“What’re you doing, Minnie?”
I looked away from the computer screen to see Mitchell’s hands flat on the front of the reference desk. Classic Mitchelclass="underline" on the edge of rude, but not so far over the edge that you had to say something.
“Research,” I said, pushing back from the computer. And I’d been at it way too long. Not only was it more than an hour past my scheduled work time, but it was past my stomach’s preferred suppertime. I started to stand.
“What are you researching?” he asked, leaning around to look at the screen.
“Grants,” I said. “I’m looking for operational funds for the bookmobile.” I’d also been trying to find anything that might help prove Cade’s innocence, but that wasn’t something you could put into a search engine.
Mitchell didn’t appear to be interested in the bookmobile problems. “Say,” he said, “know what I found out?”
“No idea.” This time I stood all the way up.
“Let me show you.” He came around and sat in the chair I’d just left.
I sighed. “Mitchell, you can’t use the reference desk computer.”
“Hang on, this will just take a second.” He tapped rapidly at the keyboard. “Remember I said the police were going to arrest Carissa’s boss? Well, looks like the real killer was someone else.”
Surprise, surprise. “Mitchell, you really can’t—” I stopped. The Web site materializing on the screen was Cade’s Facebook page.
“See this guy?” Mitchell pointed. “What I hear is that he’s the one they’re tagging to be the killer.”
“How did you hear that?” I asked, so fiercely that the patrons sitting at nearby tables turned to look. I smiled. When they turned away, I turned back to Mitchell. “How do you know?”
He shrugged. “I hear things.”
I’d just bet he did. Sometimes I wondered if he and Rafe were related. Closely. “Sorry to break this to you,” I said, “but Cade has an alibi.”
“He does?”
“A solid one.” At least I hoped so.
“Well, shoot.” Mitchell squinted at the screen. “Here I thought I was going to help the police by seeing something in this Cade guy’s Facebook posts.”
“His wife is the one who puts up the pictures and writes the posts.”
“How do you know?” Mitchell asked.
“I hear things,” I said, grinning, but Mitchell just nodded.
“Sure, you probably hear lots of stuff, being a librarian and everything.” He was scrolling down through Cade’s page. “And out on the bookmobile, you…” He stopped at a photo. “Say, that’s Carissa, isn’t it? With that guy? Huh. He’s a lot older than I would have figured.” Mitchell clicked the button to read all of the comments that had been posted regarding the picture. “Uh, Minnie? Did you see this?”
We both read the comment. “One down, one to go,” it stated.
For a second I couldn’t breathe.
“Um…” Mitchell’s voice cracked. “Is that the killer?”
“Maybe,” I said, and I was happy that my own voice was steady. Mostly, anyway.
“Hey,” Mitchell said. “If the killer’s posting on Facebook, that’ll help the police find him, right?”
I looked at Cade’s number of Facebook fans. Eight hundred forty-five thousand, nine hundred and fifteen. No wonder his agent had pushed for a social media presence. “Look at the name. ‘John Doe.’ That’s probably not on the guy’s birth certificate.”
“Oh.” Mitchell deflated. “Still, the police are probably figuring something out from the guy’s Facebook identity.”
I thumped him on the shoulder. “You know something? You could be right.”
And I sincerely hoped he was.
• • •
The next morning, as the sun was heaving itself up over the Chilson skyline, I gave Ivy a lesson on the inner workings of the bookmobile. She was a fast learner, and we had time for a stop at the back door of Cookie Tom’s before we hit the road. Earlier in the summer, that wonderful man had promised me a discount rate and speedy service anytime the bookmobile wanted to stop for provisions on the way out of town. Sometimes there were even cookies left over for the patrons.
Ivy peered into the bag. “Lovely. Nothing like coconut chocolate chip.”
“I’m glad you’re okay with cookies,” I said. “My other volunteer has become so health-conscious that I feel guilty eating anything as horrible as oatmeal raisin.”
“Practically health food.” Ivy leaned down and reached her fingers through the wires of Eddie’s cage. “Hey, Mr. Ed. You doing okay in there?”
I glanced over. Eddie was rubbing up against her and I could hear his purring even over the bookmobile’s engine. “If he’s not, it’s his own fault.”
“Oh?” Ivy sat back and rearranged her shoulders, making herself comfortable. “I hear a story coming. Tell all.”
So we drove across the county, west to east, me relating the main story of Eddie the Stowaway and How He Managed to Become a Fixture on the Bookmobile and then the almost as important substory of Why the Library Director Must Never Know.
Ivy was an excellent audience, laughing, gasping, and sniffling in all the right places. When I came to the end, she reached down and gave Eddie another scratch as we drove into the outskirts of the village where our first stop was scheduled. “You’ve created quite a dilemma for Miss Minnie, Mr. Eddie.”
“Mrr,” he said.
Ivy laughed delightedly. “It really does feel as if he knows what you’re saying.”
“He excels at sarcasm,” I said. “Especially when—”
“What’s the matter?” Ivy asked.
There was concern in her voice, but I didn’t look at her. Couldn’t, really, because my gaze was stuck on the sight of two of my aunt’s boarders walking along the sidewalk, hand in hand.
I squinted. Maybe I was seeing things. It was early, after all. Maybe my eyes weren’t all the way awake yet.
“Minnie?”
But no. The sight was undeniable. There was Paulette, whom Aunt Frances had matched with Quincy, side by side with Leo, whom Aunt Frances had matched with Zofia. They were gazing happily into each other’s eyes, goopy smiles on their faces. “Oh, jeez.”
“You’re sure you’re all right?”
This time I spared a glance away from the road and looked at Ivy. “Sorry. I’m fine, it’s just…” The idea of explaining the inner workings of the boardinghouse was daunting. How could I possibly start this story?
“It’s just what?” Ivy asked. “Tell me, Minnie. You look troubled and who better to confide in than someone you barely know?”
I thought about it. In lots of ways, she was right. “Okay. I have this aunt…”
By the time I flicked the turn signal in preparation for the wide right turn into the parking lot of an elementary school, I’d already described the typical boardinghouse summer. I braked the bookmobile to a complete stop, and by the time we opened the doors, I’d pretty much covered everything.
“So you see the problem?” I asked.
“The only problem I see is getting your aunt to stay out of other people’s business.”
She’d spoken with a smile, but it was clear that she thought Aunt Frances’s efforts were misguided. Up until that moment I’d thought Ivy and my aunt could be great friends. Now I realized that it would be best if they never met.
“Any more problems I can help with?” Ivy asked, laughing.
“How about employee relations issues? Any experience there?” Not that Mitchell was an employee, but I didn’t want to tell anyone I had a problem with a library patron.
“Not an ounce. One of the beauties about working for yourself and then teaching college is not having employee issues.” We greeted a young woman and three children coming up the steps; then Ivy turned back to me. “Minnie, I know you’re looking for answers, but sometimes there aren’t any. Sometimes you have to go with your instincts and hope for the best.”
I sighed. “I’m not sure my instincts are up to the job.”