Gone With The Whisker

Chapter 8

There were still a couple of hours before I needed to show up at the library, so I did a Minnie-size U-turn and aimed myself downtown. If I could manage a few minutes with a detective or two, I’d save myself having to call or e-mail or text. Plus, if I showed up at their front door, it was harder for them to ignore me.

“Now that’s an evil smile,” Pam Fazio said. She was sitting on the front step of her store, which was one of the three places Kate was working. Pam was originally from Ohio, had retired early from a successful corporate career, and was now the successful proprietor of Older Than Dirt, with its eclectic collection of antiques, kitchenware, and shoes.

“Evil is in the eye of the beholder,” I told her. “What does that say about you?”

She hoisted her coffee mug in my direction. “That I’m a remarkably good judge of character.”

I laughed, and since it was a beautiful morning and I had time, I asked, “Any chance I can mooch a cup of that?” There was indeed, and two minutes later I was sitting in the sun next to Pam, sipping her outstanding brew. It had been Pam’s post-retirement vow that she would, every morning, drink a cup of coffee outside in the fresh air, and to date she’d done so, if you counted her home’s unheated glass porch as outside, which I did when the temperature was below freezing.

After chatting about this and that, I summoned the courage to ask the question for which I wasn’t sure I wanted an honest answer. “How’s it going with Kate?”

Pam’s face had been buried in her mug, and when she came up for air, she was . . . smiling?

“It’s only been a few days, but I can tell she’s going to be outstanding,” Pam said. “Shows up on time, stays late, works hard, bends over backward for customers. And she’s funny.”

No, she had to be talking about someone else. “Kate’s funny?”

Pam laughed. “Haven’t you ever heard her imitate—”

“Are you the owner of this place?”

Pam and I looked up at the couple standing in front of us. The male looked about fifty, she looked a few years younger, and they both looked cranky.

“That’s me,” Pam said, smiling. “And if I recall correctly, you’re Nandi and John Jaquay. What can I do for you?”

I pricked up my ears. This was the couple who had given Rex Stuhler such a hard time? Interesting.

“We’re returning all of this,” John said, pointing with his chin at the bags they both held. “None of it works in our house like you said, and we want a full refund.”

“Okay.” Pam eased to her feet. “Well, come on inside and I’ll take a look.”

“There’s nothing to look at,” Nandi said loudly. “Here’s the receipt. Just give us our money back, cash is fine, and we won’t report you.”

“Oh?” Pam’s eyebrows went up and she glanced in my direction. I gave her a quick wave and a nod good-bye. Pam had genius-level conflict management skills, so I had no doubt she’d come out of this situation with flying colors.

Thinking, I made my way to the sheriff’s office, where a new deputy showed me into the dragon-less interview room and told me to make myself comfortable, because both Detective Inwood and Deputy Wolverson were in another meeting.

“No problem,” I said, pulling a copy of Josephine Tey’s The Daughter of Time from my backpack.

The deputy blinked, then she smiled. “That’s right, you’re the bookmobile librarian, aren’t you? Brynn talks about you all the time.”

“Brynn Wilbanks?” I let the book drop to my lap. “How do you know her? And how is she? We haven’t seen her in months.”

And I’d been concerned, because the seven-year-old Brynn was in remission from leukemia. At least I hoped she was. Brynn was the primary reason Eddie was a fixture on the bookmobile. When Eddie had stowed away on the vehicle’s maiden voyage, I’d initially vowed it would be a one-time deal. But Brynn had also discovered the bookmobile kitty. On the second Eddie-less trip, she’d been so disappointed at his absence that she’d dissolved into tears and that was that.

The deputy said Brynn’s mom was her cousin, that Brynn was fine, and that the family had moved to Charlevoix.

“Next time you see them, tell them Eddie and I say hello.” I sat back, smiling. Brynn wasn’t sick; they’d just moved, and I hadn’t heard the news. Easy explanation, nothing bad at all. Sometimes it happened.

“Hey,” Ash said, sliding into the seat opposite. “Hal’s in with the sheriff and it sounds like they’re going to be there for a while. Hope you can live with the disappointment of not seeing him.”

“If I die in the night, you’ll know why.” I smiled. “Thanks for making time for me. I was walking past and thought I’d pop in to see if there’s anything new on Rex’s murder.”

Ash glanced out the open door and hitched his chair a little closer. “I can’t see how it would hurt to tell you this. Remember Rex’s wife, Fawn? We’re back to considering her a suspect.”

“How?” I frowned. “She had an alibi.”

“Not all alibis are created equal,” he said enigmatically. “And don’t bother asking for details, because I’m not going to give any. But I’ll say one more thing; the pest control business was in financial trouble.”

Time ticked along, then my brain caught up. “You think she might have killed him for the insurance?”

Ash smiled and quoted Hal Inwood. “All avenues of investigation are being pursued.”

I flapped my hand at him. “Whatever. But do you know why the business wasn’t doing well?”

“Because they didn’t have enough customers,” he said promptly.

I sighed. “Yes, but why didn’t they have enough customers?”

“Because they weren’t good at getting rid of pests?”

“This,” I told my imaginary audience, “is why I’m here.” I put my elbows on the table and leaned in. “Have you ever heard of John and Nandi Jaquay?”

* * *

By the time I left the sheriff’s office, the sky had clouded up something fierce. Lightning flashed, thunder crashed, and I was glad I’d worn sensible shoes because running in sandals never ends well for me.

I dashed inside the library just as the heavens opened up, and I stood in the entryway, chest heaving, until I caught my breath and could turn back into a calm and collected assistant director. That coolheadedness stayed with me all the way through until the eight o’clock closing time, and persisted until I had to double back to the library to check that I’d turned off the coffeepot.

Which I had, but not being able to remember for sure was going to make me late for whatever Rafe was cooking for dinner at the house. Luckily, he and Kate had been playing a cutthroat game of double solitaire and hadn’t noticed I was late.

After a quick dinner of grilled cheese sandwiches accompanied by the salad masterpiece of iceberg lettuce, one cherry tomato, and shredded cheddar cheese topped with ranch dressing, Kate retreated to the houseboat while Rafe and I sat on the front porch and watched the rain come down. It was a nice feeling, sitting there side by side and hand in hand, and I had a vision of us sitting the same way in front of the fireplace this winter.

“What’s so funny?” Rafe asked, rubbing the back of my knuckles with his thumb.

“Nothing. I’m just happy.”

“There’s an easy way to fix that.” He stood. “Let’s go down to the basement. Now that we’re getting a good rain, I want to make sure nothing is seeping in.”

“So romantic,” I murmured. But in a way, it was. Rafe was making sure the house was safe and sound, which meant we could be safe and sound, and what was more romantic than that?

It might have been the ranch dressing, the rain, or pure serendipity, but the next morning, I woke with an idea of how to come at a motive for murder from a different direction. Rex’s obituary, finally available online, had said he was survived by his parents and that they lived in Chilson, so there was a possibility that either his mom or dad had spent time at the Lakeview Medical Care Facility. Many people did, either as a resident or in temporarily for a stint in long-term rehabilitation. Maybe they were even still there, and maybe I could talk to them and learn more about Rex and Fawn from a parental point of view.

Cade had spent time there after a stroke, and when visiting him, I’d come to know a number of residents and staff fairly well. I also regularly dropped off and picked up books, and there was no reason I couldn’t stop by that very morning to see if there were other ways the library could help out.

I bounded out of bed—or more precisely, I slid carefully out from between the sheets in a way that didn’t disturb a sleeping Eddie—and was ready to go in half an hour. At the houseboat’s door, with a laden cat carrier in hand, I glanced at the sky. Still gray. “Kate,” I asked, “do you want a ride to work?”

“Huh?” She was standing at the kitchen counter, a spoon in one hand as she ate a bowl of cold cereal, her cell phone in the other. “Oh. No. I’m good.”

“If you’re sure. See you for dinner.”

The spoon and phone were lowered. “Who’s cooking?”

I was tempted to say me, just to see the expression on her face, but I resisted temptation. “Aunt Frances. I think she’s making fajitas.”

She nodded. “Okay. I should be there just after six.”

“Great. Have a good day.”

My niece shrugged and the phone and spoon went back up.

“You are dismissed,” I muttered as Eddie and I headed to my car. Had I treated my mom like that when I was Kate’s age? Someday I’d have to ask. Although not now, because it was possible I wasn’t ready for the answer.

At Lakeview, I parked in the shade, cracked the windows, and told Eddie I’d be back in ten minutes. “Mrr,” he said, yawning, and rolled over. I eyed him. “It’s great that you’ll be okay, but sometimes it would be nice if you expressed a little concern for me in my absences.”

His mouth opened and closed in a silent “Mrr,” which made me laugh, and I was still smiling when I walked into the facility.

“It’s Miss Minnie!” A white-haired man in a wheelchair, who had been pulled up to a table with a jigsaw puzzle spread across it, zipped over to me. “But what ho? You are bereft of books!” Max Compton made a display of peering at my empty hands. He looked up at me, his face contorted into an expression of horror. “You’ve come with bad news, haven’t you? You’re making a special stop to let me down gently. Just tell me now,” he said, hanging his head. “Rip off the bandage.”

Max was one of my best friends at Lakeview, and he was a huge fan of books by thriller writers, especially thrillers set in the Great Lakes region. Any day a large print John Sandford book was released was a day of celebration for Max, but it was also a day of fear, because Max was never certain he’d live long enough to finish reading the book.

“Are you sure?” I asked.

His thin chest rose and fell as he sighed. “Do it.”

“Okay, then.” I paused dramatically. “It’s about Sandford’s latest book. It’s . . .” And because I have a teensy bit of a mean streak, I paused again. “It’s almost eight hundred pages.”

Max’s eyes practically bugged out of his head. “Are you kidding?”

“Well, actually, yes. I am.”

He slumped in his wheelchair and put his hand on his bony chest. “My heart . . . my heart . . . I think you’ve pushed me to the brink. The abyss is looming beneath my feet. The chasm is opening . . .”

Though I’d hurried toward him, as he kept talking, I eased back and said, “Max, no one having a heart attack could possibly talk as much as you do.”

He looked at me, still slumped, still with his hand on his chest. “Maybe this is one of those asymptomatic heart attacks.”

“You could be right,” I said. “Just to be sure, let me call nine-one-one. We’ll get an ambulance here in no time and—”

“And I’m suddenly feeling much better,” he said, straightening, and looking for a second like the picture of a younger Max I’d seen in his room, in army uniform, standing with a group of fellow Korean Era soldiers. “The sight of you alone, Miss Minnie, is enough to give an old man palpitations. No wonder I got confused.”

I laughed. “Nice try, Max. But I am sorry I didn’t bring any books.” Then, because he was clearly about to ask me why I was there, I added, “I’m looking for some information and was hoping to talk to Heather.” She was an extremely competent certified nursing assistant and had a wealth of knowledge about Lakeview tucked up inside her head.

“Looking for dirt?” Max grinned and rubbed his hands together. “She’s not going to tell you anything good, you know. All those rules.”

I realized he was right. Privacy rules would no doubt prevent Heather from giving me any of the information I wanted. “Okay. I’ll ask you. If you can keep a secret, that is.”

Max, from his wheelchair, managed to look down his nose at me. “My dear young librarian. I am the soul of discretion. How could you doubt?”

I did doubt, because Max, as my grandfather had said, could talk the hind leg off a donkey, and who knew what he’d let slip? Still, it couldn’t possibly matter that much; anything he knew was almost certainly common knowledge. “Did you know Rex Stuhler?”

“He who was murdered?” Max nodded. “His mother was here for a few weeks after she fell and broke her leg.” He patted his thigh. “Pins and screws and rods all over the place. Rex was the only offspring still in Michigan, and he stopped by every day.”

“Was he . . .” I hesitated, trying to find the right words. “My niece is the one who found Rex’s body. She’s having trouble dealing with it, and I’m hoping that if I can learn more about Rex . . .” I trailed off, since I wasn’t about to tell Max that I was trying to find a killer.

“Looking for closure?” Max snorted. “Not sure what I can tell you. Courtney took Mary home and—”

“Hang on.” I interrupted because sometimes that was the only way to get a word in edgewise with Max. “Mary is Rex’s mom, but who is Courtney?”

“Home health aide,” he said. “Courtney Drew. Skinny kid, long hair in a ponytail so tight she must have an eternal headache. Makes me wince to look at her. She comes in to help move people back home.”

Max kept talking, and I tried to listen, but I was completely distracted by the knowledge that there was a connection between Courtney—she of the spilled pills—and Rex, that Courtney had taken care of Rex’s mom. New information was good, but then there was the big question: Did it mean anything?