Wrong Side of the Paw

Chapter 5

I sat at my computer the next morning, determinedly searching for ways to cut the bookmobile’s budget in a way that didn’t sacrifice services. Halfway through the morning I came to the conclusion that my self-appointed task was impossible unless fuel prices dropped to twenty-five cents per gallon or unless I cut my own salary by a significant amount.

Stephen, my old boss, hadn’t been big on pay increases, and inflation was far outpacing the raises we’d reluctantly been given over the last few years, so I wasn’t keen on a wage cut. I was on pace to pay off my last student loan within a year and I wanted to bulk up my savings before I even considered buying a house.

When noontime rolled around, I’d found a way to revise the bookmobile’s route that would save fifty miles and the accompanying driving costs. It wasn’t much, and it would take some rearrangement of the outreach efforts to the homebound folks I’d picked up, but it was the only real thing I’d found to cut. It wasn’t enough to make Jennifer happy.

I pushed my chair back, stretched until my neck and shoulders gave satisfying pops, and grabbed my coat.

Out front, I stopped at the main desk. “I’m headed to Shomin’s. Does anyone want anything?”

Donna looked up from the books she was sorting. “Reva’s salad with extra dried cherries, please. And that apple vinaigrette dressing.”

“So healthy,” I said. “Why can’t I be more like you?”

She smiled. “Someday you probably will. Until menopause I ate like a college student.”

“Is that when you started running marathons and doing all that snowshoeing?” When she nodded, I said, “Then I have fifteen or so years left to enjoy myself. Hot diggety!”

Donna laughed. “If you do exercise the right way, it’s enjoyable.”

“Then I must be doing something wrong,” I said, grimacing.

“Oh, I don’t know, when I see you and that adorably handsome Ash Wolverson out running or bicycling together, you don’t look as if you’d been dragged out there by force.”

“It’s an act,” I told her, heading toward the front door, and wondered how many levels of truth there were to my words.

One of the big wood and glass doors opened and Mitchell Koyne slouched in. Mitchell, one of the tallest men I’d ever met, was a library regular. He was Rafe’s age, or thereabouts, and while the two of them weren’t bosom buddies, they had enough in common that I grew concerned about the universe if they spent more than one consecutive hour together.

“Hey, Minnie.”

I glanced at the wall clock over the door, not that I truly needed to. “Afternoon, Mitchell.” One of Mitchell’s curious habits was that he never set foot in the library before noon. For years, Holly and I had tossed around theories on how Mitchell managed to eke out a living. Summers he worked as a laborer on construction jobs; winters he worked at a local ski resort. In spring and fall he helped put in and take out docks. None of that could have provided much income. Of course, since he lived in an apartment carved out of his sister’s attic, he probably didn’t need much.

No one expected much from Mitchell other than weird questions and the occasional bit of trivia. Not that Mitchell was dumb—far from it. He read far more widely than I did, wasn’t afraid to ask questions, and retained the essence of everything he had read or taught. He was blessed with a combination of innate intelligence and, until recently, a complete lack of ambition.

Mitchell’s über-laid-back attitude toward life had changed when he’d started dating Bianca Sims, a real estate agent out of Petoskey. Bianca seemed normal enough, so we were all curious if the romance was going to last.

I looked up, way up, at Mitchell, weirdly pleased that no matter how hard he was working at his jobs in hopes of impressing the fair Bianca, his library schedule was still the same. Today he was dressed in his typical worn jeans, ratty sneakers, ancient T-shirt under an untucked plaid flannel shirt, and a cap with a logo for the Traverse City Beach Bums, a minor league baseball team.

“Guess what?” Mitchell asked.

“You’ve painted your pickup truck all one color.” His truck was easy to identify from a distance because the hood, body, doors, and bed had all come from different junkyards at different times and were a variety of colors.

He frowned. “Why would I do that? There’s hardly any rust anywhere. Guess again.”

“Do I get a hint?”

“Nah, I’ll just tell you. I’ve been promoted!” He bounced up and down on his toes, grinning widely. “At the toy store downtown. They’re making me manager.”

For a stunned second, I couldn’t think of a thing to say. Finally, I managed to get out, “That’s great, Mitchell.”

“Yeah, I’m going to get health insurance and everything. Pretty cool, huh?”

“Very.” And it was cool. “Congratulations.”

“And now that I’ll be full time with benefits, want to know what I’m going to do with my first paycheck?”

Not in the least. “What’s that?”

His grin went even wider. “I’m going to pay off my library fines. All of them.”

“You’re . . . what?”

“Hah. Thought that would surprise you. But I mean it. I’ll come in on payday with the cash.”

Mitchell’s fines were the stuff of legends. Over the years his monetary transgressions from overdue and lost books had come close to the four-figure mark. It had mainly been because of Mitchell that Stephen had created a hard-and-fast rule of not allowing any borrowing from any adult account with overdue fines more than a dollar.

This had resulted in Mitchell spending lots of time in the reading room, poring over his choice of books, magazines, and newspapers, which wasn’t exactly what Stephen had intended, but as I’d told my former boss over and over, ours was a public library and Mitchell was part of the public.

Not having Mitchell’s name at the top of the fine list, though, was going to take some adjustment.

“That’s outstanding,” I said. “Let me know when you come in, okay? I want to take pictures so I can send one to Stephen.”

Mitchell held up his hand for a fist bump. “Good plan.”

He continued inside and I headed out into the halfhearted October sunshine, a little wistful. It was good that he was becoming a more stable citizen, of course it was good, but a part of me was already regretting the disappearance of the old Mitchell.

• • •

I was in the break room, putting my lunch onto a plate, when Jennifer walked in. “Have you been to Shomin’s Deli?” I asked. “Their sandwiches are outstanding.”

Jennifer glanced at the container while smoothing the line of her black and white checked jacket. She wore this over a white silk shell, on top of a black pencil skirt and high-heeled boots. It was a sleek look, and if I’d tried to wear that same outfit, I would have felt like a little kid dressing up in Mommy’s clothes.

“Chalkboard menu?” she asked. “Wooden booths with hooks at the end for hanging coats?”

She made it sound provincial and sadly out of date. “That’s the one,” I said cheerfully. “Have you tried their Reuben? People say it’s the best in the state.”

“I don’t care for corned beef.” She flicked another glance at my lunch. “When you’re done, I’d like you to come up to my office for a few minutes.”

“How about now?” I stood, shoved my sandwich into the fridge, then did my best to make idle chitchat as we walked down the hallway and up the stairs, but when you’re the only one asking questions (“How was your weekend?”) and the responses you’re getting are single syllables (“Fine”), the conversation tends to lose momentum quickly.

My last effort, that of asking Jennifer if she’d ever vacationed in this part of Michigan, died a quick death as she opened the door of her office and pushed it wide.

“Oh,” I said. “Oh. This is . . . new.”

It certainly was. The formerly wood-paneled walls had been painted a sleek gray; the carpet was a speckled black and gray. The deeply stained desk and chairs were now a shiny black. The draperies had been replaced with starkly white Venetian blinds, and the light fixture was a flat fluorescent panel that clung to the ceiling for dear life. The murky abstract paintings she’d added did little to bring any brightness to the space.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” A smiling Jennifer admired the space. “This is the office I’ve always wanted. I went a little over what the library board gave me for a budget, but I have no problem making it up out of my own pocket.”

At least it was her wallet and not the bookmobile’s budget. I struggled to find something kind to say. I didn’t want to blurt out to my new boss that her dream office belonged in Chicago and not northern Michigan. That in spite of the accessory heating Stephen had purchased, the room was going to feel cold until May.

“I’m glad,” I finally said, “that you’re happy with how it turned out.”

“Thank you.” She sat at her desk and held out a hand, indicating that I do the same. “Please, have a seat.”

“Um, thanks.” I looked askance at the object she was pointing toward. Until then I hadn’t been exactly sure it was a chair; it could easily have been a piece of modern art, something sculpted to look sort of like a chair to make a point about post-modernism in the twenty-first century.

Gingerly, I lowered myself and perched on the edge of what had to be the seat. “I’ve made some cuts to the bookmobile’s budget,” I said, trying to preempt her. “I should have preliminary numbers to you by the end of the week.”

“That’s exactly what I want.” Jennifer leaned forward, putting her elbows on the glossy black desk and lacing her fingers together.

I flashed back to the many times Stephen had summoned me upstairs and then used the exact same body language, which had always meant he was about to tell me something I didn’t want to hear.

Déjà vu all over again, I thought, and waited for the bad news. It didn’t take long.

• • •

“She wants you to do what?” Holly, in the act of spearing leftover macaroni and cheese onto her fork, stopped mid-stab and stared at me.

I toed the refrigerator door shut and dropped my lunch onto the table. “I’m supposed to go upstairs to give her daily updates.”

Through a mouthful of peanut butter and jelly, Josh asked, “Why can’t she come down and see what’s going on herself? I mean, if we were a big city library, maybe, but here? Sounds like a waste of time.”

Though I agreed with him, I didn’t want to create any more discord and I was already regretting what I’d told them.

Holly forked in a bite and swallowed. “What else did she want? She’s the master of efficiency. She wouldn’t have dragged you up there for just one thing.”

“I think part of it was the new interior design theme.”

“Old news.” Josh waved his half-eaten sandwich at me. “I saw it the other day when I had to go up there to hook her computer up again. I kind of like it.”

“He showed me pictures,” Holly said, squinching up her face. “Nice for Manhattan maybe, but it doesn’t fit here.”

“Who cares if it fits or not?” Josh frowned. “It’s her office. Can’t she set it up the way she wants without getting crap?”

He had a point, but Holly wasn’t going to let him win the round. “If it’s in a public space, no,” she said. “There are expectations that public decor is suitable to its surroundings.”

“Expectations by who?” Josh asked.

From the sneer in the back of his voice, I could tell those two were about to launch into one of their habitual arguments. If I hadn’t met both sets of their parents, I would have assumed they were siblings. Ones that had never gotten along. To distract them, I said, “Jennifer also wants a written monthly report to take to the board.”

“What’s the point of a monthly report,” Holly asked, “if you’re already doing an annual one? Sure, the annual came from Stephen, but everyone knows you wrote most of it.”

The board didn’t, but I let her keep her illusions. “There’s value in keeping her up to date. Plus the annual report will be easy with the monthly ones in hand. If I have twelve monthly reports, practically all I have to do it staple them together and make a new cover.”

“Sure,” Josh said. “Like you’re going to do that.”

He was right, of course. No matter what, I’d spend hours and hours working on the annual report, laboring over what should be included and what should be left out.

“Doesn’t she know how hard you work?” Holly said, a little too loudly. “Doesn’t she know that the last thing you need is more things to do, especially stupid things?”

The conversation was headed straight into Jennifer-bashing territory, so I hunted for a new topic. “Do either of you know Leese Lacombe?”

“Is that Brad’s sister?” Josh asked. “Isn’t she the one they arrested for killing their dad?”

“Dale Lacombe was murdered?” Holly’s eyes went wide. “Where have I been that I hadn’t heard?”

If I’d been smarter, I would have changed the subject to something less fraught. Whether schools should teach cursive writing, say, or whether our current taxation system was fair and equitable. “Leese didn’t kill anyone,” I said. “Anyway, no one has said it was murder.”

And since I really didn’t want to talk about Dale Lacombe—those pale blue eyes—I cheated. “Did I tell you two that Jennifer has asked me to cut the bookmobile’s budget?” Cheating, definitely, but it worked like a charm.

Eventually, I did get to eat my lunch. Which was a good thing, because going foodless for long stretches without getting cranky was not one of my gifts.

After I ate, it was time for a stint at the reference desk. Late afternoon was my favorite time to be the reference librarian because that was the time the schoolkids came in to research their projects.

The kids typically fell into two camps: the kind who had never talked to a librarian before and didn’t quite realize I was human, and the kind who thought my job was completely unnecessary, reference librarians having been replaced by the Internet years ago.

I had a couple of each type that afternoon, all four of them boys in the twelve-year-old range, and all four had a list of things in the library they had to use.

“This is a stupid assignment,” one of the boys said, looking at the grimy, crumpled list in his hand. “No one needs libraries anymore. Everything is on the computer.”

I pointedly glanced around the room since almost every table was occupied by one or more people. The kid didn’t clue in. I considered giving him the Neil Gaiman quote of “Google can bring you back 100,000 answers. A librarian can bring you back the right one,” but let it go. From the set of his chin, I could tell the kid wasn’t willing to listen to Neil Gaiman or to the possibility of joyful serendipity that only browsing through book stacks could bring.

“Not everything,” another of the boys said. This one wore a Green Bay Packers hat, which illustrated his willingness to stand out. “There are lots of books in the library that aren’t on the Internet. I mean, they’re there, but you can’t read them without getting someone to buy them for you.”

“Who wants to read a bunch of dumb books?” his classmate said. “How many of those stupid Harry Potter books do you need?”

“Either way,” I said, cutting in before the argument went the way of Holly and Josh’s discussions, “your assignment still needs to be done. Let me show you some tricks to remembering the Dewey decimal system.”

All four of the kids got such pained looks on their faces that I laughed. “Don’t think of it as having to remember more numbers,” I said. “Think of it as a shortcut to finding what you want.”

“Never thought of it that way,” said one of the boys.

“Me, either,” said a taller female voice.

I turned and saw Leese leaning against the reference counter. She smiled. Sort of. “When you’re done, can I talk to you for a minute?” she asked.

At my nod she pulled out the nearest chair, dropped into it, and started flipping through a book that had been left there ten minutes ago, one I’d yet to return to its home in the 590s. Though I was pretty sure that my friend had no interest in the history of taxidermy, you never knew.

I pulled my attention back to the already restless kids. In spite of wanting to hurry them through their assignment so I could talk to Leese, I did my best to make sure they understood why there were numbers in front of and behind Mr. Dewey’s decimal. At the end, it was possible that half of them might retain ten percent of what I’d said, so I considered the tutorial a success.

“What’s up?” I sat in the chair next to Leese.

She turned a page of the book, which showed a picture of a stuffed weasel, then shut it, saying, “Oh, I was in town to get some paperwork recorded at the county building, so I thought I’d stop by.”

I squinted at her, not quite believing the story. “You said you wanted to talk to me.”

“What’s that? Oh, sure. Well, I meant, you know . . . just chatting.”

Right. “Leese, if you want to talk about anything, you know I’ll listen. I’m a good listener, just ask Eddie.”

She smiled at that, but still didn’t say anything.

I slid forward on my chair so no one else would hear me. “If it’s about your dad,” I said softly, “I’ll listen. If it’s about the police investigation, I’ll listen. If it’s about not being able to find pants that fit, I’ll listen.” And I would. Not only because I felt a vague sense of guilt that Eddie had been the one to discover Dale’s body and hence drag Leese into trouble, but mostly because she was a good person and a friend.

For a long moment, she didn’t say anything. Then, at last, she half turned toward me and said, “The final autopsy report on my dad is done. My attorney got a copy of it.”

“Oh,” I said. “That must be . . .” But I had no idea how that must have been. Painful? Difficult? Weird?

Leese gave a twisted smile. “Yeah. Exactly. It’s bizarre, is what it is. Autopsies are done down in Grand Rapids, at Spectrum, after they’re brought downstate by the county’s medical examiner investigator.”

More bizarreness. I suppressed a shiver and waited for her to go on.

“One of the main conclusions was that the time of death was approximately twelve hours before the EMT squad arrived that afternoon, with a three hour possibility of error either way.” She paused and went on. “The cause of death was a broken neck.”

“A . . . what?”

Leese looked off into the distance. “A neck broken so badly that the spinal cord was severed, which caused a nearly instant death. Apparently a broken neck doesn’t always mean death, but in this case it did.”

“But . . .” I didn’t know where to go with my question so I just let it hang there.

“I know,” Leese said. “How did someone with a broken neck get into the back of the truck? Especially considering how his neck was broken.”

“What do you mean?”

Leese shuddered. “His neck wasn’t the only thing broken. One scapula, a collarbone. The pelvis. Metatarsals and metacarpals. And his skull was fractured.”

I closed my eyes briefly. “What could have caused all that?”

“A fall,” Leese said quietly. “That was the report’s conclusion anyway. And from quite a height, at least thirty feet. Other factors are involved, too. The surface he fell onto, for one. They’ll be analyzing his clothes and skin.”

Of course they would. Maybe they’d find that Lacombe had fallen onto landscaping dirt specially ordered from a South American greenhouse that grew only exotic orchids, orchids that only one person in all of Michigan cultivated. Or maybe they’d find he’d fallen onto asphalt of the kind that paved every road and driveway in this part of the state because there was only one asphalt plant.

Questions bubbled up inside me. Were they trying to build a case against Leese? Would they wait for the forensics evidence to come in? From Ash, I knew that would take days to weeks, not the hours or minutes as shown on television. Would they start talking to her neighbors? Talking to her friends? To her clients?

Leese shifted. “So did he fall, or was he pushed? And how did he end up in the back of that truck?” She shook her head. “I’m a start-up business. Brand new. I can advertise all I want but what’s going to grow my practice is personal recommendations. Word of mouth.”

She toyed with the corner of the book. “In the last two days, I’ve lost two clients. They didn’t say why, but I believe it’s the suspicion that I killed my dad. The police came with a search warrant and went through my house, and—” She eyed me. “You hadn’t heard that, had you?”

“No.” And I didn’t like it one bit. That could only mean they were still considering Leese as a serious suspect.

“As far as I know, they didn’t find anything incriminating.” She gave a half laugh. “But the word is getting around. If I lose more clients, if I can’t get any more, I’m done. I can work without income for another few months, but I have to get more clients by the end of the year. I . . .”

Her voice cracked. She stopped talking and looked at me, her panic tamped down, but still visible in the taut lines around her eyes. “What am I going to do?” she whispered.

“Wrong question,” I said.

She blinked. “What?”

“The question,” I told her, “is what are we going to do. Because I’m going to help you.”

“You . . . are?”

“Absolutely. And I know exactly how to do it.”