Лори Касс - Wrong Side Of The Paw

Wattling’s face was closed and uninformative and he didn’t say a thing. Nonetheless, I plunged ahead.

“What we’re hoping to find out,” I went on, “is if you saw a car or any headlights, or heard anything unusual last Wednesday night or early Thursday morning. Because that must have been when her”— those pale blue eyes —“when her father’s body was left in the truck.”

“That’s your story?” Wattling asked, snorting. “That someone did a body dump? Nice try, but I doubt the police are going to go for it.”

“Leese didn’t kill her father,” I said, strongly and firmly, almost the Librarian’s Voice, but not quite. I reserved that for truly difficult situations. This was just uncomfortable. “Someone made it look like she was involved, that’s all. And I’m sure the police will be asking these same questions, so you might as well tell us, too.”

“If the cops come,” he said, “I’ll tell them the truth. That no one came past either night.” He took a quick step back and shut the door in my face. From inside, Wattling turned the deadbolt and I flinched at the noise.

From his point of view, Leese had already been tried and convicted. The only thing left was the sentencing.

I trod back down the steps, down the driveway, and planned what I’d say to Leese about the Wattlings. “Those folks might have been nice at a distance, but up close they’re clearly not folks you’d want to spend a lot of time with. I mean, have you seen the flooring in their entryway?” I practiced a scrunched-up face. I hadn’t actually noticed the flooring, but I was willing to bet Leese had never seen it, either.

Girding up my strength and resolve, I moved on to the other even more distant neighbors, and though not all of them were as disapproving as Bill Wattling, none of them had seen or heard anything that would help.

Leese’s father had been killed at a time they all said had been quiet and peaceful. Which didn’t make sense, because someone must have delivered his body, and that should have resulted in headlights and, if not voices, at least some noise.

I trudged back to Leese’s house in low spirits. I wanted to help her, but I was running out of ideas. What we needed were some brilliant plans, a lucky break, or both, and what I was getting was a north wind in my face.

Shivering against the chill, I put my head down and headed back to Leese’s house.

• • •

The next day was a bookmobile day, but I’d arranged the fall schedule differently. Every third Tuesday, the bookmobile didn’t leave its garage until noon and trundled back home a little after eight. I wasn’t keen on driving around in the dark, but having an afternoon/evening run was giving us a chance to reach folks who worked during the day.

Jennifer hadn’t approved of the idea, saying that people who wanted to come to the library would find a way. I hadn’t cited the reasons why driving to Chilson after a full day of work might be difficult—an unreliable vehicle, the need to take care of children or elderly parents, sheer exhaustion, lack of gas money, and more. Instead, I’d just said I wanted to try this new route and eventually she’d allowed me to go ahead.

Two months in, I was considering the rearranged route a success, but it was a long day, one that left me more tired than I’d expected. When I’d mentioned this to Holly through yawns one Wednesday morning, she’d rolled her eyes and said, “That’s because you’re still coming into the library at eight in the morning. Do us all a favor and take that morning off, okay?”

I’d said I’d consider her advice, and when my aunt Frances told me much the same thing, in much the same tone, only a little harsher (“You’re going to fall asleep and drive into a tree, silly girl. Take that morning off or I’ll tattle on you to the library board”), I sighed and admitted they were probably right. That, and my aunt would definitely have tattled on me. She knew every member of my board and wouldn’t hesitate to use her influence if she thought I was being truly stupid.

So that morning, instead of waking to the beep of an alarm clock, I woke up to a cat’s paw patting the side of my nose.

“Good morning, Eddie,” I said. “What can I do for you?”

He said nothing and continued to pat.

I reached out from under the covers to bat his paw away. “What are you doing?”

“Mrr,” he said, and started using his other front paw on my nose. There is no stubborn like a cat being stubborn.

“What’s wrong with my nose?” I was lying on my side, facing the outside wall of the houseboat. Eddie was snuggled between my shoulder and the wall. “You’ve never complained about it before.”

He kept on patting. The first fifty-two pats I hadn’t minded, but the fifty-third one annoyed me. I rolled onto my back to get away from The Paw. Eddie instantly laid his front half across my neck and started purring.

“Seriously?” I asked. “This is why you were shoving at my nose?”

His mouth opened and closed silently and his purr motor revved into high gear.

There was no doubt: I lived with the weirdest cat in the universe. “This is cozy and all,” I told him, “but I have this feeling you’re going to creep closer and closer to my face and some morning I’m going to wake up suffocated by Eddie fur and then won’t you be sorry.”

“Mrr,” he said quietly, which I took to mean he would be careful not to suffocate me because he couldn’t do without me. It was a nice thought, but he was more likely telling me to be quiet so he could get back to sleep.

“Okay,” I murmured, and I drifted off into that happy place that wasn’t quite sleep and wasn’t quite wakefulness. Then, just as I was spiraling down into certain slumber, my phone rang with Ash’s ring tone.

Trying not to disturb the snoring Eddie, I reached out with my unencumbered hand and felt around on the nightstand. Just before he went to voice mail, I found the phone and hit the answer button. “Good morning.”

“And to you,” he said, sounding amused. “Are you still in bed?”

“Me?” I slid out from underneath Eddie, kicked my feet free of the covers, and stood up. “No. Why would you say that?” I looked outside and saw that the sun was just up. “Do you want to go out for breakfast? I don’t have to be at the library until noonish.”

“I was hoping for a favor. Remember that Shakespeare book you were talking about? I mentioned it to a buddy on the day shift. He’s leaving for vacation after work, and he said he’d like to read it. I don’t remember the title, but it was written by some guy named Bill.”

“Bill Bryson,” I said. “Title is Shakespeare: The World as Stage. ” It was a relatively short biography of the playwright, and funny to boot. “I can drop it off.”

“Thanks, that would be great. Just leave it up front and tell them it’s for Luke.”

“I can be there in twenty minutes.” Because I wasn’t about to present myself publicly without a shower and some food in my stomach.

Ash laughed. “You were still in bed, weren’t you?”

“Just trying to keep Eddie happy,” I said, and hung up.

If I’d known what was about to happen at the sheriff’s office, I might have crawled back inside the covers and let Eddie do whatever he wanted to my nose. But since I had no clue, I took a quick shower, dressed even quicker, and grabbed a granola bar on my way out the door.

After a fast walk through downtown, during which I’d waved at Cookie Tom, out sweeping his sidewalk, and told him I’d be back later to buy some bookmobile cookies, I was in the front lobby of the sheriff’s office, standing at the glassed-in front desk and trying not to stand on my tiptoes to look taller.