by Laurie Cass
But even as I mentally played with the concept of a murdering Violet, I was ashamed of myself. Bad Minnie, to think someone I didn’t get along with could more easily be a murderer than someone I liked. And an even worse Minnie to want to think of someone who rejected every book I recommended as a killer.
“I’m a horrible person,” I said, glancing over at Eddie.
But Eddie wasn’t there. He was back at the houseboat, probably still on the dashboard. And Kate was hanging out with one of our nearest marina neighbors, Louisa Axford. Louisa and her husband, Ted, were in their early sixties and spent a large chunk of most summers in Chilson on their boat.
Though we hadn’t seen much of them the previous year due to the birth of a grandchild, this summer the Axfords had convinced their daughter and son-in-law that they wouldn’t let the toddler drown and had brought the child north for her first Chilson summer. Kate, in what I’m pretty sure was an effort to avoid spending time with me, had volunteered to help entertain the youngster, and seemed to be happy learning the ins and outs of caring for a tiny human.
“Better her than me,” I murmured to the absent Eddie. Cleaning litter boxes was as much caretaking as I wanted to deal with at this point in my life. What I wanted to do most right now was find a connection between Rex Stuhler and Nicole Price, something that would prove to Detective I’m-so-smart-and-you-aren’t that they should be looking for one killer and not two.
“There has to be a link,” I said, mentally inking Violet onto the list of suspects and vowing to learn more about her later.
During lunch, I’d availed myself of the opportunities provided by the good taxpayers and commissioners of Tonedagana County and used their online Geographic Information System to find the location of the cabin owned by Nicole Price’s family. Luckily, she’d once mentioned her maiden name—Rodriguez—and joked that she’d married Dominic because his last name was short and sweet. “Just like him,” she’d said.
I swallowed down tears at the memory, and concentrated on traffic. Which was a total of one pickup truck at that point, but you never knew when someone might drop their cell phone and swerve. This focus kept me from dropping into heaving sobs, and I thanked every vehicle on the road between there and the gas station/convenience store that was my final destination.
It was one of those classic Up North places, clean but worn at the edges, all the coolers full of beer and soda, all the shelves only one product deep. It was also halfway between Rex and Nicole’s houses and stood an excellent chance of being a point of contact for the two of them.
The kid behind the counter made brief eye contact and said something that, if I’d been required to spell the word, would have been “Uhnh,” but which I decided to interpret as a sprightly, “Good evening, how can I help you?”
“Hi,” I said, smiling and ready to trot out the story I’d concocted on the drive. “My name is Minnie. I drive the bookmobile.”
The kid just looked at me. My smile got a bit fixed, but I kept going.
“Anyway, I’m sure you know that two of your customers recently died. They were also bookmobile patrons, and I was wondering if anyone was putting together a fund for flowers, or a contribution.”
But he was shaking his head. “I just started working here. This is, like, my second day. I don’t know anyone that’s dead.”
Not a situation I’d anticipated. “Well, who’s the person who worked here the longest? And when would she or he be working next?”
“Dunno. Like I said, I just started here.” He shrugged. Then, when I kept looking at him expectantly, he sighed. “Guess I could leave a note.”
“That would be great,” I said, beaming. “Thanks so much.”
“Yeah. Sure. Uh, have a good night.”
I drove away, pleased with myself, but when I reached the Chilson city limits, I realized something. The kid hadn’t actually reached out a hand to find a pen and paper. Sighing, I guessed the odds that he’d write anything down as unlikely at best. I parked the car and headed to the houseboat, where I could see that Eddie was indeed still on the dashboard.
“It’s hard to find good help,” I told him through the window.
“Mrr,” he said. “Mrr.”
I went inside, dropped my small purse on the counter, wrote At the house on the whiteboard, and headed up to spend the rest of the evening with Rafe. As I hurried down the dock and onto the sidewalk, I heard something I hadn’t ever heard before—giggling noises coming from my niece.
“Huh,” I said, slowing down to walk on my tiptoes, which was the only way I could see over the edge of the Axfords’ boat and onto the deck. Yep, there was Kate and the kid, playing what I vaguely remembered as patty cake.
The sight made me happy and sad at the same time. Happy Kate was enjoying herself, but sad that she never seemed that happy around me.
“What am I doing wrong?” I asked Rafe.
My beloved was in the downstairs half bath, standing on a ladder with his back to me and his attention fully on the ceiling. He had a small hand-held light in his hand and was peering at the trim he’d recently installed. “You want a list?” he asked.
I should have been ready for that response. It was the same one I’d given the other day when Rafe had watched Eddie bounce from one piece of furniture to another for no apparent reason and asked, “What is wrong with that cat?”
So, yes, I should have been prepared, but somehow I wasn’t, and felt as if I’d been slapped. Down in the base of my throat I could feel tears forming and I whirled around. I had to get away, find a dark quiet spot where I could—
Rafe, who magically managed to get down the ladder, across the room, and to the door before I did, put a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Minnie, please talk to me. What’s wrong?”
My hand was on the doorknob. I stood there for a moment, swallowing down silent sobs. When I thought I could speak without my voice quavering, I said, “Honestly? Nothing.” Though this was technically true, it was also completely wrong. I sighed. “But really . . . everything. It’s all messed up, from top to bottom.”
To Rafe’s great credit, he didn’t make fun of me for my mixed messages.
“Come here,” he said, and pulled me close. “First off, we’ll do this hugging thing. And if that doesn’t help—though I feel sure a quality hug will knock the edge off—we’ll move to the next step.”
“What’s that?” I asked, my voice muffled against the front of his paint-spattered T-shirt, a shirt commemorating the 1998 Chilson High School regional champion football team.
“All in good time, my little pretty. All in good time.”
Rafe was competent at many things and highly skilled at even more, but he did horrible imitations, and his rendition of the Wicked Witch of the West was downright awful—nasal and screechy.
I giggled, which was no doubt his intention. “That was horrible,” I said, pulling away.
He pulled me back. “Not done yet,” he murmured at the top of my head.
It was a long and calm moment, standing there. I felt the beat of his heart, the warmth of his skin, and the stirring of my hair as his breath rustled my curls. “Thank you,” I whispered, holding him as tight as I could.
“All part of the service.” He leaned down to kiss me. “Do you want to talk?”
“You know what? I can think of something else I’d rather do,” I said, tipping my head back for a longer, deeper kiss.
* * *
* * *
“What’s the matter with you?” Julia asked.
I was in the middle of a huge yawn, and before I could finish it and reply, she added, “I’ve been counting, and that’s the three thousand and forty-second time you’ve yawned this morning and it’s only ten. Are you getting sick?”
I smiled. “Nope. I was just . . . out late, that’s all.”
Julia studied me over the top of
her reading glasses. “Why, you little minx.”
“Minx?” I rolled my eyes. “Don’t tell me you’re on a P. G. Wodehouse kick again.”
“There are worse things,” she said. “But this weather isn’t one of them.” She opened the door, letting in the smell of sunshine and summer, and breathed deep. “Would we love summer so much without winter?”
“Mrr.” Eddie jumped from the console to the top of the front desk to a shelf of Young Adults, to the ground, and to the parallelogram of sunshine by the door. “Mrr,” he said, flopping down and managing to keep every one of his appendages—including his tail—in the sunlight.
Julia and I watched him arrange himself. “A cat of many talents,” she said. “But what is he like when he’s angry?”
“A lot like this, only noisier.” But Julia’s question reminded me of yesterday’s research. “Question for you. What do you remember about the bookmobile stops before the Fourth? Specifically, the one by the detour.”
“Rex and Nicole’s last visit,” Julia said, her voice sad and slow. “We already talked about this and didn’t come up with anything.”
“Let’s try and think about it differently. Yesterday, I looked up the checkouts from that day. Rex, Nicole, and Violet Mullaly all took out books. I remember they were all here, and that Nicole stayed the entire time, and didn’t seem to want to go when we told her we had to leave, but I took Eddie out for a kitty rest stop. When we were outside, did anything happen?”
Julia pushed the toe of her flip-flop against one of Eddie’s back feet. He ignored her. “That’s right, you were both gone. You missed the whole thing.”
“Missed what?”
“Violet being Violet.” Julia stood and, using her muscles and some acting magic, became someone else completely. Not quite Violet, but a very reasonable facsimile.
“How can they both be gone?” she queried in a high tone. “I specifically wanted to borrow those books!”
Julia relaxed, turning into herself again. “I’m sorry, Violet, but they’ve both been checked out. If you’d like, I can put your name on the wait list.”
Back in Violet-shape, she said, “I don’t want to wait! I want to read them this weekend! Who checked them out? I bet I can talk them into letting me have my books for a few days.” Julia-Violet glanced around. “You! You have my book!”
Julia shook her head and returned to herself. “It went downhill from there.”
“So who had the books?” I asked.
“Rex had the new Malcolm Gladwell book.” Julia grinned. “He ignored her completely, which drove her nuts. And I never looked to see who had the other one.”
“Do you remember what book it was?” I walked to the front computer.
“One of the Tana French titles.”
I typed the author’s name into the computer and the list popped up in front of me. Most were still on the shelf, but two were checked out. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
Julia shrugged. “We got busy and I forgot. Plus I know she’s not your favorite patron and I didn’t want to make her more of an unfavorite. Why fan the flames?”
Why indeed? But when I clicked to see who’d checked out the Tana French book, I got a chill. The name was Nicole Price.
* * *
* * *
Word had oozed out that Nicole’s death was murder, not a sad drowning accident, and I spent too much time the next morning with people who thought they were being funny when they asked if I was the one who’d killed her.
Well, it was one person, but Denise Slade could make you feel as if you’d given a presentation to a large and unforgiving audience.
“Really? Another one?” Denise shook her head and chuckled. “You’d think we were living in Cabot Cove.”
Though I wasn’t sure I’d been born when the old television show Murder, She Wrote had aired, the reference wasn’t lost on me. I managed to smile at Denise. “You could suggest a name change at the next city council meeting.”
She snorted. “That bunch of old fogies won’t change anything unless they’re forced to. But you.” She pointed at me, her stubby index finger ending six inches from my collarbone. “I’m starting to wonder about you. What better killer than the mild-mannered bookmobile librarian?”
I gave her what I hoped was a sly and wolfish grin. “Then you’d better be careful. You never know when I’ll snap.”
Denise threw her head back and laughed. “That will be the day. I hope I’m around to see it.” Still laughing, she moseyed off in the direction of the Friends of the Library book sale room.
I tried to squash my unprofessional impulse to make a face at her back, but I must not have been successful, because behind me I heard the quiet giggles of a woman in her early seventies. I turned around and faced Donna, who was at the front desk and had heard every word. “Why,” I asked, “does being called mild-mannered irritate me?”
She smiled. “You wouldn’t have been if I’d said it. Or Holly. Or Josh. Or anyone else other than Denise. It’s a reaction to the speaker of the words, not the words themselves.”
This made me feel better, so as a sort of reward, I asked for her opinion on an issue I really didn’t want to talk about. “You’re about the only one,” I said, “who hasn’t told me what you think should be done with Stan Larabee’s money.”
“There’s a reason for that.” Donna pointed at the ceiling. “My opinion won’t make a spit of difference when the board decides. So why bother talking about it?”
She was right, but that wasn’t keeping anyone else on the staff, including me, from dreaming. I wished the board had asked for staff opinions, but they hadn’t, so there wasn’t much point in forcing them to listen to us. “Still,” I said. “You must have a preference.”
“Well, if you insist . . .” Donna pursed her lips and gazed off into space. “Did you realize,” she said, “that Tonedagana County’s most populous demographic is people over the age of fifty? And that it’s our only age group increasing in population?” Her face lost its faraway look and she fastened her gaze on me. “Wouldn’t it be great to have the biggest, best, most recent collection of large print books in the area? Even the entire state?”
“Um, sure.” I didn’t know where we’d put it, but the idea was attractive.
“Think of it, Minnie.” Excitement colored her voice. “Think of what a draw that would be. Yes, I know, e-readers let you bump up type sizes, but lots of the elderly prefer print, and I even know kids your age who like to read large print books while on the gym’s treadmills.”
“Really?” The concept of going to a gym was foreign to me, but if I could read while I was working out, maybe there was a reason to go. I told Donna I’d present her idea to the board if I got an opportunity—unlikely, but you never knew—and headed to my office, where a multitude of tasks awaited me.
“E-mails to answer before I sleep,” I said, smiling at my reworking of the Robert Frost poem. It didn’t quite scan, but it wasn’t bad.
The door to the stairway opened and Graydon came through, coffee mug in hand. “Good morning,” I said. “Guess what, I have another staff idea for Stan’s money.”
“Oh?” Graydon slowed.
“I’m making a list,” I said. “Just in case the board asks.”
He nodded. “Excellent plan.”
Which didn’t sound like he’d be willing to take the list to the board, but at least he knew the list existed. “Say, when you have a minute, could I talk to you?”
“Sure,” he said. “Just come on up. My door is always open for you.”
“Well, it’s something personal.” I inched closer. “My niece. Kate. I’ve mentioned her before and I could really use some advice on—”
He snapped his fingers. “Minnie, I am so sorry, but I forgot. There’s a phone call I have to make.” One quick U-turn, then he was back through the d
oor, and his footsteps headed up the stairs.
“That was weird,” I said to the empty air. But weird bosses were something I was used to, so I shrugged and went to my office. To answer e-mails.
* * *
* * *
My most fun task for the day was Reading Hour up at Lakeview. The Medical Care Facility had a list of volunteers that read out loud to a group of residents, and I’d long ago signed up to be part of the rotation.
Since difficulties with short-term memory were an issue for many of the residents, the books were read as quickly as possible, and I started compiling a list of shorter books for the group to choose from. Max, of course, always voted for anything by John Sandford, but to date he’d been outvoted every time. Though he tended to grouse that he was being discriminated against, he always showed up to listen, no matter what book was chosen, a habit of which I tended to remind him every time he complained.
“Tell me,” he said as we entered the living room–style space where the group met, “what book would you want read to you?”
“Today? Or when I’m your age?”
He looked up at me and squinted. “Hmm. You will be a very hot-looking old lady, Miss Minnie.”
Since I’d never been high on the “hot” scale ever in my life, I didn’t see going higher as I aged. Not that I cared. Well, mostly. “How do you figure?”
“Because as you get older, your character gets more and more visible.” He made a horrible face. “Remember when your mother said not to make faces because someday it’ll freeze that way? She was right. Oh, sure, you laugh at me now, but look around. You’ll see what I mean.”
“Okay, I promise to look. But I don’t remember seeing any twisted-up faces. Certainly not in the book group.”
By this time we were entering the room where the group assembled, and Max suddenly started coughing. Hard. Concerned, I turned to look at him, and saw that he was holding his hand to his mouth, but was also using his index finger to point.
