Lending А Paw

Chapter 4

An infinitely long time later, Eddie and I were sitting in the bookmobile driver’s seat, waiting for a deputy from the county sheriff’s office to give us the okay to go home. Though my tears had dried up half an hour ago, sniffles remained.

“I couldn’t save him, Eddie. I tried and tried but nothing I did mattered.” I hugged Eddie tight and he didn’t make even a squeak of protest. “I did everything they told me to in that class, but it wasn’t enough.” Sniff.

The EMT crew had arrived seventeen minutes after I made the 911 call. Amazing, really, considering the distances in this part of the county, but it hadn’t been soon enough to bring Stan Larabee back.

“He’s gone, Eddie, he’s really gone.” Sniff. “It seems so wrong. He was so full of life. There were so many things he wanted to do.” During the planning phase of the bookmobile purchase, Stan and I had met on an almost daily basis. I’d learned enough about him to know that he deeply regretted some of the things he’d done while a wheeling and dealing real estate developer. I also knew that he’d divested himself of his third wife a decade earlier, had never had any children, and was working almost as hard at giving away his money as he had at making it.

“But no handouts,” he’d told me. “I’m attaching strings to the checks I write. And no money for poor planning. If you can’t use the money you have in a sensible way, why should I give, or even loan, you some of mine?”

Eddie bumped my chin with the top of his head.

Absently, I started petting him. “I don’t even know who to call. I mean, sure, the police will notify the next of kin, but I feel that I should say something to one of his relatives.” As far as I knew, though, there wasn’t anyone. He lived alone in a great big house on a great big hill that had been designed to take advantage of the views of both Lake Michigan and Janay Lake.

A big fat raindrop splattered on the bookmobile’s wide windshield. Then another, and another. The blue skies that had accompanied us through the morning and halfway through the afternoon were gone. A thick layer of low clouds, heavy with rain, had moved across the sun and now the bookmobile was getting its first shower.

“Hope it doesn’t shrink,” I murmured.

Eddie settled back down into my lap and turned on his purr.

“You’re not so bad for an Eddie.” I laid my hand on his back. His body heat seeped into my skin, warming me in more ways than one.

It had been my Florida-based brother who had made me aware of Stan’s existence. Matt, a Disney Imagineer, had run into “this older guy who said he’d just built a place in Chilson. He was down here to tidy up some business, sounded like. Anyway, I told him my sister was a librarian up there and he said for you to give him a call.”

I’d demurred, but Matt had pressed me with all the pressure a big brother can bear. “Do it, Min. This guy is a big deal down here.”

So I’d called. Stan invited me to lunch at the local diner and before we’d finished our burgers, it was clear that we were going to be friends. Despite the disparity in our ages, backgrounds, and life experiences, there was an instant rapport between us that defied all understanding.

But the more I’d gotten to know Stan, the more I didn’t understand the difference between the man I knew and the Stan Larabee that everyone else seemed to have encountered. The comments I heard ranged from “He should have stayed in Florida” to “Stan Larabee never lifted a finger to help anyone in his whole life” to “Larabee wouldn’t part with a dime unless he was guaranteed a quarter back.”

Yet he’d written a check to the Chilson District Library with so many zeros I wasn’t sure how he got them all to fit on the line.

“Here you are, Minnie,” he’d said, ripping it out of his checkbook. “The only way this county is going to get a bookmobile is if someone pays for the whole dang thing. Give that shortsighted library board this check and my compliments.”

I’d thanked him profusely and said something about the discrepancy in how I saw him and how the rest of Chilson saw him. He’d roared out a laugh that somehow held an edge of black. “You’re not from a small town, are you? Stay here long enough and you’ll see.”

“See what?” I’d asked.

“That you can’t live long enough to outlive a reputation.”

Soon afterward, I’d stopped by to see my best friend, Kristen, owner and operator of the Three Seasons restaurant, and begun to see what he’d meant. Kristen had been horrified when I’d told her I’d gone to Stan and asked for money.

“You did what?” She’d looked down at me, every inch of her five-foot-eleven self vibrating with disapproval. “Stan Larabee doesn’t hand out money. Everybody knows that.”

“Everybody is wrong.” I handed her the copy I’d made of the check.

Kristen pushed at a wisp of her blond hair that had escaped its tight ponytail and read the numbers out loud. “Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars?” Her voice squeaked. “Are you serious?”

“As your double chocolate cheesecake.” I’d plucked the paper out of her hands. The way her mouth was staying open made me anxious about drool. I planned to frame the copy and hang it in my bedroom so I could see it first thing when I woke up in the morning and last thing before I went to sleep at night. A raised spot from Kristen-drool would ruin the effect completely.

She squinted as I tucked the copy away in a folder. “Did it cash?”

“Of course it cashed. Do you think Stan Larabee would write a bad check?”

“I’d believe anything about that man,” she said darkly.

“Oh, pooh. I bet most of those stories are rumors made up at the bar at closing time. He was perfectly nice to me.”

Kristen gave me one of those you’ve-only-lived-here-three-years looks, but said, “Maybe. I’ve never talked to him more than a couple of times, myself.”

“Well, there you go. Makes you wonder what people say about you, doesn’t it?” Grinning, I’d waved and toddled home, elation filling me so full I wouldn’t have been surprised if I’d started floating. I’d bearded the lion in his den. Not only had I survived to tell the tale, but I’d been rewarded beyond anything I’d expected.

“Mrr.”

Eddie brought me back from my year-old memory by bumping me on the chin. I’d stopped petting him. “Sorry about that.” I scratched the top of his head and the purr machine restarted. Outside, the high hills, now half-hidden by the driving rain, looked cold and empty and lonely. Tears threatened again and I bent down to put my face against Eddie’s fur.

“Miss?”

I shrieked, Eddie yowled. I shrieked again as Eddie’s claws sank into my thighs. He yowled again as I scrambled to my feet. He detached his claws from my skin and launched himself across the console, onto the passenger seat, and into the back corner of his cupboard.

The sheriff’s deputy who had started the chain of unfortunate events stood there, dripping rainwater onto the carpet. “Minnie Hamilton?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said as politely as I could while enduring level seven pain. The agony created by cat claws would drop soon, but there was going to be some teeth-gritting in the interim.

“I’m Deputy Wolverson. Sorry if you didn’t hear me come in. I have a few questions for you.”

What I minded was the water he was leaving on the new carpet. I reached for the roll of paper towels. “Would you like to dry off a little?”

“Thank you, ma’am, but I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.” I tossed the roll to him and he had little choice but to catch it. “You’re dripping all over the inside of a very expensive bookmobile and the humidity’s going up and it’ll take forever for the carpet to dry and every wet spot will collect dirt like crazy and I’ll have to hire someone to clean the carpet and I don’t know where that money is going to come from, because we don’t have anything like that in the budget for months and . . . and . . .” My mouth kept opening and shutting for a little while, but I’d run out of words.

“Ms. Hamilton, why don’t you sit down?” he asked. “Is your cat okay?” He gestured at the cabinet.

“He likes it in there.” I sat down with a thump. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scold you, it’s just . . .” But I didn’t know where to go from there. Fortunately, Deputy Wolverson did.

“Shock takes people different ways,” he said, ripping a handful of paper towels off the roll. “Some cry, some get mad, some go quiet, others talk. Nothing to be ashamed of.”

I studied him as he toweled off his hands and face. About my age, maybe a little older. Not movie star handsome, but appealing. No beer gut, seemed intelligent. And no wedding band.

Hmm.

He used a second handful of paper towels to dry off his hat and shoes. “Thanks,” he said, and tossed the wads into the wastebasket. “I have a few questions to ask. Do you feel up to it?”

I nodded. “There’s a chair in the back, if you want.”

The chair had a bungee cord that held it in place en route. Wolverson deftly unhooked the cord and rolled the chair forward. He sat down with an athletic grace and took a small notepad out of his front shirt pocket.

“Minnie Hamilton, employee of the Chilson District Library, right? Can I have your address and phone number? . . . Okay, thanks. So you found the gentleman in the house at what time?”

“About an hour and a half ago.”

“You were parked here? Why did you go to the house?”

I glanced at Eddie’s cabinet. “My cat. He ran out of the bookmobile. I followed him to that farmhouse and that’s when I found Stan.”

“Stan?” Wolverson glanced up. “You know the victim? What’s his last name?”

Maybe he wasn’t as intelligent as I’d thought. “You mean you don’t know?”

The deputy’s polite face suddenly didn’t look quite so friendly. “We found no form of identification on the victim’s body. If you have information, please share it.”

The victim. A wave of spotted black filled my vision. I grabbed the edge of the seat and held on tight. No fainting. There weren’t any smelling salts on board, and anyway, I’d read they were nasty. “It’s Stan Larabee.”

Deputy Wolverson’s sudden intake of breath wasn’t exactly a gasp, but it was close. “The Larabee Development Stan Larabee?”

And Larabee Enterprises and Larabee Realty and Larabee Limited. Before I’d gone to Stan with my proverbial hat in hand, I’d done my research to make sure he was as rich as everybody said. It turned out he had more money than anyone had guessed.

I nodded, and the deputy thumbed his shoulder microphone. “Dispatch, this is two eight seven. Victim was male and approximately seventy years old. Identification is . . .” He looked at me. “You’re sure it’s Stan Larabee?”

“Definitely.”

He went back to his microphone. “Identification is confirmed. Cause of death is homicide, repeat, homicide.”

The microphone popped and crackled. “Roger that, two eight seven.”

Deputy Wolverson flipped his notebook shut and gave me a straight look. “Is there anything else we should know?”

Homicide. Stan was murdered. I’d known that as soon as I’d seen that small, horrible hole, but hearing the word spoken out loud was doing disturbing things to all sorts of emotions. “I can’t think of anything,” I said. “Do you know . . .” No, stupid question. The deputy had only been there a few minutes. Of course he didn’t know who’d killed Stan.

The deputy waited for me to finish my sentence. When I didn’t, he said, “The department’s detectives will be investigating the incident.” He tucked the notebook into one shirt pocket and pulled a business card from another. “But if you remember anything important before they contact you, here’s my name and phone number.”

I reached for the card and saw that my fingers were trembling. I made a quick open-and-shut-and-open fist, then took the card. DEPUTY ASH WOLVERSON, it read. “Um, I really don’t have any idea what might or might not be important.”

“Use your best judgment.”

My fingers started quivering again. I sat on them. “Um, I’m sure you noticed that the back door on the house was broken open.” He nodded. For some reason I nodded back. “And that car across the parking lot is probably his.” Stan was a car collector. Every time I saw him driving, it seemed he was driving something different.

He turned, noted the location of the car, then took some notes. “Anything else? No? Well, thanks for your help, and you have my card if you remember more.” He stood, opened the door, letting in the sound of pounding rain and the scent of wet earth, and left.

“Stan,” I whispered. “Oh, Stan.”

Eddie’s head popped out of the cabinet. He sniffed left, sniffed right, then jumped down and made his way over to me. He stood directly in front of my toes and looked up at me, yellow cat eyes intent on mine.

I patted my thighs.

He continued to stare at me.

“Oh, fine.” I leaned forward, scooped him up, and deposited him on my lap. He clunked the point of my chin with the top of his head and started purring.

“Murder,” I said quietly. “Stan was murdered. That’s so . . . wrong.”

Eddie stomped around. Either he was working on a new dance step or he was trying to make my lap more comfortable for himself.

“How could it be murder? And why?” But even as I asked the second question, I knew the answer. Stan was rich. Incredibly rich. You didn’t have to look very far to figure a motive for this one.

“But why here?” Sure, Tonedagana County had more remote places than this; there was a state forest not far away. And the next township south of here didn’t have even a village inside its borders.

Eddie found whatever it was that he wanted in a lap and flopped down.

“Could Stan have been looking at the property, thinking about developing?”

“Mrr.”

I nodded and started scratching his ears. “You’re probably right. Developing anything out here would be nuts.” The closest expressway was more than an hour away. Even the closest two-lane state highway was half an hour away. Not exactly easy access.

“Besides,” I said, “that day I picked up the check, he said he was done with developing. Time to spend money instead of making it.” He’d laughed as he’d said it, though. Where had his laughter come from?

“Well.” I gave Eddie a squeeze and deposited him on the passenger’s seat. “It’s up to the police now. They’ll figure out who killed Stan and—”

“Mrr!”

“What do you mean, ‘mrr’? That’s what the police do. They figure out who the bad guys are and put them in jail.” While I’d never actually seen Eddie roll his eyes, he managed to give a good impression of doing so.

“Cut that out.” I thumbed a lever on the driver’s seat and rotated it around to face the front window. “I’m sure the sheriff’s detectives are competent and experienced. They’ve probably investigated lots of deaths.”

Eddie flopped himself lengthwise onto the seat and looked at me sideways.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I told him. “There are thousands of people in Tonedagana County. Tens of thousands.” Almost forty thousand at the last census count. “Dozens, maybe hundreds of people in the county die each year.” Eddie opened his mouth, but I jumped in fast. I didn’t really think he understood what I said, but he gave such a good impression of doing so that I’d fallen into the habit of pretending that he did.

“Okay, sure, there aren’t many murders here.” The only one I could remember in the three years I’d lived in Chilson had started as a bar fight and had ended sadly with dozens of onlookers. Not much to investigate. “But they still have to have training. And maybe the detectives are former city detectives with twenty years of experience each and have solved hundreds of murders between them.”

It was possible. Lots of people up here came from somewhere else. I did. Aunt Frances did. My boss did. Almost all of my summer neighbors did. Tom, the owner of the bakery, did. The guy who ran the hardware store did. It only followed that the county sheriff’s office contained a lot of downstate transplants.

I started the engine. “It’ll be okay, Ed. They’ll find Stan’s killer, I’m sure of it.”

He looked at me as if I was the stupidest human in the universe.

“They will,” I told him.

“Mrr,” he said, and closed his eyes.

• • •

The roads were wet and strewn with sticks and leaves. I turned on the headlights. Used the brakes cautiously. Avoided deep puddles. Drove slowly.

As a result, it took forever to get back to Chilson. I came in the back way through town to avoid the burgeoning summer traffic, and around the back of the library. I hit the garage door opener and turned on the nifty remote-camera screen that was not only invaluable in helping me back up, but was also very helpful when edging into tight places.

Just as we were about to nose into the garage I checked the side mirrors . . . and saw a fiftyish man, feet standing wide, fists on his hips. The frown on his face was fierce enough to create deep creases around his mouth.

What was Stephen doing out here? To the best of my knowledge, he’d never come within spitting distance of the bookmobile. So why . . . ?

My boss made a come-out-and-talk-to-me gesture. If I grabbed Eddie, would I be able to put him in his cabinet without Stephen noticing? Not a chance, not with these big windows. I put on the air brakes, told Eddie to lay low, and scooted outside to where my boss was waiting.

“Hey, Stephen. What are—”

He cut into my greeting. “You’re two and a half hours late.”

Two hours and nineteen minutes, but who was counting?

“Don’t tell me there’s something wrong with the bookmobile.” He squinted at the vehicle. “Mechanical breakdowns happen regularly, I understand.”

And suddenly, I understood, too. Stephen positively wanted the bookmobile to be too expensive for the library to run. If he could prove that it cost more than the operations budget had estimated, he’d find a politically palatable way of getting rid of it. Find it a nice home somewhere else, he’d say, smiling a very annoying smile. We’ll get only pennies on the dollar, but that’s better than nothing.

“The bookmobile is fine,” I said. “It’s—”

“How many people showed up at the first stop?”

The twins. The princess. Ethan and Eddie. So long ago, yet less than twelve hours in the past. It didn’t seem possible. “We had a good turnout. Stephen, there’s something I have to tell you.”

He waved me off. “What I need is details. As this was the maiden voyage, I expect that things didn’t go as smoothly as you’d hoped.”

“Okay, but first I have to—”

Stephen held up a warning finger. “Am I or am I not your supervisor?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then give me the information I need.” He sighed. “Minnie, you are a fine employee, but you have a bad habit of reprioritizing to your own satisfaction. When will you learn that you don’t always know best? Not even I know best, not all the time, and I have almost thirty years of experience as a librarian. Experience counts, Minnie.”

Uh-oh. Stephen had moved into Mentor Mode and it would take drastic measures to get him out.

“Yes, experience.” He nodded to himself. “Someday you’ll know what I’m talking about. Having great promise is only that, a promise. It’s up to you to learn as much as you can, pay attention as much as you can. Only then will it be possible for you to—”

“Stan Larabee is dead.”

Stephen’s mouth kept moving, but nothing came out.

“We . . . I found him in a farmhouse near my last stop. I called 911 right away, but it was too late.”

“Stan Larabee? You’re sure?”

I nodded, afraid to speak for fear I’d break down into wordless sobs.

“Larabee?” Stephen whispered, his eyes stretched wide. “Is dead?”

I looked at him. “Are you okay? Maybe you should sit down.” I reached up for the door latch, opened it, and saw Eddie sitting at the top of the stairs. I slammed the door shut. “On second thought,” I said brightly, “let’s get you into the library. You’ll be more comfortable there.”

“Stan’s gone?” Stephen’s voice was tight. “He can’t be dead. Can he?”

“Yes, and it’s a little worse than that. He—”

“Worse?” Stephen’s mouth twisted into a crooked smile. “Worse, she says.” He barked out an odd choking kind of laugh and staggered away, muttering to himself, “She thinks it could be worse. Worse!”

I followed him for a few steps, but he seemed strong enough, just not very steady. I watched as he made his way around the corner of the library, walking an erratic zigzag path bounded on one side by the building, bounded on the other by an invisible wall that he kept reaching up to touch. The last thing I heard before he went out of view was a final shout of frenetic laughter. “Worse!”

“Well,” I said. “That was weird.”

And I climbed back into the bookmobile to tuck it in for the night.

• • •

By the time I’d finished at the library and carried a squirming Eddie home in the backpack, I was ready to tuck myself in. After taking a quick shower, I fixed myself a comforting dinner of baked macaroni and cheese with bits of bacon tossed in, slapped together a salad so I’d be able to tell my mother I was eating vegetables, and ate in the houseboat’s dining booth. The clouds had cleared off and it had turned into a beautiful, cool northern Michigan evening, but I didn’t feel up to talking with my neighbors.

The marina crowd was a gregarious bunch, full of bonhomie and cheer, and on a normal Friday night I’d be joining in the fun. But tonight wasn’t normal. Even Eddie was acting out of sorts. Eddie usually spent evenings perched on the flat dashboard above the boat’s steering wheel, watching the boat traffic and the seagulls and whatever the neighbors might be doing, with occasional yowly commentary. Tonight, he stuck close to me.

When the dinner dishes were done and put away in the galley’s cupboards, it was all of nine o’clock. “What do you think, pal?” I asked Eddie. “I could see what the boat rats are up to. Or I could drive out to Lake Michigan and watch the sunset.” Neither of those suggestions appeared to interest Eddie. “I could walk up to Kristen’s restaurant. I could call Mom. Or I could go up to the boardinghouse and talk to Aunt Frances.” Those were all pretty good ideas. It would probably help to talk about the day.

But somehow I didn’t want to talk. Didn’t want to relive it all, didn’t want to go back there, even in my head. Tomorrow. I’d talk to them tomorrow. I’d be ready in another day. Two at the most.

Eddie sauntered past me, trotted down the three stairs, past the bathroom, jumped up on the set of drawers I’d put in front of the back door, then leapt onto the bed.

Or I could go to bed. It suddenly seemed like an excellent idea.

Ten minutes later, clad in old shorts and a tank top and teeth brushed, I slid into bed. I picked up a copy of Karin Slaughter’s latest thriller. Two pages in, I put it down in favor of the next book on my To Be Read stack: Gravity’s Rainbow. That lasted two paragraphs. Then I tried Lorraine Bartlett’s most recent cozy mystery. But even that mostly happy little world didn’t keep me from reliving the events of the day.

Sighing, I sat up and hugged my knees. Sounds of boater revelry wafted in through the open window. A flickering of lights glinted on the ceiling, lights that seemed as if they were coming from the big boat next door. Which didn’t make sense, because the Olsons never came up before July, a fact for which everyone at the marina was grateful. I was watching the lights, trying to figure out their source, but somehow I saw only the flashing red beacon of the ambulance.

Oh, Stan. Of all the people in the county, how could it have been me that had found him?

Eddie chirped and rearranged himself. I petted his fur smooth. “Whatever it was that sent you running to that farmhouse, I’m guess I’m glad.” Did cats have ultragood eyesight? Some birds did. And some dogs had super-duper smelling powers. And there was hearing. What animals were good at hearing? Maybe Eddie had a special combination of all three?

I looked at him. Nah. If Eddie’s sensory powers were anything special, I wouldn’t startle him into a four-legged leap every other time I opened the nonlatching closet door, against which he’d started taking his afternoon naps.

“Poor Stan,” I said quietly. Then, all at once grief rose up in me. Oh, Stan. I swallowed down the sobs and tried to think. What would Stan want right now? What would he want me to do?

Eddie twisted his head around and looked at me upside down. “Sorry, big guy.” I patted him gently and he closed his eyes.

“It was murder,” I said softly. “Someone killed Stan. Maybe I could . . . ?” I shook my head before finishing the sentence. I was a librarian, for crying out loud. I could classify, alphabetize, plan outreach programs, sort staff schedules, and make sense of service contracts, but putting murderers in jail was outside my job description. “That’s what the police do,” I said, stroking Eddie’s back.

He twitched, as if my touch were ticklish.

“Sorry.” I smoothed down the fur he’d ruffled up. “I told that deputy everything. It wasn’t much, but what else can I do? I can’t go poking around doing the job of the detectives. They know what they’re doing, and I’m a librarian.”

Then again, I knew Stan and they didn’t. Maybe I didn’t know much, but I knew the things he laughed over. I knew what he liked to eat for lunch and what clothes he wore. I knew that he liked buying cars and I knew that he hated buying clothes. I knew that he liked chocolate and I knew that he liked to take long drives.

Eddie picked up his head and stared straight at me.

“But still . . .” I thought out loud. “What was he doing in the other side of the county? Why was he in that particular farmhouse?”

“Mrrorrw!” Eddie jumped onto my lap, thumped my chin with the top of his head, and started purring.

“Well, finally.” I slid back down into the sheets, rolled on my side, and fell asleep with my arm around a rumbling cat. But even Eddie’s purrs couldn’t chase away my dreams, dreams that were haunted with sights I didn’t want to see and sounds I didn’t want to hear.