Gone With The Whisker

Chapter 13

Julia’s disbelief had been a bit wounding, so on the way home I vowed to be kinder and more patient with my niece.

“Have I forgotten what it’s like to be a teenager?” I asked Eddie as we made the short drive from the library to the marina. “Can’t be. It wasn’t that long ago.”

“Mrr?” he asked.

“Well . . .” I did the subtraction and came to the stunning realization that it had been sixteen years since I’d been a teenager. How could that be? I did the math backward, adding instead of subtracting, and came up with the same number. “Okay, it was a while ago,” I said lamely, “but it doesn’t feel like it.”

In fact, some days it took very little to summon the self-consciousness that had plagued me all through middle school and most of high school. And if I was going to be completely honest, hadn’t yet faded away to memory.

“Mrr.”

“Thanks, pal,” I said. “I love you just the way you are, too. Although I wouldn’t mind if you kept your hairs to yourself a little more, and—”

“Mrr!”

Smiling, I parked in my reserved spot and carried Eddie inside, all set to have a nice long sympathetic chat with my niece. “Kate, what do you think about . . .”

But I was talking to an empty room. I glanced up at the whiteboard, and lo and behold, she’d written something up there.

Closing at Benton’s tonight. Back by ten.

“Well, there you go,” I told Eddie as I let him out of his carrier. He leapt up to the dashboard and ignored me in favor of watching a flock of seagulls.

He remained on the dashboard while I changed into shorts and a T-shirt, was there when I left to go up to the house to work with Rafe on painting stairway risers, was there when I got back as the sun was setting, was there when Kate got home, and was still there when I left in the morning.

I patted him on the head as I left. “Are you stuck?” I asked softly, because Kate was still sleeping.

“Mrr,” he said quietly, which I took to mean, “Don’t be ridiculous. I just happen to like it here for the time being.”

“You are so weird,” I told him, and headed up to the library with Eddie’s heavy gaze tracking me up the dock. “Well, he is,” I said to the world in general, in case it happened to be listening. Eddie’s weirdness was a solid fact, but maybe broadcasting it wasn’t the way a loyal cat companion should behave. A quality cat caretaker would probably also provide better treats. And brush him twice a day. And never trim his claws.

“Fat chance,” I said, drawing a curious look from Cookie Tom, because by this time I was halfway through downtown.

He was, as always this time of morning, out sweeping the sidewalk in front of his bakery. He cocked his head at my comment and stopped, mid-sweep. “Anything I want to know about?”

I slowed, but didn’t stop. “It’s our new phone system. There’s a glitch with the connection between the VOIP messaging and the ISP—”

“Have a nice day, Minnie,” Tom said, and went back to his sweeping.

Grinning, I walked on. At some point Tom would catch on that I didn’t have a clue what I was talking about when I babbled tech-speak, but for now it was kind of fun.

But what wasn’t much fun was that I also didn’t have a clue how to find a connection between the deaths of Rex and Nicole. I sat at my desk and woke up my computer, wishing I could wake up my brain.

While I was waiting for the computer, I spun around in my chair and looked at the wall calendar I’d purchased from a local nonprofit. Each month had a different photograph of the region, and this month’s was of Chilson’s fireworks from the previous year.

I sighed, remembering what had happened this Fourth of July, then sat up straight. Maybe if I studied the books Nicole and Rex had checked out that last time they’d both been on the bookmobile, I’d see something . . .

But that didn’t make any sense. I slumped back. How could the book checkouts possibly mean a thing? Still, I didn’t have any other ideas, so I launched the software and, elbow on the desk and chin in hand, started looking backward in time to see if the two had any books in common.

They didn’t, of course. Rex had read nonfiction almost exclusively, while Nicole read a wide variety of fiction, including a smattering of legal thrillers.

I sorted their choices by date, Dewey decimal, copyright, and everything else I could think of, but saw nothing that meant anything, at least not to me. Though I hadn’t expected to find anything, I was still disappointed that nothing had turned up, and—

“Hang on,” I murmured. Because there was more to review than book choices. I could also look at who else had checked out books the last time Rex and Nicole had been on the bookmobile together. Maybe there was another bookmobile patron who had crossed paths with both Rex and Nicole. Yes, I tended to think all bookmobilers were fine and upstanding citizens, but maybe there was an outlier, an anomaly, someone who wasn’t honorable, and maybe there was . . . something.

Knowing it was a long shot, I pulled up the day and stop. And sat back in my chair, staring at the screen.

I’d forgotten all about Violet Mullaly.

The first time I’d met the indomitable and irrepressible Violet had been early spring, and I’d just driven the bookmobile through ten miles of sloggy mess of rain and snow and slush. Which was no excuse for anything, but might explain why, when Violet completely rejected every single one of the books I suggested she might like, I formed an opinion of her personality and character I had yet to revise.

It wasn’t fair, of course, and I was still trying to find a way to like the irascible forty-ish woman—we had many things in common, or at least we were the same height, which should have been a special bond—but every time I saw Violet striding down the road to the bookmobile stop, I made every attempt to be busy when she came aboard.

Julia found the situation amusing, and had no problem saying so every time Violet left. “It’s nothing personal; she’s horrible to everyone. Think of her as a character in a play,” she said, turning her palms upward in a stage gesture of openness. “A minor character who wreaks havoc in the lives of everyone else. Or think of her as a foil to display the fine qualities of the other characters.”

“I’d rather not think of her at all,” I said later that afternoon as I drove out of Chilson. Though the day had started out with blue sky, a thick bank of clouds had been creeping across from west to east, and now rain was starting to splatter on my windshield.

When I’d remembered that Violet and Nicole and Rex had been on the bookmobile at the same time, I’d spent some time trying to think of reasons for Violet to commit murder. I hadn’t come up with anything I could take to Detective Inwood, or even Ash, but that didn’t mean there couldn’t be something.

Maybe there was some long-running Hatfield and McCoy thing between the three families and Violet was carrying out her grandfather’s dying wish. Maybe she was a wannabe poet, and Rex and Nicole had seen her copying something out of a book that she was trying to get published as original work. Or maybe Kate had been on the right track with the hired killer idea, and Violet was the hiree.

Because Violet as the killer had a certain appeal. And maybe she had a darker personality than I’d ever suspected. Maybe her angry nature rippled out to widespread anger against humanity, and maybe that day on the bookmobile had tipped her over the edge.

But even as I mentally played with the concept of a murdering Violet, I was ashamed of myself. Bad Minnie, to think someone I didn’t get along with could more easily be a murderer than someone I liked. And an even worse Minnie to want to think of someone who rejected every book I recommended as a killer.

“I’m a horrible person,” I said, glancing over at Eddie.

But Eddie wasn’t there. He was back at the houseboat, probably still on the dashboard. And Kate was hanging out with one of our nearest marina neighbors, Louisa Axford. Louisa and her husband, Ted, were in their early sixties and spent a large chunk of most summers in Chilson on their boat.

Though we hadn’t seen much of them the previous year due to the birth of a grandchild, this summer the Axfords had convinced their daughter and son-in-law that they wouldn’t let the toddler drown and had brought the child north for her first Chilson summer. Kate, in what I’m pretty sure was an effort to avoid spending time with me, had volunteered to help entertain the youngster, and seemed to be happy learning the ins and outs of caring for a tiny human.

“Better her than me,” I murmured to the absent Eddie. Cleaning litter boxes was as much caretaking as I wanted to deal with at this point in my life. What I wanted to do most right now was find a connection between Rex Stuhler and Nicole Price, something that would prove to Detective I’m-so-smart-and-you-aren’t that they should be looking for one killer and not two.

“There has to be a link,” I said, mentally inking Violet onto the list of suspects and vowing to learn more about her later.

During lunch, I’d availed myself of the opportunities provided by the good taxpayers and commissioners of Tonedagana County and used their online Geographic Information System to find the location of the cabin owned by Nicole Price’s family. Luckily, she’d once mentioned her maiden name—Rodriguez—and joked that she’d married Dominic because his last name was short and sweet. “Just like him,” she’d said.

I swallowed down tears at the memory, and concentrated on traffic. Which was a total of one pickup truck at that point, but you never knew when someone might drop their cell phone and swerve. This focus kept me from dropping into heaving sobs, and I thanked every vehicle on the road between there and the gas station/convenience store that was my final destination.

It was one of those classic Up North places, clean but worn at the edges, all the coolers full of beer and soda, all the shelves only one product deep. It was also halfway between Rex and Nicole’s houses and stood an excellent chance of being a point of contact for the two of them.

The kid behind the counter made brief eye contact and said something that, if I’d been required to spell the word, would have been “Uhnh,” but which I decided to interpret as a sprightly, “Good evening, how can I help you?”

“Hi,” I said, smiling and ready to trot out the story I’d concocted on the drive. “My name is Minnie. I drive the bookmobile.”

The kid just looked at me. My smile got a bit fixed, but I kept going.

“Anyway, I’m sure you know that two of your customers recently died. They were also bookmobile patrons, and I was wondering if anyone was putting together a fund for flowers, or a contribution.”

But he was shaking his head. “I just started working here. This is, like, my second day. I don’t know anyone that’s dead.”

Not a situation I’d anticipated. “Well, who’s the person who worked here the longest? And when would she or he be working next?”

“Dunno. Like I said, I just started here.” He shrugged. Then, when I kept looking at him expectantly, he sighed. “Guess I could leave a note.”

“That would be great,” I said, beaming. “Thanks so much.”

“Yeah. Sure. Uh, have a good night.”

I drove away, pleased with myself, but when I reached the Chilson city limits, I realized something. The kid hadn’t actually reached out a hand to find a pen and paper. Sighing, I guessed the odds that he’d write anything down as unlikely at best. I parked the car and headed to the houseboat, where I could see that Eddie was indeed still on the dashboard.

“It’s hard to find good help,” I told him through the window.

“Mrr,” he said. “Mrr.”

I went inside, dropped my small purse on the counter, wrote At the house on the whiteboard, and headed up to spend the rest of the evening with Rafe. As I hurried down the dock and onto the sidewalk, I heard something I hadn’t ever heard before—giggling noises coming from my niece.

“Huh,” I said, slowing down to walk on my tiptoes, which was the only way I could see over the edge of the Axfords’ boat and onto the deck. Yep, there was Kate and the kid, playing what I vaguely remembered as patty cake.

The sight made me happy and sad at the same time. Happy Kate was enjoying herself, but sad that she never seemed that happy around me.

“What am I doing wrong?” I asked Rafe.

My beloved was in the downstairs half bath, standing on a ladder with his back to me and his attention fully on the ceiling. He had a small hand-held light in his hand and was peering at the trim he’d recently installed. “You want a list?” he asked.

I should have been ready for that response. It was the same one I’d given the other day when Rafe had watched Eddie bounce from one piece of furniture to another for no apparent reason and asked, “What is wrong with that cat?”

So, yes, I should have been prepared, but somehow I wasn’t, and felt as if I’d been slapped. Down in the base of my throat I could feel tears forming and I whirled around. I had to get away, find a dark quiet spot where I could—

Rafe, who magically managed to get down the ladder, across the room, and to the door before I did, put a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Minnie, please talk to me. What’s wrong?”

My hand was on the doorknob. I stood there for a moment, swallowing down silent sobs. When I thought I could speak without my voice quavering, I said, “Honestly? Nothing.” Though this was technically true, it was also completely wrong. I sighed. “But really . . . everything. It’s all messed up, from top to bottom.”

To Rafe’s great credit, he didn’t make fun of me for my mixed messages.

“Come here,” he said, and pulled me close. “First off, we’ll do this hugging thing. And if that doesn’t help—though I feel sure a quality hug will knock the edge off—we’ll move to the next step.”

“What’s that?” I asked, my voice muffled against the front of his paint-spattered T-shirt, a shirt commemorating the 1998 Chilson High School regional champion football team.

“All in good time, my little pretty. All in good time.”

Rafe was competent at many things and highly skilled at even more, but he did horrible imitations, and his rendition of the Wicked Witch of the West was downright awful—nasal and screechy.

I giggled, which was no doubt his intention. “That was horrible,” I said, pulling away.

He pulled me back. “Not done yet,” he murmured at the top of my head.

It was a long and calm moment, standing there. I felt the beat of his heart, the warmth of his skin, and the stirring of my hair as his breath rustled my curls. “Thank you,” I whispered, holding him as tight as I could.

“All part of the service.” He leaned down to kiss me. “Do you want to talk?”

“You know what? I can think of something else I’d rather do,” I said, tipping my head back for a longer, deeper kiss.

* * *

“What’s the matter with you?” Julia asked.

I was in the middle of a huge yawn, and before I could finish it and reply, she added, “I’ve been counting, and that’s the three thousand and forty-second time you’ve yawned this morning and it’s only ten. Are you getting sick?”

I smiled. “Nope. I was just . . . out late, that’s all.”

Julia studied me over the top of her reading glasses. “Why, you little minx.”

“Minx?” I rolled my eyes. “Don’t tell me you’re on a P. G. Wodehouse kick again.”

“There are worse things,” she said. “But this weather isn’t one of them.” She opened the door, letting in the smell of sunshine and summer, and breathed deep. “Would we love summer so much without winter?”

“Mrr.” Eddie jumped from the console to the top of the front desk to a shelf of Young Adults, to the ground, and to the parallelogram of sunshine by the door. “Mrr,” he said, flopping down and managing to keep every one of his appendages—including his tail—in the sunlight.

Julia and I watched him arrange himself. “A cat of many talents,” she said. “But what is he like when he’s angry?”

“A lot like this, only noisier.” But Julia’s question reminded me of yesterday’s research. “Question for you. What do you remember about the bookmobile stops before the Fourth? Specifically, the one by the detour.”

“Rex and Nicole’s last visit,” Julia said, her voice sad and slow. “We already talked about this and didn’t come up with anything.”

“Let’s try and think about it differently. Yesterday, I looked up the checkouts from that day. Rex, Nicole, and Violet Mullaly all took out books. I remember they were all here, and that Nicole stayed the entire time, and didn’t seem to want to go when we told her we had to leave, but I took Eddie out for a kitty rest stop. When we were outside, did anything happen?”

Julia pushed the toe of her flip-flop against one of Eddie’s back feet. He ignored her. “That’s right, you were both gone. You missed the whole thing.”

“Missed what?”

“Violet being Violet.” Julia stood and, using her muscles and some acting magic, became someone else completely. Not quite Violet, but a very reasonable facsimile.

“How can they both be gone?” she queried in a high tone. “I specifically wanted to borrow those books!”

Julia relaxed, turning into herself again. “I’m sorry, Violet, but they’ve both been checked out. If you’d like, I can put your name on the wait list.”

Back in Violet-shape, she said, “I don’t want to wait! I want to read them this weekend! Who checked them out? I bet I can talk them into letting me have my books for a few days.” Julia-Violet glanced around. “You! You have my book!”

Julia shook her head and returned to herself. “It went downhill from there.”

“So who had the books?” I asked.

“Rex had the new Malcolm Gladwell book.” Julia grinned. “He ignored her completely, which drove her nuts. And I never looked to see who had the other one.”

“Do you remember what book it was?” I walked to the front computer.

“One of the Tana French titles.”

I typed the author’s name into the computer and the list popped up in front of me. Most were still on the shelf, but two were checked out. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

Julia shrugged. “We got busy and I forgot. Plus I know she’s not your favorite patron and I didn’t want to make her more of an unfavorite. Why fan the flames?”

Why indeed? But when I clicked to see who’d checked out the Tana French book, I got a chill. The name was Nicole Price.

* * *

Word had oozed out that Nicole’s death was murder, not a sad drowning accident, and I spent too much time the next morning with people who thought they were being funny when they asked if I was the one who’d killed her.

Well, it was one person, but Denise Slade could make you feel as if you’d given a presentation to a large and unforgiving audience.

“Really? Another one?” Denise shook her head and chuckled. “You’d think we were living in Cabot Cove.”

Though I wasn’t sure I’d been born when the old television show Murder, She Wrote had aired, the reference wasn’t lost on me. I managed to smile at Denise. “You could suggest a name change at the next city council meeting.”

She snorted. “That bunch of old fogies won’t change anything unless they’re forced to. But you.” She pointed at me, her stubby index finger ending six inches from my collarbone. “I’m starting to wonder about you. What better killer than the mild-mannered bookmobile librarian?”

I gave her what I hoped was a sly and wolfish grin. “Then you’d better be careful. You never know when I’ll snap.”

Denise threw her head back and laughed. “That will be the day. I hope I’m around to see it.” Still laughing, she moseyed off in the direction of the Friends of the Library book sale room.

I tried to squash my unprofessional impulse to make a face at her back, but I must not have been successful, because behind me I heard the quiet giggles of a woman in her early seventies. I turned around and faced Donna, who was at the front desk and had heard every word. “Why,” I asked, “does being called mild-mannered irritate me?”

She smiled. “You wouldn’t have been if I’d said it. Or Holly. Or Josh. Or anyone else other than Denise. It’s a reaction to the speaker of the words, not the words themselves.”

This made me feel better, so as a sort of reward, I asked for her opinion on an issue I really didn’t want to talk about. “You’re about the only one,” I said, “who hasn’t told me what you think should be done with Stan Larabee’s money.”

“There’s a reason for that.” Donna pointed at the ceiling. “My opinion won’t make a spit of difference when the board decides. So why bother talking about it?”

She was right, but that wasn’t keeping anyone else on the staff, including me, from dreaming. I wished the board had asked for staff opinions, but they hadn’t, so there wasn’t much point in forcing them to listen to us. “Still,” I said. “You must have a preference.”

“Well, if you insist . . .” Donna pursed her lips and gazed off into space. “Did you realize,” she said, “that Tonedagana County’s most populous demographic is people over the age of fifty? And that it’s our only age group increasing in population?” Her face lost its faraway look and she fastened her gaze on me. “Wouldn’t it be great to have the biggest, best, most recent collection of large print books in the area? Even the entire state?”

“Um, sure.” I didn’t know where we’d put it, but the idea was attractive.

“Think of it, Minnie.” Excitement colored her voice. “Think of what a draw that would be. Yes, I know, e-readers let you bump up type sizes, but lots of the elderly prefer print, and I even know kids your age who like to read large print books while on the gym’s treadmills.”

“Really?” The concept of going to a gym was foreign to me, but if I could read while I was working out, maybe there was a reason to go. I told Donna I’d present her idea to the board if I got an opportunity—unlikely, but you never knew—and headed to my office, where a multitude of tasks awaited me.

“E-mails to answer before I sleep,” I said, smiling at my reworking of the Robert Frost poem. It didn’t quite scan, but it wasn’t bad.

The door to the stairway opened and Graydon came through, coffee mug in hand. “Good morning,” I said. “Guess what, I have another staff idea for Stan’s money.”

“Oh?” Graydon slowed.

“I’m making a list,” I said. “Just in case the board asks.”

He nodded. “Excellent plan.”

Which didn’t sound like he’d be willing to take the list to the board, but at least he knew the list existed. “Say, when you have a minute, could I talk to you?”

“Sure,” he said. “Just come on up. My door is always open for you.”

“Well, it’s something personal.” I inched closer. “My niece. Kate. I’ve mentioned her before and I could really use some advice on—”

He snapped his fingers. “Minnie, I am so sorry, but I forgot. There’s a phone call I have to make.” One quick U-turn, then he was back through the door, and his footsteps headed up the stairs.

“That was weird,” I said to the empty air. But weird bosses were something I was used to, so I shrugged and went to my office. To answer e-mails.

* * *

My most fun task for the day was Reading Hour up at Lakeview. The Medical Care Facility had a list of volunteers that read out loud to a group of residents, and I’d long ago signed up to be part of the rotation.

Since difficulties with short-term memory were an issue for many of the residents, the books were read as quickly as possible, and I started compiling a list of shorter books for the group to choose from. Max, of course, always voted for anything by John Sandford, but to date he’d been outvoted every time. Though he tended to grouse that he was being discriminated against, he always showed up to listen, no matter what book was chosen, a habit of which I tended to remind him every time he complained.

“Tell me,” he said as we entered the living room–style space where the group met, “what book would you want read to you?”

“Today? Or when I’m your age?”

He looked up at me and squinted. “Hmm. You will be a very hot-looking old lady, Miss Minnie.”

Since I’d never been high on the “hot” scale ever in my life, I didn’t see going higher as I aged. Not that I cared. Well, mostly. “How do you figure?”

“Because as you get older, your character gets more and more visible.” He made a horrible face. “Remember when your mother said not to make faces because someday it’ll freeze that way? She was right. Oh, sure, you laugh at me now, but look around. You’ll see what I mean.”

“Okay, I promise to look. But I don’t remember seeing any twisted-up faces. Certainly not in the book group.”

By this time we were entering the room where the group assembled, and Max suddenly started coughing. Hard. Concerned, I turned to look at him, and saw that he was holding his hand to his mouth, but was also using his index finger to point.

“Face,” he gasped out between what I now understood to be a completely fake cough. “Her.”

I patted him on the back. “Wow, Max, that’s quite a cough. Maybe I should call the nurse. She’ll probably take you back to your room and you’ll miss Reading Hour, though.”

Max gave one final guttural cough. “I’m feeling much better, thank you,” he said, glaring at me. “How about you, Doris?” he asked the woman to whom he’d been pointing. “How are you feeling today?”

Doris, white-haired and thin, with a crocheted blanket across her wheelchaired lap, frowned. “How could I be anything but awful? I’m in here, aren’t I? Imprisoned by my ungrateful children who are far too busy to stop in and see their mother.”

During my visits to the facility, I often crossed paths with other visitors and it was easy to fall into conversation with folks you saw more than once, so I happened to know that Doris’s two sons came by weekly and her daughter stopped in two or three times a week. Plus, Doris had multiple medical issues that made home care difficult, and, her youngest son had said, “This was what Mom wanted. Didn’t want to be a burden on any of us, she said. And now . . .” He’d shrugged.

Max waggled his eyebrows at me and tapped the corner of his mouth. I looked at Doris and, now that she’d stopped talking, saw what he meant. The down-curved lines she’d made in her face when talking were still there when she wasn’t. Her face had indeed frozen that way.

Shaking my head, I settled myself into a chair and pulled the current book out of my backpack; Karen Thompson Walker’s The Dreamers. We had a few minutes to go before it was time to start reading, and people were still trickling into the room. Some walked with the aid of canes or walkers, some pushed their own wheelchairs, and some were pushed by CNAs. The chatter grew in volume, but most of it involved food and medications until I heard someone say, “Did everyone hear about that woman who was murdered?”

I looked up quickly. The speaker was Clella, a woman in her mid-eighties, who’d had a decades-long career as Chilson’s postmistress. Sadly, I’d never known the post office under her control, but I’d heard a story about the diminutive Clella facing down a giant of a man who shouted that if he didn’t get the package that was supposed to be delivered that day, he’d hurt someone. In the end, she had reduced him to apologetic tears.

“What woman?” the man rolling in the door asked. Lowell, the CNA steering the wheelchair, parked the man next to Clella and came around to lock the brakes and flip up the foot plates. I’d met Lowell a few months earlier and had fallen in love with his last name of Kokotovich. He’d laughed at my delight and said it wasn’t so much fun when learning how to spell it at age five.

“Summer folk,” Clella said. “Her family had a place up here since God was in short pants. Used to have mail come general delivery, back in the days when people did that.”

“What was the name?” he asked.

I almost said it, but Clella was talking again. “Her family name was Rodriguez, but she married a man named . . . oh, let me think.” Clella drummed her polished fingernails on her wheelchair’s arm.

“Well, where was she from?”

“Detroit area,” Clella said absently, the pink fingernails continuing to tap out a rhythm. “She was a high school teacher, school name is the same as the town, starts with an M. Macomb, Madison Heights, Melvindale, Milan, Milford . . .”

I smiled at her alphabetic recitation. A woman after my own heart.

“Monroe!” she announced. “Nicole. From Monroe. Don’t remember her married name, though.”

Lowell, who had started to stand, froze in place. “Price,” he said. “Her last name is Price.”

Everyone turned to look at him. He flushed. “I used to live there. A long time ago.” He gave a brief nod and hurried out.

I watched him go. A long time ago, he’d said. But Lowell was in his mid-twenties, so how long ago could it have been? And how long had Nicole been in Monroe? Though Monroe was a big city by Up North standards, it was a small town for downstate. Was there a connection between Lowell and Nicole?

It certainly seemed as if there could be.

And it was up to me to find out.