Booking the Crook Page 9

  Trying to be a good niece, I asked, “Do you need any help?” Since I’d scheduled myself for the noon to close shift at the library that day, I could give her a hand. I had other plans, but if she needed me, of course I’d change them.

  “You are a kind soul and thank you, but no. I have some students who volunteered to help if they could walk away with some bird’s-eye of their own.”

  It sounded like an excellent plan and I told her so.

  “Yes,” she agreed. “Or it will be as long as we can get the door to the storage unit open after that freezing rain.”

  “Hot water,” I said promptly. “Take a thermos of hot water and pour it along the door’s seal.”

  My aunt stared at me with frank admiration. “Brilliant. I am proud to be related to you.”

  “Voice of experience is all. The bookmobile’s garage door sticks sometimes in winter and that works fast. Just make sure to dry off that rubber seal.”

  Aunt Frances laughed. “You are a treasure trove of practical knowledge. Do your parents know this about you?” She got up from the kitchen table, having eaten her oatmeal so fast that pouring it might have been slower.

  “No one is a prophet in her own home.”

  “Is that a quote?”

  I thought about it. “Not as far as I know, but then I read a lot.”

  “Well, I’m off.” She bagged up her lunch and grabbed an empty thermos. “I’ll get this filled at the school when I’m picking up the kids. See you tonight!”

  A few seconds later, the front door shut. “I hope she slowed down enough to put on her boots,” I said to Eddie, who had wandered into the kitchen. “A coat would be good, too, since it’s only twenty degrees out there.”

  “Mrr,” he said, jumping onto his chair.

  “I’m sure you’re right. She probably slid right into those nice wool-lined duck boots without breaking stride.” I scraped up the last of my oatmeal. “And if you see Otto, could you please tell him this morning wasn’t the right time to talk to her about the furniture?”

  “Mrr!”

  That hadn’t sounded like agreement, but I could have been wrong. “Cool. Thanks.”

  I washed the dishes, patted Eddie on the head, and headed out for my first self-imposed chore of the morning.

  * * *

  • • •

  The sign at the road was mostly covered with snow, but enough was visible for my brain to fill in the bottom part. Maple Staples. This was the company that sold the sugar packet I’d found at Rowan’s. Well, technically, Eddie had found it, but I wasn’t about to tell that to my friends in law enforcement. They barely tolerated my ideas; letting them know some of them came from a cat wasn’t going to get Hal or Ash to take the ideas more seriously.

  The building was a typical Up North manufacturing facility; large pole barn with metal siding and an office tacked on the front. The parking lot, thankfully, was plowed reasonably well and held half a dozen vehicles. I parked between a four-wheel drive pickup and an all-wheel drive SUV and went in.

  “Hello.” From behind a wooden desk worn at the corners, a twenty-something man with long hair and an even longer beard smiled at me. “Can I help you?”

  Smiling back, I said, “I certainly hope so,” and went ahead with the truth-stretching story I’d concocted early that morning. With any luck it would sound just as solid now as it had at 3 a.m. “You’re the folks that make that maple-flavored sugar, right? Well, it turns out that stuff is basically addictive and I have this friend who would love me forever if I could track down a case of it. He can’t find it anywhere and . . .” I stopped, because his smile had turned rueful and he was shaking his head.

  “Sorry. We sold the last box a month ago to a restaurant in Traverse City.”

  “What restaurant?” I asked. “Maybe they still have some and—”

  Again the head shake. “Nope. It’s all gone. They called last Friday and asked for more.”

  Huh. Maybe the stuff really was addictive. “That’s too bad.” Sort of. I didn’t really care if I bought any; I just wanted to know more about the product and how it might have ended up in Rowan’s house. “It seems very popular. I’m surprised I haven’t seen it before now.”

  “We’ve only been in business a couple of years,” the guy said. “My boss and her husband are really into beer, but Bob can’t stand the smell of wort—that’s beer before it ferments—so beer was out when they started thinking about a startup company. But you know how some craft breweries have lots of short runs?”

  In a general sort of way. I nodded.

  “That’s what we’re doing with our maple syrup. Lots of different products, smaller production quantities. We make things from that sugar to ice cream to a barbecue glaze.” He spread his arms. “And it’s all local.”

  “Really?” I’d known Michigan was a big producer of maple syrup, but I’d never thought about added-value products. Yet another reason I was never going to be an entrepreneur.

  “And like some craft breweries,” he said, “we’ve decided to relabel products every year. The contents don’t change, but the labeling does. That’s why you might not have seen that sugar packet before—last fall was the only time it was made.”

  I hesitated. “Doesn’t that make brand recognition harder for your customers? I mean, what if they really liked that particular flavor of whatever, and think the new label is something different and get, um, maybe irritated?”

  “Yeah, we’re getting some of that.” He leaned back in his chair. “I think we should do a longitudinal data analysis and figure out the spikes, both up and down, for correlations and see what we can do to maximize the positives. Don’t you think that makes sense?”

  “More data is often useful,” I said, looking for the middle-of-the-road response to what was clearly a very pointed question about a topic. Plus I’d mostly stopped listening when he’d said “longitudinal,” so I wasn’t completely sure what he was talking about.

  “Exactly.” He nodded. “That’s what I keep telling Robbie and Bob. You know what? I’m just going to do it. Easier to ask forgiveness than permission, right?”

  I smiled. “Thanks for your time. I appreciate it.”

  “No problem. Say, if you’re interested in the sugar, I can put you on a waiting list. Bob started a sheet right after Christmas.” He rooted through the piles of papers on the desk. “Here you go,” he said, handing me a clipboard. “Robbie wants to expand into birch syrup, too. The sky’s the limit with this place. Of course, we’d have to change the name.”

  But for the second time in two minutes, I’d stopped listening. Because at the top of the list of names and e-mail addresses was one I recognized.

  Hugh Novak.

  * * *

  • • •

  Since I’d estimated the driving time out to Maple Staples and back poorly—to the dry road travel time I’d only added twenty-five percent instead of the fifty percent I should have to properly compensate for the snow that was falling from the heavens—I didn’t have time to make the other stops I’d planned. I arrived at the library a few minutes early, but I hadn’t had lunch, since I’d also planned a return to the boardinghouse to eat.

  I stopped in the break room on the way into my office and peeked in the refrigerator. There was always a chance that I’d left something in there and forgotten about it—yogurt? leftovers? anything?—but I came up dry. The offerings in the vending machine were heavy on the sugary side. I made a face at the bag of peanuts I was pretty sure had been there since the machine had been installed and wondered if there was any chance I’d left a can of soup in the bottom drawer of my desk.

  “Minnie, you’re just the person I was hoping to see.” Graydon was in the doorway, buttoning his navy peacoat. “Do you have lunch plans?”

  “Nothing that my mother would call a meal.” I tapped the vending machine. “C
ollege students, yes. Mom? No.”

  Graydon laughed. “Lunch is my treat, if you have time.”

  I blinked. Never in the history of my working life had a boss ever taken me out to lunch. There’d been the occasional group outing, but those had been separate checks for all and didn’t count. “That would be nice. Thanks.”

  “I’ll defer to your local expertise for a restaurant choice,” Graydon said. “I have no allergies and like almost everything except cottage cheese.”

  Since I’d just eaten at Shomin’s and didn’t feel Fat Boys Pizza was a suitable place to take Graydon, there wasn’t any other affordable place open this time of year except the Round Table.

  A short walk later, I led the way past the SEAT YOURSELF sign and paused. Sitting in a booth with my boss, a seating arrangement that implied intimacy, would be too weird. Of course, sitting at a table would be weird, too, since the only time I did that was in summer when all the booths were full. Still, a table it was.

  “Hey, sunshine.” The diner’s forever waitress, Sabrina, put down glasses of ice water. “Who’s your new friend?”

  Graydon held out his hand and introduced himself. “I’m the new library director.”

  “Hmm.” Sabrina shook his hand. “Well, you can’t be any worse than the last two. Don’t know that I ever saw that Jennifer in here, and Stephen?” She rolled her eyes. “Chicken sandwich with mayo, chips, and water, every time. Never tipped more than fifty cents. I’ll be right back with a menu.”

  I hadn’t had time to ask how her husband, Bill, was doing, but since she was her normal sparkling self, I was pretty sure he was doing okay. He and Sabrina were in their mid-fifties, but Bill was already suffering from macular degeneration. Special treatments down in Traverse City seemed to be slowing the symptoms and maybe even halting them, and we were all hoping he wouldn’t get any worse.

  After we ordered—ham and cheese with fries for me, a club sandwich and cup of chicken noodle soup for him—Graydon sat back a little. “Do you mind if I ask a few questions?”

  “Fire away,” I said, mirroring his movement. “But just so you know, I’m horrible at mental math.”

  He smiled. “Not that kind of questions. Library questions.”

  “Way easier. What do you want to know?”

  “For one, how long do you think Donna will keep working?”

  I laughed. “She works to support her habits. Turns out that traveling to Africa to run marathons and to Norway to snowshoe is expensive. She’s in great shape for any age, let alone someone who’s in her early seventies. If I had to guess, I’d say she’s going to work for another decade.” I thought about it for a moment. “And I wouldn’t be surprised at two.”

  It would be a sad day when Donna left her part-time job. She was intelligent, capable, and could be extremely funny. I didn’t like to think about the library without her.

  Sabrina slid our plates in front of us. “Cookie’s rolling them out fast today. Let me know if you need anything else.”

  “Thank you,” Graydon said. “This looks great.”

  “Absolutely.” I took hold of the malt vinegar bottle and shook it lightly over my fries. “And tell Cookie thanks, too.”

  “The speed isn’t for your sake,” Sabrina said. “He overcooked Otis’s bacon this morning and he’s still trying to recover.” Smirking, she pulled a pencil out of her graying hair bun and went to take orders from a table of EMTs.

  “Otis Rahn?” Graydon asked. “The past library board president?”

  Nodding, I sprinkled salt on my fries. Cookie never added enough for my taste. “For years and years.” I was about to say how much I missed him, but decided that might not be in my best professional interest.

  Graydon took in a few spoonfuls of soup. “What do you think about Kelsey?”

  I kept my face blank and wondered what this was all about. “Personally or professionally?” I tacked on a smile at the end of my question because I was afraid it might have come out a little snarky.

  “Whatever you feel comfortable telling me.”

  To delay giving an answer, I picked up my sandwich and took a bite. It was so good that I took another. Graydon, by this time, had started eating his. “This is very good,” he said.

  “Cookie graduated from the culinary program at Northwestern Michigan College. He worked in Chicago for a while, but came home a few years ago.”

  “His name isn’t really Cookie, is it?”

  “I honestly don’t know.” And I didn’t want to know, either. I enjoyed thinking of him as Cookie. My earlier liking for my new boss was turning to something else. I put my sandwich down. “About Kelsey. And anyone else you might ask about. I’m perfectly comfortable giving you professional assessments, that’s part of my job. But if you want me to—”

  Graydon’s cell phone buzzed. “Sorry,” he murmured, looking at the screen. “It’s Trent. I should take this.” He stood and went to the far corner of the room, turning his back to me.

  I finished my speech to the back of his head. “But if you want me to spy on my coworkers and report back, that’s not going to happen.”

  “What isn’t going to happen?”

  I looked up. And smiled at Rafe, who had materialized out of nowhere and was sitting himself at the table. “Curing the common cold in our lifetimes,” I said. “What do you think isn’t going to happen?”

  “Right now, I’m concerned that it’s getting hardware for the kitchen cabinets.”

  Oh. That. “Um . . .”

  He sighed so heavily that hyperventilation was a mild concern. “The one thing I ask you to do. One thing.”

  I pushed my plate toward him. “Have some fries. They’ll make you feel better. What are you doing here anyway?”

  “Picking up lunch for the admin office.”

  “Then you don’t need any of my fries, do you?”

  “‘Need’ is such a subjective word. Your fries are hard to resist because you always add the perfect amounts of malt vinegar and salt.”

  “It’s one of my proudest accomplishments. And keep your hands off Graydon’s food,” I said as I saw him eyeing the potato chips. “He’s back there, on the phone.”

  Rafe turned briefly. “Ah, I could take him.”

  A forty-ish man who was either bald or regularly shaved his head, I’d never been able to determine which, dropped a bulging plastic bag on the front counter. “Hey, Niswander. Your order’s up.”

  “Thanks, Cookie.” Rafe leaned over to give me a kiss and stood. “See you tonight?”

  “I have one stop after work, but that’s it.”

  “You’re finally going to stop at the hardware store to look at drawer pulls?”

  “Aren’t you cute.” I smiled at him fondly. “See you later.”

  He sighed again, but there was a grin in there, so I knew the hardware decision could be put off a little longer.

  I turned my attention back to my food. Graydon, however, was still on the phone. What could he and the new library board president be talking about? Okay, any number of things, probably, but what could be so critical that Trent needed to interrupt Graydon’s lunch? From the expression on Graydon’s face, the conversation was not completely positive.

  A slightly twitchy feeling started to form in my stomach. I tried to ignore it, or to think it was the result of too much fried food in too short a time. And I almost succeeded until my ears picked up the word “bookmobile.” Startled, I glanced up, directly at Graydon, and found that he was looking straight at me. He half smiled and let his gaze drift past, but I was left with some distinctly uncomfortable knowledge.

  My boss and the board president were talking about the bookmobile.

  And they were talking about me.

  * * *

  • • •

  After I locked the library down for the evening—Friday was t
he one winter weeknight we closed at five—I drove the few blocks to meet with Hal and Ash. The late meeting time had suited them both for various reasons, so I’d stopped feeling guilty about canceling our morning appointment and shifted to feeling guilty about driving such a short distance instead of walking. Some days I could pull off being like Aunt Frances and not feel guilty about hardly anything and, even better, not worrying about anything at all, but today wasn’t one of them. “Tomorrow is another day,” I said as I opened the door to the sheriff’s office.

  Hal Inwood was in the lobby, tacking an announcement about keeping mailboxes clear of snow to the glass-covered bulletin board. “Yes, unless the world ends in the middle of the night.”

  “Aren’t you a ray of sunshine.” I stomped my boots free of snow.

  “You should meet my wife.” He shut the glass door and locked it. “Unless you two are already good friends. That would, in many ways, explain quite a bit.”

  But Mrs. Hal and I had never met. Which was both odd and not odd. Chilson was a small town, but for transplants, which the Inwoods and I both were, if your paths didn’t cross, you could easily never meet. I grinned. “Tell her to stop by the library. We can exchange all sorts of stories, for hours and hours.”

  He gave me a pained look as he let me go in front of him into the interview room. “Fortunately, she’s downstate with grandchildren, and it’s possible that when she returns, I’ll forget to mention your kind invitation.”

  Right then and there I made a silent vow to get to know the detective’s wife. “How is the testing going?”

  “Of the sugar packet? No results yet, and I believe I mentioned at the time that it would take at least a week.”