Gone With The Whisker

Chapter 16

My niece stared at me over her half-empty plate. “You want me to do what?”

The heat had abated somewhat from the previous few days, and she’d come back to the marina early that morning. Partly because she’d run out of clean clothes and partly because Louisa had texted her, asking for babysitting services until she had to get to work, which would enable Louisa and Ted to run errands approximately ten thousand times faster than if they had a toddler in tow.

Kate had, apparently, been happy to do so, and when she’d returned after a few hours at Pam Fazio’s Older Than Dirt, I’d surprised her with a home-cooked dinner. Okay, it was spaghetti from a box with sauce from a jar, but Kristen had snobbed me up enough, food-wise, to want fresh Parmesan cheese instead of dried, and grating cheese counted as cooking to me.

We’d been eating on the front deck, with Eddie up on the roof keeping an eye on everything. Once upon a time I’d been worried when he’d jumped up there, but I’d laid those worries to rest long ago. He was fine up there. I even joined him, every once in a while, just to get a different view.

I smiled at Kate. “We,” I said, “are going over to visit Barb and Russ McCade tonight. They’re great people and they’re looking forward to meeting you.”

“Why?” she asked, frowning.

“Because they’re friends of mine and . . .” I stopped, because I didn’t have an answer for her. Not one that would make sense to a seventeen-year-old. Because how many high school kids could understand how rare true friendship was? And that the opportunity to grow that circle of friendship was a chance to grab on to? I was mixing metaphors in my head, which was never a good sign for comprehensible conversation, so I simply repeated myself. “They’re friends of mine and they want to meet you.”

Kate grumbled a bit, but after enticing Eddie off the roof by rattling the treat can, she got into my car without further complaint. And when I turned down the long and twisty driveway, she started to look interested in her surroundings.

“This goes to their house?” she asked.

“All the way down to the lake,” I said. “Did it in the bookmobile once.”

“Yeah?” Kate, for once, sounded impressed with her aunt. And when we stopped in front of the McCades’ lovely home, her eyes went wide. “Wow,” she said softly, staring at the fieldstone, the massive timbers, and the wooden front door with the rounded top. “This place is—”

The front door opened. “Minnie Hamilton!” Cade bellowed. “Get over here this minute!”

“Let me guess,” I said as Kate and I approached. “You and your lovely wife are fighting over whether or not a word is appropriate and you need me to referee. No, don’t tell me whose side is whose. Just give me the setup and the word.”

Despite the twenty-some-year differences in our ages, the McCades and I had bonded for life in a hospital room when I entered wholeheartedly into their word game. Rules had shifted over time, but it went something like this: The game started organically (part of the game) through each of them accidentally saying a word starting with the same letter. The winner was the last one to use a word that fit the situation and the loser had to acknowledge this gracefully.

“The letter is G,” Cade pronounced. “The word under consideration is ‘gracious,’ which was preceded by ‘go gargle,’ ‘great galoots,’ and ‘good gravy.’”

“Well,” I said. “Those are all double G words, so ‘gracious’ would have to be paired with another G word, but you can’t use anything that’s already been used. So unless someone comes up with something fast to go in front of ‘gracious,’ I’d say ‘good gravy’ is the winner.”

Cade gave me a smacking kiss on the forehead. “Hah! Did you hear that, Barb?”

“Of course I heard. Everyone within half a mile heard you. You were right and I was wrong. Now let me get a look at the niece.” Barb elbowed her way past her husband and smiled as she pulled her shoulder-length brownish-gray hair into a ponytail. “Kate, it’s nice to meet you.”

The two of them beamed at us. Well, Barb beamed. Cade did what he did, which was inspect the face of any new person he met as if he were selecting paint colors. He peered at Kate, his craggy features and cleft chin deepening in thought and his bushy eyebrows bushing. His hair was now more gray than brown and he was in dire need of a haircut, which usually meant one thing: He was painting, and Barb hadn’t been able to tear him away from his studio long enough to take a pair of scissors to him.

“Kate,” I said, “these are my friends Barb and Russell McCade.”

“Call me Cade, my dear.” He bowed, then took her hand and lifted it to his lips. “Any niece of Minerva’s,” he said, bestowing a gentle kiss on her knuckles, “is a Godsend to the world.”

Kate’s wide eyes stared at him and she snatched her hand back as soon as he let go. “But . . . you’re . . .” she stammered. “You’re that painter.”

“Ah, yes, the price of fame.” Cade smiled. “Yes, I’m that painter.”

“My art teacher?” Kate crossed her arms. “He says you sold out years ago.” I stepped close to her, whispering to mind her manners, but she sidestepped me and kept going. “He says there’s nothing you wouldn’t paint to make a buck.”

“Is that so?” Cade tipped his head back and half closed his eyes. “He could be right. Barb, my darling, shall we go through? We have dessert to serve, yes?”

He moved into the oak-floored foyer. After a moment Kate followed, but I held Barb back.

“I am so sorry,” I said. “This was supposed to be a nice surprise for her. I didn’t know . . .” But what could I say that would make up for hurtful words from someone who should have been a friend?

Barb patted my arm. “He’s heard worse, don’t worry about him.”

“‘Sentimental schlock’?” I quoted a famous art critic.

“‘But quality schlock,’” Barb quoted back, citing another famous critic.

We laughed and went inside. But I made a vow to have a firm chat with Kate on the way home.

* * *

The chat, of course, didn’t go well. As soon as we got back to the marina, Kate hurled herself out of my car and stormed off.

“Where are you going?” I called. It was getting dark and I didn’t want her wandering around by herself.

“Someplace where people don’t think I’m a complete screwup,” she yelled.

I watched as she stomped down the sidewalk and up to the railing of the Axfords’ boat. “Works for me,” I muttered, and immediately felt like the worst aunt, and possibly the worst person, in the world. Sighing, I pulled out my phone. Louisa and I exchanged a short flurry of text messages, during which she indicated that Kate was always welcome and that she (Kate) would be sent home to the houseboat no later than ten thirty, which was the time that my brother and sister-in-law had laid down as Kate’s weekday curfew.

“Well.” I stood in the middle of the marina parking lot and surveyed my options. Go for a walk? Too hot. Go back to the houseboat? Possible, but the undone dinner dishes would be there waiting for me and I was very disinclined to put my hands in hot soapy water until it cooled down a bit. I sent up a short prayer that my mother never learn of my lapse in housekeeping, and walked over to the house, which was where I’d wanted to go all along.

Rafe, sitting on the porch with a sweating can of what I recognized as Keweenaw Brewing Company’s Widow Maker, saw me approach on the sidewalk. “Hey there, honey bunch. How did your night go?”

I climbed the steps and flopped into the chair next to him. “Don’t want to talk about it. But . . . really? ‘Honey bunch’? Where did that come from?”

“No idea.” He leaned over to give me a kiss and, simultaneously, opened the small cooler behind my chair. “Would you like an adult beverage?”

I wasn’t much of a drinker, but every once in a while it was just the ticket. “Do you have a tiny bottle of white wine in there?” Because something cool and light sounded perfect.

“Your wish is my command.” He flourished a small plastic bottle and wrenched the screw top off. “And look, I even have a glass.” Grinning, he poured the pale liquid into a plastic cup of questionable origin. When he handed it over, however, I didn’t see anything floating, and the rim looked clean.

“Did you bring this out here for me?” I asked.

“Sure. Let’s go with that.”

I gave him a look, which he ignored. This meant I could either pursue the issue and learn how the cup had really ended up on the porch, or I could let it go and, for the rest of my life, wonder about the possibilities.

Settling deeper into the chair, I sipped the crisp liquid and listened as he described the progress he’d made with the house. Due to the heat and humidity and the fact that not only did the house lack air-conditioning, we also hadn’t installed any ceiling fans, the progress was limited.

“Is this house ever going to get done?” I asked.

“Don’t be silly,” he said. “Of course it won’t. That’s part of the fun. I thought you knew.”

I snorted. “You and I have vastly different ideas of what constitutes fun.”

“Yes, but I have high hopes that someday you’ll come around and see how funny the bloop joke really is.”

That would never happen, because the bloop joke was horrible. However, I didn’t like to destroy a man’s dreams, so I changed the subject. “I learned something today.”

“Then it’s a good day.” Rafe tapped his beer bottle to my plastic cup. The resultant noise was an odd, soft, and ultimately unsatisfying clunk.

“Yes, but I’m not sure this is useful.”

“Does it have to be?” My beloved yawned.

“If we’re going to help solve these murders, it would be nice.”

At the word “murder,” his yawn snapped shut. “Tell me,” he said, suddenly all ears. “Maybe talking about it will help.”

So I told him about stopping at Rupert and Ann Marie’s house, about how I’d met Courtney there before, and about how I’d realized Courtney was in one of the two vehicles that had driven past the day both Rex and Nicole had been at the bookmobile.

“Not exactly,” Rafe said. “We don’t know for sure it was Courtney. What we know is that someone was driving her car. It might not have been her.”

I drank the last of my wine. He was right, but somehow I couldn’t see anyone else voluntarily getting into that rattletrap. “But I don’t see how it matters anyway,” I said. “Courtney was working the Fourth of July. She couldn’t have killed Rex.”

“Well, even if we’re figuring the two murders are connected,” Rafe said, “there could still be two killers. Isn’t that how the love quadrangle theory would play out?”

Though I wasn’t truly buying the quadrangle thing, he was right about the two-killer concept. But if Courtney was one of the killers, who was her partner? Fawn? Dominic? Barry Vannett? Lowell? Violet? Mason? One of the Jaquays? Both of them? And how was anyone on that list connected to Courtney?

Rafe reached over and took my hand. “Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll figure it out.”

I nodded, appreciating his confidence, and loving him for it.

But I wasn’t sure we were anywhere close to finding the answers.

* * *

Josh poured coffee into my mug. “How much sleep did you get last night?” he asked. “You look like crap.”

“Geez, Josh.” Holly came into the break room, shaking her head. “Hasn’t dating that cute-as-pie Mia taught you anything about women? Hearing we look like crap is the last thing we want to be told, but it’s even worse to say that first thing in the morning.”

“Whatever.” He shrugged. “Minnie doesn’t look too upset about it.”

Mainly because I knew he was accurate. When I’d looked at myself in the mirror that morning, I’d immediately looked away. “If those are brownies in there,” I said, gesturing at the container Holly had just put on the table, “I might be able to forget about my lack of sleep.” My stomach had recovered from the outreach trip, which was good for brownie eating, but not so good for calorie counting. Happily, I wasn’t doing that today.

“Is everything all right?” Holly, who was rattling through the utensil drawer, looked over her shoulder. “You’re not sick, are you?”

“Sick and tired of this heat,” I said. Josh and I hovered as Holly extracted a knife and used it to slice big brownies into the smaller brownies that would equal the number of library employees. “I can’t believe you baked last night.”

“Me either, but the kids were begging, and Bad Mom that I am, I caved.”

“Wish my mom had been as bad as you.” Josh reached for a brownie and yelped when Holly slapped his hand. “Hey!”

“Ladies first,” she said. “And quit that face. Minnie’s a lady, even if you’re too dumb to see it.”

I could see that the conversation was about to devolve into a bickering session, so I tossed up a diversion. “Do either of you know Courtney Drew?”

“The name isn’t familiar. Is she from here?” Josh asked.

Now that was an excellent question. But given her relative youth, I figured the odds were good. “I think so. She’s about ten years younger than us.” I described her, but their faces remained blank.

“There are some Drews over in Dooley,” Holly said. “Could be related. Why are you asking?”

I thanked them, saying that I’d met her out at Rupert and Ann Marie’s. But I was disappointed, because what I’d wanted was firsthand knowledge of the young woman, an assessment of her character, that kind of thing. Also, an estimate as to how likely she was to commit murder.

“How’s Kate doing?” Holly asked.

“Fine,” I said automatically, then took my allocated brownie and fled, because I didn’t feel up to talking about my niece.

But after getting a cup of coffee and Holly’s brownie into me, it turned out I actually did want to talk, because when I went up to Graydon’s office to review the new health insurance rates and saw his family photo on his desk, I asked, “When your kids were teenagers, were you and your wife always worn out?”

Graydon focused on the pile of papers he’d been shuffling through. “Um . . .”

“Because I’m exhausted. How does anyone do this? If you’re not worrying about where they are, you’re worrying about what they’re doing. Or what they’re thinking. Or what they might think or do tomorrow.”

“It was hot last night,” Graydon said. “I’m sure that had a lot to do with it. Now, about this—”

“No, really. How does any parent survive? And there’s something else I don’t get. Every time I talk to Kate, she ends up stomping off like a two-year-old, yet her three bosses are telling me she’s a fantastic worker, and they wish all their employees were that well mannered and capable.”

Graydon nodded. “It’s a conundrum. So these rates. What do you think about—”

“And how on earth can anyone sleep that much? Some days I think I need to take her into urgent care to check for signs of life,” I said, scowling and crossing my arms. “I love her dearly, but I’m not sure I can take much more of this.”

My boss leaned back in his chair. “Minnie, if you have concerns about your niece, you should talk to her parents.”

This was excellent advice and I knew he was right. “But I don’t have any huge concerns, not really. She’s home every night at the time she says”—close enough anyway—“and my aunt says she’s fine. It’s just . . .” What was the problem, at its heart? I swallowed. “It’s just I don’t know how to talk to her.”

“And you want to.” Graydon didn’t make it a question.

“Of course! So . . . what should I do?”

“Minnie, you need to know one thing.”

“What’s that?” I perked up and prepared myself for life-changing advice.

“I don’t give advice on parenting.”

“But—”

He shook his head. “Or aunting, which is close enough. If I give advice and it doesn’t work, you’ll hate me. If I give advice and it does work, you’ll come back to me for more until I give advice that doesn’t work, and then you’ll hate me. It’s a vicious circle and we’re not getting on that particular hamster wheel. Now, let’s talk about something fun, like health insurance.”

“You won’t give me any help?” I asked in a small voice. “At all?”

He laughed. “Okay, but only this once, and only because I like you. Open your high school yearbook. Look at your picture, read what your friends wrote, remember what it felt like to be that age.”

And then we talked about insurance.

* * *

My dreams that night were a jumble of what was on my mind. The bookmobile was towing Kate, who was in a canoe with Eddie, and we were being chased by a mob led by Violet Mullaly. Courtney Drew and my sister-in-law were close behind, followed by the unusual trio of a college roommate I hadn’t seen in years, Mitchell Koyne, and Reva Shomin, who was asking why I hadn’t stopped by the deli lately. Holly was at the rear of the group, brandishing a plate of brownies and yelling that she’d cut them all to the same size so there was no need for everyone to buy rulers.

I surfaced out of slumber partly because the dream was so stupid, and partly because Eddie was lying on my chest and putting his front paw on my nose.

“And good morning to you, too.” I patted his head, which he appeared to enjoy about as much as I’d enjoyed his paw on my face. “That is what you were saying, yes? That it’s a beautiful day in northwest lower Michigan and you’re thrilled that you get to live here with me?”

“Mrr-rr.”

“Exactly,” I said, putting my feet on the floor, which was when I realized the outside temperature must have dropped, because the thought of putting my own self into a hot shower didn’t make me cringe inside. “Did you notice?” I asked Eddie.

“Mrr-rr,” he said.

“What is it with you and the double meow this morning? Did a frog get in your little kitty throat?” I eyed him, but decided against peering inside. “It almost sounds like you’re trying to say something. Mrr-aculous? No, too many syllables. Mirror? Mister? Monster? Mon—” And then I remembered something. Clella, up at Lakeview, had said Nicole taught school in Monroe, Michigan.

“And Monroe,” I said, snapping my fingers, “is where Lauren lives!”

“Mrr!”

“Sorry, you don’t know Lauren, do you? We were roommates my first two years of college, until she decided to go to massage school instead.” And from what I saw on Facebook, she was doing well. “A business, a husband, two children, three dogs. Yeah, sorry about that, buddy, she’s a definite dog person. But she’s nice, honest.”

Eddie rubbed his face against my elbow, so apparently he forgave Lauren her erroneous ways.

I reached for my phone, scrolled through my contacts, and sent her a quick text: Hey there! Have a question. Can I call you later? What time?

Lauren: In five minutes.

Minnie: Awesome! Thx!

Accordingly, right after I finished brushing my teeth, I picked up the phone and called.

“Minnie Hamilton, as I live and breathe,” Lauren said. “What’s the occasion? Life in paradise getting to be too much for you? If you need to come down here and slum a little, we can put you up. Well, if you don’t mind dirt, disorder, and dogs, not necessarily in that order.”

I laughed, delighted at her use of D words. “Why is it we don’t talk more often?”

“Stupid, I guess.”

This was undoubtedly true. But our friendship was the kind that, no matter how long it had been since we’d met, we were back into the rhythm instantly, as if we’d never been apart. It was like that with Kristen, too. And my brother and sister-in-law, come to think of it.

“So what’s up?” Lauren asked. “I’m happy to chat all morning long, or at least until my youngest wakes up, but you said you have a question.”

“Did you know Nicole Price?”

“Nicole . . .” Her voice drifted off, then sharpened. “Hang on, she’s that teacher. The one who was killed somewhere Up North. Did you know her?”

I blew out a breath and admitted that not only was she a bookmobile patron, but that I’d been there to discover her body.

“Oh, Minnie.” Lauren’s voice was full of empathy. “I’m so sorry. Sorry for Nicole and her family, too, of course, but finding someone you know who was murdered must have been horrible.”

I shook away the memory and got to the point of the call. “The weird thing is, a guy I ran into at the local nursing home is also from Monroe, and he acted all weird when I asked him about Nicole.”

“Who’s that?”

“Lowell Kokotovich.”

“Hmm. The last name is familiar, but I can’t place him. How old is he? Mid-twenties, you say?” The phone muffled for a moment and all I heard was Mom comments along the line of “Put that down right now! Do you want me to start counting? One . . . two . . .” She came back. “Sorry about that. My oldest likes to pretend she knows how to use the clothes steamer. Where were we?”

“Kokotovich,” I said, laughing.

“Right. I happen to be having lunch today with my yoga group, which includes the former high school secretary. I can ask her if you’d like.”

I did like, and said so, accompanied by my deep thanks.

When my cell rang just before one that afternoon, I snatched it up. “Lauren, thanks for calling me back.”

“Had to,” she said soberly. “There’s quite a story, and it’s not pretty.”

I clutched the phone tight. “Tell me.”

“Back in the day, Lowell was an excellent all-around athlete, not a star, but good enough to get an athletic scholarship to a small college. He probably figured he was all set.”

Something bad was coming, I could feel it. “Until?”

“Until the last semester of his senior year. He was taking a government class, but wasn’t taking it seriously, if you know what I mean, and he flunked. But it was a required class, so it kept him from graduating on time, and kept him from going to college on that scholarship.”

“Nicole taught the class?”

“You were always the smart one,” Lauren said. “The ugly part is that when Lowell found out he’d flunked—at that school the seniors get their grades before the underclassmen finish up—he barged into Nicole’s classroom and screamed that she’d ruined his life. On his way out, he slammed the door so hard it bounced open again. Nicole had been headed toward the door by that time and it caught her on the shoulder. She hadn’t been ready for it, of course, and fell and hurt her back.”

“Oh, no,” I breathed.

“Yeah, it was a real mess. Nicole ended up with horrible back pain, and, as you can imagine, lots of lawyers got involved.”

I thanked her again, and we chatted a bit longer, vowing to talk more. Afterward, I sat quietly, thinking about what I’d learned. Nicole had a chronic back injury. No wonder she swam for exercise. No wonder she’d so often looked unhappy. She hadn’t been innately cranky; she’d been suffering.

It was indeed an ugly story. And one I needed to pass on to Detective Hal Inwood.

* * *

I’d worked through lunch with my cell phone turned up on my desk so I wouldn’t miss Lauren’s call, and now I felt a sudden need to get out into the sunshine. Every library day I tried to get outside right after lunch, and there was no time like the present. As I breezed past the front desk, I nodded to Donna. “Headed out for my walk, but I’ll be back soon.”

“That’s what you say now,” Donna said, nodding gravely. “But with that nasty humidity gone, I’d take advantage. It’s supposed to heat up again this weekend.”

“Oh, ew.” I made a face. “Then don’t worry if I don’t come back until tomorrow.”

Donna laughed. “Don’t worry, I’ll cover up your dirty little secret.”

My steps, which had heretofore been brisk, slowed a bit. Did everyone have a secret they wanted to hide? Possibly. Even probably. And some people surely had more than one. But how serious were the secrets? How desperate might someone be to cover theirs up?

I wondered all that as I walked through the lobby. Breathing in the fresh clean air and feeling a warm-but-not-blistering sun on my face made me feel a little better, but as I started my new favorite walking loop, the one that went past the renovation of an old hotel about the same age as Rafe’s house, my thoughts returned to the hypothesis that everyone had secrets.

This, of course, brought up an obvious question. What were my secrets? I’d led a mild, librarian-like life. Never knowingly broken a law if you excepted speed limits, which I did. Never hit anyone other than my brother, which didn’t count because he was nine years older than me and I’d never stood a chance of hurting him, and even at the time I’d only been eleven. Never cheated on my taxes, never—

“Oh.” I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. Because there it was, the memory I’d shoved to the back of my brain for years, the knowledge of that ill-fated ninth grade geometry quiz. The one whose questions made no sense at all to me, so I’d leaned over to look at what Jayne Smithson, the class math whiz, was writing down. The geometry teacher had, naturally, seen what I was doing, which I hadn’t known until the quizzes were returned and I’d seen my 0 grade and a stern See me after class.

That was indeed a secret I wouldn’t want the town to talk about. Sure, cheating on a quiz twenty years ago wasn’t in the same category as burglary or embezzlement or grand theft auto, but—

Creak!!

I frowned and slowed, wondering at the loud, and oddly metallic, sound. Where on earth had it come from? I was in front of the hotel, but there weren’t any workers in sight. To the left, there was nothing out of the ordinary. To the right, there was nothing.

Creak!!

I suddenly had the sense to look up.

And saw a large object tumbling end over end, going down, down, down . . . getting bigger and bigger and bigger . . .

I bolted, running as hard as I could as fast as I could. The air whooshed, and behind me, something hit the ground with a huge thump!!

I stopped, mainly because I wasn’t sure I could run any farther, and bent over, hands on my knees. The only noises on the entire street were of me panting and of my heart thudding.

When I could stand upright and breathe like an average human, I turned around and walked back. Lying on the ground, shattered into a zillion pieces, were the remnants of what looked like an old air conditioner.

I looked up. All of the tall double-hung windows had been replaced a few weeks ago, and all were closed.

Except for one.

After a short eternity, I pulled my cell out of my pocket and dialed. “Um, Detective Inwood? This is Minnie Hamilton. Sorry to bother you, but there’s something you need to see.”