Лори Касс - Wrong Side Of The Paw

Jennifer shook her head. “Not possible,” she said. “I can’t believe you’re even bringing it up. You should know that the library’s budget can’t possibly absorb the cost of another bookmobile.”

I hadn’t brought it up; she had. But instead of wasting my time and energy by pointing that out, I said, “My idea is to set up a lecture series that focuses on the needs of senior citizens. Finances, questions of law, health, nutrition. This morning I talked to the local senior center and they’re not doing anything similar. They thought it was a great idea.”

“More outreach,” Jennifer murmured. “How does this align with the library’s mission?”

This was a question I’d been prepared to hear and I quoted the mission statement’s second sentence. “‘The library serves as a learning center for all residents of the community,’” I said.

“A little vague.” Jennifer turned back toward the window.

Undaunted, I said, “This applies to the first part of the statement, too. This would be a service that helps residents obtain information that meets their needs.”

“One small segment of the population.” Jennifer’s tone was vague and I could tell she’d already lost interest. “I don’t see this as a good use of the library’s resources.”

“It won’t cost anything.” I persisted, since I was determined to make a good case. “All it will take is a little bit of my time to arrange for speakers and the use of the conference room, which is empty most of the time anyway.”

“Your time is valuable.” Jennifer stood and went to the window. “You’re already stretched thin and I don’t want you taking on any new projects.”

She’d said no, but had left a way open. “Would you be opposed to the plan if someone else was in charge of lining up speakers? I’d approve each speaker, but someone else would make all the arrangements.” I leaned forward, waiting for her answer.

“Where are all the people?” Jennifer asked, nodding toward Chilson’s downtown streets.

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“The people.” She reached through the venetian blind and tapped the windowpane. “There aren’t any. When I arrived here, there were a lot more cars on the streets. The restaurants were full, the stores were full, there were concerts in the park, and some sort of event every weekend.”

“This is a tourist town,” I said, trying not to overstate the obvious.

“Yes, but that doesn’t explain the emptiness.”

Of course it did. What on earth was she talking about? “There won’t be big crowds again until June.”

Jennifer, never one for unnecessary movement, froze solid. “June?” she asked.

“Well, sure.” When she didn’t say anything, I expanded. “A few of the seasonal folks will hang on until Thanksgiving, then even they will head south for the winter. Some people come back for Christmas, Martin Luther King Jr. Day, and Presidents’ weekend.”

I smiled, feeling slightly evil and enjoying myself immensely. Bad Minnie. “March and April are the really quiet months. You could roll a bowling ball down the middle of Main Street at high noon and not hit anything except curb.” It was an exaggeration, but not by much.

“But . . .” Jennifer wrapped her arms around her middle. “But there’s skiing around here. Won’t the skiers be coming soon? I was told Chilson was the Michigan version of Vail.”

Not by anyone who’d ever been to both Chilson and Vail. “The ski resorts in this area are nice enough,” I said, “but the best skiing in Michigan isn’t close to the quality of skiing out West. We have hills. They have mountains.”

“I’m not a skier,” she murmured.

“Well, maybe you’ll turn into one,” I said cheerfully. “Finding something you like to do in the snow is the best way to deal with winter.” And since she hadn’t said I couldn’t hand over my new senior talk idea to someone else, I made my exit before she realized she hadn’t said no.

• • •

During lunch, I spent a few minutes looking up information about Gail and Ray Boggs, the other party involved in lawsuits that Dale Lacombe had recently won. The county website’s property information database told me the Boggses had purchased a piece of property five years ago. I clicked on a “Find location on map” link. The aerial photography showed a house sited near a creek and neighbors close enough to be good friends, but far enough to feel private.

The phone book didn’t have a Boggs listing, so after debating the wisdom of heading out to the house of a complete stranger, I walked home, wrote my intentions on a white board as I’d sworn to my mother I would always do when I went somewhere solo, patted a sleepy Eddie on the head, and got into the car.

Though there was still technically an hour and a half before the sun set, so much cloud cover had moved in that I felt compelled to turn on the car’s headlights. I almost turned them off, but sighed and left them on. It would be dark soon enough and it was always better to be seen than not seen.

It was about ten miles to the address, and in spite of the growing murk, I enjoyed the drive over forested hills that opened up to a wide valley. All around were the bright colors of autumn or what would have been bright colors if there had been some sunlight. Even still, the reddish-orange of the maple leaves and the occasional yellow of birches and aspens penetrated the darkening sky with color that was both breathtaking and heartrending with its fleeting beauty.

“Get a grip,” I told myself. It wasn’t like me to wax poetic, especially with a melancholy tone. Maybe what I needed was a dose of Kristen. She’d been too wrapped up with preparations for seasonal closing of her restaurant to make dessert for me the other night, but we were set in stone for the coming Sunday.

I turned right on the road that led to the Boggses’ house and, one mile later, bumped off the end of asphalt and onto gravel. After a half mile of bouncing over washboards and steering around potholes, I saw their house number on a mailbox in a cluster of five.

“Hmm.” I studied the driveways, looked at the map I’d printed from the county’s website, and aimed the car down the middle driveway. It was little more than two tire tracks through the woods, but the tracks were definite enough and I didn’t have any trouble following them down the winding path. The driveway wasn’t in any better condition than the gravel road had been, and as I bounced toward the house, I hoped my car’s suspension would hold up on the return trip.

One last bump around one last corner, and a house came into view.

A dark house.

With a For Sale sign stuck into the front lawn.

I sat there, engine running, staring at the place. Clearly, there was no one for me to talk to. Not only was it dark and for sale, but it had that abandoned air that houses take on when their owners have departed. I hadn’t even considered this possibility; now what was I going to do?

After a moment, I got out of the car, climbed the front steps, and peered in through the window in the door. “Huh,” I said out loud. Dark, for sale, and vacant. The front hall didn’t contain so much as a stick of furniture. The Boggses obviously didn’t believe in staging a house.

I walked sideways down the porch. The only thing in the living room was the grate in the fireplace, and the dining room’s only ornament was a hanging light fixture that was made from either driftwood or deer antlers. In the dark I couldn’t tell, but if I had to guess—

“Can I help you?”

“Yah!” I spun and took a jump away from the voice, bashing my head against the house in the process. “Ow!” I held one of my hands to my chest in an attempt to keep my rapidly beating heart inside where it belonged, and with the other I rubbed the back of my head.