Borrowed Crime: A Bookmobile Cat Mystery (14 page)

It was a book on exercise, a very odd choice of reading material for my aunt. As far as I knew, she’d never exercised in her life. She stayed active with housework and gardening and spent a lot of time on her feet, but I couldn’t make my brain visualize her in running shorts.

She turned a page. “I like to know what I’m missing,” she said. “And from what I’ve been reading, I’m not missing much.”

Personally, I enjoyed working up a sweat every now and then, but I’d once heard Aunt Frances say that perspiration meant you should stop working so hard. I was pretty sure she was joking, but I also wasn’t sure I wanted to find out and remove all doubt.

I kicked off my shoes and tucked my short legs up underneath me. “I’m surprised Eddie isn’t on your lap.”

“He was,” Aunt Frances said, “but I think my choice of reading material disturbed him. He abandoned me a few minutes ago.”

There was an odd
thump, thump, thump
noise. Frowning, I turned, trying to pinpoint its origin. “What’s that?”

Aunt Frances flipped another page. “It started soon
after your cat left me, so your guess has to be better than mine.” She looked at me over the top of the book. “Do you have a guess?”

We sat there listening to the nonrhythmic thumping. “Not a clue,” I said. “Five bucks says it involves paper products.”

My friend Rafe and I regularly made five-dollar bets on everything from the price of a cup of coffee in Australia to the date the last bit of ice on Janay Lake melted. And I suddenly realized it had been a while since I’d seen Rafe. Since he was a principal, this often happened when school started, but it was almost Thanksgiving.

“No bet,” Aunt Frances said. “I think he’s in the bathroom.”

Where there were all sorts of paper products available for shredding purposes. And “shred” was indeed the word; Eddie didn’t just yank the toilet paper off the holder; he ripped great paper chunks off it all the way down to the core. If there was a newspaper or a magazine handy, he sank his claws into the middle and dragged them out to the edge. And he didn’t just claw at the top tissue that poked out of a box; he reached inside with his slinky paws and pulled out as many small pieces of tissue as he could.

Aunt Frances put her book down as I stood. “Why do you think he shreds that stuff?” she asked. “Is he trying to teach you a lesson?”

I snorted. “If he is, the only thing I’m learning is to be grateful that he hasn’t started ripping up books.”

But as I walked down the hall, getting ever closer to the thumping noise, I wondered. What, exactly, did Eddie get out of clawing and biting apart paper products? Was he sharpening his claws? Was he acting out some kitty aggression?

“Or,” I said, walking into the bathroom, “do you just like making a mess?” The large room was painted in periwinkle blue from the waist up and was white beadboard from the waist down. A Hoosier cabinet held towels and soaps and various Up North memorabilia that the summer boarders had accumulated over the years, but the room’s focal point was the biggest claw-foot bathtub I’d ever seen in my life.

Eddie’s head popped up over the edge of the tub.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Mrr,” he said, and dropped back down.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

I eyed the small stack of magazines on the corner of the Hoosier cabinet’s counter. All were intact. “What do you have in there?” I walked closer. “Because if you’ve taken some of those skipping stones from the jar over here, Aunt Frances is going to have your hide. Those things will chip the porcelain something fierce.”

As I neared, I realized that the sound was more like a
roll . . . thump . . . roll . . . thump . . . roll
. “Eddie,” I said, looking down, “if you’re not the weirdest cat on the planet, I don’t want to meet any who are weirder.”

My furry friend ignored me and continued to thump a rubber ball against the tub. He’d whack it with his paw, sending it rolling across the tub’s floor, watch it thump against the tub wall, then watch it roll back toward him.

The small red, white, and blue ball had been a giveaway to kids during Chilson’s annual Fourth of July parade, and, until recently, it had been part of the Hoosier cabinet’s memorabilia collection. How a cat could have moved it from the cabinet to the tub was another thing I probably didn’t want to know.

Eddie batted the ball one more time, then looked up at me.

“You know,” I said, “if you don’t pay attention, that ball’s going to—”

The ball thumped Eddie in the foot. He jumped high and fast, his tail fluffing up to three times its normal size.

I shook my head, returned to the living room, and reported to Aunt Frances.

“Hmm.” My aunt got a faraway look on her face. “That tub. For years I’ve thought about enclosing it with a beadboard surround. Lots of room for the bubble bath bottles and soaps. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

Eddie jumped up onto the couch, the ball in his mouth. “Mrr,” he said, dropping the ball onto my lap.

Aunt Frances looked at him. I looked at him.

“Does he want to play fetch?” she asked.

I picked up the ball and tossed it underhanded across the room. It bounced and eventually rolled to a stop in the doorway to the dining room.

Eddie plopped down, his back to me.

“I’m guessing
no
on the fetch thing,” I said.

“Mrr,” Eddie said.

“Glad I could help,” I told him.

“Mrr.”

“Anytime.”

“Mrr.”

“Don’t mention it,” I said.

“Mrr.”

“Not a problem.”

“Mrr.”

“That’s what—”

“Shhh!”
Aunt Frances said. “I’m trying to read over here.”

“Sorry,” I said meekly.

“Mrr,” Eddie said quietly.

“Isn’t that what I said?” I asked.

“Mrr.”

“Well, sure, but—”

With a sigh, Aunt Frances got up. “When you two are done playing Abbott and Costello, let me know. I’ll be in the bathtub.”

I grinned at Eddie, and I could have sworn he grinned back.

I
was at my desk the next morning, busy with work schedule readjustments of the “I’ll work every Saturday in December if I can have the day after Christmas off” variety, when my phone rang.

“Minnie, you need to come upstairs,” Stephen said.

I looked at the ceiling. “Okay. When—”

“Now,” he barked, and the phone went silent.

“Huh,” I said, replacing the receiver. The last Wednesday morning of the month had been the library’s board meeting time since there’d been a library. I got along with all the board members and willingly appeared before them when I requested things, from a new copy machine to the bookmobile, but never once had I been summoned.

I slugged back the last of my coffee as I glanced at yesterday’s postcard from Kristen.
Key West: shorts, flip-flops, tank top. Chilson: insulated boots, down coat, wool hat, lined mittens. Duh.
Somehow this reminded me to check for Eddie hair. I picked the most visible ones off my clothes and headed upstairs, trying not to guess why my presence was being requested, and not doing a very good job.

Guess number one: They’d found out about Eddie.

Number two: Mitchell Koyne had offended a board member so badly that life as Mitchell knew it was about to end.

Three: Something had gone horribly wrong with the library’s roof and we had to lay off half the staff to afford to fix it.
Would you like to be first, Minnie?

Four: They’d found out about Eddie.

Five: Someone had hacked into the library’s bank accounts and stolen all our money.

Six: Someone had hacked into the library’s lending records and was tweeting about who had read
Fifty Shades of Grey.

Seven: They’d found out about Eddie.

My face was set as I walked into the wood-paneled conference room. I didn’t know if it was the lack of natural light or the darkness of the walls or the furnishings, but I was rarely at my best in a space that was so pretentious that it edged into irony.

Stephen had selected a large dark table, black leather chairs with high backs, and, yes, black leather blotters that sat in front of each chair. At the far end sat the white-haired Otis Rahn, the board’s current president. Stephen was at his right hand and Sondra Luth, the board’s vice president, sat to Otis’s left.

The other five board members were strung down along the sides of the table, with no empty chairs between them, making the end closest to me completely vacant. Which was strange, because Stephen usually sat on the end opposite Otis, and the empty chairs were usually randomly spaced.

As I looked at the formal seating arrangement, I got a very bad feeling. “Good morning,” I said.

Instead of the smiles and “Good Morning, Minnie”
greetings that I normally got in return, I received a series of solemn nods, going from left to right around the table like a tiny library board version of the wave.

“Please take a seat,” Otis said, indicating the chair at the opposite end of the table from him.

I didn’t want to sit there. I would much rather have sat next to Linda Kopecky, retired high-school English teacher and avid reader of suspense novels, but I followed instructions and pulled out the chair.

Never before had I noticed what a nasty noise the casters made on the thick carpet. It was a soft, squishy noise as horrible in its own way as fingernails on a chalkboard. I sat, grabbed the table’s edge to pull myself forward, since my feet didn’t quite touch the floor, and folded my hands on the table, making me the ninth person in the room who was doing that.

I kept a pleasant expression stuck on my face, trying to appear the embodiment of the cooperative assistant director. The others shifted, looked at each other, looked at Otis, looked at Stephen, looked at their hands.

My feeling slid from Kind of Bad to Uh-Oh, This Is Going to Be Really Bad.

Stephen broke the silence. “Minerva, you know that the board is well aware of the incident that took place on the bookmobile the Saturday before last.”

My first instinct was to correct him—the incident, as he was putting it so delicately, had not taken place on the bookmobile. It had happened nearby. But I kept quiet and didn’t nod. I kept my gaze calm and steady. And, since he hadn’t posed a question, I didn’t say anything.

There was a short pause. When I continued to keep quiet, he went on. “As I told you earlier, Tammy Shelburt, sister to Roger Slade, is bringing suit against the library for negligence.”

“She’s hired one of the most aggressive law firms in the region,” Bruce Medler said. “They have an extremely high rate of success.”

I looked at him. Bruce was one of those guys with hair so short, he might as well have been bald. We regularly tried to top each other with bad puns, but just now I didn’t feel like telling him that writing with a broken pencil was pointless. And again, since there was no question, I remained silent.

“We’ve spoken to the library’s attorney,” Otis said gravely. “One of his recommendations to strengthen the library’s case is to accept your resignation.”

My skin suddenly felt a size too small for my body. There had to be something I could say to convince them that the advice of their attorney was absurd, but I couldn’t come up with a single thing.

Stephen cleared his throat. “I’ve told the board that the library will not function properly without an assistant director. The position is essential to operations. The board, however, has not yet taken a vote. This is why I called you upstairs.”

To what—speak in my own defense? I looked around the table. If eye contact, or lack of it, was an indication of how they’d vote, my chances were about fifty-fifty. I was starting to get an inkling of what sacrificial lambs might have felt like.

Sondra, the vice president, leaned forward. “Another of the attorney’s recommendations to strengthen the library’s case is the suspension of bookmobile operations until the matter is settled.”

I shot to my feet. “No!” As soon as I stood, I knew I’d made a mistake; strong emotions weren’t allowed in the boardroom—the wood paneling was supposed to keep them all out. Plus, I was presumed to be a
reasonable and rational adult. Leaping out of my chair didn’t exactly paint a picture of a reliable assistant director. But it was too late. I was up and needed to make the best of things.

Laying my palms flat on the table, I took in a deep breath and released it. I’d been taught the technique at my self-defense classes and felt my brain click into gear. Which was good, because in many ways, this was self-defense. I was under attack, the bookmobile was under attack, and I needed to be smarter than I’d ever been.

I studied each of their faces, then said, “It speaks well of this board that there is concern regarding the tragic events that led to Roger Slade’s death.”

Heads nodded, and I nodded back, feeling like a bobble-head doll that wasn’t quite in tune with its fellows.

“The sheriff’s office and I have had multiple conversations,” I went on, “and they feel that they’re close to making an arrest.” Of what I felt had to be the wrong person, but now wasn’t the time to get into that.

“A careless hunter,” Bruce said solemnly.

“They couldn’t tell me.” I looked around the table. “But there was a discussion regarding the possibility of murder.”

A collective intake of breath stole most of the air from the room. Clearly, no one had once thought that Roger’s death could have been anything except an accident.
Interesting.

“But,” I said, “there is no reason to punish the bookmobile for any of this. In the days since Roger died, bookmobile attendance hasn’t decreased and no one has called to cancel a stop. Matter of fact, I’ve had a request for an additional stop.”

I stood as straight and tall as I could, which wasn’t very, but since I was the only one standing, it worked out. “Garaging the bookmobile would deprive our patrons, the people who might need us the most, of access to everything that we offer.”

Spreading my arms wide, I gestured at the entire library, at the entire world. “Our mission statement is to provide materials and services to the entire community, not just the people who have the wherewithal to make it to this building.” I let my arms fall to my sides, hanging my head just a little. “Keeping our patrons from harm is, without doubt, the most important thing. But please think about how much harm it could do to deprive them of books.”

I sat down, already wishing I’d said something different. Of course, I couldn’t remember ever getting to use the word “wherewithal” in a sentence, written or spoken, so that was a tiny bonus.

At the other end of the table, the board members and Stephen had a short, whispered conversation. Otis looked down the length of the dark wood. “Minnie, thank you for your time. We’ll let you know when we make a decision.”

*   *   *

I walked back downstairs, my feet making Eddie-sized thumps on the steps. There was no way I was going to be able to get any work done until I heard from the board, so I grabbed the new ABOS coffee mug I’d picked up at the last Association of Bookmobile and Outreach Services conference and headed to the break room. If the next day hadn’t been Thanksgiving, I would have pawed through my desk drawer for change enough to get some chocolate from the vending machine, but maybe coffee would suffice.

Holly was on her way out of the room, but she took one look at my face and backed up. “Are you okay? No, you’re not. I can see that something horrible has happened. Sit down. I’ll get you some coffee—don’t worry, I didn’t let Kelsey make it this morning—and you can tell Aunt Holly all about it. Oh, and take a brownie. Josh’s mom dropped them off.”

I let Aunt Holly take charge, not even objecting when she cut off a huge slab of brownie and put it on a napkin in front of me. “Eat,” she commanded. “Then talk.”

Three bites later, I started to feel a little less shell-shocked. Two more and I was almost ready to talk. We adjourned to my office so I could be close to my phone, and I told her what had happened upstairs. Well, except the part where I might be forced to resign.

Holly objected in all the right places. “Are they nuts?” she asked, her face a little pink. “The bookmobile is the best thing that’s ever happened to this library! Sure, this new building is awesome and everything, but has it changed anyone’s life? People who come here were already coming to the library, maybe a few more, but not like the bookmobile. Did you tell them how many new library-card forms you’ve completed out there?”

I smiled. “You should have talked to the board instead of me.”

She shook her head rapidly. “No way. I freeze up something silly if I have to speak in public.”

“The board meetings aren’t like that,” I said. “It’s just a bunch of people sitting around a table.”

“And all of them staring at you when you say something. I’ll pass, thanks.” She gave a mock shudder. “But, hey, I wanted to tell you that I had to give up on Facebook.”

Facebook? Why . . . ?
Then I remembered. My concerns that Stephen had learned about Eddie felt long ago and far away.

“No matter who or what group I tracked,” she said, “I couldn’t find anyone who would have liked the same collection of groups Stephen would. So either he’s being smarter about this than I would have guessed, or he’s just not on Facebook.”

“Well, that’s good,” I said.

“Maybe, maybe not.” She pursed her lips. “The way I figure it, he’s got to be out there somewhere. Lurking. Spying on us. That’s the way he is, right? So he’s there, taking notes. I just have to figure out where he is. Twitter might be more his thing.”

“Or,” I offered, “he might not be on social media at all.”

Holly shook her head. “No, I don’t see it. It’s too big of a chance for him to gather up information.”

She was making him sound like a grand spymaster. Stephen had his quirks, and it wouldn’t hurt him to attend a few workshops on playing well with others, but he was an excellent library director, and I was starting to feel a little sneaky for, well, sneaking around about him.

“Thanks for doing this, Holly,” I said, “but I don’t want to take up so much of your time. If Stephen knows about Eddie, there isn’t much I can do about it until he decides to tell me.” Of course, if the board was going to fire me or keep the bookmobile from running, Stephen wouldn’t have to do anything.

I sighed.

Holly, who was a mother and therefore had that supermom sense for noticing the slightest mood anomalies, gave me an empathetic glance. “Yeah, I know.
You’re worried about what the board is going to say. When they call, let me know, okay?”

My phone rang. For two full rings, I just stared at it. My insides felt tingly and my head felt two sizes too small. When the third ring started, I snatched up the receiver. “Minnie Hamilton,” I said. “How may I help you?”

“The board has made a decision,” Stephen said.

My mouth’s dryness was immediate and absolute. There was no way I was going to be able to say a word until I got some fluid into it. I scrabbled for my coffee mug and took a long gulp. “What did they say?”

“They chose not to take a vote on requesting your resignation, at least for the time being.”

“Okay,” I said slowly. “What about the bookmobile?”

He let out a sharp breath. “Your point about the possibility of murder pushed that discussion in a completely new direction. The board now feels that if Roger Slade was, in fact, murdered, the library cannot be seen as negligent. We had a short conference call with the library’s attorney, and while he isn’t in complete agreement, he did agree that the case against the library would be weaker if murder could be proved.”

“So, I can keep the bookmobile on the road?”

Stephen barked out something that might have been a laugh. “Is that all you care about—the bookmobile?”

I wanted to say that I cared about a lot of things—world peace, finding a clean source of energy, and discovering a way to walk in the rain without getting mud splatters on my pants—but I was pretty sure Stephen’s question was rhetorical.

“The case will first appear in court the second Wednesday in December,” Stephen said. “How they
got it on the docket so soon, I don’t know, but they did. If you care so much about the bookmobile, you’d better solve this situation before then.” He banged the phone down.