“We’ll be off the road one week maximum,” I said, projecting assurance into my voice. “And the guys said the tires may even get up here in time for Saturday’s run.”
Stephen grunted. “Keep me informed,” he said.
He sounded grumpy, but not the world-class grumpy that he’d been. “Say, Stephen, you’re starting to sound more like your old self. Have you had one of those summer colds?”
“No, it’s my . . .” He stopped. “I’m fine.” A pause. “But thank you for asking.”
Thank you? Stephen had unbent enough to say thank you? It was a day to remember. “One more question,” I said. “Do you know if Holly scheduled the summer book sale with the Friends?” I’d meant to do it myself the day before, but had forgotten and asked Holly to take care of the small chore.
“Holly went home early,” he said. “One of her children was sick, I was told.”
Sighing, I hung up the phone. “So much for Holly being dropped to the bottom of the list,” I told Eddie. While I’d been on the phone with Stephen, Mr. Ed had placed himself exactly in the center of the dining table. By rights, I should be enforcing the No Cats on the Table rule. Somehow, though, I didn’t have the heart. Not tonight.
“Mrr,” he said, then shut his eyes and purred.
Smiling, I scratched him behind his fuzzy ear. He wasn’t so bad for an Eddie.
• • •
The next morning I was hard at work sorting through applications for a new part-time library clerk when the detectives stopped by.
“Can we have a moment of your time?” Detective Inwood asked.
“Sure.” The one guest chair for which my office had room was piled high with books. “Do you want to go into the conference room?”
“No, thanks,” said the short stout detective who was shaped like the letter D. Devereaux. “We just want to get your story about yesterday.” He pulled a small notebook from his jacket pocket. Its cardboard covers were curved slightly, molded to the shape of his body.
As clearly as possible, I related the events of the day before. The lurching of the bookmobile. The second lurch. My sighting of the quad and the rifle. And how the distance from where the bookmobile’s tires had been blown out to the farmhouse wasn’t that far, not cross-country with a quad.
Detective Devereaux flipped his notebook shut. “Bet it was some kid messing around,” he said, chuckling. “Probably he was shooting at a stop sign and missed.” They both laughed.
If I’d been a cartoon, steam would have poured out of my ears. “He came close to destroying a vehicle worth a quarter of a million dollars,” I said.
The laughter stopped. “Yes, ma’am,” said Detective Inwood. “We realize that. We’ll find him. People talk, and kids talk even more. It won’t take long to track him down.”
I nodded, slightly mollified.
“What garage is working on the vehicle?” he asked. I told him and he nodded. “We’ll take a look at the blown tires. Where were you when this happened?” When I gave him directions, he said, “We’ll check it out.”
He was saying the right things, but I sensed that I was losing them. “Do you think there’s any link between Stan’s murder and the bookmobile?” Yesterday I’d spent hours driving up and down the same few roads, trying out routes. The bookmobile was a big thing and didn’t move very fast. Easy enough to follow it, if you wanted.
I didn’t want to come out and ask if they thought my life was in danger, but how could it not be a possibility? I was very attached to my life and I wasn’t keen on it ending any time soon.
The detective smiled. “Ma’am, like I said, we’re investigating every possibility. If there’s a link, we’ll find it.”
And with that, they were gone.
I stared after them, my face red with the effort of restraining my temper. They’d find it? Sure they would. Right after they figured out what really happened to the lost colony on Roanoke Island and right before they tracked down D. B. Cooper.
• • •
“Hiya, Minnie. What’s that you’re doing?”
I jumped. I was doing a stint at the research desk and Mitchell Koyne had done his usual trick of walking up from behind and scaring the living crap out of me. I pushed back from the desk and looked up at him. “Hey, Mitchell. I’ve been meaning to ask you something. You know Gunnar Olson, right?”
“Olson . . . oh, yeah. Big guy, too much money, not enough nice?”
I smiled. Mitchell had pegged it. “He said you did some driving for him a few weeks ago.”