The Crime That Binds

Chapter 1

It was a dark and dreary morning. And there was every indication that the darkness and dreariness were going to continue into noon, then into early afternoon, late afternoon, dusk, evening, and possibly into eternity. It was one of those days that made you wonder why you lived in northwest lower Michigan. A day that made you question every life choice you'd ever made, since the net result was a dull, sodden late March with no visible evidence that spring was ever, ever, ever going to show up.

"Mrr."

I grinned. Then again, all the paths I'd taken had brought me to this. I was assistant director of the Chilson District Library, head of the library's outreach efforts, and driver of the bookmobile. Plus, I had a wonderful fianc I was going to marry on some indeterminate date, and I had a great boss, outstanding coworkers, supportive friends, and-

"Mrr!"

-and a black-and-white tabby cat who commented on everything from quantum mechanics to the color of the inside of his eyelids.

My part-time bookmobile clerk, just as every previous clerk had done, tapped his toes on the cat carrier strapped to the floor in front of the passenger's seat. "What was that, Mr. Eddie?" Hunter Morales asked. "Did you say you were hoping for sunny and seventy degrees today and since the day isn't turning out as you expected, that Miss Minnie is to blame?"

I nodded in a sage-like manner. "And that I should be punished."

Hunter laughed, and I once again congratulated myself on hiring him. A few months ago, my boss had expressed an interest in expanding the hours the bookmobile was on the road. It was an excellent idea. The only problem was that we couldn't manage it with the existing staff. Sure, I was young (if you considered mid-thirties young, which I did) and eager for a challenge, but there are only so many hours in a day, and I'd quickly found that an overloaded schedule was too much for me and my other part-time clerk, Julia Beaton. Though Julia was a very young mid-sixties powerhouse, she'd already retired from one career and didn't want to work more than half time.

Thus the search had begun. The requirements sounded simple: have a commercial driver's license, drive the thirty-one-foot bookmobile through the many hills and lakes of Tonedagana County rain or shine, haul books from vehicle to library and back, help people find books, be patient and kind to all.

I'd desperately wanted to put one more item in the job posting, but my boss dissuaded me. "That's what the job interview is for," Graydon had said. "To see if it's a good fit."

He was right-I knew he was. And, anyway, how could I put "talk to cats," in the newspaper advertisement, let alone post that on the state library association's website and expect anyone to take me seriously ever again? Though Eddie was accepted by everyone from the library's board to the newest bookmobile patron as a permanent part of the bookmobile, it was quite a step from acceptance to conversation.

So it was with a hope and a prayer that I hired twentysomething Hunter Morales just after the holidays. Hunter and his wife, Abigail, were living with his parents while saving to buy a house. He was also taking as many college classes as he could to finish up a bachelor's degree in business while developing a clientele for his welding company. My aunt Frances was feeling the teensiest bit smug because she'd met Hunter in one of the woodworking classes she taught at the local community college and had recommended that he apply.

"It's possible I know just the person," she'd said, and she, too, had been right. He'd looked good on paper, and though neither Julia nor I had the courage to specifically ask him the "Do you talk to cats?" question during the interview, his sense of humor had sealed the deal.

I looked over at him now. Hunter was thin, almost a foot taller than my five feet, and had hair cut short to keep the welding sparks from burning holes in his head. Or so he said. I was fairly sure it was an excuse to run his electric shaver over his head once a week and save the hassle of getting an official haircut, but it was a good story, so I didn't call him on it. "In some climates," I said, "March is like a calendar photo. Hyacinths. Apple blossoms. Daffodils."

"Shh!" Hunter whispered. "Do you want Eddie to hear? He'll make you move somewhere warm and sunny. Arizona. Maybe New Mexico."

I scoffed. "He wouldn't like it there, either. Too hot in the summer. Fur coat, remember?"

"Mrr," Eddie muttered.

Hunter leaned down and peered through the cat carrier's wire door. "Sorry, bud. Looks like you're stuck with Michigan."

"Oh, I wouldn't say stuck." I flicked the blinker and turned off the road and into the parking lot of a white clapboard township hall. "Sure, it's dark and dreary, and the snow is still glopping down"-I nodded at the wafting snowflakes-"but a month from now the world will be transformed."

Hunter nodded. "Yeah, that's pretty cool, isn't it?"

I parked on the far side of the gravel lot and we quickly ran through the opening routine. Unlatch Eddie, rotate the driver's chair 180 degrees to serve as a computer chair, detach the bungee cord that held the castered chair, fire up both computers, and unlock the door for all who wished to enter.

Which was, at that point, a total of no one, so we continued our mutual admiration of springtime in Michigan.

With Eddie observing from the passenger seat headrest, we'd agreed that the worst part of this season was the eager wanderings of the skunk population, debated merits of purple versus yellow crocus (tied, one each), marveled over the fact that lakes could still be iced over while daffodils were blooming, mutually admitted to toe-curling delight when seeing the first hint of green leaves on maple trees, and had moved on to the topic of setting up a guessing contest of when the snow pile behind the library would completely melt when we jumped at a loud voice.

"You two actually enjoy this kind of weather?"

Hunter and I turned as one unit to face our first bookmobile patron of the day. I smiled at the elderly man. "Good morning, Mr. Valera. I didn't expect to see you for another few weeks."

Mr. Valera, who regularly threatened me with "Call me Herb or I'll call you Ms. Hamilton," finished climbing the stairs, shut the door, took off his knit hat, and banged an inch of snow onto the entry rug. His patrician silver hair did not, as my curly-haired mop would have, bounce in all directions at once. No, his hair did as he commanded and stayed where he wanted it to. That demanded respect by itself, let alone his innate kindness, empathy, and intelligence.

"If I'd been smart," he said, stuffing the hat into his coat pocket, "I would have continued my retirement habit and stayed in Florida until late April. But, no, I was lulled into complacency by the weather of the last week and thought, like a fool, that spring was here."

Last week had been sunny and mild, with temperatures warm enough to make you think about hauling the patio furniture out of the garage. I'd seen some people do that, but most of us knew better. Personally, I didn't move the snow scraper from my back seat into the trunk until Memorial Day.

My beloved fianc had recently said that was because I simply forgot, but I said it was caution. Which made him ask why this was the one thing I was cautious about. Which made me start citing a list of Things That Made Minnie Hamilton Cautious, something that didn't go well because once I'd listed (1) pending asteroid collision and (2) the library's postage machine, I'd spent so much time defending those two items that I'd refused to make the list any longer.

Hunter interrupted my list reminiscing by introducing himself. Due to his varied schedule and because we were still revising bookmobile routes, this was the first time he'd been at this stop.

"Good morning, young man," Mr. Valera said, shaking hands. "And call me Herb."

Hunter nodded. "No problem, Mr. Herb."

Mr. Valera gave him a pained look and I laughed. "You should be grateful," I said. "We could be calling you 'Your Honor.'"

"You're a judge?" Hunter asked.

"Retired," Mr. Valera said. "Kicked out to pasture by the state of Michigan when I was seventy, whether I wanted to or not."

The Honorable Judge Herbert D. Valera had served as a downstate circuit court judge for decades. I had no doubt that he could tell story after story about courtroom drama, but he didn't seem inclined, and I wasn't sure I wanted to know. Circuit court judges had the power of sentencing life in prison, and making casual entertainment out of those circumstances didn't seem appropriate.

"So." Mr. Valera clapped his hands and rubbed them together. "Did you get those books I ordered?"

"Mrr!"

"Apologies, Edward." He moved forward and scratched Eddie behind the ears. The purrs were instantaneous and loud enough to be heard in the next county. "What's that?" Mr. Valera asked. "No one else has ever rubbed your head to your satisfaction? I'm the first one who has done so? Such a shame. What do you plan to do about it?"

I could answer that. Easily. "Complain about me at the top of his little kitty lungs at four in the morning and then bat something off my dresser and onto the floor and then push it under the dresser so I can't reach it."

Mr. Valera gave Eddie's head one last pat. "Maybe that's what happened to our sculpture." He was smiling, but it didn't quite cover his entire face.

"Sculpture?" I pulled the stack of books he'd ordered from the Reserved shelf and handed them to Hunter to check out. "I didn't know you were an art collector."

"Art? Me?" He laughed. "Not in this or any lifetime I can imagine. It was my parents who were the artsy types. My sisters and I grew up . . . Well, it doesn't matter. In the end my sisters, my cousins, and I were left with the family cottage just down the road and an odd collection of artwork, almost all of which has zero monetary value."

For a moment I longed to know about the childhood of young Herb Valera. Had his parents been artists? Had the family lived in Paris? New York? Had they met people like Georgia O'Keeffe? Jackson Pollock? But Mr. Valera was a private man, and if he wanted us to know, he'd tell us.

"Just almost?" Hunter was done beeping the books with the scanner: biographies of Shirley Jackson and George Washington, a history of the seventeenth-century tulip mania, the latest Michael Connelly novel, and a copy of Sonnets from the Portuguese. He smiled and pushed the pile over to Mr. Valera. "So there's a painting worth more than its frame?"

"Oh, if only that were true." Mr. Valera took his books and tucked them under his arm. "The cottage is full of worthless paintings. The rest of the family has a conniption fit at the merest suggestion of getting rid of any of them." He shook his head. "Worst thing about a family cottage is every decision is made by committee. And I do mean every decision. That's the odd thing about this sculpture."

"What's odd about it?" I asked. "Is it weird-looking?"

"No, that's not it at all." He paused, then smiled. "Well, yes, it is weird-all angles and holes-but that's not the issue. The problem is it's missing."

"You mean someone stole it?" Hunter asked. "Did you tell the police?"

"If I was certain it was stolen, then yes, I would certainly inform local law enforcement." Mr. Valera put the books down on the desk and pulled his knit hat from his coat pocket. "But there's a complication with that determination."

The tone of his voice had shifted. In one sentence he'd been the kindly, humorous Mr. Valera who liked nothing better than to scratch Eddie's head; in the next he'd spoken in a way that summoned images of him in a black robe, sitting behind a massive oak desk, hands folded, as he somberly addressed the criminal he was about to sentence.

I shivered, happy that I wasn't a criminal and even happier that I'd never had cause to appear in front of Judge Valera.

"You mean you're not sure it's missing?" Hunter asked the question mildly, but his disbelief wasn't hidden well.

Mr. Valera smiled. "As I said, there's a complication. Two, if you want to be accurate."

"We do," I said promptly. This earned me a nod of approval from the former judge, which made me more proud of myself than it should have.

He held up the index finger that wasn't holding a stack of books. "The first complication is this is a family cottage and items wander off from time to time. Though they eventually make their way back home, the simple system I developed of writing down what you take in a notebook dedicated to the purpose isn't always followed."

"So annoying." I rolled my eyes in sympathy but didn't mention that, if it had been my family cottage, I might not have always remembered to write things down myself.

"Yes, but the more serious complication is . . ." Mr. Valera paused, which wasn't something I'd ever heard him do. Normally, he spoke in clear and declarative sentences. No hesitations, no word stumbles, no self-corrections. It was something I admired tremendously, and I hoped to be more like him in that regard when I grew up. To have him search for words meant, to me, that the complication that faced him was a big one.

"It's okay," I said, and gave him our unofficial motto. "What happens on the bookmobile stays on the bookmobile. Confidentiality is a thing with us."

"Thank you," Mr. Valera said to me and Hunter, who'd been nodding agreement. "This is more a personal difficulty than a truly private one." He suddenly looked sad. "Last fall my sister talked about sending the Conti somewhere to get cleaned."

I frowned. People did that? What was wrong with a dustcloth? Or a feather duster? Then again, I'd never owned a valuable anything. What I knew about the caretaking of pricey art objects could fit into two words: don't touch. That anyone would go to the trouble and expense of shipping a sculpture off for cleaning made me wonder how valuable it actually was.