Лори Касс - Booking The Crook

I hesitated. “Doesn’t that make brand recognition harder for your customers? I mean, what if they really liked that particular flavor of whatever, and think the new label is something different and get, um, maybe irritated?”

“Yeah, we’re getting some of that.” He leaned back in his chair. “I think we should do a longitudinal data analysis and figure out the spikes, both up and down, for correlations and see what we can do to maximize the positives. Don’t you think that makes sense?”

“More data is often useful,” I said, looking for the middle-of-the-road response to what was clearly a very pointed question about a topic. Plus I’d mostly stopped listening when he’d said “longitudinal,” so I wasn’t completely sure what he was talking about.

“Exactly.” He nodded. “That’s what I keep telling Robbie and Bob. You know what? I’m just going to do it. Easier to ask forgiveness than permission, right?”

I smiled. “Thanks for your time. I appreciate it.”

“No problem. Say, if you’re interested in the sugar, I can put you on a waiting list. Bob started a sheet right after Christmas.” He rooted through the piles of papers on the desk. “Here you go,” he said, handing me a clipboard. “Robbie wants to expand into birch syrup, too. The sky’s the limit with this place. Of course, we’d have to change the name.”

But for the second time in two minutes, I’d stopped listening. Because at the top of the list of names and e-mail addresses was one I recognized.

Hugh Novak.

• • •

Since I’d estimated the driving time out to Maple Staples and back poorly—to the dry road travel time I’d only added twenty-five percent instead of the fifty percent I should have to properly compensate for the snow that was falling from the heavens—I didn’t have time to make the other stops I’d planned. I arrived at the library a few minutes early, but I hadn’t had lunch, since I’d also planned a return to the boardinghouse to eat.

I stopped in the break room on the way into my office and peeked in the refrigerator. There was always a chance that I’d left something in there and forgotten about it—yogurt? leftovers? anything?—but I came up dry. The offerings in the vending machine were heavy on the sugary side. I made a face at the bag of peanuts I was pretty sure had been there since the machine had been installed and wondered if there was any chance I’d left a can of soup in the bottom drawer of my desk.

“Minnie, you’re just the person I was hoping to see.” Graydon was in the doorway, buttoning his navy peacoat. “Do you have lunch plans?”

“Nothing that my mother would call a meal.” I tapped the vending machine. “College students, yes. Mom? No.”

Graydon laughed. “Lunch is my treat, if you have time.”

I blinked. Never in the history of my working life had a boss ever taken me out to lunch. There’d been the occasional group outing, but those had been separate checks for all and didn’t count. “That would be nice. Thanks.”

“I’ll defer to your local expertise for a restaurant choice,” Graydon said. “I have no allergies and like almost everything except cottage cheese.”

Since I’d just eaten at Shomin’s and didn’t feel Fat Boys Pizza was a suitable place to take Graydon, there wasn’t any other affordable place open this time of year except the Round Table.

A short walk later, I led the way past the SEAT YOURSELF sign and paused. Sitting in a booth with my boss, a seating arrangement that implied intimacy, would be too weird. Of course, sitting at a table would be weird, too, since the only time I did that was in summer when all the booths were full. Still, a table it was.

“Hey, sunshine.” The diner’s forever waitress, Sabrina, put down glasses of ice water. “Who’s your new friend?”

Graydon held out his hand and introduced himself. “I’m the new library director.”

“Hmm.” Sabrina shook his hand. “Well, you can’t be any worse than the last two. Don’t know that I ever saw that Jennifer in here, and Stephen?” She rolled her eyes. “Chicken sandwich with mayo, chips, and water, every time. Never tipped more than fifty cents. I’ll be right back with a menu.”

I hadn’t had time to ask how her husband, Bill, was doing, but since she was her normal sparkling self, I was pretty sure he was doing okay. He and Sabrina were in their mid-fifties, but Bill was already suffering from macular degeneration. Special treatments down in Traverse City seemed to be slowing the symptoms and maybe even halting them, and we were all hoping he wouldn’t get any worse.

After we ordered—ham and cheese with fries for me, a club sandwich and cup of chicken noodle soup for him—Graydon sat back a little. “Do you mind if I ask a few questions?”

“Fire away,” I said, mirroring his movement. “But just so you know, I’m horrible at mental math.”

He smiled. “Not that kind of questions. Library questions.”

“Way easier. What do you want to know?”

“For one, how long do you think Donna will keep working?”

I laughed. “She works to support her habits. Turns out that traveling to Africa to run marathons and to Norway to snowshoe is expensive. She’s in great shape for any age, let alone someone who’s in her early seventies. If I had to guess, I’d say she’s going to work for another decade.” I thought about it for a moment. “And I wouldn’t be surprised at two.”

It would be a sad day when Donna left her part-time job. She was intelligent, capable, and could be extremely funny. I didn’t like to think about the library without her.

Sabrina slid our plates in front of us. “Cookie’s rolling them out fast today. Let me know if you need anything else.”

“Thank you,” Graydon said. “This looks great.”

“Absolutely.” I took hold of the malt vinegar bottle and shook it lightly over my fries. “And tell Cookie thanks, too.”

“The speed isn’t for your sake,” Sabrina said. “He overcooked Otis’s bacon this morning and he’s still trying to recover.” Smirking, she pulled a pencil out of her graying hair bun and went to take orders from a table of EMTs.

“Otis Rahn?” Graydon asked. “The past library board president?”

Nodding, I sprinkled salt on my fries. Cookie never added enough for my taste. “For years and years.” I was about to say how much I missed him, but decided that might not be in my best professional interest.

Graydon took in a few spoonfuls of soup. “What do you think about Kelsey?”

I kept my face blank and wondered what this was all about. “Personally or professionally?” I tacked on a smile at the end of my question because I was afraid it might have come out a little snarky.

“Whatever you feel comfortable telling me.”

To delay giving an answer, I picked up my sandwich and took a bite. It was so good that I took another. Graydon, by this time, had started eating his. “This is very good,” he said.

“Cookie graduated from the culinary program at Northwestern Michigan College. He worked in Chicago for a while, but came home a few years ago.”

“His name isn’t really Cookie, is it?”

“I honestly don’t know.” And I didn’t want to know, either. I enjoyed thinking of him as Cookie. My earlier liking for my new boss was turning to something else. I put my sandwich down. “About Kelsey. And anyone else you might ask about. I’m perfectly comfortable giving you professional assessments, that’s part of my job. But if you want me to—”

Graydon’s cell phone buzzed. “Sorry,” he murmured, looking at the screen. “It’s Trent. I should take this.” He stood and went to the far corner of the room, turning his back to me.