Лори Касс: Lending А Paw

“Casino.” He pointed at the computer. “You looking to buy some property? I could find you some cheap acreage, if you want. There’s a sweet quarter section I know about, lots of maples you could harvest, probably pay for itself and then some. And the guy who owns an eighty next to me wants to sell.”

I swallowed down a laugh. Me, buy eighty acres of land? Mitchell obviously didn’t know the size of my salary. “Which casino?”

“More like which one didn’t we go to.” Mitchell shook his head. “I don’t get gambling. I mean, sure, maybe you’ll win sometimes, but those places aren’t dumps. You got to figure they’re making money hand over hand.”

Little spin, Gunnar had said.

“You don’t gamble, Minnie, do you?” Mitchell asked.

Not unless you counted waking up every morning. “So you drove Gunnar around to casinos? You didn’t drive him around the rest of the county?”

“Here, you mean?” Mitchell pointed at the map on my computer screen.

I’d been using the county’s geographic information system. This view showed property lines and I’d zoomed into the eastern part of the county. One click on a parcel and up came details like legal description and taxable value. And property owner. I was poking around at the properties near where the bookmobile had been damaged, but I wasn’t reaching any conclusions. I needed more information and I had no clue how to get it.

Mitchell tapped the screen. “Can you move the picture over this way? A little more . . . yeah. This long skinny property here? I was out there cutting trees for some guy a few weeks ago. Ash. Dead from that emerald borer bug. Ever see one? They’re kind of cool looking, for bugs.”

“A few weeks ago?” I echoed. “Around when Stan Larabee was killed?”

“Uh, yeah. I guess. A little before, maybe.” He put his index finger on the screen, guaranteeing a streaky fingerprint I’d have to clean up later. “Is that where that farmhouse is? Can you turn on the picture?”

I clicked a few clicks, changing the base map from property lines to aerial photography. Though the resolution wasn’t anywhere near CSI standards, it was easy enough to make out the straight lines and regular planes of a roof. “There it is,” I said, trying not to see into my memory.

“That’s the place? Huh.” Mitchell rubbed his jaw, which, since it looked like he hadn’t bothered to shave in three days, made a sandpapery sort of noise.

“What?” I asked.

“Sometimes your brain just clicks things together, you know?”

I wasn’t sure I wanted to know what things were rattling around in Mitchell’s head, but I asked anyway.

“Well,” he said. “Two things. That Olson guy. I asked him why he came to Chilson instead of Petoskey or Traverse, and he said his dad used to bring him up here hunting. From what he said, this is the place.” He left another fingerprint on the screen, one that was centered on a property maybe half a mile south of the old Larabee farm. “He said there was this old junky cabin they stayed at. Wonder if it’s still there?”

The back of my neck tightened. “What was the other thing?” I whispered.

“What’s that? Oh, the other thing. When I was out there, cutting that wood, I saw some guy on a quad going up the hill behind that farmhouse where you found Larabee. Pretty sure, anyway.”

“Pretty sure that was the house or pretty sure you saw a guy on a quad?”

“Huh?” He stared at me. “Oh. Both, I guess.”

“You have to tell the police,” I said.

“Why the . . . I mean, why should I?”

I gave him the Librarian Look and started the lecture. “Because Stan Larabee was killed there. Because, not too far from there, someone on a quad shot out the bookmobile’s tires. Because it could be important. Because—”

“Okay, okay.” He reached up and reset his baseball cap. “I’ll stop by the cop shop, uh, later on.”

“Today,” I told him, but to Mitchell, the term was a fluid one. Later, he’d said. That meant he’d stop by the sheriff’s office when he got around to it. Or when he happened to remember. Mitchell-time, Holly called it. There was a reason Mitchell spent so much time at the library reading books and magazines he could have checked out; his overdue fines were nearing the three-figure mark. Right after Christmas, Stephen had laid down the law—no more lending books to Mitchell Koyne no matter how much he begged and pleaded, not until he paid up his fines. And maybe not even then, Stephen had thundered.

But this was too important to leave to Mitchell-time. The police needed to go back to the farmhouse and search for quad tracks. And I needed to tell them about Gunnar. Sure, Detective Inwood had said they were looking at Stan’s business associates, but how many of those associates had hunted near the old Larabee farm? If the cabin was still there, Gunnar could have hidden the quad and walked down to the farmhouse. How that worked with Gunnar’s lack of transportation, I wasn’t sure. Maybe he had a car stashed somewhere at the airport and only hired Mitchell to drive him as a cover and—

“Which reminds me,” Mitchell was saying. “It’s what, Wednesday? Do you want to, maybe, go out to a movie or something with me on Friday?”

Thanks to a good fortune I didn’t deserve, my mouth did not drop open and I didn’t blurt out the first thing that popped into my head. I took a breath, smiled kindly, and said, “Thanks, Mitchell, that’s very nice of you, but I’m seeing someone else right now.”

“Oh, yeah? Anybody I know?”

“I don’t think so. He’s the new emergency room doctor in Charlevoix.”

“Oh.” Mitchell’s shoulders drooped.

My heart ached for him. It was a brave thing to do, to ask someone on a date, and here I’d crushed his ego with one short sentence. He’d be despondent for weeks and—

He raised his head. “Say, do you think your friend Kristen would go out with me?”

I blinked, then smiled, remembering the night she’d barged into my date with Tucker. Paybacks can be glorious. “Why don’t you ask her?”

• • •

Late on Friday morning I decided I couldn’t wait for Mitchell any longer and decided to take matters into my own hands. Besides, I hadn’t taken a break yet and what better way to spend a morning break than at the sheriff’s office?

I passed the front desk, but stopped when I saw Holly, biting her lower lip and staring at nothing. “What’s the matter?” I asked. She shook her head and didn’t meet my eyes. “Hey, are you okay?”

Her head went up and down in a slow-motion nod. “It’ll be fine,” she said. “Right? The police . . .” She stopped, either not knowing where to go or not liking where she was going.

“It will be fine,” I said firmly. “Very fine. Matter of fact . . .” But then I stopped, too. I had no right to give her hope, no right to promise anything.

She turned to look at me. “What?”

Think, Minnie, think! “Matter of fact, I have the perfect thing to make you feel better. What do you think about a cinnamon roll from the Round Table?”

A wan smile came and went. “That sounds nice.”

“If anyone asks, I took a late break. I’ll be back in a few, okay?”

Out in the warming sun, I walked down the backstreets as far as I could, staying out of the heavy pedestrian traffic that was bound to be in the downtown’s core. At the last possible street, I dove into the downtown flow, stepping around a stroller, avoiding a woman talking on her cell phone, slowing down to avoid bumping into a tall, thin man walking with a short, round one who looked as if they’d just come out of the cookie shop.

Tall and thin, short and round. The letters I and D .