Gone with the Whisker

by Laurie Cass

  Leese put down her spoon. “Who died?”

  Bowing to the inevitable, I told them about Nicole Price. About her job downstate, her family cabin, and how she’d drowned while swimming. And about how we’d found her.

  “You poor thing,” Leese said sympathetically. “But I see Kristen’s point. You do have a tendency to find dead bodies.”

  “See?” Kristen gripped her spoon and thumped the table with its handle. “What is it with you?”

  I looked from one friend to the other. Though Leese’s concern was obvious, Kristen’s was manifesting itself as annoyance, irritation, and anger. She had a long history of reacting this way and I was used to it.

  Well, almost.

  My chin went up. “It’s not like I’m trying to find dead people. What am I supposed to do, walk away?”

  “Of course not,” Leese said gently. “We just want you to be careful.”

  Kristen made a rude noise. “She’s careful enough when she wants to be. It’s just she doesn’t think things through before jumping in.”

  I glared at her. “When I want my mother’s advice, I’ll call her and ask.”

  “Maybe you—”

  Leese cut into the burgeoning argument. “Minnie. It’s just . . . we don’t want you to be next.”

  “Next?” I had no idea what she meant. “Next what?” Then it sank in. They didn’t want me to be next to die. I laughed, because the idea of dying was ridiculous, especially in Kristen’s office on a summer Sunday with dessert in front of me. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  Then my brain snapped back to that day downtown, that day when I’d tumbled to the street, the day I may or may not have been pushed.

  But I didn’t say a word.

  * * *

  * * *

  My thoughts were bouncing all over the place as I walked back to the houseboat through the dusky light. I thought about Nicole and her husband, Dom. Then I wondered what kind of mood Kate would be in when I returned. Which led me to thinking about Rex Stuhler. About Fawn Stuhler. About Barry Vannett. About John and Nandi Jaquay. And about everyone else who might possibly be involved with Rex’s death, which included everyone who’d been at the fireworks that night, which got me wondering what kind of progress Hal and Ash had made with Kate’s photos, which led me . . .

  Nowhere.

  I tried to enjoy the warm quiet of the evening and was hoping for a talk with my niece, but when I arrived at the houseboat, Kate was already tucked into her sleeping bag, earbuds in and tablet on, playing an episode of That ’70s Show.

  “Hey,” I said softly.

  She muttered something unintelligible, rolled over, and was lightly snoring half a second later. Smiling, I removed her earbuds, shut down the tablet, and went to snuggle with Eddie and a book.

  “Mrr,” he said as I slid into bed, disturbing him not even a fraction of an inch.

  “I love you, too, pal.” I kissed the top of his head and stared at the pages of The Trouble with Goats and Sheep while I thought about Rex Stuhler and creativity. The next morning, before I did the hard work of hauling out two bowls and two spoons for our breakfast, I asked Kate if she wanted cereal.

  “Huh?” She popped her head out of the sleeping bag and blinked at me. “Do I what?”

  “Breakfast. Cereal.” I hefted the bowl up. “You?” For weeks, in obedience to her mother’s wishes, I’d done my best to make sure Kate left the houseboat with a full stomach.

  “Oh. No.” She yawned and stretched. “I have to be up to Benton’s early. I’d rather get a bagel from Tom’s.”

  Yet not that long ago, I’d brought down a bag of bagels and she’d ignored them completely. “Sounds good,” I said. “See you tonight at the house. Rafe said he’d grill.”

  My loving niece grunted a response that could have meant anything from “Can’t wait” to “Wild horses couldn’t drag me there.” I had a suspicion it was more the horse thing than the other, but decided not to pursue an interpretation. Some things you’re just better off leaving open.

  The walk to downtown under a blue sky decorated with wisps of long clouds cleared my head of niece thoughts (mostly) and I found myself smiling. It was summer in northwest lower Michigan and I wasn’t going to spoil this fantastic time of year by wallowing in worry.

  “Have to tell Aunt Frances,” I said out loud. My aunt was forever reminding me that worrying never helped a thing, that it mostly made things worse. Some days her advice was easy to take, other days not so much. But if I could push away the notion that Kate couldn’t stand living with me and that she was secretly plotting to get back to Florida as soon as possible, maybe I was making progress in the non-worrying department.

  My phone rang. It was Ash. “Morning!” I said. “What’s up?”

  “Make a right turn, please.”

  I blinked and looked to my right. I was almost in front of the sheriff’s office, and Ash was standing at the door, waving at me. He thumbed off his phone and said, “Do you have a minute? Hal and I need to talk to you.”

  Seconds later, I was sitting in the interview room across the table from Deputy Ash Wolverson and Detective Hal Inwood. “Before you say anything,” I said, “last night I was thinking about Rex Stuhler’s death, and maybe we need to get really creative about—”

  Hal cut across my words. “This isn’t about Mr. Stuhler.”

  “Oh.” I sat back a little. Please, I thought, don’t let it be about Kate again. “This, um, doesn’t have to do with my niece, does it?”

  Ash half smiled. “After her talk with the sheriff, I don’t think that kid will so much as break the speed limit until she’s thirty.”

  Though I didn’t agree, his opinion was good to hear. “What’s the matter, then?” Because from the looks on both of their faces, something was clearly not right. It wasn’t as easy to tell with Hal, because his long face had a permanently morose cast, but Ash’s default expression hadn’t yet hardened into cop mode and I could tell he wasn’t happy.

  “We have received,” Hal said, “the preliminary autopsy on Nicole Price.”

  Since I didn’t know how to respond to that, I kept quiet, because there was obviously more coming.

  “Ms. Price was murdered.”

  I stared at Hal. “No, she wasn’t. She drowned. It’s sad, but it happens. There are all sorts of reasons she could have drowned. Tell your medical examiner to look again.” I could hear my voice going high and shrill, so I took a short breath. “Look again,” I said calmly. “There has to be a mistake.”

  But both Hal and Ash were shaking their heads. “She double and triple checked,” Ash said. “She said there’s no doubt whatsoever. I’m sorry, Minnie, but someone strangled Nicole.”

  Hal droned on about the particulars of Nicole’s death, citing all sorts of medical evidence that I understood sort of, but not really. I made a mental note to brush up on my basic knowledge of human physiology, and after he finished talking about the cellular level of something I’d never heard of before, I asked the obvious question. “Do you know who killed her?”

  Ash glanced at Hal, who remained impassive. “We’re looking at all possible suspects,” Hal said.

  I knew the drill. All avenues of investigation will be pursued, blah blah blah. They’d leave no stone unturned as they went down the avenues of investigation, the roads of investigation, and the streets of—

  Streets. I sighed. It was time to tell them about my own street-side experience. “There’s something I should tell you.”

  The two men waited.

  “It’s possible that . . . I mean it might be . . .” I took a breath and came out with it. “I think someone tried to kill me.”

  Chapter 12

  Staffing the reference desk was, right after the bookmobile, the best part of working at the library. Yes, people came to me with the everyday questions, starting with �
�What’s the library’s Wi-Fi password?” and the whispered “Where are the bathrooms?” But there were also the fun quests, like “Is there any book that could turn my nine-year-old son into a reader?” and “When did the first fudge shop in Chilson open?” and the search was on. I practically lived for moments like that, and seeing a patron’s face light up when we found the answer was worth every dollar of the student loans I still owed.

  Today, however, the building seemed to be empty of everyone except staff and there was little to distract me from my final moments in the sheriff’s office.

  “You what?” Ash had sat up straighter, something I wouldn’t have thought possible because he always had better posture than I’d ever been able to achieve with a book on my head.

  “Um, fell into traffic. I wasn’t hurt,” I added hastily. Because scrapes couldn’t possibly count as a real injury to anyone except my mother, and since I hadn’t told her about the incident, and since the scrape on my shoulder had healed days ago, the memory of the whole thing was getting a bit fuzzy.

  “But someone pushed you,” Hal said. And I knew I was in trouble because he took a notebook out of his shirt pocket.

  I often walked along without paying too much attention to where I was and where I was going, but it was a stretch from that to falling into traffic. “I didn’t fall sideways into the street of my own volition,” I said. “Someone pushed me. But what I don’t know is whether or not it was intentional.”

  “You’re telling us now? Almost two weeks later?” Ash asked, his voice a little too loud for the small room. “Minnie, why on earth didn’t you mention this earlier?”

  I shrugged. “And you would have done what? It was the week of the Fourth, the sidewalks were packed with people, and I didn’t see who pushed me. All you or the city police would have done was file some sort of pointless report, and you had better things to do with your time.”

  Hal and Ash exchanged a glance at my “pointless report” comment, and I knew I’d hit a nerve. “So instead of a long report that would have taken hours,” I said, “all you have to do now is make a note in Rex Stuhler’s murder file. Way easier. And . . .” I looked at them beseechingly. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention my falling to anyone outside this office.”

  “Like your aunt Frances?” Hal asked.

  Ash eyed me. “Like Rafe, Kristen, or anyone at the library?”

  Yes, and yes, and now that I was at the library, and my mind was full of Nicole Price, I wouldn’t have minded a distraction and wished fervently for someone—anyone—to ask me any question whatsoever.

  Just then, Denise Slade appeared in front of me, feet wide, hands on her hips, scowl in place.

  I quickly revised my fervent wish, but it was too late. She was here and would stay until I listened to what she had to say.

  Denise had been, once again, voted president of the Friends of the Library, and it was, once again, my job to get along with her. To be agreeable. Some days this was easy, as Denise was smart, capable, and efficient. She also had a personality that would be better suited to foreman of a demolition crew.

  “Do you want to know what the Friends think the Board should do with Stan’s money?” she demanded.

  In my heart of hearts, I wanted to make a flippant reply. Like the money should pay for a giant statue of Stan (something he would have found appalling) or that it should perpetually fund monthly Big Name author events. Or that it should pay for uniforms that the Friends would wear.

  “Of course I want to know,” I said, smiling at the style of uniform I’d already selected. Not everyone would look attractive in horizontal stripes, but Stan had favored bold patterns, so my imaginary design only made sense.

  The fifty-ish and fireplug-shaped Denise dragged a chair away from a nearby table, slid it next to my desk, and plopped down. “Well, it’s not an official vote.” She glanced around. “But I’m sure everyone agrees with me.”

  “I’d like to hear it,” I said, nodding and doing a mental fist pump for saying something that didn’t overtly agree with Denise yet gave the appearance of congeniality and cooperation.

  “What I think—what the Friends think—Stan Larabee’s money should do is build an addition.”

  I blinked. “Addition to what?”

  “To the library, of course.” She waved her arms. “I told them from the beginning that having our space upstairs was ridiculous, but did they listen to me? No, they didn’t. If the Friends are going to be truly successful, we need to have our book sale room on the main floor, and Stan’s money is exactly what we need to get there.”

  “Um.” There were so many things wrong with her idea, I didn’t know where to start. But it also occurred to me that it wasn’t my job to break that particular piece of news to her, so I just asked, “Have you talked to the board about this?”

  She harrumphed. “I’m on the agenda for their next meeting, for all the good it will do.”

  “You never know,” I said. “And if you don’t get the idea in front of them, they’ll definitely never consider it.”

  She muttered agreement, stood, and stomped off. Well, technically she just walked away, but there was something about the way Denise carried herself that made her gait come across as an angry thumping.

  I got up to put her chair away and thought about the differences in the two conversations I’d had that morning. I’d told the sheriff’s office about my street-side accident, but didn’t want anyone else to know. Denise had told me about her addition fantasy, and wanted everyone to know.

  And then it occurred to me that, though I’d asked Hal and Ash to keep quiet about my not-so-near-death experience, neither one had actually agreed to do so.

  * * *

  * * *

  “Fish?” Kate wrinkled her nose, which in person is not nearly as attractive as it sounds. A true nose-wrinkling isn’t just the nose, but includes the entire face and, if you’re really skilled, the neck, jaw, and hairline. Though Kate’s attempt scored a solid seven, she had a long way to go before she could achieve the classic Minnie face my brother had recorded for posterity with his camera the day I’d tried jalapeño peppers for the first time after being told by that same brother that they were “kind of like pickles.” I’d been six years old and still didn’t care for jalapeños.

  “It’s walleye,” Rafe said. “Fresh. You’ll like it, trust me.”

  I’d kept quiet during this little interchange, as I’d reluctantly come to the conclusion that Kate was more likely to try something if it wasn’t me who was encouraging the attempt.

  We were on the front porch, all of our knees knocking against each other as we sat at the small table Rafe had conjured up out of nowhere. Rafe had grown up in Chilson, as had his parents, grandparents, great-grandparents, all the way back to the days of homesteading. His connections in the area were broad and bone deep, and given his twin tendencies of laid-back-ness and a willingness to lend a hand to anyone in need, he could call in favors like no one else I’d met in my life.

  “What’s this stuff on it?” Kate poked at the fish with her fork.

  Rafe reached back into the cooler and handed out sodas. “Bread crumbs and Parmesan cheese.”

  “I like cheese.” It was a grudging admission, but an admission nonetheless, which put it into the Win column.

  The two legal adults at the table surreptitiously held their collective breaths as the adolescent deigned to try the food hunted, gathered, cooked, and plated for her. She chewed, swallowed . . . and then went back for another bite. “This isn’t too horrible,” she said.

  Not wanting to startle the girl out of her newfound liking for fresh fish—Rafe and a friend had been out on the lake that morning—we kept quiet, but underneath the table, Rafe and I bumped knuckles.

  When the fish and accompanying grilled potatoes and red peppers were mostly gone, I realized I’d become so successful at
keeping my mind off the events at the sheriff’s office that morning that I hadn’t told Rafe any of it. And Kate should probably hear about it from me instead of hearing it second or third or fourth hand.

  “This morning,” I said, “Ash asked me to stop at the sheriff’s office.”

  “Oh?” Rafe asked. “Why’s that?”

  His tone was casual, but Kate looked at me straight on. “Do they know who killed Mr. Stuhler? Did they arrest someone?”

  I shook my head. “Not yet.”

  She shrank back inside herself a bit, and my heart ached for her. She needed some good news, but what I was about to say was anything but. “Ash and Hal wanted to tell me about Nicole Price, that drowning victim we found on Stump Lake.”

  Rafe and Kate looked up from their plates. “What about her?” Rafe asked.

  I did not want to tell them about this; I really truly did not. “Nicole didn’t drown.” I sighed and said the words echoing in my head out loud. “She was murdered.”

  “What?” Rafe sat back. “You’re kidding.”

  “Don’t I wish. They said the preliminary report from the medical examiner was conclusive.”

  “That’s . . .” He frowned. “Well, hard to believe, first off. The two of you make quite the team for coming across murder victims.”

  I looked at Kate, but she was still working on her fish. “Can I pull Eddie into this conversation?” I asked. “We would have driven right past Stump Lake if he hadn’t gone into that bizarre howling fit.”

  “When all else fails, blame the cat,” Rafe said. “Doesn’t seem fair.”

  Clearly, he did not yet understand what living with a cat was like. The man had so much to learn. “No, you blame the cat from the beginning. Especially when the cat is Eddie.”

  Kate pushed her plate away. “Was she married?”

  “Nicole? Yes,” I said. “Dominic is her husband’s name.”