Cat With A Clue

Chapter 6

I worked late into the evening on Friday, but left with plenty of time to hang out at the summer’s first Friday-night marina party. Ash was on duty both weekend nights, but we’d made plans to get together Monday after I got off work. During our last morning run, I’d tried to explain how the dinner with his mother had gone wrong, but, manlike, he’d said not to be silly, that everything was fine, and he’d run off to finish his ten-mile loop, calling over his shoulder to tell me to bring my swimsuit on Monday.

After a night during which even the soft purrs of my furry friend didn’t help me fall asleep, when I got out of bed on Saturday morning, I felt the need for a family connection. “Do you mind?” I asked Eddie. “It’s a bookmobile day, so you’ll have to stay in the car for a little while.”

He yawned, sending bad cat breath straight into my nostrils, and said, “Mrr.”

I took this to be assent and whirled through my morning routine in record time. In short order I was tromping up the steps of the boardinghouse and banging through the front door.

“Hello?” I called. “It’s me.” I found my aunt Frances in the dining room, reading the newspaper.

“Good morning, sunshine!” she said, smiling and reaching up to give me a hug. “I didn’t know you were stopping by this morning. Let me set you a place.” She set down the coffee cup she’d been holding.

“Can’t stay,” I said. “Too much to do at the library before we head out.”

Conversation and the tink of pots and pans filtered out to us from the kitchen. My aunt provided her boardinghouse guests with dinner every night and breakfast six days of the week. Saturday morning, however, was the day she put her guests to work. Co-cooking the occasional breakfast with another boarder was part of the deal, she told her applicants. What she didn’t tell them was that the task was designed to get them to work as a team, which would help them get to know each other, which would nudge them into love.

Aunt Frances gave me a brief appraising look and reached for her mug. “How about some of this?”

I looked longingly at the beverage, but shook my head. “Too many miles to drive and too few bathroom stops.”

My aunt tsked at me and drank deep.

“Cruel, you are,” I said, pulling out a chair.

“But funny.” She waggled her eyebrows, and I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. “So, what brings you to my humble abode this fine morning?”

I shrugged. “Nothing, really. Just felt like stopping by.” She peered at me and I hurried into a question. “Who’s cooking? Is that bacon I smell?”

Aunt Frances had known me all of my life, and knew that I was throwing out a distraction, but she also knew I’d talk about whatever was bothering me when I was ready.

“It’s Eva and Forrest’s turn this morning,” she said.

My night of half sleep and bad dreams had made my brain sluggish, and it took a moment for me to recall the details on Eva and Forrest. Teachers, I finally remembered, although I couldn’t think where or what they taught. In their mid-forties, divorced. Both did a lot of mountain biking. “What’s on the menu?”

“Straight up traditional breakfast,” Aunt Frances said. “But with the twist of freshly made English muffins and clotted cream.” She smiled at me over the top of her coffee. “Perked up at that, I see. You sure you don’t want a plate?”

I glanced at the wall clock. “No time. Maybe next Saturday.”

“How are things at the library?” she asked. “You’ve had a hard week.”

Via phone calls and texts, I’d kept my aunt apprised of the multitude of events. As always, her deepest concern had been for me, and, as always, I’d begged her not to tell my mother about any of it. But though I could have burst forth with a long litany of concerns and questions, I really didn’t feel like talking. “We’re muddling through,” I said. “How about you?”

Her eyebrows went up. “You think I had a hard week?”

“Busy, anyway,” I said. “With the boarders and all.”

“True,” she agreed, her gaze flicking toward the living room. I had a feeling, however, that she was looking through the walls, across the street and into the house where Otto lived.

“How is Otto these days?” I asked.

She gave the vaguest of shrugs. “He’s busy; I’m busy. We haven’t seen much of each other the past few weeks.”

Which was unusual, because they’d been hand in hand since December. I could hardly think of a time in the past six months when I’d seen one of them without the other. “You miss him, don’t you?” I asked.

“Silly old me,” she said with a wry smile. “Live without a man for decades, and now I hate to have a day go by without seeing this particular one.”

We sat there a moment in companionable silence, thinking about things and not thinking about things. Then I got to my feet. “Time for me to go,” I said. “Eddie’s in the car, waiting, and you know how he gets.”

“Sleepy,” Aunt Frances said. “And if there’s any sunshine on him, he’s probably snoring.”

I laughed. Last winter, my aunt and Eddie had become fast friends. She knew his quirks almost as well as I did.

We reached the front door and went through to the porch. Outside, the sun was shining, the birds were singing, and the road was beckoning.

“Minnie?” my aunt asked. “Are you okay?” Her voice was low and full of concern.

“I’m fine.” I put on a smile. “It’s been a long week—that’s all. I just wanted to stop by and . . . and make sure you’re still here.”

She made a rude noise in the back of her throat. “I’m not going anywhere. It’s too hot in the South, too dry out west, and too humid most other places.” She gave me one last look. “Are you sure there’s nothing I can do?”

I thought, then said, “Well, there’s one thing. Can I . . . can I . . . ?” My voice faltered.

“Can you what?” Aunt Frances asked gently.

I swallowed. “What I’d really like is a big hug.”

“Silly girl.” My aunt reached out and pulled me into her warm embrace. “You silly girl,” she said again, kissing the top of my head.

I did feel a little silly, like a kid again, going to my aunt and expecting that a hug would make me feel better, that some aunt comfort would fix everything.

Silly, yes, but the funny thing was, after a bit, I did feel better.

* * *

“What do you think is going on?” Julia asked, reworking her long hair. We’d just parked at the third stop of the day, in a church parking lot out in the southeast part of the county, and most of the conversation heard on the bookmobile that morning had been shocked questions and theories about the murder and the break-ins.

I watched Julia with a twitch of envy. Her smooth hair smoothly obeyed her long and limber fingers, going easily from a simple ponytail to a tidy bun. If I’d tried to do that with my curly hair, all I’d get was a red face and an unruly mess.

“Mrr,” Eddie said. He stalked down the aisle and set his furry self onto the carpeted step near the nonfiction section.

“Nicely done,” I told him. “You do realize you’re right underneath the books on how to train your dog.”

“Mrr!”

“That’s what I think, too.” Eddie had been even more Eddie-like than usual that morning. He’d insisted on being cuddled by a nice elderly lady wearing a floppy gardening hat, and had literally rolled around on the work boots worn by the foreman of a landscaping crew. Luckily, the guy had found this amusing, but I’d hauled my protesting cat away.

“Chill, already, will you?” I’d whispered. “I know you like footwear and all, but this is the first time this guy has visited us. And that was only because his crew was on break at the house across the street. What are you trying to do, embarrass me?”

Eddie had twisted away and hadn’t replied, which I took as corroboration. If raising children was remotely like having a cat, I wasn’t sure I was ever going to be ready.

Julia patted the back of her head, found two stray hairs, and tucked them in expertly. “Do you have any theories? Because a murder in the library, vandalism of the Friends’ sale room, and a break-in at the bookmobile garage seem far more than coincidence.”

It did to me, too, but I didn’t see how the three events tied together.

“I have an idea,” Julia said.

She’d had lots of ideas already, all of them outlandish, melodramatic, and completely unrealistic. My favorite had been tightly localized earthquakes, though her theory of a malevolent library ghost had come a close second. “What is it this time? Does it involve time travel? Because I’ve always wanted to believe it was possible.”

“It’s one of the library director candidates.”

I opened the back door, letting fresh air waft through the bookmobile. Though Eddie blinked at the change, he didn’t seem inclined to move. “Don’t you start, too,” I said.

“About your application?” she asked. “That is your business and your decision.”

I was about to thank her when she added, “You would make an excellent director and the library needs you, but don’t let my opinion sway you.”

“Of course not,” I said sardonically. “But please tell me how one of the director candidates could be involved with murder and break-ins.”

Julia put her hands behind her back and walked up and down the aisle. Playing the part of an attorney, no doubt, and I wondered in how many productions she’d acted as one.

“Motive is everything.” Her voice was calm and measured, and I steeled myself to disbelieve every word she said. If she tried, Julia would be able to convince a classically trained musician to purchase weekend passes to a rap festival.

“Okay.” I wasn’t sure I agreed one hundred percent, but playing along wasn’t going to hurt anything.

“Let’s say that getting this job means everything to one of the candidates,” she posited. “Let’s say that she—or he—has made commitments and promises and is now in a situation that demands she—or he—become the library director.”

“I don’t see it,” I said. “What could possibly make that true?”

“Use your imagination, young lady! There could be a hundred good reasons.”

I couldn’t think of even one, but Julia had already waved off my objection and was moving on.

“An excellent way to get hired,” she said, “is to demonstrate your value to an organization. All this candidate has to do is ride to the rescue by finding a scapegoat for the murder and the break-ins. Do that, and he’s in like Flynn.”

“Wouldn’t finding a scapegoat be hard?”

This, apparently, was another difficulty not worth considering. “All he needs to do,” Julia said, “is find someone who’s close to being a killer. That will demonstrate his commitment to the library nicely enough to get him the job.”

“What do you think?” I asked Eddie.

He shifted back and forth on the step, leaning left and right, then back to center, but didn’t move his feet.

Julia frowned. “Interpretation, please.”

Most likely he’d had an itch that he’d managed to scratch without going to much effort. “He thinks your idea would be better if it involved a cat.”

“Hmm.” Julia rubbed her chin. “He could be right. Let me work on it.” She grinned. “Unless you want a time-travel version.”

“I’d like to go back to 1978, please,” said a new voice.

Julia, Eddie, and I turned. Lawrence Zonne, a newcomer to the bookmobile, was at the top of the steps, smiling at us. Mr. Zonne’s sharply white hair and the wrinkles on his face were the only indicators that he was an octogenarian. He moved as easily as a twenty-year-old, had vision sharper than mine, and had a memory that rivaled . . . well, everyone’s.

Mr. Zonne had lived in Tonedagana County most of his life and moved to Florida when he and his wife took early retirement. But after his wife died the previous winter, he’d looked around and realized that home was elsewhere. Though I was sorry he’d lost the companionship of his wife, I was glad to have him back in Michigan. His sharp intelligence and wit made every conversation a treat, and, besides, Eddie liked him.

“What happened in 1978?” Julia asked.

“The blizzard, young ladies. Don’t you remember?”

I shook my head. “I wasn’t born yet.”

Mr. Zonne looked at Julia.

“I was living in New York City,” she said. “When it snowed, I stayed inside until it was gone.”

Mr. Zonne eyed Eddie. “And you?”

“Mrr.”

“Exactly,” Mr. Zonne leaned down to pat my cat on his fuzzy head. “Mrrr-low. As in Merlot, my preferred varietal of wine. You are a cat of great discernment, Mr. Edward. My wife and I spent the entire week of that blizzard without a decent wine in the house. If I could go back in time to just before the storm hit, I’d make sure to stock up. Just think how much easier we could have endured the snow and wind and cold with a case of good Merlot. But why, may I ask,” he said, straightening, “are we discussing time travel?”

“We’re not,” I said. “Julia might be, but only to make up another wacky explanation for all the . . . the things that have been going on at the library.”

Mr. Zonne nodded. “An odd litany of incidents. I can see why one would turn to unusual interpretations.”

“Do you have a theory?” I asked.

He smiled. “Of course. However, I regret to say that while I am a man of great memory, my imagination is entirely earthbound. Limited, you might say.”

“Your memory,” I said, “could do us more good than a guess about alien invaders.”

“Hey,” Julia protested. “I never said anything about aliens.” But she looked thoughtful.

“Did you know the DeKeysers?” I asked. “Especially Talia? Because it was her funeral that the murder victim came north to attend.”

“The beautiful Talia,” he murmured. “Yes, I did indeed. She was kind and generous and, to be blunt, a trifle shallow. Not the deepest thinker in the family. But she had a good heart, and what could count more?”

It was my opinion that it would count a little more if you could have a good heart and be a devoted reader, but I just nodded. “Andrea Vennard was Talia’s great-niece,” I said.

“One of the many.” Mr. Zonne nodded. “And if I had a free afternoon and a large sheet of paper, I could sketch out all of Talia’s relatives.”

“Er . . .”

“Don’t worry, Miss Minnie,” he said. “I won’t subject you to all that. But I can share a story or two about the beautiful Talia and the handsome Cal. They were a few years older than me, but their storied romance cast a long and memorable shadow.”

“How did he propose?” Julia asked. “Do you know?”

Mr. Zonne laughed. “He’d asked her father for permission first, as young men did in that day and age, then purchased a ring chosen by Talia’s mother. He took her out in his canoe one fine summer evening, held out the jeweler’s box, and got down on one knee.”

Uh-oh. “Um . . .”

“Miss Minnie,” he said, “I see you know where this is going. Cal, in his efforts to be the gallant swain, tried a little too hard. He tipped the canoe, sending his lady love and himself into the waters of Janay Lake.”

Julia sputtered with laughter and I asked, “What about the ring?”

“Ah, now, there’s the rest of the story,” Mr. Zonne said. “Cal, still being gallant, escorted Talia to shore, settled her down with a blanket from his jalopy, as such things were called, and dove back into the water to find the ring.”

“Good thing it was Janay Lake,” Julia said, still laughing, “and not Mud Lake.”

“That small fact has not gone unnoticed in the DeKeyser family,” Mr. Zonne said. “Many a family gathering has discussed the fate of Talia and Cal if Janay Lake hadn’t had clear water and a rock bottom. As it was, young Cal fished out the ring after a dozen dives, then, dripping wet and panting, once again offered it, on bended knee, to his ladylove.”

An uncharitable thought crossed my mind. If my former boyfriend, Tucker, had dropped an engagement ring in a lake, he would have called the insurance company before going to any great personal efforts.

“Now they’re both gone.” Mr. Zonne sighed gently. “So many are.” He stood for a moment, lost in his thoughts. Then he shook himself and looked directly at Julia and me. “If I can share a small piece of advice with you ladies, make friends with people younger than yourself. Don’t, and someday you might wake up to find that all your friends are gone.”

Julia slung her arm around my shoulders. “One down. How many do I need?”

Mr. Zonne laughed. “You can never have too many, but you know that. You both do.”

We did indeed. I gave Julia a quick hug, then stooped down to pull Eddie up into a snuggle. Eddie, who made friends easier than any human I’d ever met. “What about Talia and Cal’s children?” I asked.

Mr. Zonne slid his hands into his pockets and squinted at the ceiling. “Leslie. Kim. Tom. Kelly. Dave. Melissa. Bob. I think that’s the correct birth order, but don’t hold me to it.”

I assured him we wouldn’t. “Do you know anything about them?” Even the youngest ones were probably older than Andrea Vennard, but in a small town, who knew what slings and arrows had wounded whom?

Mentally, I spun out a scenario in which Andrea had stolen away the younger DeKeyser daughter’s boyfriend, a hurt from which she’d never recovered. She’d snapped when she’d seen Andrea at her mother’s funeral and tracked her down at . . . at the library? I shook my head. Every theory fell apart when you put the library into the mix.

“Most of what I know about them is secondhand,” Mr. Zonne said. “They grow so fast and leave even faster. Talia and Cal invested thousands into college educations for their offspring. They all married years ago and have grown or nearly grown children of their own. If I recall correctly, the girls stayed in Chilson.”

“And the boys?”

“Gone off to find fame and fortune in the wide blue yonder.”

“Did they find it?” Julia asked.

“Depends on what you call success,” Mr. Zonne said. “None of them are millionaires, but they’re all solid citizens, from what I hear. Salt-of-the-earth types who spend time volunteering, donate money to nonprofits, and subscribe to newspapers instead of getting information from blogs.”

He pronounced the last word as a curse, and I had a hard time keeping my grin to myself; Mr. Zonne and I had a difference of opinion on the usefulness of the Internet, and the twain would never meet.

“Anything else?” I asked.

“Nothing that would be useful.”

Julia opened her arms wide. “Give us your all, kind sir. Give us the details, tiny and large, obscure and not, because one never knows what is important until the right moment.”

I looked at her. “Is that a quote?”

“No idea,” she said. “There are bits of so many plays in my head that I haven’t had an original thought since 1987.”

“The year Dave DeKeyser left Chilson for good,” Mr. Zonne said. “And the year van Gogh’s Sunflowers sold for almost forty million dollars.”

I smiled. “Not sure that’s pertinent, but, like Julia said, you never know. Do you remember anything else?”

“The DeKeyser women love to garden,” he said. “From stem to stern and top to bottom, the whole kit and caboodle could spend hours talking about roses, manure, trilliums, invasive species, Gertrude Jekyll, and how to force lilacs to bloom in January.”

“You can do that?” I asked, surprised.

“None of them seem to have any problem,” he said, “but I never had any luck. Forsythia, yes, but not a lilac, not once.”

The three of us started a discussion of Mackinac Island’s annual Lilac Festival, which had ended the previous weekend, and my questions about the DeKeysers faded away from the conversation.

But not from my thoughts.

* * *

Late that night I was sitting at the dining table in my pajamas with a copy of C. J. Sansom’s Lamentation in front of me. Eddie was disgruntled because we weren’t in bed, where we should have been, but there was a good reason, which I had to explain to him every few minutes.

“Stop that,” I said, pushing him off the book for the ten-thousandth time. “This book is compelling and wonderfully written, but it’s also”—I flipped to the back page and read the number at the bottom—“six hundred and forty-two pages long. That’s more pages than you have bits of kibble in your bowl.”

Eddie looked down at the book, then up at me.

“No,” I said firmly. “You don’t need six hundred and forty-two pieces of kibble in your bowl. For one thing, the bowl isn’t big enough. The four hundred and fifty pieces in there are its maximum capacity.” I’d made up the number, but Eddie wouldn’t know the difference.

“Mrr,” he said.

“Exactly,” I told him. “Any book longer than six hundred pages is too big to take to bed. I might fall asleep and drop it on your furry little head, and we can’t have that, now, can we?”

My cat rubbed his face up against the book, leaving a trail of Eddie hair across the rough-cut pages. “Nice,” I murmured, and pulled him onto my lap. One more chapter and then I’d get to bed.

Two chapters and three pages later, my cell phone rang.

I blinked at it, then reached out and flipped it over. Pam Fazio? Why on earth would she be calling at— I glanced at the phone’s time and was startled to see that it was past midnight. Well past.

Huh.

I thumbed on the phone. “Pam? What’s up?”

“Oh, Minnie,” she said raggedly. “I’m so sorry to call you at this hour.”

“No problem,” I said. “Eddie and I were up reading.” I patted the top of my furry companion’s head, making it bob up and down. “What’s the matter?” Because something clearly was. Pam, who was extremely capable and very intelligent, was also one of the most self-reliant people I’d ever met, but her voice was tight and worried.

“It’s a lot to ask,” she said, “but could you do me a favor? Now, I mean?”

I almost made a joke about being willing to do anything for her, as long as it didn’t involve quadratic equations or juggling, and especially not both. But Pam had moved to Chilson not all that long ago, and she was still forming friendships and connections. I knew how hard it could be to insert yourself into the life of a small town, so I said, “Absolutely not a problem. What do you need?”

“A ride.”

I blinked. “To somewhere or from somewhere?”

“To home,” she said. “From . . . from the hospital.” And then the brave and capable Pam Fazio did something that shocked me.

She started crying.