by Laurie Cass
“Not until noon.”
“Oh. Well, okay then.” He looked around, and started. “Late yesterday morning, just before lunch, I ran out of finishing nails.”
This I could believe, because I’d watched him install trim, and I was pretty sure the house would end up with more weight in nails than in any other item.
“So I went up to the hardware store.” He walked his fingers across the table top. “It only took me a second to get the box of nails”—also easy to believe, since he’d practically worn a groove in the concrete sidewalk making nail trips—“so I got in line. The guy in line ahead of me looked familiar, but I couldn’t quite place him until someone called him Father.”
That seemed overly formal. “Not Dad?”
“Nope. Father as in Father David, the Catholic priest at that little stone church, you know, the one near Dooley, over on the other side of the county.”
I did indeed know that church. The bookmobile and crew drove past it once a week. Made of fieldstone, with a beautiful bell tower and oak double front doors, it recently celebrated its hundred and twenty-fifth anniversary.
“Anyway,” he went on, “some guy I didn’t know asked Father David how Don was doing.” Rafe paused and gave me a meaningful look. “At least that’s what I thought he said.”
I rolled my hand in a move-along gesture.
“You are the worst audience ever. Father David said he was suffering, but would make it through with faith and God’s grace. And then . . .” Rafe drew the word out long. “The guy asked Father David how the congregation was dealing with the murder of one of its members.”
My breath sucked in and I almost choked on my coffee. “Dom. Not Don, but Dom.”
“Exactly. But I had to make sure, so I inched forward and said how my girlfriend had known Nicole, and how sorry you were. And that you’d never met Dom, but would like to give him your condolences.”
True enough. I waited, because the story was surely not over.
“Father David said Dom would be fine, because even though he—that’s Father David—only saw Dom during the summer, he knew Dom was faithful, loyal to the church, and very devout. That Dom was raised with the old ways, and followed them himself.”
Huh. Interesting.
“Clever, huh?” Rafe did the one eyebrow thing.
It was. “Yes, and you know what this means?”
“Yeah. It means Dom most likely doesn’t believe in divorce, so Kate’s wacky theory might be right. When are you going to tell her?”
An excellent question. “I don’t suppose ‘never’ is the right answer.”
“Nope.”
“Then I’ll say . . . later.”
Rafe eyed me. “You sure about that?”
Not a chance. “Absolutely.”
* * *
* * *
I wasn’t due at the library until afternoon, so I used the opportunity to drive out to the gas station–slash–convenience store I had visited so fruitlessly a few days earlier.
When I’d mentioned to Rafe that I was doing so, he’d given me a look I didn’t recognize at first. Only when I studied it for a moment did I clue in.
“You,” I said, narrowing my eyes, “are looking at me askance.”
“As what?”
“Don’t play dumb with me, mister,” I said mock-severely. “You know I’ll win that game every time.”
Rafe laughed, and the inside of my heart swelled with happiness. Love, I thought. This was what love can do to you.
“I think there are better ways you could be spending your time, that’s all,” he said.
“Because I could be doing . . .” I raised my eyebrows. “Oh, hang on. I know. I could be sanding. Or painting. Or sanding. Or painting.”
“Well.” He shrugged. “Yeah. The sooner the house gets done, the sooner you can move in.”
Once again, I toyed with the idea of moving before the renovation work was done. And once again, I instantly rejected the idea. Living with dust, noise, and general constant disruption of construction was not conducive to quality reading time.
More important than my preferences, however, were Eddie’s, and Eddie definitely wouldn’t like it. Plus, the whole place was filled with cat toys. Painting tarps would turn into cat caves. Electrical cords for the power tools would be chewed. Wood trim that was cut, finished, and ready to install would be tested for clawing capacity. And it didn’t do to think what he might do with sandpaper.
I’d shuddered. “Tomorrow,” I’d told Rafe. “I’ll work hard tomorrow, I promise.”
Rafe had wished me good luck with my convenience store mission, and I’d spent much of the journey crossing my fingers and toes that the trip would be productive. Not that I had to be right and Rafe wrong, but I certainly wouldn’t mind it.
I entered the store and looked around for my little friend.
“Good morning.”
The guy behind the counter spoke in a friendly manner, and even had a smile on his face. He had the same long hair and same skinny build as my friend, but was a few years older and miles different in demeanor. This was a guy who might actually engage in a conversation.
“Morning,” I said, smiling back. After introducing myself, and learning that his name was Mason, I said, “I stopped by a few days ago and talked to a young man about leaving a note. I’m looking for the person who has worked here the longest.”
“A note?” He frowned. “I haven’t seen any note. Who told you—” He stopped, sighing. “Was it a guy who kind of looked like me, only younger?” I nodded, and he said, “My cousin. I told my uncle I’d . . .” His expression segued into something that wasn’t exactly a smile. “Well, never mind. I’m the one who has worked here the longest. What can I do for you?”
I blinked. The longest? Mason might have been thirty years old, but couldn’t be much older than that.
He laughed. “I grew up just down that road and started working here when I was maybe thirteen, shoveling the sidewalk for two dollars cash, no questions asked. A couple of years ago, the owner wanted to retire. I was working downstate, but when I saw this place listed, I started working the numbers.”
It was a familiar story. Lots of young people who grew up in the region left for downstate jobs after high school or college, and after a few years many of them started looking for ways to move back. “And we all lived happily ever after?” I asked, smiling. It had worked for Kristen.
“Hoping so,” Mason said. “We’ll see what my accountant says at the end of this year. But what was it you wanted?”
I repeated what I’d told his cousin, that two people who didn’t live that far away had died unexpectedly, that they were loyal bookmobile patrons, that I figured they were customers of his, too, and that I was wondering if anyone was putting together a fund for flowers or a donation.
Mason was shaking his head. “I was out of town for a few days for a family wedding and I’m still catching up. Who died?”
“Rex Stuhler, who owned a pest control company with his wife, and a summer resident, Nicole Price. Did you know them?”
Mason looked at his hands. At the counter. At the rolls of scratcher lottery tickets. “I guess. Sort of.”
Until now, Mason had been a friendly and talkative guy. Now, suddenly, after mentioning Rex and Nicole, he was acting like his cousin. Hmm. “Did they come in here often?” I asked. “If I remember right, Rex’s house is only a mile or two south of here, and Nicole’s family cabin is just a few miles over—”
“I didn’t know them,” Mason snapped. “Okay? And I’m sorry, but I have to get back to work.” He hurried to the end of the counter, opened a door that revealed a tiny office, and entered, shutting the door behind him.
“That was weird,” I said out loud.
And also very suspicious. Which meant I was right and Rafe was wrong about this t
rip being a waste of time.
But though I did feel a fractional ounce of happiness about that little fun fact, most of me felt sad. For Rex. And Fawn and Nicole and Dominic, and all the other people who were touched by murder. Then again, even if Fawn had an alibi the night her husband had been killed, it was still possible that she’d been involved. And could she and Dom really have been having an affair?
I sighed, cast one last look at the firmly closed door, and left.
* * *
* * *
“Minnie, is that you?”
Since I’d answered my desk phone as “This is Minnie, how may I help you?” the question seemed unnecessary, but since I was pretty sure the caller was Max Compton, I decided to give him some slack.
“Max, is that you?”
He chuckled. “Bright as a shiny new penny, that’s what you are.”
“Pennies can be shiny and old at the same time,” I said. “And that’s what you are.”
“Is this the first meeting of Chilson’s Mutual Admiration Society?”
I laughed. “Let’s call it a pre-meeting meeting. What can I do for you, Max?”
“It’s my—” He moaned. “It’s my heart,” he said, gasping.
“That’s too bad.” I patted my desk for the pen I knew was underneath one of the piles of paper. “I could call nine-one-one if you’d like. Or should I get Heather on the phone?” Ah, there it was. I unearthed the pen and clicked it open so I could start the draft agenda for the next staff meeting. Graydon usually did this, but he’d asked me to do it this time around.
“Not sure I can make it that long,” he wheezed.
“That’s too bad. Is there anything I can do to help you in your last moments on this earth?”
“I might . . .” He coughed. “I might make it a little longer if you brought me a large print copy of The Runaway Jury. You know, that John Grisham book? It might be the only thing that gets me through this week.”
Which was why, an hour and a half later, when I should have been going over to the house to start sanding the study’s baseboard, I was instead walking into Lakeview Medical Care Facility with Max’s book in my hand. He was waiting for me, rolling his wheelchair forward three inches, back three inches, forward, back.
“You made it!” he almost shouted, beaming.
I handed over the book. “And you seem to have made a miraculous recovery.”
“Eh?” He peered up at me and gave a fake cough. “Oh, yes. Much better.”
“Why are you coughing? I thought it was your heart this time.”
“All connected,” Max said vaguely, turning to the first chapter, and I lost any chance at conversation with him.
“You do realize that the next bookmobile librarian won’t be nearly as accommodating when it comes to personal deliveries, don’t you?”
“The next one?” He sat up straight. “Minerva Hamilton, what are you saying? You’re not leaving Chilson, are you?”
“Just wanted to make sure you were paying attention.”
He let out a huge breath. “Don’t do that to an old man. I’m not sure my heart can take it.”
“You told me last winter that your heart was as healthy as a fit seventy-year-old.”
“Things can change,” he said, going back to the book. “You never know.”
Which was true enough, but I didn’t want to think of Lakeview without Max, so I shoved the reminder of his advanced age into the back of my brain, murmured a good-bye, and turned to leave. But before I took a single step toward the entrance, I pivoted and headed down an interior hallway. A few rooms down I saw the CNA I knew best.
“Hey, Minnie,” Heather said. “What are you doing here on a Saturday?”
I inched closer. “Don’t tell anyone, but Max has me wrapped around his pinkie. I made a delivery just for him.”
Heather laughed. “Sounds like Max.”
“Say, would Lowell Kokotovich happen to be working today? I met him at the reading hour the other day and wanted to talk to him about something.”
“Um, I think so.” Heather glanced down the hallway at a white light just outside a resident’s room that was blinking. “I have to go,” she said, hurrying off. “Lowell’s probably in Otter Lane.”
I called a thank-you and made my way around Lakeview’s big square. Eventually, I found Otter Lane and Lowell Kokotovich, who was standing at a cart outside a resident’s room, poking at a computer screen with a stylus.
“Hi,” I said, approaching. “I don’t know if you remember me, but—”
“Sure. From the library.” He nodded, then frowned. “It’s Saturday, isn’t it? There’s not a reading hour today, right?”
I refrained from saying that every hour was reading hour as far as I was concerned. He didn’t seem the type to appreciate the joke. “No. I wanted to talk to you about something else. You said you’d lived in the same town as Nicole Price. She was a regular bookmobile patron. Some of us were thinking about putting together a donation in her name, and I wondered if you’d be interested.”
“Oh. Uh.” He looked at me, looked at his computer, looked at me, then back at the computer. “I, um . . . oh, look, there’s a call light I have to answer. Sorry.”
And he hurried off, just like Heather. But the white light above the room he entered wasn’t blinking.
Hmm, I thought as he closed the door.
Very, very hmmm.
* * *
* * *
Late that night, I was dead to the world when a scratch-ing noise woke me from a dreamless sleep. Kate had abandoned me for the attractions of Aunt Frances and Uncle Otto, and Rafe was helping a buddy move, so I’d had no one to tell me that spending four hours on my hands and knees sanding, sanding, and sanding some more was Too Much for someone who normally spent her time either behind a desk or behind a steering wheel.
Around nine, Rafe had hauled me to my feet, fed me pizza, walked me home, and helped me tumble into bed. “Sleep tight,” he’d said, kissing my forehead. “Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”
Even if they had, I probably wouldn’t have woken unless they’d bit me down to the bone. However, my ears had become sensitive to noises related to Eddie getting into things he shouldn’t and I was wide awake in an instant.
I sat bolt upright. “What are you doing?” I called.
Scritch-scritch-scritch.
Throwing back the sheet, which was my only cover on such a muggy night, I put my feet on the floor and stood up. “Where are you?”
“Mrr.”
His response had come from the kitchen, but the noise had stopped. I padded back to bed, flopped down, and was almost asleep when the noise started all over again.
Scritch-scritch.
“Eddie!” I yelled. “Cut it out!”
Scritch-scritch-scritch.
I flung back the sheet, stomped up the stairs to the main cabin, and fumbled for the light switch. Brightness exploded into the room, and like the proverbial deer in the headlights, Eddie stopped what he was doing and stared up at me. But defiantly, which wasn’t at all deerlike.
“For crying out loud,” I muttered.
Because my furry little friend had managed to extract a Tonedagana County map from my backpack and unfold it. His right front paw was poised over the northeast part of the county, and his claws were extended and about to rip right into Bowyer Township.
“Nice try,” I said. “But no way am I letting you plot the next bookmobile route.”
“Mrr!”
“Because I said so.” I took the map away from him, folded it in a way no mapmaker would ever recommend, and shoved it into the backpack, which I zipped shut and shoved under Kate’s sleeping bag.
“Mrr,” he said in a manner that could only be called a sulk.
I rolled my eyes and went back to bed.
Cats.<
br />
Chapter 15
Julia folded her hands and laid them across the computer keyboard. “No one is coming,” she pronounced.
She was probably right. It was one of those triple H days: hot, hazy, and humid. Days like this did not lend themselves to high bookmobile usage. You never knew, of course, because it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility that half a dozen cars would suddenly converge on our shady parking spot, all packed with occupants intent on checking out an armload of books for use on screened porches. But it seemed unlikely.
“Too hot.” The door was open and I was sitting on the steps, fanning myself with the February copy of Traverse Magazine, hoping for a breeze to flutter by.
“Mrr,” Eddie said.
“How goes it with the niece?” Julia asked.
“Eh.” I shrugged. Or I would have, but the movement might have caused me to overheat, so I mostly just moved my eyebrows. “She spent most of the weekend up at Aunt Frances and Otto’s place, hanging out in their air-conditioning.”
“Is she still on about her love quadrangle theory?”
“Far as I know.” And I still hadn’t talked to Ash about it, so perhaps it was just as well she was up the hill with a superior role model.
Julia languidly tapped at the keyboard. “Who else checked out books that last day Rex and Nicole were here? Other than Violet Mullaly.”
“There weren’t any others at that stop, remember? And . . .” I sighed. “I haven’t done anything about looking into Violet.” Which was something I really needed to do.
“Hmm.” Julia did some focused typing. “Let’s look at a broader list.”
“Of what?”
“People who checked out books in this part of the county. Just looking at the names might jog something in our memories. Turning over all stones, yes?” She entered the specifics into the system, then turned the laptop so we both could see. “We’ve stopped out here four times since Memorial Day. Here’s a side-by-side comparison.”
Though I was pretty sure it was going to be a wasted effort, I expended the energy to get up and study the list. Eddie, who was sleeping pancake-flat on the dashboard, ignored it.
