Лори Касс - Borrowed Crime

While it was refreshing to have someone in the sheriff’s office who was concerned about my well-being, I was pretty sure it was because no one would want the job of figuring out how I’d gotten myself killed. “Thanks,” I said. “I’ll make sure to keep an eagle eye out for rifles pointed in my direction.”

He looked down, and it was my turn to flush. Once again, my mother’s admonition to think first and be sarcastic in privacy at a later time had gone unheeded. This time I did start to thank him, but he ignored me.

“As we told you before,” he said, “we’ll do our best to find the person who killed Mr. Slade.”

“Sure.” But I couldn’t help thinking how hard it might be. What if the shooter had been a guy from downstate? From out of state? No matter how hard they tried, Ash and Detective Inwood might never catch the guy who was responsible. And if this someone might actually have taken a shot at me . . . ? The skin at the back of my neck prickled.

Nah. There was no way.

Ash flicked at his notepad. “Well, I guess that’s all I wanted to tell you.”

Really? Why on earth hadn’t he just called? Maybe this was part of the reason he was still a deputy and not a detective. Inwood wouldn’t even have bothered to call. “Thanks.” I started to stand. “I appreciate your time.” Even if he had raised the hairs on the back of my neck with his silly remote possibility.

The deputy scrambled to his feet, notepad in hand. “You’re welcome, Minnie. And, uh, if you don’t mind, I have another question for you.”

“Fire away.” I grabbed my purse from the chair upon which I’d tossed it and slung the strap over my shoulder. I smiled at him. “Librarians have the best answers, you know?”

He paused, then looked down at his notebook. “Well, I—”

From deep in my coat pocket came the sound of Wagner’s approaching Valkyries. Stephen. I reached for my cell phone. “Sorry. It’s my boss. I should probably answer this.”

Ash nodded. “Sure. No problem. I’ll talk to you later.” He opened the door for me.

“Thanks,” I said, thumbing on the phone. “Hello, Stephen. What can I do for you?”

“I’m told you were in the sheriff’s office,” he said. “I’d appreciate an update.”

How Stephen managed to hear about things was a complete mystery. “Walking out the door right now,” I said, doing that very thing. It felt good to be able to tell him the complete truth every so often. “They told me that Roger Slade’s death was most likely an accident.” More or less.

Stephen gave a hmmph ing sort of grunt.

“So that’s good news,” I prompted him. “Right?”

“No. As far as Roger’s sister is concerned, her brother is still dead. Her lawsuit doesn’t speak to the manner of death; it simply casts the library as negligent.”

Which didn’t make a lot of sense to me, but maybe that was part of the reason Tammy Shelburt was a wealthy business owner and I was treading financial water as a bookmobile librarian.

By now I was outside, standing on the sidewalk in front of the sheriff’s office. I started to ask about the lawsuit, then realized that no one was there, because my boss had, in his Stephen-like manner, ended the call with no good-bye.

I slid the phone into my pocket and stood there, thinking.

As far as Stephen was concerned, until Tammy’s suit was resolved to the benefit of the library, I was still on the hook. Also at risk, by virtue of my close personal relationship with a very large vehicle, was the bookmobile.

Not to mention . . . well, my life.

Something my dad had once told me about financial planning floated to the top of my brain. “No one,” he’d said gravely, “will care as much about your money as you do.” The police were no doubt doing their best to figure out who killed Roger. But if someone was after me, unlikely as that possibility might be, would anyone care as much as I did?

There was only one answer to that: nope. Which meant it was time for me to get some answers.

I stood there for a moment, thinking, then called the library. Kelsey answered. I coughed and told her I felt like I might be coming down with a bad cold. “Sorry,” I said, trying to sound weak and pathetic and pushing away all feelings of guilt. “But I think the last place I should be this afternoon is the library.”

Kelsey made murmurs of sympathy and told me to get some sleep.

“Good advice,” I said, and it was, for someone who was sick. I could have used some advice regarding finding anyone with a reason to kill Roger Slade, but that wasn’t something I was going to ask Kelsey.

As I walked back to the boardinghouse to get my car, I thought about who I could talk to about Roger. Coworkers. Neighbors. People from his church. Anyone he’d grown up with, except his sister, Tammy, of course. Golfing buddies, if he had any. Poker buddies. Fishing buddies. Roger had been a likable guy; there were lots of people who might be able to tell me something.

It was time to get busy.

* * *

“My first attempts at finding a motive for murder were a complete bust,” I told Eddie that night. “No one had anything but nice things to say about Roger. Everyone looked truly upset that he’s dead.” More than that, there was a lot of anger at the guy who’d killed him; if I’d wanted to get up a posse, it would have been easy. But I’d only talked to a fraction of the people I wanted to, and maybe at some point I’d turn over the right rock.

Eddie yawned at my face, whiffing out a distinct odor of cat food.

“What was that?” I asked. “Did you say ‘Tomorrow is another day,’ or ‘Good things come to those who wait’? Neither is useful, just so you know. Do you have anything else to share?”

Eddie stared straight at me. “Mrr,” he said.

“Well, I knew that.”

“Mrr!”

“You’re right,” I told him. “You’re always right. I don’t know why I ever doubt you.”

“Mrr,” Eddie said, and curled up on my lap, purring.

Chapter 7

The next day was a bookmobile day. With Denise out as a volunteer, I had dragooned Donna into being my temporary assistant.

“You’ll get all the benefits that the regular volunteers do,” I’d promised her the day before.

She’d made a rude noise that was very ungrandmotherly. “And what’s that? A pat on the back?”

“Cookies from Cookie Tom’s,” I’d said. “Still warm.” Last summer Tom had set me up with a deal on cookies and, even better, let me pick them up from the back door rather than making me stand in line.

That had perked her up a little. “Do I get to pick?”

I’d hesitated. Donna had a penchant for licorice flavor, something I wasn’t fond of. I wasn’t sure whether Tom had a licorice-flavored cookie, but did I want to risk it? “Sure,” I said bravely. “Anything you want.”

She’d laughed and shoved at my shoulder a little. One of the reasons Donna worked part-time instead of full-time was her hobbies of marathon running and long-distance snowshoeing. She was only a couple of inches taller than me, but she was much stronger and fitter.

So, when I staggered backward from her shove, I didn’t feel incompetent at having been physically bested by a woman more than thirty years my senior. At least not completely.

“Get me a few of those coconut chocolate chip, and I’ll be your slave for the day,” she said. “Anything special I should bring?”

“A lunch,” I’d said. “And don’t wear anything black.”

She’d winked. Donna knew all about Eddie. “Or white,” she said, nodding. “I have just the thing.”

Now I glanced over at her, still not quite believing what she’d chosen as appropriate bookmobile wear.