Лори Касс - Pouncing On Murder

“Sure,” he said. “You, too.”

The phone went silent, but I continued to stand there for some time, just thinking.

If size didn’t matter when it came to murder, what did?

What was I missing?

Chapter 15

Thanks to being suddenly short-staffed because of illness and my continued and fruitless phone calls in pursuit of another big-name author, my lunch hour was reduced to the time it took to eat the sandwich I’d made that morning and the time it took to make a few phone calls to more downtown businesses, telling my tale of the man who might have left a nice leather notebook at the library, a man who was short and had bright red hair.

I heard the same thing that everyone else had said, that though the man sounded like someone familiar, no one had seen anyone like that, not that they could remember.

In the evening, I went downtown and asked a few more questions about a red-haired man, but heard nothing that would confirm the presence of Seth Wartella. The closest I got was the owner of the jewelry store, who squinted at the ceiling. “Red hair? A while back there was a guy in here, looking for a present for his wife, but that was around Valentine’s Day. And he was tall, not short.”

Just because I couldn’t find anyone who remembered seeing Seth didn’t mean that he hadn’t been in Chilson, but I’d run out of time Monday for asking around, and Tuesday would also be out because it was a bookmobile day.

“But this is our favorite kind of day, isn’t it, Eddie?” I nudged my feline friend, who was sitting on the carpeted step. It ran the length of the bookmobile on both sides, making a handy seat and an even handier step for those on the bookmobile who needed an extra few inches to reach the top shelf. This included me and almost all the children under the age of seven and a few of our elderly patrons who’d started doing the shrinking thing.

Eddie and I were sitting on the step, doing our combined best to encourage a number of small children to come on over to the picture book section. We were parked at a new stop, which had been squeezed in because how could I turn down a request from a day care provider who said she wanted, more than anything, to show kids how wonderful books could be?

The only problem was, the kids seemed more interested in climbing up and down and up and down the bookmobile steps than in books.

“Emily,” coaxed the beleaguered day care lady. “Don’t you want to see the books? Yesterday, you couldn’t wait for the bookmobile. And here’s the bookmobile kitty. Remember? There’s a kitty just over there.”

“His name is Eddie,” I said. “And he’d love to meet you.”

Emily didn’t seem interested, but one of her companions did. “Where’s the kitty?” he asked, abandoning the stairs and looking all around. “I want to see the kitty cat.”

“Right here.” I put Eddie on my lap and gently arranged him into a lying-down position. “He’s purring,” I said as the kid came closer. “Do you hear it?”

The boy dropped to his knees and slapped his head against the furry body. “He’s noisy!” he exclaimed.

You have no idea, I thought. “That’s because he likes you,” I said.

“Emily, Emily!” The boy jumped to his feet. “The bookmobile kitty likes me!”

There was a small stampede of children, headed by the apparent ringleader, Emily, and it was coming straight toward Eddie and me. Eddie had already tolerated much that day: a slam-hard-on-the-brakes stop to avoid hitting a deer, a shrieking baby at the first stop, a complete lack of treats because I’d forgotten to refill the canister, and this was apparently the tipping point.

He took one look at the oncoming horde and launched himself out of my lap.

“Ah . . .” I gritted my teeth at the pain and made a mental note to clip his back claws that night. And to file them round.

“Where did the kitty go?” Emily said plaintively. “I want to hear the bookmobile kitty go purr, purr, purr.”

I smiled at her and the rest of her cohorts. “He just needs a minute to himself. When he’s ready, I’ll bring him back and each of you can pet him, one at a time.”

Emily, with her lower lip stuck out in an adorable sort of way, gave the topic serious thought. “I guess that’s okay.”

With the group subdued, at least for now, I showed them the picture books and pulled out a copy of Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel. I handed it to the day care lady. “Always a crowd pleaser,” I said.

She laughed and sat herself on the step. “Who wants to listen to a story?”

The kids crowded around and I headed to the front of the bookmobile to check on Mr. Ed’s whereabouts.

“Hey,” I said quietly. “Eddie. Where are you?”

His black-and-white head popped up from underneath the driver’s seat.

“They’re not coming after you,” I told him. “Come on out. I promise I won’t let them— Hey, what are—”

Eddie jumped up to the seat, clambered over the steering wheel in a completely graceless manner that no self-respecting cat would be caught dead doing, landed on the dashboard, and shoved his face up against the windshield.

“Wonderful,” I muttered. My arms weren’t quite long enough to clean the glass, so now I’d be looking at Eddie nose prints until I could get someone else to do the washing. “Come down, will you? There’s nothing out there except a straight mile of road, a bunch of trees, and maybe a squirrel or two. You might want to play with the squirrels, but I’m sure they don’t want to play with you, so turn around and come join the party, okay?”

My monologue was doing nothing to distract Eddie from his inspection of the windshield. “Mrrrr,” he said.

“Mrr to you, too.” I sat in the driver’s seat and reached forward, but Eddie was having nothing to do with me. Without visibly moving, he edged six inches away and said, “Mrrrr!”

“Right. You said that before. Now, if you’d just—”

“Mrr!”

I winced. “Quit howling,” I whispered. “You’re going to scare the kids and I know you don’t want to do that, so—”

“Mrrr!”

Just as Eddie’s howls pierced my eardrums, a battered pickup truck rattled past. On the side was a magnetic sign that read BOB’S BUSINESS; WE DO THE CHORES YOUR HUSBAND WILL NEVER GET AROUND TO.

I smirked at the sign and, since Eddie was studying the truck intently, used the opportunity to lean forward and snatch him off the dashboard. I gave him a good snuggle and in seconds he was purring. “Now, what was that all about?” I asked. “Didn’t you like the noise that truck made?” Because it had been loud. “I bet that’s what was bothering you, wasn’t it?”

Eddie made an annoyed kind of chirp and squirmed off my lap. As he marched down the aisle toward Mike Mulligan, a new thought popped into my brain.

Did Henry’s neighbor, Cole Duvall, have a guy who did chores for him? Because I couldn’t think of anyone better to talk to about Duvall than his caretaker. A caretaker would have opinions about Duvall’s character, would know when Duvall had been north, and would know his habits and hobbies. And maybe, just maybe, the caretaker would be able to give me that magic piece of information that would make the entire puzzle fit together.

I tucked the idea in the back of my head for later follow-up and went to join the story.

• • •

The evening was close to warm, and after a dinner of grilled cheese and salad—no, Mom, I don’t eat out every night—I went to sit in the front deck’s sunshine and make some phone calls. Half an hour later, not even the brilliant sun sparkling off the water was making me feel any better.

I tossed my cell onto the table and looked over at Eddie, who was lounging on the chaise like a lion overlooking his pride.