Read Online Lending a Paw: A Bookmobile Cat Mystery (Bookmobile Cat Mysteries) by Laurie Cass - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Laurie Cass
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it. News of Stan’s death was bound to be on the front page. I had no idea if my name would be in print or not, but it very well could be. I mentally kicked myself for not calling Aunt Frances last night. And Kristen. I really should have told Kristen. And my . . . well, not my mom. I wasn’t ready to deal with her concern. I loved my parents dearly, but Mom’s mothering method involved a lot of what, in my teenage years, I’d called smothering. There was more than one reason I lived a five-hour drive away from my parents.
My aunt piled her fork full of hash browns. “Anything important in the paper this morning? These are outstanding, Dena, by the way.”
“Um, Aunt Frances? Could I talk to you a minute in the kitchen?” The breakfast table didn’t seem like the best place to discuss finding a dead body.
“Hang on, kiddo.” She was watching Leo, who’d picked up the newspaper and was waving it at her.
“A guy was killed out in the east part of the county.”
“Oh?” Aunt Frances’s eyes were going up and down, matching the flapping of the newspaper as she tried to read the headline. “What was his name?”
“Don’t remember,” Leo said. “But he was murdered.”
Surprised murmurs ran around the table.
“Bar fight?” Zofia asked.
“Bet there was a girl involved.” Paulette sniffed.
“Um,” I said.
Leo shook his head and held the newspaper out at arm’s length so he could read it. “He was some rich guy, born and raised here.” He scanned the article. “Says here that he was found by—” He stopped. “By the bookmobile librarian.”
Everyone suddenly focused on me. The silence was so sudden that I thought my ears had stopped working.
“Minnie?” my aunt asked softly. “Is this true? Are you all right?”
Her kindness almost undid me. I nodded and gripped my coffee cup tight. “Ed . . . we’d . . . I’d stopped by that old township hall . . . and . . . and heard something. It was at an old farmhouse. I called 911, but it was too late.”
“Poor Minnie.” Aunt Frances put her hand over mine. “How horrible for you.”
“Yes. And Stan . . .” I swallowed. “I knew him.”
The boarders murmured sympathy. The pressure from Aunt Frances’s hand grew intense. “You knew him? Stan . . . ?”
“Stan Larabee. He’s the one who donated the money for the bookmobile, remember? You said you didn’t know him, last fall when we started planning everything.”
“Yes, I remember saying that.” She released my hand. I stared at my skin, where a white mark showed how her hand had lain.
“You poor thing,” Paulette said, “having to see something like that.”
The others chimed in, asking questions that ranged from who, to how, to why, to when, and to where. All of them asked something, all of them except Aunt Frances, who sat through the remainder of the meal without eating another bite of breakfast.
• • •
I spent the rest of Saturday in the library and barely noticed the passing hours. This was easy to do since the bookmobile’s circulation was separate from the main library and had been shoehorned into a windowless space that had once been the newspaper archives.
My idea had been to get the newspapers microfilmed and donate the print copies to the local historical society to free up the space. Stephen’s objection had been predictable. “Who’s going to pay for the microfilming? It’s not a cheap endeavor, Minnie. Not cheap at all.”
After I’d found, applied for, and been awarded a grant that covered a majority of the costs, Stephen had said, “Even if it’s empty, that room isn’t big enough to house a bookmobile collection.” After I’d found a system of shelving that went floor to ceiling, Stephen had sighed. “Now, Minnie, please don’t take this the wrong way, but height is not one of your sterling qualities.” But I’d been ready for that objection and handed over a catalog of library ladders before he finished his sentence.
The room was
My aunt piled her fork full of hash browns. “Anything important in the paper this morning? These are outstanding, Dena, by the way.”
“Um, Aunt Frances? Could I talk to you a minute in the kitchen?” The breakfast table didn’t seem like the best place to discuss finding a dead body.
“Hang on, kiddo.” She was watching Leo, who’d picked up the newspaper and was waving it at her.
“A guy was killed out in the east part of the county.”
“Oh?” Aunt Frances’s eyes were going up and down, matching the flapping of the newspaper as she tried to read the headline. “What was his name?”
“Don’t remember,” Leo said. “But he was murdered.”
Surprised murmurs ran around the table.
“Bar fight?” Zofia asked.
“Bet there was a girl involved.” Paulette sniffed.
“Um,” I said.
Leo shook his head and held the newspaper out at arm’s length so he could read it. “He was some rich guy, born and raised here.” He scanned the article. “Says here that he was found by—” He stopped. “By the bookmobile librarian.”
Everyone suddenly focused on me. The silence was so sudden that I thought my ears had stopped working.
“Minnie?” my aunt asked softly. “Is this true? Are you all right?”
Her kindness almost undid me. I nodded and gripped my coffee cup tight. “Ed . . . we’d . . . I’d stopped by that old township hall . . . and . . . and heard something. It was at an old farmhouse. I called 911, but it was too late.”
“Poor Minnie.” Aunt Frances put her hand over mine. “How horrible for you.”
“Yes. And Stan . . .” I swallowed. “I knew him.”
The boarders murmured sympathy. The pressure from Aunt Frances’s hand grew intense. “You knew him? Stan . . . ?”
“Stan Larabee. He’s the one who donated the money for the bookmobile, remember? You said you didn’t know him, last fall when we started planning everything.”
“Yes, I remember saying that.” She released my hand. I stared at my skin, where a white mark showed how her hand had lain.
“You poor thing,” Paulette said, “having to see something like that.”
The others chimed in, asking questions that ranged from who, to how, to why, to when, and to where. All of them asked something, all of them except Aunt Frances, who sat through the remainder of the meal without eating another bite of breakfast.
• • •
I spent the rest of Saturday in the library and barely noticed the passing hours. This was easy to do since the bookmobile’s circulation was separate from the main library and had been shoehorned into a windowless space that had once been the newspaper archives.
My idea had been to get the newspapers microfilmed and donate the print copies to the local historical society to free up the space. Stephen’s objection had been predictable. “Who’s going to pay for the microfilming? It’s not a cheap endeavor, Minnie. Not cheap at all.”
After I’d found, applied for, and been awarded a grant that covered a majority of the costs, Stephen had said, “Even if it’s empty, that room isn’t big enough to house a bookmobile collection.” After I’d found a system of shelving that went floor to ceiling, Stephen had sighed. “Now, Minnie, please don’t take this the wrong way, but height is not one of your sterling qualities.” But I’d been ready for that objection and handed over a catalog of library ladders before he finished his sentence.
The room was
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