. “Can I help you?”

He turned. He had a salt-and-pepper beard, weathered skin, and a cheerful expression. “Morning. I’m Roger Slade. My wife sent me over.”

“Your . . . wife?”

“Denise.”

This was making no sense whatsoever. “She sent you?”

He nodded. “Didn’t she call? She said she was going to.”

“Haven’t heard it ring.” And I knew for a fact that my cell was charged up and raring to go. I always made sure of that on bookmobile days.

“Oh. Well.” He shrugged. “She meant to, but you know how she gets. Anyway, she can’t make it today on the bookmobile.”

“She what?” My eyes thinned to mere slits. I’d known this was going to happen. Just known it. Denise was capable but not dependable, no matter how many promises she made. Why had I ever thought this time would be different?

“But she sent me,” Roger said. “She said it’ll work out fine.”

Oh, she did, did she? I opened my mouth . . . but then shut it. I would deal with Denise later. Right now there was a bookmobile run to embark upon and a new volunteer to train.

I smiled at Roger. “Come on in.”

* * *

Ten minutes later we were on our way. I’d introduced Roger to Eddie and Eddie to Roger, given him a quick tour of the bookmobile, handed him the necessary paperwork, given him a fact sheet on the Dewey decimal system, and asked him whether he’d brought food.

He shook his head. “Denise didn’t say anything about it and I didn’t think to ask.”

I stopped in the middle of buckling up my seat belt. “Do you want to stop to pick up something on the way out of town?”

“I’ll be okay,” he said. “I’m used to not having lunch.”

It was then that I was struck with the realization that I knew absolutely nothing about the man I was going to be traveling with for the next eight hours. “So,” I said, dropping the transmission into gear, “what do you do when you’re not riding with the bookmobile?”

“Lately or normally?” he asked.

I was starting to like this guy. I grinned. “Both.”

“Normally I work construction for a company in Petoskey.” He gave a name that rang a vague bell in the back of my brain. “We specialize in old structures. Bridges, barns—whatever. Do projects all over the state. Did your library here,” he said, nodding at the brick building.

No wonder the name of his company had sounded familiar. I’d moved to Chilson on the happy end of the school-turned-library renovation. While I’d helped plan the move from the old building to the new, my only dealing with the construction project itself was to marvel at the finished product.

“So, you’re off for the winter?” I asked.

“Off until the doctor gives me the thumbs-up.” He pointed at his midsection. “Had hernia surgery three weeks ago and I need the doc’s sign-off before I can swing a sledgehammer again.”

Wonderful. Not only had Denise bailed on her bookmobile promise, but she’d sent me a walking wounded for a replacement. I braked to a stop, right in the middle of the empty road. “If you’re recovering from surgery, I’m afraid I—”

“Minnie, I’m fine.” He looked at me with serious gray eyes. “I wouldn’t put you or the library in any jeopardy. After two weeks, I was fine to lift things up to ten pounds, so as long as you don’t make me tote any big boxes of books, there won’t be any problems.”

I studied him, thinking hard.

What did I know about this man? Next to nothing. The fact that I’d already mentally moved him into the friend category meant zip where the bookmobile and the library were concerned. I had to do what was best for the library and not be swayed by a kernel of friendship.

Then again, what were the risks if I brought him along?

“It was laparoscopic surgery,” he said, “and it was three weeks ago. All I can’t do is lift heavy things, which is why I’m here instead of out hunting.”

That was right: It was the first day of deer season. I tried to remember what people said about snow for hunting, whether that made it easier or harder, but since I wasn’t a hunter, I didn’t try very hard.

I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel. “Let me make a phone call. There’s this doctor I know.” I dug into my backpack for my phone and called Tucker. Having an emergency-room doctor boyfriend was coming in handy. “Hey,” I said. “Got a quick question for you.”

“You’re not canceling our date tonight, are you?” he asked.

“Not a chance.” It had been weeks since our schedules had synced to where we could have a weekend night together. “My question is a general one, about hernia surgery.”

“Don’t do it,” he said promptly.

I laughed. “Not in my future, as far as I know. But I’m wondering about recovery time.”

He started asking all sorts of questions. What kind of hernia surgery, had there been a mesh installed, who was the surgeon, how healthy was the patient, and on and on.

Okay, maybe having a doctor for a boyfriend wasn’t so handy. I waited until he paused for breath, then asked, “If the guy is around fifty, fairly fit, and had laparoscopic surgery three weeks ago, do you think it’s okay for him to work at a desk job?”

“Well, what I’ll tell you,” Tucker said, “is most guys are back at work inside of a week if they don’t have to do any lifting.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. “Excellent. Thanks.”

Tucker went on about possible complications, said he couldn’t make any real recommendations without seeing the guy, that every case was different, and to get a solid answer the guy should consult with his surgeon.

“Sure,” I said. “I understand. Thanks.” I tucked the phone away. “Well, it sounds like you’re good to go.”

“‘Fairly fit’?” Roger quoted me, lifting one eyebrow.

I grinned and checked the vehicle’s mirrors. The road was still empty, so I took my foot off the brake. “Well, I don’t know your best mile time, do I?”

“Last summer I ran a half marathon in under two hours.”

I tried to do the math. Gave up fast. Anyone who could run 13.1 miles at all had to be a lot healthier than I was. One of these days I’d start eating better and get into working out. This spring, maybe. Winter was no time to start an exercise program.

We spent the ride out to the south central part of the county working through the pros and cons of over- and underestimating people and came to no conclusions. We talked about the library’s renovation project on the way to the second stop, wherein I learned that my office had previously been part of a fifth-grade classroom, and talked a lot about the weather on the way to the third stop.

This was because although I’d already lived through three northern Michigan winters, I’d spent most of those months in town or on highways that had priority for snow clearance. I had never quite realized how varied the snowfall amounts could be in different parts of Tonedagana County.

“Oh, sure,” Roger said, nodding. “Over by Chilson, that’s what we call the banana belt.”

“Bananas?”

“It’s a joke. But over there we got—what?—six, maybe eight inches? Which is a lot of stuff to shovel, sure, but look at that.” He gestured at the snow-laden trees. “That’s ten to twelve inches, easy.”

As Deputy Wolverson had predicted, the roads had been cleared nicely and the driving was fine, but there was indeed a lot of snow. Cedar branches were weighed down with great clumps of the stuff, the few houses were thickly blanketed with white, and the only bare ground to be seen was the roadway in front of us.

“Why?” I asked.

“Does it snow more over here?” He shrugged. “Ask a weather guy. All I know is that it does. Always has.”

Something to do with the Great Lakes, no doubt. That was always the stock answer for any odd weather up here. And it was probably true. Having multiple vast bodies of water—Lake Superior, Lake Michigan, and Lake Huron—smush themselves together in basically one location was bound to create strange weather patterns.

At the third stop, I continued what I’d done at the first two and kept an eye on Roger to make sure he limited himself to desk-job duties. No way was I going to allow him to hurt himself on my bookmobile, and even though he seemed like a very nice man, he was still a man and would undoubtedly try to do more than he should.

“Mrr.”

I turned from where I was showing the picture books to a young mother and her small child and saw Eddie jump onto Roger’s lap. Eddie, who had slept most of the morning in his carrier, was typically not a cat to rush to judgment, but he had obviously decided that Roger was his new buddy.

“He’s more than ten pounds,” I cautioned Roger. Thirteen-point-five, to be exact. “If you want him to move, please don’t lift him. Just give him a gentle shove.”

My toddler patron squealed with delight to see a kitty cat. “Mommy, Mommy, can I pet the kitty?”

Mommy looked at me.

“Sure,” I said. “He has claws, but he’s great with kids. Of course, he does tend to shed a lot, so . . .” I spread my hands and shrugged. “Up to you.”

The mom gave the go-ahead, and the child rushed forward to pet Mr. Ed. The kid kept petting Eddie, Eddie kept allowing it, and poor Roger was stuck, caught between a cat and a kid.

Not that he seemed stuck. He seemed to be enjoying himself while Mom selected books, I checked them out, and we chatted as she slid them into a tote bag. When all was ready, Mom turned to her child and said, “Okey-dokey-kokey, kiddo. Zip up your coat—it’s time to go.”

The kid immediately started to wail. “I don’t wanna go! I wanna pet the kitty some more!”

The kitty in question didn’t look as if he cared for the wailing, but he didn’t move a muscle, submitting, with bizarre acceptance, to the kid’s clutching of his fur. If I’d done such a thing, he would have howled and taught me a quick lesson with his extended claws.

“Now, now,” Roger said calmly. “There’s no crying on the bookmobile.”

The kid’s wails slowed. “I ca-can’t cry?”

Roger shook his head. “Not here. We have rules about it, right, Miss Minnie?”

“Absolutely,” I said. “Bookmobile rule number one is No Crying.” I visualized an imaginary list of rules and saw that the second rule was No Cats. Well, at least we weren’t violating rule number one. “The books don’t like to hear crying,” I added.

The kid’s eyes went wide. “They . . . don’t?”

Roger nodded seriously. “They don’t like crying a single bit, so you see why we have a rule against it.”

Sniffing, the kid patted Eddie’s head. “Okay.” Sniff. “Will the bookmobile kitty be here next time?”

Roger looked at me. So did the kid and the mom. “Count on it,” I said.

A few minutes later, Eddie was back in his carrier, and Roger and I were buckling our seat belts.

“Now where?” Roger asked.

I glanced over at him. “You were really good with that kid. Do you and Denise have children?” It seemed odd that I didn’t know, but conversations with Denise tended to focus on whatever her current project might be.

“Two,” Roger said. “Girl and a boy. Both are grown and gone. One lives in Texas; the other’s in Arizona.”

I started us rolling forward, heading back north in the direction of Chilson. “Not fans of the snow?”

“More like they’re fans of getting jobs,” he said, smiling. “But, yeah, neither one seems interested in moving back. They come up in the summer; we visit them at Christmas. It works out.”

We headed to the next stop, chatting idly about topics from Thanksgiving (he and Denise were eating with her extended family, while my parents were headed to my brother’s in Florida, and I was staying with Aunt Frances and an assortment of guests) to the chances of the Detroit Lions making it to the Superbowl (slim to none, we agreed) and the annoyance of political signs cluttering up the roadsides a week and a half after the November election.

“Just look at that.” He pointed through the windshield.

I glanced at the busy cluster of signs that included people running for a variety of offices, from seats in the US Congress to the state legislature, local townships, and even one for the Chilson City Council. VOTE FOR ALLISON KORTHASE, it proclaimed with a professional design in red, white, and blue. Why there was a Chilson sign all the way down here, I wasn’t sure, but it must have worked, because I remembered that she’d won the seat.

“It’s as bad as seeing Christmas advertisements after Christmas,” I said.

“Take another foot of snow to cover up those buggers,” he said morosely. “Bet most of them are still there come spring.”

I laughed, but he was probably right. “Lunch stop coming up. I usually pull in at that township park, but I’m sure it’s not plowed. There’s that gas station over on the county highway. I was thinking about stopping there. We can use the facilities, and you could grab something to eat.”

“You don’t have to stop for me,” Roger said. “I’m fine.”

For the zillionth time that day, I wondered how this laid-back, easygoing, no-cares-whatsoever man had stayed married to the high-frequency, pay-attention-to-my-problems-because-they’re-more-important-than-yours Denise for so many years. But, as my mother had once told me, every marriage is a mystery.

“Well,” I said, “I could use a break, and we have a little time.”

I’d cut each stop short by a few minutes, just in case of slippery conditions on the way to the next one, but the roads were fine. One car, a dark blue multi-bumper-stickered SUV kind of thing, had even passed us a few miles back.

Roger shrugged. “Works for me. I can grab a sandwich, if they don’t look too scary.”

“Eddie?” I peered into the cat carrier. “Is there anything you want?”

He opened his mouth to say “Mrr,” but no noise came out.

“Nothing, you say?” I asked. “I had no idea you could be so accommodating. You’re okay, pal, no matter what Aunt Frances says about you.”

“Mrr.”

Roger laughed. “It really does seem like he knows what you’re saying.”

It was frightening, actually, how Eddie and I could carry on conversations. Almost all of my brain knew there was no way a cat could understand human speech, but I had a few brain cells, tucked somewhere in a back corner, that were convinced Eddie understood everything I said, and even some of the things I didn’t say.

We pulled into the gas station—with two wide entrances, it was my favorite kind of place—and came to a stop in a vast parking lot behind the building. I went in first, while Roger stayed on the bookmobile.

In short order, I returned, laden with a bottle of water and a PowerBar, because I would have felt guilty about using the restroom without purchasing something. I clambered up the steps and said, “It’s colder over here. Wind’s up, too.”

“Told you,” Roger said. “Chilson’s the banana belt. Warmer near the lake and all that, just like they say.”

The weather folks said it was cooler near Lake Michigan in the summer, when that great mass of water acted as a big refrigerator, but in the winter the big lake kept the lakeshore warmer than the rest of the state. Not always by very much, but every degree counts, especially in January.

Roger gave the side of Eddie’s face a scratch, stood, and zipped up his coat. “I’ll just be a minute.” He took two steps, then stopped, muttering, “Almost forgot.”

I started to turn, assuming he was talking to me, but he was moving again and out the door. “Talking to himself,” I told Eddie, nodding. “They say that can be the first step toward insanity. Of course, they say the real danger is when you answer yourself.”

“Mrr.”

I shrugged. “Yeah, I don’t know who they are, either. Sounds like a bunch of hooey, doesn’t it?”

Eddie rubbed his face up against the door of the cat carrier. The wire caught on his kitty lips, pulling them back to reveal sharp, pointed teeth and pinkish gums.

“Not a good look, bud,” I said. “You’re cute and adorable in many ways, but your gums are just not attractive.” I thought about that. “Then again, probably no one’s are. Maybe a periodontist would have an opinion on good-looking gums, but I bet everyone else would just as soon—”

Bang!

Eddie and I both jumped as the echo of a rifle shot bounced back and forth across the hills.

We blinked at each other; then I remembered. “It’s the first day of hunting season,” I said, nodding authoritatively. Of course, it was technically the first day of the Michigan’s two-week-long deer rifle season, but nobody called it that. It was Opening Day, spelled with capital letters, and if you didn’t know what that meant, you were either from the depths of a large city or from another solar system. There were other deer seasons—bow season, black-powder season, and who knew what else—but rifle season saw the most action.

All day long, Roger and I had seen trucks and SUVs parked in odd places; on the sides of roads, a short ways down narrow dirt trails, and in parking lots of long-abandoned homes. Hunters. Some of them, no doubt, were looking for that elusive trophy buck with a huge rack of antlers, but for the most part, hunters—male and female—were trying to fill their family’s freezers with venison.

I’d grown up in the Detroit area, where the only thing I’d learned about hunting and fishing was that it was something my family wasn’t ever likely to do. “A lot easier to buy meat and fish at the store,” my mother had said more than once.

My city-bred father was more likely to sprout feathers than he was to venture into a boat (the poor man couldn’t even watch Titanic without getting seasick), and he had so little sense of direction that he could get lost in a large wooded park. Basic survival arts weren’t something my older brother and I had ever been taught.

“Not that it’s likely I’ll need to build a fire out here,” I said to Eddie. “All I need to know, I learned from Jack London, which is to stay out of the wilderness if you don’t know what you’re doing.” I smirked, but I didn’t think Eddie got the joke.

I started to explain the short story, but my cat yawned at me. “Fine,” I said, sitting back. “I can take a hint. What should we talk about instead?” I hummed a few nonsense notes. Eddie looked at me sideways, then closed his eyes.

The perfect topic presented itself. “I know. Let’s discuss the rising price of cat food. It’s going up fast, so you might want to consider getting a job.”

The idea of Eddie becoming part of our household revenue stream amused me, and I considered the possibilities. What could a cat do to earn money? The most likely possibility was pest control, but since Eddie hadn’t seemed the least bit inclined to do anything about Aunt Frances’s basement mouse problem, why would he do the job at someone else’s house?

“I’ll take any suggestions,” I said.

One feline eye opened, then it shut again.

Right. I was on my own. What else could Eddie do to earn a paycheck? I tapped the steering wheel and tried to think. Bookmobile-goers of all ages seemed to like him, but the idea of renting him out was just too weird. And although he was photogenic, since there were so many free pictures of cats available on the Internet, I couldn’t see much of a market for Eddie photos.

“Too bad you don’t really talk,” I said. “Now, that would make us some money. Just think if—”

Bang!

I sat up straight, feeling a tingle crawl up the back of my neck. “That one was close,” I said, staring out the window, looking up into the woods. Every hunter was required by law to wear bright orange, but I couldn’t see a hint of it anywhere.

I’d heard there was a law about how far you had to be from a house to shoot, but I had no idea whether that law included other kinds of buildings. Or how much time was spent enforcing the law.

“It was probably a lot farther away than it seemed,” I murmured. At least I hoped so. While my knowledge about firearms was limited, I had a pretty good idea that the bookmobile’s walls wouldn’t be able to stop a speeding bullet.

“Mrrr.”

I looked at Eddie, trying to decide if he’d been agreeing or disagreeing, but he wasn’t paying any attention to me. He was on his feet, pacing around the interior of the cat carrier like a caged tiger.

“What’s the matter, pal?” An agitated Eddie wasn’t a good thing. Because if he was upset, the next thing he was likely to do was—

“MMRR!”

My ears tried to plug themselves, but, as usual, it didn’t work. The howl of an agitated Eddie could probably pierce the thickest sound protection, anyway. Maybe the muffs that airport workers use would work, but I doubted it. His mouth started to open again, and this time I slapped my hands over my ears.

“MMRR!”

I leaned over the console and unlatched the carrier’s door. “Are you okay? You’re not sick, are you?”

He shouldered the door open, jumped onto the passenger’s seat and then up onto the wide dashboard. “Mrrr! Mrr! Mrr!”

“Hey, come on.” I half stood to pet him. “What’s wrong?” I was tempted to ask him if Timmy had fallen down the well, but figured he wouldn’t get the reference to the old Lassie shows.

“Mrr,” he said. “Mrr!” He pulled out of my reach and paced the length of the dashboard.

I eyed the paw prints he was leaving behind. “I cleaned the dash with that special spray just last week, you know.”

“Mrr!” Eddie pawed at the windshield, scraping at it, really, with his claws extended. He howled and he whined and he pushed the side of his face against the glass, leaving marks that would be hard for a person like me, who had distance-challenged arms, to clean without crawling up onto the dashboard itself.

“Get down from there.” I grabbed at Eddie’s back end and gently pulled him toward me. “What is with you? You’ve never acted this way.” He’d done a thousand other odd and unusual things, but crawling up on the bookmobile dashboard and howling out his little kitty lungs was not one of them.

“I’m glad you weren’t acting like this in front of Roger,” I told him. “Talk about bad first impressions. So far he seems to like you and—”

And then I realized that Roger had been gone for a long time. If he didn’t get back soon, we’d risk being late for the next stop. I glanced at the dashboard clock, but couldn’t remember what time he’d left. It had been a while, though, and I’d been in that gas station on a regular basis since starting up the bookmobile; their sandwich offerings weren’t so numerous that it would take long to make a decision.

“Ham, turkey, or egg salad,” I told Eddie. “Sometimes roast beef.”

“MRRR!” Eddie slid out of my hands and started whacking the top of his head against the windshield. It made a loud and hollow thumping noise that made the inside of my skin cringe.

“Cut it out already, will you?” I grabbed for my cat, but he whipped out of my reach and kept bonking his head. “What is your deal? Have you bonded with Roger so quickly that you’re lost without him? I didn’t know I could be so easily replaced.”

Eddie glanced over his shoulder and stared me straight in the eye. “MMMRR!”

I glared back. “Fine. I’ll go see what’s keeping your new best friend. I’m sure he just got talking with the guy running the cash register.”

“Mrr.” Eddie jumped down to the passenger’s seat and sat, prim and proper and not looking at all like a cat who’d been beating his skull against thick glass.

I zipped up my coat, muttering about manipulative cats and their enabling humans. Shutting and locking the door behind me, however, I came to the not-so-profound realization that the term “manipulative cat” was redundant. “They’re all manipulative,” I said. Which made me grin, for some reason. I waved at Eddie, who opened his mouth in an “Mrr,” that I couldn’t hear, and trudged my way through snow to the front of the store.

Inside, I saw no sign of Roger.

“Hey,” said the thirtyish guy behind the counter. “Need something else?” He picked up his fountain soda, which was large enough to hydrate a family of nine, and slurped.

“Looking for Roger,” I said. “He came in after me. Brown Carhartt jacket, jeans, work boots.”

The guy looked at me like I was an idiot. “He left five minutes ago. Bought an egg-salad sandwich and a bag of chips, then left.”

This wasn’t making sense. “He didn’t come out to the bookmobile. You’re sure he’s not in the bathroom?”

“No way. He left out the front door. I saw him.”

Not that I thought the guy was lying, but maybe he’d been distracted by a phone call or another customer. “Do you mind if I check anyway?”

The guy shrugged. “I’m telling you—he’s not there.”

And he wasn’t. Not in the men’s room and not in the women’s. He also wasn’t in the back room (I made the counter guy look).

I stood in the middle of the store, turning in a small circle. “Did anyone else stop?” From where the bookmobile was parked, I hadn’t been able to see the traffic. I couldn’t think of any reason for Roger to leave with someone else and abandon me, but it was the only explanation I could come up with.

Counter Guy shrugged. “An SUV with a couple of hunters from downstate stopped for gas, and an old couple in a beater sedan came in to get some food. Other than that, there’s been nobody.”

Then where the heck was he? I wanted to stamp my foot, but made a grunting noise instead.

The counter guy smirked. “Maybe he’s got early Alzheimer’s or something. Maybe he got lost getting back to your rig.”

I started to say that was ridiculous, but I stopped myself before getting further than “That’s ridic—” Because maybe it wasn’t. After all, I hardly knew the man. You’d have thought Denise would have said something if Roger had that sort of issue, but who knew?

“Thanks,” I said, and headed back out into the cold, snowy world. “Now what?” I muttered. Well, first thing was to make sure Roger wasn’t standing outside the locked bookmobile, waiting for me.

I hurried back around the way I’m come, but there was no Roger. I did see Eddie pawing at the windshield, so I gave him a friendly wave and, suddenly hurrying, kept going around to check the other side of the building. If Roger had been struck down by a heart attack and I’d done nothing but dawdle, I’d never forgive myself.

A wide variety of possibilities suddenly popped into my brain, and none of them was good.

Stroke.

Brain aneurism.

He fell on an icy spot and whacked his head.

He fell and broke a leg or a hip or an ankle or wrist, or any combination thereof.

An icicle fell off the roof and hit him in the head.

I swallowed and went even faster. Why hadn’t I thought about any of these things earlier when I was messing around with Eddie, waiting? With the bookmobile’s engine running, I wouldn’t have heard any calls for help. I should have paid more attention to the time. I should have paid more attention to the potential dangers. I should have done everything differently. Why had I been so complacent? Why had I assumed that everything was fine?

All this went through my mind in a flash. I broke into a run and rounded the corner of the building, breathless with worry, because I knew with a sick and sudden certainty that something was deeply wrong.

Fast as I could, I ran through the snow, dodging around the back of the tall wood fence that screened the Dumpster, hoping to see Roger standing there, talking on his cell phone to a buddy about hunting, having lost all track of time.

But there was a primal part of me that knew there would be no easy explanation.

So when I saw a man lying on the ground, I was almost expecting it. When I recognized Roger’s jeans, work boots, and canvas jacket, I was almost prepared. When I saw that he wasn’t talking, wasn’t moving, wasn’t doing anything, I was almost ready to accept that something horrible had happened.

Almost.

“Roger!” I rushed to his side and dropped to my knees in the snow. “Roger, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

But in spite of all my fears and all my mental preparations, I wasn’t anywhere near ready for the vast spread of crimson that stained the left side of his jacket.

And I could never have prepared myself for his open eyes, staring sightlessly at the gray sky.

In a flurry, I yanked off my gloves, felt for a pulse at his neck, pulled my cell phone out of my pocket, and pushed those three short numbers that could sometimes help, that could sometimes make all the difference.

But I knew nothing was going to help Roger.

He was dead.