Booking the Crook

by Laurie Cass

  The store was located on the south side of Traverse City, past the car dealerships, past the big box stores, and even past the flooring stores. It was in a small strip mall, sharing its parking lot with a Chinese takeout and a nail salon. Since the nail salon interested me as much as the wood store did, I ambled over to the restaurant in hopes of seeing a menu stuck up somewhere.

  Wind blew and snow swirled, but I was in the mood to be fearless, so braving the cold for nearly fifty feet didn’t faze me a bit. There was indeed a menu taped to the door. I peered at the selections, wondering if eleven o’clock was too early to be thinking about lunch, when a truck door slammed shut.

  I turned and saw Land Aprelle, handyman to Rowan, kicking the snow out of his truck’s wheel wells. With that streak of white hair, he was easy to spot in a crowd.

  “Good morning, Land,” I called.

  He spun around. “Minnie. What are you doing here?”

  “No idea, to tell you the truth. I’m waiting for Rafe.” I paused, suddenly unsure. “You know Rafe Niswander, don’t you?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I do.” Land glanced at the store, then back at me. “I, uh, just stopped to clear the snow out of my truck. It was jamming up the suspension and making a vibration to beat the band, and I know this parking lot is usually empty, so I stopped. Just for a second. I’m going now. See you around, okay?”

  As Land’s truck sped back out onto the highway, Rafe came outside. “Wasn’t that Land Aprelle? Why didn’t he come in?”

  “I have no idea,” I said slowly. “He was acting very strange.”

  “How can you tell?” Rafe clicked his SUV unlocked and we climbed in. “Land can be a pretty strange guy at the best of times.”

  “Sure, but he was talking.”

  Rafe, who was buckling his seat belt, paused mid-buckle. “Talking?”

  I nodded. “A lot.”

  Rafe looked over his shoulder, but Land’s truck was long gone. “Maybe it was his long-lost identical twin brother, who dyed his hair just like . . . okay, maybe not.” He looked at my expression and grinned. “Okay, almost certainly not. But really? A loquacious Land makes you wonder about the end of the world.”

  I wondered, too. But I was wondering if Land’s odd behavior had something to do with Rowan’s death, and even the heady odor of books in the bookstores that Rafe and I, hand in hand, happily traipsed through that afternoon didn’t quite dispel my questions.

  Chapter 10

  Sunday morning I looked at my best friend, who was sitting to my immediate left. “This was an excellent idea.”

  “Told you,” Kristen said. “Why don’t you ever listen to me?”

  “Because sometimes your ideas are horrible.”

  “Like when?” she challenged.

  I snorted. “Do you really want to talk about the jumping-off-the-roof-of-your-house-onto-the-leaf-pile idea?”

  “And I still say it would have been fine. My mom overreacts.”

  The two of us were sitting side by side on a Nub’s Nob chairlift with our feet, boots, and skis dangling, on our way to the top of the ski hill. It was the kind of winter day skiers dreamed of—blue skies, no wind, twenty degrees—and having to spend this day inside working on wedding details would have been painful.

  Not that I was a Real Skier. I was happy to ski on the blue runs, the ones marked for intermediate skiers, and I didn’t care if I ever got good enough to do the steepest hills.

  Kristen was a much better skier than I was, having grown up in a family of downhillers, and she’d been on the high school ski team. But that had been years ago, and now she wiggled her mittens, eyeing them critically. “My fingers are getting cold.”

  “Not possible,” I said. “You have three sets of hand warmers in there. And you’re wearing those incredibly expensive heated electric socks I borrowed from Donna.” This was in addition to the multiple layers underneath the warmest coat we’d found in my aunt’s closet.

  “Getting cold,” she said again as we off-loaded at the top. “We need to go in.”

  I wanted to protest, but a cold Kristen was a cranky Kristen, and besides, we really needed to work on wedding stuff. Saturday had been marginally productive, but there was a lot more to do and the weight of it was starting to make me a tiny bit nervous. We swooshed our way down, Kristen fast and elegant, me trailing behind slow and choppy.

  When I reached the bottom, Kristen had already taken off her equipment and was slinging her skis up onto her shoulder. I took a final turn to get around a man and a woman walking toward the ski lift. Though they were carrying rental skis—usually an indication of novice ability—they looked comfortable with the equipment.

  Something about them was familiar, but it wasn’t until the woman said, “New series. Snow scenes without any shades of blue,” that I realized who it was. And why I didn’t recognize them in ski clothes.

  “Barb!” I called. “Cade! What are you two doing in Michigan?”

  Russell McCade whirled and grinned. “Why, if it isn’t our favorite bookmobile librarian!”

  As I was the only bookmobile librarian they knew, I ignored the comment as I gracelessly ski-skated over to the couple. “I didn’t know you two were skiers. And why didn’t you tell me you were in town?”

  Barb and Cade, both on the far side of fifty and neither one looking it, summered on Five Mile Lake and wintered in Arizona. Cade made a mint of money through his paintings, works that his fans loved and that the critics called sentimental schlock.

  I’d always loved his work and had been thrilled to learn that he and his wife had a summer place Up North, but we hadn’t crossed paths until he’d needed a quick ride to the hospital and the bookmobile had been handy.

  “The snowbirds are flocking together,” I said, smiling. “Kristen’s up for the weekend to do wedding planning.” I looked back at the ski rack. “She was here a minute ago. I’m sure she’ll want to say hello. Where on—”

  A short and sharp shriek startled all of us. But I was on the move instantly, because it was Kristen’s voice, and she was calling my name.

  With the points of my poles I jabbed at my bindings, unlocking them, and left my skis lying in the snow. “Kristen!” I shouted, running as well as anyone could in boots with soles that were stiff as boards. “Where are you?” Reaching the parking lot, I looked left and right. Since it was a Sunday, there were dozens of people wandering around, and they were all starting to gather around the back of my car.

  “Are you okay?” I hurried over. “What happened?”

  Her groan was audible. “Fell. My wrist . . .”

  I pushed my way through the small murmuring crowd. Kristen was on her knees, cradling her right wrist with her left forearm. I knelt beside her. Since the only visible part of her skin was her face, it was impossible to see what the damage might be, and I didn’t want to make things worse. Kristen was a chef and permanent damage to her wrist . . . I didn’t want to think about it. She would be fine.

  “She should go to the hospital,” a woman said. “But I don’t know where the closest one is. Petoskey? Does Charlevoix have a hospital? Maybe Traverse City would be better.”

  “There’s a hospital in Gaylord,” offered a young man. “At least that’s what my friend said. You want me to Google which one is closest?”

  Cade and Barb, their boots thumping fast on the asphalt, hurried over. I knew I could depend on them to do what needed to be done, so I thanked the strangers, telling them we were all set. They wandered off and I said to Kristen, “We’re going to McLaren in Petoskey, okay?”

  She nodded and the McCades and I helped her to her feet. “I’ll help her into the car,” Barb said. “Cade will get your equipment and drop it at your aunt’s house later.” She said the last while looking at her husband, and he nodded and headed off.

  Barb talked as she guided Kristen to the passenger side of my
car. “He’s painting a snow series and two days ago he got it in his head that he had to see Michigan snow. We’re here for a few days, so we have plenty of time to help out. No, don’t thank me. Minnie has done far more for us than we can ever repay. There you go, Kristen, let me get that seat belt . . . and you’re set.” Barb gently shut the door, slapped the window, and we were on our way.

  * * *

  • • •

  Three hours later, we were still in the emergency room, waiting for the results of the CT scan. “Just to be sure,” the doctor said. “We don’t want a misdiagnosis.”

  “No, we do not.” Kristen used her chin to point at her wrapped-up wrist. “If this doesn’t heal properly, there will be no bo ssäm at Three Seasons. No beef Wellington. And certainly no crème brûlée.”

  The thought of no crème brûlée sent a chill down my back, but I took a deep breath. Once again, Kristen was exaggerating. Even if she was incapacitated, she had an excellent staff, which included Harvey, the sous-chef, who was aching for a chance to lay down his life for his boss. But Kristen’s passion was developing new recipes, and if her wrist was permanently damaged . . . I shook my head. She was going to be fine.

  “Odds are extremely good,” the doctor said, “that you’ll be fine. The X-ray didn’t show any breaks. At this point it’s likely a sprain. A few weeks, a little bit of therapy, and you’ll be back to normal. But we’re going to do a CT scan, just to be sure.”

  And an hour later, the results were in. The orthopedic surgeon was consulted, and she agreed. No broken bones. “I’ll get the nurse in to show you how to wrap it,” the emergency room doctor said. “We’ll get you a prescription for pain and for therapy. Check with your doctor in Florida for recommended physical therapists.” He smiled. “Glad you’ll be okay. Three Seasons is my favorite restaurant. I’ll be in for that crème brûlée.”

  As the doctor walked out, Kristen flopped back on the hospital bed and stared at the ceiling. “Well, this sucks. But I suppose it could be worse.”

  “It can always be worse,” I said.

  “You always say that.”

  “Because it’s always true.”

  She lay there for a moment, looking almost relaxed, then sat bolt upright. “Okay. Enough of feeling sorry for myself. Time to get to work.”

  I eyed her warily. “On what?”

  “Wedding plans, my dear. That is the reason I came to this land of snow and ice, remember?”

  “Hard to tell from your actions the last twenty-four hours.”

  She grinned. “All in the past, Miss Minnie. All in the past. Sharpen your pencils!”

  Rolling my eyes, I pulled my cell phone from my coat pocket and opened the notes file I’d titled Wedding of the Century. “Virtual pencil all set, ma’am.”

  “What’s the first thing I need to decide?”

  “Venue.”

  “Ceremony at the Congregational church, reception at Three Seasons. Done!” She used her left hand to draw an imaginary check mark in the air.

  I did not move on to the next item. “You talked to the church secretary and got your name set in stone for the correct date and time?”

  Kristen’s eyebrows went up. “You don’t trust me?”

  “With my life, absolutely. With following up on this kind of detail, absolutely not.”

  She huffed, but not for very long. We’d been friends a long time and we knew each other’s weaknesses and strong suits inside and out. “Yes, I talked to Lois and the date is set. And the restaurant will be dark the entire day. Lots of time to decorate.”

  As we ticked through the big items, I added a few notes about things I needed to do, a big one being addressing the invitations, which we’d planned on doing that evening. “I’ll lick every one,” she said. “Promise.”

  “Then the last big item is the food.” I put my phone down. “Are we going to have this conversation again? Because I still think it’s nuts for you to cook your own wedding dinner.”

  Kristen started to get the look I knew very well—her stubborn look. “I’m a chef. How can I possibly let someone else cook for my wedding?”

  “There are other cooks in the land. Even other cooks in northwest lower Michigan.”

  “Not like me.”

  “True enough. But is it worth your time?” I winced inwardly, because I’d said the exact wrong thing. “Let me rephrase that—”

  “Worth my time?” Kristen flushed. “This is the most important meal of my life! It’s my wedding, for crying out loud! I know you don’t understand the importance of fine food, but I do. This isn’t a meal I’m handing over to some schmuck who doesn’t know the difference between a whisk and a waffle iron.”

  “Fine,” I said, trying not to snap at her because she was undoubtedly in pain. “Then at least get some help. You can’t possibly cook for two hundred people all by yourself.”

  “Of course not.” Kristen rolled her eyes. “That would be nuts. Harvey and the rest of the regular staff are donating their time as wedding presents, and I’m talking to a friend in Detroit about coming up to help out. She used to be in advertising, but chucked it all to buy a food truck. I was serving her a drink in Key West when we got to talking, and it turns out she and her husband drive all over the country, following the weather they like best. I saw their setup, and they’ve developed this really interesting method of—”

  Hard-heartedly, I cut her off. “They’ll come all the way up here?”

  “She got their permit from city council last week.”

  “That sounds good,” I said vaguely, because my mind was wandering backward. Hadn’t the loan Sunny Scoles applied for—which had been turned down by Rowan—been for a food truck?

  “How much do those cost?” I asked. “Food trucks, I mean.”

  Kristen laughed. “If you’re thinking about ditching the bookmobile for a food truck business, I’d advise against it. Because if you run a food truck, you have to cook. Every day.”

  I scrunched my face. “No, this is about Rowan’s murder.” I didn’t want to blab Sunny’s name around, so I said, “One of the latest loans Rowan turned down was for a food truck. So I was just wondering, how much do they cost?”

  “Depends.” Kristen shrugged. “How big? What kind of food will be served? How cool do you want it to be? I know one guy who found a used truck, hunted down used equipment, and fitted it out himself. Cost under twenty thousand. But I’ve also heard about high-end rigs costing more than two hundred grand. I know, right? But I’d say the average for a used vehicle and a little retrofitting is in the sixty to eighty thousand range.”

  Hmm. I texted Ash, asking if he knew the amount of the loan Sunny had requested. Almost immediately, he texted back: 300 grand. Why?

  Kristen’s here, I wrote back. She said they usually cost about $70,000.

  Well, Ash wrote back, that’s probably why Rowan denied the loan.

  As I turned off the phone, I wondered why on earth Sunny would have inflated her loan request by so much. When I’d met her, she’d seemed capable and sensible. Why would she have done something so dumb?

  * * *

  • • •

  I stayed up late into the night to finish addressing the wedding invitations. Kristen apologized so many times that I was forced to threaten her with replacing all the good wine she was ordering for the wedding with cheap stuff from the grocery store.

  “You wouldn’t,” she said.

  “Do you want to risk it?” I asked, eyebrows raised.

  She did not, so she subsided and accepted her role of envelope licker. I’d pointed out that she could use the sponge that I’d dampened, but she said licking so many envelopes was penance for going out to ski when she should have been working on wedding stuff.

  What we both knew, but were never going to say out loud, was that essentially all of the planning and preparations
could have been done remotely. But it was more fun this way, and since we could spend a few days planning the wedding Kristen had never dreamed of having, we’d done so.

  The next day, though, I was dead tired. I yawned all the way through showering, dressing, and breakfast, and even the blasts of cold air in my face walking out of the house and before boarding the bookmobile didn’t do much to wake me up.

  “Coffee,” I murmured to Julia as we headed out of Chilson. “Where’s the closest place to get coffee?” The single cup I’d poured down my throat at breakfast wasn’t doing the job I’d asked it to do.

  Wordlessly, Julia pointed at an upcoming gas station, which was even on the right side of the road. I drove into the parking lot, parked, and stood. “Anyone want anything? No, Eddie, you don’t get coffee.” It didn’t do to think about the damage a caffeinated Eddie could do to the world.

  I brought back a cup of coffee roughly the size of my head, a cup of tea for Julia, and a wadded-up piece of paper for Eddie. Fifteen minutes later, at our first stop, I was feeling almost awake. Eddie, however, had been batting around the paper nonstop and was sound asleep when Julia opened the door of his carrier.

  “Isn’t he sweet,” she cooed. “Look at him, resting his head on his little white paws.”

  “You wouldn’t think he was so sweet if he’d woken you up at three in the morning trying to pull your hair out of your head.”

  She laughed. “Isn’t it adorable that he tries to fix your hair?”

  “Adorable” hadn’t been the word I’d used, but since we had people coming aboard, I declined to share what I had actually said.

  “Good morning,” I said, smiling at the young woman who’d just climbed the stairs. With her were two small children, one girl walking mostly steadily, one boy being carried. All three had bright blond hair and round, open faces.