by Laurie Cass
We’d been eating on the front deck, with Eddie up on the roof keeping an eye on everything. Once upon a time I’d been worried when he’d jumped up there, but I’d laid those worries to rest long ago. He was fine up there. I even joined him, every once in a while, just to get a different view.
I smiled at Kate. “We,” I said, “are going over to visit Barb and Russ McCade tonight. They’re great people and they’re looking forward to meeting you.”
“Why?” she asked, frowning.
“Because they’re friends of mine and . . .” I stopped, because I didn’t have an answer for her. Not one that would make sense to a seventeen-year-old. Because how many high school kids could understand how rare true friendship was? And that the opportunity to grow that circle of friendship was a chance to grab on to? I was mixing metaphors in my head, which was never a good sign for comprehensible conversation, so I simply repeated myself. “They’re friends of mine and they want to meet you.”
Kate grumbled a bit, but after enticing Eddie off the roof by rattling the treat can, she got into my car without further complaint. And when I turned down the long and twisty driveway, she started to look interested in her surroundings.
“This goes to their house?” she asked.
“All the way down to the lake,” I said. “Did it in the bookmobile once.”
“Yeah?” Kate, for once, sounded impressed with her aunt. And when we stopped in front of the McCades’ lovely home, her eyes went wide. “Wow,” she said softly, staring at the fieldstone, the massive timbers, and the wooden front door with the rounded top. “This place is—”
The front door opened. “Minnie Hamilton!” Cade bellowed. “Get over here this minute!”
“Let me guess,” I said as Kate and I approached. “You and your lovely wife are fighting over whether or not a word is appropriate and you need me to referee. No, don’t tell me whose side is whose. Just give me the setup and the word.”
Despite the twenty-some-year differences in our ages, the McCades and I had bonded for life in a hospital room when I entered wholeheartedly into their word game. Rules had shifted over time, but it went something like this: The game started organically (part of the game) through each of them accidentally saying a word starting with the same letter. The winner was the last one to use a word that fit the situation and the loser had to acknowledge this gracefully.
“The letter is G,” Cade pronounced. “The word under consideration is ‘gracious,’ which was preceded by ‘go gargle,’ ‘great galoots,’ and ‘good gravy.’”
“Well,” I said. “Those are all double G words, so ‘gracious’ would have to be paired with another G word, but you can’t use anything that’s already been used. So unless someone comes up with something fast to go in front of ‘gracious,’ I’d say ‘good gravy’ is the winner.”
Cade gave me a smacking kiss on the forehead. “Hah! Did you hear that, Barb?”
“Of course I heard. Everyone within half a mile heard you. You were right and I was wrong. Now let me get a look at the niece.” Barb elbowed her way past her husband and smiled as she pulled her shoulder-length brownish-gray hair into a ponytail. “Kate, it’s nice to meet you.”
The two of them beamed at us. Well, Barb beamed. Cade did what he did, which was inspect the face of any new person he met as if he were selecting paint colors. He peered at Kate, his craggy features and cleft chin deepening in thought and his bushy eyebrows bushing. His hair was now more gray than brown and he was in dire need of a haircut, which usually meant one thing: He was painting, and Barb hadn’t been able to tear him away from his studio long enough to take a pair of scissors to him.
“Kate,” I said, “these are my friends Barb and Russell McCade.”
“Call me Cade, my dear.” He bowed, then took her hand and lifted it to his lips. “Any niece of Minerva’s,” he said, bestowing a gentle kiss on her knuckles, “is a Godsend to the world.”
Kate’s wide eyes stared at him and she snatched her hand back as soon as he let go. “But . . . you’re . . .” she stammered. “You’re that painter.”
“Ah, yes, the price of fame.” Cade smiled. “Yes, I’m that painter.”
“My art teacher?” Kate crossed her arms. “He says you sold out years ago.” I stepped close to her, whispering to mind her manners, but she sidestepped me and kept going. “He says there’s nothing you wouldn’t paint to make a buck.”
“Is that so?” Cade tipped his head back and half closed his eyes. “He could be right. Barb, my darling, shall we go through? We have dessert to serve, yes?”
He moved into the oak-floored foyer. After a moment Kate followed, but I held Barb back.
“I am so sorry,” I said. “This was supposed to be a nice surprise for her. I didn’t know . . .” But what could I say that would make up for hurtful words from someone who should have been a friend?
Barb patted my arm. “He’s heard worse, don’t worry about him.”
“‘Sentimental schlock’?” I quoted a famous art critic.
“‘But quality schlock,’” Barb quoted back, citing another famous critic.
We laughed and went inside. But I made a vow to have a firm chat with Kate on the way home.
* * *
* * *
The chat, of course, didn’t go well. As soon as we got back to the marina, Kate hurled herself out of my car and stormed off.
“Where are you going?” I called. It was getting dark and I didn’t want her wandering around by herself.
“Someplace where people don’t think I’m a complete screwup,” she yelled.
I watched as she stomped down the sidewalk and up to the railing of the Axfords’ boat. “Works for me,” I muttered, and immediately felt like the worst aunt, and possibly the worst person, in the world. Sighing, I pulled out my phone. Louisa and I exchanged a short flurry of text messages, during which she indicated that Kate was always welcome and that she (Kate) would be sent home to the houseboat no later than ten thirty, which was the time that my brother and sister-in-law had laid down as Kate’s weekday curfew.
“Well.” I stood in the middle of the marina parking lot and surveyed my options. Go for a walk? Too hot. Go back to the houseboat? Possible, but the undone dinner dishes would be there waiting for me and I was very disinclined to put my hands in hot soapy water until it cooled down a bit. I sent up a short prayer that my mother never learn of my lapse in housekeeping, and walked over to the house, which was where I’d wanted to go all along.
Rafe, sitting on the porch with a sweating can of what I recognized as Keweenaw Brewing Company’s Widow Maker, saw me approach on the sidewalk. “Hey there, honey bunch. How did your night go?”
I climbed the steps and flopped into the chair next to him. “Don’t want to talk about it. But . . . really? ‘Honey bunch’? Where did that come from?”
“No idea.” He leaned over to give me a kiss and, simultaneously, opened the small cooler behind my chair. “Would you like an adult beverage?”
I wasn’t much of a drinker, but every once in a while it was just the ticket. “Do you have a tiny bottle of white wine in there?” Because something cool and light sounded perfect.
“Your wish is my command.” He flourished a small plastic bottle and wrenched the screw top off. “And look, I even have a glass.” Grinning, he poured the pale liquid into a plastic cup of questionable origin. When he handed it over, however, I didn’t see anything floating, and the rim looked clean.
“Did you bring this out here for me?” I asked.
“Sure. Let’s go with that.”
I gave him a look, which he ignored. This meant I could either pursue the issue and learn how the cup had really ended up on the porch, or I could let it go and, for the rest of my life, wonder about the possibilities.
Settling deeper into the chair, I sipped the crisp liquid and listened as he descr
ibed the progress he’d made with the house. Due to the heat and humidity and the fact that not only did the house lack air-conditioning, we also hadn’t installed any ceiling fans, the progress was limited.
“Is this house ever going to get done?” I asked.
“Don’t be silly,” he said. “Of course it won’t. That’s part of the fun. I thought you knew.”
I snorted. “You and I have vastly different ideas of what constitutes fun.”
“Yes, but I have high hopes that someday you’ll come around and see how funny the bloop joke really is.”
That would never happen, because the bloop joke was horrible. However, I didn’t like to destroy a man’s dreams, so I changed the subject. “I learned something today.”
“Then it’s a good day.” Rafe tapped his beer bottle to my plastic cup. The resultant noise was an odd, soft, and ultimately unsatisfying clunk.
“Yes, but I’m not sure this is useful.”
“Does it have to be?” My beloved yawned.
“If we’re going to help solve these murders, it would be nice.”
At the word “murder,” his yawn snapped shut. “Tell me,” he said, suddenly all ears. “Maybe talking about it will help.”
So I told him about stopping at Rupert and Ann Marie’s house, about how I’d met Courtney there before, and about how I’d realized Courtney was in one of the two vehicles that had driven past the day both Rex and Nicole had been at the bookmobile.
“Not exactly,” Rafe said. “We don’t know for sure it was Courtney. What we know is that someone was driving her car. It might not have been her.”
I drank the last of my wine. He was right, but somehow I couldn’t see anyone else voluntarily getting into that rattletrap. “But I don’t see how it matters anyway,” I said. “Courtney was working the Fourth of July. She couldn’t have killed Rex.”
“Well, even if we’re figuring the two murders are connected,” Rafe said, “there could still be two killers. Isn’t that how the love quadrangle theory would play out?”
Though I wasn’t truly buying the quadrangle thing, he was right about the two-killer concept. But if Courtney was one of the killers, who was her partner? Fawn? Dominic? Barry Vannett? Lowell? Violet? Mason? One of the Jaquays? Both of them? And how was anyone on that list connected to Courtney?
Rafe reached over and took my hand. “Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll figure it out.”
I nodded, appreciating his confidence, and loving him for it.
But I wasn’t sure we were anywhere close to finding the answers.
* * *
* * *
Josh poured coffee into my mug. “How much sleep did you get last night?” he asked. “You look like crap.”
“Geez, Josh.” Holly came into the break room, shaking her head. “Hasn’t dating that cute-as-pie Mia taught you anything about women? Hearing we look like crap is the last thing we want to be told, but it’s even worse to say that first thing in the morning.”
“Whatever.” He shrugged. “Minnie doesn’t look too upset about it.”
Mainly because I knew he was accurate. When I’d looked at myself in the mirror that morning, I’d immediately looked away. “If those are brownies in there,” I said, gesturing at the container Holly had just put on the table, “I might be able to forget about my lack of sleep.” My stomach had recovered from the outreach trip, which was good for brownie eating, but not so good for calorie counting. Happily, I wasn’t doing that today.
“Is everything all right?” Holly, who was rattling through the utensil drawer, looked over her shoulder. “You’re not sick, are you?”
“Sick and tired of this heat,” I said. Josh and I hovered as Holly extracted a knife and used it to slice big brownies into the smaller brownies that would equal the number of library employees. “I can’t believe you baked last night.”
“Me either, but the kids were begging, and Bad Mom that I am, I caved.”
“Wish my mom had been as bad as you.” Josh reached for a brownie and yelped when Holly slapped his hand. “Hey!”
“Ladies first,” she said. “And quit that face. Minnie’s a lady, even if you’re too dumb to see it.”
I could see that the conversation was about to devolve into a bickering session, so I tossed up a diversion. “Do either of you know Courtney Drew?”
“The name isn’t familiar. Is she from here?” Josh asked.
Now that was an excellent question. But given her relative youth, I figured the odds were good. “I think so. She’s about ten years younger than us.” I described her, but their faces remained blank.
“There are some Drews over in Dooley,” Holly said. “Could be related. Why are you asking?”
I thanked them, saying that I’d met her out at Rupert and Ann Marie’s. But I was disappointed, because what I’d wanted was firsthand knowledge of the young woman, an assessment of her character, that kind of thing. Also, an estimate as to how likely she was to commit murder.
“How’s Kate doing?” Holly asked.
“Fine,” I said automatically, then took my allocated brownie and fled, because I didn’t feel up to talking about my niece.
But after getting a cup of coffee and Holly’s brownie into me, it turned out I actually did want to talk, because when I went up to Graydon’s office to review the new health insurance rates and saw his family photo on his desk, I asked, “When your kids were teenagers, were you and your wife always worn out?”
Graydon focused on the pile of papers he’d been shuffling through. “Um . . .”
“Because I’m exhausted. How does anyone do this? If you’re not worrying about where they are, you’re worrying about what they’re doing. Or what they’re thinking. Or what they might think or do tomorrow.”
“It was hot last night,” Graydon said. “I’m sure that had a lot to do with it. Now, about this—”
“No, really. How does any parent survive? And there’s something else I don’t get. Every time I talk to Kate, she ends up stomping off like a two-year-old, yet her three bosses are telling me she’s a fantastic worker, and they wish all their employees were that well mannered and capable.”
Graydon nodded. “It’s a conundrum. So these rates. What do you think about—”
“And how on earth can anyone sleep that much? Some days I think I need to take her into urgent care to check for signs of life,” I said, scowling and crossing my arms. “I love her dearly, but I’m not sure I can take much more of this.”
My boss leaned back in his chair. “Minnie, if you have concerns about your niece, you should talk to her parents.”
This was excellent advice and I knew he was right. “But I don’t have any huge concerns, not really. She’s home every night at the time she says”—close enough anyway—“and my aunt says she’s fine. It’s just . . .” What was the problem, at its heart? I swallowed. “It’s just I don’t know how to talk to her.”
“And you want to.” Graydon didn’t make it a question.
“Of course! So . . . what should I do?”
“Minnie, you need to know one thing.”
“What’s that?” I perked up and prepared myself for life-changing advice.
“I don’t give advice on parenting.”
“But—”
He shook his head. “Or aunting, which is close enough. If I give advice and it doesn’t work, you’ll hate me. If I give advice and it does work, you’ll come back to me for more until I give advice that doesn’t work, and then you’ll hate me. It’s a vicious circle and we’re not getting on that particular hamster wheel. Now, let’s talk about something fun, like health insurance.”
“You won’t give me any help?” I asked in a small voice. “At all?”
He laughed. “Okay, but only this once, and only because I like you. Open your high school yearbook. Look at your pi
cture, read what your friends wrote, remember what it felt like to be that age.”
And then we talked about insurance.
* * *
* * *
My dreams that night were a jumble of what was on my mind. The bookmobile was towing Kate, who was in a canoe with Eddie, and we were being chased by a mob led by Violet Mullaly. Courtney Drew and my sister-in-law were close behind, followed by the unusual trio of a college roommate I hadn’t seen in years, Mitchell Koyne, and Reva Shomin, who was asking why I hadn’t stopped by the deli lately. Holly was at the rear of the group, brandishing a plate of brownies and yelling that she’d cut them all to the same size so there was no need for everyone to buy rulers.
I surfaced out of slumber partly because the dream was so stupid, and partly because Eddie was lying on my chest and putting his front paw on my nose.
“And good morning to you, too.” I patted his head, which he appeared to enjoy about as much as I’d enjoyed his paw on my face. “That is what you were saying, yes? That it’s a beautiful day in northwest lower Michigan and you’re thrilled that you get to live here with me?”
“Mrr-rr.”
“Exactly,” I said, putting my feet on the floor, which was when I realized the outside temperature must have dropped, because the thought of putting my own self into a hot shower didn’t make me cringe inside. “Did you notice?” I asked Eddie.
“Mrr-rr,” he said.
“What is it with you and the double meow this morning? Did a frog get in your little kitty throat?” I eyed him, but decided against peering inside. “It almost sounds like you’re trying to say something. Mrr-aculous? No, too many syllables. Mirror? Mister? Monster? Mon—” And then I remembered something. Clella, up at Lakeview, had said Nicole taught school in Monroe, Michigan.
“And Monroe,” I said, snapping my fingers, “is where Lauren lives!”
“Mrr!”
“Sorry, you don’t know Lauren, do you? We were roommates my first two years of college, until she decided to go to massage school instead.” And from what I saw on Facebook, she was doing well. “A business, a husband, two children, three dogs. Yeah, sorry about that, buddy, she’s a definite dog person. But she’s nice, honest.”
