Лори Касс - Gone With The Whisker

My hand was on the doorknob. I stood there for a moment, swallowing down silent sobs. When I thought I could speak without my voice quavering, I said, “Honestly? Nothing.” Though this was technically true, it was also completely wrong. I sighed. “But really . . . everything. It’s all messed up, from top to bottom.”

To Rafe’s great credit, he didn’t make fun of me for my mixed messages.

“Come here,” he said, and pulled me close. “First off, we’ll do this hugging thing. And if that doesn’t help—though I feel sure a quality hug will knock the edge off—we’ll move to the next step.”

“What’s that?” I asked, my voice muffled against the front of his paint-spattered T-shirt, a shirt commemorating the 1998 Chilson High School regional champion football team.

“All in good time, my little pretty. All in good time.”

Rafe was competent at many things and highly skilled at even more, but he did horrible imitations, and his rendition of the Wicked Witch of the West was downright awful—nasal and screechy.

I giggled, which was no doubt his intention. “That was horrible,” I said, pulling away.

He pulled me back. “Not done yet,” he murmured at the top of my head.

It was a long and calm moment, standing there. I felt the beat of his heart, the warmth of his skin, and the stirring of my hair as his breath rustled my curls. “Thank you,” I whispered, holding him as tight as I could.

“All part of the service.” He leaned down to kiss me. “Do you want to talk?”

“You know what? I can think of something else I’d rather do,” I said, tipping my head back for a longer, deeper kiss.

* * *

“What’s the matter with you?” Julia asked.

I was in the middle of a huge yawn, and before I could finish it and reply, she added, “I’ve been counting, and that’s the three thousand and forty-second time you’ve yawned this morning and it’s only ten. Are you getting sick?”

I smiled. “Nope. I was just . . . out late, that’s all.”

Julia studied me over the top of her reading glasses. “Why, you little minx.”

“Minx?” I rolled my eyes. “Don’t tell me you’re on a P. G. Wodehouse kick again.”

“There are worse things,” she said. “But this weather isn’t one of them.” She opened the door, letting in the smell of sunshine and summer, and breathed deep. “Would we love summer so much without winter?”

“Mrr.” Eddie jumped from the console to the top of the front desk to a shelf of Young Adults, to the ground, and to the parallelogram of sunshine by the door. “Mrr,” he said, flopping down and managing to keep every one of his appendages—including his tail—in the sunlight.

Julia and I watched him arrange himself. “A cat of many talents,” she said. “But what is he like when he’s angry?”

“A lot like this, only noisier.” But Julia’s question reminded me of yesterday’s research. “Question for you. What do you remember about the bookmobile stops before the Fourth? Specifically, the one by the detour.”

“Rex and Nicole’s last visit,” Julia said, her voice sad and slow. “We already talked about this and didn’t come up with anything.”

“Let’s try and think about it differently. Yesterday, I looked up the checkouts from that day. Rex, Nicole, and Violet Mullaly all took out books. I remember they were all here, and that Nicole stayed the entire time, and didn’t seem to want to go when we told her we had to leave, but I took Eddie out for a kitty rest stop. When we were outside, did anything happen?”

Julia pushed the toe of her flip-flop against one of Eddie’s back feet. He ignored her. “That’s right, you were both gone. You missed the whole thing.”

“Missed what?”

“Violet being Violet.” Julia stood and, using her muscles and some acting magic, became someone else completely. Not quite Violet, but a very reasonable facsimile.

“How can they both be gone?” she queried in a high tone. “I specifically wanted to borrow those books!”

Julia relaxed, turning into herself again. “I’m sorry, Violet, but they’ve both been checked out. If you’d like, I can put your name on the wait list.”

Back in Violet-shape, she said, “I don’t want to wait! I want to read them this weekend! Who checked them out? I bet I can talk them into letting me have my books for a few days.” Julia-Violet glanced around. “You! You have my book!”

Julia shook her head and returned to herself. “It went downhill from there.”

“So who had the books?” I asked.

“Rex had the new Malcolm Gladwell book.” Julia grinned. “He ignored her completely, which drove her nuts. And I never looked to see who had the other one.”

“Do you remember what book it was?” I walked to the front computer.

“One of the Tana French titles.”

I typed the author’s name into the computer and the list popped up in front of me. Most were still on the shelf, but two were checked out. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

Julia shrugged. “We got busy and I forgot. Plus I know she’s not your favorite patron and I didn’t want to make her more of an unfavorite. Why fan the flames?”

Why indeed? But when I clicked to see who’d checked out the Tana French book, I got a chill. The name was Nicole Price.

* * *

Word had oozed out that Nicole’s death was murder, not a sad drowning accident, and I spent too much time the next morning with people who thought they were being funny when they asked if I was the one who’d killed her.

Well, it was one person, but Denise Slade could make you feel as if you’d given a presentation to a large and unforgiving audience.

“Really? Another one?” Denise shook her head and chuckled. “You’d think we were living in Cabot Cove.”

Though I wasn’t sure I’d been born when the old television show Murder, She Wrote had aired, the reference wasn’t lost on me. I managed to smile at Denise. “You could suggest a name change at the next city council meeting.”

She snorted. “That bunch of old fogies won’t change anything unless they’re forced to. But you.” She pointed at me, her stubby index finger ending six inches from my collarbone. “I’m starting to wonder about you. What better killer than the mild-mannered bookmobile librarian?”

I gave her what I hoped was a sly and wolfish grin. “Then you’d better be careful. You never know when I’ll snap.”

Denise threw her head back and laughed. “That will be the day. I hope I’m around to see it.” Still laughing, she moseyed off in the direction of the Friends of the Library book sale room.

I tried to squash my unprofessional impulse to make a face at her back, but I must not have been successful, because behind me I heard the quiet giggles of a woman in her early seventies. I turned around and faced Donna, who was at the front desk and had heard every word. “Why,” I asked, “does being called mild-mannered irritate me?”

She smiled. “You wouldn’t have been if I’d said it. Or Holly. Or Josh. Or anyone else other than Denise. It’s a reaction to the speaker of the words, not the words themselves.”

This made me feel better, so as a sort of reward, I asked for her opinion on an issue I really didn’t want to talk about. “You’re about the only one,” I said, “who hasn’t told me what you think should be done with Stan Larabee’s money.”

“There’s a reason for that.” Donna pointed at the ceiling. “My opinion won’t make a spit of difference when the board decides. So why bother talking about it?”

She was right, but that wasn’t keeping anyone else on the staff, including me, from dreaming. I wished the board had asked for staff opinions, but they hadn’t, so there wasn’t much point in forcing them to listen to us. “Still,” I said. “You must have a preference.”