Laurie Cass - Bookmobile Cat 02 - Tailing a Tabby

by Laurie Cass

  I watched her go, thinking that I suddenly had a new role model for what to be like in retirement.

  My thoughts were interrupted by the sight of Stephen standing in front of the desk, his hands on his hips.

  “I would like a progress report regarding The Situation,” he said.

  Meaning Mitchell. But since I’d made no progress, there wasn’t much of a report to give him. I hesitated, then asked, “In a case like this, what would you do?”

  “I,” Stephen said in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear, “would give the problem to the person who was hired to take care of such things.”

  “Oh,” I said. Then I remembered I wasn’t afraid of Stephen and bucked up. “To tell you the truth, I don’t see it as a real problem.”

  “What you don’t see,” Stephen snapped, “is the bad side of anyone or anything. Take care of this, Minnie.”

  I watched him go, wondering why being optimistic was such a horrible thing. Then the phone rang, I was asked about the origin of the ampersand, and the Moratorium on Mitchell went to the back of my brain.

  • • •

  “What’re you doing, Minnie?”

  I looked away from the computer screen to see Mitchell’s hands flat on the front of the reference desk. Classic Mitchell: on the edge of rude, but not so far over the edge that you had to say something.

  “Research,” I said, pushing back from the computer. And I’d been at it way too long. Not only was it more than an hour past my scheduled work time, but it was past my stomach’s preferred suppertime. I started to stand.

  “What are you researching?” he asked, leaning around to look at the screen.

  “Grants,” I said. “I’m looking for operational funds for the bookmobile.” I’d also been trying to find anything that might help prove Cade’s innocence, but that wasn’t something you could put into a search engine.

  Mitchell didn’t appear to be interested in the bookmobile problems. “Say,” he said, “know what I found out?”

  “No idea.” This time I stood all the way up.

  “Let me show you.” He came around and sat in the chair I’d just left.

  I sighed. “Mitchell, you can’t use the reference desk computer.”

  “Hang on, this will just take a second.” He tapped rapidly at the keyboard. “Remember I said the police were going to arrest Carissa’s boss? Well, looks like the real killer was someone else.”

  Surprise, surprise. “Mitchell, you really can’t—” I stopped. The Web site materializing on the screen was Cade’s Facebook page.

  “See this guy?” Mitchell pointed. “What I hear is that he’s the one they’re tagging to be the killer.”

  “How did you hear that?” I asked, so fiercely that the patrons sitting at nearby tables turned to look. I smiled. When they turned away, I turned back to Mitchell. “How do you know?”

  He shrugged. “I hear things.”

  I’d just bet he did. Sometimes I wondered if he and Rafe were related. Closely. “Sorry to break this to you,” I said, “but Cade has an alibi.”

  “He does?”

  “A solid one.” At least I hoped so.

  “Well, shoot.” Mitchell squinted at the screen. “Here I thought I was going to help the police by seeing something in this Cade guy’s Facebook posts.”

  “His wife is the one who puts up the pictures and writes the posts.”

  “How do you know?” Mitchell asked.

  “I hear things,” I said, grinning, but Mitchell just nodded.

  “Sure, you probably hear lots of stuff, being a librarian and everything.” He was scrolling down through Cade’s page. “And out on the bookmobile, you…” He stopped at a photo. “Say, that’s Carissa, isn’t it? With that guy? Huh. He’s a lot older than I would have figured.” Mitchell clicked the button to read all of the comments that had been posted regarding the picture. “Uh, Minnie? Did you see this?”

  We both read the comment. “One down, one to go,” it stated.

  For a second I couldn’t breathe.

  “Um…” Mitchell’s voice cracked. “Is that the killer?”

  “Maybe,” I said, and I was happy that my own voice was steady. Mostly, anyway.

  “Hey,” Mitchell said. “If the killer’s posting on Facebook, that’ll help the police find him, right?”

  I looked at Cade’s number of Facebook fans. Eight hundred forty-five thousand, nine hundred and fifteen. No wonder his agent had pushed for a social media presence. “Look at the name. ‘John Doe.’ That’s probably not on the guy’s birth certificate.”

  “Oh.” Mitchell deflated. “Still, the police are probably figuring something out from the guy’s Facebook identity.”

  I thumped him on the shoulder. “You know something? You could be right.”

  And I sincerely hoped he was.

  • • •

  The next morning, as the sun was heaving itself up over the Chilson skyline, I gave Ivy a lesson on the inner workings of the bookmobile. She was a fast learner, and we had time for a stop at the back door of Cookie Tom’s before we hit the road. Earlier in the summer, that wonderful man had promised me a discount rate and speedy service anytime the bookmobile wanted to stop for provisions on the way out of town. Sometimes there were even cookies left over for the patrons.

  Ivy peered into the bag. “Lovely. Nothing like coconut chocolate chip.”

  “I’m glad you’re okay with cookies,” I said. “My other volunteer has become so health-conscious that I feel guilty eating anything as horrible as oatmeal raisin.”

  “Practically health food.” Ivy leaned down and reached her fingers through the wires of Eddie’s cage. “Hey, Mr. Ed. You doing okay in there?”

  I glanced over. Eddie was rubbing up against her and I could hear his purring even over the bookmobile’s engine. “If he’s not, it’s his own fault.”

  “Oh?” Ivy sat back and rearranged her shoulders, making herself comfortable. “I hear a story coming. Tell all.”

  So we drove across the county, west to east, me relating the main story of Eddie the Stowaway and How He Managed to Become a Fixture on the Bookmobile and then the almost as important substory of Why the Library Director Must Never Know.

  Ivy was an excellent audience, laughing, gasping, and sniffling in all the right places. When I came to the end, she reached down and gave Eddie another scratch as we drove into the outskirts of the village where our first stop was scheduled. “You’ve created quite a dilemma for Miss Minnie, Mr. Eddie.”

  “Mrr,” he said.

  Ivy laughed delightedly. “It really does feel as if he knows what you’re saying.”

  “He excels at sarcasm,” I said. “Especially when—”

  “What’s the matter?” Ivy asked.

  There was concern in her voice, but I didn’t look at her. Couldn’t, really, because my gaze was stuck on the sight of two of my aunt’s boarders walking along the sidewalk, hand in hand.

  I squinted. Maybe I was seeing things. It was early, after all. Maybe my eyes weren’t all the way awake yet.

  “Minnie?”

  But no. The sight was undeniable. There was Paulette, whom Aunt Frances had matched with Quincy, side by side with Leo, whom Aunt Frances had matched with Zofia. They were gazing happily into each other’s eyes, goopy smiles on their faces. “Oh, jeez.”

  “You’re sure you’re all right?”

  This time I spared a glance away from the road and looked at Ivy. “Sorry. I’m fine, it’s just…” The idea of explaining the inner workings of the boardinghouse was daunting. How could I possibly start this story?

  “It’s just what?” Ivy asked. “Tell me, Minnie. You look troubled and who better to confide in than someone you barely know?”

  I thought about it. In lots of ways, she was right. “Okay. I have this au
nt…”

  By the time I flicked the turn signal in preparation for the wide right turn into the parking lot of an elementary school, I’d already described the typical boardinghouse summer. I braked the bookmobile to a complete stop, and by the time we opened the doors, I’d pretty much covered everything.

  “So you see the problem?” I asked.

  “The only problem I see is getting your aunt to stay out of other people’s business.”

  She’d spoken with a smile, but it was clear that she thought Aunt Frances’s efforts were misguided. Up until that moment I’d thought Ivy and my aunt could be great friends. Now I realized that it would be best if they never met.

  “Any more problems I can help with?” Ivy asked, laughing.

  “How about employee relations issues? Any experience there?” Not that Mitchell was an employee, but I didn’t want to tell anyone I had a problem with a library patron.

  “Not an ounce. One of the beauties about working for yourself and then teaching college is not having employee issues.” We greeted a young woman and three children coming up the steps; then Ivy turned back to me. “Minnie, I know you’re looking for answers, but sometimes there aren’t any. Sometimes you have to go with your instincts and hope for the best.”

  I sighed. “I’m not sure my instincts are up to the job.”

  Ivy clapped me on the shoulder. “Now, don’t go all whiny on me. You’re smart and you’ll figure things out.”

  “Oh, honey,” the young woman said. “You should have asked first.”

  I whipped around. Her little honey had stuffed his mouth full of Kristen’s maple-flavored candies. Candies that had come out of the jar for the guessing contest.

  My knee-jerk reaction, which was to shriek at the top of my lungs, warred with my training to take everything in stride. There was a short battle, but my training slid into the lead.

  I took the jar out of the child’s hands. “Sorry,” I said politely but firmly, “this candy is for a contest.” I handed out the slips of paper. “Here’s a form for guessing the number of candies. If your guess is closest to the correct total, you win the candy and the bookmobile will come to your house.”

  “But Charlie ate some of the candies,” one of his siblings said. “You don’t know the number anymore.”

  “Yeah,” said the remaining sibling. “And maybe other people have taken candies, too. How are you going to pick a winner if you don’t have the right number?”

  My smile grew more fixed. “We know the number of candies we started with. We’ll count them again and use the average for the winning number.” And after the recount, I’d tape the lid down with half a roll of duct tape.

  The kids protested that it wasn’t fair. I nodded, agreeing that it probably wasn’t, introduced them to Eddie, and they immediately went into cat rapture.

  I watched, shaking my head. Eddie had saved the day. Wonders truly never did cease.

  • • •

  “I can’t believe you talked me into this, Minnie-Ha-Ha.”

  I looked over at Chris Ballou. We were about to walk through the front door of Crown Yachts, and Chris was still whining. “What I can’t believe,” I said, “is that you’re complaining about talking to some guys about boats.”

  At lunchtime, I’d been thinking about what I knew and didn’t know about Greg Plassey and Trock Farrand and Hugo Edel. In pursuit of more information, I’d called Crown to ask Hugo if Carissa had said anything about a professional athlete. And if, during our conversation, he let something slip about the depth of his involvement with Carissa, well, that would be just a little bonus, wouldn’t it?

  When I’d been told he was out for the day, I’d had the brilliant idea of getting Chris to come with me to Crown after work. It was my experience that every employee is more forthcoming when the boss isn’t around. Chris could legitimately talk to a salesguy about a boat for Greg, and while he was talking I could show the picture of Carissa around and see what I could see.

  At the end of the bookmobile day, I’d dropped Eddie off at home and gone to the marina office to coerce Chris into helping. It had taken the promise of a six-pack of The Magician from Short’s Brewing Company in nearby Bellaire, but he’d eventually agreed.

  “It’s not that,” Chris said now. “It’s that you didn’t give me time to get ready.”

  “For what?”

  “Asking about Crown boats. I got a reputation to keep up. Don’t want these guys thinking I don’t know what I’m talking about.”

  I raised my eyebrows and opened the door for him. “A smart guy like you?” I asked. “I’m sure you’ll manage.”

  “Yeah, well.” He grinned. “Whatever you got cooking, I can play along. You ever going to tell me what this is all about?”

  I smiled but didn’t say a word. If you told Chris anything, it was best to assume the entire town of Chilson, half the county, and a hefty percentage of the region would have the same information within a day. Or faster.

  “Good evening.” A middle-aged man came toward us, his hand outstretched. He wore a navy blue jacket, a white polo shirt, khaki pants and… I looked down… yes, deck shoes without socks. “How can I help you?” he asked.

  In seconds, he and Chris were deep in a conversation about boats suitable for a former Major League Baseball pitching star, complete with pantomime of a curve ball delivery. At least that’s what Chris said to the guy, claiming he was taught the windup by Greg Plassey himself.

  I glanced around the end of a monstrously sized boat and spotted a wall clock. Twenty to six. Thanks to my speedy parking of the bookmobile and a complete neglect of the usual vacuuming of Eddie hair, I had twenty minutes before the place shut down for the night. I eased away from Chris and the salesguy—neither one of them so much as flicked a look in my direction—and went off in search of a talkative employee.

  “Hey there.” Another middle-aged guy approached, dressed in a navy blue jacket, red polo shirt, off-white pants, and penny loafers. Not quite twin clothing to the other guy, but close. “Is Rob helping you and your husband?” he asked.

  I tried not to make a horrified face. The notion of being married to Chris Ballou made my head want to turn inside out. Nice enough guy, but not husband material. At least not for me. I pulled the obituary picture of Carissa out of my purse and held it out. “Do you remember seeing her in here?”

  The guy looked at me. “What are you, some kind of cop?”

  I babbled on about Carissa’s death, about being a friend of a friend, and about trying to help her family. When I saw him nodding agreement, I nodded back. “So, you can see what I’m doing here. Just trying to help, right?” I held the picture a little closer. “Have you seen her in here?”

  He looked, frowned, then nodded. “Too bad about her being killed and all. I heard a girl died, but I didn’t know it was her.”

  “So you knew Carissa?”

  “Not by name,” he said, “but she’s a hard one to forget. One of those sparkly people. Shame that she was murdered.”

  I slid the picture back into my purse with care. “Yes,” I said. “It’s a great shame.” I waited a moment, then asked, “Was she in here to buy a boat?”

  “Now, that I don’t know.” He tipped his head in the direction of Hugo’s office. “She came in and talked to the boss. Not sure what that was all about,” he said, half grinning, “but Annelise didn’t like it at all.”

  Annelise. Mrs. Edel. The co-owner of Crown Yachts. The woman who’d felt the need to primp before coming into her husband’s workplace. So Annelise didn’t like another woman talking to her husband. Yet the husband had said it was strictly business.

  Hmm.

  “So,” I said, “Annelise didn’t like Carissa?”

  He was still grinning. “Annelise doesn’t like any female younger than eighty getting close to Hugo. The jealousy thing happens to wo
men, sometimes,” he said seriously. “That change-of-life stuff.”

  “Really?”

  My sarcasm was clear, but the guy didn’t seem to notice. “Yeah. I can tell you stories.” He laughed, then said, “Of course, that boyfriend of hers didn’t like it, either.”

  I frowned. “Annelise has a boyfriend?”

  “Nah, that Carissa. He came in here all mad about Hugo taking his girl out to dinner, but he came in on a Saturday, and Hugo’s never here on the weekends.”

  “What did the boyfriend look like?”

  “Ah, I don’t know. Kind of scrawny, but not real scrawny. Had hair the color of a living room wall, if you know what I mean.”

  A soft electronic ping went off. The guy looked toward the front door. “Excuse me,” he said, looking at an elderly couple who’d just walked in.

  Timing is everything, and this was perfect. I said thank you and good-bye, yanked Chris out of a discussion of trout fishing, and headed home.

  • • •

  “Hey!” I called through the houseboat’s screen door. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Eddie looked at me. He was sitting exactly in the middle of yesterday’s local paper, which meant he was also sitting in the middle of the dining table, a place where he wasn’t allowed to set foot. At least when I was in the room. What he did when I wasn’t within scolding distance was something over which I had absolutely no control.

  More than once I’d walked down the marina’s dock and, through the houseboat’s windows, spotted Eddie sitting on the kitchen counter, napping or idly grooming himself. I’d pound up the dock and burst through the door, reprimands at the ready, only to find my cat sitting innocently on the floor. I had yet to decide whether that whole routine was a coincidence, or whether it was something he planned with the precision of a Swiss watchmaker.

  Now I clapped my hands three times—the “Stop that right now!” signal—and watched Eddie slither off the table and onto the bench seat. “You are a horrible cat,” I told him. “And stop looking at me like I’m the stupid one. If you didn’t do the things I tell you not to, I wouldn’t have to yell at you, see?”