Wrong Side of the Paw

Chapter 6

A little more than two hours later, I was done with work—leaving at five o’clock on the dot for the first time since I’d been hired—and was pulling into Leese’s driveway, the last one on the road before the asphalt turned into a dirt track.

Made of fieldstone, Leese’s house was snugged underneath a set of maple trees whose leaves were just starting to blossom into crimson. It had diamond-paned windows, a wide front porch, and a set of adorable eyebrow windows on the second floor.

She’d put a tasteful sign out front announcing the presence of LACOMBE LAW, SPECIALIZING IN ELDER AND COTTAGE LAW, and put an identical but smaller sign on the front door, clearly indicating where clients should enter.

As she’d instructed, I didn’t go in that way, but instead went around to the back door, which was right at ground level. I knocked a few times, opened the door, again as instructed, and went inside and up the few stairs to the kitchen.

One glance around the cream-colored room was enough to tell me that Leese was far more interested in cooking than I could ever imagine being. In addition to the shelves full of cookbooks, the knife block was fully occupied with actual knives, and there were countertop appliances whose functions I wasn’t completely sure about. There was also a plugged-in Crock-Pot issuing tantalizing smells.

Leese noticed my sniff. “Clam chowder,” she said. “For when you’re done. You didn’t eat already, did you?”

I shook my head, since no rational adult would consider a can of soda and a granola bar anything close to a meal. “It smells great.”

“Good. Gives you something to look forward to.” She paused, then said, “Good luck, I guess.”

The warm weather was holding, so there was no need to zip my coat as I walked down the driveway. I went out to the road and walked along the shoulder—the closest sidewalk was back in Chilson, about twenty miles away—and a few minutes later arrived at the driveway of Leese’s closest neighbor.

It was a ranch house with vinyl siding, clipped foundation hedges, and a recently sealed asphalt drive. The landscaping was so tidily maintained that not a single leaf lay on the broad expanse of lawn. Not a shred of personality showed and it made me a little twitchy.

Earlier, I’d asked Leese if she knew them, and she’d said their names were Alice and Bill Wattling. “We wave at each other when I drive past,” she’d said. “They seem nice enough.”

My idea to help Leese had been to talk to her neighbors, to see if any of them had noticed any vehicles stopping by her house at the time her father’s body must have been placed in the truck. This was a little difficult because we didn’t know the exact time we were talking about, but Leese had narrowed it down.

“There was nothing under the tarp on Wednesday night,” she’d said at the library, “because I’d gone grocery shopping and put some of the heavy stuff in the back. I would have noticed if . . . you know. And Thursday was the bookmobile day.”

All of which meant that Dale’s body had been moved between the time Leese had arrived home from the grocery store and when she’d left for the bookmobile on Thursday afternoon. She’d finished her grocery shopping just before the store closed at 10 p.m. and had left for the bookmobile after a post-lunch phone call with a prospective client.

That all worked out to about sixteen hours the truck was out in the driveway, unattended. Since it was unlikely anyone would have done the deed in broad daylight, what we were after was any information about Wednesday night.

Or early Thursday morning, I amended in my head, because if I’d been trying to sneak around, I’d do it at 3 a.m., a time far too late for most people to be up and too early for people working the night shift to be home.

Other people lived on the street, but the Wattlings were by far the closest. I trod up the prefabricated concrete steps and I pushed the rectangular doorbell button, lit from inside by a slightly creepy orange glow.

Inside, a low electronic chime gonged hollowly. Footsteps approached and the door swung open. “Alice said she saw someone coming up,” said the man I assumed was Bill Wattling. “Whatever you’re selling, we’re not buying.”

This was the neighbor who seemed nice? He was fifty-ish, with cropped graying hair and a mustache that badly needed a trim. The dress pants and plaid buttoned shirt he wore indicated some sort of professional job.

“Hi,” I said, being friendly, but not friendly enough to hold out my hand. “I’m Minnie Hamilton, assistant director of the Chilson Library,” I told him, figuring it never hurt to establish myself as a person worthy of trust, and if you couldn’t trust a librarian, the world might as well end. “I’m a friend of your neighbor, Leese, and I’m guessing you’ve already heard about her father.”

Wattling’s face was closed and uninformative and he didn’t say a thing. Nonetheless, I plunged ahead.

“What we’re hoping to find out,” I went on, “is if you saw a car or any headlights, or heard anything unusual last Wednesday night or early Thursday morning. Because that must have been when her”—those pale blue eyes—“when her father’s body was left in the truck.”

“That’s your story?” Wattling asked, snorting. “That someone did a body dump? Nice try, but I doubt the police are going to go for it.”

“Leese didn’t kill her father,” I said, strongly and firmly, almost the Librarian’s Voice, but not quite. I reserved that for truly difficult situations. This was just uncomfortable. “Someone made it look like she was involved, that’s all. And I’m sure the police will be asking these same questions, so you might as well tell us, too.”

“If the cops come,” he said, “I’ll tell them the truth. That no one came past either night.” He took a quick step back and shut the door in my face. From inside, Wattling turned the deadbolt and I flinched at the noise.

From his point of view, Leese had already been tried and convicted. The only thing left was the sentencing.

I trod back down the steps, down the driveway, and planned what I’d say to Leese about the Wattlings. “Those folks might have been nice at a distance, but up close they’re clearly not folks you’d want to spend a lot of time with. I mean, have you seen the flooring in their entryway?” I practiced a scrunched-up face. I hadn’t actually noticed the flooring, but I was willing to bet Leese had never seen it, either.

Girding up my strength and resolve, I moved on to the other even more distant neighbors, and though not all of them were as disapproving as Bill Wattling, none of them had seen or heard anything that would help.

Leese’s father had been killed at a time they all said had been quiet and peaceful. Which didn’t make sense, because someone must have delivered his body, and that should have resulted in headlights and, if not voices, at least some noise.

I trudged back to Leese’s house in low spirits. I wanted to help her, but I was running out of ideas. What we needed were some brilliant plans, a lucky break, or both, and what I was getting was a north wind in my face.

Shivering against the chill, I put my head down and headed back to Leese’s house.

• • •

The next day was a bookmobile day, but I’d arranged the fall schedule differently. Every third Tuesday, the bookmobile didn’t leave its garage until noon and trundled back home a little after eight. I wasn’t keen on driving around in the dark, but having an afternoon/evening run was giving us a chance to reach folks who worked during the day.

Jennifer hadn’t approved of the idea, saying that people who wanted to come to the library would find a way. I hadn’t cited the reasons why driving to Chilson after a full day of work might be difficult—an unreliable vehicle, the need to take care of children or elderly parents, sheer exhaustion, lack of gas money, and more. Instead, I’d just said I wanted to try this new route and eventually she’d allowed me to go ahead.

Two months in, I was considering the rearranged route a success, but it was a long day, one that left me more tired than I’d expected. When I’d mentioned this to Holly through yawns one Wednesday morning, she’d rolled her eyes and said, “That’s because you’re still coming into the library at eight in the morning. Do us all a favor and take that morning off, okay?”

I’d said I’d consider her advice, and when my aunt Frances told me much the same thing, in much the same tone, only a little harsher (“You’re going to fall asleep and drive into a tree, silly girl. Take that morning off or I’ll tattle on you to the library board”), I sighed and admitted they were probably right. That, and my aunt would definitely have tattled on me. She knew every member of my board and wouldn’t hesitate to use her influence if she thought I was being truly stupid.

So that morning, instead of waking to the beep of an alarm clock, I woke up to a cat’s paw patting the side of my nose.

“Good morning, Eddie,” I said. “What can I do for you?”

He said nothing and continued to pat.

I reached out from under the covers to bat his paw away. “What are you doing?”

“Mrr,” he said, and started using his other front paw on my nose. There is no stubborn like a cat being stubborn.

“What’s wrong with my nose?” I was lying on my side, facing the outside wall of the houseboat. Eddie was snuggled between my shoulder and the wall. “You’ve never complained about it before.”

He kept on patting. The first fifty-two pats I hadn’t minded, but the fifty-third one annoyed me. I rolled onto my back to get away from The Paw. Eddie instantly laid his front half across my neck and started purring.

“Seriously?” I asked. “This is why you were shoving at my nose?”

His mouth opened and closed silently and his purr motor revved into high gear.

There was no doubt: I lived with the weirdest cat in the universe. “This is cozy and all,” I told him, “but I have this feeling you’re going to creep closer and closer to my face and some morning I’m going to wake up suffocated by Eddie fur and then won’t you be sorry.”

“Mrr,” he said quietly, which I took to mean he would be careful not to suffocate me because he couldn’t do without me. It was a nice thought, but he was more likely telling me to be quiet so he could get back to sleep.

“Okay,” I murmured, and I drifted off into that happy place that wasn’t quite sleep and wasn’t quite wakefulness. Then, just as I was spiraling down into certain slumber, my phone rang with Ash’s ring tone.

Trying not to disturb the snoring Eddie, I reached out with my unencumbered hand and felt around on the nightstand. Just before he went to voice mail, I found the phone and hit the answer button. “Good morning.”

“And to you,” he said, sounding amused. “Are you still in bed?”

“Me?” I slid out from underneath Eddie, kicked my feet free of the covers, and stood up. “No. Why would you say that?” I looked outside and saw that the sun was just up. “Do you want to go out for breakfast? I don’t have to be at the library until noonish.”

“I was hoping for a favor. Remember that Shakespeare book you were talking about? I mentioned it to a buddy on the day shift. He’s leaving for vacation after work, and he said he’d like to read it. I don’t remember the title, but it was written by some guy named Bill.”

“Bill Bryson,” I said. “Title is Shakespeare: The World as Stage.” It was a relatively short biography of the playwright, and funny to boot. “I can drop it off.”

“Thanks, that would be great. Just leave it up front and tell them it’s for Luke.”

“I can be there in twenty minutes.” Because I wasn’t about to present myself publicly without a shower and some food in my stomach.

Ash laughed. “You were still in bed, weren’t you?”

“Just trying to keep Eddie happy,” I said, and hung up.

If I’d known what was about to happen at the sheriff’s office, I might have crawled back inside the covers and let Eddie do whatever he wanted to my nose. But since I had no clue, I took a quick shower, dressed even quicker, and grabbed a granola bar on my way out the door.

After a fast walk through downtown, during which I’d waved at Cookie Tom, out sweeping his sidewalk, and told him I’d be back later to buy some bookmobile cookies, I was in the front lobby of the sheriff’s office, standing at the glassed-in front desk and trying not to stand on my tiptoes to look taller.

Yes, I was vertically challenged, but that was nothing to be embarrassed about and there was no reason why a six-foot-tall male shouldn’t consider a woman a foot shorter as a strong, intelligent, and capable human being. I’d come to this realization years ago and since then had made a solid effort to stop trying to appear taller than I was. Why pretend to be something I was never going to be? Besides, high heels made me walk wobbly.

The deputy at the counter slid the glass open. “Can I help you?”

“Hi, I’m Minnie Hamilton and—”

“Oh, hey.” The stocky, brown-haired man nodded. “You’re that librarian who’s dating Wolverson. He said you were bringing in a book for Luke?”

I glanced at his name tag. RODGERS. The name didn’t ring any bells. I’d met a number of Ash’s fellow deputies, but there were dozens. “That’s right,” I said, putting the volume on the counter and sliding it over. The book was mine, one I’d picked up at the used bookstore in town, so I wasn’t going to worry about when I got it back. “Hope he enjoys it.” And since I was in the building, there was no reason not to see if I could get some good information. “Is Detective Inwood around? If he has a minute, I’d like to talk to him.”

“Let me check.” Deputy Rodgers picked up a phone receiver and stabbed at a few buttons. “Morning, Hal. You have a visitor, Minnie Hamilton. Do you want—” His eyebrows went up and his gaze swiveled back to me. “Sure, I can do that.” He hung up the phone and looked at me quizzically. “Hal said to send you to your room.”

My room? Funny. “The detective and I have a history.” I headed to a door that led back to a maze of offices.

The deputy buzzed the door unlocked and I pulled it open. A few steps down the hall, I turned to the right and went into the interview room I’d been in so many times before.

Just as I sat at the chipped laminate table, the gray-haired Detective Hal Inwood came in. He’d spent decades as a police officer downstate, retired, moved up north, and had started tapping his toes with boredom within three months. When he would retire for good was a common topic of discussion in the sheriff’s office, and though I hadn’t asked, someone was probably taking bets on the date.

“Good morning, Ms. Hamilton.” The detective pulled out the chair across from me and sat. “Let me guess. You’re here to discuss your donation to the Police Officers Association of Michigan.”

“I’m sure it’s a worthy cause, but I was hoping for some information about Dale Lacombe’s murder.”

“Why am I not surprised. And you should not be surprised when I tell you that I cannot talk about an active investigation.”

“But—”

“Ms. Hamilton, please. We know how to do our job. We have been working diligently to find Mr. Lacombe’s killer, and—”

“You’re looking in the wrong place,” I said. “Leese didn’t kill her dad. Why are you wasting your time trying to pin it on her?”

Inwood sighed. “We are not, as you say, trying to ‘pin it’ on Ms. Lacombe. We are following proper police procedure, which will ensure that all appropriate action is taken.”

“Appropriate?” I asked, my voice a little loud. “Who decides what’s appropriate? Because if you think it’s appropriate to search Leese’s house, you’re nuts.”

Inwood gave me a long look. “All avenues of investigation—”

“Will be explored,” I cut in to finish. “Yes, I know, but please tell me you’re looking at boulevards and highways, too.”

I wasn’t exactly sure what I meant, and I don’t think Inwood did, either, because he had a blank look when the door to the room burst open and Deputy Rodgers rushed in.

“Hal, you have to come out front. Right now.”

Inwood stood. “Ms. Hamilton, please stay here.” Before I so much as twitched, he left the room.

“Well.” I sat back, wondering what was going on. Ten seconds later, before I’d had any real chance to dream up possibilities, a door down the hallway crashed open.

“This way, please,” I heard Inwood say. “We’ll get you settled down and we’ll talk.” Inwood and Deputy Rodgers walked past, a young woman between them.

“It was me,” the woman said, stuttering the words out through heaving sobs. “I did it, it was me.”

“Yes, miss,” Inwood said. “In here, please.” Moments later, a door shut. Firmly.

I stood then, hearing footsteps, sat down fast. Deputy Rodgers poked his head inside the room. “Um, Hal’s going to be busy for a while, so you might as well go.”

“Who was that?” I asked, tipping my head toward the now-muffled sobs.

He glanced in the same direction. “Mia Lacombe. Dale’s daughter.”

This didn’t sound good. With a suddenly dry mouth, I asked, “What was she saying she did?” Horrible sentence construction, but I couldn’t take it back. The deputy didn’t reply, so I stood up and asked again. “What did she do?”

Rodgers shifted his gaze to look over the top of my head. “She confessed.”

No, I told myself. It can’t be true. “To what?”

“Killing her father.”