Wrong Side Of The Paw

Chapter 15

“There has to be a connection,” I said. My right hand held the phone to my ear while my left was making broad gestures that could have endangered innocent library patrons if I hadn’t removed myself to my office. “How could there not be?”

“Ms. Hamilton—”

I cut off Detective Inwood. “Yes, I know. You’re going to say that in law enforcement there’s nothing even close to a ‘has to be.’ You’re going to tell me that you need proof and that you’re exploring all avenues of investigation.”

There was a short silence. “It occurs to me,” the detective said, “that you’ve learned a tremendous amount about police techniques in the last year or two.”

“Yet it isn’t helping,” I said, and my tone was close to snippy. Back off, I told myself. Getting Inwood angry would not be helpful. After pulling in a short calming breath, I said, “It seems way outside the realm of coincidence that both Brad and Mia could have made significant mistakes at their respective workplaces.”

“Indeed it does,” Detective Inwood said.

“Really? You agree with me?”

“And since both of them,” he went on, “have suffered the recent loss of their father, a loss compounded by the tragic fact that he was murdered by person or persons unknown, it’s not unexpected that they would be distracted.”

“So you don’t agree with me,” I said flatly.

The detective’s sigh blew into my ear, which was more than a little weird. “Ms. Hamilton, I’m not certain what you’re asking me to agree with.”

And suddenly, neither was I. My first inclination, which had been to call Ash, had faded as soon as I started typing in the phone number for the sheriff’s office. Sure, we were still friends after the least emotional breakup ever, but it was early in the Friends Only phase and I didn’t want to interfere with how that was progressing. So I’d asked for Detective Inwood when what I should have done was hang up the phone and thought harder about what I was going to say.

Luckily, Inwood hadn’t paused for my response. “If the brewing company asks us to investigate a possible criminal act, we will. Likewise, if Ms. Lacombe’s place of work asks the Charlevoix County Sheriff’s Office to investigate a criminal act, I’m certain they will do so. It’s not up to me to chase down theoretical crimes when I have enough to do working on the ones that are already in front of me!”

Another short silence filled the phone. “Yes,” I said quietly. “I know.” And I did. Ash had told me many times how hard Inwood worked and how badly they needed another experienced detective. “I’m sorry I bothered you.”

The detective sighed again. “Ms. Hamilton, I’m the one who should apologize. I shouldn’t have raised my voice.”

“And I shouldn’t have bothered you about something like this.”

“Please believe that we are working very hard to build a case for the arrest of Mr. Lacombe’s killer,” Detective Inwood said. “And please believe me when I say that I can’t say any more.”

I half smiled. “All avenues of investigation . . .”

He picked up the end of the phrase he’d told me many times. “Are being explored. Thank you for the call, Ms. Hamilton,” he said. “I do appreciate your willingness to assist our office.”

“Only maybe not quite so often?” I asked, but he’d already gone. “Just as well,” I muttered, spinning my chair around to sit. As I flopped down, once again I had the thought that I was missing something, that I wasn’t looking at something the right way, wasn’t considering the right angle, wasn’t remembering something critical, wasn’t remembering . . .

Jennifer.

Not fifteen minutes earlier I’d vowed to talk to her that very day. Before I could convince myself that I was too busy, I stood and headed up the stairs to her office. There was no time like the present.

All the way up the stairs, I tried to come up with a way to broach the subject. The knee-jerk “Did you know Mitchell Koyne won’t set foot in this place until you’re gone” didn’t work for a number of reasons. “I’m not sure I agree with you one hundred percent about the changes you’ve been making” was too vague and a little wishy-washy.

When I reached the second floor, a solid plan still hadn’t materialized. “Won’t be the first time,” I muttered to myself, and knocked on the doorjamb of Jennifer’s office.

She was sitting at her large desk, staring fixedly at the computer monitor. Either she was ignoring me or hadn’t heard my knock. I was trying to figure out which it was, when I suddenly noticed that though her redecorated office didn’t fit in Chilson, it did match something. It matched her.

Jennifer suddenly looked up. “Minnie,” she said. “Just the person I wanted to see.”

“I am?” The back of my neck stiffened even as I tried to relax. Because surely there was some reasonable reason that she wanted to see me. Maybe she wanted my opinion on the best place to eat. Or a favorite place to watch the sunset. Or—

“You’re here to present today’s update, correct?”

It took everything in me not to gape at her like a hooked fish. The daily update. I’d forgotten all about it. Completely and totally forgotten. But before I could panic and run, a stroke of genius burst into my brain, saving me from doom. “Since you haven’t given me parameters,” I said smoothly, “I thought we could talk about budgets this time. Have you had a chance to study the revised bookmobile budget I sent last week?”

“Next on my list,” she said just as smoothly, leaving me to wonder if she was making up stuff as much as I was. She leaned forward, put her elbows on the desk, and rested her chin on her fingertips. “In the future, I’d prefer to get your daily reports late in the afternoon. That will give me time to make corrections if we’re going in the wrong direction.”

It seemed ridiculous to me. After all, how wrong a direction could a small library possibly go in one day? But I nodded and kept my thoughts—and facial expressions—to myself.

“So,” she said. “What else do you have to report?”

Right then and there, I decided to make my report full of the things I wanted her to know. If she wanted something different, she’d have to tell me. “Well,” I said cheerfully, “this morning . . .” And I launched into stories of the little things that filled our days. The sad things: the stoic bravery of an elderly woman who had asked for books about dealing with a spouse’s death. The inspirational things: a teenager who’d asked for advice on how to get accepted into law school. And the funny things: how Reva Shomin’s youngest had wanted to take home a stack of books taller than he was.

Jennifer’s fingertips started to tap together faster and faster, so I wrapped up my tales with a few facts about the numbers of books checked out and computer use. These were numbers I’d always studied every single day; I didn’t need an update duty to force me to look at data.

Finally, I said, “So the current checkout trends are down, but that’s still in line with averages over the past years. The only checkout numbers up are the bookmobile’s.”

“Interesting,” Jennifer said.

At least that’s what she said, but I wasn’t sure she actually meant it. I suddenly had a sneaking suspicion that she was well aware of the numbers and was just testing my knowledge. Anger flared, but I did my best to tamp it down. Suspicion was not anything close to proof. Just ask Detective Inwood.

“There’s one other thing,” I said. “There have been a number of patrons who have told me they aren’t interested in visiting the library any longer. I wondered if you might have some opinions about that.”

“Me?” Jennifer’s eyebrows went up. “It’s your responsibility to communicate patron discontent to me. You should be explaining the whys to me, not asking for an explanation yourself.”

My polite smile grew fixed. “Right. I have a few ideas about that. For instance—”

“Hold that thought.” Jennifer pointed a finger at me. “I want to run this past you before the board makes its final decision. As I’m sure you know, there are a number of rare books owned by this library that haven’t been viewed in years. My proposal is to increase revenues by selling off a number of them.”

“You . . . what?”

“There’s no reason to hang on to volumes that aren’t being accessed by the public,” she said in a “Duh” tone of voice. “Why should we allocate shelf space for books that haven’t been opened in three years?”

I could think of all sorts of reasons. Jennifer, however, clearly wasn’t interested in hearing anything I had to say.

“I’ve talked to each of the board members individually,” she went on, “and I’m confident a majority favors moving in this direction. According to my calculations, selling off the unused volumes will raise nearly enough revenue to pay for our new software. Providential, wouldn’t you say?”

What I wanted to say wasn’t fit to be heard by human ears. My mouth opened and shut a few times and I finally asked, “When will the board decide?” Maybe I could talk to Otis, the board president. Call the vice president. Cling to the feet of the board treasurer and beg her not to sell our irreplaceable assets in exchange for a system we didn’t need.

“Tuesday. I’ve called a special meeting.” She smiled with clear satisfaction. “I’ll need your help to move into action afterward.”

I couldn’t find it in me to say a single word that wouldn’t create a potentially dangerous situation for one or both of us, so I simply nodded. My thoughts the first steps back down the stairs were full of internal shouting.

What? How in the name of all that is holy could she think this makes sense? We’d be like a museum selling artwork! What is she thinking? This is nuts!

After a few more steps, the shrieking thoughts started to calm down to a manageable level, but it wasn’t until I reached the landing and made the U-turn that would take me to the main floor that I understood the impact of what Jennifer had told me.

She had the library board’s support.

Which meant that speaking to them about Jennifer would gain me nothing. On the contrary, talking about their new hire in less than glowing terms would likely get me labeled as a malcontent, a troublemaker, and someone who wasn’t willing to work with the board.

But how long would I be able to stay silent?

How long could I stand by and do nothing while the library changed underneath me?

All of which led me straight to a big and frightening question that I’d never before asked myself: How long was I going to be welcome at the Chilson District Library?

On the walk home that evening, I kicked at the leaves fallen on the sidewalk and tried to think happy thoughts. The sun wouldn’t officially set until a quarter to seven, but the streetlights were on full force at a few minutes past six and not making much of a dent against the thick clouds. A cold wind blew down my neck and I could feel rain start to fall.

“Bleah,” I muttered, zipping my jacket all the way up and wishing I’d worn my winter coat.

None of that was helping me shift to a positive mind-set, however. I debated whistling a favorite song, but I wasn’t sure I would have been able to hear it over the noise of the blowing leaves. I considered singing, something that always lifted my spirits even if I couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket, but as I mentally scrolled through possible songs, the only songs that came to mind were Christmas carols and it was far too early for that.

But dire straits called for dire measures. Thankfully, just as I was about to start the first verse of “The Twelve Days of Christmas,” my cell phone rang with Kristen’s tone.

“About time,” I said. “What have you been doing all day?”

“Do you really want to know?” she asked. “Because if you do, I’ll tell you.”

“What I really want is for you to get me the name of a guy who ate at your place a week and a half ago.”

“You have got to be kidding,” she said flatly. My normally energetic friend sounded tired and cranky.

“Sorry,” I said, “I know you’re busy with closing down the restaurant, but this is important. It was the night I was there with Ash and Lindsey. There was this guy behind me and—”

“Oh, him,” Kristen said, and I could almost see the roll of her eyes. “I remember that guy. He was by himself, right? He wanted his steak well done.”

“Such a travesty,” I murmured, knowing from experience it was the appropriate thing to say.

“And he wanted fake whipped cream on his pie.” She snorted. “Please. As if I’d have something like that in my restaurant.”

“Do you remember his name?” I asked.

“Something boring,” she said. “Bland.”

“Not helpful.”

“Give me a minute, will you? You know how horrible I am with names.”

I hummed a few quiet measures of the Jeopardy theme song.

“Funny,” she said, “but that’s not helping—” She stopped. “Last name was Blake,” she said. “I ran his credit card myself.”

So, not Simon Faber. I blew out a small sigh of relief, then remembered the name of Leese’s new client. “Bob Blake?”

“Pretty sure. Why do you want to know?”

I murmured a few vague words about looking into something for Leese and said I’d talk to her later. As I neared the boardinghouse, walking toward the welcoming light streaming from the windows, I thought about what Mitchell had said and knew there was something I needed to do earlier rather than later. As in right now.

I tromped up the steps, and as I opened the front door, a gust of wind yanked the knob out of my grasp and it went bang! against the wall.

Aunt Frances, who was standing in the living room, whirled around, startled. “Minnie! Are you okay?”

“Sorry,” I said, reaching around for the door and pulling it shut. “That’s the kind of day this has been.”

Otto hurried in from the dining room. “What was—” Then he spied me. “Minnie,” he said, smiling. “I had no idea you could make such a tremendous noise.”

“You should hear me dropping cutlery on the floor.” I put my backpack on the stairs and my coat in the front closet. “Do you two have a minute? There’s something I’d like to talk about.”

Because there was one conclusion I’d come to amid my dark thoughts on the way home, and I wanted to get it out in the open before I chickened out. Or changed my mind. Or decided that it wasn’t my place to say.

“This sounds serious.” Aunt Frances gave me a speculative look. “Please don’t tell me you’re regretting your decision not to apply for the library director position, so regretful that you’ve applied for another director position in some other state, that they interviewed you over the phone and hired you on the spot, are paying you an exorbitant salary and moving expenses, and you and Eddie plan to leave as soon as the moving van shows up.”

“Mrr,” said a disembodied cat voice.

I put on a serious face. “You’re actually very close.”

“What?” My aunt, who’d been two inches away from a sitting position, froze in place. “Seriously?”

“No.”

Aunt Frances sat down with a thump. “Did you hear that, Otto? My niece, the only niece I have in the entire world, is making light of my concerns.”

Otto snorted and sat next to her. “Since your concerns were completely imaginary, I can’t say I blame her.”

“Glad you agree,” I said, smiling, as I came around the end of the couch that faced them. I sat next to my furry friend and said, “Hey. Nice of you to greet me when I get home after a long day at work.”

Eddie, who was curled up on the cushiest cushion on the couch, opened one eye, then closed it again.

I patted the top of his head anyway, and he started purring.

“How long are you going to leave us in suspense?” Aunt Frances leaned against Otto and tucked her stockinged feet up underneath her. Otto shifted to put his arm around her shoulder. “I’m pretty comfortable here,” she said as their fingers laced together casually yet firmly, “so you can take your time, but we have dinner plans, so don’t take too long.”

I smiled at them fondly. It was clear they belonged to each other heart and soul. Romance had come late to them both, but it was never too late for love. They deserved to have a lot of time together and I was going to help.

“Everything comes to an end,” I told them. “The sands of time and all that. Nothing lasts forever, not even the sun. Sure, it’ll be around for a few billion more years, but someday that will be gone, too.”

My aunt gazed at me. “Otto, I think she’s trying to tell us something.”

“Yes,” he said. “I wonder what it could possibly be?”

I laid a hand on Eddie’s back and he immediately started purring. I mentally whispered a thank-you for his support and said out loud, “It’s time to let go of the boardinghouse.”

Aunt Frances and Otto went completely still.

“It’s time,” I repeated. “Your future is more important than the future of strangers, and yours will be better without the boardinghouse.”

“Are you sure?” my aunt asked quietly.

I nodded. “You don’t need the money, and I now see that running it takes a little more out of you every year. You spend half the winter planning, all spring getting ready, and you work until you drop all summer long. You’re tired even now. Sell the business to someone else or close it down entirely. Either way your life will be better, and that’s what matters.”

Otto reached forward to tuck a strand of hair behind my aunt’s ear. “What do you think, Frances?”

My hardworking, smart, self-contained, and independent aunt sniffled and dabbed at her eyes with Otto’s sleeve. “Minnie, are you sure? This is your home. If I sell this place, where will you go October through April? You can’t stay on your houseboat all year.”

The thought made me shiver involuntarily. “Don’t worry about me. Like I said before, I’m sure I can find people willing to rent me their summer place.” Who, I had no idea, but I wasn’t going to worry about that. Not for a few months, anyway.

“It’ll be strange to see this place in different hands,” Otto said, looking at the maps that had been tacked up to the walls for decades, at the shelves filled with board games and worn books, at the mantel crowded with driftwood. “Frances, do you think living across the street will be too difficult for you?” He paused. “Frances?”

But my aunt wasn’t paying attention. Instead, her face had taken on a thoughtful look.

“Aunt Frances?” I asked slowly. “What are you planning?”

“Me?” She blinked. “What makes you think I’m planning anything?” Her face was wide open and guileless, but I’d known her long enough to know one thing.

She was lying.

Half an hour later, I was still on the couch and Aunt Frances and Otto had left for dinner at the Barrel Back on Walloon Lake. They’d tried to convince me to go with them, but I’d pled the need for a long bath in a deep tub and they’d eventually left, hand in hand.

As the front door shut behind them, Eddie stood, stretched, and yawned. Then he rotated three hundred and sixty degrees and flopped down in the exact same position.

I watched the entire pointless exercise and said, “Do you know what happened just now? I may have talked us out of a place to call home.”

Eddie didn’t seem particularly worried, so I gave his tail a gentle tug.

“Did you hear me? If Aunt Frances lists the boardinghouse and someone buys it straightaway, where are we going to move? It’s not like the new owner is going to let us stay.”

“Mrr?” Eddie asked.

“No, not even if we ask nicely. Besides, it’ll all be different.” I glanced around at the wide pine paneling, darkened with age. At the fieldstone fireplace, birthplace of thousands of s’mores. At the faded and worn furniture older than I was. “We won’t want to stay,” I murmured. “Well, at least I won’t.”

My cat heaved a sigh and brushed the back of my wrist with his tail.

Smiling and oddly comforted, I patted him on the head. “You’re not so bad, for an Eddie. Some days it really does seem as if you understand what I’m saying.”

“Mrr,” he said.

“Okay, yes, you understand me,” I said, still patting. “Sorry I insulted your intelligence. But we need to have a talk about your activity level. If you keep on like you’re going, all this flopping around and sleeping and hardly anything else, you’ll weigh fifty pounds by springtime and that’s going to shift the houseboat’s center of gravity something fierce.” It wouldn’t, of course, but he didn’t know that.

He also wasn’t paying any attention to me, because the dulcet tones of his snores were starting to reach my ears.

I gave him a few pets and stood. There were choices to make and I had to get going on them. First, figuring out a dinner that wouldn’t involve actual cooking. Then I had to choose between the upstairs bathtub and the downstairs bathtub. Downstairs was the deep claw-foot tub, but upstairs was a modern built-in version with massage jets. Which one would be better for thinking?

“Decisions, decisions,” I murmured, and was halfway to the kitchen when I heard my cell phone ring.

I switched directions and pulled the phone out of my backpack just before the call slid into voice mail. The name of the incoming caller surprised me. “Hey, Carmen,” I said. “How are you? How’s Mia doing?”

“Mia?” She sounded surprised. “Fine, as far as I know. Why wouldn’t she be?”

“No reason,” I said, trying to sound casual. If Mia didn’t want to talk to her mom about her suspension from work, that was her business. “Just checking.”

“Are you still helping Leese?” Carmen asked. “Finding out who killed my sweet Dale?”

“Absolutely.” Not that I’d made much progress, but you never knew; I could stumble across something any second that would solve the murder. And the sooner the better, because last time I’d talked to Leese, she’d eventually admitted that she was down to a small handful of clients with Bob Blake the only new one on the horizon. “Why do you ask?”

“Before, you asked about employees that didn’t get along with Dale, about workers who might have hated him enough to kill him.”

“That’s right. The police asked you the same thing, didn’t they?”

“I’d rather not talk to them ever again,” Carmen said. “The last time they stopped by, they all but accused me of—” Her voice caught. “They asked me if I’d—”

“If you’d killed him?” I asked gently.

“I couldn’t believe it!” Her outrage blew loud and strong into my ear. “Can you? I gave that detective a piece of my mind, believe me, and he went away with his tail between his legs. But now I remembered something, and the last thing I want to do is talk to that man.”

“Carmen, if you have information, you need to tell the police yourself.” I paused. “What did you remember? Maybe I can tell if it’s important enough to tell the police.”

“Back a few years, Dale hired this guy who was nothing but trouble. He didn’t want to work, didn’t want to pull his share. All he wanted to do on hot days was sit in the shade and put his feet up.”

Her tone of outrage came through loud and clear. “Dale fired him?”

“Of course he did,” Carmen said. “He had every right to. And what does the kid do but blow up at him, run on and on about what a horrible boss Dale was and how it wouldn’t take much for an accident to happen on a dark night.”

It sounded like a possibility, maybe even a strong one. “What’s his name?”

“That Indian,” she said. “You know, the one who works at the school.”

Quickly, I mentally ran through the list of teachers and staff. The only Indian I could remember was Laila Mahajan, who’d taught third grade, but she’d only been in Chilson a year on an exchange program and I didn’t see how she could have anything to do with Dale’s death since she’d moved back to Mumbai in July. “Which school? The elementary school?”

“No, no,” she said impatiently. “The middle school. I know you know him.”

And how, exactly, did she know this? I wandered into the bathroom to choose a scent of bubble bath. “Sorry, I don’t—”

“He used to be a teacher,” she said, “but he worked for Dale right out of high school.”

“If he’s not there anymore, I doubt I’ll—”

“Why can’t I remember his name?” she asked. “He’s still there, just not a teacher. He’s . . . ah,” she said with satisfaction. “Got it.”

A sudden clench of my insides told me what she was going to say.

“It was Rafe,” she practically spat. “Rafe Niswander. And you’re right about calling the police. I’ll do it myself first thing tomorrow morning.”