Лори Касс - Cat With A Clue

“Wouldn’t finding a scapegoat be hard?”

This, apparently, was another difficulty not worth considering. “All he needs to do,” Julia said, “is find someone who’s close to being a killer. That will demonstrate his commitment to the library nicely enough to get him the job.”

“What do you think?” I asked Eddie.

He shifted back and forth on the step, leaning left and right, then back to center, but didn’t move his feet.

Julia frowned. “Interpretation, please.”

Most likely he’d had an itch that he’d managed to scratch without going to much effort. “He thinks your idea would be better if it involved a cat.”

“Hmm.” Julia rubbed her chin. “He could be right. Let me work on it.” She grinned. “Unless you want a time-travel version.”

“I’d like to go back to 1978, please,” said a new voice.

Julia, Eddie, and I turned. Lawrence Zonne, a newcomer to the bookmobile, was at the top of the steps, smiling at us. Mr. Zonne’s sharply white hair and the wrinkles on his face were the only indicators that he was an octogenarian. He moved as easily as a twenty-year-old, had vision sharper than mine, and had a memory that rivaled . . . well, everyone’s.

Mr. Zonne had lived in Tonedagana County most of his life and moved to Florida when he and his wife took early retirement. But after his wife died the previous winter, he’d looked around and realized that home was elsewhere. Though I was sorry he’d lost the companionship of his wife, I was glad to have him back in Michigan. His sharp intelligence and wit made every conversation a treat, and, besides, Eddie liked him.

“What happened in 1978?” Julia asked.

“The blizzard, young ladies. Don’t you remember?”

I shook my head. “I wasn’t born yet.”

Mr. Zonne looked at Julia.

“I was living in New York City,” she said. “When it snowed, I stayed inside until it was gone.”

Mr. Zonne eyed Eddie. “And you?”

“Mrr.”

“Exactly,” Mr. Zonne leaned down to pat my cat on his fuzzy head. “Mrrr-low. As in Merlot, my preferred varietal of wine. You are a cat of great discernment, Mr. Edward. My wife and I spent the entire week of that blizzard without a decent wine in the house. If I could go back in time to just before the storm hit, I’d make sure to stock up. Just think how much easier we could have endured the snow and wind and cold with a case of good Merlot. But why, may I ask,” he said, straightening, “are we discussing time travel?”

“We’re not,” I said. “Julia might be, but only to make up another wacky explanation for all the . . . the things that have been going on at the library.”

Mr. Zonne nodded. “An odd litany of incidents. I can see why one would turn to unusual interpretations.”

“Do you have a theory?” I asked.

He smiled. “Of course. However, I regret to say that while I am a man of great memory, my imagination is entirely earthbound. Limited, you might say.”

“Your memory,” I said, “could do us more good than a guess about alien invaders.”

“Hey,” Julia protested. “I never said anything about aliens.” But she looked thoughtful.

“Did you know the DeKeysers?” I asked. “Especially Talia? Because it was her funeral that the murder victim came north to attend.”

“The beautiful Talia,” he murmured. “Yes, I did indeed. She was kind and generous and, to be blunt, a trifle shallow. Not the deepest thinker in the family. But she had a good heart, and what could count more?”

It was my opinion that it would count a little more if you could have a good heart and be a devoted reader, but I just nodded. “Andrea Vennard was Talia’s great-niece,” I said.

“One of the many.” Mr. Zonne nodded. “And if I had a free afternoon and a large sheet of paper, I could sketch out all of Talia’s relatives.”

“Er . . .”

“Don’t worry, Miss Minnie,” he said. “I won’t subject you to all that. But I can share a story or two about the beautiful Talia and the handsome Cal. They were a few years older than me, but their storied romance cast a long and memorable shadow.”

“How did he propose?” Julia asked. “Do you know?”

Mr. Zonne laughed. “He’d asked her father for permission first, as young men did in that day and age, then purchased a ring chosen by Talia’s mother. He took her out in his canoe one fine summer evening, held out the jeweler’s box, and got down on one knee.”

Uh-oh. “Um . . .”

“Miss Minnie,” he said, “I see you know where this is going. Cal, in his efforts to be the gallant swain, tried a little too hard. He tipped the canoe, sending his lady love and himself into the waters of Janay Lake.”

Julia sputtered with laughter and I asked, “What about the ring?”

“Ah, now, there’s the rest of the story,” Mr. Zonne said. “Cal, still being gallant, escorted Talia to shore, settled her down with a blanket from his jalopy, as such things were called, and dove back into the water to find the ring.”

“Good thing it was Janay Lake,” Julia said, still laughing, “and not Mud Lake.”

“That small fact has not gone unnoticed in the DeKeyser family,” Mr. Zonne said. “Many a family gathering has discussed the fate of Talia and Cal if Janay Lake hadn’t had clear water and a rock bottom. As it was, young Cal fished out the ring after a dozen dives, then, dripping wet and panting, once again offered it, on bended knee, to his ladylove.”

An uncharitable thought crossed my mind. If my former boyfriend, Tucker, had dropped an engagement ring in a lake, he would have called the insurance company before going to any great personal efforts.

“Now they’re both gone.” Mr. Zonne sighed gently. “So many are.” He stood for a moment, lost in his thoughts. Then he shook himself and looked directly at Julia and me. “If I can share a small piece of advice with you ladies, make friends with people younger than yourself. Don’t, and someday you might wake up to find that all your friends are gone.”

Julia slung her arm around my shoulders. “One down. How many do I need?”

Mr. Zonne laughed. “You can never have too many, but you know that. You both do.”

We did indeed. I gave Julia a quick hug, then stooped down to pull Eddie up into a snuggle. Eddie, who made friends easier than any human I’d ever met. “What about Talia and Cal’s children?” I asked.

Mr. Zonne slid his hands into his pockets and squinted at the ceiling. “Leslie. Kim. Tom. Kelly. Dave. Melissa. Bob. I think that’s the correct birth order, but don’t hold me to it.”

I assured him we wouldn’t. “Do you know anything about them?” Even the youngest ones were probably older than Andrea Vennard, but in a small town, who knew what slings and arrows had wounded whom?

Mentally, I spun out a scenario in which Andrea had stolen away the younger DeKeyser daughter’s boyfriend, a hurt from which she’d never recovered. She’d snapped when she’d seen Andrea at her mother’s funeral and tracked her down at . . . at the library? I shook my head. Every theory fell apart when you put the library into the mix.

“Most of what I know about them is secondhand,” Mr. Zonne said. “They grow so fast and leave even faster. Talia and Cal invested thousands into college educations for their offspring. They all married years ago and have grown or nearly grown children of their own. If I recall correctly, the girls stayed in Chilson.”

“And the boys?”

“Gone off to find fame and fortune in the wide blue yonder.”

“Did they find it?” Julia asked.

“Depends on what you call success,” Mr. Zonne said. “None of them are millionaires, but they’re all solid citizens, from what I hear. Salt-of-the-earth types who spend time volunteering, donate money to nonprofits, and subscribe to newspapers instead of getting information from blogs.”