Wrong Side of the Paw

by Laurie Cass

  “Something to ask Carmen,” I said, but Eddie was still focused on my pencil and not paying any attention to me. “What do you think?” I asked him. “Does the fact that Dale was out in the middle of the night have anything to do with—hey!”

  Eddie grabbed the pencil with his pointy teeth, gripped tight, and tugged it out of my hand.

  “What exactly are you going to do with that?” I asked, stretching forward to get it back. “It’s not like you can write with it. You don’t have thumbs, remember?”

  He sent a glare that should have instantly evaporated me, jumped to the floor, and ran off with my pencil.

  I heard him thump down the stairs to the bedroom and leap up onto the bed. Shaking my head, I got a pen out of my backpack and kept on working.

  • • •

  On Monday, I kept trying to talk to Jennifer about setting up a library lecture series for senior citizens, but every time I went up to her office for a friendly face-to-face chat, she was either on the phone or cozied up with a library board member.

  I spent the afternoon trying not to think about that and wasn’t very successful. I didn’t like that she was talking to the board members individually, didn’t like it at all. It looked like she was manipulating the board, giving them her side of whatever issue she was talking about and preempting what should have been an open discussion during a full board meeting. Stephen, as annoying as he’d been in so very many ways, had never done that.

  Halfway down the stairs, I stopped. Was it possible that I was actually missing my former boss?

  I stood there, hand on railing and one foot in midair, considering the question, but it didn’t take long to come to a conclusion. No. I did not miss Stephen. I missed one particular aspect of his management style, that was all.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, I continued down the stairs.

  The next day was a bookmobile day, and on the way to the first stop, I told Julia what Jennifer was doing.

  “Interesting.” Julia, who, as a successful actress, had endured more than her share of backstabbing, infighting, and alliances that shifted underfoot, made the humming noise that meant her quick mind was hard at work. “What did your coworkers say?” she asked.

  “Didn’t tell them.”

  Julia glanced over at me across the wide console. “Why?”

  I shrugged. “They don’t like her and I didn’t want to give them any more reasons to not get along. Besides, it might be nothing.”

  “But you think it is something, don’t you?”

  “It kind of has to be. Otherwise, why would she be working so hard to talk to each of the board members separately?”

  “I see what you mean.” Julia leaned back and propped her feet on top of the cat carrier. Eddie, who was curled up in his pink blanket, took no notice. “Do you have a theory?” she asked. “No, let me rephrase that. Your name is Minnie Hamilton and of course you have a theory. On a scale of don’t-be-ridiculous to stake-your-life, how likely is it?”

  I considered the question. “Somewhere in the sure-enough-to-make-my-stomach-hurt realm.”

  “Do you want to tell your aunt Julia about it?”

  Her overly warm concern made me laugh out loud. “I thought you were supposed to be a good actress.”

  “Only when I’m getting paid.”

  “Your husband must find that comforting.”

  “He does indeed,” she said.

  There was a short pause, then I said, “It’s my guess that Jennifer is trying to persuade the board to buy that new library systems software.”

  Julia frowned. “Isn’t the program we’re using just a couple of years old?”

  “Four and a half. It was installed just before the move to the new building.”

  “How time flies,” she murmured. “But those systems are expensive, aren’t they? Why would they change over to something new?”

  An excellent question. “Jennifer thinks a different system would be more efficient.”

  “Let me guess,” Julia said. “This other program is what she used at the library where she worked before she came here.”

  “Bingo!” The road, which had been narrow and tree-lined, widened to include a turn lane that led to a county park. For a few miles we’d been following a vehicle with a bright yellow kayak on top and now its right blinker and brake lights went on. Since the bookmobile was too wide to go around comfortably, I braked, too.

  “I am a genius,” she said modestly. “You, however, are stuck. As someone with more knowledge of library software than most library directors and, I daresay, every library board member, you know that what Jennifer wants to do is nuts. As her assistant, however, you’re obligated to follow her lead, no matter how ridiculous it may be.”

  “That sums it up nicely.” The vehicle in front of us, a midsized SUV, turned and I blinked as I recognized it.

  “More proof that I am indeed a genius.” She tapped her head. “What are you going to do?”

  I had no idea what I was going to do about Jennifer’s machinations, but I did know what I was going to do next. “Hang on,” I said, “we’re going to make a short stop.”

  Ignoring Julia’s surprised look, I followed the SUV into the park’s gravel parking area. I circled around, braked to a halt a few yards from the vehicle, told Julia I’d be back in a flash, and hurried out to meet Brad Lacombe.

  “Hey, Minnie.” He smiled. “I know I should read more, but you really don’t have to chase me down.”

  “Whatever it takes,” I said, laughing. “But as much as I’d like everyone to read more, including me, when I saw you in front of us, I thought I’d stop and ask a quick question about your dad.”

  Brad stroked his beard. “Sure. What’s up?”

  “It’s the time he died. The estimate was two a.m., right?” Brad nodded and I went on. “So I got to wondering. Was he a night person and this was something normal? If not, what was he doing out at two in the morning?”

  “That’s a good question,” he said slowly. “If he was trying to finish a job, it wasn’t unheard of for Dad to stay out half the night, or all night even. But I don’t know if he was on deadline, or not. Have you asked my mom?”

  “Not yet.” I made a mental note to talk to both Carmen and Ash about it. Maybe Detective Inwood had already been over this, but maybe not. He was a busy man and it was hard to remember everything. Maybe it took a village to catch a killer. “Thanks, Brad. Sorry for delaying your kayaking.”

  He shrugged. “Right now I have all the time in the world.”

  Something about his expression caught at me. I’d been about to turn away, but I paused and studied him. “Is something wrong?”

  “Just work,” he muttered.

  But Leese had told me that her stepbrother was a favored employee at the brewery. And that he loved his job so much he was in danger of losing all perspective about the relative importance of beer to the general population.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  Again, he shrugged, but this time I was watching his face closely and saw emotion etching lines into his face. Worry? Anxiety? Fear? I would have put it down to his father’s murder except he hadn’t looked like this the night at Leese’s house. He also didn’t seem inclined to talk, and since I barely knew him, I decided I’d let it go after one more attempt. “You sure you’re okay?”

  “No,” he said wryly, and somehow he sounded a lot like his older sister. “Actually I’m not. I’ve been suspended without pay.”

  “What? Brad, I’m so sorry. What happened?”

  “I have no idea.” He stared off into the distance. “It’s my blame to take and I understand why they had to do this, but I lay awake half the night trying to figure it out and I still have no idea what went on with that batch.”

  A crawly feeling was starting to creep over my skin. “Something went wrong
with one of your beers?”

  He nodded slowly. “The first batch of a new recipe I was trying. It tested fine when it was brewing, it tested fine when it was in storage, and I swear to God it tested fine when I put it into kegs for shipping. Then two nights ago, at that new tap room in Petoskey, we debuted it.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “It was contaminated. Fifty people got sick, nine went to the hospital, and one of them might . . .” He swallowed. “One might die.”

  The thought was horrible, and my heart went out to all who were sick, and to Brad. But a tiny idea trickled into my brain: Could this somehow be related to Dale Lacombe’s murder? Could Brad have been the intended victim?

  Chapter 12

  Brad’s sad news about the people sickened by a beer he’d made stayed with me through the day and into the evening, when I called Leese. She’d talked to her stepbrother earlier that day and had tried to get him to go out for dinner with her, but he’d turned her down, saying that he wouldn’t be good company.

  “I told him not to be an idiot,” she said, “because he’d never been good company in his life and I certainly didn’t expect him to start doing so anytime soon.” She sighed. “He didn’t laugh even a little. I sent Mia over. Maybe she can help.”

  By the end of the workday we’d both heard that of the nine people who’d gone to the emergency room, eight had been treated and released. The one remaining victim, the one Brad had been so worried about, had been diagnosed with appendicitis, not food poisoning, and was resting comfortably after an emergency operation.

  But even if no one had been deathly ill, it was still a serious situation, and I didn’t want to think what Brad was enduring, knowing something he’d brewed had caused people harm.

  That night I dreamed dreams of falling into vats of beer—a beverage of which I wasn’t overly fond—and being reminded by a swimming police officer not to forget to register before I moved. “It was just weird,” I told Holly and Josh, as I poured myself a third cup of coffee the next morning.

  “Sounds more stupid than weird.” Josh shook four sugar packets, dumped them into his mug, and looked at Holly, who was rummaging through the utensil drawer. “Please don’t tell me you think her dream means something.”

  “Of course it means something,” she said. “Hah!” She brandished what we all referred to as the Good Knife, and started using it to cut the pan of brownies she’d brought into squares.

  “Yeah?” Josh pulled out a chair, making its feet screech against the hard floor, and sat. “What?”

  “It means she was having stupid dreams about beer.” Holly levered brownies onto the three paper towels she’d already set out. “Although that’s redundant, since all dreams about beer are stupid because beer is stupid.”

  Josh took a brownie. “You’re wrong, but as long as you keep bringing us food, I’m not going to argue with you.”

  “Silence of the Josh,” I said, accepting my Holly-made confection. “Who knew it was even possible?”

  “Anything’s possible.” Holly smiled broadly. “Even your husband coming home for a month.”

  “Hey, that’s great!” Her husband, Brian, had a fantastic job working for a mining company fifteen hundred miles away. It was their hope that Brian would eventually find employment in Michigan, but for now they made due with occasional trips, video visits, and frequent packages sent to their two small children.

  Though I’d long feared that Holly might get tired of the long-distance relationship and pack up and move West, she’d recently confessed to me that the idea of moving Out There, as she called it, was something she’d considered and rejected. “My family is here,” she’d said. “His family is here. I don’t want to take the kids away from those relationships.”

  Around a mouthful of brownie, Josh said, “If he’s going to be here over hunting season, tell him to give me a call.”

  As the two of them talked about Brian’s vacation, I started thinking ahead in the calendar. Soon I’d be moving up to the boardinghouse. Then there’d be Thanksgiving, Christmas, and skiing season. There would be an excellent new crop of books to read and—

  “I forgot,” I said out loud.

  “Forgot what?” Josh asked. “No, let me guess. About twenty years ago, you forgot to keep growing.”

  “No,” Holly said, “she forgot to get married. One of these days she’s going to remember and we’ll get invitations in the mail. I’m already planning what to wear.”

  “Wrong and wrong again.” I got up. “I need to talk to Jennifer.”

  I heard the groans, but didn’t see any facial expressions since I’d already started to walk out of the room. Temporarily working on the theory that what I didn’t see I didn’t have to deal with, I headed up to Jennifer’s office and knocked on the doorjamb.

  “Good morning,” I said. “Do you have a minute?”

  My boss, who had rotated her chair to face the window, turned around. “I have an appointment in a few minutes, but until then I’m available.”

  An appointment with another library board member, no doubt. “Great,” I said, perching myself on the front edge of one of her abstract guest chairs. “I have an idea to run past you.”

  Jennifer’s perfectly plucked eyebrows went up. “Oh? Please don’t tell me you need another bookmobile.”

  “Need?” I asked, smiling to hide the sudden burst of annoyance exploding inside my head. “Sure, we could use another bookmobile. Just think of all the people we could reach that we’re missing now.” In truth, buying another bookmobile had never occurred to me. I was having a hard enough time operating one.

  Jennifer shook her head. “Not possible,” she said. “I can’t believe you’re even bringing it up. You should know that the library’s budget can’t possibly absorb the cost of another bookmobile.”

  I hadn’t brought it up; she had. But instead of wasting my time and energy by pointing that out, I said, “My idea is to set up a lecture series that focuses on the needs of senior citizens. Finances, questions of law, health, nutrition. This morning I talked to the local senior center and they’re not doing anything similar. They thought it was a great idea.”

  “More outreach,” Jennifer murmured. “How does this align with the library’s mission?”

  This was a question I’d been prepared to hear and I quoted the mission statement’s second sentence. “‘The library serves as a learning center for all residents of the community,’” I said.

  “A little vague.” Jennifer turned back toward the window.

  Undaunted, I said, “This applies to the first part of the statement, too. This would be a service that helps residents obtain information that meets their needs.”

  “One small segment of the population.” Jennifer’s tone was vague and I could tell she’d already lost interest. “I don’t see this as a good use of the library’s resources.”

  “It won’t cost anything.” I persisted, since I was determined to make a good case. “All it will take is a little bit of my time to arrange for speakers and the use of the conference room, which is empty most of the time anyway.”

  “Your time is valuable.” Jennifer stood and went to the window. “You’re already stretched thin and I don’t want you taking on any new projects.”

  She’d said no, but had left a way open. “Would you be opposed to the plan if someone else was in charge of lining up speakers? I’d approve each speaker, but someone else would make all the arrangements.” I leaned forward, waiting for her answer.

  “Where are all the people?” Jennifer asked, nodding toward Chilson’s downtown streets.

  I blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “The people.” She reached through the venetian blind and tapped the windowpane. “There aren’t any. When I arrived here, there were a lot more cars on the streets. The restaurants were full, the stores were full, there were concerts in the park, and some sort
of event every weekend.”

  “This is a tourist town,” I said, trying not to overstate the obvious.

  “Yes, but that doesn’t explain the emptiness.”

  Of course it did. What on earth was she talking about? “There won’t be big crowds again until June.”

  Jennifer, never one for unnecessary movement, froze solid. “June?” she asked.

  “Well, sure.” When she didn’t say anything, I expanded. “A few of the seasonal folks will hang on until Thanksgiving, then even they will head south for the winter. Some people come back for Christmas, Martin Luther King Jr. Day, and Presidents’ weekend.”

  I smiled, feeling slightly evil and enjoying myself immensely. Bad Minnie. “March and April are the really quiet months. You could roll a bowling ball down the middle of Main Street at high noon and not hit anything except curb.” It was an exaggeration, but not by much.

  “But . . .” Jennifer wrapped her arms around her middle. “But there’s skiing around here. Won’t the skiers be coming soon? I was told Chilson was the Michigan version of Vail.”

  Not by anyone who’d ever been to both Chilson and Vail. “The ski resorts in this area are nice enough,” I said, “but the best skiing in Michigan isn’t close to the quality of skiing out West. We have hills. They have mountains.”

  “I’m not a skier,” she murmured.

  “Well, maybe you’ll turn into one,” I said cheerfully. “Finding something you like to do in the snow is the best way to deal with winter.” And since she hadn’t said I couldn’t hand over my new senior talk idea to someone else, I made my exit before she realized she hadn’t said no.

  • • •

  During lunch, I spent a few minutes looking up information about Gail and Ray Boggs, the other party involved in lawsuits that Dale Lacombe had recently won. The county website’s property information database told me the Boggses had purchased a piece of property five years ago. I clicked on a “Find location on map” link. The aerial photography showed a house sited near a creek and neighbors close enough to be good friends, but far enough to feel private.