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

by Cass, Laurie

  “But it wasn’t the future he wanted,” I said.

  “He wanted money,” she said flatly. “He wanted to be lord and master of the manor. He wanted every single person who’d laughed at him in high school for smelling like manure to come crawling to him for money and then he’d turn them down and laugh in their faces.”

  I blinked. That didn’t sound like the Stan I’d known. And yet . . . and yet . . . he turned down almost everyone who’d come to him for a loan. He’d bought and renovated that huge house up in the hills, its windows showing little but lake and property that he owned. Lord and master.

  “Do you know how he got started as a developer?” I asked.

  Audry gave a smile, but it wasn’t a pretty one. “Unfortunately, yes.”

  I swallowed. I’d liked Stan. I didn’t want to learn things about him that weren’t nice; I wanted to remember him as my exuberant friend who tried hard to get good things done. “What do you mean?”

  “Stan’s mother died when he was in grade school, complications from another pregnancy if you can believe it. His dad died the year he graduated high school.” She looked pensive. “In April, during maple syrup season. He had a heart attack out in the sugar bush. Stan was the one to find him.”

  “That must have been hard.”

  She gave me a sardonic look. “You’d think, wouldn’t you? By the next spring, Stan had sweet-talked his sisters out of their share of the farm, got it put in his name only, and sold it to a man he’d found from downstate who had big dreams about turning the property into some kind of ski resort. Stan took off for Florida with the money and his sisters never talked to him again.”

  My jaw went slack. “Stan stole the family farm from his sisters?”

  “That’s not the way he looked at it. He said he’d pay them back. With interest.”

  “Did he?”

  “Eventually.” She made a gesture that suggested frustration, sadness, and tolerance. “He always needed more money, Stan did. Another property he needed to buy, another building with great potential, another whatever. By the time he got around to repaying his sisters, he had buckets of money to spare, but the damage was permanent. They took the money, of course,” she said with a twisted smile, “but they wouldn’t talk to him. Not even after he bought them houses and who knows what else.”

  Just as Caroline had said. “Did you go with Stan to Florida?”

  Her merry peal of laughter filled the porch. “No, I didn’t go to Florida. Stan was a good-looking son of a gun, but I got over that two weeks into the marriage. And once he sold the farm? I was done. Smartest thing I ever did was divorce that man and find my Bill.”

  “How did Stan take your divorcing him?”

  She snorted. “The way I heard it, he found a second wife before he’d unpacked his suitcase down there in Florida. If a man gets money, he can get a wife, easy enough.”

  “You weren’t interested in his money?”

  She gestured to the stupendous view. “I’ve woken up to this every day for almost fifty years. How could I get any richer? And Stan came back to this, in the end. Who’s to say which one of us was more successful?”

  I looked at the green hills and the arching blue sky above, felt the peace and the calm, breathed in the clean air, heard nothing except birds and the rustle of leaves on the trees. Who indeed?

  “So,” I said, “the feud started when Stan sold the family farm?”

  “I wouldn’t call it a feud, really.” Audry considered her lemonade. “More of an ‘us against Stan’ attitude. His sisters all hated him and taught their children to hate him.”

  “And unto the next generation?”

  “I imagine.” She sighed.

  Up until that point, I hadn’t considered her as old, but she suddenly looked every inch of her seventy years. I knew I should leave, but there were questions I needed to ask. “Are his sisters still alive?”

  “Goodness.” Audry squinted at the horizon. “Four of them moved either downstate or out of state years ago. The other two . . . ? I really have no idea. One moved to Petoskey, the other down to Traverse City.”

  I studied her, wondering if she truly didn’t know or if she was protecting a friend. “Do you know anything about Stan’s nieces and nephews? The great-nieces and nephews? Do any of them live in Chilson?”

  She gave a small shrug. “I know almost nothing about that group. About all I know is that whole family tended toward having lots of children, and they liked naming the children all with the same first letter. Don’t ask me why, it’s just what they did.”

  I blinked. “You mean all the sisters had names starting with S?”

  “Sarah, Shirley, Stella, Sadie, Sylvia, and Sophie,” Audry recited, smiling faintly.

  “There’s a niece named Gwen,” I said, remembering the friend of Aunt Frances.

  “One of Sarah’s, as I recall. She had boys named Gordon and Gerard. And one of them used names that started with K. Kevin, Kyle, Karla, and Kendra.” She frowned. “Or was that the next generation down?”

  As she’d said, lots of children, all of whom turned a year older every twelve months. Was this the definition of multiplicity? I found it hard enough to keep track of the ages of my brother’s children, and there were only three of them.

  “But there is one thing that’s been bothering me,” Audry said slowly.

  The weight she was giving to the words made the insides of my wrists tingle. “What’s that?”

  “The farmhouse where you found him? That was where he and his sisters grew up.”

  Chapter 15

  I left Audry’s house with one thought and one thought only: Find the closest Tonedagana County sheriff’s detective.

  I drove straight to Chilson and parked in the empty sheriff’s office lot. It took a little bit of doing, but I eventually convinced the deputy on duty that tracking down either Detective Devereaux or Inwood would be in everyone’s best interest.

  He hung up the phone and looked at me with a schooled expression of blankness. “Detective Inwood was at the grocery store. He said he’ll stop by in about five minutes.”

  “Inwood. He’s the short round one, right?”

  The deputy actually laughed. “Nope. Devereaux is the short, round one. He looks like the letter D, see? And Hal Inwood is the tall, skinny one. He looks like the letter I.”

  Clouds parted and the light shone down. “That’s brilliant,” I said sincerely.

  He waved me off to a plastic chair, but he was smiling as he did so, and a few minutes later, Detective Inwood walked in. “Ms. Hamilton. What can I do for you?”

  I stood, but didn’t move much closer. He was too tall (like the letter I) to make a face-to-face talk much of a reality. “Sorry to bother you on a Friday night,” I said, “but I just found out something.”

  “Yeah, what’s that?” He put an angular elbow on the front counter.

  “Well, it’s a couple of somethings, actually.” I gave him a quick summary of the origin of Stan’s fortune. “His sisters were furious when he sold the farm, I was told.”

  “Who told you about this?” While Inwood’s pose remained casual, the expression on his face was sharp.

  “Oh. Well.” I mentally fast-forwarded through the next part of the conversation and decided it was best to tell the truth now rather than have it dragged out of me later. “Audry Brant. She was Stan’s first wife.”

  Inwood reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a small pad of paper. “His first wife, you say.”

  I winced. Audry was going to get a police visit and it was all my fault. Sorry about that, I told her silently. “She had no reason to kill him, though. They were divorced about fifty years ago. And anyway, that’s not an important something.”

  Inwood used the pencil he’d pulled out of the memo pad’s spiral binding to dot a period. “What is?”

  “The farmhouse where Stan was killed? That was where Stan grew up. That was the farm he sold out from under his sisters.”

&nb
sp; “Now that is a something.” Detective Inwood nodded, a faint smile lurking around the corners of his mouth. “Ms. Brant give you that bit of information?”

  “Yes, so I was wondering. Have you looked at Stan’s sisters? I mean, with him being killed at their old farm, it makes you think there’s a connection, right? They were all older than Stan, but it doesn’t take much strength to pull a trigger.”

  But the detective was shaking his head. “All six sisters are accounted for, either passed away or moved out of state decades ago.”

  “Oh.” I deflated. “The ones still alive, they have alibis? I mean, I’m sure you checked, but . . .”

  “Of the three,” he said, “two are in nursing homes. The other is living in Arizona, and according to the golf course manager, she hasn’t missed her daily game of golf since she moved there fifteen years ago.”

  “What about their children? I’ve heard the sisters all had a lot of kids. And the kids probably all had kids. Have all of them been checked out?”

  The detective stuffed his memo pad back into his pocket. “The six sisters had twenty-three children. The twenty-three of them have had a total of seventy-two offspring. So, we’re working on it, Ms. Hamilton. Plus, there are other—” He stopped. Gave me a short, assessing look. “We’re investigating all avenues,” he said. “In addition to the family members, Stan Larabee had many friends and business associates across the country. A thorough investigation takes time.”

  I nodded my understanding. And I did understand, but I was also pretty sure I knew what that look of assessment had meant—that he’d remembered whom I worked with.

  They were still considering Holly a suspect.

  • • •

  Saturday’s breakfast of omelets made to order was delicious, but since I was scheduled to work that morning, I didn’t have time to get Aunt Frances off into a cozy corner for a chat. I wanted to tell her about Audry and Stan’s sisters and the reason behind the feud, but it would have to wait until the next day.

  Sunday morning I decided to stop at the farmers’ market and see if I could find some raspberries to take up to Aunt Frances. While I wasn’t bearing bad news, not exactly, hearing the slightly sordid tale might be easier if the first raspberries of the season were involved.

  Even at eight in the morning, the waterfront market was crowded. White tents over the bright colors of produce against the blue of Janay Lake was a feast for the eyes long before the food itself would be a feast for the tummy. I dawdled at the wide selection of lettuces—most of which I couldn’t put a name to, other than lettuce—and so heard Gunnar Olson before I saw him.

  “Dear,” he said in a strained tone, “I’m getting hungry.”

  I looked up and saw his wife ignoring him completely. A bunch of radishes were dangling from her hand. “Now,” she said to the woman behind the table, “these are organic, right? How organic are they?”

  The two women started what was clearly going to be a long conversation about fertilizer and manure and irrigation. Gunnar heaved a huge sigh.

  Mrs. Olson, who must have a first name, though she had never made it known to me, glanced my way. “Hello, Minnie, how was your winter? Gunnar, catch up with Minnie a moment, I need to learn more about these radishes.” She turned back to her conversation, leaving me and Gunnar standing face-to-face. My face to his collarbone.

  What I needed was a stroke of brilliance in how to deal with a social situation in which one of the parties was a potential murderer. None came. Then again . . .

  I put on a polite smile. “When did your wife get into town?”

  “Couple of days ago. My dear wife and I had a wedding to attend yesterday,” Gunnar said, booming his voice across the two feet that separated us. The dear wife shot him a look. He put on a smile and waved his fingers at her.

  “You know,” Gunnar said, turning back to me, “I’ve been thinking about the importance of libraries in small towns. What would you think about a donation to the Chilson District Library?”

  My eyes thinned to the merest of slits. Was this a bribe? My jaw went forward and my chin went up. “What I want is the truth,” I said quietly. A donation would be nice, naturally, but I wasn’t going to tell him that.

  He sucked in a breath through his teeth. My gaze locked on his. There was no way I was going to be the first one to blink, not if my eyeballs dried up and fell out of my head.

  Gunnar looked away. “Half an hour,” he muttered. “The Round Table.”

  “Fifteen minutes,” I said.

  “Half an hour.” His ruddy skin colored. “Have to help the wife carry the groceries to the boat.”

  Minnie: one point. Mrs. Olson: one point. Mr. Olson: a big fat zero. In victory, grace. I nodded. “Half an hour.”

  • • •

  To hang on to my advantage over Gunnar, I headed for the Round Table straightaway. Let him see me with the remains of my breakfast scattered all over the table; let him think he was late. I could feel my mother shaking her head and saying, “Minerva, aren’t you being a little petty? Take the high road, you’ll feel better about yourself.”

  At the front door, I hesitated. Maybe she was right. Maybe I shouldn’t be messing around like this. Maybe I should just—

  “Nah,” I said out loud, and went inside.

  The Round Table was a diner, Up North style. Walls of wide pine paneling, ceiling of faded acoustic tile. The only thing new in the last twenty years was the flooring, and that was because the regular customers had signed a petition to replace the worn linoleum that had been laid down in 1952.

  Vinyl-covered booths lined the walls and tables filled the middle. Small square tables, with the exception of the one round table in the back. This was the table where the elder men of the town congregated on weekday mornings. Opinions were aired, politicians dissected, and decisions were made, whether or not any facts were taken into account.

  The whole scenario irritated me, but since it was Sunday, the table was empty. I sat in a booth, triangulating myself into a position equidistant from a couple with small children and a man in the back booth hunched over a laptop.

  The waitress, Sabrina, brought me a mug of coffee and a glass of ice water without me saying a word. “Here you go, hon. Cinnamon apple pancakes with sausage links.”

  I grinned. “You’re amazing. I haven’t had time to come here since early April. How do you remember this stuff?”

  “Here’s your cream.” She took three tiny plastic cups from her apron pocket and set them on the tabletop. The pencil behind her ear got pulled out, was used to scribble down my order, then pushed back into her bun of long graying hair. “How do I remember? Easy.” She winked. “I’m a professional.” She headed off to the kitchen and I was left with my own company.

  The direness of the situation suddenly struck me. All by myself for half an hour, and I had no book. I did have my cell phone and a book app, but since I couldn’t remember the last time I’d charged the battery, I’d probably get all of five minutes of reading before the thing died on me.

  So, no book. Also no newspaper, and no magazine. I started to get up to grab a booklet of real estate listings from the stack next to the cash register when I recognized the man with the laptop.

  Bill D’Arcy.

  Mr. I-Don’t-Have-a-Word-to-Say D’Arcy. Mr. Suspect-Through-Sulkiness D’Arcy.

  I sat back down, sipped my coffee, and studied him. He didn’t seem to be using the keyboard or touch pad often, but I could tell by his arm movements that he was using one of them regularly. I counted, and every thirty seconds he made another click.

  Hmm. Could he be reading? Who did that much reading on a computer? I rubbed at my eyes.

  “Here you go, Minnie.” Sabrina put my breakfast in front of me. “Can I get you anything else?”

  “Actually, do you have a minute? There’s something I want to ask you.”

  “Important, huh? Hang on a sec.” She checked on the other tables, got a “No, thanks,” from both, and came ba
ck to slide into the opposite side of my booth. “Okay, lay it on me. Ask me anything except the recipe for those pancakes, because I’m not telling. And eat up. No sense in good food going cold.”

  Obediently, I forked into a pancake. With the bite hanging off the tines, I leaned forward and quietly asked, “What do you know about Bill D’Arcy?” I nodded in his general direction.

  She glanced over her shoulder. “Not a blessed thing. That man hasn’t the foggiest notion of how to make small talk.”

  “No idea where he’s from, why he came up here, anything?”

  “Only thing I know about him is he orders whatever the special is every morning, drinks three pots of coffee, most always stays through lunch, orders the lunch special, and stays until we close at three. He stares at his computer the whole time. Tips real good, though,” she said reflectively. “Of course, he’d better, hogging a table like that.”

  “He comes here every day?”

  “The most regular customer we have.”

  We gawked at the rut-bound Mr. D’Arcy.

  “But I take it back,” Sabrina said, the booth’s vinyl squeaking at she turned back to face me. “There was one day he wasn’t here at all. About three weeks ago, I’d guess.” She hummed a tune. “Must have been a Friday, because the breakfast special was the Western omelet, that’s his favorite, and he wasn’t here. Cookie in there”—she tipped her head to the kitchen—“figured he must have died, but the next day he was back again, just like normal.”

  “Did he say where he’d been?” I asked.

  “Eat,” she commanded. It wasn’t until I was chewing that she answered my question. “He didn’t say word one about where he’d been. Just plopped himself down in that booth like he’d never been gone and didn’t unglue his eyes from that stupid computer for hours. Look at him. He’ll reach for his coffee without even looking. Does the same thing with food.”