Лори Касс - Borrowed Crime

I laughed and picked an errant Eddie hair from my pant leg. “Here,” I said, handing it over to him. “We’ll call it a draw.”

We exchanged cat names and cat antics for a bit, and when that conversation started to lag, he said with a sigh, “But I lured you in with the promise of a story.”

“You did,” I agreed. “I recommend starting at the beginning.”

“Always a good idea.” Otto sipped his wine. “And I suppose the beginning of this particular story starts last summer with Leo.”

I sat up straight and almost spilled my glass. Which would have been a shame, because the wine was extremely good. Maybe Kristen’s lessons were finally rubbing off. “Leo Kinsler?”

“The very one. Leo and I have been friends since high school.”

Leo had also been one of my aunt’s boarders last summer. He’d driven off into the metaphorical sunset with another of her boarders and, every so often, we’d get e-mails or Facebook posts from the pair.

“Late last spring,” Otto was saying, “Leo told me he was coming up here for the summer, to stay in a boardinghouse, of all places. Now, don’t look at me like that. My images of a boardinghouse were based on my great-uncle’s Depression-era stories. I tried to convince Leo to stay home where he belonged, where we could golf all summer like always, but he was intent on coming north.”

I blinked. “Leo golfs?”

“He’s a seven handicap.”

“Is that good?”

Otto looked at me over the rim of his wineglass. “I take it you’re not a golfer.”

While I was excellent at miniature golf, I suspected that wasn’t what he was talking about. “So, Leo came up here in June, against your advice?”

“Stubborn bugger,” Otto said, nodding. “But he loved it up here. Every time we talked or e-mailed, he’d paint this picture of a northern Michigan Shangri-la. He talked about Chilson, about how it sits on the edge of Janay Lake and next to Lake Michigan, about how the people are open and welcoming. He described the countryside, with its hills and lakes and winding roads. He told me about the boardinghouse, about the maps thumbtacked to the knotty pine walls, about the bell someone always rings before meals. He talked about the other boarders.” Otto studied his glass. “He talked about you, about Eddie, about the bookmobile. And . . . and he talked about Frances.”

With a blinding flash of the obvious, I saw all. Leo had spun Otto a fantasy so vivid that he’d fallen in love with my aunt without ever meeting her. Good job, Leo, I thought sourly.

“I drove up in early September,” Otto said, “and Chilson was everything Leo said it was.”

“Really?” I found that hard to believe. I loved my adopted town dearly, but it was in no way a fairy-tale place. Real people—with real problems and real personalities—lived in it, and real life was often messy.

Otto smiled. “I gave up wearing rose-colored glasses decades ago, Minnie. Too many of my clients were elected officials. I knew Leo’s description glossed over some bumps. But overall, I’ve found that he was right. The second week I was here, this house went up for sale. I told Leo, and he said it was fate.”

I made a rude noise in the back of my throat, and Otto laughed. “That’s more or less what I told Leo, but I bought the house anyway. I’ve been enjoying myself immensely, settling in and getting to know people around town.”

“But not my aunt Frances.”

He slid down in his chair a little, diminishing himself. “No,” he said quietly. “Not her. I’d been working up the courage to knock on her door and I was almost there, but then the other night you told me about her woodworking skills, about her teaching. What does a woman that interesting and accomplished need with a man like me? What can I offer her? I’m a retired accountant. It’s hard to get more boring than that.” His shoulders sagged, and his wineglass came dangerously close to tipping over.

I eyed him. He seemed sincere, but I barely knew the man. What guarantee did I have that he wasn’t some crazed stalker who would make my aunt’s life miserable?

“Here.” Otto pulled a cell phone from his shirt pocket. “Let me call Leo. You can ask him anything you like about me.” He quirked up a smile. “Well, anything except what we did to Mr. Lane’s physics room after school that day.”

He pushed a few buttons and handed me the phone. “Otto!” Leo said. “It’s warm and sunny in southern Texas. How’s northern Michigan?”

“Cold and rainy,” I said, smiling. “And it turns out that Eddie isn’t fond of snow.”

There was a pause. “Minnie.” Leo laughed. “You have got to be kidding me. Otto actually introduced himself?”

Sort of. “To me. Should I introduce him to Aunt Frances?”

“Ah.” Leo chuckled. “He hasn’t worked up to that, has he? Otto is a great guy, and I can say that because I’ve known him for more than fifty years. He’s the best CPA I’ve ever met, but he’s as horrible with women as he is good with numbers. He managed to get married once, but she died years ago and they didn’t have any children. He’s been alone ever since.”

I stood, walked to the fireplace, and kept my voice low. “If my aunt was your sister, would you introduce them?”

Leo snorted. “I did introduce him to my sister, years ago, but she went and married a guy who owns a masonry business. Minnie, all Otto needs is a break. He gets stage fright something horrible when he meets women. I bet you’ve seen him a dozen times, coming out of his house but then going back in.”

Clearly, Leo knew Otto very well.

“All he needs is a break,” Leo repeated. “Do me a favor and introduce them. If things don’t work out, it wasn’t meant to be. But if they do, well, we’ll have two less lonely people in the world.”

I wanted to object, to say that my aunt wasn’t lonely—how could she be with me in the winter and a houseful of boarders in the summer? But I knew better. Every so often, I saw her sadness, saw how solitude scraped at her.

After thanking Leo, I handed the phone back to Otto and asked, “Do you know Denise Slade?”

His blank look instantly convinced me that he didn’t. If he had known her, he would have shown some sort of reaction. Not that a newcomer to Chilson was likely to have killed Roger in an attempt on Denise’s life, but you never knew— anyone can commit murder —and I had to protect Aunt Frances. As much as she would let me, anyway.

“Come over Monday night,” I said. “After dinner. I’ll make the introductions. Now stop looking so scared.” I put my hands on my hips and gave him a mild version of the Librarian Look until he smiled. “That’s better. I’m a very good introducer, and the two of you will be friends in no time.”

Otto got up to fetch my coat. “Maybe this can wait,” he said tentatively.

“Monday night,” I said.

On my way back across the street, I started laughing out loud. I was about to matchmake the matchmaker. If there weren’t the specter of the bookmobile’s demise hanging over my head, and the very real possibility that someone out there was still trying to kill Denise, I would have thought that life was very good.

* * *

The next morning, the rain was falling down so heavily that I drove to the library. I arrived early and scampered through a number of tasks that would look at me sorrowfully and shake their heads in despair if I didn’t get them done. But as soon as I finished the last have-to job, I shut my office door and went back to my desk with one thing on my mind.

Save the bookmobile.

Which meant figuring out who killed Roger. Which, I was sure, meant figuring out who wanted to kill Denise.