Gone With The Whisker

Chapter 12

Staffing the reference desk was, right after the bookmobile, the best part of working at the library. Yes, people came to me with the everyday questions, starting with “What’s the library’s Wi-Fi password?” and the whispered “Where are the bathrooms?” But there were also the fun quests, like “Is there any book that could turn my nine-year-old son into a reader?” and “When did the first fudge shop in Chilson open?” and the search was on. I practically lived for moments like that, and seeing a patron’s face light up when we found the answer was worth every dollar of the student loans I still owed.

Today, however, the building seemed to be empty of everyone except staff and there was little to distract me from my final moments in the sheriff’s office.

“You what?” Ash had sat up straighter, something I wouldn’t have thought possible because he always had better posture than I’d ever been able to achieve with a book on my head.

“Um, fell into traffic. I wasn’t hurt,” I added hastily. Because scrapes couldn’t possibly count as a real injury to anyone except my mother, and since I hadn’t told her about the incident, and since the scrape on my shoulder had healed days ago, the memory of the whole thing was getting a bit fuzzy.

“But someone pushed you,” Hal said. And I knew I was in trouble because he took a notebook out of his shirt pocket.

I often walked along without paying too much attention to where I was and where I was going, but it was a stretch from that to falling into traffic. “I didn’t fall sideways into the street of my own volition,” I said. “Someone pushed me. But what I don’t know is whether or not it was intentional.”

“You’re telling us now? Almost two weeks later?” Ash asked, his voice a little too loud for the small room. “Minnie, why on earth didn’t you mention this earlier?”

I shrugged. “And you would have done what? It was the week of the Fourth, the sidewalks were packed with people, and I didn’t see who pushed me. All you or the city police would have done was file some sort of pointless report, and you had better things to do with your time.”

Hal and Ash exchanged a glance at my “pointless report” comment, and I knew I’d hit a nerve. “So instead of a long report that would have taken hours,” I said, “all you have to do now is make a note in Rex Stuhler’s murder file. Way easier. And . . .” I looked at them beseechingly. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention my falling to anyone outside this office.”

“Like your aunt Frances?” Hal asked.

Ash eyed me. “Like Rafe, Kristen, or anyone at the library?”

Yes, and yes, and now that I was at the library, and my mind was full of Nicole Price, I wouldn’t have minded a distraction and wished fervently for someone—anyone—to ask me any question whatsoever.

Just then, Denise Slade appeared in front of me, feet wide, hands on her hips, scowl in place.

I quickly revised my fervent wish, but it was too late. She was here and would stay until I listened to what she had to say.

Denise had been, once again, voted president of the Friends of the Library, and it was, once again, my job to get along with her. To be agreeable. Some days this was easy, as Denise was smart, capable, and efficient. She also had a personality that would be better suited to foreman of a demolition crew.

“Do you want to know what the Friends think the Board should do with Stan’s money?” she demanded.

In my heart of hearts, I wanted to make a flippant reply. Like the money should pay for a giant statue of Stan (something he would have found appalling) or that it should perpetually fund monthly Big Name author events. Or that it should pay for uniforms that the Friends would wear.

“Of course I want to know,” I said, smiling at the style of uniform I’d already selected. Not everyone would look attractive in horizontal stripes, but Stan had favored bold patterns, so my imaginary design only made sense.

The fifty-ish and fireplug-shaped Denise dragged a chair away from a nearby table, slid it next to my desk, and plopped down. “Well, it’s not an official vote.” She glanced around. “But I’m sure everyone agrees with me.”

“I’d like to hear it,” I said, nodding and doing a mental fist pump for saying something that didn’t overtly agree with Denise yet gave the appearance of congeniality and cooperation.

“What I think—what the Friends think—Stan Larabee’s money should do is build an addition.”

I blinked. “Addition to what?”

“To the library, of course.” She waved her arms. “I told them from the beginning that having our space upstairs was ridiculous, but did they listen to me? No, they didn’t. If the Friends are going to be truly successful, we need to have our book sale room on the main floor, and Stan’s money is exactly what we need to get there.”

“Um.” There were so many things wrong with her idea, I didn’t know where to start. But it also occurred to me that it wasn’t my job to break that particular piece of news to her, so I just asked, “Have you talked to the board about this?”

She harrumphed. “I’m on the agenda for their next meeting, for all the good it will do.”

“You never know,” I said. “And if you don’t get the idea in front of them, they’ll definitely never consider it.”

She muttered agreement, stood, and stomped off. Well, technically she just walked away, but there was something about the way Denise carried herself that made her gait come across as an angry thumping.

I got up to put her chair away and thought about the differences in the two conversations I’d had that morning. I’d told the sheriff’s office about my street-side accident, but didn’t want anyone else to know. Denise had told me about her addition fantasy, and wanted everyone to know.

And then it occurred to me that, though I’d asked Hal and Ash to keep quiet about my not-so-near-death experience, neither one had actually agreed to do so.

* * *

“Fish?” Kate wrinkled her nose, which in person is not nearly as attractive as it sounds. A true nose-wrinkling isn’t just the nose, but includes the entire face and, if you’re really skilled, the neck, jaw, and hairline. Though Kate’s attempt scored a solid seven, she had a long way to go before she could achieve the classic Minnie face my brother had recorded for posterity with his camera the day I’d tried jalapeño peppers for the first time after being told by that same brother that they were “kind of like pickles.” I’d been six years old and still didn’t care for jalapeños.

“It’s walleye,” Rafe said. “Fresh. You’ll like it, trust me.”

I’d kept quiet during this little interchange, as I’d reluctantly come to the conclusion that Kate was more likely to try something if it wasn’t me who was encouraging the attempt.

We were on the front porch, all of our knees knocking against each other as we sat at the small table Rafe had conjured up out of nowhere. Rafe had grown up in Chilson, as had his parents, grandparents, great-grandparents, all the way back to the days of homesteading. His connections in the area were broad and bone deep, and given his twin tendencies of laid-back-ness and a willingness to lend a hand to anyone in need, he could call in favors like no one else I’d met in my life.

“What’s this stuff on it?” Kate poked at the fish with her fork.

Rafe reached back into the cooler and handed out sodas. “Bread crumbs and Parmesan cheese.”

“I like cheese.” It was a grudging admission, but an admission nonetheless, which put it into the Win column.

The two legal adults at the table surreptitiously held their collective breaths as the adolescent deigned to try the food hunted, gathered, cooked, and plated for her. She chewed, swallowed . . . and then went back for another bite. “This isn’t too horrible,” she said.

Not wanting to startle the girl out of her newfound liking for fresh fish—Rafe and a friend had been out on the lake that morning—we kept quiet, but underneath the table, Rafe and I bumped knuckles.

When the fish and accompanying grilled potatoes and red peppers were mostly gone, I realized I’d become so successful at keeping my mind off the events at the sheriff’s office that morning that I hadn’t told Rafe any of it. And Kate should probably hear about it from me instead of hearing it second or third or fourth hand.

“This morning,” I said, “Ash asked me to stop at the sheriff’s office.”

“Oh?” Rafe asked. “Why’s that?”

His tone was casual, but Kate looked at me straight on. “Do they know who killed Mr. Stuhler? Did they arrest someone?”

I shook my head. “Not yet.”

She shrank back inside herself a bit, and my heart ached for her. She needed some good news, but what I was about to say was anything but. “Ash and Hal wanted to tell me about Nicole Price, that drowning victim we found on Stump Lake.”

Rafe and Kate looked up from their plates. “What about her?” Rafe asked.

I did not want to tell them about this; I really truly did not. “Nicole didn’t drown.” I sighed and said the words echoing in my head out loud. “She was murdered.”

“What?” Rafe sat back. “You’re kidding.”

“Don’t I wish. They said the preliminary report from the medical examiner was conclusive.”

“That’s . . .” He frowned. “Well, hard to believe, first off. The two of you make quite the team for coming across murder victims.”

I looked at Kate, but she was still working on her fish. “Can I pull Eddie into this conversation?” I asked. “We would have driven right past Stump Lake if he hadn’t gone into that bizarre howling fit.”

“When all else fails, blame the cat,” Rafe said. “Doesn’t seem fair.”

Clearly, he did not yet understand what living with a cat was like. The man had so much to learn. “No, you blame the cat from the beginning. Especially when the cat is Eddie.”

Kate pushed her plate away. “Was she married?”

“Nicole? Yes,” I said. “Dominic is her husband’s name.”

“What if . . .” My niece pleated her paper napkin. “What if this Dominic and Mr. Stuhler’s wife were having an affair? What if they killed their spouses so they could marry each other? It would be a lot cheaper to do that than to get divorced. That costs a lot and you lose half your stuff.”

Soap opera drama at its finest. I did not look at Rafe. Did not even think about looking at him, because if I did, I might start laughing, and if that happened, Kate would retreat from me even further and—

My thoughts came to an abrupt halt. I’d gone through that same murder-instead-of-divorce thought process not so very long ago. A different scenario altogether, but I shouldn’t laugh at her for having the same idea I’d had. Especially since, if I remembered correctly, when I’d presented my theory to law enforcement, they’d basically laughed at the notion.

I didn’t want Kate to suffer that, so I thought a moment and said, “That possibility wasn’t mentioned this morning. It might be a little melodramatic, but I’ll pass it along to Ash.”

Kate looked up. “You will? Really?”

“Absolutely.” Maybe not right away, and maybe not as a serious theory, but I absolutely would. Someday.

“Cool,” she said, and smiled at me.

* * *

Early the next morning while crunching my cereal as quietly as possible because Kate was still in her sleeping bag, snoring gently, I spent a few minutes in a text exchange with Deputy Ash Wolverson. Early on, it became clear that he did not want to drag Detective Hal Inwood into another meeting with Ms. Minnie Hamilton, even if it did mean fresh baked goods from Cookie Tom’s.

Ash: Anyway, Hal’s wife wants him to drop 20 pounds.

Minnie: One doughnut isn’t going to make that much difference.

Ash: Try telling Mrs. Inwood that.

Minnie: Isn’t she downstate this week with grandkids?

Ash: She has spies. Don’t do it.

I smiled at that, but the spy thing was probably true, and I would have bet it was the sheriff herself who tattled on Hal. Women in an overly male environment tend to stick together, especially when the health of the men in their lives is involved.

Minnie: OK, but I still want to stop by on the way to the library.

Ash: Hal won’t like it.

Minnie: Didn’t figure he would.

Ash: Do you have something new for the investigation?

Minnie (after a pause): A theory.

But not Kate’s soap opera theory, although it was possible the wispy thoughts I’d woken up with had their roots in her ideas. Then again, it might have been Eddie’s cat food breath in my face half the night. One never knew.

Ash (after an even longer pause): Fine.

I could almost hear the sigh as he typed. Before I could thank him, the dots indicating that he was still typing popped up. Then: I can get you 10 minutes, right when he gets here.

Minnie: When’s that?

Ash: 8, straight up.

Minnie: You’re . . .

I glanced at the clock. It was all of five minutes to eight. I finished the text with: getting as bad as Hal, sent it off, slung a sleepy Eddie off the houseboat’s dashboard and into his carrier, and hurried to my car.

Up at the sheriff’s office, I parked in the shade and jogged into the reception area. Ash was waiting for me, arms crossed. “As bad as Hal?” he asked.

I colored a bit. He hadn’t deserved the comment. “What I meant to say was ‘getting as good as.’ Detective Inwood is a highly competent law enforcement officer, and if you’re like him, that means you’re also highly competent.”

Ash, since he knew me well, ignored all that and led me into the interview room, where Hal Inwood was already seated and sipping a mug of coffee. “Ms. Hamilton, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

I sat in my chair. “Did you notice I asked for an appointment?”

Hal eyed me over the top of his mug. “I’m not sure that texting Ash five minutes ago counts as asking.”

Once again we would have to agree to disagree. But I didn’t want to start our conversation with more disagreeableness than necessary, so I gave him a tiny nod. “What I wanted to talk about was the relationship between the murder of Rex Stuhler”—I took a deep breath, because this was the tricky part—“and the murder of Nicole Price.”

There was no movement from Hal. Or from Ash, either, which could only mean he was getting very close to being an official certified detective. A year ago, there was no way he would have kept a blank face after I’d said something like that.

Finally, Hal slid his small notebook from his shirt pocket. His shoulders rose and fell just once as he flipped pages. “You have reason to believe there is a relationship.”

He didn’t exactly phrase it as a question, but I decided it was close enough and nodded again, more decisively this time. “I’m glad you asked,” I said brightly. Which was pretty much a flat-out lie and I was pretty sure that a lie inside the sheriff’s office was worse than most lies. “No,” I said, sighing. “I’m not glad. I kind of wish you hadn’t. How about if we pretend—”

“Five minutes,” Ash said. I shot him a glance, but he just shrugged. “We have a Region 7 meeting in Gaylord at ten and reports to finish first.”

“I’m not trying to waste your time,” I said, a bit tensely. “But I want to make sure you’re considering the possibility that the two murders are linked.”

“In what way?” Hal asked.

This was the next tricky part, because I had no idea how the murder of a local pest control guy by handgun had anything to do with the strangulation of a downstate teacher. So I gave them what I had: my gut feeling. “One unsolved murder is rare in a county this size. That there could be two unsolved and unrelated murders seems beyond the scope of possibility.”

“Yet here we are,” Hal said, tapping his notebook with the tip of his unopened pen.

Ash glanced at his supervisor, then at me. “Coincidences happen all the time, Minnie. You know they do. This is probably just a really sad one.”

The more they disagreed with me, the more I became convinced I was right and they were wrong. “And what if it’s not a coincidence?” I put my fists on the table. “What if these murders are connected? What if there’s someone running around out there that has already killed twice?”

Finally, Hal clicked his pen on and made a mark in his notebook. “Ms. Hamilton, if you’re concerned that you might be in danger, you should file a report.”

“Me?” I blinked. What was he talking about?

“Yesterday,” Hal said patiently, “you told us you’d been pushed into the path of an oncoming car.”

“Oh.” Right. I’d forgotten already. “That’s not what—”

“Then we’re done here, yes?” Hal stood without waiting for an answer. “Deputy Wolverson, better get on that paperwork if we’re going to leave on time. You know how I feel about being late.”

Ash nodded. “I’ll get right on it. See you later, Minnie.”

“Ms. Hamilton?” Hal ushered me out of the room and in seconds I was outside, staring at the closing door with my mouth opening and closing like a gasping fish.

* * *

The bookmobile day passed quickly, but it was overshadowed by the knowledge of what I needed to tell Julia. More than once I started to, but every time I opened my mouth to say something, the words disappeared, or someone came into the bookmobile, or Eddie needed attention. All of which would be summed up into one explanation: I chickened out.

But it had to be done, so as I closed the cat carrier’s wire door on a snoring Eddie, and as Julia finished tidying after the day’s last stop, I told her we needed to talk.

She eyed me over the top of the reading glasses she’d recently taken to wearing. Since she’d never once squinted at the text of a book or held it out at arm’s length, I was pretty sure the glasses were a new prop she was trying on to see how they fit her Bookmobile Lady persona.

“What’s up?” she asked. “You’re not firing me, are you?”

I shook my head, took a deep breath, and started. “A couple of weeks ago . . .” Once I got going, the story of my near-death fall into traffic didn’t take long to tell. Julia showed dismay and concern, and when I got to the end, she gave me a hug.

“That’s horrible, but you’re fine and all’s well that ends well, yes?”

“Yes, but . . .”

She frowned. “But what?”

I sat on the bookmobile’s carpeted step and motioned for her to do the same. “It’s Nicole Price. She didn’t drown.”

Julia’s frown deepened. “Of course she did. She was in the water. What else . . . oh, no.” Her eyes closed. “You’re saying—”

“Yes. She was murdered. The sheriff’s office says there’s no doubt.”

We sat there for a moment. The door was open and sounds of summer drifted in. A breeze, stirring the leaves of a nearby tree. A distant lawnmower. A chirping bird.

“‘O villain, villain, smiling, damned villain!’” Julia murmured, quoting what I was pretty sure was Hamlet.

“And there’s more,” I said. “I think all of these things are connected. Rex Stuhler’s murder. Me being pushed into the street. Nicole’s murder. It just seems too unlikely that all these things could happen without some link between them.”

Julia smiled. “Unlikely things happen all the time. Just ask any lottery winner.”

“Listen to me,” I said, pounding my fists on my knees. “I need you to take this seriously.”

She looked at me blankly. “Why?”

“Because you were here, too. You found Nicole, just like I did. I was pushed into traffic. And so . . . you might be in danger, too.”

A beat of silence tapped past, then Julia asked seriously and deliberately, “Have you have been watching too much television?”

She knew perfectly well that was an impossibility, since my television watching was limited to what I could watch at the boardinghouse due to the marina’s very slow Internet connection. I felt my spine straighten and my chin go up. “I wanted to warn you.”

“Sorry, Minnie. I just think it’s pretty far-fetched.”

I stood. “We need to get going,” I said stiffly.

“Don’t be angry,” Julia said, springing up and pulling me into a hug. “And it’s kind of you to be concerned. Thank you.”

I returned the hug, murmuring that I wasn’t mad. Because I wasn’t, not really.

But I was worried.