Лори Касс - Booking The Crook

I finished my speech to the back of his head. “But if you want me to spy on my coworkers and report back, that’s not going to happen.”

“What isn’t going to happen?”

I looked up. And smiled at Rafe, who had materialized out of nowhere and was sitting himself at the table. “Curing the common cold in our lifetimes,” I said. “What do you think isn’t going to happen?”

“Right now, I’m concerned that it’s getting hardware for the kitchen cabinets.”

Oh. That. “Um . . .”

He sighed so heavily that hyperventilation was a mild concern. “The one thing I ask you to do. One thing.”

I pushed my plate toward him. “Have some fries. They’ll make you feel better. What are you doing here anyway?”

“Picking up lunch for the admin office.”

“Then you don’t need any of my fries, do you?”

“‘Need’ is such a subjective word. Your fries are hard to resist because you always add the perfect amounts of malt vinegar and salt.”

“It’s one of my proudest accomplishments. And keep your hands off Graydon’s food,” I said as I saw him eyeing the potato chips. “He’s back there, on the phone.”

Rafe turned briefly. “Ah, I could take him.”

A forty-ish man who was either bald or regularly shaved his head, I’d never been able to determine which, dropped a bulging plastic bag on the front counter. “Hey, Niswander. Your order’s up.”

“Thanks, Cookie.” Rafe leaned over to give me a kiss and stood. “See you tonight?”

“I have one stop after work, but that’s it.”

“You’re finally going to stop at the hardware store to look at drawer pulls?”

“Aren’t you cute.” I smiled at him fondly. “See you later.”

He sighed again, but there was a grin in there, so I knew the hardware decision could be put off a little longer.

I turned my attention back to my food. Graydon, however, was still on the phone. What could he and the new library board president be talking about? Okay, any number of things, probably, but what could be so critical that Trent needed to interrupt Graydon’s lunch? From the expression on Graydon’s face, the conversation was not completely positive.

A slightly twitchy feeling started to form in my stomach. I tried to ignore it, or to think it was the result of too much fried food in too short a time. And I almost succeeded until my ears picked up the word “bookmobile.” Startled, I glanced up, directly at Graydon, and found that he was looking straight at me. He half smiled and let his gaze drift past, but I was left with some distinctly uncomfortable knowledge.

My boss and the board president were talking about the bookmobile.

And they were talking about me.

• • •

After I locked the library down for the evening—Friday was the one winter weeknight we closed at five—I drove the few blocks to meet with Hal and Ash. The late meeting time had suited them both for various reasons, so I’d stopped feeling guilty about canceling our morning appointment and shifted to feeling guilty about driving such a short distance instead of walking. Some days I could pull off being like Aunt Frances and not feel guilty about hardly anything and, even better, not worrying about anything at all, but today wasn’t one of them. “Tomorrow is another day,” I said as I opened the door to the sheriff’s office.

Hal Inwood was in the lobby, tacking an announcement about keeping mailboxes clear of snow to the glass-covered bulletin board. “Yes, unless the world ends in the middle of the night.”

“Aren’t you a ray of sunshine.” I stomped my boots free of snow.

“You should meet my wife.” He shut the glass door and locked it. “Unless you two are already good friends. That would, in many ways, explain quite a bit.”

But Mrs. Hal and I had never met. Which was both odd and not odd. Chilson was a small town, but for transplants, which the Inwoods and I both were, if your paths didn’t cross, you could easily never meet. I grinned. “Tell her to stop by the library. We can exchange all sorts of stories, for hours and hours.”

He gave me a pained look as he let me go in front of him into the interview room. “Fortunately, she’s downstate with grandchildren, and it’s possible that when she returns, I’ll forget to mention your kind invitation.”

Right then and there I made a silent vow to get to know the detective’s wife. “How is the testing going?”

“Of the sugar packet? No results yet, and I believe I mentioned at the time that it would take at least a week.”

“You did,” I said, “but I was thinking maybe January is a slow time at the lab and they could get it through faster than a week.”

“Still the funny one, aren’t you,” Ash said as he came into the room. “None of the labs in the state have slow seasons. All they have are busy and really busy times.”

“The poor things,” I murmured, meaning it. How stressful it must be to always be pushing your staff to the limit.

“Job security.” Ash pulled out the chair next to Hal and sat. “Sorry I’m late, I was finishing up a report.”

“That’s what I like best in a detective-in-training,” Hal said, nodding. “Finishing my work.”

I smiled and didn’t say a word, but I was thinking how far the relationship between Detective Hal Inwood and myself had advanced. Not all that long ago he’d barely tolerated my presence and had clearly considered my suggestions an interference. Now he seemed as if he could be almost likable.

“Now, Ms. Hamilton,” Hal said, focusing on me. “You said you have information to share. Please go right ahead. I’d like to get home at some point tonight.”

“Sure,” I said. “Neil Bennethum has already told you some of this, but I have some thoughts, too.”

I told them about Rowan’s argument with Land, and how Neil was so sure that Land had killed Rowan. The two law enforcement officers across the table had both opened their respective notepads and clicked on their pens, but no notes were taken during my little speech.

“You know all this,” I said.

“Looking into it.” Hal glanced at his watch. “At this point we’re still gathering information.”

Well, almost likable. “Right. How silly of me to think I might tell you something useful.”

Hal sighed. “Ms. Hamilton, please. It’s been a long day. What else do you have?”

I told myself to cut the detective a little slack. He was getting up there in age, and he was serving the people of Tonedagana County for a wage that didn’t anywhere near make up for the hassles he had to endure.

“Assuming,” I said, “that the sugar packet was a vehicle for the poison, there are at least two people who use that particular type of sugar. Stewart Funston, who I saw with the same kind of packet just yesterday, and Hugh Novak. He’s on the waiting list at the place that makes the stuff to get a box as soon as they make any new.”

Hal’s and Ash’s pens scribbled away as I talked. When I stopped, Hal asked, “And their connections to the victim?”

He was taking me seriously—hooray! “Stewart is Rowan’s cousin. A first cousin. And though I’m not sure of the details, Hugh couldn’t stand Rowan. They were on opposite sides of the political spectrum, and he never missed an opportunity to disagree with her publicly.” That’s what Neil had implied. I’d confirmed it with Donna, and she was one of my most trusted local sources.

“There’s a lot of that going around,” Ash said. “If people killed each other because of politics, we’d have a lot more murders at Thanksgiving.”

But people did kill each other over politics, and the look Hal gave Ash was one of fatigued reproach. “Thank you, Ms. Hamilton. We’ll take this information into account as the investigation moves forward.”