“Fox was last seen on Saturday afternoon in Cedar Bay. If you saw Mr. Fox on Saturday, or later, or have any information that you believe might help the investigation, please contact the Cedar County Sheriff’s Department at ….”
“That was easy. Usual distribution list?”
“With the tip line and e-mail address. Attach the photo. And put in a sentence that we will be holding a press conference tomorrow at 9 a.m..”
As Sue continued to work on the e-mail, Ray added more information to the whiteboard. After a few minutes, Sue said, “Proof it.”
18
When Ray entered the bookstore, Phillip’s head was down. He only looked up after Ray had pushed the door closed.
“Good timing on your part. A signed copy of Harrison’s new book of poetry arrived in this morning’s post. I thought that I should offer it to you before putting it on the shelf.” Phillip slid the thin volume over the counter to Ray.
Ray admired the cover art, and then opened it to the title page to see the signature. “I will treasure this,” he said.
“I heard about Vinnie on the news,” said Phillip, standing up and resting his elbows on the counter. “Do you know what happened yet? Did he just wander off and die? Pensioners have been known to do that.”
“I’m sorry, Phillip, I don’t have any answers yet. We’re still investigating and waiting for autopsy results.”
Phillip wagged his finer. “You’re being terribly mysterious.”
“Not at all,” said Ray. “I’d just rather not say anything until I have all the facts. Which brings me to the reason for my visit—apart from always liking to come in here, of course.”
“What do you need?”
“Fox’s book. You told me that some copies were stolen. Would you go through the numbers again for me? I’m trying to get a sense of how many are in circulation.” Ray watched the reflection on Phillip’s glasses as he keyed in the title and looked at the screen.
“Right. I had ten copies from Vinnie: six went through the till, two went missing, and I gave you one of the last two.”
“Do you have any idea who purchased the six copies?”
Phillip worked at the keyboard again. “Fortunately not,” he said at last. “They were all cash sales. Most unusual. More than 70 percent of our sales are on cards. Furthermore, none of the purchasers is in our Members Club. Statistically improbable.”
“And the ‘fortunately not’ part?” Ray asked.
“Cash purchases provide no data other than title. I am clueless as to who purchased the books. Which is fortunate because I have nothing to tell you about him, or her, and am, therefore, able to avoid any kind of right to privacy mishap. You wouldn’t want me telling your opposition during the next election that you’re a Robinson Jeffers fan, would you? I can just see one of those adverts on the telly, the shrill-voiced bubblehead going on and on about how Ray Elkins is palling around with pacifist poets. Of course, there will be that little line at the end when the narrator says, ‘Call Ray Elkins and tell him not to read pacifist poets.’ And then your phone number would be flashed on the screen.” Phillip was laughing so hard he could barely get his final sentence out.
Ray sighed. “So tell me this—and I know you can’t give me names, I wasn’t asking for any—what kind of people bought the book?”
“I would have thought you’d be more interested in what kind of people nicked the book,” Phillip responded, still giggling slightly. “Too bad I can’t tell you. All the purchases happened during the holiday rush. You know, I’m slow all fall and then we go mad from Thanksgiving to Christmas, especially the last two weeks. And to make things more complicated, I was often gone at the busiest time. My wife’s father was in the hospital in Detroit. Some temps, college kids, were running the asylum. When I was here I was focusing on inventory and orders. We don’t have much storage space; everything has to be just in time. It’s a bit of a dance.”
“So nothing really unusual?” probed Ray.
“Well, book buyers are sort of unusual, more all the time, don’t you think?” Phillip raised an eyebrow and looked thoughtful. “There was one thing more than a bit unusual. Nothing to do with Vinnie or his book, though, just odd. A couple of men were in here on the day before Christmas: two men, black suits and hats and beards.
“Hasids, or Amish?” asked Ray.
“The second, the ones with the buggies.”
“Were they looking at Fox’s book?”
“No, I don’t know what they were looking at; I don’t think it was his book. They did buy something, quite curious at the time, but I can’t remember what it was….” Phillip snapped his fingers. “You know, it might have been a map or a calendar. And after they left I went out to see if there was a buggy on the street,” he confided. “I was wondering if some of them were moving to the area. Might be good for the tourist trade. They do crafts and furniture.”
“And?”
“Nothing. No buggy, they just disappeared into the crowd.”
Ray set the volume of poetry on the counter and placed a credit card on top. Phillip picked up the card and ran it through the reader. Handing Ray a slip to be signed, he said, “See, with this sale your name gets recoded twice: once for the charge, and once as a member of our discount club. But I’ll never disclose this purchase to anyone, especially potential opponents.” He winked. “By the way, whatever happened to that guy that ran against you last time? What was his name?”
“Hammer.”
He chuckled. “Yes, Hammer.”
“Last I heard he’d moved to the Texas, border country somewhere. Bought a gun shop.”
“Ahhh.” Phillip picked up the store receipt and shut it in the register. “I must say your elections are, how should I put it, well I hate to see one coming. You just can’t watch the telly without one or more bits of outrageous propaganda at every break.”
“It does get noisy,” said Ray. “In your home country, politics are rough and tumble, too. And nothing more outrageous than British press coverage.”
“You’re right on about the tabloids, little truth there. At least we don’t have the adverts, there just isn’t that kind of money. And our politicians, well, our scandals are… But there is one important difference.”
“What’s that?” asked Ray, enjoying the banter.
“When our politicians are hearing voices and talking to God, they end up in hospital. They don’t get to stand for Parliament, let alone become Prime Minister. We don’t allow people, even politicians, to embarrass themselves completely.”
“How about Thatcher?”
“She wasn’t talking to God. She was God.”
“This has been fun,” said Ray, “but I’ve got to scoot. I do need a favor, however.”
“Anything for a loyal customer.”
“If you ever notice that I’m talking to myself or seem to be hearing voices, get me out of public office and into treatment.”
“No problem, old friend. I’ll just put out the word about the pacifist poets. I’ll even organize the recall.”
Ray found Penny Storrer, the Cedar Bay District Library head librarian, in her crowded office in the basement of the 60s modern brick building. Her door was open, and she was talking on the phone. Noticing Ray, she pointed to the empty chair in front of her desk. Then she completed her conversation. After returning the phone to its cradle, she crossed her hands on her chest and said, “Horrible news this morning, Ray. Vinnie has been a part of our community here at the library for years. The TV report was rather vague, not that there’s ever much content. I don’t understand what happened.” She looked at him inquiringly.
“I can’t tell you much, Penny. I’ll know a lot more in the next few days.” He smiled. “There is something you could help me with, though.”
“What’s that?”
“Two things, actually. First, what can you tell me about Fox’s book? And secondly, Phillip at Ye Olde says you told him you’ve had two copies stolen….”
&nb
sp; “That’s right,” Storrer sniffed. “We checked them in, put them in circulation, and they disappeared.”
“When did you notice they were missing?”
“Vinnie called my attention to it—he liked showing people his books on the shelves. He was constantly dragging people over to his title. First he noticed one was gone, then the other. He asked me if I wanted additional books because both copies were checked out. He was sitting right where you are sitting, and I checked his title on the computer as we were talking. I remember that one copy had circulated; then it was returned in a few days. The other had never circulated. Logically, that meant both copies should have been on the shelves. Anyway, I told him I’d be happy to have two more, and after he left, I went to see if I could find the originals. They weren’t anywhere: not on a return cart, not left on a desk, not shelved incorrectly. Just gone.” She turned to a book-covered table by her desk and rummaged through several piles of books, finally extracting two fresh copies of Fox’s book. “Here are the new copies he brought me, sometime last week it was. They’re still waiting to be cataloged.”
Ray looked up from his notebook. “Is it normal to have books stolen from the library?”
Storrer shrugged and brushed back her shoulder length salt and pepper hair with the writing end of a pencil. “Well, yes and no,” she said. “It doesn’t happen much. Here anyway. Our loss rate is way below the national average. And, as you know, we don’t have any of the electronic detection gear at the door. We’ve never really needed it.” She looked to the ceiling, thinking. “There’ve been a few cases where particular books have disappeared, like new Harry Potter books, the Twilight series too. Our way of dealing with the problem is to put those titles behind the circulation desk. Patrons must ask for the book in person. Anyway, it’s not a common event. Not here.”
“Any idea who might have walked away with Fox’s book?”
Storrer shook her head. “I don’t know. I’ve never thought about things that way.”
“But you were familiar with the contents of the book,” said Ray.
“Yes, very.” She smiled. “In fact, I helped Vincent with his research, the Capone part—Cicero and Chicago. I had to get most of the books he used via interlibrary loan, as there’s not much demand for Capone material up here. I also pulled things off the Internet for him. Have you read the book?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Then you know,” she said, her smile growing weak. “The first part of the book might be termed historical fiction with emphasis on the fiction, and the rest is just over the top, Vincent having fun. I liked to kid him about his story, but he’d say, ‘It’s all true!‘ The couple of times I pushed harder, he’d amend that to, ‘Well, it’s mostly true.’ And he would sit there and sort of laugh with a Cheshire cat grin, like we both knew he was just blowing smoke.”
“So you can’t remember anyone lurking about, reading Fox’s book?”
“No.”
“The new patrons at the library, anyone looking out of place?” asked Ray.
“No one comes to mind. We have our regulars; some people come in daily to read the papers and periodicals. Others are here once a week, or every other week, to get a new supply of books. And then there are the walk-ins: summer people, weekenders, or people just passing through town who come in and use a computer or our Wi-Fi to check their e-mail. We try to be helpful without being intrusive.”
“Any Amish?”
“Amish?” Penny responded. “Not here. Not in my career. I don’t know if they use public libraries. Interesting thought. I’ll have to research that.” She paused briefly, “I think the nearest Amish community is south of Cadillac.”
“Fox was reportedly dropped off near here last Saturday afternoon. We haven’t found anyone who saw him after that time. Did you see him? Did he come into the library Saturday?”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t work Saturday. I went into Traverse. Joyce Points, one of my assistants, was running the desk.”
“Is she here now?”
“No. She’s part-time; let me check her schedule.” She typed for a few seconds and then looked back at Ray. “She’s on again tomorrow. Joyce is a college student. Do you want me to call her right now?”
“That’s okay. Could you just send her a note? Ask her if she would respond directly to me.” Ray placed a business card on the desk, pointing out his e-mail. He waited silently as Storrer keyed a note.
“So these books,” said Storrer, pointing to Al Capone’s Michigan. “What should I do about them?”
“Just like you said: put them behind the circulation desk and make them available.”
19
Lost in thought, Ray climbed the stairs leading from the basement of the library and pushed his way through the aluminum doors into the dull gray afternoon. Outside, he took a few minutes to look around the area adjacent to the library—the parking lot and the sidewalks leading up to the village and the harbor. The village sidewalk was a quick to and fro, but at the harbor he walked slowly past the slips lined up at right angles along their long slender ribbon of land. The marina had stood empty since late October, when the last boat had been moved to winter storage. Today only a few clumps of snow remained in areas protected from the sun and rain.
A gentle rain was falling from low hanging clouds. The large homes on the west arm of the bay, mostly seasonal dwellings, were shrouded in a mist that clung to the shoreline. Standing at the end of the pier, next to a tall navigation light, Ray gazed out at the big lake. Beyond the harbor there was the bay, and, beyond that, open water stretched north to the Straits of Mackinac. Ray stood for a long moment, concentrating on the sound of the wind and the rhythmic splash of the gentle surf against the side of the pier. He closed his eyes. The air, still with a bit of winter’s frigid bite, smelled fresh and clean. He opened his eyes slowly retracing his steps back toward to the library.
Against the gloom of the day, Ray found the interior of the Last Chance with its familiar smells of burgers and beer welcoming. Jack Grochowski, the longtime owner, leaned over the bar and gave Ray a warm greeting.
“The usual,” said Ray, settling onto a stool.
“‘’Fraid we’re not doing the usual anymore,” answered Jack. “I can give you a Columbian supremo, I have a very nice French roast, a Viennese, and my current favorite’s a dark roast with hints of mocha and cinnamon.”
“What happened to the Eight O’clock from Sam’s Club, made with that special water you were always bragging about?”
“Progress,” answered Jack, rubbing a wrinkled hand across his grizzled beard. “People don’t want that old style anymore. I’m just keeping up with the times. Let me recommend the French roast. I think that’s close to what I used to serve you.”
“Sure,” Ray said. He watched as Jack inserted the coffee pod, his hands unsteady, into the shiny new machine that occupied the same shelf space where generations of Mr. Coffees had lived and died.
“Tell me what you think,” said Jack, setting a new, white mug with the steaming brew in front of Ray.
“It’s good, Jack,” said Ray, after several careful sips. “It’ll take some getting used to, but it’s good. Never thought you’d be one to buckle under pressure, though.”
“Well, you know, it’s the girls that work here,” Jack said, perching himself on a stool he kept behind the bar. “They keep saying it’ll be less fuss, that we wouldn’t be throwing so much coffee away. Yeah, I’m not sure of the economics. I think it’s mostly that the girls are into all these yuppie flavors.” He paused while he sipped from his own mug. “Yeah, well, things are changing. Point in case. I’ve been stocking these ‘craft beers,’ whatever that means. They sell like crazy, especially to the summer people. In fact, it’s worth having Bell’s or Shorts on tap during the season.” He took another thoughtful sip of coffee. “But I know you didn’t come in to talk about coffee or beer. I saw the news on TV. And I was sorry to see it. Good old Vinnie. I’ll miss that old boy.” He leaned c
lose to the bar. “What happened Ray?”
“We’re still trying to figure that out. We’ll know more in a few days.”
Jack slouched. “Which usually means you know more than you’re telling, but that’s all you’re letting out.”
This time Ray leaned into the bar. “So I heard from several people that Fox was a frequent customer.”
“He was,” Jack responded, perking up. “Came in three, four, five days a week. Have a shell or two. ‘Course when his daughter’d bring him in for a burger, he’d make a big thing of it, like he only came here with her, like it was such a treat. And there’s a perfect example of what I was talking about.”
“Example?”
“People wanting new things. Vinnie, for years, would only drink Bud or Bud Lite. We’ve always had some imports in bottles, but I don’t think he ever tried one. Now these craft beers, I’ve got one on tap for the first time last June. In fact, I gave him a glass just for fun, expecting he’d swear it wasn’t a Bud. Hah! He loved it. That’s all he’s had since. And that old tightwad was willing to pay twice as much. And instead of nursing one for hours, he’d drink two.
“This past Saturday, do you remember Vinnie coming in?”
“Ray, that’s almost a week ago. I’m struggling with what happened yesterday.”
“Well, give it a shot,” pressed Ray.
“I can’t say for sure. The days sorta blend.”
“Was he alone? Did he come with a group? Did he meet people here?”
“Well, there was a group of them over the years, seven or eight of them back in the day. Most are gone now. Last year or two, it’s mostly Vinnie, his buddy Tommy, and Mildred Hall.”
“Mildred Hall, really?”
“Yea. Now she wasn’t as regular as the other two, but she was often with them.”
Cruelest Month Page 10
