Free Borrowed Crime: A Bookmobile Cat Mystery by Laurie Cass

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    “Okay.” The word came out so slowly, it was almost pitiful. I told myself to buck up, and, according to mymother, the best way to start feeling better was to sit up straight and put your shoulders back.
    So I did.
    “Okay,” I said again, and felt my spirits rise. Not by much, but anything was good. Once again, Mom was right, and maybe one day I’d call and tell her so. Not today, though. Monday, maybe. Or Tuesday.
    “Okay,” I said, this time with feeling. Only . . . I wasn’t quite ready to talk.
    I let my gaze wander around the room. Beige furniture, hotel room–quality art on the walls, and bland carpet. The only Tucker-type things in the room were the bookshelves he’d bought and the books he’d filled them with. Knowing he’d be too busy at the hospital to equip even a small house properly, he’d leased a furnished two-bedroom condominium. It was nice enough, but no more than that. A wise choice for a busy bachelor, I supposed, but there was no life in the room, and I suddenly couldn’t bear it.
    I stood and went to the window. The sun had set long ago, but evenly spaced lights illuminated the wide walkway that ran adjacent to the river channel, all the way out to the pier. While I couldn’t see the lighthouse itself, I could see the reflection of its circling light on the water. Around and around and around and . . .
    “Minnie?” Tucker asked gently. “What’s the matter?”
    And, just like that, I was ready to talk.
    I told him about what had happened that day. Told him about Roger. “He was dead,” I said quietly, watching the water ripple in the glow from the lights. “I called nine-one-one, but I knew he was dead before they showed up.” There had been no chance he’d still been alive. Not with no pulse, not with his skin growing so terribly cold.
    “He’d been bleeding?” my doctor boyfriend asked.
    I laid a hand flat against the left side of my chest. Over my heart. “Yes,” I whispered.
    Tucker stirred, and I figured he wanted to ask medical questions, but there was no way I’d be able to answer them. “The ambulance came and took him to the Petoskey hospital,” I said. “A sheriff’s deputy came out, but there wasn’t much I could tell him.” There hadn’t been much to tell my boss, either, though I’d dutifully called Stephen and told him what had happened.
    “It was those shots you’d heard earlier?” Tucker asked.
    I nodded. Shrugged. Nodded again. “Hunters are all over the place today. Poor Roger was in the wrong place at the wrong time, I guess. Just a stupid hunting accident.” They happened. Rarely, but they happened often enough to stay in everyone’s minds.
    “It’s not your fault, you know.”
    I put my forehead against the cool of the window. Part of me knew he was right. It wasn’t my fault; it was the fault of the guy who’d held that gun. Then again, if it hadn’t been for me, there wouldn’t have been a bookmobile for Roger to have been on.
    Did that make me partially to blame? Not in a court of law, but what about the court of public opinion? How about my own opinion? With my own self blaming me, how would I ever sleep tonight—or any other night in the foreseeable future? And even if I did sleep, what sort of dreams would I be likely to have?
    I shivered and wrapped my arms around myself.
    Tucker got up and put his hands on my shoulders. “Repeat after me: It was an accident.”
    I managed a smile. “It was an accident.”
    “It’s not my fault,” Tucker prompted.
    “It’s . . .” I shook my head and blew out a breath. “It’s not my fault.”
    “I will spend the rest of the evening eating pizza and breadsticks and watching old movies, and will not think about this again until tomorrow.”
    Somehow, magically, I laughed. Not a big laugh—a very small one, actually—but still a laugh. It was good to have a boyfriend who could make me feel better when all I’d wanted to do half an hour ago was wrap my arms around