Laurie Cass - Bookmobile Cat 02 - Tailing a Tabby (19 page)

Which didn’t make any sense, but I knew what he meant. And though I also knew his blanket statement was by no means true for all women and all men, I did know a lot of them who fit nicely into his pigeonholes.

“You’re the only person I’ve told about the rabbits outside of my family. Well, you and Dr. Joe.”

I used my index finger to make a cross over my heart. “Hope to die and stick a needle in my eye, I won’t tell a soul.”

“Thought so.” He thumped me on the shoulder. “Like I said, Chris said you were okay and I trust Chris.”

“Really?” My eyebrows went up. “I mean, that’s nice. It’s good to trust people.” I winced at my inanity, but Greg didn’t seem to think my statement was stupid.

“You got that right,” he said. “That’s why I felt okay telling the county cops about Carissa and why I couldn’t have killed her.”

“The detectives talked to you?”

“Yeah, short, fat guy and a tall, skinny one? They were out here a couple days after Carissa died. Guess she’d been on Facebook about the time we had dinner,” he said. “Just what I need, my name all over social media. But, hey, at least she didn’t know about the rabbits.” He grinned.

“So, why did you lie to me earlier, about knowing her?”

He lifted his shoulders. Let them drop. “The whole thing is so hard to explain. If I’d told you I was separated from my wife and only went out with Carissa that once, would you have believed me?”

Maybe. Then again, maybe not.

The indecision must have shown in my face. “See?” he asked. “You’re not sure. To have it all make sense I would have had to tell you everything, and I didn’t want to. Sometimes it’s easier to lie than to tell the truth, right?”

Sure. But that didn’t make it right.

“All I want is to be left alone,” he said. “That’s why I’m looking for the right boat. Out on the water no one will bug me.”

“Or the bunnies?”

He flashed me a wide smile. “Or the bunnies.”

•   •   •

First thing the next morning I called Dr. Joe, the vet.

“Greg Plassey?” he repeated. “Sure, he’s one of my clients. Him and his… uh…”

“His rabbits,” I said.

Dr. Joe made a noise that didn’t sound quite like a laugh. If I hadn’t known Joe to be a large African-American man in his mid-forties with a wife, three children, and a thriving veterinarian practice, I would
have said he giggled. But the idea of a six–foot-three, two-hundred-and-fifty-pound man giggling was so unlikely that I pushed it to the outside edge of probability.

“Oh, you know about the bunnies?” Dr. Joe asked. Then he giggled.

“I was introduced last night,” I said. “Greg showed me his new litter and I was wondering how old they were. He couldn’t quite remember,” I lied, “but he said you were out there that night.”

“Yeah, held his hand more than anything else. Weird way to spend a Friday night.” There were a few keyboard clicks and he gave me the date of Carissa’s murder.

For a brief second, I considered the possibility that Greg had bribed Dr. Joe to lie for him. Then I discarded the idea. I’d once overheard Dr. Joe berate his youngest son, who worked at the vet clinic after school, for not telling the complete truth about cleaning a dog cage. This was not a man who would lie for a client.

“The little bunnies,” I said, “they’re really cute.”

“Cute, sure.” Dr. Joe chuckled. “I keep trying to come up with the right phrase, only Plassey’s name doesn’t rhyme with any rabbit breed I know about. Greg, either, come to think of it.”

“Phrase?” I asked.

“Like for a headline. Hey, you’re the librarian. I bet you could come up with something good. No, wait, I got it. Baseballer’s Bunnies! No, wait, here’s a better one: Pitcher Plassey’s Penchant for Plush Pets.”

He laughed loud and long, and though I’d basically rolled my eyes at Greg’s assertion that he’d never be able to live down the jokes, I was beginning to
understand the isolated house and the tall fence. If Dr. Joe, a man who loved animals of all shapes and sizes, was laughing at Greg’s much-loved pets, the response of an average Joe would be even worse.

Having a fortune might be nice, but I was suddenly very, very glad I wasn’t famous.

•   •   •

That evening, as I was finishing up the dinner dishes of a plate, knife, and fork and tossing a foam container from the Round Table into the trash, my cell phone rang with the
Scrubs
theme song.

Eddie, in his new favorite sleeping spot of smashing himself against the window while perched on the top of the dining bench, twitched his tail at the noise.

Smiling, I picked up the phone and thumbed the phone on. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself,” Tucker said. “Are you doing anything? Thanks to coming in yesterday when I didn’t have to, I have an unexpected night off.”

Still smiling, I sat down and gave Eddie a few pets. Immediately cat hair shot straight up toward the ceiling, then drifted about while deciding what object it was going to grace with its final resting place. “Well, I had a busy night planned. I was going to finish reading a book, watch the sunset, then go to bed with a brand-new book.” I watched as a majority of the Eddie hair wafted down onto my navy blue T-shirt.

“Hmm. You sound swamped. Is there any way you could be persuaded to modify your plans?”

I started to cite the quote of “I might, rabbit,” but changed my mind. There were enough rabbits in my head without adding a cartoon version. “I’m certainly willing to listen to another offer.”

“How about the same basic plan, but replacing the reading with some quiet conversation?”

It sounded wonderful. “I think that could be worked into my schedule.”

“Excellent.” His voice sounded odd. I heard a knock and looked up. Tucker was standing at the screen door, flowers in one hand, a bottle of wine in the other, and my picnic basket at his feet.

Grinning, I went to the door and swung it open wide. “What would you have done if I hadn’t been home?” I took the flowers and gave Tucker a kiss.

“Donated the flowers to the hospital and saved the wine for another occasion.”

“Clever man.” The houseboat’s storage capacity didn’t provide room for extras like flower vases, so I trimmed the ends of the colorful blooms and popped them into a white mixing bowl while I told Tucker where to put the picnic basket. “There,” I said, putting the flowers in the middle of the dining table. “They look happy there, don’t they?”

“Eddie doesn’t look so sure.” Tucker nodded at Fuzz Face, who was reaching out with a paw to touch bright pink petals.

“Hey,” I said, pulling away the bowl. “Not a cat toy.”

Eddie gave me a look of pure disgust and flopped himself onto the seat.

Tucker laughed. “Did you see that look he gave you? I swear he understood what you were saying.”

I turned and scrounged through the kitchen cabinet for the stemmed glasses Kristen had given me last summer so she didn’t have to drink her wine out of plastic cups. “I’m just afraid of the day when he starts talking back.”

Tucker looked at Eddie. Eddie looked at him. “Yeah,” Tucker said. “I see what you mean. Knowing exactly what he’s thinking might not be comfortable.”

I handed Tucker the corkscrew and he popped the cork out of the bottle with an efficiency Kristen would have smiled to see. Wineglasses in hand, I pushed the door open with my elbow and headed out. Tucker paused. “Can Eddie… ? Oh, wait. Never mind.”

Having scooted out between Tucker’s feet, Eddie was already outside and choosing which chaise he’d lounge upon.

“It’s fine,” I said. “We’re often out here.” I took the Eddie chair. Tucker sat on the edge of the other and poured the wine.

“To summer nights,” he said, holding up his glass.

“Long may they last,” I said.

“Mrr,” Eddie said.

Tucker blinked. “You’re sure he can’t… ?”

“Absolutely not,” I said firmly. “He’s a cat. He can’t possibly understand human speech.”

“I’m sure you’re right.” Tucker reached forward to give Eddie a cautious pat. “His fur is so soft. Do all cats have fur like this?”

My eyebrows went up. “Eddie is the first cat you’ve ever touched?”

“My parents were dog people. I must have had friends who had cats, but I don’t remember petting one. Maybe I did.” A breeze blew at Tucker’s hair and he pushed at it with his free hand. Which, I noted, now had pieces of Eddie hair on it. “Doesn’t seem possible that I could be thirty-five years old and never petted a cat.”

“I’m thirty-three and I’ve never petted a llama.”

“Well, there you go,” he said. “We have a lot in common.”

I smiled and he smiled back. This was a good thing, being able to be silly with each other. A very good thing. This was extremely good compared to every other relationship I’d ever had. Most times I’d had to repress my silliness for fear of being mocked, but maybe this time… just maybe…

“I hope I’m not getting sick.” Tucker sniffed, then rubbed at his eyes. Scratched at his face. Rubbed the palm of his hand against the edge of the chaise. “My eyes are watering like crazy.”

And, just like that, the pieces fit together, tight and snug. I pulled Eddie into my arms and stared at Tucker. “You’re not sick,” I whispered. And he hadn’t been sick the other night, either. “You’re allergic to cats.”

T
ucker had denied reality until his skin had started to turn a splotchy red. Even then, he’d said he’d be fine. It was the steady stream of eye and nose drippage that sent him home.

Eddie had been nestled in my lap throughout Tucker’s ordeal, saying nothing but blinking every so often, almost as if he were calculating.

I looked over at him. Over and down, to be exact, since he was in his cat carrier on the floor of the bookmobile. Ivy had pulled the carrier up against the bottom of the passenger’s seat, and her legs were draped over the top of the carrier.

What had Mr. Eddie been thinking about last night? Though it was great fun to think that Eddie comprehended everything that was going on around him, it wouldn’t do to anthropomorphize him too much. He was a cat, with a cat’s brain and a cat’s sensibilities. He wasn’t a small furry human and he didn’t think like one. It was far more likely that Eddie had been studying Tucker’s every move to make sure the
stranger wasn’t a threat to him than that he’d been calculating how to get rid of a rival.

“Ivy?” I asked. “How smart do you think cats are?”

She turned and looked at me, a quizzical expression on her face. “You sure you want to ask a question like that so close to lunchtime?” I laughed, but she shook her head and tapped Eddie’s carrier with the toes of one sandaled foot. “And do you really want to have that conversation where this one can hear? If you think there’s any chance at all of—”

“Mrrrroowww!”

I winced and jumped at the same time. “Eddie? Are you okay?”

“MrrrRROOWW!”

Ivy was already bending down and examining the howling, yowling critter that Eddie had suddenly become. “He looks all right,” she said, “but—”

“MRRRR-rrrr-OOWW!”

It was the three-syllable howl that got to me. It sounded as if Doom were heading straight for Eddie with no turns in sight.

We were halfway between bookmobile stops, pretty much out in the middle of nowhere. There was only one decent place to pull the bookmobile over, and it was just ahead.

“Hang on, pal,” I told Eddie. “I’ll get this buggy stopped in a minute.”

My promise did nothing to soothe the savage-sounding beast, because he continued to howl and groan and moan the entire time I slowed, braked, and turned into the parking lot of a small restaurant where there was a nice large tree to shade the bookmobile.

At last we came to a complete stop. I unbuckled myself and leaned across to open Eddie’s cage.

“I hope he’s not sick,” Ivy said.

I was fervently hoping the same thing, but as soon as the cage door was open, Eddie stopped howling and looked at me. Blinked. He flopped over onto his side, reached out for my fingers with one white-tipped paw and held my hand.

“He’s purring,” I said flatly.

“Maybe he was a little carsick,” Ivy suggested. “And now that we’re stopped, he feels fine?”

From the doubtful tone of her voice, I don’t think she believed that scenario any more than I did. Eddie had ridden along on the bookmobile perfectly fine for weeks. Why would he suddenly start getting motion sickness?

“I’ll get him some water,” I said, pushing myself to my feet. “See if he can keep that down.”

He could and he did. When he was done, he sat up, dried his whiskers with his paw, and leapt to the headrest behind the driver’s seat.

I sighed. “He’s purring again.”

Ivy laughed. “You sound almost disappointed that he’s not sick.”

“Can you have a cat who cries wolf?”

“Cats can do pretty much anything they decide they want to do.”

I looked at Eddie and was very glad that he didn’t have opposable thumbs. “Well, since it’s lunchtime and since we’re in the parking lot of a restaurant, we might as well get something to eat.”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Ivy said, getting up
and opening a cabinet door to retrieve her purse. “I love this place. Fried everything. They even have fried Oreo cookies for dessert.”

“Mrr,” Eddie said.

“You,” I told him, “do not get fried anything.”

“Mrr.”

“Yeah, well, if you’re still hale and hearty when we’re done with lunch, you’ll get some cat food.” I kissed the top of his furry head and locked the bookmobile’s doors behind me. Even though it was the middle of August, it wasn’t anywhere near hot outside, and since I’d parked the bookmobile in the shade, it would take hours before the bookmobile’s interior warmed up to anything Eddie might pant at. He had water and a serious number of cozy places to sleep. What more could an Eddie want?

Inside the restaurant, Ivy was already sliding into a wooden booth. At least I hoped it was Ivy; the place was so dark that I was going by assumption. Dark wooden floor, dark wood-paneled walls, and a dark ceiling that might have been tin, but because it was so dark, I couldn’t tell.

“What can I get you ladies to drink?” A beefy young man slid plastic-covered menus across the tabletop.

I opted for ice water. Ivy grinned. “I’m going to be bad,” she said to me in a stage whisper. To the waiter, she said, “Give me a large soda. Lots of caffeine and none of that diet stuff. I want the fully leaded version.”

“Gotcha.”

He started to turn away and Ivy put out a hand. “And we’ll want an appetizer while we make up our minds about lunch. Let’s say an order of onion rings. And some ranch dressing to go with.”

I pushed my menu over to her. “How about if you order for me? I’m not allergic to anything that I know of, and the only thing I don’t like is mushrooms.”

Her face lit up. “You are a treasure. Barb and Cade are so health-conscious. Every time I manage to drag them out here, they read over the menu a hundred times before ordering a side salad. And then they sigh when it shows up and it’s nothing but iceberg lettuce with a little cheese on top.”

I smiled, but I was thinking about allergies and cats and boyfriends and futures. Then I shook my head and cast my gaze about the darkness.

“Restrooms are over there.” Ivy tipped her head sideways. “You’ll want to shade your eyes going in. It’s as bright in there as it is dark out here.”

She was right. The glaring fluorescent fixtures that some heartless soul had installed on the ceiling were bright enough that I squinted from entry to hand washing. Then, just as my eyes started to adjust, it was time to leave.

When I pushed open the door with my elbow, light flooded out into the dining room, illuminating the scars in the worn booths and the scratches on the floor. It also brushed light across the face of the sole occupant of the booth in the dining area’s farthest corner.

I stopped. Peered into the gloom. Couldn’t make up my mind. I backed up and opened the restroom door again. This time, when the light came across the man’s face, he turned away, pulled his hat down lower, and rearranged his sunglasses.

But it wouldn’t have mattered if he’d painted his face purple with blue polka dots. It wasn’t his face that I recognized so much as his large, rotund shape, his
bulky shoulders, his massive arms, and his sausagelike fingers.

Hmm.

I walked closer. He hunched over his drink. I slid into the booth across from him. He bent his head lower and sipped through his straw, making a gurgling noise at the bottom of the glass.

“Didn’t your mother tell you not to do that?” I asked.

Trock Farrand flicked me a glance. “Dear heart. What are the chances of you going away and pretending you never saw me?”

“Isn’t your show all about organic food and healthy eating and sustainable living?”

“What television show doesn’t have some small element of fiction?”

The waiter came over, his arms laden with plates. Platters, really. Fried fish. Fried chicken. French fries. And a plate of fried something or other that could have been anything from cauliflower to cheese.

I gestured at the array of unhealthy, but undeniably yummy, food items. “This is what you call a small element?”

Trock tossed aside his sunglasses and looked at me earnestly. “Minnie, my love, my paragon of a bookmobile librarian, my shining star, what can I do to earn your silence? If word gets out about this little incident, my credibility will be a thing of the past and, like the dodo bird and the passenger pigeon, it will never return.”

I eyed the plates and said nothing. I was not going to out this man to anyone, but he didn’t need to know that. Not yet, anyway.

“Minnie, Minnie, Minnie, please understand. I am a man with a deep need for fried food. There are only so many days I can go without. If I do not ingest items such as these lovelies on a weekly basis”—he cast a longing look at the cooling items—“there is a strong possibility that I will curl up and die.”

He caught my sardonic glance. “Well, perhaps I won’t die, but I will become irritable and annoying and even more difficult to work with than I already am.” His quirk of a smile gave me the distinct feeling that his on-set antics were intentionally staged. “If I get more irritable, the show will suffer, and in all honesty, my sweet, it’s in enough trouble as it is.”

My first instinct was to suspect him of straightforward Minnie Manipulation. My second was to think he was telling the truth. He didn’t even look at the food for seven straight seconds, but stared at his hands, a bleak expression on his face.

“Are those mushrooms?” I asked, pointing.

He brightened. “Nothing remotely that healthy. Cheese, my dear. Large chunks of sharp cheddar cheese.” He pushed the plate over. I picked up one piece and dipped it into a white goo that I assumed was ranch dressing.

“Let’s make a bargain,” I said, holding the delectable morsel in front of me. “I’ll keep quiet about your eating habits if you tell me everything you know about Carissa Radle and her boyfriend.”

He looked at me with brown basset hound eyes. “Can’t we make another type of bargain? Perhaps one of those Faustian varieties will do.”

“Carissa.” I popped the glorious hunk of cheese into my mouth.

“Even from our short acquaintance, I sense that you are a woman of your word. You swear upon your honor that you will not pass my current location to members of the press, any social media site, or worst of all, the suave and debonair Mr. Scruffy?”

I gave him a single nod, then firmly said, “Carissa.”

He sighed, added malt vinegar to the fries, and started talking. “We have many spectators at the local shoots as a matter of course. Carissa had been showing up on a regular basis. It was fine at first, but then I realized her presence was slowing down the filming. Slow filming means more time on the set means higher costs.”

“You sound like Scruffy,” I said.

“For good reason.” Trock waved a fry at me. “He’s my son. Don’t be fooled by the last name. You didn’t think I was christened with this name, did you?”

I hadn’t really thought about it, but now that he mentioned it, Trock Farrand did sound made up. “Carissa,” I said.

He smiled, his white teeth appearing Cheshire cat–like in the dim light. “I predict you will go far. It is focused minds like yours that get results. Carissa. Yes. I finally had to ask her to stay away. It wasn’t her, but the aftermath. Every time she watched a filming, that man would appear the next day, asking questions.”

“What kind of questions?”

“Odd ones. Who had Carissa talked to, had she talked to anyone in particular, what had she said?” He studied his plate and chose what I thought was a small piece of chicken. “It made everyone on the set uncomfortable because Carissa had told everyone she was seeing an athlete, and this young man was clearly not the athletic type.”

“Why didn’t you just ban him from the set?” I asked.

“We don’t have the budget for real security, and the network is already threatening to cancel the show. The contract is up for renewal in two months, and if I can’t deliver these last episodes on time…” He buried the last of his sentence in a huge bite of fried chicken.

“So Carissa was more or less a threat to the renewal of your contract?”

He chewed and nodded.

“You know,” I said, “that’s not a bad motive for murder.”

He swallowed, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a wad of receipts. “Perhaps. However, I have a lovely alibi. The night she died, I was down on Torch Lake, eating at the Dockside on the deck’s farthest corner. Their fried shrimp are delectable.” He sorted through the flimsy pieces of paper. “Here, love. There is no possible way I could have signed that credit card receipt and driven all the way up to Chilson to kill that poor woman.”

I brought the smudgy receipt close to my nose. Read the handwritten note:
Thanks! Whitney
with a smiley face. Read the time and date stamp. He was right; there was no way the timing could have worked.

Then again, he was a celebrity chef with resources I couldn’t even imagine. If anyone could have faked a credit card receipt, it was the friendly, charming, and extremely intelligent man in front of me.

•   •   •

I parked the bookmobile in its cozy garage and turned off the engine. “Home, sweet home.”

Eddie was too busy napping in Paulette’s nest of soft pink to pay attention, but Ivy had already unbuckled
her seat belt and was piling up the returned books for hauling over to the library. How this was going to work during the snow-filled days of winter, I wasn’t quite sure, but I’d already decided not to worry about it. Things would work out.

Ivy nodded at the contest jar. “Don’t forget that we need to recount the candies, to make sure we know how many are left in there.”

I made a face. “Thanks. I forgot about that.”

“Here.” She put down the milk crate she’d picked up. “Let’s do it right now. It won’t take but a minute with the two of us.” Before I could get out a protest, she’d opened the jar and dumped the candies on the computer desk.

“This must be someone’s guess.” She picked up a slip of paper and handed it to me. “Someone else who couldn’t read the directions you so clearly taped to the jar. There’s always at least one, isn’t…” She realized that I wasn’t part of the conversation. “Minnie? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” I slipped the paper into my pants pocket. “Let’s count those candies.”