Лори Касс - Wrong Side Of The Paw

Mitchell’s über-laid-back attitude toward life had changed when he’d started dating Bianca Sims, a real estate agent out of Petoskey. Bianca seemed normal enough, so we were all curious if the romance was going to last.

I looked up, way up, at Mitchell, weirdly pleased that no matter how hard he was working at his jobs in hopes of impressing the fair Bianca, his library schedule was still the same. Today he was dressed in his typical worn jeans, ratty sneakers, ancient T-shirt under an untucked plaid flannel shirt, and a cap with a logo for the Traverse City Beach Bums, a minor league baseball team.

“Guess what?” Mitchell asked.

“You’ve painted your pickup truck all one color.” His truck was easy to identify from a distance because the hood, body, doors, and bed had all come from different junkyards at different times and were a variety of colors.

He frowned. “Why would I do that? There’s hardly any rust anywhere. Guess again.”

“Do I get a hint?”

“Nah, I’ll just tell you. I’ve been promoted!” He bounced up and down on his toes, grinning widely. “At the toy store downtown. They’re making me manager.”

For a stunned second, I couldn’t think of a thing to say. Finally, I managed to get out, “That’s great, Mitchell.”

“Yeah, I’m going to get health insurance and everything. Pretty cool, huh?”

“Very.” And it was cool. “Congratulations.”

“And now that I’ll be full time with benefits, want to know what I’m going to do with my first paycheck?”

Not in the least. “What’s that?”

His grin went even wider. “I’m going to pay off my library fines. All of them.”

“You’re . . . what?”

“Hah. Thought that would surprise you. But I mean it. I’ll come in on payday with the cash.”

Mitchell’s fines were the stuff of legends. Over the years his monetary transgressions from overdue and lost books had come close to the four-figure mark. It had mainly been because of Mitchell that Stephen had created a hard-and-fast rule of not allowing any borrowing from any adult account with overdue fines more than a dollar.

This had resulted in Mitchell spending lots of time in the reading room, poring over his choice of books, magazines, and newspapers, which wasn’t exactly what Stephen had intended, but as I’d told my former boss over and over, ours was a public library and Mitchell was part of the public.

Not having Mitchell’s name at the top of the fine list, though, was going to take some adjustment.

“That’s outstanding,” I said. “Let me know when you come in, okay? I want to take pictures so I can send one to Stephen.”

Mitchell held up his hand for a fist bump. “Good plan.”

He continued inside and I headed out into the halfhearted October sunshine, a little wistful. It was good that he was becoming a more stable citizen, of course it was good, but a part of me was already regretting the disappearance of the old Mitchell.

• • •

I was in the break room, putting my lunch onto a plate, when Jennifer walked in. “Have you been to Shomin’s Deli?” I asked. “Their sandwiches are outstanding.”

Jennifer glanced at the container while smoothing the line of her black and white checked jacket. She wore this over a white silk shell, on top of a black pencil skirt and high-heeled boots. It was a sleek look, and if I’d tried to wear that same outfit, I would have felt like a little kid dressing up in Mommy’s clothes.

“Chalkboard menu?” she asked. “Wooden booths with hooks at the end for hanging coats?”

She made it sound provincial and sadly out of date. “That’s the one,” I said cheerfully. “Have you tried their Reuben? People say it’s the best in the state.”

“I don’t care for corned beef.” She flicked another glance at my lunch. “When you’re done, I’d like you to come up to my office for a few minutes.”

“How about now?” I stood, shoved my sandwich into the fridge, then did my best to make idle chitchat as we walked down the hallway and up the stairs, but when you’re the only one asking questions (“How was your weekend?”) and the responses you’re getting are single syllables (“Fine”), the conversation tends to lose momentum quickly.

My last effort, that of asking Jennifer if she’d ever vacationed in this part of Michigan, died a quick death as she opened the door of her office and pushed it wide.

“Oh,” I said. “Oh. This is . . . new.”

It certainly was. The formerly wood-paneled walls had been painted a sleek gray; the carpet was a speckled black and gray. The deeply stained desk and chairs were now a shiny black. The draperies had been replaced with starkly white Venetian blinds, and the light fixture was a flat fluorescent panel that clung to the ceiling for dear life. The murky abstract paintings she’d added did little to bring any brightness to the space.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” A smiling Jennifer admired the space. “This is the office I’ve always wanted. I went a little over what the library board gave me for a budget, but I have no problem making it up out of my own pocket.”

At least it was her wallet and not the bookmobile’s budget. I struggled to find something kind to say. I didn’t want to blurt out to my new boss that her dream office belonged in Chicago and not northern Michigan. That in spite of the accessory heating Stephen had purchased, the room was going to feel cold until May.

“I’m glad,” I finally said, “that you’re happy with how it turned out.”

“Thank you.” She sat at her desk and held out a hand, indicating that I do the same. “Please, have a seat.”

“Um, thanks.” I looked askance at the object she was pointing toward. Until then I hadn’t been exactly sure it was a chair; it could easily have been a piece of modern art, something sculpted to look sort of like a chair to make a point about post-modernism in the twenty-first century.

Gingerly, I lowered myself and perched on the edge of what had to be the seat. “I’ve made some cuts to the bookmobile’s budget,” I said, trying to preempt her. “I should have preliminary numbers to you by the end of the week.”

“That’s exactly what I want.” Jennifer leaned forward, putting her elbows on the glossy black desk and lacing her fingers together.

I flashed back to the many times Stephen had summoned me upstairs and then used the exact same body language, which had always meant he was about to tell me something I didn’t want to hear.

Déjà vu all over again, I thought, and waited for the bad news. It didn’t take long.

• • •

“She wants you to do what?” Holly, in the act of spearing leftover macaroni and cheese onto her fork, stopped mid-stab and stared at me.

I toed the refrigerator door shut and dropped my lunch onto the table. “I’m supposed to go upstairs to give her daily updates.”

Through a mouthful of peanut butter and jelly, Josh asked, “Why can’t she come down and see what’s going on herself? I mean, if we were a big city library, maybe, but here? Sounds like a waste of time.”

Though I agreed with him, I didn’t want to create any more discord and I was already regretting what I’d told them.

Holly forked in a bite and swallowed. “What else did she want? She’s the master of efficiency. She wouldn’t have dragged you up there for just one thing.”

“I think part of it was the new interior design theme.”

“Old news.” Josh waved his half-eaten sandwich at me. “I saw it the other day when I had to go up there to hook her computer up again. I kind of like it.”

“He showed me pictures,” Holly said, squinching up her face. “Nice for Manhattan maybe, but it doesn’t fit here.”