Borrowed Crime: A Bookmobile Cat Mystery (6 page)

“I’m glad you weren’t acting like this in front of Roger,” I told him. “Talk about bad first impressions. So far he seems to like you and—”

And then I realized that Roger had been gone for a long time. If he didn’t get back soon, we’d risk being late for the next stop. I glanced at the dashboard clock, but couldn’t remember what time he’d left. It had been a while, though, and I’d been in that gas station on a regular basis since starting up the bookmobile; their sandwich offerings weren’t so numerous that it would take long to make a decision.

“Ham, turkey, or egg salad,” I told Eddie. “Sometimes roast beef.”

“MRRR!” Eddie slid out of my hands and started whacking the top of his head against the windshield. It made a loud and hollow thumping noise that made the inside of my skin cringe.

“Cut it out already, will you?” I grabbed for my cat, but he whipped out of my reach and kept bonking his head. “What is your deal? Have you bonded with Roger so quickly that you’re lost without him? I didn’t know I could be so easily replaced.”

Eddie glanced over his shoulder and stared me straight in the eye. “MMMRR!”

I glared back. “Fine. I’ll go see what’s keeping your new best friend. I’m sure he just got talking with the guy running the cash register.”

“Mrr.” Eddie jumped down to the passenger’s seat and sat, prim and proper and not looking at all like a cat who’d been beating his skull against thick glass.

I zipped up my coat, muttering about manipulative cats and their enabling humans. Shutting and locking the door behind me, however, I came to the not-so-profound realization that the term “manipulative cat” was redundant. “They’re all manipulative,” I said. Which made me grin, for some reason. I waved at Eddie, who opened his mouth in an “Mrr,” that I couldn’t hear, and trudged my way through snow to the front of the store.

Inside, I saw no sign of Roger.

“Hey,” said the thirtyish guy behind the counter. “Need something else?” He picked up his fountain soda, which was large enough to hydrate a family of nine, and slurped.

“Looking for Roger,” I said. “He came in after me. Brown Carhartt jacket, jeans, work boots.”

The guy looked at me like I was an idiot. “He left five minutes ago. Bought an egg-salad sandwich and a bag of chips, then left.”

This wasn’t making sense. “He didn’t come out to the bookmobile. You’re sure he’s not in the bathroom?”

“No way. He left out the front door. I saw him.”

Not that I thought the guy was lying, but maybe he’d been distracted by a phone call or another customer. “Do you mind if I check anyway?”

The guy shrugged. “I’m telling you—he’s not there.”

And he wasn’t. Not in the men’s room and not in the women’s. He also wasn’t in the back room (I made the counter guy look).

I stood in the middle of the store, turning in a small circle. “Did anyone else stop?” From where the bookmobile was parked, I hadn’t been able to see the traffic. I couldn’t think of any reason for Roger to leave with someone else and abandon me, but it was the only explanation I could come up with.

Counter Guy shrugged. “An SUV with a couple of hunters from downstate stopped for gas, and an old couple in a beater sedan came in to get some food. Other than that, there’s been nobody.”

Then where the heck was he? I wanted to stamp my foot, but made a grunting noise instead.

The counter guy smirked. “Maybe he’s got early Alzheimer’s or something. Maybe he got lost getting back to your rig.”

I started to say that was ridiculous, but I stopped myself before getting further than “That’s ridic—” Because maybe it wasn’t. After all, I hardly knew the man. You’d have thought Denise would have said something if Roger had that sort of issue, but who knew?

“Thanks,” I said, and headed back out into the cold, snowy world. “Now what?” I muttered. Well, first thing was to make sure Roger wasn’t standing outside the locked bookmobile, waiting for me.

I hurried back around the way I’m come, but there was no Roger. I did see Eddie pawing at the windshield, so I gave him a friendly wave and, suddenly hurrying, kept going around to check the other side of the building. If Roger had been struck down by a heart attack and I’d done nothing but dawdle, I’d never forgive myself.

A wide variety of possibilities suddenly popped into my brain, and none of them was good.

Stroke.

Brain aneurism.

He fell on an icy spot and whacked his head.

He fell and broke a leg or a hip or an ankle or wrist, or any combination thereof.

An icicle fell off the roof and hit him in the head.

I swallowed and went even faster. Why hadn’t I thought about any of these things earlier when I was messing around with Eddie, waiting? With the bookmobile’s engine running, I wouldn’t have heard any calls for help. I should have paid more attention to the time. I should have paid more attention to the potential dangers. I should have done everything differently. Why had I been so complacent? Why had I assumed that everything was fine?

All this went through my mind in a flash. I broke into a run and rounded the corner of the building, breathless with worry, because I knew with a sick and sudden certainty that something was deeply wrong.

Fast as I could, I ran through the snow, dodging around the back of the tall wood fence that screened the Dumpster, hoping to see Roger standing there, talking on his cell phone to a buddy about hunting, having lost all track of time.

But there was a primal part of me that knew there would be no easy explanation.

So when I saw a man lying on the ground, I was almost expecting it. When I recognized Roger’s jeans, work boots, and canvas jacket, I was almost prepared. When I saw that he wasn’t talking, wasn’t moving, wasn’t doing anything, I was almost ready to accept that something horrible had happened.

Almost.

“Roger!” I rushed to his side and dropped to my knees in the snow. “Roger, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

But in spite of all my fears and all my mental preparations, I wasn’t anywhere near ready for the vast spread of crimson that stained the left side of his jacket.

And I could never have prepared myself for his open eyes, staring sightlessly at the gray sky.

In a flurry, I yanked off my gloves, felt for a pulse at his neck, pulled my cell phone out of my pocket, and pushed those three short numbers that could sometimes help, that could sometimes make all the difference.

But I knew nothing was going to help Roger.

He was dead.

M
any, many hours later, I knocked on the door of a condominium in Charlevoix, a small town in the next county. It was a very quiet knock, one that lacked energy or interest or much of anything except an overwhelming sense of fatigue.

Tucker opened the door. He was barefoot and dressed in his typical posthospital wear of jeans and a black zip sweatshirt. “Minnie. I wasn’t sure if I heard you or not.” He stood aside. “Come on in.”

“Can I . . . ?” I paused, not sure what I wanted, not sure I had the strength to move.

“What?”

“Can I have a hug?”

Then he looked at me. Really looked at me. I don’t know what he saw—if it was my red-rimmed eyes or the fatigue that drooped at my shoulders or what must be my woebegone face—because he immediately swept me inside, shut the door, put his arms around me, and embraced me fully and completely.

I clung to him, needing his strength, needing his comfort, wanting him to make everything better. Which
he couldn’t do, of course, but maybe he could keep the sadness at bay for a little while.

He released me and kissed the top of my head. “Any better?”

Sniffing, I nodded. “A little.”
Sniff
. “Thanks.”

“Let me take your coat.” He unzipped it and turned me around, then pulled on the cuffs, de-coating me fast and easy.

As he hung it on the coat tree, he said, “I’m guessing you need a couple of things.” He held up one finger. “Food.” He held up another finger. “A nice, long talk. You go get settled,” he said, gesturing toward his living room. “I’ll order the pizza. Mushroom and sausage on your side?”

When I nodded, he picked up the phone and started to order.

I shuffled over to the beige couch and flopped down, exhaustion dragging at me. In the months I’d been visiting Tucker in his condo, I don’t think I’d once sat down before standing at the window for a few minutes, enjoying the view of the channel that connected Charlevoix’s Round Lake to Lake Michigan, but today I couldn’t bring myself to stand any longer than I had to. Self-preservation, really, because it was only sensible to sit before I fell down.

“Now.” Tucker sat down in a leather chair that matched the couch. “Talk to me.”

I wanted to protest, to say that what I wanted most was just to have him hold me, but held back. He was probably right. If we snuggled, I might break down into a bucket of tears. What I really needed was to talk, and I could do that best if he wasn’t within arm’s length.

“Okay.” The word came out so slowly, it was almost pitiful. I told myself to buck up, and, according to my
mother, the best way to start feeling better was to sit up straight and put your shoulders back.

So I did.

“Okay,” I said again, and felt my spirits rise. Not by much, but anything was good. Once again, Mom was right, and maybe one day I’d call and tell her so. Not today, though. Monday, maybe. Or Tuesday.

“Okay,” I said, this time with feeling. Only . . . I wasn’t quite ready to talk.

I let my gaze wander around the room. Beige furniture, hotel room–quality art on the walls, and bland carpet. The only Tucker-type things in the room were the bookshelves he’d bought and the books he’d filled them with. Knowing he’d be too busy at the hospital to equip even a small house properly, he’d leased a furnished two-bedroom condominium. It was nice enough, but no more than that. A wise choice for a busy bachelor, I supposed, but there was no life in the room, and I suddenly couldn’t bear it.

I stood and went to the window. The sun had set long ago, but evenly spaced lights illuminated the wide walkway that ran adjacent to the river channel, all the way out to the pier. While I couldn’t see the lighthouse itself, I could see the reflection of its circling light on the water. Around and around and around and . . .

“Minnie?” Tucker asked gently. “What’s the matter?”

And, just like that, I was ready to talk.

I told him about what had happened that day. Told him about Roger. “He was dead,” I said quietly, watching the water ripple in the glow from the lights. “I called nine-one-one, but I knew he was dead before they showed up.” There had been no chance he’d still been alive. Not with no pulse, not with his skin growing so terribly cold.

“He’d been bleeding?” my doctor boyfriend asked.

I laid a hand flat against the left side of my chest. Over my heart. “Yes,” I whispered.

Tucker stirred, and I figured he wanted to ask medical questions, but there was no way I’d be able to answer them. “The ambulance came and took him to the Petoskey hospital,” I said. “A sheriff’s deputy came out, but there wasn’t much I could tell him.” There hadn’t been much to tell my boss, either, though I’d dutifully called Stephen and told him what had happened.

“It was those shots you’d heard earlier?” Tucker asked.

I nodded. Shrugged. Nodded again. “Hunters are all over the place today. Poor Roger was in the wrong place at the wrong time, I guess. Just a stupid hunting accident.” They happened. Rarely, but they happened often enough to stay in everyone’s minds.

“It’s not your fault, you know.”

I put my forehead against the cool of the window. Part of me knew he was right. It wasn’t my fault; it was the fault of the guy who’d held that gun. Then again, if it hadn’t been for me, there wouldn’t have been a bookmobile for Roger to have been on.

Did that make me partially to blame? Not in a court of law, but what about the court of public opinion? How about my own opinion? With my own self blaming me, how would I ever sleep tonight—or any other night in the foreseeable future? And even if I did sleep, what sort of dreams would I be likely to have?

I shivered and wrapped my arms around myself.

Tucker got up and put his hands on my shoulders. “Repeat after me: It was an accident.”

I managed a smile. “It was an accident.”

“It’s not my fault,” Tucker prompted.

“It’s . . .” I shook my head and blew out a breath. “It’s not my fault.”

“I will spend the rest of the evening eating pizza and breadsticks and watching old movies, and will not think about this again until tomorrow.”

Somehow, magically, I laughed. Not a big laugh—a very small one, actually—but still a laugh. It was good to have a boyfriend who could make me feel better when all I’d wanted to do half an hour ago was wrap my arms around my knees and bawl. “I’ll do my best.”

“That’s my girl.” He reached around me to begin a serious hug, but a knock on the door stopped him. “Must be the pizza guy.”

He went to the door, and I went to the kitchen for plates, napkins, forks (two, even though Tucker wouldn’t use his), and drinks.

“Movie time?” he asked, holding the two boxes aloft. “I recommend something with a happy ending.”

“Can we watch
The Sting
again?” I carried my stack of food-related items to the living room and piled them on the coffee table.

One of the first things Tucker and I discovered we had in common was a love of movies. One of the second things we discovered we had in common was a love of staying up late watching movies.

“Only if we can watch
The Andromeda Strain,
too,” he said.

I smiled. There weren’t that many movies that featured medical research, but Tucker had all of them on DVD. He also had many of my favorites, from
The Wizard of Oz
to
The Princess Bride
to
Shakespeare in Love
. He didn’t have
Ghostbusters
, but I was planning on giving it to him for his birthday.

We settled in, immersed ourselves in Depression-era Chicago, and when the food was gone I was content to sit back with Tucker’s arm around me.

Five minutes later, his cell phone rang. It was the ring tone for the hospital.

I tensed. “I didn’t think you were on call tonight.”

He was pulling the phone from his pocket. “Had to switch with somebody,” he muttered, then into the phone said, “Dr. Kleinow.”

There was a short pause when he didn’t move, but when he sat forward to listen with that intent expression on his face, I knew our evening together was over. I should have been sad that some patient at the hospital was in such bad shape that they needed Tucker to come in, and on most days I would have been, but tonight I needed him. Needed his comfort, his calm, his voice, his kiss, his presence. And he was going to leave.

“Okay,” Tucker said. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

I was already on my feet and reaching for my coat.

“Minnie, you don’t have to leave,” he said. “I won’t be long.”

The last time he’d said that, I’d waited in the car while he went to check on a patient. I’d reached into my purse for my e-reader, opened up
The Hunger Games
, and was wondering how much rest Katniss was actually going to get sleeping in a tree, when Tucker returned.

“No, thanks,” I said now, a little shortly.

“I’m sorry.” He grabbed his own coat. “This wasn’t how this night was supposed to end up.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t. And I’m sure that person in the emergency room needs you a lot more than I do.” My words came out a little childish and a lot whiny, but they were said and I couldn’t take them back. Besides, they were true. I sighed. “You’d better get going. I’ll be fine.”

“Minnie, please don’t go. Stay, at least for a little while. I’ll be back as soon as I can—you know I will.”

But I couldn’t stay, not here alone in this room that had no life. “I’m sorry, Tucker. It’s just . . .”

I shook my head and left.

*   *   *

Late that night, up in my room, lying on my side with Eddie curled up next to me, I wept the tears I’d been keeping in, the tears I couldn’t shed in the bookmobile for the sake of rule number one. I wept for Roger, for Denise, for their children, for their entire extended family. I cried for all his friends and neighbors and coworkers.

At the end, I finally wept a little for myself, gulping down sobs of sorrow and loss for a good man I’d barely known.

Then, with Eddie purring comfort into my bones, I fell into a dreamless sleep.