Лори Касс - Lending А Paw

Wolverson lowered himself into an easy crouch and studied the remains. “Got it a good one, didn’t he?” He glanced up at me. “You okay?”

“Mad, mostly.”

He smiled. “Healthy reaction. Good for you.” Standing, he walked to the front end and looked at the ruined tire that was still attached. “No damage other than the tires, looks like. Some fine driving on your part, Ms. Hamilton.” He took a small notebook out of his shirt pocket. “How far apart were the shots, timewise?”

We did the question and answer routine for a few minutes. I pointed to where I’d seen the rifle-toting quad rider drive off, and the deputy made extensive notes. When he was done, he lifted his gaze to the distant line of hills. “You know that Larabee’s farmhouse is that way, just two or three miles, right?”

I nodded. Steep and rough miles, but nothing for a quad.

“Maybe there’s no connection between your bookmobile’s tires being shot out and his murder,” he said, “but maybe there is. I’ll take some pictures and do what I can out here, but I’m going to pass this on to the detectives in charge of the Larabee case.”

I’d guessed as much and had actually hoped for it, because at this exact moment Holly was working at the library. Had been, all afternoon. If there was any silver lining to this episode, it was that now Holly would be dropped to the bottom of their suspect list.

• • •

After Eddie and I got home, courtesy of the tow truck’s narrow backseat, I made the dreaded phone call. “Stephen? Sorry to bother you at home. It’s Minnie. I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

At the end of my recitation of the afternoon’s events, Stephen grunted and asked, “The bookmobile will be out of commission for how long?”

“Just a few days, they told us.”

“Us?” Stephen’s voice was sharp. “You had a volunteer on the bookmobile when some maniac with a rifle was shooting at you?”

“No, no,” I assured him. “I dropped Thessie off long before that. By us I meant me and the bookmobile and three thousand books.” I laughed as if I hadn’t a care in the world. Stephen didn’t laugh with me. I tried not to take that as a bad omen, since Stephen had never been prone to breaking into uncontrollable laughter, or any kind of laughter for that matter, but a sick sensation started gnawing at the back of my brain. Stephen hated the bookmobile. He would use any excuse to take it away.

“We’ll be off the road one week maximum,” I said, projecting assurance into my voice. “And the guys said the tires may even get up here in time for Saturday’s run.”

Stephen grunted. “Keep me informed,” he said.

He sounded grumpy, but not the world-class grumpy that he’d been. “Say, Stephen, you’re starting to sound more like your old self. Have you had one of those summer colds?”

“No, it’s my . . .” He stopped. “I’m fine.” A pause. “But thank you for asking.”

Thank you? Stephen had unbent enough to say thank you? It was a day to remember. “One more question,” I said. “Do you know if Holly scheduled the summer book sale with the Friends?” I’d meant to do it myself the day before, but had forgotten and asked Holly to take care of the small chore.

“Holly went home early,” he said. “One of her children was sick, I was told.”

Sighing, I hung up the phone. “So much for Holly being dropped to the bottom of the list,” I told Eddie. While I’d been on the phone with Stephen, Mr. Ed had placed himself exactly in the center of the dining table. By rights, I should be enforcing the No Cats on the Table rule. Somehow, though, I didn’t have the heart. Not tonight.

“Mrr,” he said, then shut his eyes and purred.

Smiling, I scratched him behind his fuzzy ear. He wasn’t so bad for an Eddie.

• • •

The next morning I was hard at work sorting through applications for a new part-time library clerk when the detectives stopped by.

“Can we have a moment of your time?” Detective Inwood asked.

“Sure.” The one guest chair for which my office had room was piled high with books. “Do you want to go into the conference room?”

“No, thanks,” said the short stout detective who was shaped like the letter D . Devereaux. “We just want to get your story about yesterday.” He pulled a small notebook from his jacket pocket. Its cardboard covers were curved slightly, molded to the shape of his body.

As clearly as possible, I related the events of the day before. The lurching of the bookmobile. The second lurch. My sighting of the quad and the rifle. And how the distance from where the bookmobile’s tires had been blown out to the farmhouse wasn’t that far, not cross-country with a quad.

Detective Devereaux flipped his notebook shut. “Bet it was some kid messing around,” he said, chuckling. “Probably he was shooting at a stop sign and missed.” They both laughed.

If I’d been a cartoon, steam would have poured out of my ears. “He came close to destroying a vehicle worth a quarter of a million dollars,” I said.

The laughter stopped. “Yes, ma’am,” said Detective Inwood. “We realize that. We’ll find him. People talk, and kids talk even more. It won’t take long to track him down.”

I nodded, slightly mollified.

“What garage is working on the vehicle?” he asked. I told him and he nodded. “We’ll take a look at the blown tires. Where were you when this happened?” When I gave him directions, he said, “We’ll check it out.”

He was saying the right things, but I sensed that I was losing them. “Do you think there’s any link between Stan’s murder and the bookmobile?” Yesterday I’d spent hours driving up and down the same few roads, trying out routes. The bookmobile was a big thing and didn’t move very fast. Easy enough to follow it, if you wanted.

I didn’t want to come out and ask if they thought my life was in danger, but how could it not be a possibility? I was very attached to my life and I wasn’t keen on it ending any time soon.

The detective smiled. “Ma’am, like I said, we’re investigating every possibility. If there’s a link, we’ll find it.”

And with that, they were gone.

I stared after them, my face red with the effort of restraining my temper. They’d find it? Sure they would. Right after they figured out what really happened to the lost colony on Roanoke Island and right before they tracked down D. B. Cooper.

• • •

“Hiya, Minnie. What’s that you’re doing?”

I jumped. I was doing a stint at the research desk and Mitchell Koyne had done his usual trick of walking up from behind and scaring the living crap out of me. I pushed back from the desk and looked up at him. “Hey, Mitchell. I’ve been meaning to ask you something. You know Gunnar Olson, right?”

“Olson . . . oh, yeah. Big guy, too much money, not enough nice?”

I smiled. Mitchell had pegged it. “He said you did some driving for him a few weeks ago.”

“Yeah. Buddy of mine said a bud of this guy he knows was going to be in town for the weekend without a car and needed somebody to drive him around.” He shrugged. “Paid me decent. Cash, too.”

“Where did you take him?”

“Did more waiting than taking. Don’t know why he didn’t rent a car. I told him so, but he said I was stupid to talk myself out of a job.” Mitchell shrugged. “Hey, I was trying to save him money, but whatever.”

“You drove him around town?”

“What?” He tipped his head the other way to look at my computer from another angle. “In Chilson, you mean? Hardly any.”

My breath stopped, but my heart beat on and on, whooshing air through my veins and arteries so loudly that I could hardly hear anything else. I sucked in air and my ears started working again. “Then where did you take him?” To the farmhouse? The answer to Stan’s murder couldn’t really be so simple, could it? If anyone could have missed a murder happening under his nose, it would be Mitchell.