Pouncing on Murder (2 page)

I really should have known better.

And I really should have known to stop interviewing after I’d talked to Julia. She was the best candidate for many reasons—and had the bonus of being eight inches taller than five-foot-nothing me, making the job of reshelving the top rows of books easy to delegate—but the buttercream frosting was how she’d immediately started talking to Eddie in the same way I did, which was as if he understood what we were saying.

We agreed that this was ridiculous, of course, but there were times when his comprehension of human speech seemed to go far beyond his name and the word “no.” Not that he paid any attention to either, but the twitching of his ears proved that he heard us.

“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 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, emptied the milk crates 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 didn’t need to look to know. “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 almost complete 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 as his return greeting made me wonder if my hair, which was black, shoulder-length, and far too curly, had gone up in flames without my noticing.

Eddie gave Henry a long visual examination, then jumped off the headrest 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 feline-standard figure eight.

Henry reached down and gave Eddie a few pets. Then, when he realized I was watching, he stood up. “Doesn’t do to make cats too happy,” he muttered. “Next thing you know you’ll be feeding them bits of prime rib by hand.”

I grinned. Henry was undoubtedly a curmudgeon, but he liked cats, and Eddie appeared to like him back, so it was easy for me to overlook his cranky attitude and see down to the man underneath, a man I liked quite a bit.

“You have an excellent point,” I said. “If you’re in the market for biographies again today, there’s a new Theodore Roosevelt you might like.”

Henry grunted, but didn’t nod, so I wasn’t sure
whether he’d said, “Why, yes, Minnie, that sounds wonderful. Thank you for being such an outstanding librarian” or “Whatever.” I gave a mental shrug and 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 without answering, then put them back down again. “Here,” he said shortly and, 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 tromped down the steps and outside.

“What are those?” Julia asked.

“No idea.”

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

Patrons bearing questionable gifts were something 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 know what goes on inside people’s heads. Henry as a maple syrup Santa? “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 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. “Occupational hazard.”

“Even him?” I nodded in Eddie’s direction. At that 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 deeper. The dose of reality in every fantasy.”

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

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

•   •   •

The next morning, I settled into my office chair, a steaming mug of coffee in hand. I absolutely had to talk to Stephen, and to do that, I needed to be fortified by copious amounts of caffeine.

Stephen, in many ways, was an excellent boss. He laid out concrete goals, he made his expectations known, and he didn’t micromanage. However, his goals were usually impossible to meet, the expectations nearly so, and his support skills were of the “Don’t bother me unless the sky is falling” variety.

The current situation was typical. Back in December, one week after Stephen had told me that he was grooming me to take over his job when he retired, he’d summoned me to the second floor. Stephen’s was the only office up there; the rest of the floor held conference rooms, a computer training lab, storage, and the Friends of the Library book sale room. Stephen’s corner office had a stupendous view of Janay Lake, and it stayed warm even in the buffeting winds of winter, thanks to thick curtains and a radiant heater, but I found it a lonely place.

“Ah, Minnie,” he’d said as I’d walked in that December. “It’s time to start thinking about a book fair.”

I’d blinked at him. “A book fair?”

“Yes.” He’d frowned. “Surely you know what a book fair is.”

Of course I did. I’d just never heard of one being held in Chilson.

“Book fairs,” Stephen had gone on, “are events held to promote the sale of books. Publishers, booksellers, and authors all come together. There can be author readings, contests, prizes, giveaways, story hours, any number of things to promote books and reading.”

It wasn’t a bad idea. Every time I turned around, it seemed, I heard about another new small regional publisher. If the pace kept up, soon there’d be as many small publishers in the area as brewpubs. Plus, the region was blessed with a large number of outstanding bookstores, and there were authors everywhere, especially in summer, when the seasonal folks returned.

“Early May,” Stephen had said, nodding. “That’s when we’ll hold it.”

Two of those words had jumped out at me like an alien in a 3-D movie: “May,” and “we.” Both held dire implications.

“Early May?” I’d asked. “There’s no one around that time of year. A summer book fair would have ten times the number of people attending.”

“Don’t exaggerate, Minerva,” Stephen had said. “And you illustrate the point of a spring fair perfectly. Yes, more people would, perhaps, attend a fair in the summer months. But I want, and the library board wants, to hold an event that will bring locals to the library, people who wouldn’t otherwise walk in.”

It had sounded reasonable, but I didn’t quite buy it. “Why would anyone walk in to buy a book on one
particular day when they can walk in any old day to borrow a book for free?”

Stephen had checked the knot in his tie. “Because Ross Weaver will be here.” He’d glanced at my face and chuckled. “Ross is a high school friend of mine. We’ve kept in touch over the years and when I told him I was considering a book fair, he said he’d be happy to make a public appearance.”

At that point I’d realized my mouth had been hanging open. I shut it and wondered at the world. Ross Weaver was the author of twenty bestselling thrillers. He was good-looking enough to be cast as his own main character and by all reports was a genuinely nice guy. The notion that Ross Weaver was friends with my boss, who would always be cast as the nerdy guy who never gets the girl, was going to take some mental adjustment on my part.

“That’s . . . great,” I’d finally said.

“Yes.” Stephen had handed me a piece of paper. “Here’s an outline of what needs to be done.”

The full import of the conversation had finally hit the inside of my brain. “You want to hold the book fair here at the library,” I’d said slowly. “Five months from now. And you want me to plan the entire thing.”

Stephen had sighed. “You must break that habit of exaggeration, Minerva. I’ve given you the date, the location, and an author who will draw hundreds, if not thousands, of people to the event. The rest should almost take care of itself.”

Spoken like a man. I looked at the list he’d given me.
He’d included the names of a handful of publishers and booksellers.

“That will give you a start,” he’d said, reaching for his computer keyboard. “If you ever want to sit in this chair, Minnie, you must delegate. You can’t do everything yourself. It’s past time for you to learn how to manage a project properly.”

I’d put on a smile and walked downstairs. When I reached my cozy office, the paper was a crumpled ball in my fist. I’d taken a deep breath, then another one, and pushed my thoughts back where they belonged. Back to books and libraries and bookmobiles and away from the idea of using Stephen’s tie to . . .

“Never mind,” I’d said out loud, tossing the small paper ball into the wastebasket. I’d thumped myself into my chair, pulled out a yellow legal pad of paper, and started my own list.

Now it was April. The book fair was edging ever closer, and it was time to update my boss on the progress. I looked over my notes, picked up the three-inch ring binder that contained said notes, slugged down the last of my coffee, and headed up to Stephen’s aerie.

“Ah, Minnie.” Stephen was taking off his coat. It was three minutes past nine and I’d caught him dead to rights at being late. It was an excellent way to start our meeting. “How are you this morning?” he asked as he sat behind his large desk.

I smiled politely. “Fine, thanks. Do you have a few minutes? I’d like to update you on the book fair plans.”

“Yes, that’s coming up soon, isn’t it?”

“Five weeks, two days, and one hour,” I said promptly.

Stephen laughed, but it was laughter that had a crinkly edge. “Are you sure you want to spend your time calculating that figure?”

I’d made it up, but there wasn’t much point in telling him so. Stephen and my sense of humor weren’t compatible. I placed a pile of stapled papers on the corner of his desk. “These are for the next board meeting. It’s an update on the book fair.”

Stephen eyed the stack. “Does it include financials?”

Of course it did. And none of the contents would be a surprise to Stephen. Early on in the event’s planning, I’d handed him an estimate of the cost. His eyes had gone wide, and for a short happy moment, I’d thought he might cancel the whole kit and caboodle. But even as he’d been frowning at the bottom line, his face took on a glazed look and I knew he was running calculations in his head. He’d rearranged a few line items in the budget, told me to cut the event costs by ten percent, and waved me away.

After a few minutes of fuming, I’d come to the obvious conclusion that it was my job to make the fair a successful event that didn’t drain the library’s resources. So I’d obtained multiple estimates for every large purchase. I’d driven down to Traverse City to pick up items and combined the trip with personal chores so I didn’t charge the library mileage. I’d asked for business donations. I’d asked for sponsors. I’d begged for free advertising.

And somewhere along the line, I’d become a passionate believer in the whole thing. Why not hold a book fair in May? Why not bring new folks to the library? It was
an outstanding idea and I was grateful to have the chance to show off our beautiful building to new people.

Now, standing in front of my boss, I was practically bouncing on my toes with energy and enthusiasm. “Here’s what’s left to do,” I said to Stephen, and launched into a lengthy narrative that started with confirming the number of vendor tables we needed to rent.