Library Cat Magical Mysteries Box Set (Books 1-3), page 53
He tapped the side of his head. “For me to know and for you to find out. Scratch that. For me to know and you to never find out. Secrets abound. Nonlinear paths. Twists and turns. Can’t go from Point A to Point B without C, D and E, that’s what I always say. Patterns are predictable and predictable people are easy to find. Easy to get.”
Good grief, he was talking like Konrad. Had someone cast a paranoia spell on the town or what?
“Now, I see the look in your eye,” he said. “Brownell B. Baxter, at your service, and let me take this opportunity to remind you that just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean They aren’t after you.”
“Sound advice,” I said. I wondered who They were and why They were after Brownell. He was about seventy, wiry and spry, a head full of wispy hair, bright white and standing up in all directions. He wore a pair of overalls with no shirt underneath. His feet were bare, but the inch-thick layer of calluses protected him from the scorching concrete and gravel.
“Cookies,” he said and held out his hand. I gave him the tin and he peeled off the plastic collar and popped off the lid. “These are the best.” He crammed two into his mouth at once. “Real butter. No seed oils. The seeds. That’s another way They get you.”
“Who gets you?” I asked.
“The trees, of course,” he said. “Their seeds. They’re poison.”
“I am partial to butter myself,” I said. This guy was nuttier than the so-called seeds he was afraid of.
“You’re not one of Them, are you?” he asked.
“I’m the Chief Archivist,” I said carefully, not knowing who They were. “We’ve met before. I’m Francie.”
“What do you breathe?” he shouted suddenly.
“Uh, oxygen?” I said. He peered closely at my face.
“Hmm, no stomata.”
“Not that I know of,” I said.
“Quickly! Where do you get your adenosine triphosphate?”
“I think the mitochondria?” I said. “The powerhouse of the cell? But it’s been awhile since chemistry class at the Academy.”
“Not your mesophylls?” he asked.
“I don’t think I have those,” I said.
“And what of your roots?” he asked.
“I dyed them a few weeks ago,” I said, idly plucking at the hair sprouting out near my forehead. “Probably can use a touch-up, though. The grays show up so easily when you have dark hair.”
“So you’re not one of Them,” he said.
“No,” I said.
“Do you know about Them?”
“Maybe?” I said.
“The tree-people,” he said.
That explained why he was checking me for mesophylls and asking if I performed photosynthesis. “No, I’m just a regular person,” I said.
“They send the tree-people for me,” he said. “To get revenge. You said you’re an archivist? Work with books, do you? Then I’d be careful. They might send Them for you too.”
“The tree-people want revenge?” I asked.
“I created Brownell’s Broom Balm,” he said. “And my greatest love is books. Between all the broomsticks and paper… a lot of trees have been cut down because of me. And now they want their revenge.”
“I see,” I said. “Then we’d better talk inside. So They can’t hear us.”
“Good idea,” he said. We went inside and he shut the door. Everything inside was metal or plastic—no wood. He was taking this seriously. He led me through many hallways until we got to the kitchen. He set down the tin of cookies and poured himself a glass of milk. Then he tucked the tin back underneath his arm and grabbed his cup. “Come on, to the library!” I followed him back the way we’d come.
“I wanted to talk to you about books,” I said. “As you can imagine, I am a great lover of books, too.”
“Yes, and the trees are getting chopped down by the acre to support your habit,” he said.
“I don’t know about acre,” I said.
“Well, I do,” he said. “I had acres and acres planted. I bought rain forests in Brazil and Indonesia. I started the recycling program in the schools.”
“That’s very charitable,” I said.
“But the tree-people have a long memory,” he said. “They aren’t so easily pacified.”
“You are a great lover of books, too?” I asked.
“Ever since I was strong enough to hold one in my lap, I looked at books all day long. My constant companions lived on the page, my world was between two covers. When I was forced to close the book and set it aside for matters of real life, I always resented it.”
I think Brownell and I could have gotten along just fine. “I understand completely,” I said.
“When I was twenty-one, I decided I was going to invent something that would make me a million dollars so I would never have to work again and I could spend all day reading. That’s how the Broom Balm was born. Except I made a billion dollars and the tree-people took notice.” He stopped for a moment to drink some milk and eat another cookie. This was going to take forever.
“That’s unfortunate,” I said.
“Not quite,” he said. “I have a magnificent library and top-notch security.”
I wasn’t so sure, if his security could be breached with a tin of Danish Butter Cookies. “Did you purchase Konrad LaRue’s collection yesterday?” I asked.
“Yes, he had many lovely pieces in his collection,” he said. “How I’ve wanted to get my hands on his books for years. He didn’t deserve a collection like that. He loved the books because other people coveted them. His collection was merely a vehicle to attract the envy of his peers. He didn’t love the books. And if you don’t love a book, you can never truly own it.”
I didn’t agree with this at all. Konrad had been a lover of books—that’s why he’d gotten into the business. But I wouldn’t tell Brownell and risk freaking him out. The last thing I needed was for him to think I was a tree-person out to get him.
“Can I see your magnificent library?” I asked.
“Sure,” he said. He crammed another cookie in his mouth and put the lid on. “This way.”
Imagine a billionaire book lover’s private library in the heart of his huge mansion.
Towering shelves of books, spiral staircases, murals on the ceiling. A wall of windows and overstuffed chairs with tables for your coffee, tea, wine or cider. Gently glowing lamps and a cat or two lounging on the floor.
Take that image in your head and throw it out the window.
Brownell’s library was a giant room, but that’s where the similarities ended. Instead of shelves, picture plastic milk crates stacked in haphazard pillars. Instead of a spiral staircase, there was a huge jumble of extension cords and power strips crisscrossed all over the floor and up the walls. And instead of that cozy alcove with a comfortable chair and warm mug of your favorite beverage, there was a plastic lawn chair with half the backing chipped away and no less than seventy-three crumpled empty plastic water bottles on the floor. Oh, and instead of a lounging cat, substitute a thick line of marching ants along the windowsill.
But he certainly had a lot of books.
“Where are Konrad’s books?” I asked.
“The fool,” he said. “I could have bought them when he was alive. I would have given him any price he asked for. All their money trouble would have vanished. But no, he was stingy, selfish—covetous.”
“Money trouble?” I said.
“His widow couldn’t go five minutes without mentioning it,” he said. “Although I doubt she’ll be in the red much longer, not after the check I wrote yesterday.”
He pushed over two paper grocery bags and gestured for me to look inside. I carefully started to take out the books, setting them down on an overturned laundry basket that served at his end table.
When my fingers touched the third book down, an electric shock zipped through my entire body. The amulet jerked on its chain. I didn’t even have to look at the cover to know which book I’d happened upon.
The Life and Times of Archmagus Antonius Antonello.
“That’s a rare beauty,” he said as I held the book.
“Have you read it?” I asked. As far as I knew, there were no records of this book anywhere. How had he heard of it?
“Not yet,” he said. “I’ve got a list. Got to keep to the list!” He pointed to the opposite wall. He’d tacked up a large piece of butcher paper to the wall, scribbles and slashes covering the entire thing.
“That’s your list?”
“To Be Read,” he said. “The kids on the internet call it TBR.”
“Interesting,” I said. “Then can I borrow this book? I promise to return it before you get to it on your TBR.”
“Not a chance,” he said and snatched it out of my hand. “None of the books leave the library. Otherwise They might get it.”
“I’ve never heard of this book before,” I said. “How did you hear about it?”
“I’ve been studying the great Antonello, read every book published about him. He was a magic user, one of the last great male wizards. When I saw this one in Konrad’s collection, I had to have it.”
“Dotty said you asked for this book by name,” I said.
“Yes, after I saw it on the shelf. I shrieked. I couldn’t believe it. There was a book that They didn’t know about.”
So much for my theory that he was a voidwizard.
He put the book back into the paper bag and folded it closed. I should have run out the door while I had the book in my hands. But I couldn’t do that. I had to think of a way for him to give me the book of his own free will.
Just then, an alarm clock mounted on the wall started to ring. “That’s it,” he said. “Dinner bell. It’s been nice having you, but time to leave.”
He shuttled me out of the mansion and back into my car before I had a chance to say howdy doody. I checked my phone before driving back down into town, and I had messages from both Whitney and Kong. Whitney said she was almost out of class and to make sure I was hungry because LaVelda was making tuna casserole. Kong’s message was a reminder to get the Chicken Giblets Crunchy Mix.
I wasn’t sure which sounded more appetizing.
I went to Monkey Business, the pet store on Canal Street. Wren, the owner, was behind the counter in her usual black leather pants and tight black tank top. Her short hair was cut so her bangs perpetually covered one eye. It looked super cute on her, but it would drive me crazy having hair in my face like that.
“Hey, Francie,” Wren said. “What do you need?”
“Chicken Giblets Crunchy Mix,” I said.
“I might be out of that flavor,” she said.
“Please no,” I said.
“I know how cats are,” she said sympathetically. “Let me see if I can find it.” She came around the counter and searched the shelves.
“Kong requested that flavor specifically,” I said.
“Oh yeah,” she said. “Now I remember. He called me and had me put it aside.”
She found the bag behind the cash register with a note rubber-banded around it. “You had me worried for a minute,” I said.
“Sorry, I forgot I’d put it aside for you.” She rang it up and I handed her the money. While she was making change, the door opened.
“Hey, Wren, I’ve—”
I recognized that voice. It was Fintan.
I turned and smiled, but he avoided my eyes.
“What’s up, Finny?” she asked.
“I found a dog,” he said. “It was just walking around. No collar. I don’t recognize it. Can you look? Maybe you know who it belongs to.”
“Sure, where’s the little guy?” Wren said.
“I got him in the car—don’t worry, with the air conditioning running,” Fintan said. “I’ll go get him, hold on.”
He left to get the dog and I turned on Wren. “Finny?”
“How could you hurt a fine man like that?” she said.
“Isn’t he a little old for you?” I asked.
“I’m flattered you think I’m so young,” she said, “but I just turned thirty-nine. He’s, what, fifty? I’ll try my luck with him, if you don’t mind. Unless his heart is broken.”
“I didn’t string him along,” I said. “We went on two or three dates. I let him down gently.”
“But he’s a man of passion,” Wren said. “You can tell. There’s no gentle anything about it.”
I rolled my eyes and grabbed the bag of cat treats. “Good luck with the dog,” I said.
“I hope we can find the owner,” she said. As I was leaving, Fintan came back in with a tiny little fuzzball of a dog cradled in his arms.
“Francescza!” Kong bellowed. “There you are. Did you get the goods?”
“Yes,” I said, shaking the bag.
“Chicken giblets?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“Perfect. Let’s go.” He hopped into the passenger seat of my car.
“We’re going to my dad’s house,” I said. “I need to talk to Whitney. She got a lead on Konrad’s murder.”
“There will be plenty of time later for your armchair sleuthing,” he said. “This won’t take but twenty minutes of your time.”
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“To meet T-Bone,” he said.
Chapter 21
Kong’s face pressed up against the passenger-side window so hard his little pink nose left smears and smudges all over the glass.
“I thought you told me to act natural,” I said. “You’re wound so tight I could play you like a fiddle.”
“That’s the house,” he said. He pointed to a rather upscale two-story house on a cul-de-sac. “I was told there would be a tricycle in the front yard.” He was right, a small red tricycle sat baking in the sun, streamers from the handlebars beckoning us inside like friendly fingers.
I pulled up to the curb, but Kong hissed. “You don’t park right in front of the house,” he said. “It’s too obvious. Play it cool.”
“You’re the expert?” I asked.
“I watched Scarface last night,” he said. “Park a few houses down. We can’t act square or they’ll see right through us.”
I did as I was told, because that is the fate of a cat owner.
We walked to the front of the house and Kong told me to wait there while he went around back. “I can’t be seen with my familiar,” Kong said.
“You’re my familiar,” I said.
“At first your insistence on the subject was cute,” Kong said. “But it’s getting tiresome. Your inability to grasp our true relationship dynamic speaks to a delusional disorder. Wait out front.”
While I was a little disappointed that I would not be witnessing a catnip deal going down, I figured that in the grand scheme of things, I might be better off. I ambled along the sidewalk, unsure of what to do. I would have rather been waiting inside my car with my book and air conditioning, but Kong had asked that I wait outside in case he required my assistance. But I eventually got bored and wanted to look inside the house.
I went up the walkway and peeked in the window through a gap in the curtains. The inside of the house was filled wall to wall with containers of catnip. The rows of bright track lighting on the ceiling made me grateful I was wearing sunglasses. It was like the surface of the sun in there.
This was their grow-house.
Between the rows of plants, a tail bobbed up and down. A trick of the light made the tail seem long and covered in strange fur. I couldn’t see the animal attached to it, but it was coming toward the front door.
I knew what was wrong about that tail.
Where was Kong? He needed my help.
I took the Jibbleson sisters’ disguise maker out of my purse and changed outfits (bypassing such tempting options as a pink ballerina tutu and football team mascot) until I found a suitable ensemble.
I walked up the driveway and saw Kong standing in the arched doorway of an enormous plastic structure. His tail swished about erratically. I cast the listening spell so I could hear them better.
“Are you wearing a wire?” T-Bone barked.
“Hey man,” Kong said. “I told you, I’m no narc.”
“You know what we do to snitches around here?”
I approached the structure—more commonly known as a Dogloo.
“Excuse me?” I asked. Kong backed out and T-Bone stepped onto the dirt patch that served as a backyard.
“Who are—oh,” T-Bone said. His blunt, squared face went rigid. The short wiry fur on his shoulders bristled. His tongue hung out of his mouth as he panted. His tail wagged so fast it thumped against the side of his Dogloo because, you see, T-Bone was a pit bull.
The disguise that I’d chosen (or settled on) was a hot dog vendor, complete with the illusion of a small metal push-cart and the steamy aroma wafting from the heating chamber.
“I’m looking for 4391 Delta Street,” I said. “Supposed to be a kid’s party.”
“This is 4931,” T-Bone said, eyeing the hot dog cart. He licked his chops and took a few steps closer. Kong backed away, but two squat English bulldogs blocked the pathway.
“No birthday party here?” I said, scratching my head.
“Does it look like we’re having a party?” T-Bone asked.
“Then I don’t know what I’m going to do with all these hot dogs,” I said. “They’re so plump and juicy too. I guess they’re just going to go to waste.”
The bulldogs perked up and looked at T-Bone. He was obviously the pack leader, and they wouldn’t make a move unless he gave them the okay.
Kong seized on their moment of distraction to leap onto the fence and scramble up and over into the neighbor’s yard. It was a close thing, too. He could barely get purchase on the smooth stone wall and fumbled his feet trying to get over.
With Kong out of the way, I ran like the dickens back to the car, not daring to look back at the pit bull and two bulldogs that could very well be nipping at my heels. I hopped in the car and sped away.
“That went well,” Kong said.
“Are you nuts?” I said. “They almost turned you into a can of Alpo.”
“Nonsense,” he said, dismissing the mortal peril he’d just walked right into. “I have strong protective magic and offensive spells at my disposal.”
