Лори Касс - Borrowed Crime

“Cats aren’t big on taking advice,” I said. “They’d much rather give it.”

I flicked on the turn signal and started braking. It was time for our first stop of the morning, in the parking lot of what had originally been a gas station, and was now a . . . Well, I wasn’t sure exactly what it was. A store, sure, but a store that defied description. The owner stocked everything from apples to taxidermy supplies. On the surface, it fit the definition of an old-fashioned general store, but there was also a corner with tables, copies of the Wall Street Journal , and free Wi-Fi.

“General stores don’t stock the Wall Street Journal ,” I muttered, bringing the bookmobile to a stop.

Julia laughed. “Wake up and smell the twenty-first century, Minnie Hamilton.”

I pretended to sniff the air, then frowned, shaking my head. “I like my stereotypes and I’m going to keep them.”

“Mrr,” Eddie said.

“You two are quite the pair.” Julia unbuckled her seat belt and reached forward to open the pet carrier’s wire door. “There you go, Mr. Edward. You are free to move about the bookmobile.”

“Mrr.”

“You’re very welcome,” she replied.

Julia and I fired up the two computers, took the holds out of the milk crate we used to haul books from the library to the bookmobile, un-bungeed the chair at the rear desk, and unlocked the doors. Eddie watched our activity from his current favorite perch, the driver’s seat headrest, and made the occasional critical comment.

“What do you think he’s saying?” Julia, who was straightening the large-print books, cast a glance Eddie-ward.

I snorted. “That he wants a cat treat.”

“Maybe,” she said in the tone indicating she was about to get creative, “he’s saying that every day is a gift. That today, especially, is a gift and we should—”

The back door opened and a few sturdy-sounding footsteps later a man came into view. Henry Gill could have been a young-looking eighty or an old-looking sixty, but with his bald head, fit frame, and complete and utter crankiness, he was one of those people you just didn’t think of in terms of age.

“Good morning, Henry,” I said.

The look he gave me as his return greeting made me wonder whether my hair, which was black and shoulder length and far too curly, had gone up in flames without my noticing.

Eddie gave Henry a long visual examination, then jumped down from the console and trotted down the aisle. He bonked Henry’s shin with the top of his hard, furry head, then started twining around his ankles in the cat-standard figure eight.

“What’s that cat doing?” Henry asked.

Intentionally annoying you, I thought. “Sorry about that,” I said, then picked up my cat for a small snuggle. “If you’re in the market for biographies today, we have a new one of Theodore Roosevelt you might like.”

Henry grunted but didn’t nod, so I wasn’t sure whether he’d meant “Why, yes, Minnie, that sounds wonderful. Thank you for being such an outstanding librarian,” or “Whatever.” I gave a mental shrug, patted Eddie on the head, then left Henry alone, or as alone as you can leave someone in a bookmobile.

Other people came on board, and the time passed quickly. Julia and I were kept busy with helping people find books and checking them out, and at the end of the forty-five-minute stop, Henry was the last patron to leave.

I checked his books into the computer and slid them back across the counter to him. “Would you like a plastic bag?”

He picked up the books, shaking his head, then put them back down again. “Here,” he said shortly, reaching into his coat pockets with both hands. He drew out two brown paper bags and handed them to me. “For you and her,” he said, tipping his head toward Julia, then picked up his books and tramped down the steps and outside.

“What are those?” Julia asked.

“No idea.” I gave her one.

“Everyone says Henry Gill has turned a little strange since his wife died,” Julia said, not opening the bag. “Rock, paper, scissors to decides who opens theirs first?”

Patrons bearing questionable gifts were another thing no one had warned me about in college. Before I could scare myself into imagining what could lurk inside, I opened the bag, reached in, and drew out a mason jar filled with a golden liquid.

“Oh, my.” Julia’s voice carried reverence and awe. “It’s maple syrup. I take back every unkind thought I ever had about that man.”

I held the jar up to the light, admiring the liquid gold, and, once again, came up against the reality that we never really knew what goes on inside people’s heads. Henry as a maple syrup Santa? I would never have guessed it. “Who would have guessed?” I murmured.

“What’s that?” Julia asked.

“Henry,” I said. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like him.”

She nodded. “He could have made a fortune as a character actor. Never would have gone a day without work.”

“You’re probably right,” I said, laughing, although I couldn’t imagine Henry living anywhere but northern Michigan.

“Oh, I am. He has that sparkle.” She held up her hands and used her fingers to make imaginary fireworks. “It’s hidden, but he has a hard kernel of personality that is bedrock and unchanging. A good director would draw that out of him in two rehearsals.”

“So you’ve thought about this.”

“I cast everyone I meet,” she said, sighing. “Occupational hazard.”

“Even him?” I nodded in the direction of our furry friend. At this particular moment he was curling himself up onto the computer keyboard, and I made a mental note to vacuum it at the earliest opportunity.

“Eddie is the levity that every drama needs,” she said. “The humor that allows the tragedy to be felt more deeply. The dose of reality in every fantasy.”

I walked away before she could cover every type of play in existence. Eddie as everyman? Please.

Eddie lifted his head an inch, met my gaze, and winked.

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