by Laurie Cass
The first few kids in the line had received their allotment of Eddie and the accompanying Eddie hair. As they came back around, I pointed out the picture books, and Donna showed them the music and the board games we’d started lending at the end of the summer. The whole thing was going smoother than if I’d planned it for a month.
“Look at that,” Andrew murmured, nodding at the way the kids were exclaiming over the books they were pulling off the shelves. “They’re excited about reading.”
“The Eddie Effect,” I said, smiling.
“Or is it the Bookmobile Effect?” Andrew gestured at the kids who were still waiting in line.
Only they weren’t just waiting; they were looking at the contents of the shelves, running their hands over the bindings, and pulling books out to take a look. I could already tell that would take forever to straighten up the bookmobile, but the time would be well worth it. An investment of sorts.
“The Bookmobile Effect,” he said again. “Bringing books and the love of reading wherever the road takes you.”
I beamed at him. “Would you mind writing that down in letter form and sending it to my boss? Because I’m still having to justify the expense.”
Andrew looked around. “Yeah, this can’t be cheap, can it? And after what happened the other Saturday . . .” He caught my expression. “Oh. Sorry. You probably didn’t need a reminder of that.”
Didn’t need and didn’t want. I put on a smile and changed the subject, but the gleam had gone out of the day.
* * *
That evening, my loving aunt met me at the door and handed me a piece of paper as soon as I released Eddie from the carrier.
“We need a few more things for Thanksgiving,” she said.
I scanned the lengthy list, then turned over the paper and read the other side. “What are fennel seeds?”
She gave me a look. “Do you really want to know?”
Of course I didn’t. I was perfectly happy to be the grocery store–goer, the table setter, and the cleaner-upper. The last thing I wanted was any part of the actual cooking. The one time I’d tried to partake in the annual ritual, back in my graduate school days, when I couldn’t afford the gas to drive home, had been a meal of overcooked Cornish game hens and undercooked potatoes.
I pointed at the list. “All I want to know is where to find fennel seeds.”
“In with the spices,” she said. “Don’t be too long—I’m making fajitas for dinner and the chicken is almost done marinating.”
After rezipping my coat, I headed back out, thinking for the zillionth time how lucky I was to have Aunt Frances in my life. Someday I’d want to buy my own house, but until I could gather up a nice down payment, there wasn’t any likelihood of that happening.
Standing on the bottom step of the porch, the wood creaking a bit underneath my weight, I read the list one more time. It was long, but none of the items was bulky (except for paper towels) or heavy (except for a can of tomato soup), and, since I’d spent most of the day sitting, I eschewed taking the car and went on foot. Without a doubt, I’d regret the decision before I got halfway back, but I pushed that thought out of my head and started walking.
Just outside the grocery store, however, my fast walk slowed to a slow stroll and then to an amble. Denise Slade was getting out of a car not thirty feet away from me. If I used exquisite timing, I could keep my head down while studying the list and avoid eye contact altogether. After all, the last time I’d seen her, she’d said it was my fault that Roger was dead. Why would I want to open myself up to another round of that? Plus, there was the little matter of Roger’s sister’s lawsuit. I wasn’t sure whether Denise was on board with it, but this was one librarian who really didn’t want to find out.
It was tempting to avoid her. So tempting that I pulled the list out of my pocket and unfolded it. But then my mother’s voice boomed inside my head: “Minnie, don’t let me catch you taking the easy way out.”
Why her voiced boomed, I wasn’t sure, since my mother was a soft-spoken woman who only raised her voice if there was imminent danger of bloodshed. Well, that or if someone happened to mention a dislike of history.
But, once again, Mom was right. Denise was grieving, and grief could make you lash out at people. I should forgive her and do what I could to help.
Even if I don’t want to?
I asked the question of my mom via mental telepathy, which I was pretty sure didn’t work.
Especially then, came the answer.
I sighed and put the list back into my pocket. “Hey, Denise,” I said. “How are you?”
She jumped. “Oh. Hi, Minnie.”
A long moment of silence went by. Just after it got extremely uncomfortable, I asked, “I heard you were in a car accident. That must have been frightening. I’m so sorry.”
She nodded slowly. “Thank you.”
I looked at her. Denise normally talked at a rate a notch faster than the rest of the world, but right now she was speaking as if she were translating in her head. That, in addition to her unusual politeness, indicated that something was seriously wrong. Of course, it could have been her way of dealing with Roger’s death, but this wasn’t carrying the sense of grief.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” I asked. “You weren’t hurt in that crash, were you?”
“Fine,” she said vaguely. “I’m fine. It’s just . . .”
My baser self, the part of me that deeply wanted to escape into the store, warred with the part of me that remembered my mother’s admonitions to treat others as we would like to be treated. For years I’d thought she’d meant that people should be nicer to me, but I’d eventually caught on.
I took a step closer. “Just what?”
Denise looked at me, anguish on her face, and the words she’d been holding inside came rushing out.
“It’s that deputy. Wolf-something. He talked to me, said that someone might have been trying to kill me, that someone had done something to my car to make it crash, that you said Roger had my hat when he was killed, that it might have been me who someone wants dead, that Roger . . . that it was me . . . that I should have been the one, not him . . .”
Her sentence dissolved into a racking sob. I stepped close, put my arms around her, and let her hang on to me as she cried and cried and cried.
When her body stopped shaking, I gave her a hard hug and released her. I searched my pockets, came up with a tissue that probably hadn’t been used, and held it out.
She took it and blew her nose. “That deputy detective wanted to know if I had any enemies, if anyone was angry at me. Can you believe it?”
Um. “What did you tell him?”
She found a dry part of the tissue and blew again. “That anyone who has lived a full life has enemies. Take Shannon Hirsch. She’s hated me for thirty years, ever since I beat her out for the basketball team’s cheerleading squad. You wouldn’t believe the stunts she’s pulled on me since then.”
Denise tried to hand back the tissue, but I shook my head. “Anyone else?”
“I told that deputy I’d think about it.” She dabbed at her nose. “Don Weller is another one. My neighbor. For months he’s done nothing but try to make my life miserable, ever since that fence of his.”
It was a big step from high-school rivalries and neighbor irritations to murder. I knew Don through Rafe—Don taught at the school where Rafe was principal—and couldn’t imagine that cheerful man wanting to kill anyone. Then again, do we ever know what truly motivates another person?
Denise swallowed and took in a few breaths. “If I was the one supposed to die, if Roger died because of me . . .”
I waited, wishing I could help, knowing there wasn’t anything I could do.
“How am I going to tell the kids?” she asked in a whisper, but I had no answer for her. I gave her another hug, told her to call me if she needed a
nything, and went in to the bright lights of the grocery store.
Inside, I pulled out a small cart and looked back outside.
Denise was still standing on the sidewalk. Just standing and looking at nothing.
“All right, already,” I told my mother, and went out again. “Hey, Denise? Do you have a minute? I could use some help with this grocery list. Aunt Frances made it out for me, and I have no idea where half this stuff is.” I proffered the crumpled sheet of paper.
She wiped her eyes and took the list. “Fennel seeds? You don’t know where fennel seeds are?” She make a clucking noise. “Goodness, you do need help, don’t you? Come on. Did you get a cart? No, not that one, it has a wobbly wheel. This one will do.” She pushed a cart toward me. “Are you coming or not?”
I gave her a crooked smile. “You bet,” I said.
* * *
After I’d dried and put away the last fork from dinner, I hung the dish towel on its wooden rod and went to see what Aunt Frances was doing.
I found her sitting on the end of the couch, her long legs out in front of her, a blanket and a book on her lap. I flopped on the couch across from her and tipped my head to see what she was reading. The First 20 Minutes, by Gretchen Reynolds.
It was a book on exercise, a very odd choice of reading material for my aunt. As far as I knew, she’d never exercised in her life. She stayed active with housework and gardening and spent a lot of time on her feet, but I couldn’t make my brain visualize her in running shorts.
She turned a page. “I like to know what I’m missing,” she said. “And from what I’ve been reading, I’m not missing much.”
Personally, I enjoyed working up a sweat every now and then, but I’d once heard Aunt Frances say that perspiration meant you should stop working so hard. I was pretty sure she was joking, but I also wasn’t sure I wanted to find out and remove all doubt.
I kicked off my shoes and tucked my short legs up underneath me. “I’m surprised Eddie isn’t on your lap.”
“He was,” Aunt Frances said, “but I think my choice of reading material disturbed him. He abandoned me a few minutes ago.”
There was an odd thump, thump, thump noise. Frowning, I turned, trying to pinpoint its origin. “What’s that?”
Aunt Frances flipped another page. “It started soon after your cat left me, so your guess has to be better than mine.” She looked at me over the top of the book. “Do you have a guess?”
We sat there listening to the nonrhythmic thumping. “Not a clue,” I said. “Five bucks says it involves paper products.”
My friend Rafe and I regularly made five-dollar bets on everything from the price of a cup of coffee in Australia to the date the last bit of ice on Janay Lake melted. And I suddenly realized it had been a while since I’d seen Rafe. Since he was a principal, this often happened when school started, but it was almost Thanksgiving.
“No bet,” Aunt Frances said. “I think he’s in the bathroom.”
Where there were all sorts of paper products available for shredding purposes. And “shred” was indeed the word; Eddie didn’t just yank the toilet paper off the holder; he ripped great paper chunks off it all the way down to the core. If there was a newspaper or a magazine handy, he sank his claws into the middle and dragged them out to the edge. And he didn’t just claw at the top tissue that poked out of a box; he reached inside with his slinky paws and pulled out as many small pieces of tissue as he could.
Aunt Frances put her book down as I stood. “Why do you think he shreds that stuff?” she asked. “Is he trying to teach you a lesson?”
I snorted. “If he is, the only thing I’m learning is to be grateful that he hasn’t started ripping up books.”
But as I walked down the hall, getting ever closer to the thumping noise, I wondered. What, exactly, did Eddie get out of clawing and biting apart paper products? Was he sharpening his claws? Was he acting out some kitty aggression?
“Or,” I said, walking into the bathroom, “do you just like making a mess?” The large room was painted in periwinkle blue from the waist up and was white beadboard from the waist down. A Hoosier cabinet held towels and soaps and various Up North memorabilia that the summer boarders had accumulated over the years, but the room’s focal point was the biggest claw-foot bathtub I’d ever seen in my life.
Eddie’s head popped up over the edge of the tub.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Mrr,” he said, and dropped back down.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
I eyed the small stack of magazines on the corner of the Hoosier cabinet’s counter. All were intact. “What do you have in there?” I walked closer. “Because if you’ve taken some of those skipping stones from the jar over here, Aunt Frances is going to have your hide. Those things will chip the porcelain something fierce.”
As I neared, I realized that the sound was more like a roll . . . thump . . . roll . . . thump . . . roll. “Eddie,” I said, looking down, “if you’re not the weirdest cat on the planet, I don’t want to meet any who are weirder.”
My furry friend ignored me and continued to thump a rubber ball against the tub. He’d whack it with his paw, sending it rolling across the tub’s floor, watch it thump against the tub wall, then watch it roll back toward him.
The small red, white, and blue ball had been a giveaway to kids during Chilson’s annual Fourth of July parade, and, until recently, it had been part of the Hoosier cabinet’s memorabilia collection. How a cat could have moved it from the cabinet to the tub was another thing I probably didn’t want to know.
Eddie batted the ball one more time, then looked up at me.
“You know,” I said, “if you don’t pay attention, that ball’s going to—”
The ball thumped Eddie in the foot. He jumped high and fast, his tail fluffing up to three times its normal size.
I shook my head, returned to the living room, and reported to Aunt Frances.
“Hmm.” My aunt got a faraway look on her face. “That tub. For years I’ve thought about enclosing it with a beadboard surround. Lots of room for the bubble bath bottles and soaps. Wouldn’t that be nice?”
Eddie jumped up onto the couch, the ball in his mouth. “Mrr,” he said, dropping the ball onto my lap.
Aunt Frances looked at him. I looked at him.
“Does he want to play fetch?” she asked.
I picked up the ball and tossed it underhanded across the room. It bounced and eventually rolled to a stop in the doorway to the dining room.
Eddie plopped down, his back to me.
“I’m guessing no on the fetch thing,” I said.
“Mrr,” Eddie said.
“Glad I could help,” I told him.
“Mrr.”
“Anytime.”
“Mrr.”
“Don’t mention it,” I said.
“Mrr.”
“Not a problem.”
“Mrr.”
“That’s what—”
“Shhh!” Aunt Frances said. “I’m trying to read over here.”
“Sorry,” I said meekly.
“Mrr,” Eddie said quietly.
“Isn’t that what I said?” I asked.
“Mrr.”
“Well, sure, but—”
With a sigh, Aunt Frances got up. “When you two are done playing Abbott and Costello, let me know. I’ll be in the bathtub.”
I grinned at Eddie, and I could have sworn he grinned back.
Chapter 11
I was at my desk the next morning, busy with work schedule readjustments of the “I’ll work every Saturday in December if I can have the day after Christmas off” variety, when my phone rang.
“Minnie, you need to come upstairs,” Stephen said.
I looked at the ceiling. “Okay. When—”
“No
w,” he barked, and the phone went silent.
“Huh,” I said, replacing the receiver. The last Wednesday morning of the month had been the library’s board meeting time since there’d been a library. I got along with all the board members and willingly appeared before them when I requested things, from a new copy machine to the bookmobile, but never once had I been summoned.
I slugged back the last of my coffee as I glanced at yesterday’s postcard from Kristen. Key West: shorts, flip-flops, tank top. Chilson: insulated boots, down coat, wool hat, lined mittens. Duh. Somehow this reminded me to check for Eddie hair. I picked the most visible ones off my clothes and headed upstairs, trying not to guess why my presence was being requested, and not doing a very good job.
Guess number one: They’d found out about Eddie.
Number two: Mitchell Koyne had offended a board member so badly that life as Mitchell knew it was about to end.
Three: Something had gone horribly wrong with the library’s roof and we had to lay off half the staff to afford to fix it. Would you like to be first, Minnie?
Four: They’d found out about Eddie.
Five: Someone had hacked into the library’s bank accounts and stolen all our money.
Six: Someone had hacked into the library’s lending records and was tweeting about who had read Fifty Shades of Grey.
Seven: They’d found out about Eddie.
My face was set as I walked into the wood-paneled conference room. I didn’t know if it was the lack of natural light or the darkness of the walls or the furnishings, but I was rarely at my best in a space that was so pretentious that it edged into irony.
Stephen had selected a large dark table, black leather chairs with high backs, and, yes, black leather blotters that sat in front of each chair. At the far end sat the white-haired Otis Rahn, the board’s current president. Stephen was at his right hand and Sondra Luth, the board’s vice president, sat to Otis’s left.
