Лори Касс - Pouncing On Murder

I tried to remember exactly what he’d said, and, three bits of sandwich later, it came to me.

Stanton has been trying to talk Henry into selling since last fall.

Which meant that if Cole was telling the truth, Felix wasn’t. Conversely, if Felix was telling the truth, Cole was definitely not.

One of them was lying.

And that raised the big question: why?

I sat there, staring at my sandwich, knowing that a possible answer was “To hide a murder.” A sudden wind gust made me grab for my napkin. I looked up at the sun and watched it disappear behind the leading edge of a massive bank of low clouds.

Fifteen seconds ago I’d been happy to sit outside, but with the wind shifted and the sun gone, inside was suddenly much more appealing.

I tossed the last of my meal into a nearby garbage can and headed back to the safest place in the world, where cold winds never blew, where people were friendly and polite, and where things were interesting but not scary.

The library.

Chapter 13

Thursday, a bookmobile day, was a happy day of children who laughed, adults who smiled, and an Eddie who not only supervised the activity with aplomb, but who willingly participated in any event that seemed to need his assistance. Which, that day, was a toddler who wanted to clutch at the “’itty ’itty” with both hands and an elderly man who said he’d never liked a cat in his life until he’d met the bookmobile cat.

I was a trifle concerned that all the attention might go to his head, but on the way to Chilson, Julia began a recitation of Mr. Mistoffelees from T. S. Eliot’s “Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats,” which I was pretty sure took the wind out of Eddie’s sails, especially when she finished the poem and described the onstage antics of the Mr. Mistoffelees from the Cats Broadway musical version.

“Poor Eddie,” I said, laughing. “He’ll never be the dancer Mr. Mistoffelees has to be.”

“Eddie has his own special charm.” Julia blew him a kiss. “Don’t you, my fuzzy little friend? We love you just the way you are.”

“Mrr,” he said agreeably.

“I think he said he loves us, too,” Julia said, laughing.

Most likely he was saying that he wanted a treat, that he deserved a treat, and that if he didn’t get a treat he was going to sleep on my head that night, but I let Julia keep her anthropomorphic point of view. Why disillusion her? She’d realize soon enough that Eddie, charming though he might be, was just a cat and not a small furry human.

“Mrr,” Eddie said again, this time a little louder.

“Are, too, just a cat,” I muttered under my breath, quietly enough that Julia wouldn’t be able to hear. I flicked a glance over to Eddie, and saw him turn around inside his carrier and present his hind end to my direction.

Mrr to you, too, pal, I thought, then grinned. Who was I to talk about treating Eddie like a human?

After the fine Thursday, it was a little depressing to wake up to a Friday with the dim light of a day that promised little except low, heavy clouds and rain, with the added attraction of some thumping winds.

“What do you think, Eddie?” We were sitting in the houseboat’s dining booth. “Looks like the last day of April is going to be decidedly dreary. What are you going to do with your time?”

I set my cereal bowl on the floor, and Eddie jumped down to lick out the last of the milk. When he was finished, he sat and gave his face a swipe with his front paw; then he padded down the stairs and through the short hallway. There was a quiet squish of fabric, and I knew he’d jumped onto the bed.

“Have a nice day,” I said as I pulled on my rain boots and raincoat. “Sleep well.” When I opened the door to let myself out, I could have sworn I heard the faintest whisper of a sleepy “Mrr.”

Smiling, I headed out into the spattering rain. How I could find comfort in knowing that my cat was spending the entire day sleeping on my bed, I didn’t know. I only knew it was true, and that I was very, very glad Eddie had chosen to spend his life with me.

A few short hours later, I desperately wanted to join Eddie. To pull the covers up over my head and sleep the rest of the day away. Or even better, to sleep away the next week and two days.

“Did you hear me, Minerva?”

I had, in fact, heard what my boss had just told me over the phone, but I didn’t want to believe it. If it had been anyone else, I would have laughed and told him to quit the kidding, that he’d almost scared me with his bad joke, and to try harder next time.

“Yes, Stephen, I heard you.” Bizarrely, my voice sounded normal. “But I was hoping . . .”

Stephen snorted. “That I was joking, perhaps? I would have thought you’d know me better than that. No, when I told you that Ross Weaver is having to cancel his appearance at next week’s book fair, I was being completely truthful.”

“That’s what I figured,” I said faintly.

“Yes,” Stephen said. “Ross has had a family medical emergency involving his mother, and he won’t be able to attend the book fair.”

“I hope she’ll be all right,” I murmured.

“What? Yes, yes, she’s getting the best of care, and it’s likely that she’ll be fine, but Ross is canceling all appearances for the time being. I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course,” I said.

“Well, then.” Stephen cleared his throat. “I just wanted you to know the circumstances so you can take appropriate action.”

Appropriate action? I held down my laughter, which would undoubtedly end up as slightly hysterical.

“Minerva,” Stephen said sternly. “If you have the least desire to take over as director, you’ll need to learn to take charge during emergencies of this kind. You’ll need to prioritize and to quickly decide which items you can delegate. You’ll need to . . . Minnie, are you listening?”

“Absolutely,” I said, scribbling another name onto my notepad. “I need to decide what I can delegate.”

“Exactly. Now, do you need help with this or can I rely on you?”

I sat up straight, turned to the left, and gave the ceiling a smart salute. You can rely on me, sir! “I’m all set, Stephen.”

“Let me know if you need anything,” he said, and the phone went silent.

I hung up the phone, looked at my list, then picked it up again. If the book fair had any chance of success, I had to get busy fast.

• • •

At the end of the day, the muscles around my jaw were tense from too much talking. I’d called the McCades, I’d called Carolyn Grice, a wealthy woman I’d met last year. I’d called Julia. I’d called the bookstore and the schools and the museum and the chamber of commerce, begging for the name of any author who might be willing to drop everything and come to Chilson.

“ When? ” they’d all asked. “ Well, ” I’d said, “ next Saturday. For the book fair. ” After they realized I was serious, they said they’d try, but the doubt in their tones revealed how unlikely it was that their efforts would be successful.

I thumped my head onto my desk and wondered if I’d have less stress in my life if I switched careers and became an air traffic controller.

• • •

I worked late that night, trying to tidy up the Book Fair Fiasco. After calling the newspaper and asking them to print a change-of-plans advertisement, I posted notices about Ross Weaver’s cancellation on the library’s Web site, on the library’s Facebook page, and tweeted the sad news far and wide. Mr. Weaver, if he’d known, would have been pleased at the widespread return concern for his family emergency, and I said I’d pass on all the notes to him. Which I did by bundling them all into one big e-mail and tossing it over to Stephen.