Free Lending a Paw: A Bookmobile Cat Mystery (Bookmobile Cat Mysteries) by Laurie Cass Page B

forty when he was sixty. From his speech patterns, however, you’d think he was twenty.
    “Louisa said you were looking for me.” I nodded hellos to Skeeter and Rafe.
    “Oh, yeah.” Chris dropped his feet to the concrete floor and half stood to reach for something underneath the counter. “Before I spread any more rumors, I got to find out if they’re true.” He held up the newspaper and stabbed a finger at the article about Stan. “Says here the bookmobile person found old Stan Larabee. Was that you? My money’s on it.”
    I stared at the article. Why did Chilson have to have the only newspaper in the area that still ran a weekend edition? Was there really enough news in the county to print a paper six times a week? Once a week would surely be enough.
    “Leave her alone, Ballou,” Skeeter said quietly.
    Chris stabbed the paper again. “I knew it, I just knew it. Everybody was saying so, right, Rafe?”
    “What do you mean, everybody?” I asked.
    “You know.” Rafe shrugged. “Everybody.”
    I crossed my eyes at him. For a smart man, Rafe could be exceedingly inarticulate when he chose, and outside of his working hours, he typically chose the path of inarticulateness.
    “At the bar last night,” Chris said. “Larabee being killed was all anyone talked about. Well, that and who’s going to get all his money.”
    Of course Stan’s death was the hot topic. How could it not be? The hometown boy had made good, come home to retire, and was murdered by person or persons unknown. Every occupant of every barstool in town had probably laid claim to knowing Stan and having an opinion on the murder. “Your buddies figure out who killed him?”
    Rafe shot me a half grin, but my sarcasm was lost on Chris.
    “Could have been a lot of people.” Chris dropped back into the director’s chair. “You better watch out. Killer’s going to be after you, next.”
    I snorted. “Really.”
    “Well, sure. It’s all over town. Stan was beat up real bad and then shot, right? And you’re the one who found him, so he must have told you who did it before he died. Bound to have.”
    “Uh-huh,” I said. “And does everybody also know why the police haven’t arrested the killer?”
    “Well, sure, there’re a couple reasons.” Chris’s feet went back up on the cardboard box. “The guy’s in hiding, for one. I mean, who kills somebody and goes to work the next day? And maybe all Stan gave you was a first name and it’ll take some time to figure out which one it is. Some names are real common, you know.”
    “Like ‘Chris’?”
    “Nah. There aren’t that many . . . hey! You ain’t saying I killed Stan Larabee. No way are you saying that. He didn’t really say a Chris killed him, did he? Hey, Minnie, don’t walk away like that. You got to tell me!”
    Out of sight of Chris, I winked at Rafe and Skeeter. “It’ll take some time to figure it out,” I said, deadpan. “You might want to come up with an alibi.”
    “An alibi? For when? Minnie . . . hey, Minnie!”
    But I was already out the door.
    • • •
    The rest of Sunday I spent taking care of the mundane details of life. Balanced the checkbook, hauled a pillowcase full of dirty clothes over to the marina’s coin laundry, cleaned the kitchen, and wiped down the houseboat’s many railings. Eddie followed me around, criticizing my efforts as only a cat is able to do. His unwavering stare clearly meant
That’s as clean as you can get it? Please.
    “If you think you can do better, go ahead,” I told him.
    He sat down and licked his chest.
    I popped my cleaning rag in his direction, but he didn’t flinch. “Why is it that I clean the whole place and get nothing but grief, but the only chore you have is cleaning yourself and if I comment on that, I get ignored?”
    Since the answer to that was obvious—
I’m a cat
—I didn’t expect a response. And that’s exactly what I got.
    I made the standard Sunday call to my mom and dad, stumbling a little over