by Laurie Cass
Eddie rubbed his face against my elbow, so apparently he forgave Lauren her erroneous ways.
I reached for my phone, scrolled through my contacts, and sent her a quick text: Hey there! Have a question. Can I call you later? What time?
Lauren: In five minutes.
Minnie: Awesome! Thx!
Accordingly, right after I finished brushing my teeth, I picked up the phone and called.
“Minnie Hamilton, as I live and breathe,” Lauren said. “What’s the occasion? Life in paradise getting to be too much for you? If you need to come down here and slum a little, we can put you up. Well, if you don’t mind dirt, disorder, and dogs, not necessarily in that order.”
I laughed, delighted at her use of D words. “Why is it we don’t talk more often?”
“Stupid, I guess.”
This was undoubtedly true. But our friendship was the kind that, no matter how long it had been since we’d met, we were back into the rhythm instantly, as if we’d never been apart. It was like that with Kristen, too. And my brother and sister-in-law, come to think of it.
“So what’s up?” Lauren asked. “I’m happy to chat all morning long, or at least until my youngest wakes up, but you said you have a question.”
“Did you know Nicole Price?”
“Nicole . . .” Her voice drifted off, then sharpened. “Hang on, she’s that teacher. The one who was killed somewhere Up North. Did you know her?”
I blew out a breath and admitted that not only was she a bookmobile patron, but that I’d been there to discover her body.
“Oh, Minnie.” Lauren’s voice was full of empathy. “I’m so sorry. Sorry for Nicole and her family, too, of course, but finding someone you know who was murdered must have been horrible.”
I shook away the memory and got to the point of the call. “The weird thing is, a guy I ran into at the local nursing home is also from Monroe, and he acted all weird when I asked him about Nicole.”
“Who’s that?”
“Lowell Kokotovich.”
“Hmm. The last name is familiar, but I can’t place him. How old is he? Mid-twenties, you say?” The phone muffled for a moment and all I heard was Mom comments along the line of “Put that down right now! Do you want me to start counting? One . . . two . . .” She came back. “Sorry about that. My oldest likes to pretend she knows how to use the clothes steamer. Where were we?”
“Kokotovich,” I said, laughing.
“Right. I happen to be having lunch today with my yoga group, which includes the former high school secretary. I can ask her if you’d like.”
I did like, and said so, accompanied by my deep thanks.
When my cell rang just before one that afternoon, I snatched it up. “Lauren, thanks for calling me back.”
“Had to,” she said soberly. “There’s quite a story, and it’s not pretty.”
I clutched the phone tight. “Tell me.”
“Back in the day, Lowell was an excellent all-around athlete, not a star, but good enough to get an athletic scholarship to a small college. He probably figured he was all set.”
Something bad was coming, I could feel it. “Until?”
“Until the last semester of his senior year. He was taking a government class, but wasn’t taking it seriously, if you know what I mean, and he flunked. But it was a required class, so it kept him from graduating on time, and kept him from going to college on that scholarship.”
“Nicole taught the class?”
“You were always the smart one,” Lauren said. “The ugly part is that when Lowell found out he’d flunked—at that school the seniors get their grades before the underclassmen finish up—he barged into Nicole’s classroom and screamed that she’d ruined his life. On his way out, he slammed the door so hard it bounced open again. Nicole had been headed toward the door by that time and it caught her on the shoulder. She hadn’t been ready for it, of course, and fell and hurt her back.”
“Oh, no,” I breathed.
“Yeah, it was a real mess. Nicole ended up with horrible back pain, and, as you can imagine, lots of lawyers got involved.”
I thanked her again, and we chatted a bit longer, vowing to talk more. Afterward, I sat quietly, thinking about what I’d learned. Nicole had a chronic back injury. No wonder she swam for exercise. No wonder she’d so often looked unhappy. She hadn’t been innately cranky; she’d been suffering.
It was indeed an ugly story. And one I needed to pass on to Detective Hal Inwood.
* * *
* * *
I’d worked through lunch with my cell phone turned up on my desk so I wouldn’t miss Lauren’s call, and now I felt a sudden need to get out into the sunshine. Every library day I tried to get outside right after lunch, and there was no time like the present. As I breezed past the front desk, I nodded to Donna. “Headed out for my walk, but I’ll be back soon.”
“That’s what you say now,” Donna said, nodding gravely. “But with that nasty humidity gone, I’d take advantage. It’s supposed to heat up again this weekend.”
“Oh, ew.” I made a face. “Then don’t worry if I don’t come back until tomorrow.”
Donna laughed. “Don’t worry, I’ll cover up your dirty little secret.”
My steps, which had heretofore been brisk, slowed a bit. Did everyone have a secret they wanted to hide? Possibly. Even probably. And some people surely had more than one. But how serious were the secrets? How desperate might someone be to cover theirs up?
I wondered all that as I walked through the lobby. Breathing in the fresh clean air and feeling a warm-but-not-blistering sun on my face made me feel a little better, but as I started my new favorite walking loop, the one that went past the renovation of an old hotel about the same age as Rafe’s house, my thoughts returned to the hypothesis that everyone had secrets.
This, of course, brought up an obvious question. What were my secrets? I’d led a mild, librarian-like life. Never knowingly broken a law if you excepted speed limits, which I did. Never hit anyone other than my brother, which didn’t count because he was nine years older than me and I’d never stood a chance of hurting him, and even at the time I’d only been eleven. Never cheated on my taxes, never—
“Oh.” I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. Because there it was, the memory I’d shoved to the back of my brain for years, the knowledge of that ill-fated ninth grade geometry quiz. The one whose questions made no sense at all to me, so I’d leaned over to look at what Jayne Smithson, the class math whiz, was writing down. The geometry teacher had, naturally, seen what I was doing, which I hadn’t known until the quizzes were returned and I’d seen my 0 grade and a stern See me after class.
That was indeed a secret I wouldn’t want the town to talk about. Sure, cheating on a quiz twenty years ago wasn’t in the same category as burglary or embezzlement or grand theft auto, but—
Creak!!
I frowned and slowed, wondering at the loud, and oddly metallic, sound. Where on earth had it come from? I was in front of the hotel, but there weren’t any workers in sight. To the left, there was nothing out of the ordinary. To the right, there was nothing.
Creak!!
I suddenly had the sense to look up.
And saw a large object tumbling end over end, going down, down, down . . . getting bigger and bigger and bigger . . .
I bolted, running as hard as I could as fast as I could. The air whooshed, and behind me, something hit the ground with a huge thump!!
I stopped, mainly because I wasn’t sure I could run any farther, and bent over, hands on my knees. The only noises on the entire street were of me panting and of my heart thudding.
When I could stand upright and breathe like an average human, I turned around and walked back. Lying on the ground, shattered into a zillion pieces, were the remnants of what looked like an old air conditioner.
I looked up. All of the tall double-hung windows had been replaced a few weeks ago, and all were closed.
Except for one.
After a short eternity, I pulled my cell out of my pocket and dialed. “Um, Detective Inwood? This is Minnie Hamilton. Sorry to bother you, but there’s something you need to see.”
Chapter 17
Ash arrived with Hal Inwood, and after one look at my face, he put his arm around my shoulders and ushered me into the front passenger seat of their unmarked police vehicle.
“You’re going to sit here until I come back for you,” he said in a gentle but firm voice. “If you get up before then, I’ll handcuff you and put you in the back seat.”
I laughed. Or at least, I tried to laugh, but it came out more like a sob. Which, since I wasn’t given to crying in front of police officers in general and Detective Inwood in particular, showed me Ash was right and that I should sit down. “Then I guess I’ll stay.”
He settled me down, gave my shoulder a squeeze, and hurried off. I closed my eyes and put my head back. Ash had left the door open, and a soft breeze was curling around my ankles. A small patch of sunshine inched its way across my lap; birds twittered.
I felt myself relaxing and was, quite possibly, asleep when a knock on the car roof made me jump.
“Awake,” I said. “I’m awake.”
“That’s obvious,” Hal Inwood said dryly. “We’ve cleared the building. No one’s here.”
I climbed out of the car. No way was I going to enter into a conversation with Hal at an exaggerated vertical disadvantage. Given my tidy and efficient height, I’d long ago grown used to being almost a foot shorter than most men, but unnecessary height discrepancies weren’t to be borne.
“What did you find out?” I asked, glancing at the bits of metal that had almost killed me.
Hal pulled his notebook out of his shirt pocket and flipped through pages. “The general contractor for the renovation project said no one was scheduled to work today, as they’re waiting for the furnace installer to get back from vacation. I contacted all the subcontractors, and none of them had any worker stop at the site for any reason today.”
A funny feeling formed in my stomach. “And the air conditioner?”
Hal shut the notebook and looked up. “It was an old one, one of the window units used when this was still functioning as a hotel. There are a pile of them stacked up in a corner, waiting for someone to take them away.”
“So someone . . .” I didn’t want to finish the sentence.
“Yes.” Hal nodded. “Someone picked up that air conditioner and intentionally pushed it out the window. The contractor said he’d unlocked the back door this morning as he’d hoped for an early delivery of plumbing fixtures, which did not happen.” He tapped the notebook with his pen. “Do you often walk past this building?”
Predictable Minnie. “This summer, when I’m at the library, I’ve walked this way almost every day, right after lunch. I like to see the construction.”
He reopened the notebook and made new notes. “And the bookmobile schedule is posted on the library’s website, correct?”
“Well, sure.” Even to my own ears, I sounded defensive. “Why wouldn’t we?”
Hal tucked his notebook into his shirt pocket. “Ms. Hamilton, it seems clear that this was a direct attempt on your life. I urge you to take steps to ensure your safety.”
I looked at the heap of metal. Looked at him. “What do you suggest, exactly? Hide out for the rest of my life?”
“You should tell everyone who cares about you. The more people who know, the safer you’ll be.”
But I didn’t see it that way. “The more people I tell, the faster word will spread and whoever did this will hear about it and try even harder to . . . to do whatever.”
“At least tell Mr. Niswander,” he said.
I wavered on that one. “I’ll think about it.”
And I did. Over and over. Most of me shrank from the idea, but by the end of the day I’d decided Hal was right, that I should tell Rafe. If our positions had been reversed, I’d certainly want to know. And I’d be furious if he didn’t tell me.
“You win, Detective,” I said out loud to an invisible Hal Inwood as I left the library that evening. “I’ll tell Rafe tonight.”
Since I was mostly thinking about how to frame the story, my feet went in the same direction they always did and I ended up walking past the old hotel. By now someone had been by to clear away the scattered bits of former air conditioner. The only thing indicating I’d almost died was a hand-size chip out of the sidewalk.
Dragging my toe over the chip, I eyed the windows—all now closed—and wondered about the whos and whys.
Was I really a target?
Who would do such a thing?
If so, why?
I kicked away a tiny piece of former sidewalk and then saw I’d managed to get my shoe covered with concrete dust. “Bad as being at the house,” I muttered. “Construction can be murder.” The common phrase caught at me, and I wished I hadn’t said it out loud. Or even thought it. But suddenly, the jumble of ideas circling around in my brain coalesced into something new.
My feet started moving, then moved faster and faster. Because what I suddenly needed, what I wanted more than anything else in the world, was to talk to Rafe.
* * *
* * *
“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” I said.
“In what way?” Rafe unscrewed the cap from a water bottle and offered it to me. “Can’t believe we’re being so proactive?” he asked. “Can’t believe we abandoned our plans to paint the upstairs bathroom? Or you can’t believe we’re doing something so incredibly cool?”
I squinted at him. “How is sitting in your truck doing nothing a cool thing?”
“Clearly, you have no idea what’s cool and what isn’t.”
This was true, and had always been. My career choice alone made that obvious, but there was also significant backup evidence: my preferred entertainment (reading), preferred beverage (lemonade made by my aunt), and preferred method of travel (tie between a bookmobile and walking).
“Let me guess,” I said. “You are the arbiter of coolness in Chilson.”
“No, but I’m good friends with who is. And so are you.”
Ah. Kristen. He was right, she was very cool. “Should I text her and ask her to rate our current activity?”
“No, no,” Rafe said, yawning. “I’m confident she’d agree with me.”
I made a mental note to ask next time I saw her. But I hadn’t seen much of her this summer due to her restaurant’s surging success, and I wasn’t sure I’d remember to ask in September, when things would slow down. Then again, Rafe was probably counting on that, so I pulled out my phone and added a reminder to my calendar.
“Are you really texting Kristen?” Rafe asked, leaning over.
“Nope.” I saved the reminder and tucked the phone away. “Do you really think we’re going to learn anything doing this?”
Two hours earlier, after I’d gone back to the houseboat, given Eddie a snuggle and a treat, and read on the whiteboard that Kate was working until close at Benton’s and would be going out afterward to eat at Fat Boys with the store’s staff, I’d headed up to the house and told Rafe the air conditioner story. And how my dusty toe had led me to, if not direct dot connection, the coalescing of old facts into new arrangements. Pink bumper stickers. Courtney Drew. Home health aide. Access to medications. Nicole’s back pain.
He’d hugged me tight, then called Ash. “Hey, buddy. I hear Minnie almost got squished by an AC unit.”
I started to sputter indignantly, saying that if he didn’t believe me he could just say so instead of calling the cops, but he rolled his eyes and slung his free arm around my shoulders and kissed the top of my head. “Shh,” he whispered, and said int
o the phone, “What’s the deal?”
Due to having one ear against Rafe’s chest and the other ear covered by his arm, I couldn’t hear Ash, and heard Rafe’s voice mostly as a deep rumbling vibration. What I could hear, though, was along the lines of “Any idea who did it?” and “Any chance of catching whoever it was?” and “Don’t worry. I’ll keep her safe.”
I burrowed deeper into his warmth. Not that I needed to be any warmer, really, but being so close to him felt good. Discounting the winter months I spent with Aunt Frances, I’d lived more or less on my own since college. I’d grown accustomed to it. Had even enjoyed the solitude and the time spent learning to be myself. But now it seemed I was entering another phase in my life, one including that I would, every so often, be taken care of by a man named Rafe Niswander.
And it was turning out that I didn’t mind the feeling. As long as he didn’t get too carried away.
“Safe,” I’d murmured into Rafe’s shoulder. “You really think you can do that?”
“Yes.” He’d kissed the top of my head and I’d closed my eyes against a rush of emotions that made my throat swell.
“It’d be easier, though,” he’d added, “if you’d be okay with being encased from head to toe with bubble wrap.”
I hadn’t been, of course, and now the two of us were whiling away the evening sitting in his truck and watching the front door of an apartment building from half a block away. More specifically, the apartment building where Courtney Drew lived.
We’d been parked on the street outside Chilson’s take-out Chinese restaurant for more than an hour, watching cars drive past, watching cars pull into the building’s parking lot, watching people walk up to the building, watching people walk out of the building. It was remarkably boring.
