by Laurie Cass
Tucker nodded. “Probably a good idea.”
That was unfortunate, because I’d been joking. Fleece sweatshirts were the primary component of my wintertime casual wardrobe. If I couldn’t wear fleece around the allergic Tucker, I’d have to go out and buy new clothes, which wasn’t part of my budget.
I wrapped my hands around my coffee mug. “Our relationship was a lot easier in the summer, back when I wasn’t wearing clothes that attract so much Eddie hair.” I laughed.
Tucker didn’t. His attention was still on the threat that had come so near. “Yeah,” he said, “it was, wasn’t it?” Then he shook his head and sat up. “But you were talking about the library board. Someone was negligent?”
He hadn’t been listening to me. Or listening, but not hearing. A sinking sensation manifested itself somewhere in my insides, halfway between my heart and my stomach. It was a feeling I’d had a few times before in my life: the one that came just before heartbreak.
“Minnie?” Tucker asked.
I gave him a quick smile and returned to the saga of the library board. But as I talked, all I was really thinking was one thing.
The end is near.
Chapter 12
Tucker didn’t break up with me during breakfast, but when he dropped me off at the boardinghouse, there wasn’t any happy hug, either, even though the offensive fleece was covered up by my winter coat.
I dawdled away the rest of the morning by doing some online Christmas shopping, concluding that my engineer father might actually like the three-dimensional map of Janay Lake, and that even though my nieces and nephew might want the newest version of the latest video game (So real, you get motion sickness!), they weren’t going to get it from me.
After a lunch of leftovers and a short game of Bounce the Ball in the Bathtub with Eddie, I changed into library clothes and headed out.
The day was partly sunny, partly cloudy, the kind of weather that had you zipping and unzipping your coat as clouds passed over the sun. I was in unzip mode, my face turned up to the radiating warmth that might not be back until April, as I turned the last corner. My thoughts were wandering from the bookmobile to Tucker to Eddie to the library board and back around to the bookmobile. Since I was so busy thinking, I didn’t notice that the library’s door was opening until it banged into me.
“Oh, goodness, I’m so sorry!” A woman exclaimed. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?” She readjusted the bag of books she was carrying.
“Not your fault. I’m the one who wasn’t paying attention.” I looked at the woman and burrowed through my brain for her name. Blond. A little older than me . . . got it.
“Thanks for not running into me, Allison.”
She smiled, said, “Have a nice day,” and walked toward the parking lot.
I stood, sort of watching her climb into a silver sedan that looked expensively new, but mostly enjoying the sunshine. But then a cloud moved over the sun and the temperature plummeted, so I went inside.
Where Denise Slade was standing in the entryway, arms folded and frowning. But not at me; at Allison Korthase.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
Denise’s frown went deeper. “For a new member of the city council,” she said, “that woman could stand to learn some manners.”
I’d been the one who hadn’t been paying attention to where I going; it hadn’t been Allison’s fault at all. But there was no way Denise was going to listen to me so I said, “I didn’t realize you knew her.”
Denise made a rude noise. “This is Chilson. There’s maybe half a degree of separation between everyone in town. Of course I know her.”
I murmured something noncommittal and marginally polite, and started moving away. But Denise wasn’t ready for me to leave.
“Everybody says she’s so nice. Ha.” Denise sniffed. “That woman doesn’t know the meaning of the word ‘nice.’ And she hates cats. Says she’s allergic, but I think she just hates them, and how can you trust someone who doesn’t like cats?”
I didn’t see the connection between cats and trust, but decided not to ask for an explanation.
“You know what she’s really like?” Denise pointed her chin in the direction of Allison’s brake lights. “She’s cheap. That fancy car? Her brother-in-law runs a car dealership downstate. He gives her a deal, so she leaves town to buy her cars.”
It actually sounded pretty sensible to me, and I didn’t even have a brother-in-law.
“And she’s always first to our book sales.” Denise folded her arms even tighter. “She wants to look at the new arrivals, just to make sure she gets ahead of everyone else.”
This was getting deep into the Gossip Zone, a place my mother had warned me about. I smiled and started edging into the building. “Sounds like you should try to recruit Allison to the Friends of the Library.”
“Her?” Denise rolled her eyes. “Not in a million years. She always thinks she knows the best way to do things. One of those people who never listens to anyone and thinks she’s the center of the universe, if you know what I mean.”
I nodded in solemn agreement, but Denise wasn’t waiting for my response.
“We’re down a member, thanks to Pam Fazio’s hissy fit, but we’re not desperate enough to ask Allison Korthase to join. Not now, not ever.”
Another mental note got jotted down, this one to ask around about the history between Denise and Allison. “I saw Pam the other day,” I said. “I hadn’t realized she’d quit the Friends.”
“Really?” Denise narrowed her eyes. “How could you not have known? I thought everyone would be talking about it.”
The unhappy twist of her countenance reminded me of my mother’s statement that if I made a face often enough, it would freeze that way. “Well, I—”
“I can’t believe you didn’t know.” She shook her head in exasperation. “So, you never heard what she said?”
“About what?”
Denise put her hands on her hips. “What she said to me! She went into a tailspin about something—I don’t even remember now what it was. She stomped to the door and said, ‘Don’t bother asking me back. I won’t be back, not unless you die and someone else gets to be president.’ Then she whipped around and left.” Denise snorted. “Like I’d ever ask her to come back. Pam was more trouble than she was worth, always arguing about every little decision. I mean, honestly, how could anyone care so much about the hours the used bookstore is open?”
There was a pause, which I realized meant she wanted me to agree with her. Off in the distance, the courthouse’s tower clock chimed the hour. Saved by the bell. I nodded in its direction. “Sorry, Denise, but I’m scheduled to start work right now. Hope you had a good Thanksgiving.”
My parting sentence had been a social sentiment said without thought, and I wanted to kick myself when I saw the darkness fall across her face.
Of course she hadn’t had a good Thanksgiving. Her husband was dead and the day must have been an endurance test beyond all measure. I’d heard the family had chosen to have a private funeral the day before Thanksgiving, with a memorial service next summer. And now Christmas was coming, with all its enforced cheer. The prospect must have been horrific to her.
So I stepped back to her side and gave her a fast, hard hug.
“Thanks,” she whispered, then coughed and pulled away. “I wanted it to be a nice day.” She looked at me and half smiled. “But it was pretty horrible.”
I tried to think of something to say, but there was really only one thing. “I’m sorry.”
The smile stayed on her face. “You’d better get going. I don’t want Stephen marking you tardy.”
When I reached the door, when I had it half open, I paused, not wanting to look back, but knowing I should. If I looked back, if she was still standing there, if she still had that half smile stuck on as if it were painted on, I’d have to go
back and do what I could to help.
But she was gone.
* * *
I’d barely had time to bring my office’s computer to life when the phone rang. “Good afternoon. This is Minnie Hamilton. How may I help you?”
“I think you’ve helped me quite enough already,” a male voice growled.
It was a familiar voice, but not familiar enough for me to identify the speaker. I hated when people did that. “Excuse me,” I said, “but I didn’t catch your name.”
He coughed directly into my ear, and I hoped no one else used his phone, as the cough sounded horrible.
“Detective Inwood,” the detective said, sounding more like himself. “Am I correct in saying that you sent Mitchell Koyne to my office?”
I sat back, grinning, and crossed my ankles. “Mitchell said he had information about Roger Slade. I thought the investigating detective should have all possible information about a murder victim.”
“It’s not necessarily murder,” he said stiffly. “There’s still a strong possibility of accidental death.” I snorted, but he ignored me. “Besides,” he said, “having a list of Mr. Slade’s third-grade classmates isn’t intrinsically useful to the case.”
“No?” I asked, though I was thinking Too bad. That’s what you get for being so hard on Ash Wolverson, you big bully.
“No,” he said, “and I’m quite sure you knew that.”
“All information can be useful,” I said in my librarian voice. “It’s just a matter of finding the correct application.”
“I see what you mean,” the detective said, sounding entirely unconvinced. “And do you have any more information?”
From the tone of his voice, it was easy to tell that he didn’t want to hear anything I had to say. “Since you asked,” I said, “there is one thing.” His sigh was sadly audible. The man really needed to work on his people skills.
“Go ahead,” he told me. “I’m all agog with anticipation.”
I almost laughed, but caught myself just in time. “Detective, if you don’t want to listen, all you have to do is say so.” I heard a snort, but couldn’t decide if it was sarcastic, humorous, or illness derived.
“As you said, Ms. Hamilton, all information can be important. I just hope you don’t have as many pages as Mr. Koyne did.”
While it was tempting to say “more,” just to hear his reaction, I merely told him about Pam Fazio, about her abrupt and angry departure from the Friends, and about her parting shot, which could be considered a threat.
Detective Inwood listened, then said, “Thank you, Ms. Hamilton. We’ll continue to pursue the investigation until all avenues are exhausted.”
I wasn’t sure how an avenue could get tired, but decided against criticizing his metaphor. “There’s another thing.”
“Sorry, Ms. Hamilton. You mentioned one point of information, not two.”
My eyes opened wide. “Oh. Uh . . .”
The detective laughed. “Got you. Now, what were you saying?”
So, the law enforcement officer actually had a sense of humor. Who knew? “The other day, Denise rattled off the names of people she said might be considered enemies. I just wanted to make sure she’d told you, too.”
“She did indeed,” Inwood said, his voice dry as every cake I’d ever made. “She gave us the name of a local attorney, a middle-school teacher, a retail-store owner, and the director of a nonprofit organization.”
“They don’t sound exactly like prime candidates for murder, do they?”
“Ms. Hamilton,” he said tiredly, “in my experience, absolutely anyone can commit murder.”
As I hung up the phone, his words echoed around inside my head. Anyone can commit murder.
* * *
By midafternoon, the thick clouds had all blown off and it was suddenly a clear and beautiful day.
The library was nearly deserted on this day after a holiday, Stephen was out of town, and I’d worked so many unpaid library hours the past two weeks that I found it easy enough to turn off any guilt my mother could inflict on me from afar.
I slipped on my coat and stopped by the front desk to tell Kelsey I’d be back in an hour.
“Sounds good,” she said vaguely, turning a page of the book she was reading.
A different assistant library director might have smacked down any employee caught reading during working hours, saying that there were always things to do, but I had no problem letting people catch their breath on quiet days, which were few and far between.
I walked through and past downtown to the area where buildings that had been residences in the days of yore were now renovated into professional buildings. Doctors, dentists, engineers, and there, in a white clapboard house with a widow’s walk up top, was the attorney’s office I was aiming for.
A small brass plate on the red front door told me I was about to enter the law offices of Powell, Hirsh, and Carter. Inside, the hardwood floor was covered with patterned carpets that I hoped could tolerate the sidewalk salt that people would soon start to track inside.
“May I help you?”
A woman with short dark hair, a sheaf of papers in her hand, and a pair of reading glasses on her head was giving me a polite, questioning look.
“I wasn’t sure you’d be open today,” I said.
“Technically, we aren’t.” She laughed, hefting the papers. “But there’s work to do and it’s always quiet on this day, so I figured I might as get a head start on next week.”
A number of tiny clues were piling up, from her age to her air of ownership, so I went ahead and asked, “Are you Shannon Hirsh?” Although Denise had claimed Shannon to be manipulative and full of hate, the woman seemed nice enough.
“Every day,” she said cheerfully. “And you are?”
I introduced myself, and started in with the spiel I’d manufactured on my walk over. “I’ve been thinking about setting up a will. I don’t have any dependents and hardly any assets”—while Eddie was priceless to me, I was pretty sure the appraisal professionals out there wouldn’t put a proper value on him—“but I figure it’s worth doing, no matter what.”
Shannon nodded, her dark hair bobbing with her. “Always a good idea to have your estate in order.”
“I hadn’t thought about it much before,” I said, “but Roger Slade’s death really got me thinking. Such a shame, and such a shock, too.”
“He was an extremely nice man.” Shannon put the papers down and studied me closely. “Minnie Hamilton. From the library. You’re the one who—”
“Yes,” I said quickly. “Like I said, it was a shock.”
“I imagine.” She gave a sad smile. “Or, rather, I don’t want to imagine.”
“It’s not as if I knew him very well,” I said, watching her closely, “but I feel . . . somewhat responsible.”
“For what?” She raised her eyebrows. “For some moron’s stupidity? How can that possibly be your fault?”
“It was because of me that he was there at all,” I said. “If it hadn’t been for me, if hadn’t been for the bookmobile, he would never have been there in the first place.” And no matter what, I couldn’t get away from that awful truth. Deep down, no matter what I said to people and no matter what people said to me, I knew I was partially responsible.
Shannon snorted. “Come on back. Let me show you something.”
She led me through a rabbit’s warren of hallways, conference rooms, and offices to the back of the building, where the windows of her corner office looked out over a backyard that was well tended, even in late November. The office was a typical attorney’s office: a few restrained prints of flowers, lots of files, three-ring binders, books, and . . . trophies?
“Take a close look,” she said, waving toward the crowded shelf.
Curious, I squinted at the tiny lettering engraved into the brass plate
of a trophy so tall, it was scratching the underside of the shelf above. When I saw what the award was for, I stood bolt upright and stared at her. “Are these all . . . ?” I gestured at the rest of the shelf.
She shrugged. “I don’t really care about them anymore, but they make you take them. I started winning when I was just out of high school. The bug caught me and I’m still shooting.”
And, apparently, still winning. I glanced at the date on the plaque in front of me. Just this summer, Shannon had won first place for a shooting award in Fort Gratiot, Michigan. The trophy to its right proclaimed that last year she’d won third place in a national competition in Colorado.
She tapped a tall trophy. “So, you can see, when I say it’s not your fault, I know what I’m talking about. No hunter worthy of the name would ever shoot someone accidentally, not like poor Roger was shot.”
I disagreed about the fault thing, but she was entitled to her opinion, even if it was wrong.
“Roger was far too nice a guy for Denise,” Shannon said, sitting on the edge of her desk, next to the framed pictures of people I assumed were her husband and children. “No idea what he ever saw in her—she’s been a pain in the you-know-what since she was born—but it’s a shame what happened.” She sighed. “No one deserves that, not even Denise. And certainly not Roger.”
“Someone told me,” I said, “that you and Denise were big rivals in high school.”
She smiled. “A more accurate assessment would be that Denise hated me. If I said it was because I beat her out for first-chair flute in sixth grade, would you believe me?”
“Yes,” I said promptly.
Shannon laughed. “So you know Denise. You’d have thought she’d have been satisfied after she made the basketball’s cheerleading squad and I didn’t, but no, she’s kept up this silly rivalry for years. The only reason she went after Roger in the first place was because he took me to prom.”
I blinked. No one had told me that.
“All these years later,” Shannon was saying, “and Denise still wants to one-up me any chance she gets. You’d think she’d have let that high-school attitude go by now, but she hasn’t grown out of it.”
