Lending a Paw: A Bookmobile Cat Mystery (Bookmobile Cat Mysteries)

by Cass, Laurie

  Rafe glanced at the doctor’s name tag. “Tucker Kleinow,” he said out loud. “You new here?”

  “I’m going to clean your wound,” Dr. Kleinow said. “This will sting a little. . . . Yes, I just moved up here last month.”

  “Yeah?” Rafe asked. “Where you from?”

  Rafe would pick at the guy until he found a connection of some sort. With Rafe there were maybe three degrees of separation. “Let the doctor work,” I said. “It’s not his job to satisfy your curiosity.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind,” Dr. Kleinow said, giving me a brief smile.

  It was a very nice smile and, I suddenly realized, it was on a very good-looking face that was about my own age. He had that blond hair that would turn white in the summer, and wasn’t so tall that I’d get neck pains looking up at him. A definite bonus. I glanced at his left hand. No ring.

  Rafe caught my look and winked. “So, Doc, what does your wife think of life up north?”

  “No wife,” he said absently, dabbing at the wound. “Haven’t found anyone who can live with the hours I work.”

  “Weeeell,” Rafe drawled. “Isn’t that a coincidence? Minnie here is—”

  “Is thinking you should be quiet and let the doctor stitch you up.” Rafe was kind, honest, intelligent, hardworking, and often funny, but the word “subtle” wasn’t in his vocabulary.

  The doctor glanced from me to Rafe, reached a conclusion I couldn’t interpret, and went on with his work.

  Rafe waggled his eyebrows. “Come on, Min, you got to—”

  “Keep quiet.”

  “You’re the killjoy of the century.”

  “That’s me. Now hush.”

  “Not even—”

  I put my index finger to my lips in the classic librarian gesture. “Shhh.”

  This time, with the needle approaching his skin, he shushed.

  • • •

  Rafe wedged himself against the passenger door and put his feet up on the dash. “That doctor caught your eye, huh, Min?”

  I slapped at his ankles until he moved his feet. “None of your business, Mr. Niswander.”

  “Yeah?” He snorted. “Bet you come asking about him inside of a week.”

  The paternal side of Rafe’s family had lived in the area for thousands of years and the maternal side had homesteaded outside Chilson right after the Civil War. What Rafe couldn’t find out about someone wasn’t worth knowing. Speaking of which . . . “What are people saying about Stan Larabee’s murder?”

  Rafe picked at the bandage on his arm until I growled at him to quit. “Larabee? Most are saying that he got what he deserved, that he was a cruel dude, and it’s a shock no one knocked him off before now.”

  “Cruel?”

  He shrugged. “Rich people don’t have a rep for being nice.”

  Irritation flared. “That’s stupid. Money doesn’t have anything to do with being nice. Anyone from any socioeconomic group can be cruel. Matter of fact—”

  “Hey, hey.” Rafe held up his good hand. “I’m just saying what they’re saying. You asked, remember? Don’t yell at me.”

  “Sorry,” I muttered.

  “Want to know what people are saying about you?”

  Like I wanted a hole in my boat’s hull. “No.”

  “About you and Stan’s death, I mean.”

  That was different. “Sure.”

  He settled back against the door. “The best one I heard is you killed Stan yourself because he tried to take advantage of you.”

  I stared at him until the car’s tires hit the rumble strip on the edge of the two-lane highway. “That’s . . . that’s . . . ,” I spluttered, steering the car back to the middle of the lane.

  “Yeah, I know.” Rafe grinned. “Nutso. I’m just saying what they’re saying. Ready for the next one?”

  “Not yet.” I sucked in a few breaths, blew them out. “Okay, I’m good.”

  “I heard someone say you saw Stan hiding something in the farmhouse, that some mob guy killed him for it, and now you’re scared they’re after you.”

  “Somebody’s been watching too much TV.”

  “Way.” Rafe nodded. “I heard that one at the diner.”

  The diner. My anger at the detective went bright red all over again. He hadn’t taken anything I said seriously, not one thing. Was he even taking this investigation seriously? Maybe Holly was right; maybe they were pegging her for Stan’s murder and not looking for anyone else.

  The back of my throat tightened and it took me a couple of swallows before I could say, “Anything else?”

  “Normal stuff. There’s a ghost in the farmhouse who killed Stan. That no one killed him, that Stan set it up himself to look like a murder so he could make the ultimate payback.”

  “Payback against who?”

  Rafe shrugged. “Dunno. I heard that one at the auto parts store.”

  “If Stan set it up to look like a murder, he would have set it up so someone would be framed for the murder.”

  “Never said those boys were brilliant.” He grinned.

  “So who are they saying killed Stan?”

  “Besides you? Well . . .” He held up the index finger on his good hand. “There’s your boss. Doesn’t look right, the library getting all that money. And there’s Cookie Tom.” Rafe put up a second finger. “He hated Stan’s guts because of some boat deal. Stan sold him an old Century and the motor died on Tom first time he took it out.” Rafe smirked. “And there’s Otis what’s-his-name.”

  “Rahn?”

  “Yeah. Ran where?” Rafe laughed. “Word is old Otis was dating one of Stan’s sisters way back when and Stan dumped a bucket of pig feed on him right before he made the big move.” He looked at his fingers. “What was that, three? Yeah. Next is Bill D’Arcy.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “Nobody. He’s new in town. Hangs out at the Round Table and never talks to anyone. Which is pretty suspicious. So he’s four. And there’s that Holly you work with. The cops have been talking to her. And there’s Lloyd Goodwin.”

  I frowned. “Mr. Goodwin? How could he kill anyone? He can’t even walk without a cane.”

  “Maybe that’s what he used before he got out his gun.” Rafe twirled an imaginary cane and whacked it on the dashboard. “Yah! Gotcha!”

  “Why would Mr. Goodwin kill Stan?”

  Rafe got in one more whack. “Wouldn’t. Neither would you or old Otis or Holly or Stephen or Tom. I figure it was one of his relatives. He had a ton of sisters and all of them had a passel of kids. Bound to be one of them, hoping they’d get money. Everybody says they’ll challenge the will. Or maybe there’s some old family feud and it ended up in murder. Like the Hatfields and the McCoys, only with Larabees and former Larabees.” He laughed.

  “I didn’t know Stan had so many relatives.”

  “Oh, sure. He didn’t like them, is all.” Rafe grinned. “Can’t say I blame him. You ever met any of his sisters?”

  “How many does he have?”

  “Three?” He squinted, peering through the front windshield as if the view of the rolling countryside would jog his memory. “Four, maybe.”

  “You’re no help.”

  “Get what you pay for.”

  “I’m paying for gas money to Charlevoix and back. Plus I spent my whole night on you. Doesn’t that count for something?”

  “Almost makes up for the time I spent fixing the roof of your houseboat last September.”

  Point to Rafe. A big one. “And I still owe you for that.” Fall was the busiest time for his job, and he’d spent two straight weekends helping me repair my rotting roof. “I can’t believe anyone thinks I killed Stan.”

  “Yeah, well, you know people. Some of them will say anything just so they can say something.”

  I glanced at him. “Rafe Niswander, I’m not sure if you’re the smartest person I know or the dumbest.”

  “Smartest,” he said, and put his feet up on the dashboard.

  I pushed them down. �
�How many stitches did you just get? Dumbest.”

  “Oh, yeah? Bet I can tell you something about Stan Larabee you don’t know.”

  “You’re on.” I slid a five-dollar bill out of my front pocket and laid it on the console. Time spent with Rafe almost always resulted in a five-dollar bet and I’d prepared myself while he was getting sewn up. “Let’s see yours.”

  Rafe oofed and grunted and eventually got his wallet out of his back pocket. He put his five on top of mine. “That farmhouse where you found Larabee? He owned it.”

  “He . . . what?”

  “Paid cash for it a couple weeks ago.” Rafe nodded. “Heard it firsthand from a guy who used to work with the brother of the guy Larabee bought it off of.” He swiped the fives off the dashboard and shoved them in his front pocket. “Not much of a mystery, then, why he was out there. He was checking out his new digs.”

  So, one question answered. But a bigger one remained. Why had Stan bought a decrepit farmhouse in the middle of nowhere? I opened my mouth to ask, but Rafe jumped in.

  “But I got no idea why he bought it. Eighty acres in the middle of east county flatland?” He snorted. “Hardly anyone wanted to live there fifty years ago and no one wants to live there now. Real estate in that part of the county moves slower than my hair grows.”

  He was right, and I said so.

  “See?” He preened. “Smart.”

  I pointed at his bandage. “Or not.”

  He gave me a hurt look. “Hey, these things happen. I can’t be careful all the time, you know. No one can.”

  Which was truth itself. I smiled at him. “Let’s go see what Kristen has for leftovers.”

  “If she has steak to get rid of, will you cut it for me and not make fun?”

  I held up my hand in the three-fingered Scout salute. “I promise.”

  • • •

  The next morning I walked a different route to work and passed the Lakeview Art Gallery. Closed, of course, that time of day, but I stopped and looked in through the wide windows at the paintings. Charcoal portraits, abstract acrylics, watercolors of water views.

  Hmm.

  The rest of my walk to work, my thoughts went from art to music to literature to libraries and back to art. By late morning, I’d come up with an idea, so I went upstairs and tugged on the lion’s beard.

  “You want to do what?” Stephen asked.

  His hair had a rumpled look and . . . I took a quick count of buttonholes. Yes, Stephen’s shirt was one button off. If he’d been anyone else, I would have smiled and made a shirt-buttoning gesture, but this was Stephen, and there were lines one was not invited to cross.

  Lots of lines, in fact. Stephen wasn’t one to socialize with us minions, and no one was absolutely certain if he was even married. Holly said there was a Rangel child in the middle school and one in high school. Josh said there was no way Stephen had ever fathered children, not with that haircut. They’d looked at me to cast the deciding vote and I’d claimed noncombatant status.

  All of which meant that though Stephen was practically wearing a sign that said, “I’m upset,” there was no crossing that big fat boundary line he drew over and over again.

  I averted my eyes from his shirt. “I’d like to have a display of local art here in the library. A temporary exhibit for a month.”

  “We’re not going to sell art,” Stephen said. “Not our purview.”

  “Agreed. The artist’s contact information will be printed on a card underneath. We could use the main hallway. It’ll bring people into the library and give our regulars something new.”

  He made a “hmm” noise. Wavering. Definitely wavering.

  “After all,” I said, “our mission statement mentions cultural enrichment. What better way for patrons to be introduced to art than to see the work of local artists displayed at their library? At the old library, there wasn’t room, but we could use the entire main hallway.”

  “The long-term benefits could be significant,” Stephen said slowly.

  Yes! I kept my smile small and my fist-thrust in my pants pocket.

  “However, the work involved could overshadow those benefits.” He toyed with his glasses. “Your hours have increased substantially over the last year due to your efforts to champion the bookmobile.”

  “But I’m salaried,” I said quickly. “It doesn’t cost the library any extra. And I’m glad to do it, I really am.”

  He made another “hmm” noise. This one was harder to decipher.

  “What if I talk to some of the gallery owners in town,” I offered. “See if they’re willing to help. They select the art, I check to make sure the art’s suitable, the galleries get agreements from the artists to be part of the show, they move the art up here, and I help them hang it. Hardly any work at all.”

  Stephen rubbed his eyes. “I don’t have the energy to argue. Keep me informed, is all I ask.”

  “I . . . are you sure?”

  He was already back to studying his computer monitor. “Check about insurance. And don’t hand out any front-door keys.”

  “No, of course not.” I went to the door and turned. “Stephen?”

  “Yes?”

  I wanted to ask him what was bothering him, wanted to say if he needed to talk about something, about anything, that I could be trusted. That I could be his friend. “Is there anything I can do for you?” I finally asked.

  “No, thank you,” he said, chiseling the boundary line into stone.

  There was nothing to do but leave. So I did.

  • • •

  I spent the next couple of hours shuffling spreadsheets and databases, printing reports, and checking bookmobile projections against reality. Far too early to tell, of course, but it did my heart good to see that, on a per-stop basis, my plucked-out-of-thin-air estimates of patrons and materials checked out were low.

  I smiled at the nice numbers, then pulled out the phone book and picked up the phone.

  “Grice residence.”

  This time the female voice had a French accent. Or what I thought was a French accent. Could have been Swiss, for all I knew. Or Belgian. Not that it mattered; I needed to get through her to Caroline. “I’d like to speak to Mrs. Grice about showing some artwork from the Lakeview Gallery.”

  “Your name, please?”

  “Minnie Hamilton. I’m assistant director at the library.”

  “One moment.”

  I hummed my own hold music while I waited. Though in my appeal to Stephen I’d said I’d talk to gallery owners in the plural, I hadn’t really meant it. One would be plenty, if only I could convince her.

  “Miss Hamilton, this is Caroline Grice. We speak again.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I put a smile in my voice and started my spiel. I was only halfway through when Caroline jumped in.

  “Tell me if I’m understanding correctly. The library will display artwork from the gallery; no art will be sold by the library. We obtain the artists’ agreement and select the artwork, which you will need to approve. We deliver the artwork and remove it when the show is over. We will add the library to our liability insurance for the duration of the show.”

  “That’s it exactly.” I was about to launch into an apology for all the work this would cause. To apologize for the short notice, but that I hoped we could work out a date to meet within the next week and—

  “The selections can be made today,” she said. “At some point tomorrow I daresay I’ll have contacted all the artists. Correct?”

  I blinked. The speed of light had nothing on Caroline Grice. She suggested we meet in two days to formalize the details. I agreed, then hung up and went to get a celebratory soda.

  “What’s the matter?” Josh was loading his cargo pants with bags of corn chips. “You look funny.”

  “I am funny,” I said. “Did I ever tell you the one about the—”

  “You’ve told me all your jokes.” He ripped open a bag of chips. “You know, has anyone ever told you that they’re all kind of
dumb?”

  “Humor is in the ear of the beholder.” I ran a dollar bill into the machine.

  “Minnie, there you are!” One of the clerks rushed in. “Can you work the front desk for half an hour? My son’s car won’t start and he needs a ride to work. I’m really sorry, but—”

  “Go.” I waved her away. “Don’t worry about it.”

  I headed for the doorway, but Josh called me back. “Hey, Min. You forgot your pop.” He pointed at the machine.

  No food or drinks were allowed at the front counter, so I said, “Consider it a gift.”

  He grinned. “You’re all right. I don’t care what the rest of them say—you’re not so bad.”

  I rolled my eyes and headed out.

  • • •

  Time spent at the front desk was always interesting. There were returns to sort, phone calls to take, and patrons to direct. But my favorite thing to do was checking out books. Seeing what people wanted to take home to read, watch, and listen to never got old. There were times, of course, when I wanted to recommend other books.

  Because Mrs. Garver didn’t really need another book about the value of collectibles. What she needed was a book on organizing. And Jim Kittle didn’t really need to read another let’s-do-in-all-the-bad-guys thriller. He’d be better off if he’d read through a stack of romances and learned how women see the world.

  A tall fiftyish man placed a stack of books on the counter. The stack was so high I couldn’t see over the top of it. “Wow,” I said, smiling, “I wish I had that much time to read. You know we only have a two-week checkout, right?”

  “Yes.” His tone was almost curt as he handed me his library card.

  The scanner beeped when I aimed it at the card. I glanced at the computer screen. “Looks like you have a number of books out already. Not due until next week, though, so you have some time.”

  “I put them in the slot,” he said.

  “Oh.” I scanned the titles. The Name of the Rose. Gone with the Wind. “. . . And Ladies of the Club.” All books that were hundreds of pages long. “Well, I hope you enjoyed them. Those are—” I stopped short as I noticed the man’s name. Bill D’Arcy. This was the guy Rafe had mentioned as a possible suspect. The one who went to the diner but kept to himself.

  Mr. D’Arcy started tapping the granite counter with his fingernails.