Лори Касс - Borrowed Crime

The day was partly sunny, partly cloudy, the kind of weather that had you zipping and unzipping your coat as clouds passed over the sun. I was in unzip mode, my face turned up to the radiating warmth that might not be back until April, as I turned the last corner. My thoughts were wandering from the bookmobile to Tucker to Eddie to the library board and back around to the bookmobile. Since I was so busy thinking, I didn’t notice that the library’s door was opening until it banged into me.

“Oh, goodness, I’m so sorry!” A woman exclaimed. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?” She readjusted the bag of books she was carrying.

“Not your fault. I’m the one who wasn’t paying attention.” I looked at the woman and burrowed through my brain for her name. Blond. A little older than me . . . got it.

“Thanks for not running into me, Allison.”

She smiled, said, “Have a nice day,” and walked toward the parking lot.

I stood, sort of watching her climb into a silver sedan that looked expensively new, but mostly enjoying the sunshine. But then a cloud moved over the sun and the temperature plummeted, so I went inside.

Where Denise Slade was standing in the entryway, arms folded and frowning. But not at me; at Allison Korthase.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

Denise’s frown went deeper. “For a new member of the city council,” she said, “that woman could stand to learn some manners.”

I’d been the one who hadn’t been paying attention to where I going; it hadn’t been Allison’s fault at all. But there was no way Denise was going to listen to me so I said, “I didn’t realize you knew her.”

Denise made a rude noise. “This is Chilson. There’s maybe half a degree of separation between everyone in town. Of course I know her.”

I murmured something noncommittal and marginally polite, and started moving away. But Denise wasn’t ready for me to leave.

“Everybody says she’s so nice. Ha.” Denise sniffed. “That woman doesn’t know the meaning of the word ‘nice.’ And she hates cats. Says she’s allergic, but I think she just hates them, and how can you trust someone who doesn’t like cats?”

I didn’t see the connection between cats and trust, but decided not to ask for an explanation.

“You know what she’s really like?” Denise pointed her chin in the direction of Allison’s brake lights. “She’s cheap. That fancy car? Her brother-in-law runs a car dealership downstate. He gives her a deal, so she leaves town to buy her cars.”

It actually sounded pretty sensible to me, and I didn’t even have a brother-in-law.

“And she’s always first to our book sales.” Denise folded her arms even tighter. “She wants to look at the new arrivals, just to make sure she gets ahead of everyone else.”

This was getting deep into the Gossip Zone, a place my mother had warned me about. I smiled and started edging into the building. “Sounds like you should try to recruit Allison to the Friends of the Library.”

“Her?” Denise rolled her eyes. “Not in a million years. She always thinks she knows the best way to do things. One of those people who never listens to anyone and thinks she’s the center of the universe, if you know what I mean.”

I nodded in solemn agreement, but Denise wasn’t waiting for my response.

“We’re down a member, thanks to Pam Fazio’s hissy fit, but we’re not desperate enough to ask Allison Korthase to join. Not now, not ever.”

Another mental note got jotted down, this one to ask around about the history between Denise and Allison. “I saw Pam the other day,” I said. “I hadn’t realized she’d quit the Friends.”

“Really?” Denise narrowed her eyes. “How could you not have known? I thought everyone would be talking about it.”

The unhappy twist of her countenance reminded me of my mother’s statement that if I made a face often enough, it would freeze that way. “Well, I—”

“I can’t believe you didn’t know.” She shook her head in exasperation. “So, you never heard what she said?”

“About what?”

Denise put her hands on her hips. “What she said to me! She went into a tailspin about something—I don’t even remember now what it was. She stomped to the door and said, ‘Don’t bother asking me back. I won’t be back, not unless you die and someone else gets to be president.’ Then she whipped around and left.” Denise snorted. “Like I’d ever ask her to come back. Pam was more trouble than she was worth, always arguing about every little decision. I mean, honestly, how could anyone care so much about the hours the used bookstore is open?”

There was a pause, which I realized meant she wanted me to agree with her. Off in the distance, the courthouse’s tower clock chimed the hour. Saved by the bell. I nodded in its direction. “Sorry, Denise, but I’m scheduled to start work right now. Hope you had a good Thanksgiving.”

My parting sentence had been a social sentiment said without thought, and I wanted to kick myself when I saw the darkness fall across her face.

Of course she hadn’t had a good Thanksgiving. Her husband was dead and the day must have been an endurance test beyond all measure. I’d heard the family had chosen to have a private funeral the day before Thanksgiving, with a memorial service next summer. And now Christmas was coming, with all its enforced cheer. The prospect must have been horrific to her.

So I stepped back to her side and gave her a fast, hard hug.

“Thanks,” she whispered, then coughed and pulled away. “I wanted it to be a nice day.” She looked at me and half smiled. “But it was pretty horrible.”

I tried to think of something to say, but there was really only one thing. “I’m sorry.”

The smile stayed on her face. “You’d better get going. I don’t want Stephen marking you tardy.”

When I reached the door, when I had it half open, I paused, not wanting to look back, but knowing I should. If I looked back, if she was still standing there, if she still had that half smile stuck on as if it were painted on, I’d have to go back and do what I could to help.

But she was gone.

* * *

I’d barely had time to bring my office’s computer to life when the phone rang. “Good afternoon. This is Minnie Hamilton. How may I help you?”

“I think you’ve helped me quite enough already,” a male voice growled.

It was a familiar voice, but not familiar enough for me to identify the speaker. I hated when people did that. “Excuse me,” I said, “but I didn’t catch your name.”

He coughed directly into my ear, and I hoped no one else used his phone, as the cough sounded horrible.

“Detective Inwood,” the detective said, sounding more like himself. “Am I correct in saying that you sent Mitchell Koyne to my office?”

I sat back, grinning, and crossed my ankles. “Mitchell said he had information about Roger Slade. I thought the investigating detective should have all possible information about a murder victim.”

“It’s not necessarily murder,” he said stiffly. “There’s still a strong possibility of accidental death.” I snorted, but he ignored me. “Besides,” he said, “having a list of Mr. Slade’s third-grade classmates isn’t intrinsically useful to the case.”

“No?” I asked, though I was thinking Too bad. That’s what you get for being so hard on Ash Wolverson, you big bully.

“No,” he said, “and I’m quite sure you knew that.”

“All information can be useful,” I said in my librarian voice. “It’s just a matter of finding the correct application.”

“I see what you mean,” the detective said, sounding entirely unconvinced. “And do you have any more information?”