Booking The Crook

“Mrr!”

“Sorry.” I released Eddie’s fur, which apparently I’d started to clutch a little too hard. “You get double treats for that.”

“He wasn’t objecting to your petting methods,” Aunt Frances said. “He was objecting to what could be pending doom for your relationship with Rafe.”

Stung, I said, “Just because I don’t tell him everything I do every second of the day? I don’t need to know that much about him, and he doesn’t need to know that much about me.”

“Not every daily detail, no. But don’t you think the man who is renovating that house with your every need, want, and desire in mind deserves to know, at least in general, what you’re doing, and why?” When I didn’t answer, she said, “How would you feel if he was keeping something like this from you?”

I tried the idea on for size and didn’t like how I was feeling. At all. For a long minute, I sat there and didn’t say anything. “You’re right. I need to talk to him about this.”

“Excellent.” My aunt smiled, and that alone made me feel a teensy bit better. “Time for popcorn and treats, not necessarily in that order.” She stood, and before I could get any further in my thoughts than a repeated, But how do I tell him I’m trying to figure out who killed Rowan? He’s not going to like it, she was back.

“Three treats for you, since you’re such a good cat.” Aunt Frances dropped the bits on the blanket just underneath Eddie’s chin. “And here’s yours.” She handed over a comfortable-size bowl of buttered and salted popcorn, keeping a twin bowl for herself.

“Now,” she said, settling back down. “Ask me what you should do next. I’ll tell you exactly what to do without even knowing what the topic is.” She stuffed a handful of popcorn into her mouth.

“One size fits all advice?” I laughed. “How about some insider information instead?”

She grinned. “Oh, goody. You have suspects and you need me to dish the dirt again, don’t you?”

“Exactly. First is Sunny Scoles. About my age, runs that new Red House Café I went to this morning.”

Aunt Frances shook her head. “Don’t know her.”

“How about Baxter Tousely? Bax, he goes by. He graduated from Chilson High School four years ago and works for the city.”

“Don’t know him, either.”

I scowled. “You’re not being much help. How about Stewart Funston?”

“Him I know.” She tossed a piece of popcorn into the air and caught it in her mouth. “How far back do you want? As far as I know, for the last thirty years he’s been a model citizen.”

“All information has the possibility to be useful.”

“That has the possibility of being true.” Another popcorn piece went in with a perfect arc. Sometimes it was hard to believe we were blood relations. “Back when Stewart was in high school—he was a string bean of a lad, if you can believe it—the principal suspended him from the football team because he got a ticket for Driving Under the Influence. The weekend after he was kicked off the team, someone broke into the principal’s office and destroyed everything in it. And by destroyed, I mean books ripped to shreds and furniture reduced to kindling.”

“That’s . . . awful. And Stewart did it?”

She shrugged. “They couldn’t prove it, but everyone in town assumed so.”

I shifted, suddenly uncomfortable. “Anger management issues, sounds like. But he grew out of that, right? I’ve never heard of him blowing up at anyone.”

Aunt Frances picked up another handful of popcorn. “It was a long time ago. But it was also a lot of damage.”

“Maybe it wasn’t him at all,” I said. “Besides, like you said, it was a long time ago.” And even though I’d seen Stewart with the Maple Staples sugar packet, that didn’t mean anything since they were apparently all over the place. “How about Hugh Novak?” I asked.

My aunt squished up her face. “He’s one of Those People.”

She’d clearly put capitals on Those People. “Which ones are those?”

“Every once in a while you run into someone you just can’t stand, can’t work with, don’t even want to be in the same room with because their personality is like fingernails on the chalkboard of your life. That’s what Hugh Novak is to me. He’s an arrogant jerk who thinks he’s the smartest person in the room, but half the time he’s dumber than a rock.”

I was laughing. “Don’t beat around the bush. Tell me what you really think.”

She held up a piece of popcorn and squeezed it flat. “Years ago, during a talk I was giving at a Rotary meeting about the benefits of vocational training, he said the only people who went into the trades were ones who couldn’t get into college.”

“Oh, geez.” Them were fighting words. “What did you—”

There was a knock on the front door, followed by the squeak of it opening. “Hello!” Otto called. “Does anyone want to share a bottle of wine?”

“Is there anything better,” Aunt Frances asked me, “than a man who brings wine without being asked?”

I nodded. “A man who brings advance reading copies of Tana French’s latest books.” My response was lost on her, though, because Otto had already shed his boots and was giving her a kiss.

So the evening ended happily, with laughter and a glass of what I was told was very good wine. It was only as I was drifting off to sleep that I realized I hadn’t asked her about my other suspect, the handyman Land Aprelle.

• • •

The next morning, Kelsey knocked firmly on the doorjamb of my office. “I hear you’re holding out on us,” she said.

I held up my index finger, finished typing an e-mail to the chair of the local arts committee about rotating out the current artwork displayed in the hallway, clicked the Send button, and looked up.

By this time, the number of staff in my doorway had gone from one to four, as Holly, Josh, and Donna all crowded into the space.

“Who’s up front?” I asked, frowning.

“Gareth stopped by,” Holly said. “He’s holding down the fort for a few minutes.”

My eyebrows went up. “Our maintenance guy is at the front desk?”

“No one’s in the building except us.” Josh folded his arms across his chest. “We need to know what’s going on with Graydon.”

Our boss was downstate for a couple of days, getting some training on the library’s software, a system he hadn’t been familiar with. I thought it was a good sign that he was willing to suffer through a two-day session when he could have claimed executive privilege and said he didn’t need to learn the system’s details. “What, you afraid he’s going to know more than you do about the system when he gets back?”

Josh gave me a look. “Funny.”

I’d thought so. I grinned and said, “You guys need to be a little more specific. What’s going on with Graydon in what way? Seems to me it’s going pretty well. He’s not making any drastic changes right off the bat, and he’s taking the time to learn about the culture of Chilson and the library. And he likes malt vinegar on his French fries.”

“That’s what we’re talking about,” Kelsey said. “The lunch. What was that all about?”

I suddenly felt the need for coffee. “Let’s adjourn to the break room. We shouldn’t leave Gareth out there by himself. At least from the break room we can keep an eye on the lobby.”

By the time we relocated down the hall, I’d collected my thoughts and figured out what to say. Sort of. “I’ve never had a boss ask me out to lunch,” I said. “That he feels the need to get to know us on a personal basis seems like a good thing.”

“What ‘us,’” Holly went on, “is involved with him taking just you to lunch?”

Clearly I hadn’t thought this all the way through.

“There’s potential for a lot of change,” Donna said. “And we’re not hearing anything about how things might fall out.”

“Exactly.” Kelsey nodded. “New boss, new board president, who knows what they might decide behind our backs.”

“Graydon seems okay,” Josh said, “but he’s going to do whatever the board tells him. He doesn’t have enough history here to stick up for any of us, or any of our programs.”

The front door opened and shut, and in spite of the vestibule that was intended to trap the coldest of the cold air, a chill whooshed in, whirled around the lobby, and slid into the break room.

Donna murmured, “I’ll go,” and she headed up front to take over for Gareth, who, though he was a very capable and intelligent man, didn’t know the Dewey decimal system from the metric system.

“We need you to tell us what’s going on,” Josh said. “If the board is looking to cut jobs, or hours, or programs, or whatever.”

Holly gripped her upper arms. “We’re completely in the dark. It’s bad enough that Graydon is poking around everywhere, but now Trent is, too. Otis never did that. He came in, ran the meetings, came out, borrowed a book on World War II, and didn’t come back until the next month. Trent’s been in here almost every day!”

“Otis didn’t have to spend time in the library,” I said. “He’s lived in Chilson all his life. He didn’t have to learn about the library programs because he was here when they started. He didn’t have to meet the library staff because he was on the board when each of us was hired. Trent is trying to be a good board president. He’s trying to learn as much as he can as fast as he can, and we should be grateful he’s taking the time.”

Kelsey sighed. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Josh said. “It’s just so different, that’s all.”

Holly sniffed. “Trent has an agenda. He’s up to something, I can just feel it.”

I knew I had to say something, but I couldn’t say that it would be okay, because I had the same feeling about Trent that Holly had. “We’ll just have to wait and see.”

• • •

Late that afternoon, my cell phone started buzzing with my best friend’s ringtone.

“Hey, Kristen,” I said. “What’s up?”

She snorted. “Nothing’s wrong, except this cold is insane. Why on earth does anyone live up here in the winter?”

My mouth moved up and down but nothing came out.

“Hey,” Kristen said. “Are you still there? Hellooo!”

“You don’t need to shout. I’m right here.”

“Well, in a couple of hours, I will be, too, so if you don’t want me to freeze my heinie off, I would appreciate you finding me something warm to wear.”

I felt my brow furrowing. “Where are you?”

“Detroit.”

“Michigan?” I asked.

“Great chef in the sky, of course Michigan! What other Detroit is there? Don’t you remember? This is the weekend we agreed that I’d make a trip up to finalize wedding stuff. We talked about this.”

Kristen was actually coming home? “I figured you’d cancel and we’d do it all on Skype.”

“Would I do something like that?” Before I could answer, she said, “Okay, yes, I would, because I canceled a Christmas visit a couple of years ago. But this is different.”

“Four years ago, when you closed down Three Seasons and fled for Key West, you vowed you wouldn’t set foot above the Mason-Dixon Line ever again between Halloween and Ides of April.”

“Yeah, and I need to shift that October date. We got six inches of snow before I left last fall.”

“Yet you’re coming home in January.”

“Exception proves the rule,” she said. “And believe me, it won’t happen again. Are you going to bring me something to wear, or not?”

I smiled a slightly evil smile. “See you in two hours.”

• • •

Kristen sauntered into the airport lobby, towing her purse and small suitcase with one hand and carrying a sign that said, WILL WORK FOR WARM CLOTHES, in the other.

We hugged, then stepped back and took stock of each other. “You look great,” I said. And she did. Tan and fit and rested, she looked far better than she had last fall, when she’d been tired and worn and pale. She always looked like that at the end of the restaurant season, and I worried for her health every year.

“You look like you’ve been in a cave for three months,” Kristen said.

“Lowering my risk of skin cancer, day by day.”

She looked at my empty hands. “No luck with finding something in my size? Hang on, that’s your evil smile,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “What did you do?”

I pointed to a massive tote bag I’d parked on a nearby bench. “All for you.”

An hour later, I was sitting next to Kristen and telling the airport story to Leese Lacombe, a mutual friend. “And then,” I said, “she proceeded to put on every stitch of it.”

Leese, who was almost as tall as Kristen’s six feet, but had unruly brown hair and a broad build, laughed uproariously. Kristen and Leese had played on opposing high school softball teams, and I’d gotten to know Leese through the bookmobile. The three of us together were a force to be reckoned with, and I was pretty sure that if we decided to put our time and energy into the effort, we could solve one of the biggest problems ever: how to get rid of a song that’s stuck in your head.

“All of it?” Leese asked, still laughing.

We were in one of Chilson’s drinking establishments, one of the two open all year. It was early evening, and we were by far the noisiest group in the place. Of course, other than Pete, the bartender, and two men of indeterminate age who were sitting at opposite ends of the bar, we were the only humans in the place.

It would liven up later, after the dinner hour, but since it was January, the term “liven up” was relative. During the height of the summer season, you could wait half an hour for a seat, which to me had never seemed worth it for a place with floors that had a tendency to be slightly sticky, but then I lived here. It was different for summer folks. Worn-down establishments where you were on vacation were charming; at home they were places in need of a good cleaning and a coat of paint.

“All of it,” I said, and showed her the picture I’d taken with my phone. There was Kristen, wearing the brown Carhartt overalls I’d borrowed from Rafe, the long maroon parka I’d borrowed from Aunt Frances, a bright pink wool hat and a pair of gray mittens I’d found in the hall closet, and a pair of circa 1980 Moon Boots I’d found at a local consignment shop, with orange and navy blue striping that went with absolutely nothing. They were perfect.

“I’m pretty sure I’ve never looked better,” Kristen said. “Send it to my future husband, will you? He should know what awaits.”

Smirking, I texted the photo to Scruffy. “Where is he these days?”

“This week it’s New Mexico,” she said. “He and Trock are out there filming an episode about foods influenced by the region’s indigenous peoples.”

Leese tipped her mug of beer in Kristen’s direction. “Sounds like the show might be getting some influence from the producer’s bride-to-be.”

She was probably right, but I’d never thought about it. Rafe influenced me and I him, so it only followed that every other couple in the world, including Scruffy and Kristen, might have that same dynamic. I’d just never dreamed, when I’d walked onto the Trock’s Troubles set a year and a half ago when Trock had been filming at his Chilson summer home, that one result would be that Kristen could wind up shifting the show’s direction.

“It’s a weird, weird world,” I murmured.

Kristen eyed me. “Is that the start of a joke?”

“No, but it could be.” I squinted at the ceiling. “It’s a weird world. How weird? Three women walked into a bar: a restauranteur, an attorney, and a librarian. They—”

“Did you hear about our latest murder?” Leese asked Kristen, cutting into my joke. I feigned hurt, but since I hadn’t known where the story was going, I got over my fake emotional pain quickly.

Kristen nodded. “Rowan Bennethum? Minnie told me.”

“Did she tell you she’s helping the sheriff’s office?”

My best friend’s gaze swung around. “Oh, really?” she asked, her voice laden with something that didn’t bode well for Minnie. “And what trouble is she going to get herself into this time?”

Leese glanced at me, sending a visual apology.

“None that I know of,” I said. “All I’m doing is—”

“Don’t want to hear about it.” Kristen put her hands over her ears. “Especially if I’m not around to put the pieces back together. Even if I beg, you’re not going to walk away from this, are you?”

“Well, no.” I sat up straight and glared right back at her. “Anya and Collier asked me to help. They’re just kids and they need to know what happened to their mother. If I can do anything to help them, I’m going to do it, and everyone else should, too.”

Kristen stared at me a moment longer, then picked up her beer mug and swallowed the last of it. Her silence was acknowledgment that I was right, that she understood I was right, but that she didn’t like what was going on and wasn’t going to make any pretense that she did.

Which was all fine and I was glad we’d reached this point so soon in the weekend and didn’t have to dance around it for another day or two.

“So what are the detectives saying?” Leese asked. Her father, though she’d had little contact with him for years, had been murdered just a few months earlier and she was familiar with the process. “Anything they’re releasing yet?”

“No.” I hesitated, trying to remember precisely what they’d said about the names of the possible suspects. Could I talk about them? Should I? “There are a few names that have come up,” I said.

Leese leaned forward, and even Kristen looked interested. “Can you say who they are?” Leese asked. “I don’t live far from the Bennethums. I can keep an eye out, if you want.”

“Just keep it quiet, please,” I said, and named the names. Sunny Scoles, of the Red House Café. Bax Tousely, the city worker wannabe postproduction video maker. Hugh Novak, insurance adjuster. Stewart Funston, Rowan’s cousin. Land Aprelle, handyman.

Kristen, of course, zeroed in on the important thing. “How is Sunny’s restaurant doing? If I did breakfast, I’d want to be like her. She makes this amazing maple glaze with walnuts and puts it on French toast.”

Leese, however, had an odd expression on her face. “Bax Tousely. He drives a pickup, doesn’t he? Chevy Silverado, maybe ten years old?”

“No idea.” I was lucky if I remembered what I drove, let alone someone I’d never met. “Why?”

“Because I’m pretty sure I saw him driving past Rowan’s house almost every day, right before she was killed.”

Chapter 9

I told Leese I’d pass on the information about Bax Tousely to the sheriff’s office, and added the task to my mental to-do list. The rest of the evening passed with the mild hilarity that so often accompanies any time that good friends gather together, and I stayed out far later than I normally would have on a night when I had to work the next day.

On the plus side, there was no real reason for me to show up at the library two hours before it opened, so I didn’t even bother setting an alarm when I crawled into bed.

Eddie, however, either hadn’t heard me or hadn’t listened when I’d told him I was going to sleep in. He woke me with a paw pat to the face and a loud “Mrr!” all of ten minutes past my usual get-out-of-bed time.

I looked at his furry face. “When I get up early, you give me a look that could kill. But when I want to sleep in, I get this?”

“Mrr.” He sat on my chest and stared at me. “Mrr.”

Clearly, he wasn’t going to let me sleep, so I tossed back the covers, pulled on a bathrobe, stuffed my feet into slippers, and stumbled downstairs to the kitchen, yawning all the way.

“Top of the morning to you!” Otto toasted me with a steaming mug of coffee. “Would you like a cup? Or would you rather have tea?”

“Morning.” I dropped into a chair. Eddie jumped up onto the chair next to me and immediately curled up into an Eddie-size ball. Still yawning, I put my elbows on the table and my chin in my hands. “Coffee would be wonderful, thanks.” In the last couple of months I’d grown used to finding Otto in the boardinghouse at any time of the day or night. Almost, anyway. “Where’s Aunt Frances?”

“Off to the college half an hour ago. She had prep work to do for a class.” He slid a mug of nirvana in front of me and I gratefully wrapped my hands around it. “Frances made me a delightful breakfast of scrambled eggs and smoked salmon and I stayed behind to clean up. There are some leftovers I could heat, if you’d like.”

I consulted my stomach, and it told me to stay away. “Thanks, but I’ll pass.”

“Ah. Yes. You were out late with Kristen and Leese.” His smile was tinted with understanding. “How about a piece of dry toast?”

Another consultation. This time my stomach gave a thumbs-up. “That would be wonderful. But you don’t have to wait on me.” I started to stand, but he waved me down.

“Sit, sit. I have an ulterior motive for feeding you.”

“Excellent.” I sipped my coffee. “Nothing better than ulterior motives with dry toast.”

“That’s what I’ve always said.” The toaster popped up two slices of multigrain. He put them both on a plate and put it in front of me. Sitting, he said, “There’s a bit of a problem with the wedding.”

I froze, a piece of toast halfway to my mouth. “Don’t tell me you want to back out.”

“What?” His gentle blue eyes flew open. “Of course not. I said a problem with the wedding, not the marriage.”

“Oh. Right.” I relaxed. “Sorry. It’s just . . . well, never mind.” The night before, after Leese had abandoned us, Kristen confessed she’d been getting wedding jitters. We’d talked it through, and though I was pretty sure she was nervous about the menu and not the man she’d chosen to marry, since I’d never been married myself, how would I know for sure? “What’s the problem?” I asked.

Otto slumped, his shoulders sagging. This was troubling, because he rarely had anything but perfect posture. Whatever he was about to tell me was going to be bad. I pushed toast and coffee aside. “Tell me,” I said. “Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out.”

He shook his head. “Remember the hotel in Bermuda? The one Frances had her heart set on for our wedding?”

The use of past tense made me clutch. My aunt and Otto had studied dozens of websites and written numerous e-mails before choosing this particular hotel. “‘Had’?” I repeated cautiously. “What do you mean?”

“They had a fire.” He sighed. “An electrical fire that damaged the building extensively. They called me yesterday morning and I spent most of the day looking for another location on that date and within our budget. There’s nothing available.” His shoulders heaved as he sighed again. “Absolutely nothing.”

Out in the dining room, the clock on the buffet ticked and tocked. “You haven’t told her, have you?” I asked.

“Tonight. She’s going to be . . . disappointed. I just wanted you to be prepared.”

Prepared for what, exactly? Still, his heart was in the right place. “Thanks for telling me. If there’s anything I can do to help, let me know.”

He nodded glumly. “Thanks, Minnie. I appreciate that.”

I wolfed down the rest of my toast, put our dishes in the dishwasher, touched his shoulder, and went back upstairs to shower and start the wintry day.

• • •

Julia gasped. “The hotel burned down?”

“Don’t know about down,” I said, “but burned enough so they can’t have the wedding there.”

“Oh, poor Frances.”

I wasn’t so sure. Yes, of course she’d be a little disappointed, but in all the years I’d known my aunt—which was all of my life—she’d never let anything truly upset her. She was the person I wanted to be; she stayed calm, never panicked, and always kept a sense of perspective. I was pretty sure she’d spend a moment being shocked and surprised, and would then roll up her sleeves and figure out another way to reach the goal. It was my aunt’s fiancé I was more worried about. “Poor Otto, too,” I said.

Julia glanced at me across the bookmobile console. “I’ve only met him a couple of times. Frances and I keep trying to set up dinner dates, but you know how those things can go. What’s he like?”

Though I knew my aunt and Julia had known each other for decades, I sometimes forgot how time had shifted their relationship. Back in the day, when she was still getting leading roles on the New York stage, Julia had spent her spare time in Chilson. She and Aunt Frances had developed a solid friendship, but things were different now. I lived with Frances, Otto was in the picture, and Julia and her husband lived here year-round, which you’d think would let you see your friends more often, but the reality of life’s busyness has a way of interfering with good intentions.

“What’s Otto like?” I repeated. “Well, what do you think?”

“Charming,” she said immediately. “Smart, but not the kind of smart that has to show off. He can listen. And I think he has a very clever sense of humor, but I haven’t seen it come out yet. Maybe he’s hiding it until he gets to know us better.”

I smiled. “All that. Plus, he loves Aunt Frances very, very much.”

“Ah.” Julia tapped the top of Eddie’s carrier with a booted foot. “Did you hear that, Sir Edward? Otto loves Frances. Do you agree, and think that he will take care of her in the manner she deserves? Will he love, honor, and cherish her as long as they both shall live?”

“Mrr!”

Julia nodded and settled down in her seat. “Okay then. If Otto gets the Eddie stamp of approval, who am I to disagree?”

I rolled my eyes. Sometimes Julia took our so-called conversations with my cat a little too seriously. “You do realize he was just complaining about you thumping the top of his carrier.”

“Your interpretation is yours and yours alone. I prefer mine. Right, Eddie?”

“Mrr.”

If she’d tapped the carrier that time, I couldn’t detect it. I shook my head and said, “If we’re running on schedule this afternoon, I’d like to make a short detour on the way back to town.”

Julia clapped her hands and smiled like a small child being offered ice cream. “Ooo, a detour. Anywhere fun? Please, please, let it be fun!”

I smiled. “You’ll just have to wait and see, little one.”

• • •

The final bookmobile stop of the day had wrapped up exactly on time, an anomaly for that particular stop because Lisa and Mort Neely, a downstate couple who had retired Up North the previous summer, tended to linger.

They were very nice people, but Julia and I agreed they were still getting acclimated to winter. People who only spent summer and perhaps early fall up here didn’t tend to recognize how sparse humans were for eight months at a stretch, and it was a harsh reality for many.

More than one retired couple, whose original intentions had been to live up here the rest of their lives, ended up finding a place to live in Florida or Arizona in the dark months and came north only when all chance of snow was gone. Julia was betting that the Neelys would turn into snowbirds, but I’d caught a calm look from Lisa as she’d gazed out the bookmobile window at the snowy landscape and was sure they’d be staying.

That afternoon, Mort had come to the bookmobile alone. “Lisa’s in a cleaning frenzy,” he said. “Our youngest is coming up with her boyfriend for a skiing week. Apparently a house that’s clean enough for us isn’t anywhere near clean for them.”

“Well, of course not,” Julia said.

I nodded agreement. “Especially when there’s a boyfriend involved. He might turn into a husband, and then you’ll have his family members up to stay. Standards must be established early.”

Mort gave us a pained look. “Then I truly hope she doesn’t marry this one. He has seven siblings.”

We laughed and a few minutes later he checked out the small stack of mysteries and thrillers they’d reserved online, stuffed them into his backpack, and went out into the cold for his short walk home.

Julia turned to me. “Is it detour time?” she asked, her face bright and shiny.

“You got it,” I said, closing the door on Eddie’s carrier and buckling myself in. “Let’s roll.”

Twenty minutes later I steered the bookmobile into the parking lot of the Wicklow Township Hall, a fieldstone building I’d never set foot inside. Julia scrunched up her face. “This is the detour? Seriously?”

I laughed. “Did I say it was going to be fun?”

“Well, no, but detours should be entertaining, at the very least. This isn’t a detour, it’s . . .” She frowned. “What is this?”

“Work,” I said. “You know the church lot where we normally park? I got a phone call the other day that their guy who plows the lot for free broke his shoulder blade skiing. He can’t plow the rest of the winter. The church has a snowblower, but the whole lot is too much for it, so they’re not clearing the back part.”

Julia nodded, following along with the saga. “And if they don’t blow the snow back there, the bookmobile doesn’t have room to turn around, so we need a new stop spot.”

“You are just as smart as you look,” I said. “This shouldn’t take long. I’ll leave the engine running and you and Eddie can stay here.”

The suggestion was unnecessary, as Julia had already unbuckled her seat belt and was wriggling around to get comfortable. “Hand me that new book by Kent Kruger, will you, please?”

Inside, the township hall felt a lot like it looked, as if it had been here for a hundred years without many changes since construction. Wood floor, wood paneling, wood ceiling, all had been put in place during the boom years of lumber, when the cheapest possible building material was whatever they were hauling out of the closest woodlot.

A bulletin board next to the front door was posted with agendas of upcoming meetings and minutes of past ones. In a place of prominence was a memo noting the day property taxes were due. To the right of the small lobby were the double doors of a meeting room; to the left was a hallway leading toward offices where I could hear a rumble of male voices.

“Hello there, dear.”

And at my immediate left was an office separated from the lobby by a counter with a sliding glass window above. A generously sized sixty-ish woman with thoroughly blond hair was smiling. “Can I help you?”

“If you’re Charlotte, you can. I’m Minnie Hamilton. I called the other day about using your parking lot for a bookmobile stop.” With my thumb, I gestured over my shoulder. “If you want to see it, it’s out there.”

Charlotte leaned over to look, but didn’t get up. “You drive that big thing?” she asked. “And you’re such a little scrap of a girl!”

I smiled. This was a familiar conversation. “Power steering and an automatic transmission make life easier for everyone.”

“Isn’t that the absolute truth?” she said, laughing. “I talked to the supervisor and the other board members, and no one sees any problem with you stopping here, so let’s figure out schedules. Come in and have a seat.”

Ten minutes later, we were wrapping up dates through the end of the year. I could have shifted the stop back to the church when all danger of snow had passed, but I didn’t want to move the location twice in one year. Just as we were making sure the December dates worked for both of us, the male voices I’d heard before grew louder, to the point where I could make out what they were saying.

“We’ll have to see what happens at the meeting, Hugh. I’m only one vote.”

“But you’re supervisor.”

“And I cast all of one vote,” the supervisor said mildly. “There are four others. Democracy and all that.”

“Yeah, I suppose. See you at the meeting.”

“Will do. Say, don’t forget your hat.”

Footsteps came toward us down the hall, then whooshed past without slowing down. I got a glimpse of a dark winter coat worn by a tallish man with brown hair just starting to go gray. In one hand he carried a hat, a fedora with an oddly low profile and with earflaps down. I smiled. Apparently Stewart wasn’t the only one around with that new hat.

Then something clicked in my head. “Was that Hugh Novak?” I asked.

Charlotte glanced in the direction of the front door, paused until it shut, then said, “He’s been pushing for us to build a new township hall for years, and with the board we have now, he just might get what he wants.”

“A new building?” I looked around. “How old is this place?”

“About ninety years, so our maintenance expenses are creeping up. Nothing we can’t deal with, though.”

“Do you need more space?”

“Just like everything else up here, in the winter no and in the summer yes.” She shrugged. “I figure we can muddle through for the three or four busy months. It’s not worth it to build something big that’ll go mostly empty most of the year.”

There was something I wasn’t grasping. “Then why does . . . I mean, why would Hugh . . .” I stopped, not sure how to phrase the question.

Charlotte helped me out. “Why on earth would anyone want to spend taxpayer money on a building we don’t need, even if we happen to have the money right now? If you’re some board members, you want to leave a legacy. If you’re some other board members, you feel the need to spend money on something reasonable to keep a stupid future board from wasting it on something stupid. And if you’re Hugh Novak . . .” She glared in the direction he’d gone. “If you’re Hugh Novak, you want the township to build on the property you own on the state highway, which happens to be property right next to a parcel you bought. If you’re Hugh Novak, you think a new township hall out there will increase traffic, creating the perfect climate for the business you want to start.”

“What business is that?” Hadn’t Neil Bennethum, Rowan’s husband, mentioned that Hugh and Rowan had been arguing about township politics? Could this be the topic?

Charlotte made a hmph-ing noise. “With Hugh, it changes every time you talk to him.”

I thanked her and, as I walked out, pulled out my cell and called Neil. It went to voice mail, of course, so I left him a message.

Back on the bookmobile, Julia looked up from her book. “How did that go? All set?”

I blinked. All set about what? Oh. Right. “Good to go,” I said, sliding into my seat and buckling in. Yes, we were all set. With the bookmobile stop and with another clue that might lead to tracking down Rowan’s killer.

• • •

I’d unscheduled myself from the library for a couple of days in order to help Kristen with wedding plans, but when I texted her the next morning, she texted back that she was doing restaurant work instead.

Me: Decisions need to be made.

Kristen: no kidding . . . need a new strawberry supplier and someone who can grow black carrots . . . plus have lined up two chefs to interview.

Me: Don’t you have a wedding to plan?

Kristen: priorities missy priorities.

Me: What I’m saying.

Kristen: wedding will be fine . . . you have the day off . . . go play!!!

Me: But

I paused with my thumbs over the phone’s tiny keyboard. But what? If Kristen preferred to procrastinate on her wedding plans, there wasn’t much I could do about it short of dragging her around by her hair, and since she was taller, stronger, and far more fit than I was, I didn’t see how that strategy could possibly succeed.

So I deleted the But, and instead sent, Let me know when you have time to do wedding stuff, and clicked off the phone. “What do you think?” I asked Eddie.

My feline friend didn’t say anything. This wasn’t a surprise since he was curled up into a tight ball half the size of a regular Eddie. What was a surprise was the location—the precise middle of the doorway between the living and the dining room.

He was directly on top of a low threshold—Aunt Frances said she removed the physical door years ago to open up the space—so how he could find that particular spot a relaxing location, I did not know, yet I could hear the dulcet tones of Eddie snores.

Which somehow reminded me of one thing I could do.

“Sleep tight,” I said, reaching down to pat Eddie’s head. Fifteen minutes later, I was knocking on the toy store’s front door. Mitchell appeared and let me in. “Hey, Minnie. What’s up?”

I came in, stomping my boots on the mat. Six or so inches of snow had fallen in the night, and though the main roads were clear, the side streets and sidewalks were still waiting for plows and shovels. “Could you make me a list? When you and Bianca started seeing each other, when you met her family, when she met yours, that kind of thing. Approximate dates are fine.”

“A list of . . .” He frowned. “Yeah. How is that—”

“Great.” I wasn’t sure how a list would help me figure out anything, but it couldn’t hurt. Data was always good, especially if it kept Mitchell busy for a few days. I edged toward the door. “E-mail it to me when it’s done, okay?”

“When do you want it?” Mitchell glanced at his watch. “I have a couple of things I need to do first, but I bet I can write that up before noon.”

I blinked. The slacker Mitchell, the Mitchell I’d known for years, the one who’d dragged any task out for days if not weeks, the Mitchell I still kept expecting to turn up, was gone forever. “Whenever you have time.”

“This is something I’ll make time for,” he said.

For some reason, his grim tone made me want to cry. I didn’t, of course, because I hated to cry in front of anyone, let alone Mitchell Koyne, but I did sniff once or twice and was pleased to be distracted by an incoming text message. “Sorry,” I muttered, fishing my phone out of my coat pocket. “I should check this . . .”

Rafe: Snow day. You busy with Kristen’s wedding?

Frowning, I looked outside. The snow didn’t look any worse today than it had on days when the superintendent hadn’t canceled school, but the ways of school administrators were mysterious. My image of a superintendent calling a snow day involved charts, radar, satellite images, and phone calls to secret phone numbers, and I’d firmly told Rafe not to disillusion me.

Me: Nope.

Rafe: Cool. Want to drive to Traverse with me?

Fifteen minutes later, we were in Rafe’s SUV, southbound on US 31. “Isn’t it a little wrong to head out of town on a snow day?” I asked.

“How?”

“Well, doesn’t a snow day mean the roads aren’t safe to drive? Shouldn’t you be staying home, staring out the window, and worrying about your students?”

He made a rude noise in the back of his throat. “When I was a kid, a snow day meant I’d call whoever had access to a car. I’d make a pile of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, stuff them back into the bread bag, and we’d head to Nub’s to ski. And before any of us could drive, we’d walk that trail north of town and go sledding.”

“Um, doesn’t that hill drop right into Lake Michigan?”

He grinned, his white teeth gleaming in the morning light. “My parents still don’t know. But even if they found out now, the statute of limitations for childhood punishments is long over.”

Though he spoke confidently, I wasn’t so sure his mom and dad would agree. Over dinner someday, the subject would come up and we would all see what happened.

“What are you smiling about?” Rafe reached over and squeezed my hand briefly.

“Oh, just happy to spend the day with you.” And I was. It had been weeks since we’d done anything other than work on the house or grab a quick meal somewhere. “But if I’m going to be completely honest—”

“Yes, please.”

“I’m also happy to get some time in Traverse City. I haven’t been down there in months, and even then I didn’t have a chance to stop at the bookstores.”

“Bookstores?” His eyebrows went up. “What makes you think we’re going anywhere near downtown?”

Cold stole into me, all the way down to the marrow of my bones. “You said . . . I mean . . . I thought . . .” Just like that, my happiness vanished. No browsing at Horizon? No seeing what Brilliant Books was recommending? No checking to see what treasures the used bookstore, Bookie Joint, might happen to have?

Rafe grinned. “Breathe deep. I was just messing with you. We can spend all afternoon downtown if you want.”

I squiggled around and readjusted myself in my seat. “You are a horrible person,” I said comfortably, “and remember what they say about paybacks.”

“That’s what the school sends me twice a month, right?”

“I’m glad you’re not really as dumb as you sound.”

“You ain’t seen nothing yet.”

I laughed, happy inside and out. An unexpected day with my boyfriend—what could be better?

• • •

Two hours later, I knew exactly what could be better. That the unexpected day would have included only ten minutes in a specialty wood store, not the hour it was starting to become. Ten minutes had been interesting; the different woods were pretty and learning what countries the exotics had traveled from was fascinating, but my mind started to wander when Rafe and the sales guy—Rafe’s new best friend—started talking about wood density and humidity factors. When I murmured that I wouldn’t go far, Rafe nodded and continued the conversation.

The store was located on the south side of Traverse City, past the car dealerships, past the big box stores, and even past the flooring stores. It was in a small strip mall, sharing its parking lot with a Chinese takeout and a nail salon. Since the nail salon interested me as much as the wood store did, I ambled over to the restaurant in hopes of seeing a menu stuck up somewhere.

Wind blew and snow swirled, but I was in the mood to be fearless, so braving the cold for nearly fifty feet didn’t faze me a bit. There was indeed a menu taped to the door. I peered at the selections, wondering if eleven o’clock was too early to be thinking about lunch, when a truck door slammed shut.

I turned and saw Land Aprelle, handyman to Rowan, kicking the snow out of his truck’s wheel wells. With that streak of white hair, he was easy to spot in a crowd.

“Good morning, Land,” I called.

He spun around. “Minnie. What are you doing here?”

“No idea, to tell you the truth. I’m waiting for Rafe.” I paused, suddenly unsure. “You know Rafe Niswander, don’t you?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.” Land glanced at the store, then back at me. “I, uh, just stopped to clear the snow out of my truck. It was jamming up the suspension and making a vibration to beat the band, and I know this parking lot is usually empty, so I stopped. Just for a second. I’m going now. See you around, okay?”

As Land’s truck sped back out onto the highway, Rafe came outside. “Wasn’t that Land Aprelle? Why didn’t he come in?”

“I have no idea,” I said slowly. “He was acting very strange.”

“How can you tell?” Rafe clicked his SUV unlocked and we climbed in. “Land can be a pretty strange guy at the best of times.”

“Sure, but he was talking.”

Rafe, who was buckling his seat belt, paused mid-buckle. “Talking?”

I nodded. “A lot.”

Rafe looked over his shoulder, but Land’s truck was long gone. “Maybe it was his long-lost identical twin brother, who dyed his hair just like . . . okay, maybe not.” He looked at my expression and grinned. “Okay, almost certainly not. But really? A loquacious Land makes you wonder about the end of the world.”

I wondered, too. But I was wondering if Land’s odd behavior had something to do with Rowan’s death, and even the heady odor of books in the bookstores that Rafe and I, hand in hand, happily traipsed through that afternoon didn’t quite dispel my questions.

Chapter 10

Sunday morning I looked at my best friend, who was sitting to my immediate left. “This was an excellent idea.”

“Told you,” Kristen said. “Why don’t you ever listen to me?”

“Because sometimes your ideas are horrible.”

“Like when?” she challenged.

I snorted. “Do you really want to talk about the jumping-off-the-roof-of-your-house-onto-the-leaf-pile idea?”

“And I still say it would have been fine. My mom overreacts.”

The two of us were sitting side by side on a Nub’s Nob chairlift with our feet, boots, and skis dangling, on our way to the top of the ski hill. It was the kind of winter day skiers dreamed of—blue skies, no wind, twenty degrees—and having to spend this day inside working on wedding details would have been painful.

Not that I was a Real Skier. I was happy to ski on the blue runs, the ones marked for intermediate skiers, and I didn’t care if I ever got good enough to do the steepest hills.

Kristen was a much better skier than I was, having grown up in a family of downhillers, and she’d been on the high school ski team. But that had been years ago, and now she wiggled her mittens, eyeing them critically. “My fingers are getting cold.”

“Not possible,” I said. “You have three sets of hand warmers in there. And you’re wearing those incredibly expensive heated electric socks I borrowed from Donna.” This was in addition to the multiple layers underneath the warmest coat we’d found in my aunt’s closet.

“Getting cold,” she said again as we off-loaded at the top. “We need to go in.”

I wanted to protest, but a cold Kristen was a cranky Kristen, and besides, we really needed to work on wedding stuff. Saturday had been marginally productive, but there was a lot more to do and the weight of it was starting to make me a tiny bit nervous. We swooshed our way down, Kristen fast and elegant, me trailing behind slow and choppy.

When I reached the bottom, Kristen had already taken off her equipment and was slinging her skis up onto her shoulder. I took a final turn to get around a man and a woman walking toward the ski lift. Though they were carrying rental skis—usually an indication of novice ability—they looked comfortable with the equipment.

Something about them was familiar, but it wasn’t until the woman said, “New series. Snow scenes without any shades of blue,” that I realized who it was. And why I didn’t recognize them in ski clothes.

“Barb!” I called. “Cade! What are you two doing in Michigan?”

Russell McCade whirled and grinned. “Why, if it isn’t our favorite bookmobile librarian!”

As I was the only bookmobile librarian they knew, I ignored the comment as I gracelessly ski-skated over to the couple. “I didn’t know you two were skiers. And why didn’t you tell me you were in town?”

Barb and Cade, both on the far side of fifty and neither one looking it, summered on Five Mile Lake and wintered in Arizona. Cade made a mint of money through his paintings, works that his fans loved and that the critics called sentimental schlock.

I’d always loved his work and had been thrilled to learn that he and his wife had a summer place Up North, but we hadn’t crossed paths until he’d needed a quick ride to the hospital and the bookmobile had been handy.

“The snowbirds are flocking together,” I said, smiling. “Kristen’s up for the weekend to do wedding planning.” I looked back at the ski rack. “She was here a minute ago. I’m sure she’ll want to say hello. Where on—”

A short and sharp shriek startled all of us. But I was on the move instantly, because it was Kristen’s voice, and she was calling my name.

With the points of my poles I jabbed at my bindings, unlocking them, and left my skis lying in the snow. “Kristen!” I shouted, running as well as anyone could in boots with soles that were stiff as boards. “Where are you?” Reaching the parking lot, I looked left and right. Since it was a Sunday, there were dozens of people wandering around, and they were all starting to gather around the back of my car.

“Are you okay?” I hurried over. “What happened?”

Her groan was audible. “Fell. My wrist . . .”

I pushed my way through the small murmuring crowd. Kristen was on her knees, cradling her right wrist with her left forearm. I knelt beside her. Since the only visible part of her skin was her face, it was impossible to see what the damage might be, and I didn’t want to make things worse. Kristen was a chef and permanent damage to her wrist . . . I didn’t want to think about it. She would be fine.

“She should go to the hospital,” a woman said. “But I don’t know where the closest one is. Petoskey? Does Charlevoix have a hospital? Maybe Traverse City would be better.”

“There’s a hospital in Gaylord,” offered a young man. “At least that’s what my friend said. You want me to Google which one is closest?”

Cade and Barb, their boots thumping fast on the asphalt, hurried over. I knew I could depend on them to do what needed to be done, so I thanked the strangers, telling them we were all set. They wandered off and I said to Kristen, “We’re going to McLaren in Petoskey, okay?”

She nodded and the McCades and I helped her to her feet. “I’ll help her into the car,” Barb said. “Cade will get your equipment and drop it at your aunt’s house later.” She said the last while looking at her husband, and he nodded and headed off.

Barb talked as she guided Kristen to the passenger side of my car. “He’s painting a snow series and two days ago he got it in his head that he had to see Michigan snow. We’re here for a few days, so we have plenty of time to help out. No, don’t thank me. Minnie has done far more for us than we can ever repay. There you go, Kristen, let me get that seat belt . . . and you’re set.” Barb gently shut the door, slapped the window, and we were on our way.

• • •

Three hours later, we were still in the emergency room, waiting for the results of the CT scan. “Just to be sure,” the doctor said. “We don’t want a misdiagnosis.”

“No, we do not.” Kristen used her chin to point at her wrapped-up wrist. “If this doesn’t heal properly, there will be no bo ssäm at Three Seasons. No beef Wellington. And certainly no crème brûlée.”

The thought of no crème brûlée sent a chill down my back, but I took a deep breath. Once again, Kristen was exaggerating. Even if she was incapacitated, she had an excellent staff, which included Harvey, the sous-chef, who was aching for a chance to lay down his life for his boss. But Kristen’s passion was developing new recipes, and if her wrist was permanently damaged . . . I shook my head. She was going to be fine.

“Odds are extremely good,” the doctor said, “that you’ll be fine. The X-ray didn’t show any breaks. At this point it’s likely a sprain. A few weeks, a little bit of therapy, and you’ll be back to normal. But we’re going to do a CT scan, just to be sure.”

And an hour later, the results were in. The orthopedic surgeon was consulted, and she agreed. No broken bones. “I’ll get the nurse in to show you how to wrap it,” the emergency room doctor said. “We’ll get you a prescription for pain and for therapy. Check with your doctor in Florida for recommended physical therapists.” He smiled. “Glad you’ll be okay. Three Seasons is my favorite restaurant. I’ll be in for that crème brûlée.”

As the doctor walked out, Kristen flopped back on the hospital bed and stared at the ceiling. “Well, this sucks. But I suppose it could be worse.”

“It can always be worse,” I said.

“You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.”

She lay there for a moment, looking almost relaxed, then sat bolt upright. “Okay. Enough of feeling sorry for myself. Time to get to work.”

I eyed her warily. “On what?”

“Wedding plans, my dear. That is the reason I came to this land of snow and ice, remember?”

“Hard to tell from your actions the last twenty-four hours.”

She grinned. “All in the past, Miss Minnie. All in the past. Sharpen your pencils!”

Rolling my eyes, I pulled my cell phone from my coat pocket and opened the notes file I’d titled Wedding of the Century. “Virtual pencil all set, ma’am.”

“What’s the first thing I need to decide?”

“Venue.”

“Ceremony at the Congregational church, reception at Three Seasons. Done!” She used her left hand to draw an imaginary check mark in the air.

I did not move on to the next item. “You talked to the church secretary and got your name set in stone for the correct date and time?”

Kristen’s eyebrows went up. “You don’t trust me?”

“With my life, absolutely. With following up on this kind of detail, absolutely not.”

She huffed, but not for very long. We’d been friends a long time and we knew each other’s weaknesses and strong suits inside and out. “Yes, I talked to Lois and the date is set. And the restaurant will be dark the entire day. Lots of time to decorate.”

As we ticked through the big items, I added a few notes about things I needed to do, a big one being addressing the invitations, which we’d planned on doing that evening. “I’ll lick every one,” she said. “Promise.”

“Then the last big item is the food.” I put my phone down. “Are we going to have this conversation again? Because I still think it’s nuts for you to cook your own wedding dinner.”

Kristen started to get the look I knew very well—her stubborn look. “I’m a chef. How can I possibly let someone else cook for my wedding?”

“There are other cooks in the land. Even other cooks in northwest lower Michigan.”

“Not like me.”

“True enough. But is it worth your time?” I winced inwardly, because I’d said the exact wrong thing. “Let me rephrase that—”

“Worth my time?” Kristen flushed. “This is the most important meal of my life! It’s my wedding, for crying out loud! I know you don’t understand the importance of fine food, but I do. This isn’t a meal I’m handing over to some schmuck who doesn’t know the difference between a whisk and a waffle iron.”

“Fine,” I said, trying not to snap at her because she was undoubtedly in pain. “Then at least get some help. You can’t possibly cook for two hundred people all by yourself.”

“Of course not.” Kristen rolled her eyes. “That would be nuts. Harvey and the rest of the regular staff are donating their time as wedding presents, and I’m talking to a friend in Detroit about coming up to help out. She used to be in advertising, but chucked it all to buy a food truck. I was serving her a drink in Key West when we got to talking, and it turns out she and her husband drive all over the country, following the weather they like best. I saw their setup, and they’ve developed this really interesting method of—”

Hard-heartedly, I cut her off. “They’ll come all the way up here?”

“She got their permit from city council last week.”

“That sounds good,” I said vaguely, because my mind was wandering backward. Hadn’t the loan Sunny Scoles applied for—which had been turned down by Rowan—been for a food truck?

“How much do those cost?” I asked. “Food trucks, I mean.”

Kristen laughed. “If you’re thinking about ditching the bookmobile for a food truck business, I’d advise against it. Because if you run a food truck, you have to cook. Every day.”

I scrunched my face. “No, this is about Rowan’s murder.” I didn’t want to blab Sunny’s name around, so I said, “One of the latest loans Rowan turned down was for a food truck. So I was just wondering, how much do they cost?”

“Depends.” Kristen shrugged. “How big? What kind of food will be served? How cool do you want it to be? I know one guy who found a used truck, hunted down used equipment, and fitted it out himself. Cost under twenty thousand. But I’ve also heard about high-end rigs costing more than two hundred grand. I know, right? But I’d say the average for a used vehicle and a little retrofitting is in the sixty to eighty thousand range.”

Hmm. I texted Ash, asking if he knew the amount of the loan Sunny had requested. Almost immediately, he texted back: 300 grand. Why?

Kristen’s here, I wrote back. She said they usually cost about $70,000.

Well, Ash wrote back, that’s probably why Rowan denied the loan.

As I turned off the phone, I wondered why on earth Sunny would have inflated her loan request by so much. When I’d met her, she’d seemed capable and sensible. Why would she have done something so dumb?

• • •

I stayed up late into the night to finish addressing the wedding invitations. Kristen apologized so many times that I was forced to threaten her with replacing all the good wine she was ordering for the wedding with cheap stuff from the grocery store.

“You wouldn’t,” she said.

“Do you want to risk it?” I asked, eyebrows raised.

She did not, so she subsided and accepted her role of envelope licker. I’d pointed out that she could use the sponge that I’d dampened, but she said licking so many envelopes was penance for going out to ski when she should have been working on wedding stuff.

What we both knew, but were never going to say out loud, was that essentially all of the planning and preparations could have been done remotely. But it was more fun this way, and since we could spend a few days planning the wedding Kristen had never dreamed of having, we’d done so.

The next day, though, I was dead tired. I yawned all the way through showering, dressing, and breakfast, and even the blasts of cold air in my face walking out of the house and before boarding the bookmobile didn’t do much to wake me up.

“Coffee,” I murmured to Julia as we headed out of Chilson. “Where’s the closest place to get coffee?” The single cup I’d poured down my throat at breakfast wasn’t doing the job I’d asked it to do.

Wordlessly, Julia pointed at an upcoming gas station, which was even on the right side of the road. I drove into the parking lot, parked, and stood. “Anyone want anything? No, Eddie, you don’t get coffee.” It didn’t do to think about the damage a caffeinated Eddie could do to the world.

I brought back a cup of coffee roughly the size of my head, a cup of tea for Julia, and a wadded-up piece of paper for Eddie. Fifteen minutes later, at our first stop, I was feeling almost awake. Eddie, however, had been batting around the paper nonstop and was sound asleep when Julia opened the door of his carrier.

“Isn’t he sweet,” she cooed. “Look at him, resting his head on his little white paws.”

“You wouldn’t think he was so sweet if he’d woken you up at three in the morning trying to pull your hair out of your head.”

She laughed. “Isn’t it adorable that he tries to fix your hair?”

“Adorable” hadn’t been the word I’d used, but since we had people coming aboard, I declined to share what I had actually said.

“Good morning,” I said, smiling at the young woman who’d just climbed the stairs. With her were two small children, one girl walking mostly steadily, one boy being carried. All three had bright blond hair and round, open faces.

“Morning,” the woman said, a little breathlessly. “We’re looking for picture books.”

“Kitty,” pronounced the toddler. “Kitty!”

The woman deposited the child she’d carried on her hip onto the carpeted step and unzipped both of her children’s coats. “Emily, what did I tell you? Books first, then we’ll ask about the bookmobile cat.”

“Kitty!”

She looked up at me apologetically, and I suddenly knew who she was. “You work at the bank,” I said, and searched my memory for her name. Something unusual and pretty. Started with an M, two syllables . . . “Mara.”

“And you’re Minnie.” She smiled. “It’s nice to finally get on the bookmobile. I usually work Saturdays, but the bank’s closed today for software maintenance.”

Julia took Emily in hand and guided her toward the picture books, murmuring about cat stories and cat adventures. The smaller child seemed content to sit on the step and look about, wide-eyed.

“Eddie’s up front,” I said. “He’s sleeping in his carrier, but we can haul him out in a little bit. He won’t mind.” And maybe if he stayed awake all day, he’d sleep through the night. I eyed the small child and wondered if there were parallels between cat and kid sleeping habits.

“I wanted to thank you,” Mara said.

“Uh.” I stared at her blankly. We’d had a few interactions at the bank, but most of my financial activities were online.

“For what you did at Rowan’s. I hear you tried really hard to save her life, and I wanted to say thanks. She was fun to work with, once you got used to her, and I was sad when she started working from home so much.”

“Oh. Well.” I shifted from one foot to the other. “It was what anyone would have done. I’m just sorry it didn’t help.”

Mara watched her toddler and Julia stack a pile of books. “They’re saying she was murdered,” Mara said softly. “That’s so hard to think about.”

I nodded, but didn’t say anything because it seemed as if something was hanging in the back of her mind, waiting to come out, and I didn’t want to break her focus.

“You know,” she said, “I wonder if the police know about that day at the bank.”

More specifics were needed. A lot more. “What day was that?”

She glanced at her smaller child, who was happily stuffing both of his hands into his mouth, and inched closer to me. “It was Bax Tousely.”

For a moment there was no sound, no movement, no nothing. Then my heart restarted its beats. “What happened?”

Mara took her son’s hands out of his mouth and inserted a pacifier she’d deftly pulled from her pocket. “He came in a while back when everybody else was at lunch and asked about a commercial loan. I told him to talk to Rowan, and a couple of weeks later, on one of the days she was in the office, he marched in and slammed her office door shut so hard all the windows in the building rattled.”

“She turned down his loan?”

Mara nodded. “Even with the door shut, you could hear him yelling. Not what either one of them said exactly, but enough to get the idea. Her office is mostly glass, so I could see it all. It was scary, to tell you the truth, and I was thinking about calling the police when Bax threw the loan application across the desk at Rowan—papers went everywhere—and he stormed out of her office.”

“Did he threaten her?” I asked.

She looked troubled. “Bax is such a nice guy, I’ve never seen him be anything but considerate and thoughtful. But he was really upset, and that’s when people say things they don’t mean, right?”

Sometimes. Other times people said exactly what they meant but under normal circumstances kept buttoned up inside, safe from view. “What did he say?”

Mara looked troubled. “He said . . . he said, ‘I won’t take this lying down. You’ll pay for this if it’s the last thing I do.’”

• • •

“Earth to Minnie. Hello, Minnie.”

“What? Oh. Hey, Josh. How are you doing?” It was Tuesday morning, I’d just dropped Kristen off at the airport, and I was standing in front of the coffeepot watching the dark liquid dribble down.

“It would be better if I had some of that stuff.” He leaned around me and, in one deft movement, pulled the pot aside and shoved his mug underneath the flow. Four seconds later, he reversed the move, saying, “You’re a coffee freak. Don’t you do it this way when you’re in a hurry?”

“Tried it the other day. It didn’t go well.” Which was an understatement. Coffee had gone everywhere—all over the burner, the counter, and the floor. Even coffee grounds had somehow gotten into the mix. “I’m a bit gun-shy to try it again so soon.”

“What were you daydreaming about just now?” he asked. “You looked a million miles away.”

“Oh, this and that,” I said vaguely. “You know how I get.” What I’d been thinking about was Bax Tousely’s bank tirade. After Mara had finished telling the story, I’d gently asked her why, once she’d learned that Rowan had been murdered, she hadn’t told the police. “I didn’t want to get anyone into trouble,” she’d said. “I mean, he was just venting, right? After his loan had been turned down. People do that all the time and nothing happens.”

I’d wanted to point out that something had, in fact, happened this time, but I’d smiled instead. Later that day, when I’d called Ash, he’d been very interested indeed and said he’d look into it. Whether or not he’d let me know what he found out was the big question.

Holly came into the break room and asked, “Have you done it yet?”

“Done what?”

“Not you. Him.” Holly pointed at Josh, who was leaning against the counter, sipping his coffee. “Time is ticking away. If he doesn’t act soon, all will be lost.”

I was the one who was lost. I’d once had my finger on the pulse of library gossip, but now that I was out on the bookmobile a third of the time, it was hard to keep up. “What are you talking about?”

“Valentine’s Day,” she said, huffing. “He needs to start making plans if he wants to impress his new girlfriend.”

“She’s not my—”

Holly didn’t let him keep talking. “Maybe not officially, but tell me this. Don’t you want her to be your girlfriend? Don’t you think she could be The One? Do you really think you will ever find anyone that suits you better than Mia Lacombe?”

“Well . . .” Josh looked at the floor, and dark red stained his ruddy cheeks.

On the inside, I was cheering wildly. Mia was Leese’s half sister and was adorable in every way. Sure, she had a few problems, but didn’t we all? A solid and nonvolatile relationship could easily be the best thing for her. And Josh could certainly use some social companionship that wasn’t on the other end of a computer. Of course, Mia herself was in IT and maybe all their romance would be in bits and bytes, but if it worked for them, did it matter?

Kelsey stopped in the doorway. “Well, rats,” she said, looking at the coffeepot. “Who made it? Minnie?” She sighed, but came forward anyway.

“Just the person we needed,” Holly said. “Minnie isn’t being any help. We need to help Josh plan his first Valentine’s Day with Mia.”

As Josh made a gagging noise, Kelsey nodded. “This is a critical event. It will set the tone for the rest of the relationship. Think carefully, Josh.”

“What I’m saying.” Holly pointed at Josh again. “Figure out where you want to set the bar. Low or high. Too low and you might lose her because she’ll think you don’t care enough. Too high and you could scare her into thinking you’re an over-the-top freak. Don’t be a Bax.”

I’d been edging out of the room but stopped dead. “Bax Tousely? What did he do?”

“You haven’t heard the story?” Holly squinted at me. “Hang on, I think it happened the February before you started here.”

“Everybody was talking about it,” Kelsey said. “Half the town thought it was the most romantic gesture ever. The other half thought he was a nutcase.”

Josh shot me a glance. “The halves were divided by gender. You can guess which went with the nutcase side.”

“What did he do?” I asked again. “Who was his girlfriend?”

“Anya Bennethum,” Holly said, and it was possible that my mouth dropped open. “She and Bax were a couple for years. It was the Valentine’s Day of their junior year and the entire town of Chilson woke up to a huge banner hung from the top of the steeple of the Catholic church, the tallest thing in town, a banner saying, HAPPY V D, ANYA. LOVE, BAX.”

“V D?” I asked, wincing. Even on Valentine’s Day, to me V D could only mean venereal disease.

“Yeah.” Kelsey grinned. “It was a vertical banner. There wasn’t room to spell out “Valentine’s,” so he used initials instead. They’d broken up by the end of the day.”

Poor Anya. How mortifying. And poor Bax, who’d shown a spectacular lack of . . . something.

“Moron,” Josh said, not unkindly. “I hear he won’t talk about it now.”

But I wasn’t talking, either, because I was suddenly thinking furiously. Leese said she’d seen Bax driving past the Bennethums’ house a number of times before Rowan died. And Jared, the hardware store guy, had told me Bax had been in the store the morning of Rowan’s murder, but had been acting oddly.

Was it possible that Bax had heard about an engagement of a Bennethum twin and assumed it was Anya? Had his love for her turned into obsession? Had he meant to kill Anya but killed Rowan instead?

Chapter 11

The next day was a bookmobile day. I got out of bed with a smile on my face and a song in my heart. “Good thing it was just in my heart,” I told Julia as we drove across the frozen tundra of Tonedagana County, “because otherwise you’d find out how horrible my singing is.”

“Can’t be any worse than mine,” she said. “There’s a reason I never did musicals. Like they say, you can make an actor out of a singer but you can’t make a singer out of an actor.”

I had no idea anyone had ever said that, but it made sense. Sort of.

Julia leaned forward to peer into the cat carrier. “Eddie, what do you think of your mom’s singing?”

“Mrr.”

She sat back. “He said he thinks it’s wonderful.”

“I’m pretty sure he said he wants treats and why haven’t we given him any this—” I came to a full stop.

“What’s that?” Julia asked, looking up at me sideways.

“Um.” I continued to stare out the windshield. First thing that morning, I’d called the sheriff’s office to ask about road conditions, and after listening to the deputies’ comments about drifting snow blocking some back roads, I was taking a different route to the first stop of the day, a route that was taking us past Rowan’s house. “There’s a car at the Bennethums’.”

“There is?” Julia sat up. “You’re right, there is. Isn’t Neil gone?”

“Far as I know. And he drives an SUV.”

The two of us studied the small sedan as we drove past. “That’s weird,” I said.

“Maybe a neighbor has guests and is using the drive for overflow parking,” Julia suggested.

I nodded slowly. Possible, but now that it was almost February, a need for extra guest parking seemed unlikely. Also unlikely were any of the other scenarios I was running in my head. “This afternoon,” I said, “we’ll loop around and come back this way. If you’re okay with getting home a few minutes late.”

She was, we did, and when we did, the car was still there.

After a moment’s hesitation, I turned the bookmobile into the driveway and parked behind the dark gray sedan. “You can stay here,” I told Julia, “but I’m going up to the house.”

“If you’re in, I’m in.” Julia looked down at the carrier. “We’ll be back in a few minutes, Mr. Ed, okay?”

“Mrr,” Eddie replied, and I was pretty sure I heard a little kitty snore by the time the door shut behind us.

As we approached the front porch, we saw that someone had shoveled it clear of snow. This was not normally a part of the service provided by plow guys, and a few seconds after I rang the bell, the front door was opened by Anya Bennethum.

“Wow, hello, Minnie, Ms. Beaton.” She looked over my shoulder. “And the bookmobile! Is something wrong?”

“No, no,” I said quickly. “We were driving past in the bookmobile and saw a car in the driveway. I just wanted to be sure everything was okay since I didn’t think anyone was here.”

She smiled. Not a huge one, but it was unmistakably a smile. “It’s nice that you cared enough to stop. Do you want to come in?”

I glanced at Julia and she nodded. Since the outside temperature was maybe fifteen degrees and the wind was kicking up, I was in full agreement. “Thanks. Just for a minute, though. I like to get back to Chilson before dark.” In theory, the days were getting longer, but on thick cloud cover days like this, it was hard to believe in the sun at all.

Inside, we stood in the front hallway. “I had a couple of days off from school,” Anya said, “so I decided to come home.” She sighed. “It’s just so weird, with Mom gone. They say I’ll get used to it, but I can’t even park inside the garage. It’s where her car is . . .”

I reached out and gave her a long, hard hug. Whoever was giving her advice was an idiot. You never got used to losing someone you loved. You learned to live with it, is all.

Julia snorted as only an award-winning actor can snort. “Get used to it? Utter nonsense. You will adjust, but it takes time. Lots of time. Be patient with yourself. And even years from now, you might have crying jags that come out of nowhere. Grief is triggered by the oddest things. Two years after my dad died, I bawled my eyes out over a hammer.”

I looked at her and mouthed, A hammer? She shrugged.

“Thanks.” Anya sniffed. “I’m kind of a mess, but I’m dealing. It’s Collier I’m worried about.”

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“He’s skipping a lot of classes. Not even showing up to take tests.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “He says he’s fine, but I know he’s not. His roommate and his fiancée say all he does is play video games and sleep. The only thing he talks about is how whoever killed Mom should be in jail.”

Anya took a deep breath and looked at me. “Are you any closer to figuring that out? I’m sure Collier would get better if that guy was in jail. It’s eating him alive that her killer is walking around free while Mom is . . . while Mom isn’t.”

“The police are working on narrowing down the suspects,” I said, hating how that sounded. “And I just passed on some information they’re looking into.”

“Really?” Her face brightened. “When do you think they’ll make an arrest?”

Her obvious excitement startled me. “I really don’t know. As soon as they can, I’m sure.”

“That’s great,” she said. “I’ll tell Collier right away. This has been so hard for him. He and Mom were really close, and it’s hard that he’s going to get married this summer. Mom won’t be at his wedding, see?”

I did. But it didn’t do to have unrealistic expectations, either. “You should hold off on telling Collier anything about the investigation,” I cautioned. “Say the police are working hard. Say I’m helping. But I don’t think they have enough of a case yet to arrest anyone.”

Anya deflated. “Oh. Okay,” she said, and the tremble of her lower lip nearly broke my heart. Right then and there I renewed my vow to do whatever I could to track down her mom’s killer.

I gave her a quick hug and said we needed to get going. Then, remembering what I’d learned yesterday, I asked, “I saw Bax Tousely the other day. Didn’t the two of you used to date?”

Anya’s face turned the faintest shade of pink. “I don’t . . . we don’t . . .” She took a breath. “I haven’t seen him since high school graduation.”

Hmm, I thought.

Julia must have had the same thought, because once we were back on the bookmobile, she said, “Looks like Anya still has a thing for Bax, in spite of that unfortunate Valentine’s Day episode.”

“Looks like it,” I said, and hoped for Anya’s sake that he wasn’t also a killer. Because if making an arrest for Rowan’s murder would help Collier, if the killer was Bax, it might crush Anya.

• • •

Julia and I lugged the crates of returned books into the room dedicated to the bookmobile’s separate book collection. The work was by far the worst part of running outreach, but it didn’t take all that long, especially with Julia’s ability to distract me with stories of her theater days.

“You do realize,” I said, double-checking the computer to make sure the small stack of books checked out of main circulation and returned to the bookmobile matched the list on the screen, “that if you ever run out of theater stories, I’ll have to fire you.”

She smiled. “I ran out a long time ago. I’ve been making them up for the last six months.” And with that, she waved and left, leaving me to wonder whether or not she’d been joking.

As I finished up the last of the day’s tasks, I finally decided. “She was joking,” I said out loud to Eddie, but he was in his carrier and fast asleep.

I squatted down and peered in. He looked as if he could sleep for hours. “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” I whispered. Eddie didn’t move, so I felt hardly any guilt at all for what I was about to do. Hurrying a bit, I headed to my office. All I wanted to do was make a single phone call, and the cell phone reception in the bookmobile collection room was horrible. I had only a few minutes to make the call so what I really needed to do was sneak into my office without anyone noticing I was in the building and—

“Minnie, you are just the person I wanted to see.”

And I was toast. Dry burned toast.

I pasted a smile on my face and turned to my accoster. “Hey, Denise. What’s up?”

Denise Slade was president of the Friends of the Library. It was a wonderful organization and running the library would be far more difficult without their efforts, but Denise could be a trial. She’d been widowed not that long ago, and I kept reminding myself of that sad fact, over and over, to help me be more understanding.

“What are you going to do about that new boss of yours?” she asked, standing with her hands on her wide hips. Energetic and confident, Denise had a take-charge kind of personality. Which was fine, of course, but since she also had the sense of humor of a rusty metal bucket, she had a tendency to irritate people.

“Help him in every way possible,” I said.

“Oh, pfft.” Denise flicked away my comment. “Don’t give me that politically correct crap. What I want to know is why he and that new guy, Trent What’s-His-Name, are running around asking such weird questions.”

“Weird in what way?”

“Oh, you know. Just weird.”

A deep urge to be scathingly sarcastic bubbled up, but I shoved it down. “Do you remember any of their questions?”

“It was a couple of days ago, so I don’t remember word for word, but one of the things Graydon was asking about was the importance of the Friends of the Library. I mean, what kind of question is that!” She flung her hands out. “We’re critical! Without us, you couldn’t do half what you do.”

Although I didn’t agree with her math, I smiled and nodded encouragingly. “What else?”

“That Trent character—and aren’t those names just the last straw? Graydon and Trent. They sound like the name of an attorney’s office—anyway, Trent asked if we’d ever done a survey of library patrons on what they think of the Friends, if we should be doing more, if we should be doing less.”

It was an interesting question. “Have you?”

“Of course not.” Denise sounded disgusted. “We don’t have time to do that kind of crap. Besides, surveys are for organizations that aren’t in touch with the people they serve. We don’t need to do that.”

Again, I didn’t agree with her, but disagreeing with Denise was something you did only if you had a spare hour, because she’d do her best to sway you to her side, even if you were disagreeing with her on the merits of the variety of cheese that best accompanied a hamburger.

“I’ll talk to Graydon,” I said. True enough. “But they’re both new. I’d say they’re both just asking questions to learn about the library and how we integrate with the community.”

She didn’t look convinced, but I said I had to make a phone call before six and headed off, not sure I’d convinced myself, either.

After closing my office door behind me, I pulled out my cell phone and did a search for the specialty wood store I’d visited with Rafe. “Darden Hardwoods,” a male voice answered.

I blew out a sigh of relief. It was a few minutes shy of six and their posted hours said they were open until then, but it was also the dead of winter and I wouldn’t have been surprised if no human had answered. After introducing myself, I brought out the question I’d formulated on the drive back to Chilson. I needed to do more to help find Rowan’s killer, needed to help Collier and Anya and Neil, and this was one thing I could do.

“When Rafe and I were at your store the other day,” I said, “I could have sworn I saw Land Aprelle pull into your parking lot. A friend of mine knows him, but she hasn’t seen him in ages and was wondering if he was okay.” Though the story was plausible, it was weak, and I expected an abrupt answer and a dial tone.

“Land?” The guy laughed. “Sure, I’ve known Land for years. Quite a character, isn’t he?”

“I didn’t know he was into woodworking.”

“Well, I wouldn’t call what he’s doing woodworking. Furniture, yeah, but his stuff is more like sculpture. You know the Eames chair? Fancy like that, only hardwood instead of plywood. And not steamed. He’s doing a lot of carving.”

“Sounds interesting.”

“Yeah, I’m not explaining it very well. And I’ve never seen any of his pieces. Land’s quiet about it. He wants to get accepted into the juried show up there in Chilson, but the first time he said that, his buddies laughed at him. Now he keeps his lip zipped and he’s just doing it.”

“Good to know he’s okay,” I said, and thanked him for his time.

So Land was a closet fine woodworker. Was that enough to explain why he’d acted so oddly at the store? Was Rowan one of the people who’d laughed at him? Could he have possibly killed her to punish her for that?

Though it seemed outside the realm of possibility, killing anyone at all was hard to believe, but it happened on a regular basis.

After dropping Eddie at home, I headed straight to Rafe’s house, where his wide smile and huge hug lifted my spirits and made me forget about the sad possibilities that were all around.

• • •

Only one other table in the Red House Café was occupied the next morning when Aunt Frances and I came in, stomping our boots free of snow. We’d started the day with a simultaneous realization that neither one of us had remembered to buy milk.

“Hmm.” My aunt had eyed the contents of the refrigerator. “There are eggs. All the bacon is frozen, though.”

“Is it possible to have eggs without bacon?”

Aunt Frances frowned mightily. “Possible, I suppose. But it sounds sad and dreary.”

It did indeed. “If I were a good niece,” I’d said, “I’d volunteer to run out for milk. But since you don’t have to be to school until ten today, and I don’t have to be at the library until nine, how about going out for breakfast?”

And so, twenty minutes later, we arrived at the restaurant owned by Sunny Scoles. The other occupant of the dining area was an elderly man, who was sipping coffee and reading a newspaper. He looked as if he’d been there for a while and as if he intended to stay for quite some time. It also didn’t look as if he’d ordered anything except coffee. I hoped, for Sunny’s sake, that the restaurant was busier on weekends.

Unless she’d killed Rowan. Then the number of people who came to her restaurant wouldn’t matter a bit.

“What’s the matter?” Aunt Frances asked. “You look a little sad.”

I shook off the feeling. “Hungry,” I said. “Where would you like to sit?”

As my aunt aimed us toward a table for two directly underneath a light fixture crafted out of an old hand lantern, Sunny hurried in from the back.

“Sorry I took so long,” she said. “Let me get you some menus. Here you go. Would you like some . . .” She peered at me. “Weren’t you in here a week or two ago? Oatmeal with all the fixings.”

“That’s me. My aunt and I are looking for real food today, though.”

Sunny laughed. “Eggs, bacon, hash browns, toast?”

“That sounds heavenly,” Aunt Frances said. “I can’t think of the last time I had a full breakfast in a real restaurant.”

“Coffee first, though, please,” I said. At this point my morning had been caffeine-free and it wasn’t a condition I wished to continue.

“You got it.”

Sunny headed back to the kitchen and my aunt looked around, admiring the room. “This is fun,” she said. “How was the oatmeal you had?”

“Good. But, you know.”

“Still oatmeal.”

Aunt Frances made some comments about the location and how she hoped the food was good enough to make it a destination for folks. I nodded, but a large part of my brain was engaged in wondering why I didn’t want Sunny Scoles to be the one who’d killed Rowan.

Was it because I enjoyed the way she’d decorated her restaurant? Because my instinctive response to her was one of friendship? Because I didn’t want anyone who rejoiced in the name of Sunny to be a killer?

None of those were good reasons, but I had no others.

“And here you go, ladies!” Sunny poured coffee into our upturned mugs. “Do you need more time or are you ready to order?”

“Full breakfast for me,” Aunt Frances said. “Bacon, scrambled, sourdough, and hash browns a little crispy on the edges.”

“The only way to cook them.” Sunny turned to me. “What can I get you?”

But I was staring at the table’s small wire rack. “The last time I was here, you had another kind of sugar. It was maple flavored, wasn’t it?”

“It was,” Sunny said. “And really, really good.” She started to smile, but the happy expression hadn’t fully crossed her face before it faded. “It was expensive, though, so I only ordered a small batch. I put it out once a week on different days to track sugar use. Geeky, right?”

Yes, and it also sounded like something Kristen would do. I had high hopes for Sunny and her restaurant, and I didn’t in the least want her to be the killer. On the plus side, I had information on the sugar packets that Hal and Ash might find interesting. The availability of the sugar wasn’t as wide open as I’d thought, which had to narrow down something.

But there was still a big question: Why had Sunny inflated the numbers on her loan application? And with it came the even bigger question: Had Rowan’s denial of the loan incited Sunny to murder?

• • •

Aunt Frances and I went our separate ways after eating, both of our stomachs contentedly stuffed full of breakfasty yumminess. On our way out, my aunt took a stack of the business cards at the cash register and waggled them at Sunny.

“Old-school advertising,” she said, “in an old school. I love it. And I love your restaurant, so I will be spreading the news far and wide. Expect great things, young lady, because I’m sure they’re about to happen.”

Sunny’s smile looked a bit forced. “Thanks,” she said. “I appreciate that. Very, very much.”

Outside, my aunt looked back at the old red schoolhouse. “I meant what I said. Sunny has a great place there and I will spread the news and—oooff! What was that for?”

I released her from the hug I’d enveloped her in. “Because you’re a nice lady and I love you.”

She patted me on the head, which made me feel a little like Eddie. “Keep it up, favorite niece, and I might remember you in my will.”

“I’m your only niece, and you’ll probably outlive me.” At least I hoped she would. I didn’t want to think about a world that didn’t include Aunt Frances.

“We can only hope!” She waved, climbed into her ancient Jeep Cherokee, and headed off to the college.

I got into my sedate sedan and drove back to Chilson, strong-mindedly parking at the boardinghouse instead of the library. Walking was good for me, if I didn’t get frostbite. I popped inside to grab my backpack, which I’d already loaded with a lunch of potato chips and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and hunted around for Eddie.

“There you are.” I found him on the floor in my bedroom, between the bed and the outside wall. He was rolled mostly, but not all the way, onto his back and looked up at me with eyes barely open.

“Mrr,” he said, then yawned, showing me the unattractive roof of his mouth.

“Nice.” I reached down to rub his tummy. “See you later, pal, okay?”

“Mrr,” he said sleepily, and before I was out of the room, his purrs had turned into a snore.

I tried to shake away the nappy contagion of his yawns as I slid into my boots, then stepped outside. “Well, that did the trick,” I gasped as the cold hit me once again. Five minutes inside had let me forget how freaking cold it was. I cast one look at my still-warm car. So tempting. I girded myself to be brave and strong and marched myself in the direction of down-town.

Wind and winter and white swirled about me. I thought about Arctic expeditions and the White Witch and Jon Snow and was startled, just before I reached the main shopping blocks, when a voice called out. “Minnie! Do you have a minute?”

I blinked out of my book-induced reverie and found myself directly in front of the sheriff’s office staring at Detective Hal Inwood, who was standing half in and half out of the door. “Good morning!” I said. “You’re the exact person I wanted to talk to.”

“Not out here,” he said, looking down at his coat-less arms and boot-free feet. “Please not out here.”

Laughing, I followed him inside and into the interview room. “This morning,” I said, unzipping my coat, “Aunt Frances and I had breakfast at the Red House Café, the place Sunny Scoles owns—it’s outstanding, by the way, you should try it—and she had those maple sugar packets. But she only has them out on certain days, to help track sugar usage, so maybe that’s a . . .” I stopped talking, because though Hal seemed to be listening to me, he hadn’t pulled out his memo pad and he wasn’t taking any notes.

“You don’t think this is important?” I asked, trying to keep my expression neutral. “Maybe it won’t turn out to be, but shouldn’t you at least check it out?” I glanced into the hallway. Where was Ash? He was usually more sympathetic to my point of view than his staid and rule-bound superior.

“This is why I pulled you in out of the cold,” Hal said. “The test results on the sugar packet you found in Rowan Bennethum’s house have come back.”

“And what?” I asked. “Don’t keep me hanging. The suspense is . . . is making my blood pressure go up.”

“He doesn’t want to tell you,” Ash said, sitting in the chair next to his supervisor. “Morning, Minnie.”

“Tell me what?” I looked from one to the other. In the past, I’d been able to gauge what Ash was thinking, or at least what he was feeling, but not today.

Hal sighed. “There was nothing in that packet other than what should have been there. Not a single trace.”

I stared at him. Listened to my heart thud a few times. Heard my breaths go in and out. “They’re sure?” I whispered.

Ash nodded. “Double runs are standard,” he said. “They’re very sure.”

“Like sure sure?”

He flashed a short grin. “Lots of sure. There’s no room for doubt.”

I slumped down in the chair. How could that be? I’d been so sure. It was the only thing that made sense. What other reason was there for the packet to be in the kitchen at all? Hang on . . .

“Okay,” I said, sitting up straight. “Maybe it didn’t have poison, but someone brought that sugar packet into the house.” My words tumbled over each other as I tried to explain. “It couldn’t have been Rowan, because she didn’t touch the stuff. And it couldn’t have been a family member, because Rowan was the only one in the house, and she would have picked up an empty sugar packet left by the kids or Neil. Where else could it have come from if not the killer?”

Ash glanced at Hal, then said, “It could have come from lots of people. The mail carrier, if he’d dropped off a package and she’d invited him in. Or a neighbor.”

I opened my mouth, about to point out that those things could be checked, when Hal put in his two cents.

“It could have been dropped by a friend. Or caught on the bottom of a boot and brought into the house by Ms. Bennethum herself.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I said flatly. “All those scenarios are. You didn’t know Rowan. She wouldn’t have missed seeing something like that sugar packet. She just wouldn’t have.”

But no matter how much I argued, they wouldn’t budge from their opinion, and five minutes later I was out on the street, face to the wind and fuming.

How could they not understand the importance of that stupid packet, poison or no?

And more important, how was I going to make them see?

Chapter 12

The only noise at our table was the light tink of two knives and two forks against plates. Rafe and I were at City Park Grill in Petoskey, enjoying a quiet dinner. A very quiet dinner. We’d been mostly silent on the drive, silent while ordering and waiting for our food, and now we were being quiet while eating. This needed to stop, so I said the first thing that popped into my head.

“Remember Giuseppe’s?” I asked, naming an Italian restaurant in Charlevoix that had been closed for years. “I still miss their pasta.”

“What?” Rafe looked up. “Oh. Yeah. Me, too. But I hear the new place there is good.”

I nodded, but since there didn’t seem to be anything else to add, I turned my attention back to my food. Sort of. Part of me was wondering why Rafe was being so quiet—I hadn’t honestly known he could be—but most of my focus was on something else altogether, as it had been since that morning.

How could Hal and Ash not understand? How could it be that something so obviously important was scoffed at as unworthy by those two? Was it because they were men and not accustomed to proper cleaning procedures?

I didn’t want to think so. After all, Ash had lived on his own for years and his apartment had always seemed, if not cozy and welcoming, at least tidy. And Hal was a detective with thirty-odd years of experience. Surely he’d come across cases that were solved on evidence weirder than a sugar packet.

And it’s important! I thought, sawing at my meat fiercely. What would I have to do to make them understand?

“Keep that up and you’ll need a spoon to eat,” Rafe said.

“What?” I looked down at my plate and recognized that the pork was already in pieces small enough to feed a toddler. “Oh. Sorry. I was thinking about something else.” Then, since I didn’t want him to ask what the something was, I said, “You’ve been quiet tonight. Did you do something stupid that you’re now regretting?”

Since Rafe and I had known each other for years, our new and wonderfully more intimate relationship was starting with the behavioral patterns we’d established when we’d first met as kids, which was to say whatever we felt like without thinking too much about consequences.

“One of the kids has been diagnosed with cancer,” he said.

All my breath rushed out in an instant, as if I’d been punched in the solar plexus. “I’m so sorry,” I said, wishing there was something better to say. But what else was there? Guilt surged through me. One of the middle school students had cancer, and I’d been making fun of Rafe for being quiet. “And I’m sorry I called you stupid.”

He frowned. “You did?”

“I suggested the possibility.”

“Oh. Well. That’s okay. I am pretty stupid sometimes.” He took a bite of steak, then pushed away his plate, on which remained half his sweet potato and most of the squash and carrot mix. “The prognosis for this little guy is good, but . . .” He left the sentence dangling, so I finished it for him.

“It still sucks.”

“You know it.” He formed his right hand into a pistol and shot the air near my head. “And now’s the time to explain why you’ve been so abnormally quiet. Are there more wedding problems for your aunt?”

“Not that I’ve heard. We still haven’t fixed the last round.” Aunt Frances and Otto had been e-mailing daily with people in Bermuda, but at this point there was no solution. If there wasn’t an alternative found within the next week or so, they’d have to abandon the island idea altogether.

“So what’s up?” He reached out for my hands. “Put that knife and fork down a second and talk to me. You haven’t eaten a bite in five minutes anyway. All you’ve done is cut that poor slice of meat to tiny ribbons.”

His hands, warm and strong, were dinged with scratches from working on the house. I traced a short reddish line, remembering how he’d picked that one up from trying to hold too many screws in one hand.

“Talk,” he said. “Tell me whatever it is that’s bothering you. I want to know.”

I looked up. “Truly?”

“Absolutely.” He lifted up one of my hands and kissed it. “If it’s something ridiculous, I reserve the right to make fun, but I promise not to laugh out loud.”

It was as much as anyone could expect. I remember my aunt’s words of wisdom, that I should be honest with Rafe about working with the sheriff’s department, that I needed to be open with the things that were important to me, that if I hid things now, what would I hide later? And if I wanted him to be honest with me, I should do the same in return.

So I told him. About how I’d been in regular contact with Hal and Ash. How we were exchanging information on suspects. About the stupid sugar packet. About why I wanted so much to help Anya and Collier. When I got all the way to the end, he just looked at me.

“What?” I asked.

He suddenly grinned, and his expression lightened the dim room. Lightened my life. “I knew most of that already.”

“What?” I asked again, far more stupidly this time. “How?”

“How not?” He tapped the back of my hands with his thumbs. “Remember where we live? People talk.”

“Um.” There were numerous benefits to small-town life, but this wasn’t one of them. “Are you mad?”

He shook his head. “It was obvious after the First Argument that you weren’t going to stop. And I understand why you’re doing it. So mostly I was just wondering when you were going to tell me.”

“You’re not mad about that, either?” I asked, my voice soft. “Because you have a right to be. I should have told you earlier.”

“No, I’m not,” he said a bit wonderingly. “I’m really not. Weird, isn’t it?”

“Nope. It’s great,” I said quickly. “Thanks. You’re the best ever.”

“Naturally. But there’s one thing.”

I knew there’d be a catch. “What’s that?” I asked warily.

“Let me help.”

• • •

The next day was a library day, and I spent most of the morning doing my best to come to grips with the fact that Rafe wanted to help find Rowan’s killer.

“It’s happened before,” he’d said during dessert. “Couples chasing down bad guys.”

“Nick and Nora,” I said, nodding.

“Who?” He frowned. “Do I know them?”

Clearly not. Though Rafe did, in fact, read books, he preferred nonfiction, and I should have known the reference to the Dashiell Hammett books would be lost on him. “Who are you talking about?” I asked.

“Almost every movie ever produced has a couple figuring something out, whether it’s how to save the world, like in War Games. Or tracking down precious objects, like in Raiders of the Lost Ark. Or finally recognizing how much they love each other, like in When Harry Met Sally . . .”

He had a point, and since he’d ended with a movie that bore some similarities to our relationship, I’d given him a kiss. “It’s nice that you’re so familiar with old movies, and I appreciate your offer. If I can think of anything you can do to help, I’ll let you know.”

Now I was doing my regular late-morning walk-through of the library. This not only got me out and about and let me chat with library patrons, but also kept my body from freezing into a desk-bound position. I could almost see my mother nodding in approval, so I nodded back to her across the miles.

“Good morning, Minnie.”

I blinked out of my parental-induced daydream and focused on the young woman in front of me. “Morning, Anya. I didn’t know you were still in town. Doing some research at the famed Chilson District Library that you can’t possibly get done at your silly old university library?”

She smiled. “Sort of.”

“Anything I can help you with?”

“That’s why I’m here.” She looked around, saw no one, and moved closer. “Collier told me not to bother you, he said it doesn’t mean anything, but I think I have to.”

“Okay,” I said. “Is this about your mom?”

She nodded. “And Land Aprelle, do you know him? After Dad started working downstate, Mom hired Land to do some of the bigger chores around the house.”

I had a feeling I knew where this was going, but I let her keep talking.

Anya took hold of a small lock of her auburn hair and started twisting the daylights out of it. “A few days before Mom died, she and Land had this really big argument, and—”

I nodded. “I’m glad you are telling me, but your dad already talked to me about it. You don’t need to relive it again if you don’t want to.”

“Oh.” Anya sighed. “Good. I don’t, really. Just so long as you know everything.”

There wasn’t much to know, as far as I could tell. I was about to ask what else there might be, but the creaking of the back door distracted me, and when Graydon walked through it, my attention was good and diverted. He’d been downstate attending an undoubtedly fun-filled training session on the library’s software, and I’d thought he was due back the next day, not today. Odd.

I swung back to face Anya. “I’ll call you later, okay?” She hesitated, then nodded, and I hurried after Graydon. His legs, however, were far longer than mine and I had to jog to catch up to him.

“Good morning,” I said, just before he opened the stairway door that led up to his lair. “I didn’t think you’d be back until tomorrow.”

“Morning, Minnie.” Graydon set down his briefcase and pulled off his gloves. “I’d scheduled an extra day to meet with the state library folks, but there was a mix-up with the dates. I’ll have to meet up with them next time I’m in Lansing.”

State library? Next time? None of that made any sense to me. I mean, it might be useful that Graydon had contacts down there, but I couldn’t come up with a reasonable scenario. But determined not to get sidetracked, I ignored that shiny distraction. “Do you have a minute? We can talk in my office.”

He looked at his heavy boots, which were dripping snow and ice onto the tile. “Right now?”

Yes, because if he went upstairs to take off his winter wear, he’d ask me to go with him. Which meant I’d be forced to have this conversation on his turf and I wanted every advantage I could get, teeny tiny though it was.

“This will only take a minute,” I said.

“Okay, but if Gareth comes after me, I’m going to confess that you forced me.”

I laughed and ushered him into my small office. That he was sparing a second of concern for our maintenance guy made me think, once again, that Graydon was a good and decent guy and had the potential to be a fantastic boss. And yet . . .

Graydon sat in the spare chair and I sat at my desk. A little role reversal never hurt anything, right? Then, before there was any awkward delay, I jumped right into the big question.

“Why are you and Trent asking so many questions about the library staff?”

“Um.” Graydon looked at the floor. At the walls. At my desk. Finally, he looked back at me. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

My invisible antennae, the ones that everyone has, the ones that detect lies and evasions and off-kilter situations, twanged something fierce. If everything was kosher, if they’d just been asking questions because they were new to town and the library, then he would have said so.

“At lunch the other day,” I said. “You asked me about personnel.” I ticked off the comments I’d heard from others, finishing with Denise. “I’m your assistant director,” I said, trying to keep my shoulders back and chin up instead of my natural inclination, which was to curl up in a ball and howl that the library was changing and I didn’t like it. “If you and Trent are thinking about changes in staffing, I hope that you’ll include me in the conversation.”

“Um,” Graydon said again. Silence descended upon us, a silence so complete that the sound of my breathing was almost embarrassing.

After about a million years, he said, “You’re absolutely right.” He glanced at his watch. “Wow, look at the time. I have to get going. After being downstate I have a lot of e-mail and . . . things . . . to wade through.”

Graydon practically bolted out of the room. I stared after him, and realized that I’d learned two things. One: Something weird was indeed going on. Two: My boss was a horrible liar.

• • •

When noon rolled around, the sun decided to make an appearance. It felt like months since we’d seen blue sky, and despite the sandwich I’d packed, I decided what my psyche really needed was a walk, and since in winter the best-cleaned sidewalks were downtown, clearly it was best to walk those sidewalks, and if I was going to be downtown at lunchtime, it was only reasonable to eat down there, too.

Having thus convinced myself that I was doing the right thing, I kicked my shoes off into their winter home underneath my desk, pulled on my boots and other outerwear, and headed out to the big white and blue world.

Just as I leaned on the front door’s release bar, the door from the lobby to the vestibule clicked open behind me. “Minnie. Headed out for lunch?”

I turned, seeing first only a dark winter coat, then seeing who it was. “Hey, Stewart. That’s right. You?”

Stewart Funston, designer of electronic manufacturing thingies who sometimes telecommuted from the library, possessor of a Maple Staples sugar packet, cousin to Rowan, wearer of a fedora, and on the list of murder suspects, nodded as we walked together.

“Hard to stay inside on a day like this, isn’t it?” He looked up at the sky and pulled in a long, deep breath. “Ahh. I just love winter.”

Smiling, I said, “Days in winter that are sunny and calm, right?”

He chuckled. “Well, these days are a definite bonus. But I’m one of those freaks who actually likes winter. It helps that I don’t have to drive much.” He glanced at me. “How’s the bookmobile in the snow?”

“Not so bad.” I actually thought it was outstanding. Though its weight and long wheelbase made the acceleration sluggish and braking distance long, it handled predictably, which was more than I could say about any other vehicle I’d ever driven in winter.

But I also didn’t want to tempt fate. I had the sneaking suspicion that as soon as I bragged about the bookmobile’s fantastic winter driving capabilities, I’d slide into a great big ditch, a great big tow truck would have to be summoned to haul us out, everyone in town would hear about it, and I’d hear bad jokes for months, if not years. This was a situation to be avoided if at all possible, so I said again, “Not so bad,” and shrugged. “So what’s new with you? Designed anything interesting lately?”

“Yes, and it’s so boring even my coworkers’ eyes glaze over when I talk about it. I’ll spare you the description. Think of it as a gift from me to you.”

“I appreciate that.” Smiling, I really hoped that Stewart had not killed Rowan. Surely someone with that kind of self-awareness couldn’t possibly have ended a life.

“The big news,” he said, “is that my divorce is final.”

Divorce? I hadn’t even realized he and his wife had separated. “Um, should I offer my congratulations or my sympathies?”

“Both.” His voice was light, but something about his diction gave me an uneasy feeling. “Congratulations for the final result,” he said, “and sympathy for having lived with someone almost twenty-five years who was continually lying to me.”

The harshness in his voice now made sense. “I’m sorry. That must be hard.” And I was sorry, even though at bottom I didn’t know Stewart all that well. I’d never met his wife and didn’t even know if they’d had children. Still, I was sorry for any human pain, whether physical or emotional.

He nodded. “Thanks, I appreciate that. Our friends are all taking sides, and it’s turning out I don’t have as many friends as I thought I did.”

“Your real friends will stick with you.”

“That’s what I hear,” he said grimly. “But what else could I do, other than divorce? She’d been stashing all this money away in a secret bank account and never said a word. Who knows what else she was hiding? It could be anything!”

He waved his arms about, and I ducked a little to avoid being thumped.

“Oh, sorry.” He gave a little laugh. “I get carried away. I’ll get over this in time, I’m sure, but I just couldn’t live with someone who lies to me. I just couldn’t.”

I made noises of sympathy and understanding. And I was also very glad I’d come clean to Rafe the night before about my involvement in Rowan’s murder investigation, because hearing Stewart’s anger made me realize, way deep down inside, how Rafe could have interpreted my not telling him as a lie. Which was what Aunt Frances had said.

“She’s smart,” I murmured to myself, and was once again glad I was related to her. And that I should take her advice far more often than I did. Except for any cooking advice. That just wasn’t going to happen.

“What’s that?” Stewart asked.

“Nothing,” I said. “I hope things get better for you soon, that’s all.” I pushed away the fleeting thought that I might be walking down the street with a killer and concentrated on the clear blue sky.

• • •

“Tell me one more time?” I asked.

“Mrr!”

“Okay, you’re absolutely right. You’re more than right. And I agree one hundred percent.”

“Mrr,” Eddie said more quietly.

The two of us had been enjoying a cozy evening in front of the fireplace with popcorn and Netflix when, during an episode of Gilmore Girls, my furry friend had, for no apparent reason, stood on my lap and started yelling at me.

My agreement seemed to appease him, although I had no idea what he was trying to tell me. But he didn’t need to know that. Or . . . did he? Did I need to be completely honest with my cat? There was no way that he understood ninety-nine point nine nine percent of what I was saying, but if I didn’t tell Eddie everything, was I establishing a habit that would transfer to Rafe?

I paused the television and looked deep into my cat’s yellow eyes. “Confession time. I have no idea what you were talking about, but whatever it was, I’m sure you’re right.”

Eddie put his front paws on my chest. “Mrr!!” he yowled, his cat food breath hitting my face. “MRR!!” He gave me a disgusted look, stalked to the other end of the couch, and flopped down.

“Sorry I’m so stupid.” One of his ears twitched back, so I knew he was listening. “And going on the assumption that I should be telling all the important beings in my life the important things that are going on in my life, I need to tell you that Rafe now knows I’m looking into Rowan’s murder.”

Both his ears swiveled.

“I hope that’s good news for you. But now things are going to get more complicated because Rafe says he wants in. That he wants to help.”

Eddie started purring.

“Really? You’re purring?” I sighed. “Is this a guy thing? Because I have to say I’m not looking forward to being tag teamed once we move into the house.”

The purrs continued.

Cats.

“The next question is, how do I involve Rafe? It’s not like I have a task list I could split in two. It’s more of a winging-it thing for me.”

Eddie continued to purr, which was comforting but no real help. I picked up the remote, then laid it down. “Out of all the suspects—”

“Mrr?”

“Right.” I nodded. “Let’s review. We have Sunny Scoles, restaurant owner, but not an owner of a food truck due to Rowan’s loan denial, which could be because of an inflated dollar request.”

I waited, but Eddie didn’t say anything. “Moving on. We have Land Aprelle, handyman and woodworker, who had a huge fight with Rowan soon before she died.” I suddenly remembered that Anya had more to say about that. And I would have texted her about it, but my phone was out of reach. Later. I’d text her later.

“Then there’s Stewart Funston, cousin with the sugar packets, and Hugh Novak, who wanted sugar packets and who is moving heaven and earth to get the township to build a new hall, something that Rowan was committed to preventing.”

“Mrr.”

“No idea what you’re saying. And at the bottom of the list there’s the lovelorn and wannabe film guy, Bax Tousely. Which brings up the question, how do I find out more about him? And not the surface stuff. I need the deep-secret-sometimes-scary stuff.”

“Mrr!”

Ding!

Eddie yelped at the exact moment my phone dinged with an incoming text. “Nice timing.” I inched forward, almost falling off the couch in the process, and with one finger pulled my phone close enough to pick it up.

Rafe: Whatcha doing

Me: Sending you a text in a complete sentence.

Rafe: Time waste

Me: And what have you done with all that time you’ve saved?

Rafe: Renovated house

Me: Point to you.

Rafe: Thx

Me (after a short pause): Who do I know that would talk to me about Bax Tousely and keep quiet about it?

Rafe: Rgessie

Me (after staring at the screen for a moment): Who?

Rafe: Fat fingers meant Thessie

Me: Thessie Dyer?

Rafe: Friend w Bs little sister

Me: Thanks! You just helped with Rowan’s murder investigation.

Rafe: Cool gotta go glue setting

“And if that’s how easily it’s done,” I said to Eddie as I scrolled through my phone’s contacts list, “maybe this working together thing should have started a long time ago.”

“Mrr,” Eddie said, and rotated around so that his back faced me.

Thessie was my former bookmobile assistant, Thessie Dyer, now off at college. My thumbs hovered over the phone. If I texted her, she’d probably reply quickly, but texting would be an awkward way to do this. I hesitated, then pushed her phone number.

After three rings, Thessie actually picked up the phone. “Minnie! What’s up?”

“Checking that you’re still sure about majoring in library and information science.” Though I loved my job, it wasn’t for everyone, and I wanted to make sure my young friend knew the bad side as well as the good before making a major life decision.

“Absolutely,” Thessie said. I could almost see her, nodding so hard that her long straight black hair bounced up and down. “Can’t think of anything I’d rather do. But . . .” She hesitated. “Would you mind if I didn’t come home to work in Chilson? I mean, it’s home and all, but have you ever been to the library in Grand Rapids? The main one, downtown? It’s amazing. And a friend and I are going to the East Coast for spring break—we want to see the Library of Congress. Wouldn’t it be the coolest thing in the world to work there?”

I laughed. “It would be wonderful.” If you liked big cities, which I didn’t. “Go where life takes you and don’t look back. Except every once in a while in the summer, because it’s nice here.”

“You got it,” Thessie said. “Now tell me why you really called.”

“Can’t put anything past you, can I?”

“That’s what happens when you’re trained by the best.”

My smile slipped. “Rafe tells me you’re good friends with Bax Tousely’s younger sister.”

“Caitlin? In middle and high school, we were pretty close. Not so much now that we’re at different colleges.”

“Okay, but how well do you know Bax?”

“As much as you’d know the older brother of your high school friend. Why?”

I scrambled for a response. “A friend’s daughter might be interested in dating him, and she’s had some bad experiences. Did you ever see him lose his temper?”

“Bax?” She sounded astonished. “I don’t think he has a temper. He never lost it, not even when Caitlin and I were messing around on his computer and accidentally ruined a video he was doing for the school’s theater group. I mean, he was mad for a second, but then he just said he’d be able to do it better and faster the second time.”

I thanked Thessie for the information, but just as I was about to hang up, she said, “You know, I kind of forget this, but he changed after that Valentine’s thing with Anya Bennethum. He was always quiet, but that’s when he got even more quiet. Didn’t come out of his room hardly at all, except to eat.”

Hmm. That didn’t sound good. Not at all. Thessie and I chatted a bit more, and when the call ended, I asked Eddie, “Well, what do you think?”

All I got was a blinking stare, but I mentally moved Bax Tousely up toward the top of the suspect list.

• • •

The crate of books I carried from my car into the Lakeview Medical Care Facility was heavy enough that I probably should have split it into two trips. But snow was blowing horizontally and night was coming fast, so I chose speed over being smart and staggered across the parking lot, hoping like crazy that I didn’t drop the thing and spill library books all over creation.

Step by step, I labored my way to the front entrance. The automatic double doors swooshed open as I approached, and I heaved a huge sigh of relief as I escaped the frigid, howling wind.

“Thought about coming to help you,” Max Compton said. “But it was more fun to watch.”

I thumped the crate down on a handy table. “Glad I could brighten your day.” My words came out in puffs, as I was still out of breath.

Max rolled his wheelchair a little closer. “My dearest librarian, you brighten my days with your very presence. It’s your visits that keep me alive. Without you, I would languish. I would fail to thrive. I would—”

He stopped talking as I held out a large-print book. It was the latest from John Sandford, Max’s absolute favorite author.

“Are you lending that to me or taunting me with it?” he asked, squinting up at me.

“Reach out and see.”

He grinned. “A touch of surprise to spice up the day. How delightful. But hark! Unless my ears are failing me, which wouldn’t be a surprise because the rest of my body has done that already, I hear the footsteps of our Heather.”

It was indeed Heather, one of Lakeview’s certified nursing assistants, and one of the CNAs who’d cared for my artist friend Cade when he’d stayed there after a stroke. Having the bookmobile stop by Lakeview had been the brainchild of the three of us, and it was a rousing success. I stopped by once a month to read out loud to a group, and also stopped every couple of weeks with a crate packed full of items I’d come to learn would be popular with residents.

“Hey there, Miss Minnie.” Heather flashed a smile. “Your timing is awesome. Mrs. Albright was just talking about that picture book she’d read to her kids. Any chance you found a copy?”

I dug through the crate, found what I wanted, and brandished a copy of Make Way for Ducklings. “Ta-dah!”

“You are the best,” Heather breathed, taking the slim volume. “No matter what Max says, you’re my favorite librarian ever.”

“For crying out loud,” Max protested. “You weren’t supposed to tell her!”

I sighed heavily. “All those other librarians who bring you books are taller, smarter, and funnier than I am, aren’t they? It’s something I should have accepted a long time ago.”

Heather lightly bopped Max on the head with the book. “Now see what you’ve done? Fix that before she leaves. See you later, Minnie. And thanks!” She hustled away, heading off to do one of the zillions of chores that CNAs are tasked with doing.

“We don’t have any other librarians,” Max said in a stage whisper. “So you kind of have to be our favorite.”

I grinned. “It’s nice to be the favorite, even if I’m the only one.”

“Excellent attitude.” Max winked. “Then again, if you’d really like a competition, we could put you into a bigger pool. Say, all the volunteers.”

Though I did have a small streak of competitiveness, trying to be the favorite unpaid help at Lakeview wasn’t part of it. But to keep Max happy, as I unloaded the rest of the books, I asked, “Who would be my competition?”

He stopped paging through the Sandford book and started counting on his knobby fingers. “There’s Lisa, Denise, Molly, and Emily. We have Toni, Theresa, and Tracey. And there’s Esther, Rosalind, and Maureen.”

“I don’t know, Max,” I said, tidying the stacks of books into neat piles, because I couldn’t just plop them there all caddywampus. “That’s a lot of people. How can I possibly win?”

Max kept naming names. “There’s Dan, Bonnie, and Bax. And on Fridays we have Rob, Callie—”

“Hang on.” I aligned the books with the edge of the table—perfect!—and turned around. “You said Bax. Is that Baxter Tousely?”

“Rob, Callie, Tom, Chris the girl, and Chris the boy.” He squinted at the ceiling. “Yes, I think that’s it and I have no idea what any of their last names might be. Eighty-six years old and that’s how you want me to use up what’s left of my short-term memory?”

As if. All terms of his memory were better than mine. “How old is Bax?”

“Younger than me.”

Not helpful. “What does he look like?”

Max’s attention started drifting back to the book, so I put my hand out and covered up the page. “What does he look like?” I could have asked someone at the front office, but this would be faster and easier and less likely to be spread around. If Max cooperated, that was.

He heaved a dramatic sigh. “A little wide. Not short, not tall. Dark curly hair almost always in need of a cut. Wears one of those silly little beards so many young men have these days.”

“Anything else?”

Max squinted at me, and I suddenly realized I needed to justify my questions. “A friend of mine might be thinking about hiring him to do a video thing, so I thought I’d see what he’d be like to work with.” As an impromptu explanation, it had to be one of my best ever.

“Huh.” Max’s squint didn’t go away, but it lessened in intensity. “He started showing up here a couple of years ago when his grandmother was recovering from hip surgery. Says he likes hanging out with us old folks. He’s a decent kid, but a little off. Vegetarian. Shovels his neighbor’s driveway. Finds homes for stray cats. No, I’m not making that up.” Max held up his hand. “Swear on a stack of Bibles. The kid’s the closest thing to a freaking saint I’ve ever met. I should hate him. Hasn’t happened yet, though. Maybe next week.” He sounded hopeful.

“Anything else?” I asked.

Max studied me. “I keep telling him he needs a girlfriend, but he says that never seems to work out. You know, he’ll probably be here in a few minutes. How about you ditch that Rafe and I set you up with Bax?”

“Only if you want me to set you up with Lillian,” I said.

“Nooo!” Max clutched his heart. “Cruel librarian, to threaten me with that woman. Go away and don’t come back until you have another Sandford book.”

Laughing, I popped into the front office, collected the returns box, and headed back out into the cold.

So Bax was the kind of guy who volunteered. Rescued cats. Helped his neighbors. He sounded like a kind and gentle soul, the kind of person who would never, ever kill someone.

I tossed the crate into my trunk and slid into the driver’s seat.

But as Detective Hal Inwood had told me many times, and as I’d come to learn firsthand, given the perfect storm of circumstances, pretty much everyone had the potential to be a killer.

I started the car and sat there for a moment, letting the engine warm up enough to defrost the window. After a few shivering minutes, the last of the window fog vanished and I saw, walking toward the facility’s entrance, a man with his head down and his hands in his pockets, and even from ten feet away, I could see the sadness etched into his face. Just as I was wishing I could make him smile, I realized I was looking at Bax Tousely.

Huh.

A lot of things could cause that level of emotion. The death of a loved one. A bad breakup. But the paper had been free of obituaries for almost a week and his breakup with Anya had been years ago. So what was causing his melancholy? Had he been fired from his job? Did he hate winter? Was he giving up on his dream of post-video production?

I tapped the steering wheel with my mittened fingers, feeling sympathy for a man I didn’t even know, but also wondering if what I’d first taken as sadness had instead been guilt over murder.

Chapter 13

I have a confession to make.”

Aunt Frances had spoken in a tone that was quiet, shy, and would have been called reluctant if it had come from anyone other than my confident and self-assured aunt.

“Okay,” I said, trying to match her tone. “Can I ask what this is about? Because if the police need to get involved, I have contacts with both the sheriff’s office and the city police.” She had the same contacts, of course, but I was trying to be funny. Instead of laughing, she sighed. Not a good sign.

“It’s a civil matter, not a criminal one,” she said. A few moments ticked past, then it all came out in a rush.

“I hate Otto’s kitchen. Can’t stand it. The design is ridiculous, those fancy cabinets with all their trim are expensive dust collectors, and I’ve always hated side-by-side refrigerators. I know some people love them, but not me, and I cringe when I think of having to use that thing the rest of my life.”

I started to say something, but she wasn’t done.

“And that kitchen island.” Her voice grew louder and more Aunt-Frances-like. “At best it’s a complete waste of space and a safety hazard at worst. That room isn’t big enough to have an island and I don’t know what the designer was thinking.”

Probably that the person paying the bills wanted an island, but I didn’t say so out loud.

“I can’t tell Otto now,” she said. “The first time I was over there, I told him I loved his house. He even asked about the kitchen specifically, and I said something like if I ever stop cooking for a full boardinghouse that I wouldn’t mind a kitchen like his.”

“Ah.” I now understood her problem, although it was really Otto she should be confessing to and not me. But even though I understood the problem, I didn’t truly think it was that big.

“Talk to him,” I said.

My aunt shook her head. “Can’t. Not at this late date. He’d be so hurt. I can’t do that to him.”

Really? Over a kitchen? “He’s a grown man,” I said. “I’m pretty sure he’ll be okay. And you know he wants you to be happy more than anything else. If a renovated kitchen is what it takes, he’ll be ripping cabinets out tomorrow morning.”

She shook her head again. “I can’t do that to him. I don’t know what to do, I really don’t.” And the rest of the evening, nothing I said budged her from that viewpoint.

“What do you think, Eddie?”

My furry pal and I were snuggled in bed. He was in the crook of my right elbow, hindering my ability to read to the point that I’d given up. The book was on the nightstand, the light was off, and I was starting the drift down to sleep.

“Is Aunt Frances having wedding jitters? Is that what the whole kitchen thing is about?”

Eddie yawned and rolled over.

“Or is she having second thoughts about marrying Otto?” The idea was a horrible one, and I was sorry I’d thought it, but now that it was in my head, I wasn’t sure it would go away. “What do you think?”

Eddie, however, didn’t reply.

• • •

Julia began the bookmobile day with a remarkable rendition of the theme song to Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood, which meant the day could only get better from there on out.

When she’d finished (with open arms and upraised face), I nodded at the cat carrier. “Eddie has his paws over his ears.”

“He does not,” she said, then leaned forward. “Okay, so he does, but that’s because he’s tired and it’s bright out.”

I peered up at the cloudy sky. “If this is bright, I don’t want to know what gloomy looks like.”

“Bright for a cat,” Julia said oh-so-patiently. “Their sense of light is different from ours. Especially Eddie’s. He’s not a normal cat, you know.”

Though this was undoubtedly true—I’d long ago decided he was his own unique species, the singular Felis Eddicus—I was also pretty sure that light sensitivity wasn’t on Eddie’s long list of unique traits.

“And what makes you perky enough to sing this morning?” I asked.

“Just woke up happy,” she said. “Don’t you love days when that happens?”

“These days I typically wake up with cat hair on my lips.”

“And isn’t it wonderful to have a furry companion who loves you so much that he sacrifices his very own fur in the name of keeping you warm on cold winter nights?”

Now that was an idea I hadn’t once considered. “Then what’s the explanation for morning cat hair after a summer night so miserably humid that the only thing keeping me alive is the knowledge that I get to work in air-conditioning?”

“Insulation is insulation,” Julia said. “I can’t believe you’re not more appreciative of his efforts.”

“No?” A stop sign loomed. I braked and glanced down at my pants. One, two, three . . . I got to eleven Eddie hairs before losing track. “I’d appreciate them a lot more if his former fur matched my clothing.”

Julia spent much of the rest of the morning trying to convince me that Eddie and I had such a deep bond that he was trying to cover me with his hair so we’d look the same.

She failed spectacularly, of course, but Eddie and I both enjoyed her attempts, especially during the stop when he sneezed and half a hundred Eddie hairs catapulted off his body in every direction, some of them landing on me, some on Julia, and a large percentage on bookmobile patron Leon Clohessy.

“Sorry about that,” I said. “We have a lint roller.”

“No worries.” Leon, who was sitting on the bookmobile’s carpeted step, gazed at his pant legs with a remarkable lack of concern. “He has interesting hairs. So many are variegated. I had no idea cat fur came like that.”

I had limited experience with other cats, since my dad had been extremely allergic, and so as far as I knew, Eddie was the only one, but that seemed unlikely.

Julia tidied some books that had been jostled by a big bookmobile thump into an unavoidable pothole. “Where have you been lately, Leon? We haven’t seen you in a few weeks.”

Leon was an intermittent regular, if you could say that without spontaneously combusting from the sheer absurdity of the phrase. When he was home, he visited the bookmobile every time we showed up, but he and his nonreading wife traveled frequently. A couple of years ago they’d retired Up North from downstate attorney jobs, and Leon quoted his wife as saying that she didn’t care if she read another word again the rest of her life.

I didn’t understand that attitude at all—surely she didn’t mean fiction, did she?—but it clearly existed, and if Leon couldn’t shift his wife to be a reader after forty years of marriage, odds weren’t good that the bookmobile’s presence could do it, either.

“Hawaii,” he said. “Just got back yesterday. And I’m not sure it was a good idea. Nice to not be cold and to get some sun, but now . . .” He glanced outside and shook his head. “Now it seems like winter is going to last forever.”

“How long were you gone?” Julia asked.

“A month, almost exactly.” Leon went on to describe the Airbnb they had rented on the ocean. He was waxing lyrical about the scents of the blooming flowers, and when he took a breath, I interrupted him.

“Did you hear about Rowan Bennethum? She doesn’t live that far from you, right?” If my math was correct, Leon and his wife had left town the day before Rowan had been killed, and this was the stop both Rowan and Leon usually visited, so their houses couldn’t be too far apart.

The lines in Leon’s face, which were already deep with age, went even deeper. “Yes,” he said heavily. “I did. Out here someone who lives a mile away is a neighbor, especially if they’re full-time folks. Is it true she was poisoned?” At our nods, he sighed. “Such a cowardly way to kill. And delayed death can make finding the killer much more difficult. I don’t suppose they’ve arrested anyone?”

“Not yet.” I hesitated, then asked, “Did you happen to see anything out of the ordinary that last day before your trip?”

“Such as?”

“Anything,” I said. “The sheriff’s office is investigating, but if you were out of town and your driveway wasn’t plowed, they might have assumed you were gone for winter.”

“Hmm.” Leon put down the copy of Jonathan Franzen’s Freedom he’d been reading. “Well, let me think. Martha was packing our bags and I was taking care of everything else, so we were busy. I certainly didn’t hear anything because we’d put on Hawaiian luau music to get us in the mood. And I don’t recall seeing anything . . .” He got a faraway look.

“What?” I asked, my voice almost sharp. “You remember something.”

“A car,” he said slowly. “We get so few cars down our road, and in winter we almost always recognize the vehicles, even in the dark. Speed, height, you’d be surprised how little it takes to pinpoint a familiar vehicle.”

“You saw something unfamiliar?”

He nodded. “An SUV. With only one headlight.”

• • •

The next morning, as I brushed fresh snow off the car, I waved at Eddie. He’d crowded himself onto a narrow living room windowsill and was giving me the evil eye through the glass.

“Sorry, pal,” I called. “It’s a library day, not a bookmobile day, and I have errands to run. See you tonight!”

I blew him a kiss—which he ignored—and got into the car, thinking about yesterday afternoon. After Leon had remembered the missing headlight, I’d immediately asked him to call Detective Hal Inwood and tell him about it. He’d protested, saying how could a missing headlight mean anything and telling Hal would only result in adding extra work for the already overworked sheriff’s office.

While I was glad people recognized how hard law enforcement officers worked, I was insistent that Leon make the call. “You probably won’t even have to talk to him directly. He hardly ever answers his phone and you’ll end up leaving a voice mail message. It’ll take thirty seconds. Let him decide what’s important and what’s not.” Leon kept demurring until I stood tall, put my hands on my hips, and stared him down.

“In just about every suspense movie ever filmed, there’s a piece of evidence that, at first, seems unimportant but ends up as the turning point of the entire plot. Right now, no one knows what’s important and what isn’t. Do you want the end of Rowan’s movie to peter out to a stupid ending?”

Once I’d finished my little outburst, I was pretty sure I’d made the stupidest analogy ever, but Leon looked thoughtful.

“Just like that Poe story,” he said. “‘The Purloined Letter.’ It was right in front of them all the time. You’re right. I’ll call that detective as soon as I get home.”

Now I was itching to know if he had remembered to call, and what Hal Inwood was doing about it. If anything.

“Probably nothing,” I muttered.

“I’m sorry?”

The question was a good one, because I was now standing at the front counter of Chilson’s urgent care clinic. During the hours I’d spent in Petoskey’s emergency room after Kristen’s post-skiing adventure, I’d looked around and thought that what they could really use was a healthy pile of fiction to read. The Petoskey emergency room was outside the Chilson district, but last year a 24/7 clinic had opened up in Chilson and it was past time I talked to someone.

“Hi,” I said, and introduced myself. “I have an eight o’clock appointment with Dave Landis.”

The twenty-something receptionist, whose name tag said RONNIE, gave me a closer look. “You’re the bookmobile librarian, right? With the cat, Eddie. What’s your name again?”

Five minutes later, I was in the office of Director Dave Landis, explaining what I had in mind. “So do you think this would be helpful?” I asked. “I’d choose the books carefully, nothing bloody or gory, nothing that deals with horrible diseases. A lot of short stories, so people could finish up. And a fair amount of nonfiction, too. Essays, probably. But they’d all be donated books, so it would be fine if people took them home.”

Dave, about forty and with zero hair on his head, had started nodding about halfway through the spiel I’d put together, but since I’d spent so much time preparing for this meeting, I was determined to get the whole thing out.

“Plus we’re doing more and more programming at the library for all age levels, and the participation is doing nothing but going up. If you have information you’d like to get out into the community, this could be a great opportunity.”

“Drug abuse,” he said, jumping in when I paused to take a breath. “Opioids and heroin. I moved here from downstate last year, and I had no idea how much addiction was going on Up North.”

My eyes had been opened to the problem when Ash and I were dating. As a sheriff’s deputy, he saw more than his share of tragic tales with roots in addiction. “Done,” I said. “It’s a huge problem and I’d love to help even in a small way.” And if the library board took issue with bringing an addiction discussion into the library, well, I’d just convince them they were wrong.

Dave smiled. “You’re dating Rafe Niswander, aren’t you? That’s too bad. I don’t suppose you have a sister?”

I didn’t ask how he knew Rafe. Even though he’d been in town less than a year, with his job he would have met more people in that one year than I did in five. “Sorry, no sister,” I said. Then, trying to learn more, I asked, “If I did have a sister, and if she had a serious addiction, could I bring her here?”

He nodded. “You bet. Matter of fact, that exact thing happened about a month ago. It was the day we got hardly any snow here, but there was six inches on the other side of the county? A woman who lives halfway to Charlevoix brought her sister here.” His gaze drifted to a business card on the corner of his desk. I hadn’t paid attention to them until just now, but I sat up a bit straighter when I recognized the colorful and cheery logo on the card. The Red House Café.

“We don’t have beds for long-term addiction care,” Dave said, “but we can treat overdoses and we have contacts with substance abuse facilities in the region. Though we do our absolute best to find beds for those in need, there are only so many out there. I tell people we’ll call as soon as we find something”—absently, Dave picked up Sunny’s card and tapped it on his desktop—“and we do, but sometimes it takes weeks.”

“That must be hard,” I said. “Telling people you can’t help them.”

Sighing, he nodded. “Worst part of the job.” He brightened. “But when you can help people, when you know that someone has turned their life around, that makes it all worthwhile.”

I thanked him for his time, told him I’d be in touch, and as I scraped my iced-over windshield, I thought about what I was pretty sure I’d learned.

Yes, sometimes I jumped to conclusions, but it wasn’t much of a leap to think that Sunny Scoles had been at the urgent care clinic the day Rowan had died. If she’d taken the poison the day it had arrived at her house, and it seemed to make sense that she would have, then Sunny had an alibi. So why did the sheriff’s office still consider her a viable suspect? Why on earth hadn’t she told them about her alibi?

• • •

I split the rest of the morning between working on the March work schedule and rewriting position descriptions. For weeks I’d been dodging the description task, but decided that today was the day to take care of the part-time positions. And like many tasks, once I got going, it became clear that the job wasn’t going to take nearly as long as I’d thought it might.

“Not half as long,” I said out loud as I finished the first draft of the clerk’s description. Clearly, a celebration was in order.

I spun around in my chair and made for the coffeepot. The break room was empty, so I filled my Association of Bookmobile and Outreach Services mug with the stuff of life and wandered out to the front desk, where Donna was frowning at a computer.

“Problems?” I asked.

She grimaced, but didn’t look away from the screen. “Operator ones, I’m afraid, not electronic ones.”

“Want me to call Josh?”

“And have him lord his knowledge over me? Let him make me feel like an imbecile? Be forced to admit that I’m incompetent and incapable of anything different?”

I eyed her over the top of my mug. “Are you feeling okay?” Because though I was well aware that there were some IT people in the world who had an unfortunate tendency to treat the people they were supposed to help with sneering condescension, Josh wasn’t one of them.

“Bugger.” Donna pushed herself back from the computer and folded her arms across her chest. If she’d been seventy years younger, I would have said she was pouting, but since she was seventy-two, she couldn’t have been.

“Please don’t tell Josh I was slandering him,” she said to her knees. “I’m just in a rotten mood.”

“Um, you’re not getting sick, are you?” I started to back away, but stopped when she shook her head. So far, I hadn’t been sick at all that winter, and I was dearly hoping to keep it that way. “Is there anything you want to talk about? Can I help with anything?”

She perked up. “You’re good at persuading. How about you come over to my house tonight and convince my husband that our next vacation should be in Antarctica. I’ve always wanted to go and there’s this expedition next month that just had a cancellation from two volunteer research assistants. He said no so fast that he couldn’t possibly have really thought about it. If you could just talk to him . . .” She sighed. “You’re not going to, are you?”

Laughing, I said, “No, but I’ll okay your time off if you find someone else to go with you. Or if you decide to go alone.”

“Not as much fun by myself,” she said. “But if it’s that or not go at all . . . hmm. I suppose I could, couldn’t I?”

“If it’s that important to you, absolutely.” How that would play out with her husband, I wasn’t sure, but they’d been married for almost fifty years, so there was a good chance an agreeable resolution could be reached.

“How did it go at the township hall the other day?” Donna asked.

For a moment I had no idea what she was talking about. Then I remembered. “Bookmobile stop is all set. It was so easy to get permission, I wish I’d gone to them in the first place.”

“Well, there’s been some changes there in the last year or so,” Donna said. “It’s probably best you waited.”

Once again, I didn’t understand. “You live in Chilson Township, not Wicklow.”

“I do. But my sister lives over there, and Bill, that’s her husband, used to be on their planning commission, so I hear more than I want to about their goings-on.”

And once again, I had underestimated how easy it was to obtain information when you knew the person to ask. “So what’s the story with the new township hall?”

Donna laughed. “That’s been an issue for ten years, ever since the township bought that property on the highway for far too much money. That’s what Bill says anyway.”

I remembered what Charlotte, the township clerk, had said, that the board was divided on the topic. “The previous township board didn’t want to build?”

“No, they absolutely did, and half of them got voted out last election because of it. The new board is more approachable and more transparent about their decision-making process—the township even updates their website now, if you can believe it—but the word on the street is now that Rowan Bennethum’s gone, the board will vote to build.”

“She had that much influence?” I asked.

Donna shrugged. “All I know is that Hugh Novak and his buddies have been at every meeting the last six months, trying to get this approved, and now that Rowan isn’t there, no one else is speaking up against it. Not everyone liked her, but she was smart and she was respected. Her opinion carried weight with the board.” She smiled faintly. “From the way Bill tells it, there were some heated public comment periods.”

Interesting. I encouraged Donna to apply for the Antarctica trip and headed back to my office, thinking about what she’d said and wondering why Neil had never called me back.

And then I moved Hugh Novak to the top of my suspect list.

Chapter 14

The hardware store’s bells jingled. I shut the door behind me and stomped the snow off my boots and onto the winter entrance mat. From behind the counter, Jared said, “Morning, Minnie.”

Well, some of him was behind the counter. His top half was leaning over it as he paged through a newspaper. The Petoskey News-Review, it looked like. Which must have been an old newspaper, since I was pretty sure there wasn’t a morning newspaper within two hundred miles.

“No, hang on, I’m wrong. It’s afternoon,” he said, glancing up at the wall clock, which had probably hung on the wall for fifty years but was going strong, still advertising Syncro power tools.

“Just barely, though,” I said, smiling. “I won’t mark you down.” Librarians didn’t do that, of course, but many people seemed to blend the roles of teacher and librarian, so I tended to play along. “How are you doing, Jared?”

“Like most days, could be better, could be worse.”

“Most things are relative,” I said. “Even gravity.”

“Gravity?” He narrowed his eyes and thought a minute, then nodded. “It is, isn’t it? Gravity may be constant when we’re down here with our feet on the ground, but if you’re on the moon or Mars or whatever, it’s completely different.”

“Exactly,” I said, beaming at my prize student. “The physical properties that produce gravity are the same no matter where you go—and please don’t ask me what they are because I have no clue—but its strength varies depending on where you are.” I was pretty sure I’d read there was a detectable difference in the strength of gravity between sea level and the tops of mountains, but I couldn’t remember the source, so I kept quiet since I didn’t want to spread science misinformation.

Jared flopped the newspaper shut. “What can I do for you, Minnie? Ready to order your cabinet hardware?”

“Yes, I am.” Rafe had promised if I made a final decision this week that he would read one fiction book of my choosing from cover to cover in less than a month. I put up my chin and squared my shoulders. “Lead me to the catalogs. I’m ready.” Sort of. I’d done some of the hardware homework Jared had assigned, but what I mostly knew was what I didn’t like.

He studied me. “You look like you’re about to face a firing squad. This kind of thing is fun for most people.”

I slumped a bit. “Once again I’m different from everybody else,” I said gloomily.

“No, I get it. The problem is information overload. Too many choices. How about this? We’ll work it like a flow chart, making one decision at a time, and at the end you’ll have exactly what you want.”

“But that’s the problem. I don’t know what I want.” I was horrified to hear my voice shake. “Sorry, I just . . .”

“Don’t worry,” Jared said. “You’re just nervous about making the wrong decision. It happens a lot in the construction business.” He laughed. “One of the reasons I got out of it. Loved the work, but it got so I couldn’t deal with the customers.”

“And now you’re saddled with me.” I tried to smile, to make a joke out of it. Didn’t work.

“Hah. You’re nothing compared to some of those folks. Maybe someday I’ll tell you about Crazy Larry.” Jared tossed the newspaper under the counter. “Come on back. This will be fun.”

And despite my trepidations, it actually was. Jared held my figurative hand all the way through the process, and at the end I was almost giddy with happiness over the final choice: brushed nickel, with oval knobs for the doors and drawer pulls that looked like what had been on the old card catalog drawers in my elementary school library. I’d toyed with the idea of Petoskey stones for the knobs, but figured those would be better in a bathroom.

“Take some pictures,” Jared suggested, “and send them to Rafe.”

I did so and an instant later got a return text: What book?

Smiling, I texted back: Moby Dick

Rafe, after a long pause, sent: Kidding?

I texted back with: Yes. You’ll enjoy War and Peace far more, and quickly put away my phone. It was tempting to send a text to Kristen, telling her I’d finally triumphed over the hardware conundrum, but at this time of day she was probably in the middle of a run through the Key West heat and I didn’t want to distract her. “Thanks so much for all your help, Jared. I couldn’t have done it without you.” I smiled. “Maybe you should get into kitchen design.”

“Not a chance. I’d rather pull off my fingernails with a pair of needle-nose pliers,” he said, but then looked off into the distance, as if he might be considering it.

I started to get up, then sat down again. There had been two reasons I’d stopped by the store. “Last time I was in, a couple of weeks ago, we talked a little about Bax Tousely and the account with the City of Chilson. Is that . . . did that turn out okay for you?”

It was an awkward question, awkwardly phrased, but I hadn’t been able to figure out a better way to ask. Luckily, Jared either didn’t feel the awkwardness or paid no attention to it.

“Sure,” he said. “I remember. And it had been weird, the way Bax came in, no joke or anything, then left without saying a word. Turns out it was no big deal.”

“Oh?” I asked, tipping my head, silently imploring him to go on.

“Yeah. Bax stopped by last week for something else and explained. He’d been feeling like crap with the flu or something, and on top of that, he’d been up at three to start plowing. He was practically sleepwalking, sounded like. And when he was in the back here, he got a phone call from his boss saying he’d found the part they needed in the city’s shop, and that he, that’s Bax, should get his butt down to the job site five minutes ago or he, that’s Bax again, would be busted back to low man on the totem pole.”

“That’s bad?”

Jared smiled. “Means you’re the first to go down into a manhole or a trench to fix whatever needs fixing. Means you’re the one who gets cold, wet, and dirty first and longest.”

“That would get old after a while,” I said, now understanding the city’s pecking order a little better. And I now understood that Bax’s odd behavior on the day Rowan died had nothing to do with Rowan. But there was one question remaining: Why had Leese seen Bax driving past the Bennethums’ house?

• • •

“Hi, can I help you?”

The young woman in the toy store looked bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, as my father might have said. Her long blond hair was tucked behind her ears, her smile was wide, and her name tag read TAYLOR.

In my backpack was the list Mitchell had e-mailed me of the significant dates in the Bianca-Mitchell relationship. I’d stopped by to go over it with him. “Is Mitchell around?”

Taylor shook her head. “He’s off today. Is there anything I can help you with?”

“Thanks, but I’m just looking around to get ideas for . . . for my nieces’ and nephews’ birthdays. They aren’t anytime soon,” I added quickly. “I just want to be, um, prepared.”

It was my day for awkward statements, but just as Jared hadn’t seemed to notice, neither did Taylor.

“That’s a great idea,” she said, nodding. “I wish more people would do that. This gives you time to learn what’s available, what’s in your price range, what the kids really want, and”—she grinned—“what the parents want you to get.”

“It’s complicated, isn’t it?” I asked the question a bit slowly, because I was beginning to see that giving a great gift truly was. Mitchell had been a big help to me with the last cycle of young relative gifts, and odds were good that he’d trained Taylor to use that same approach.

“All part of the fun.” Taylor smiled.

I thanked her and said I’d flag her down if I needed anything.

“Perfect,” she said cheerfully. “Just give me a yell.” She walked behind the counter and started tapping away on the checkout computer’s keyboard.

My phone, which until now had been blessedly quiet, beeped with an incoming text. It was from Anya. Collier just failed a big test. Any chance of finding Mom’s killer soon?

I read the message over and over again until I heard Taylor’s footsteps approaching.

“Find any good ideas?” she asked.

“Not fast enough,” I muttered.

“Sorry?” Taylor’s face was open and questioning.

“This is a great store,” I said, mustering up a smile as I shoved the phone back into my coat pocket. The girl was trying to help and I needed to be nicer to her. “How long have you been working here? I stop in fairly often, that’s all, and I’m surprised we haven’t met before now.”

“I started right after Thanksgiving. But my schedule is all jumbled because I’m taking classes at the college and working at Fat Boys. Mitchell works it out for me, though.”

“Mitchell’s a good boss?” A question that, a year ago, I would have bet all the money in the world I’d never, ever ask.

“The best,” she said, with small earnest nods. “Not that I’ve had that many jobs, but he’s really nice and really patient with me. I mean, like you said, this stuff is complicated and it takes a while to figure things out.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” I asked.

And maybe that was my problem. Maybe I’d been thinking too simply about Rowan’s death. Maybe instead of my usual method of trying to break things down into bits to make it easier to get at the truth, maybe the truth was that it was complicated, that it couldn’t be broken down because it all hung together in one big tangled lump.

Still thinking, I sketched a vague wave at Taylor and headed back out into the cold.

• • •

The next day I was still troubled about Anya’s text message. Since I’d fallen asleep early, I hadn’t been able to talk to either Rafe (at a middle school basketball game) or Aunt Frances (evening woodworking class), so I told Julia about it on the way out to the first bookmobile stop, the township farthest south and east in the county.

“Did you text her back?” Julia asked.

“As soon as I got out on the street.” I tried to remember the exact message, but since I tended to have the memory of a plush blanket, I had to paraphrase. “I told her we were all working hard to help and that I hoped to give her good news soon.”

“Bet that wasn’t much comfort.”

Her words were like a physical blow. Don’t cry, I told myself. Do not cry. After a deep and raggy breath, I said, “I’m sure it wasn’t.”

“Hey, you’re not blaming yourself, are you?” Julia asked. “Oh, bugger, you are. I’m sorry, honey, I didn’t mean any of this is your fault. You’re doing all you can, and the sheriff’s office is doing all they can. But even still, Anya and Collier and Neil are suffering. And they will continue to grieve, even when the murderer is slapped into prison, because no matter what, Rowan will be dead and nothing anyone does will bring her back.”

Which, of course, was the one thing they all wanted and the one thing that wouldn’t happen. Then a quiet whisper wandered through my brain—did Neil want Rowan back? He hadn’t returned any of my calls, which seemed like something a grief-stricken husband would do straightaway.

Then again, there were probably good reasons for his silence. I couldn’t come up with any, but there had to be at least one out there.

The first stop of the day was one of my favorites, primarily because of Lawrence Zonne. The octogenarian Mr. Zonne had lived in Tonedagana County most of his life, retired early to Florida with his wife, then moved back to be closer to children and grandchildren after his wife passed away. He was smart, funny, and had a memory far better than mine had ever been. Plus, he and Eddie were great pals.

“Good morning, bookmobile ladies!” Mr. Zonne said as he bounded up the steps. He pulled off a colorful knit hat and his thick white hair sprung out in all directions. “How are you this fine morning? And Mr. Edward, you are looking very handsome.”

“Mrr.”

“Likewise, likewise.” He patted the top of Eddie’s head, then after pulling off his gloves, he rubbed his hands together. I couldn’t tell if it was to warm them or if he was making a gesture of anticipation, but it could well have been both.

“What do you have for me today?” he asked. “I’m in the mood for medieval adventure and derring-do.”

Julia pondered the question. “Wars and battles?”

“I’d prefer more of the white knight rescuing the young maiden who is perfectly capable of saving herself, but allows herself to be rescued in order to maintain the illusion of male ego and thereby assists with the propagation of the human species.” He brandished an imaginary sword and slashed at an imaginary foe.

“Mrr!” Eddie batted at Mr. Zonne’s left foot.

“Are you for me or against?” Mr. Zonne thundered. “One ‘Mrr’ if you’re a friend, two if you’re an enemy!”

I laughed as Eddie chose that particular moment to lick one of his back feet. “Sounds like you should be writing romances, not reading them. Sure you don’t want a second career?”

“Too much work. Especially the research.” He shuddered. “Having to get the historical details right is too complicated. I would inevitably do something horrendous like having Britons eat tomatoes before they were available in that country, and I wouldn’t be able to live with the scathing reviews.”

Again with the complications. “Do you know the Bennethums?” I asked. “East of Chilson.”

“You mean Rowan? That poor girl. She was a Funston, yes? Or was she a Raferty?” Neither Julia nor I happened to know her maiden name, but it didn’t seem to matter much. “That group was all in the generation between,” he said. “Ten-ish years younger than our offspring. I don’t know them at all.”

So even more complications.

At the end of the stop, Mr. Zonne went away happy with a sack full of novels by Edward Rutherfurd and Robert Graves, with one by Michener, just in case.

“Another satisfied customer,” Julia said. “In you go, Mr. Ed.” She opened the door to the cat carrier, tossed a treat inside, and shut the door behind Eddie, who bounded inside after the food.

We buckled ourselves in and I started us down the road to the next stop. “Someday he’s going to stop liking those treats,” I said, “and my life will never be the same.”

“All you have to do is find a treat he does like.” Julia tapped the carrier with the toes of her boots. “How hard could that be? I mean he eats bread, for crying out loud, so you’d think any cat treat would be—”

“Mrr!”

Julia instantly stopped tapping. “Sorry, Master Edward. You usually don’t mind.”

“MRR!!”

The insides of my ears cringed. “Geez, Eddie, quit it already, will you? This is an enclosed space and—”

“MRRR!!!”

I braked to as quick a stop as I could, because that last howl had sounded so horrible that I was sure he was being drawn and quartered by the unseen foes Mr. Zonne had been battling. Julia opened the carrier door and I laid myself across the console, putting my head at cat level. “Are you all right, pal?” I asked, peering in.

Eddie was sitting smack in the middle of the carrier’s floor, staring at me with that look he was so good at giving, the one that conveyed contempt, irritation, annoyance, and a teeny bit of tolerance for the antics of his staff.

He didn’t say anything, so I reached in. A deep purr started almost immediately.

“You are a rotten cat.” I gave him a pat and latched the door.

“He’s really okay?” Julia asked, frowning.

“As okay as he’ll ever be.” I pushed myself back upright and reached over for the seat belt. In doing so, I noticed the house on the opposite side of the road.

Around us, the land was wide and rolling. The trees had been clear-cut for lumber a hundred years ago and, due to poor soil, they hadn’t fully regrown. Properties out here tended to be multiple acres, and neighbors were often barely within shouting distance. As a result of low density and disinclination for governmental interference, many of the townships on this side of the county had few regulations, a situation that could allow circumstances that would draw neighborly ire in more populated areas.

Like the house over there. Even in February, its huge front yard was occupied by a row of cars facing the street. They were, of course, snow-covered, but I’d seen them often enough in warmer times to know they were all for sale at Low, Low Prices!

“Hmm,” I said.

“What’s that?” Julia asked.

I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel, then pulled out my cell phone. “Listen in,” I told her, and dialed the phone number for Deputy Ash Wolverson.

“Hey,” he said, answering straightaway. “You guys okay?”

I looked down at my arms and legs. Looked over at Julia and Eddie. All safe and sound. “Sure. Why wouldn’t we be?”

He blew out a sigh. “Lots of accidents today. The direction of the wind yesterday drifted shut most of the back roads, and you drive that bookmobile all over, and . . . well, anyway, what’s up?”

A warm and fuzzy feeling curled up around my heart. Though Ash and I hadn’t worked out as a couple, our new friendship was turning into something solid, something I hoped would last for years. “Did Leon Clohessy call you?” I asked. “About that SUV with a missing headlight he saw leaving Rowan’s house?”

“He did.” I heard the tapping of a keyboard. “Anything else?”

It occurred to me that friends could be as annoying as cats. “Yes. I assume you’re going to be checking car part stores.”

“On my list,” he said. “But I have to be honest, it’s not high up there. Hal says—”

Since I was pretty sure I didn’t want to hear what Detective Inwood had to say, I talked over him. “I was just thinking that if it was the killer in that SUV, he might have bought a new headlight from a junkyard for cash, so there’d be no money trail.”

I heard a sigh on the other end of the line.

“Yeah,” Ash said. “He or she might have.”

I felt a pang of guilt for the extra work I was tossing into his lap. He was starting to sound as tired as Hal. “Tell you what. The bookmobile route eventually goes past most of the junkyards in the county. How about if I stop and ask about headlights? If I learn anything, I’ll pass it on.”

“Knock yourself out,” Ash said. “I have to run. See you later.”

“Okay. Stay safe—”

But he was already gone.

• • •

That evening, I mulled over the events of the day. “The complications of the day, more like,” I murmured.

“Sorry?” Aunt Frances asked.

We were in the kitchen, cleaning up after dinner. Rather, I was cleaning up because my aunt had (luckily for all involved) done the cooking, and she was sitting at the kitchen table sorting through the last few days of newspapers, getting ready to read the 911 reports out loud to me.

I hesitated, then blurted out pretty much everything, starting with Mitchell’s list. By the time I was telling her about my junkyard call to Ash, I was putting away the last of the silverware. “So maybe it’s just . . . complicated,” I summed up. “What do you think?”

Aunt Frances looked at me over the top of her reading glasses. “I think you should call Anya Bennethum. And by call, I mean an actual call, not a text. The poor girl is trying to be a mother to Collier and she’s floundering.”

“I don’t know anything about being a mother,” I protested.

“No, but you’re the one she’s reaching out to.”

It took me roughly two and a half seconds to grasp the obvious. “You’re right,” I said.

“Of course I am.” She tapped the stack of newspapers. “And as soon as you finish talking to Anya, we can get back to the evening’s entertainment.” My aunt was a big believer in the carrot and stick approach, at least when it came to managing Minnie’s behavior, primarily because it worked.

“Back in a few,” I said, and headed upstairs to my room to make the call, pausing briefly to pat Eddie, who was curled up in a corner of the couch, snoring loud enough to rattle china.

“Hey, Minnie,” Anya answered a little breathlessly. “Have they arrested someone?”

“Not yet,” I said. Then, since I was still hearing panting breaths, I asked, “Um, what are you doing?”

“Oh. Sorry. I can stop.” Her breathing returned to normal. “I don’t like elevators much and my apartment is on the building’s fourth floor. Mom always said it would be good for me either way, that I’d get used to elevators or I’d get lots of exercise.”

“Your mom was a wise woman,” I said.

“She—” Anya stopped. Breathed deep. Then, “I miss her,” she said in a small voice.

What could I say to this young woman who was dealing with a kind of grief I’d never suffered, but almost inevitably would someday? I thought about my own mother, about the hole that would be left in my life if she died. “You’ll probably always miss her,” I said. “But I think it’ll get easier.”

“That’s what everybody says.” Anya sniffed.

“Since there’s no way everybody can be wrong,” I said, “it must be true.”

She sniffed again. “I want to believe that. And I almost do, but . . . how long will it be? To get to the easier part, I mean?”

I had no answer for that, of course, so I murmured something banal and trite about being patient with herself and to make sure she got plenty of rest and to eat right.

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll try.” After a beat, she asked, “So there’s nothing new, about Mom, I mean, to tell Collier?”

“Not anything substantial.” I told her about the SUV with the broken headlight and she seemed to take it as seriously as Ash had.

“Anything else?”

“Well,” I said slowly. “There’s one thing.” I girded up my courage and dove in. “I ran into your dad two or three weeks ago and he said something about your mom and Land Aprelle getting into a big argument soon before she died. I know we talked about this at the library the other day, and—” I stopped, because Anya was doing the last thing I would have guessed she’d do.

She was laughing.

“Mom and Land had these huge arguments all the time. Like once a week, practically.”

“They . . . did?”

“Sure,” Anya said. “I was going to tell you about this, but you had someone you had to talk to.”

Out of the vague recesses of my brain, a memory surfaced. That had been the day Graydon came back from training. “I said I’d call you, and I didn’t. I am so sorry.”

“That’s all right. Anyway, Mom said the fights with Land were her weekly therapy sessions. Land called them catharsis. Every time, Mom would end up firing Land. He’d ignore her and keep on doing whatever he was doing, and five minutes later they were best buddies.”

I laughed. “Sounds entertaining.”

“Oh, it was,” Anya said, and I could hear the smile in her voice. “They had some knock-down, drag-out fights. You know,” she said, “I don’t think Dad understood their relationship at all. But then he never liked Land in the first place.”

We chatted for a few minutes longer. I told her I’d let her know the second I learned anything from the sheriff’s office, but when I hung up, I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the phone, wondering about the possibility of the worst complication of all.

What if Neil suspected Rowan and Land had been having an affair? What if Neil himself was the killer?

Chapter 15

My dark thoughts about Neil stayed with me through the night and into the morning. Eddie, who’d slept in the exact middle of the foot of the bed, forcing me to have my feet in every place except the place I most wanted them, was of no help whatsoever when I asked him about Neil as I got dressed.

“Do you think I should tell Ash?”

No response.

“Don’t tell me you think I should talk to the slightly scary Detective Hal Inwood instead of the friendly Deputy Ash Wolverson?”

No response again. Yay. “Do you think I should stay home today and tend to your every need?”

“Mrr,” he said sleepily, and rolled over so I could rub his belly.

“Thanks for your help,” I said.

“Mrr,” he said, or almost said, because I was pretty sure he fell asleep in the middle of it.

With no guidance from Eddie, I decided to make my decision the old-fashioned way—with a coin toss. When the quarter I dug out of the bottom of my purse landed heads up, I nodded at it and called Ash. It went to voice mail, and though I tried to be straightforward and concise, there was a good chance my message was long and rambling and lacked any focus whatsoever, just like most of the voice mail messages I’d left in my entire life.

“That went well,” I said after pressing the Off button. Still no response from Eddie. “Sarcasm, my furry friend. That was pure and unadulterated sarcasm. Do you think I’ll sound as stupid to Ash as I did to myself? Never mind,” I said quickly, because Eddie’s eyes had started to open and I didn’t want to hear his answer.

I kissed the top of his fuzzy head and headed downstairs to get the day rolling.

It was a library day, and it rolled along reasonably well from breakfast to noon, when I walked downtown for a prearranged lunch with Rafe.

“This could work out well,” I said, sliding into a booth at Shomin’s Deli.

“What’s that?” Rafe reached across the table for my hands. “Crikey, what have you been doing with those? Packing snowballs barehanded?”

“‘Crikey’? I’m not sure anyone has said that out loud for seventy-five years.”

“About time to bring it back.”

I eyed my beloved, who was smiling at me in a way that made me want to throw myself into his arms and hold him tight, forever and ever. Two things kept me from doing so. One, the table between us would have made the throwing part logistically difficult. Two, if he kept using the word “crikey,” my undying love for him might take a hard turn.

“Hey, you two.” Ash slid into the booth next to me.

Rafe bumped knuckles with him. “Have a seat, why don’t you?”

“Just here to pick up the man’s lunch,” Ash said. “Well, mine, too, but Hal was the one who made me come here because he wants that weird Swiss cheese and olive sandwich.” He made a face. “Bet Hal’s the only one in the world who eats it. Wait, really?” Because Rafe was pointing at me.

“You should try it sometime,” I said.

The fact that Hal Inwood and I shared a taste for anything was a little disconcerting, so I pushed that nugget of information to a back corner of my brain where it could keep company with Avogadro’s number, the laws of thermodynamics, and the Krebs cycle.

“Say, Minnie, you know that message you left this morning?” Ash asked. “I’m looking into it. Just wanted you to know.” He nodded at me, did the knuckle thing again with Rafe, and went to the cash register to pick up his order.

“Message about what?” Rafe asked.

I studied him, but couldn’t detect the least amount of jealousy. Excellent. “It’s about Rowan’s murder,” I said in a low voice.

“Hey.” Rafe frowned. “I thought we were partners in that, just like in everything else.”

“Partners? Does that mean we’re going to play doubles tennis?”

“Not a chance. You play the worst tennis in the history of the game.” Our order was called and Rafe slid out of the booth to fetch and carry. In seconds he was back and we were unwrapping our food: crispy chicken wrap for him, Swiss cheese and olive on sourdough for me. “But in everything else,” Rafe went on as if there hadn’t been any interruption, “we’re a matched set. So spill about what you told my man Ash.”

As I did, I realized there were other things that had gone untold, from Anya and Collier to Bax Tousely. By the end of the telling, our lunches were gone and the ice cubes in our drinks were the size of small peas.

Rafe put his elbows on the table. “Let me get this right. You think Rowan was killed for some complicated reason and that the killer will be revealed because of the combination of an empty sugar packet and a damaged headlight.”

When he put it like that, it sounded weak. More than weak; it sounded stupid. “Well, yes.”

He looked at me long enough for me to decide that what was taking him so long to say anything was that he was trying to figure out how to tell me I was completely bonkers. Finally, he said, “I think you’re right.”

“You . . . do?”

“Absolutely. What you’ve picked up on are the anomalies, and Rowan lived by rules. I bet she had a certain day of the week to do laundry, instead of doing it when the hamper was full.”

I always did laundry on Saturdays, but I was too happy with his approval of my theories to argue about that small life choice.

“So now what?” he asked.

There was only one thing to do. “It’s time to make a list.”

• • •

All I meant was a simple list of murder suspects, but Rafe wanted to make it a lot harder than it needed to be, saying that it should be a spreadsheet with columns of suspect names and rows listing dates, times, possibilities, and scenarios.

I showed him my cell phone, which I’d opened to the notes application. “I’m done. How about you?”

“That’s what I’d call a good start.” He pulled out his cell and snapped a photo. “And you were the one saying how complicated this was. How many complications can you get from a list of five names?”

We parted ways; he drove back to the middle school and I made my way to the library through two inches of new snow. It was, I thought, the perfect amount of snowfall. Not enough to mess up driving in any significant way, but enough to blanket the landscape with a fresh layer of white.

I was still thinking about snow and its powers when I arrived back at the library, and almost ran into a forty-ish woman in the entryway.

“Sorry,” I said. “My thoughts were wandering, and . . . oh. Hey, Debbie. Here to check out the new releases?”

Debbie Ottavino smiled as she buttoned her black velvet cape and pulled on bright pink mittens. “Not today.”

I widened my eyes dramatically. “Don’t tell me your husband has convinced you to start reading science fiction.”

She laughed. “Not yet. And no trying to convince me that The Martian was science fiction. That was a survival story from start to finish.”

“You’ve almost changed my mind on that one. What did you check out?” I asked, nodding at her leather messenger bag. “Anything fun?”

Debbie lived in Chilson, worked for an accounting firm in Petoskey, and was the library’s auditor. In some ways she was the stereotypical accountant—just the facts and nothing but the facts, please—but she also shattered that stereotype by having a tremendous sense of humor and a flamboyant sense of style.

“Well, I think it’s fun,” she said, “but I’m an accountant, and you know how skewed our worldviews are. Then again, Graydon and Trent were all smiles just now, so maybe it’s contagious.”

I watched her push out through the double doors. The annual audit was done, so why would our auditor be meeting with the library director and the library board president now? And what could possibly be making all of them happy?

While the library’s finances were stable, we could always use more revenue. Josh wanted a new server, it would be great to expand our programming, and I’d love to be open more hours, but we couldn’t afford the staff time. And then there was that nagging need to start saving for a new bookmobile. Sure, this one was only a couple of years old, but they didn’t last forever and it would be better to start stashing money away now.

The whole thing was making me nervous, a feeling I hated. Add the weird questions that Graydon and Trent had been asking and you have a recipe for Minnie anxiety that rivaled driving over the Mackinac Bridge in the dark during a howling snowstorm.

I divested myself of outer clothing in my office and headed upstairs. “Knock, knock,” I said, poking my head in Graydon’s office. “Do you have a minute?”

“Hey, Minnie.” He smiled and clicked his computer’s mouse. “What’s up?”

“I just wondered why Debbie was here. Is everything okay?”

“Oh. Sure,” he said. “I mean, they’re fine. It’s just . . . Trent and I wanted to go over a few things with her, is all. Trying to get more familiar with the library’s financials, not just now but the past, too, if you see what I mean.”

Sort of, but not really. That was another reason I’d decided against applying for the library director’s job; to me, financial statements were a mystery, and not the fun kind with a plot and characters and snappy dialogue.

“Okay,” I said. “Because you’d tell me if something was wrong, right?”

He smiled. “You’re my assistant. I’ll always need help.”

I nodded and left him to his work, but it wasn’t until I was halfway down the stairs that I realized he hadn’t answered my question. Frowning, I considered my options. Should I ask Trent? Or the board’s vice president?

No, and no. Reason number one against stepping over my boss to satisfy my curiosity was that it would be a rotten way to treat Graydon. Number two against was I barely knew Trent and hadn’t known the vice president very long, so asking a semi-sneaky question was a poor foundation for what I hoped would be long and productive relationships.

Which meant I was stuck. Being glued in place without any way to get to my objective was frustrating. Which meant a crappy mood for Minnie until I pulled out of it.

I took a deep breath, tried to summon a happier frame of mind, and felt myself failing. Rats. What was it Aunt Frances said? “This, too, shall pass,” I said out loud as the stairwell door shut behind me.

“True words,” Stewart Funston said. He was standing in front of the drinking fountain, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “But you can make time pass faster by having as much fun as possible.”

I tried not to glare at him, but that’s how my look probably came across, because I was still cranky. “Sounds like what people say to justify the dumb things they do. Like that time you vandalized the principal’s office.” As soon as the words left my mouth, I wanted to grab them back. “Stewart, I am so sorry. I’m in a bad mood and I’m taking it out on you.”

Smiling ruefully, he waved away my apology. “One of the worst things about living in the town where you grew up is that your youthful escapades never go away.”

“Makes me glad I moved north.”

Stewart laughed. “I find it hard to believe you’ve ever strayed from the straight and narrow.”

Now why did that annoy me? I was, in fact, pretty much a Goody Two-shoes, but somehow I didn’t like people knowing. “Well, sorry again for dredging up your past,” I said, and went back to my office, thinking that I wouldn’t classify the damage that Aunt Frances had described (“furniture reduced to kindling”) as a mere escapade.

• • •

Just as I was finishing the bookmobile’s April calendar—well done, Minnie; this is the earliest you’ve ever sent out a schedule!—my cell phone made its incoming call noise. At lunch, Rafe, thinking he was funny, had downloaded the bleats of a herd of goats as my ringtone, and since it was actually pretty funny, I hadn’t yet changed it.

I flipped my phone over and saw it was Barb McCade. “Hey, Barb. What’s up?”

“We will be, or at least we will in a few minutes.”

“Should I act as if I know what you’re talking about, or should I admit that I’m clueless?”

Barb laughed. “We’re at the Traverse City airport, waiting for our row to be called.”

“Heading back to the sun and sand?”

“More rock than sand,” she said. “Have you ever been to Arizona? No? You have to come visit us someday.”

“Sounds great,” I said, although I wasn’t being completely sincere as I was not a fan of snakes, big spiders, scorpions, or anything remotely similar. While I understood that Arizona was outstandingly beautiful, I wasn’t certain that I’d fit in well with all of its creatures. “Did Cade finish his new series?”

“Close enough,” Barb said. “He’s going to let them sit until we get back here in April. The time lag will do him good. I think they might be his best work ever, but you know Cade.”

I laughed. “Right now he thinks they’re so horrible that he’s on the verge of whitewashing them all.”

“With a big fat brush,” Barb said. “Anyway, I just wanted to hear how Kristen was doing.”

“She’s fine. Already back at work.” She’d actually returned to tending bar less than a week after her fall. When I’d questioned the wisdom of that decision via text, she’d texted back: Being bored makes me think about starting a new restaurant.

Me: In New York? Scruffy would like that.

Kristen: Not in winter. Brr.

Me: Their winters aren’t like Chilson winters.

Kristen: Colder than Key West.

There was no point in arguing with that, so I didn’t. How Kristen and her fiancé were going to work out their geographical separation once they were married was still a big question mark, but I’d long ago put that on the list of things I wasn’t going to worry about.

Barb said, “Good to hear. I wouldn’t want my favorite chef to have a permanent injury. The world would be a lesser place without her crème brûlée. And now we really have to go. See you in April, Minnie!”

“Have a good—” But she was already gone.

I clicked the phone off, flipped it around in my hands a few times, then stood up.

Something in my conversation with Barb had tweaked my sense of urgency about finding Rowan’s killer. Yes, I could call the sheriff’s office to ask about progress, but I was tired of leaving messages that might or might not be taken seriously. Sure, Ash had appeared to be paying attention to my suggestion regarding Neil, but there was more to discuss, and if there was something I could do to push the investigation forward, to help Anya and Collier, well, I was going to do it.

I slid off my shoes and put on my boots. It was time to beard the lion in his den.

• • •

I stopped at the front desk and told Kelsey I had to run an errand, that I’d be back in half an hour, then zipped my coat and headed out. At which point I discovered that the friendly two inches of snow I’d been so fond of a couple of hours earlier had turned into a sloppy layer of mushy slush.

My boots made a squishy splash! splash! noise as I walked downtown, which amused me to no end. I was enjoying the sound and the sight of the spurting snow so much, and enjoying the fact that my earlier bad mood was gone, that I jumped when someone spoke to me.

“Having fun, Minnie?”

Tom Abinaw, or Cookie Tom, as most people called him, was standing on the sidewalk outside his bakery, shovel in hand, smiling at me.

I spent half a second hoping my face was already red with cold, which meant he wouldn’t see the slightly embarrassed flush creeping over my face. “Absolutely,” I said. “You should try it. It’s fun.” For a three-year-old, but did that really matter?

He laughed, shaking his head. “Snow and I are not good friends. Besides, baking is enough fun for me. Speaking of which, you haven’t stopped by lately.”

Tom gave me a deal on the cookies I bought for the bookmobile patrons. However, there was nowhere in the library budget for expenditures like that, and I paid for them out of my own pocket.

“Christmas,” I said, by roundabout way of explanation. “Every year I set a budget and every year I zip past it at light speed. One more cycle of credit card bills and I’ll be paid off, so expect me soon.”

“I’ll be waiting,” he said, nodding, and went back to his slush-shoveling.

Once again I wondered how a baker, a person surrounded by cookies and cakes and doughnuts, could stay as thin as Tom did. Maybe he was an ultra-long-distance runner, one of those people who regularly ran twenty or thirty or fifty miles at a time. Or maybe he was allergic to almost everything, and subsisted solely on oatmeal and carrots. But you’d think that would make him grumpy, and Tom was one of the most contented people I’d ever met in my life.

“You look happy,” Carl, the deputy at the front desk, said after sliding open the glass window. “So you can’t possibly want to talk to Hal.”

I laughed. “He can be a fun-killer, can’t he? But yes, I would like to talk to him if he’s around. Or Ash.”

“You might be in luck,” Carl said. “Or unluck, if that’s a word. I think they just came back in. Hang on.”

While I waited, I checked my phone and saw a new text from Anya.

Anya: Anything new?

Me: At the sheriff’s office right now.

Anya: Hope so Collier isn’t going to classes

Me: Tell your dad.

Anya: Tried but nothing in days

My jaw firmed. Something had to be done to help that boy. I started typing. Get Collier to a doctor. I’m—

“Ms. Hamilton? When you’re ready.” Detective Hal Inwood held the door open.

—I’m going to light a fire under someone’s you-know-what.

Smiling, I pushed the Send button and slid the phone into my coat pocket as I walked into the interview room. “Thanks for seeing me.”

“Is it too much to hope for that someday you’ll call and make an appointment?” Hal sat in one of the plastic chairs.

“Not too much, no,” I said. “But if the past is indicative of the future, it’s not going to happen anytime soon.”

“That’s what I was afraid of,” he said, sighing. “Ash, have a seat.”

Ash, who had just come into the room, sat across from me. “Hey, Minnie.”

“Have you been in contact with Rowan’s family?” I asked. “Keeping them up to date with the investigation?”

There was a quick exchange of glances on the other side of the table. “When there’s something to report, Mr. Bennethum is called,” Hal said.

“Not the kids?” I heard the tone of demand in my voice and didn’t back away from it. “Not Anya and Collier?”

“Ms. Hamilton,” Hal said, “there are only so many hours in the day. Mr. Bennethum is our primary contact with the family. If he isn’t communicating with his children, they should take it up with him.”

“But they are!” I hopped my chair closer and leaned forward. “They’re trying, anyway, and he’s not responding. I’m not sure they know where he is.” I caught another silent exchange. “Do you?”

“Our information is confidential,” Hal said.

I wanted to bang my fist on the table, but could hear my mother’s voice in my head, admonishing me. Instead, I took a deep breath. “Fine,” I said. “But you should know that Collier Bennethum is probably sliding into clinical depression. His sister says he’s not going to classes and is sleeping all the time and the only thing he talks about is their mom’s killer is alive when their mom is dead. I told her to tell Neil, but she says her dad hasn’t answered a text in days.”

Hal stirred. “I’m sorry for young Mr. Bennethum, but we’re doing all we can.”

“What about the broken headlight? What about the sugar packet? Stop shaking your head,” I snapped, because my anger was now well and truly stoked. “That packet matters. Ask your wife. Ask Sheriff Richardson, if you don’t believe me.”

“Ms. Hamilton,” Hal began, but I stood up abruptly. It was a waste of my time and theirs to sit any longer.

I whirled and left the room. Somewhere behind me I heard someone call my name, but what was there to say? I nodded to Carl and walked straight out into the cold.

Chapter 16

I spent the night in fitful sleep, rolling from one side to the other in a vain attempt at finding a position that would send me into slumber. Eddie gave up on me about two in the morning and did a loud thump-thump! to the floor. When I got up, bleary eyed and still tired, I found him curled up on the big living room couch.

“And here I thought you loved me,” I told him.

“Mrr.”

“Well, sure, I was moving around a lot last night, but that doesn’t mean—”

“Mrr!” he said, then shut his eyes firmly.

Smiling, I kissed the top of his fuzzy head. “See you tonight, okay?”

He didn’t move a muscle as I pulled on boots and the rest of my winter gear, but when I paused at the front door and looked back, his eyes were open the tiniest of slits.

“Love you, too, buddy!” As I closed the door, I could have sworn I heard one more “Mrr,” which wasn’t surprising since cats have an innate need to have the last word.

“Well, Eddie does, anyway,” I said to myself as I started the car. One of these days I was going to have to compare notes with other people who lived with cats. Maybe Eddie wasn’t so unusual. Maybe all cats ate bread, dropped toys in their water dishes, and held complete conversations with their human companions.