Lending a Paw: A Bookmobile Cat Mystery (Bookmobile Cat Mysteries) (22 page)

I waited my turn at the cash register, listening to the conversations about boat rides and weekend plans and where the next meal was going to be eaten. When I got to the front of the line, I asked if there were any cinnamon rolls left.

“Not sure,” said the young woman. “Hang on, okay?” She scurried off through the narrow double doors that led to the kitchen. On the wall behind the register hung a calendar displaying a picture of the Petoskey breakwater and lighthouse. I simultaneously admired the photo and wondered where the month of June had gone. It was the last Friday of the month, a month to the day that Stan was killed.

Oh, Stan . . .

I turned away, looking for a distraction. And there, in the back corner, I found it. Bill D’Arcy’s booth was occupied by someone else. Four someone elses, to be exact, and they looked as if they’d been there for some time, judging by the breakfast detritus scattered about.

I spotted Sabrina, weaving through the crowded tables with plates of burgers and fries. When she’d distributed the meals, I called to her. “Morning, Sabrina. Where’s your best customer?”

She made a face. “Mr. Won’t-Talk D’Arcy? Don’t know and don’t care.”

That sounded a little harsh. “Has he been in today at all?”

“Nope.”

Just like the day Stan had been killed. One month ago, exactly. I frowned. Something was tickling the back of my thoughts. What would take someone away from a favorite haunt? What would be four weeks apart? Did men get their hair cut that often? But how could that take all day or even half a day?

WHUMP!

The entire building shook. There was a short second of silence; then children screamed, women shrieked, and men yelled. Dust filtered down. “Earthquake!” someone yelled. But I was already running through the front door with Sabrina and half the restaurant patrons on my heels.

It wasn’t an earthquake. Not only were earthquakes exceedingly rare in this part of the country, but through the window I’d seen the cause of the whump.

Half a dozen running steps and I’d reached the passenger door of the car that had struck the building. I grabbed the handle and flung the door open. “Are you all right?” I hunched down and saw large hairy arms flailing around, shoving aside the released air bag. I half sat on the passenger seat. “Sir? Are you all right? Do you need an ambulance?”

“No!” he yelled.

“Bill?” Sabrina ran around to his side of the car. “Bill! Are you okay?”

It was Bill D’Arcy. How Sabrina had recognized his voice, I didn’t know. I wasn’t sure he’d ever spoken more than one word in a row.

“Yes, yes, yes.” He shoved aside more air bag and opened the car door. “I’m fine.” He stood, swayed, put his hands out.

Sabrina was right there, supporting him, guiding him. “You get back down. You’ve had a nasty little scare and you need to sit.” She got him settled back into the driver’s seat, ignoring his bleats of disapproval. “You need to get your breath, hon. Just sit for a minute.” She looked around at all the people. “Anybody here a doctor?”

“Don’t need a doctor,” Bill said.

Sabrina gave him a considered look. “Oh, you don’t, do you?”

“Just came from one.”

“Oh, really?”

He should have recognized the tone in her voice. And if he’d taken one look at her just then, he would have seen more danger signs. Hands on her hips, eyes thinned, chin jutting forward. No good was in store for Mr. D’Arcy.

“And what, pray tell, did this doctor say?” Sabrina asked.

“None of your business,” he muttered, staring straight ahead.

“Really.” She folded her arms on her chest. “I’ve waited on you every day for weeks. I know how you like your coffee, I know how you like your hash browns. I know you don’t read the sports section, I know what stocks you watch. I know you’re less grumpy when the sun is shining and that you don’t like to go out in the rain. I know you have high blood pressure and are trying to do something about it. I know—”

“You don’t know anything!” he roared.

She bent down, pushing her face closer to his. “Because you don’t tell me anything! How can I know what you won’t tell?”

“I didn’t want to worry you!”

Over on the sidelines, I blinked. He didn’t want to make her
worry
? What on earth . . . ?

“Do I look like someone who would worry?” Sabrina shot back. “How about you, sitting with that laptop, never looking up, never seeing what’s going on around you? You’re hiding from something, and that means you’re worried. Tell me what it is.” She poked him in the shoulder. “Tell me!”

He kept staring straight ahead, seeing nothing but car dashboard, windshield, and the brick wall he’d whacked. “I have a bad case of macular degeneration,” he said. “I do nothing but read because I won’t be able to for much longer. The doctors say my sight will be gone within two years. I’ve been seeing a specialist in Traverse City for treatments once a month, but that’s just slowing the inevitable.”

Sabrina stood up straight. Looked up at the bright blue sky. Swallowed. Then bent back down again. “You drove to see an eye specialist? Let me guess, you got those shots, and then you drove all the way back here.”

He nodded.

“Are you in
sane
?” Sabrina yelled. “You must be certifiable. Too bad the hospital in Traverse isn’t a psychiatric hospital anymore—you could have checked yourself in for a nice long stay.”

“I thought—”

“That’s the trouble, you
weren’t
thinking! Driving after an eye treatment? And here I thought you were smart. Do you realize what could have happened?”

“I’m only fifty-two years old.” He pulled himself out of the car and faced her, eye to eye, glare to glare. “And I’m not blind yet.”

“You going to keep driving until you are? How many buildings do you have to run into?”

“This was the only one!” He waved his arms around. “It was an accident! Everyone has accidents.”

“Up here most people hit deer, not buildings that haven’t moved in a hundred years,” she said drily.

“Look, I’m sorry I hit your precious restaurant, but—”

“I don’t care about the stupid building.”

“You . . . don’t?”

“No, I care about you.”

“You . . . do?”

She crossed her arms. “Don’t be more of an idiot than you can help, okay? Of course I care about you. Why else would I be yelling at you like this in front of fifty strangers?”

Bill D’Arcy didn’t look at the fifty strangers. He didn’t look anywhere but at Sabrina. “You care about me?”

She heaved a huge sigh. “For now. Keep up the stupid questions and the stupid driving habits and I might change my mind.”

“Sabrina . . . my darling Sabrina . . .” He lifted a hand and held her face gently, caressing her cheek with his thumb. “I had no idea. I . . .” He leaned in for a kiss and I could almost see the fireworks going off.

The crowd clapped, whistled, and cheered. “You go, girl!” “Got a good one there, pal!”

Sabrina and Bill paid no attention. They wrapped their arms around each other and held on as if they’d never let go.

The fifty strangers dispersed, laughing and smiling. After I retrieved Holly’s cinnamon roll, I went along with them, unsure whether to cry for happiness or stomp my foot at human idiocy. Those two had come close to not connecting the dots. That it had taken what could have been a serious accident was silly in the extreme.

And due to the month-ago doctor’s visit, Bill D’Arcy wasn’t a suspect for Stan’s murder. One down and far too many to go.

I sighed and headed back to the library.

• • •

Via multiple text messages, Tucker and I decided on Short’s Brewing Company as the location for our second date.

“Not Chilson,” Tucker had typed.

“Not this county,” I’d returned.

Short’s fit both those requirements. A happy addition to the small town of Bellaire, which was about thirty miles south of Chilson, the brewpub was famous for its wide variety of beer selections. We arrived after the Friday night dinner rush and scored a small table as soon as we walked in the door.

Fifteen minutes later, we were eating thick sandwiches, drinking adult beverages, talking about nothing in particular, and enjoying ourselves immensely. Sooner or later we’d get around to discussing the potentially problematic issues that could doom a relationship, but right now it was time to have fun.

I looked around the room. “You know, I don’t see a single person that I know. How about you?”

Tucker scanned left and right. “Not even anyone I’ve seen in the ER. Which is good, because that can get awkward. Especially if he’s cooking your dinner.”

I frowned, then figured it out. “Oh, you mean Larry? You stitched him up after he sliced and diced himself?” I made vague sword-fighting motions. “If you did as tidy a job with him as you did with Rafe, I’m sure he’s healing fine and . . .” But Tucker was shaking his head. “What?” I asked.

“It was a broken hand, not a sewing job. He’d fractured his—” His words screeched to a halt. “What I just said. Can you forget it?”

I flicked a stray piece of lettuce off my finger and tried to figure out why he’d ask. “Larry told me he’d cut his hand. But . . . he broke it?”

Tucker looked at me over his sandwich. “I was way out of line to say anything. Please forget it.”

An odd itch climbed up the back of my neck, but I nodded because I now understood what he was talking about. “Librarians know all about respecting privacy laws.”

Tucker’s nicely broad shoulders lost a little bit of tension. “Thanks,” he said. “I’d give you a hug, but . . .” He held up his hands, still filled with gooey sandwich.

I smiled. “Can I ask a question, instead? How hard is it to break a bone in your hand?” I laid down my sandwich, made a fist with one hand, and pressed it into the opposite open palm, pushing hard. “And how long does it take to heal?”

If you were hitting something, say the back door of a farmhouse, how much force would it take to break your hand? How hard would you have to hit, how much damage would you inflict on yourself, how much would you inflict on what you were hitting?

But a better question was, why had Larry lied? He’d told Kristen the injury was from softball and he’d told me he’d cut himself, yet it was really a break. Why the multiple lies? Maybe he was just one of those guys who was trying to tell the best story. Sure, that could be it.

“It’s easier than you think,” Tucker said. “Saw a lot of it, downstate. From street fights, but also people who’d get mad and haul off and hit a wall. Metacarpals with spiral fractures? Those guys are in a world of hurt for a long time. Surgery, nerve damage, sometimes they never get their strength back a hundred percent.”

He talked about the importance of physical therapy for full recovery and how the length of recovery varied tremendously, but all I kept hearing was the loop of my question and his initial response.

How hard is it to break a bone in your hand?

Easier than you think.

• • •

Eddie and I sat out on the houseboat’s front deck, me on the chaise lounge in shorts and sweatshirt, Eddie warming my lap as the sunset glow faded. I’d set the chaise in the exact center of the deck. No chance of any accidental fallings-in tonight.

“Mrr,” Eddie said, snuggling in closer to me.

“Yeah,” I told him, petting him long from head to tail. “It’s nice, isn’t it?”

I’d asked Tucker if he wanted to come aboard. “Love to,” he’d said, and I’d started smiling. “But I have to work tomorrow, so I’d better get home.” So, once again, it was me and my pal Eddie hanging out.

In a minute, I’d go figure out who was hosting the Friday night party. One dock down, maybe two. It wasn’t far. Over the quiet water I could hear music and laughter and the popping of beer cans. Eddie and I would sit here for a while and then I’d put him inside and head for the lights and the noise.

Soon.

The stars came out, bright in the moonless sky. The scattered white of the Milky Way eased into view. It must be at least eleven o’clock. I should find the party before the diehards were the only ones left.

Soon.

Eddie purred gently. “Trying to get me to stay?” I asked, resting my hand on his back, feeling the vibrations up through my arm, shoulder, and deep into my heart. “I should really go and be social.”

He shifted and his purrs became lower and even more soothing.

I thought about Stan, about how he’d died, how he’d lived, and about how much I owed him. I thought about my responsibilities to the library, to the ever-increasing number of bookmobile patrons, to Holly, to Aunt Frances. I thought about my obligations. Which overlapped quite a bit with the responsibilities, but wasn’t an exact match, somehow.

What is a friend obligated to do? Did I want to be the kind of person who ran the risk of being taken advantage of, or be the kind of person who walked away? And what is a niece obligated to do? More than a friend? Less?

I thought about the times I’d talked to the detectives. Had I been too impatient? Unrealistic in my expectations? Maybe I’d assumed too much; maybe I hadn’t listened to them just as much as they hadn’t listened to me.