Pouncing on Murder

Chapter 5

The next day was a bookmobile day, and because of some social arrangements of Julia’s that were too complicated for me to I understand, near the end of the day I dropped her off in the retail area of a small town. She gave Eddie an air kiss good-bye and waved at me, and after I closed the door behind her, we headed off to make a few drop-offs to the homebound folks.

The afternoon had grown thick with fog and I drove slowly along the narrow, hilly, twisting roads, watching carefully for deer, cars, and any pedestrians silly enough to go for a walk late on a dank, thick April day.

Mrs. Koski was all smiles when I handed her a bag of history books about late nineteenth-century Asia, and Mr. Blake gave me a nod of approval when I gave him a hefty pile of Nicholas Sparks and Janet Evanovich.

“You’re not judging, are you?” I asked Eddie when I slid back into the driver’s seat. “Because you have that look on your face.”

The look he had was more of sleep than judgment, but it amused me to pretend that he had opinions about these things. “Reading across gender lines is a good thing,” I told him. “Species lines, too. Tell you what, next book I check out for you will be The Poky Little Puppy.”

I glanced over and saw that his eyes had opened.

“Okay, you’re right,” I acknowledged. “You’re past that reading level. How about Old Yeller? Because watching the movie doesn’t count.”

He didn’t seem any more interested in that offering.

“Yeah, too depressing,” I said. “How about . . . hey, I got it. The Chet and Bernie books. You know, by Spencer Quinn? Chet’s a dog and Bernie’s a private investigator. You’ll love Chet. He failed K-9 school and—”

“MrrrOOO!”

Eddie’s howl hurt my ears, and wincing, I glanced at the clock. When Eddie started howling like that, it meant one of two things. Either he felt like howling or he was about to urp up his lunch. “Are you okay, pal? Because if you’re just being Eddie-like and not feeling sick to your stomach, I have a new bag of books for Adam I’d like to deliver.”

Eddie didn’t say anything, and when I sneaked a quick look over, his face was mushed up against the carrier’s wire door. Half his whiskers were sticking out and he was staring at me with unblinking yellow eyes.

Truly he was the weirdest cat in the universe. But since he didn’t look as if he was in distress, I stopped at a wide spot in the road and put on the four-way flashers. I pulled out my cell—Half strength! Hooray!—and called the Deerings’ house.

“Hey, Adam, it’s Minnie. I have a bag of books for you, if you want them.”

“Does a drowning man want a rope?” he asked. “Does a starving man want bacon? No, that’s a poor metaphor. A man wants bacon three times a day. Four if his wife would let him.”

I laughed. “I’m about ten minutes away, but it’ll take me about that long to walk up the hill.”

“Timing is everything,” Adam said. “I’ll meet you at the mailbox. I was headed out there anyway. Someone from FedEx just called, saying they were dropping off a package. I didn’t know they called ahead. Must be an Up North thing.” He laughed.

I’d never heard of FedEx calling anyone, either, but then I always had things delivered to the library, so what did I know? Frowning, I said, “You’re not walking, are you? I know you want to recover as quickly as possible, but—”

“Relax,” he said. “I’m taking the car. The one with the automatic transmission.”

“You’re a smart man.”

“Make sure you tell Irene, okay? She thinks I’m an idiot.”

Since I knew for a fact that his wife thought he was handsome, brilliant, and the best husband in the world, I just said, “See you in a few.”

But ten minutes later, I was still a quarter mile from his house. The fog had thickened to the point of opacity and I was driving at a rate that didn’t even register on the speedometer.

I’d heard some explanations for the spring fogs. Some made sense, that the thawing of the winter-frozen earth chilled the adjacent air, causing a deep ground fog, and some didn’t, case in point being Rafe’s straight-faced story that spring fogs indicated how deep the snow would be the next winter.

“Who knew that fog could get so thick?” I muttered. “If the fog in London is thicker than this, I don’t want to have to ever walk through it.”

Eddie didn’t comment, and I didn’t dare look away from the road to see what he was doing. Slowly and carefully I found the barnyard entrance next to Deering’s driveway without going past even once, turned in, and parked.

I unbuckled my seat belt. “I won’t be gone long, so—”

“Mrr!”

“Eddie—”

“Mrrrw!”

“Okay, fine.” I leaned over to unlatch the carrier door. “But if I find even one hairball on one book, you’re banned from the bookmobile for a week.”

Eddie bolted out of the carrier and, in long feline-fluid motion, jumped to the dashboard.

“Sure, you look innocent now,” I said, “but I know that feline innocence is an oxymoron. There’s no such thing.”

My cat ignored me and began licking his hind leg.

“Well, back at you,” I said, barely aware that I was losing an argument with a creature who couldn’t talk. “And I’m taking the keys.”

“Mrr.”

I patted his head, which made him squint, picked up the bulging bag of books, and headed out into the mist. It swirled thick about my legs and I suddenly realized that my recent rereading of Stephen King was not a good preparation the present moment. Not that The Stand was horror, exactly, but I was familiar enough with Mr. King’s books to know what his imagination could do with fog.

Creeping in on little cat feet, it was. Not Eddie feet, though, because Eddie’s feet were big enough for a cat twice his size and he was only occasionally capable of moving silently. Any other cat would be as soundless as this fog, insidious and sticky, clever and . . . and what was that?

Had I heard a noise? What was . . . ?

“Adam?” I called. “Is that you?”

“Hey, Minnie,” he said. “A real pea-souper, isn’t it?”

His voice was coming from a different direction than whatever it was I thought I’d heard, but fog did funny things to sound. At least that was what I’d gathered from all those scary books I’d read as a kid.

“And I don’t even like pea soup,” I said. My toes hit the main road and I turned right, toward Adam and Irene’s mailbox, where I assumed Adam would be. “That was the only bad thing about my mom baking ham. You knew pea soup was coming along in a few days.”

“Love the stuff,” Adam said. “Irene makes the best ever.”

The disembodied noise of a car came toward us. I stepped off the asphalt onto the outside of the road’s shoulder, just to be safe, and kept walking. An Adam-sized shape materialized. He was facing me, standing in front of a mailbox-shaped object, his back to the approaching car.

“Best pea soup ever?” I asked. “No such thing.”

“Au contraire,” Adam said, and went on to extoll the virtues of what I considered the most unappetizing food in the world, next to all mushrooms. And it was because I wasn’t really paying attention to him that I saw the car coming out of the fog.

Coming in our direction.

Straight toward Adam, who didn’t see it, didn’t hear it, didn’t even know it was there.

There was no time to warn him, no time to do anything except act.

I dropped the books and sprang forward, head tucked, arms outstretched in my best imitation of the football player I’d never been or ever wanted to be. As I thumped into Adam with all my weight, I could have sworn I heard a faint feline howl.

We fell to the ground hard. I twisted my shoulders, trying hard to rotate my momentum, wanting desperately to roll us over and away from the car.

Over and over we went, off the road, off the shoulder, and half into the ditch. Was it far enough? Would the car swerve? Would it still get us? I pushed into the ground with my feet and sent us one roll farther.

The car whooshed past and disappeared into the gloom.

“Are you okay?” Adam’s voice was weak.

“I’m fine. How about you?”

At the end of the last roll, I’d ended on my back. I pushed myself to my knees and looked hard at the fog, making sure the vehicle was really gone. I saw no sign of the not-quite-a-killer car and breathed a sigh of relief.

“I’m fine,” Adam said.

His voice, normally full of laughter and bonhomie, sounded thready and old. Guylike, he hadn’t worn a coat on his trip to the mailbox, even though the temperature was only in the mid-forties. He wore jeans, sneakers, and a plain maroon sweatshirt that showed evidence of more than one painting chore. There were spatters of white, brown, and even a color that was exactly three shades darker than the sweatshirt itself.

It wasn’t until he touched that particular shade that I realized it was in a vertical line on his chest and that it wasn’t paint at all.

“Adam,” I said as calmly as possible, “you’re bleeding.”

He looked down and made a move to pull up his shirt and sweatshirt, but I yelped at him, “Stop!”

“But I’m bleeding.” He reached for the bottom of his sweatshirt again and I grabbed at his hand.

“Anything we do now won’t help and could make it worse,” I said firmly. “Your clothes might be sealing the wound, and if we pull it away, it’ll bleed even more.” I wasn’t sure how much of that might be true, but it sounded reasonable. Maybe I’d learned some medical stuff through sheer proximity to Tucker.

Adam looked half convinced. At least he stopped trying to look at his incision.

“Can you get up?” I asked.

“Of course I can.” He put his hands on the ground and moved one foot forward to stand. Halfway up, he swayed.

Adam was almost a foot taller than me and probably a hundred pounds heavier, and if I tried to hold him upright, we’d both fall to the ground again and injure who knew what, so I rushed to his side and leaned into his body, bracing him.

“You are not fine,” I said, panting a little as I helped him stand upright, “so don’t try to tell me so. You’re going to go over to your car and sit in the passenger’s seat. Then you’re not going to move until I make a couple of phone calls.”

“Don’t call 911.” He leaned on my shoulder as we shuffled off. “Our insurance hardly covers ambulance rides.”

“We’ll see,” I said. Fifteen feet later, I opened his car door and waited until he eased himself down into the seat. The dark stain on his sweatshirt looked a little bigger, but not massively bigger. “My cell’s in the bookmobile. I’ll be right back.”

He nodded and I raced off. Inside the bookmobile, Eddie was lying in a meat loaf shape on the console.

“Mrr,” he said.

“Adam’s fine,” I told him as I rustled in my backpack for the phone. “At least I’m pretty sure he is. You going to be okay in here by yourself? It might be a while before I get back.”

My cat closed his eyes and purred.

“For an Eddie, you are okay.” I kissed the top of his furry head and, locking the door behind me, scampered back to Adam, picking up the bag of books on the way. “What’s your wife’s work number?” I asked, stowing the books in the backseat.

“What time is it?” Adam’s face was pale and his eyes were closed.

“Um . . .” I glanced at the phone. “Half past five.”

“Then she’s just starting her night job. She’s waiting tables at the Mitchell Street Pub.”

I entered the popular Petoskey restaurant’s name into a search engine and within seconds a voice on the other end was asking what he could do for me.

“Could I please speak to Irene Deering? There’s been an minor emergency at her home.”

“Sure. Hang on.”

A few moments later, Irene’s breathless voice came on the line. “Adam? Are you okay?”

“This is Minnie, and Adam is fine.” I waited a beat for that message of comfort to sink in. “But there’s been a little accident.”

“Accident?” The word came out shrill. “What’s wrong? I’ll be there right away. I can leave right now and—”

“He’s fine. Really. Here, talk to him.” I handed over the phone.

“Hey, babe,” Adam said casually. “No, I’m fine. I was down at the mailbox to pick up a FedEx delivery the same time Minnie dropped by with another bag of books. Some yahoo was driving down the road, not paying attention, and Minnie pushed me out of the way.” He glanced at me. I nodded and gave him a thumbs-up. “I fell down and my incision got knocked a little loose, is all. I told Minnie I’m fine, but—” He listened, rolled his eyes, and handed the phone back to me.

“Minnie,” Irene said, “I hate to ask, but . . .” Her voice tailed off. “No, forget I said anything. I’ll see if I can get the night off. Thanks for calling.”

“I’m happy to take him to the hospital.” I waved down Adam’s protest. “If it’s okay to drive your car, that is, and if your neighbor won’t mind if the bookmobile is parked next door for a couple of hours.”

“Oh, Minnie,” she said raggedly. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

“You’ll think of something.” I laughed. “Just don’t make it a frozen batch of pea soup.”

Forty-five minutes later, Adam was in the Charlevoix Hospital’s emergency room and I was sitting in the waiting room, reading one of the books I’d brought him, The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay by Michael Chabon, and it was compelling enough to make me forget that the last time I’d been in this room I’d been waiting for Tucker to get done with his shift. I’d just started the third chapter when I heard a rustling noise at my left elbow. I kept reading, hoping the noise would go away and leave me alone. At least until the end of the chapter.

“Hey,” Adam said. “Is that one of my books?”

I flipped it shut. “Not any more. You can have it when I’m done.”

He grinned. “Fair’s fair.”

“You’re all set?” I asked. “You know Irene’s going to want a full report.”

“The incision itself is fine, but they bandaged the crap out of it just to be sure.” He made a face. “All that tape is going to pull on my chest hair something fierce when I take it off.”

“Do it in the shower.” I squared the book on my lap, but didn’t stand. “So you’re ready to go?”

“Sure am. I didn’t even get a new prescription.”

“Then there’s only one thing to do before I take you home.”

Adam frowned. “What’s that?”

“Call the sheriff.”

• • •

Detective Inwood sat on the edge of the chair he’d dragged over from the Deerings’ dining table. “You say the car didn’t swerve, but was heading straight for Mr. Deering?”

I nodded at Adam. He was sitting up in his recliner, but I wasn’t sure how long he was going to stay awake. Actually I wasn’t sure he had stayed awake through the previous fifteen minutes of questions, but at least he was home where he belonged, and not in the sheriff’s office, which was where the detective had wanted to talk to him.

“Absolutely not,” I had said. “The man had emergency heart surgery less than two weeks ago. He’s exhausted. The last thing he needs is to sit in that little room for an hour, staring at the dragon on the ceiling tiles until you have time to show up.”

Inwood sighed. “And I suppose you have an alternative plan.”

Of course I did. “I’ll drive Adam home. You can come and talk to him.”

“And this can’t wait until morning why?”

“No time like the present,” I said briskly. “Besides, he shouldn’t be driving and his wife can’t take time off work to bring him to you. You’re going to have to come out here one way or another. Might as well get it done now.”

“My wife has dinner waiting.”

I felt a pang of guilt, but squashed it down. “I’m sorry for that, but I’m sure she’s used to warming things up.”

He sighed. “We’ll be out in half an hour.”

And indeed, half an hour later Deputy Ash Wolverson knocked on the front door. Detective Inwood was behind him, his shoulders drooping. We settled into the living room in short order, and now I could feel the questions coming to a close.

“Absolutely,” I said, nodding toward Adam. “It wasn’t a gentle swerve that was corrected with a jerk, you know, like sometimes happens when you’re reaching for something on the floor of the passenger’s seat and drift over a little, then realize what you’re doing and . . .” The three men were looking at me with identically disapproving expressions. “Not that I’ve done that,” I said quickly. Not lately, anyway. “What I’m saying is that it looked intentional. Not like a mistake.”

The detective gave a faint sigh, and I remembered the conversations I’d had the last time I showed up at the sheriff’s office. About eyewitnesses, and how they can’t be trusted to get details right.

I decided to go at it a different way. “I know this isn’t proof of anything, but it just didn’t feel like an accident.”

Though Inwood kept looking at his notebook, his eyebrows went up. “Didn’t feel like an accident,” he said slowly, writing down the words. Or at least that’s what I assumed he was writing. If he was writing “Minnie Hamilton shouldn’t be allowed out by herself,” I didn’t want to know about it.

“That’s right. It felt like . . .” I hesitated, then forged ahead with the inappropriate thought that had popped into my head. “It felt like Christine was trying to make Adam her next victim.”

Inwood stopped writing. “Who’s Christine?”

Ash laughed. “Book or movie?”

“Book. The movie is too scary.” We smiled at each other and a warm fuzzy feeling wrapped itself around me. I’d tried to get Tucker to read horror books, but he’d pushed them away and asked why I wasted my time on that junk.

Inwood was frowning at the exchange. “Anyone care to enlighten me? Deputy?”

“Yes, sir,” Ash said. “Sorry. It’s the title of a book by Stephen King, later made into a movie. The title character is a possessed car who kills by a variety of methods.”

Inwood turned the page of his notebook. “Is there anything else you can tell us, Mr. Deering?”

“No, I can’t think of—”

I snapped my fingers. “FedEx. You said you were down at the mailbox to pick up a Federal Express package. Did you even order anything?”

“Not me, but I thought maybe Irene had.”

“Call her,” Detective Inwood said. “Find out.”

Adam picked up his cell phone from the side table. “Hey, it’s me. Have you ordered anything lately? Something that might have come FedEx?” He looked at the detective. “Okay, thanks, babe. No, I’m fine. I’ll see you when you get home,” he said, and thumbed off the phone.

“No order,” Inwood said.

Adam shook his head. “She said she hasn’t bought anything online for a couple of months.”

“Would anyone else be sending you something?” the detective asked.

“Can’t think who,” Adam said. “But I can call around and check.”

Inwood made a note. “Don’t bother. I’ll contact Federal Express and see if there was a delivery scheduled to your home.”

“If there wasn’t,” I said, sitting on the edge of the chair, “then this is proof that someone killed Henry and tried to kill Adam, too.”

Inwood looked at me. “Proof?” he asked, and I thought I heard sorrow in his voice. “The only proof in any of this is that Mr. Deering here has a tendency to get himself into accidents.”

My face went warm. “Oh, really?” I asked. “You think all this is—”

The detective held up his hand. “Proof,” he reminded me. “You were talking about proof. It’s a very narrow definition, Ms. Hamilton. What we have is theories and suppositions, none of which would interest the county prosecutor in the least.”

Since I didn’t even know the name of the county’s prosecuting attorney, I had to take his word for it. “But you have to admit that something weird is going on. I mean, what are the odds that two bizarre accidents would happen to the same guy in less than two weeks?”

Ash looked up from his notes. “I wouldn’t call a tree falling on a man out in the woods bizarre. Unusual, sure, but accidents happen.”

I frowned. Wasn’t he supposed to be on my side? “Maybe not, but combine the falling tree with this car almost running him over. That can’t be something that happens on a regular basis.”

The glance exchanged by Ash and the detective confirmed the truth of my statement.

“We will explore all possibilities,” Detective Inwood said, tucking his notebook into his pocket. “I know the deputy here has the sheriff convinced there’s a possibility that Mr. Deering was, in fact, the intended murder victim all along.” He smiled faintly. “I think he’s nuts, but it’s his theory and he’s welcome to it.”

“And what do you think?” I asked. “Two unlikely accidents or one murder and one attempted murder?”

“We will explore all possibilities,” the detective repeated. “If Mr. Gill’s death was murder, we’ll find out. If Mr. Deering’s accident was a murder attempt, we’ll find out. Please assure him that we’ll put as many hours as we can into resolving this.”

My chin went up. “Why are you talking as if Adam isn’t even here? He’s not an idiot, he’s just recovering from surgery.”

“And he’s asleep,” Inwood said, gesturing in Adam’s direction. “We’ll be in contact, Ms. Hamilton. Tell Mr. Deering that if he thinks of anything else that’s pertinent”—he stressed the last word—“he should let us know immediately.”

The three of us got to our feet and I escorted them to the front door. It had been an odd little session, but at least they seemed to be taking the whole thing seriously.

Somewhere in the house, a clock started chiming the hour. I matched my steps to the beats and got to nine just as I reached the door. Nine o’clock? How could it be that late? At least I had an excuse for being so hungry.

And that reminded me. I looked up at Detective Inwood. “Sorry about your evening. Um, what was for dinner?”

“Pea soup,” he said. “Hate the stuff, to tell you the truth.” He flashed a sudden smile. “And by the way, it’s not a dragon.”

I stared at him, uncomprehendingly. The poor man. He’d clearly lost it.

“Sit on the other side of the table next time. You’ll see what I mean.”

He opened the door and was gone before my brain caught up and remembered my earlier reference to the interview room ceiling tiles. Ash nodded at me and followed his boss. I closed the door behind them and watched out the side window as they got into the unmarked car and drove away down the hill, their taillights disappearing fast.

“Proof,” I murmured. Inwood had said it was a narrow definition. One of the phrases I’d heard most often as a child had been “Look it up, Minnie.” That simple instruction had probably steered me in the librarian direction from the time I could read. Not only because I loved to learn, but also because I loved to look at the explanatory pictures and diagrams in my parents’ dictionary. For a librarian, this was a little embarrassing to admit, so I tried not to mention it. Ever.

I glanced around for a dictionary, half hoping to see the same one I’d grown up with, but didn’t see any reference books. On the other hand, I had a smart phone. A few finger taps later, I had a definition in front of me. “Something sufficient to establish something else as correct or true.”

It didn’t sound narrow to me. Matter of fact, it sounded wide-open. How could Inwood need more proof that Henry had been murdered than an attempt on Adam’s life?

But it was obvious that he didn’t think Adam’s almost-accident was anything other than an accident. Oh, sure, he’d paid lip service to the idea and said the right things about exploring all yada-yada-yah, but he didn’t really mean it, not down deep.

For a short instant I heard my mom’s voice in my head. “Now, Minnie, don’t go thinking that you know for certain what anyone else is thinking or feeling. No matter what, all you have is a guess.”

I snorted. My mother wanted proof, too. Maybe she should have been a detective instead of a historian.

Mom kept on going. “Respect other points of view, Minerva Joy. Only then will others respect your own.”

How that particular set of Mom Wisdom was going to help in this circumstance, I wasn’t sure. Then again, more than once Mom’s advice had proven useful when I’d least expected it to, so I probably shouldn’t discount any of it, which would please her to no end.

If I ever mentioned it, that is.

Now that the room had two less law enforcement officers in it, I unlatched Eddie’s carrier. I’d carried him in from the bookmobile when I brought Adam back home and he’d been sleeping the entire time. “Ready to come out?” I asked.

Eddie picked up his head and blinked. “Mrr?”

“Until Irene gets home,” I said. “Shouldn’t be much longer.”

He closed his eyes and curled up into a ball half the size that he should have been able to curl up into.

“They’re gone?” Adam was blinking and scrubbing his face with the palms of his hands. “Sorry, I must have fallen asleep.”

“They left a few minutes ago,” I said, getting up from my crouch and moving into the sofa across from his recliner. “Do you want anything? Food, drink, television?”

He shook his head. “I’m fine. Thanks for everything, but there’s no reason for you to stay. It’s getting late. Why don’t you go on home?”

I shrugged, not wanting to tell him that his wife and I were conspiring to keep him quiet and comfortable. “My aunt isn’t home tonight and it’s a big house for one.” Which was true. What I didn’t add was that I didn’t mind being alone every once in a while. Needed it, really. “If you don’t mind, I’d just as soon hang out here for a while.”

“No problem,” he said, yawning. “If you leave, I’ll just flop here and think too much, so stay, by all means.”

“Is it possible to think too much?” I asked.

He moved his head in something that wasn’t quite a nod, but wasn’t exactly a head shake, either.

“C’mon,” I said, sliding down into a lazy slouch. “There’s no one here but me and Eddie. He won’t talk, and I won’t, either, not if you don’t want me to.”

“It’s nothing,” he muttered.

Right. And I was going to grow six inches next year. But I didn’t say anything, just sat back and let the silence grow more comfortable. My own thinking drifted away, off to Tucker, and the upcoming summer. Then I thought about Henry and how summers for his children would be different from here on out, and—

“I think someone is trying to kill me,” Adam said suddenly.

“You . . . do?” Maybe he hadn’t been as asleep during that last part of the conversation as the three of us had thought.

“If that car really was trying to hit me, and it sure seemed like it, how can I think anything else? If it wasn’t an accident, and I don’t see how, it was . . .” He stopped.

I completed the sentence in my head. It was attempted murder.

“So here I am,” he said, “supposed to be resting so I can recover from surgery as quickly as possible, but someone might be trying to kill me. How do I figure out what’s going on?” He slapped the arm of his chair. “From this recliner, how can I find out who killed Henry and tried to kill me? How will I ever be able to find out who was the real target? Was I the target and Henry was killed by accident? Was Henry the target and someone’s trying to kill me because of what I might have seen? Could someone have wanted to kill both of us?”

They were all excellent questions, and I had an excellent response ready. “Tell you what.” I sat up from my slouch. “I can do a little research about all this. Do some digging on Henry. Ask a few questions about him, maybe about you.”

Adam’s face brightened, but the look faded and he shook his head. “I can’t let you do that. Besides, Detective Inwood and Deputy Wolverson will be doing the same thing. Thanks for the offer, though.”

Behind me, I heard a familiar pad-pad-pad noise. “Eddie, where are—” My cat jumped on the back of the couch. “Ah. There you are.” I reached back and pulled him around to sit on my lap, but he struggled away from me and walked up onto the arm of the couch closest to Adam.

He sat. “Mrr,” he said, staring straight at Adam. “Mrr.”

Adam moved his head so he could see around the large furry creature. “You speak cat. What does he want?”

“Pretend he’s a Magic 8 Ball.” I nodded in Eddie’s direction. “Ask him a question, any question.”

“Are you serious?”

“Try it.”

Adam put on a serious expression and stared straight into my cat’s yellow eyes. “O wise Eddie, should I have leftover pizza for dinner or leftover macaroni and cheese?”

There was a short pause, and then Eddie said, “Mrr?”

“The pizza is from Sunday,” Adam replied. “Irene made the macaroni and cheese yesterday.”

Eddie’s stare was intent.

“Yeah, you’re right. I should have finished that pizza days ago.” Adam smiled. “Here’s a tougher question—should I let your Minnie help me, or should I—”

But he didn’t get to finish his sentence, because Eddie made a long leap to the arm of his recliner, head-butted his shoulder, and started purring.

Loudly.

Adam laughed in a gentle sort of way and reached out to pet my cat. “Apparently Eddie thinks it’s a good idea that you help me out.”

“Eddie’s wisdom knows no bounds,” I said. Which was true, but I was pretty sure the lower boundary, the one of minimal wisdom, was the edge he was pushing. Though I loved my cat dearly, I wasn’t about to grant him great powers of mental acuity.

“Well . . .” Adam pulled his head out of the way as Eddie flipped his tail around. “If you’re sure it’s not an imposition, it would be great to have someone I know and trust do a little research.”

For a second I didn’t know what to say. Yes, I was pretty sure I was a trustworthy person, but that was because I knew myself on the inside. To have someone else say so was a compliment so deep I wasn’t sure how to respond.

“Mrr,” Eddie said, flapping his tail against Adam’s ear.

“Yes, of course I trust you, too,” Adam said. “That goes without saying.”

“Mrr.”

“You’re welcome.”

“M—”

“All right, you two, enough already,” I said.

Adam grinned.

Eddie glared at me and swiped his tail across Adam’s face.

• • •

On Friday, I spent a large share of the day trying to design a book fair flyer. An hour past quitting time, I stared at mess I’d created and came to the not-so-profound conclusion that I was a much better librarian than I was a graphic designer.

I told Eddie all about it that night as I emptied the contents of my dresser into a cardboard box. He gave me a blank look that clearly meant he thought I had my priorities messed up, then walked out into the hallway and thud-thud-thudded down the wooden stairs.

“What do cats know about graphic design, anyway?” I asked, and finished packing without the help of my cat. Packing was at this point a near imperative, because my aunt’s spring-cleaning crew would descend on the boardinghouse first thing Monday morning. It was a little early for them to show up, but their schedule was crowded this year and this was the best slot available for my aunt. She’d said I could stay for the duration, but I’d rather endure a few chilly nights on the houseboat than endure the sounds and astringent smells of a thorough housecleaning.

I’d scheduled myself to work all Saturday because of various staff members taking spring vacations, so I didn’t have time to move the last of my things down to the marina until Sunday. The very last things I put in my car were a small suitcase, my backpack, and Eddie’s cat carrier.

Aunt Frances stood on the sidewalk, her arms wrapped tight around her since she hadn’t put on a coat and her light cardigan wasn’t enough to keep out the chill.

“Are you sure you’re going to be warm enough down there?” she asked, rubbing her hands over her upper arms.

“Just because you’re cold because you’re not dressed properly doesn’t mean I’m going to get hypothermia.” I buckled Eddie and his carrier into the front seat and shut the car door. “I have a space heater, Eddie has a fur coat, and it’s supposed to warm up in a few days. We’ll be fine.”

“If you get cold, you have to promise you’ll come back until it gets warmer.”

“Promise,” I said, giving her a hug.

“You’re a good girl,” she murmured, hugging back.

I gave her a last squeeze and climbed into the driver’s seat. “Leave the worrying to my mother. She’s a lot better at it than either of us. Might as well give the job to the best-qualified candidate, don’t you think?”

Aunt Frances laughed and waved—“Bye, Eddie!”—as I backed out of the driveway. When I reached the road and braked to put the transmission into drive, I glanced up the drive to my aunt. She was still standing there, arms tight around her, only now she looked . . . well, sad.

I sat there in the middle of the street, unsure. Aunt Frances had lived alone for years before I moved north, so I’d never once thought about how lonely she might be when I left in the summers. Sure, the boarders would arrive in a few weeks, but it could be a long few weeks for her. Maybe I should stay. I owed her so much; enduring a cleaning crew was nothing compared to all she’d done for me. Yes. I would stay. I would keep her company until—

Aunt Frances looked up and past me. Her face lit up with a wide, happy smile and she called out something I couldn’t hear.

I turned my head to see the object of her happiness. It was Otto, striding down the sidewalk, heading straight toward my aunt.

My foot came off the brake. “What do you think of that, Eddie?” I asked, smiling. “We’re barely out of the house and her boyfriend comes over. Kind of makes you think we were cramping her style, doesn’t it?”

Eddie bonked his head against the side of the carrier and flopped down.

“No comment? Well, I can understand that. Your little kitty feelings are hurt. You thought you were Aunt Frances’s best beau, didn’t you?”

“Mrr,” he said somewhat sulkily.

Shaking my head, I flicked on the blinker and turned left. There were days when I really did wonder if he knew what I was saying.

Eddie and I arrived at the marina in short order. I left everything behind except the carrier, and it was me and my cat who walked down the wide wooden dock and stepped aboard my summer residence, which was the cutest little houseboat possible.

Made primarily of plywood long ago in a Chilson backyard, it boasted one bedroom with two bunks, a tiny bathroom, and a small kitchen with a dining area. As much as I loved the tidy interior spaces, I loved the view from the outside deck even more. The sheer pleasure of being able to see Janay Lake on my doorstep morning, noon, or night was worth the work of moving twice a year.

I set the carrier on the dining bench and opened the door. “We’re home, Eddie.”

“Mrr,” he said, and zoomed out of the carrier, down the steps, and onto the bed, where he would get cat hair on the comforter before I’d slept in it even once.

I sighed a happy sigh. Home was indeed a good place to be.

Three hours later, I’d finished unpacking and hauled all the flattened cardboard boxes down to the storage bin that went with my slip.

After texting Tucker—Eddie and I are all moved in. Miss you!—and receiving a quick Don’t get 2 cold up there see u soon in return, I came in the houseboat’s door and stood in the small kitchen, surveying my home for the next few months.

“What do you think, pal?”

Eddie was already in one of his favorite spots from last summer, the back of the bench seat that was half of my dining area. He’d already prowled around the whole place a dozen times, sniffing and stretching and poking into things that he had no reason to poke into. Behind the small dresser I used as a nightstand, for one. Underneath the small kitchen sink, for another. Now he was lying, meat-loaf-shaped, on the seat back, looking over the houseboat as if he were the ruler of all.

“You’re not the king, you know,” I told him. “This is a partnership, remember?”

Which reminded me of the odd partnership Adam and Henry had shared, making maple syrup and who knew what else? I’d told Adam I would try to help, to do some research. But useful research requires a pointed question; otherwise it’s only information-gathering.

“Which is usually interesting,” I said, “but not always immediately useful.”

Eddie stretched out one paw and rested his chin on the seat.

“Yeah, I know. It’s up to me to figure out the right questions.” I slid onto the bench opposite Eddie. “How about this? Let’s assume . . . I know, you don’t like assuming, but work with me on this. For right now, let’s assume that Henry was killed by the same person who tried to run over Adam. What could a lifelong resident of Tonedagana County have in common with a newcomer with no family roots in Michigan who is more than twenty years younger?”

My cat’s response was a heavy sigh.

“Okay, maybe that’s not the right question.” I thought a minute. “Here’s another one. Henry was an insurance agent for a company in Petoskey before he retired. Adam is an accountant who works remotely for companies in Chicago. What could tie them together?”

Eddie moved his other front leg. Now both of them were stretched out in front of him. Supercat.

“The only thing they seem to have in common is a lack of friends. Adam hasn’t been here long enough, and Henry didn’t seem to have any.” At the library, Donna had told me that when Henry’s wife was alive they’d been very social, but since her death he’d retreated more and more. “I just don’t see how that could matter to—”

Eddie stood and, without a backward glance, jumped down. I turned to watch as he stalked through the kitchen, down the few steps, and into the bedroom. He jumped up and out of view. This didn’t bother me until I heard a rustling sound that I didn’t recognize.

And then I suddenly did.

I bolted off the seat, ran through the kitchen, jumped over the steps in a single bound, and was in the bedroom in seconds, trying to reach my cat before he destroyed the library books I’d laid on the spare bed.

“Eddie! Leave that alone!”

My cat turned. Blinked straight at me. And sat down right on top of a book Stephen had handed me to read. “Funny,” I said, pulling the copy of 101 Ways to Improve Your Communication Skills Instantly out from underneath him. “If you’re nice, I’ll read it out loud to you at dinner. That way we’ll both learn something.”

Eddie stared at me for a long moment. Then he jumped down and marched into the back of my tiny closet.

“If you’re going to be like that,” I said, “I’m going to the restaurant. Kristen likes me just the way I am, poor communication skills and all.”

From out of the closet came a muffled “Mrr.”

“The cat food dish is where it always is,” I told him. “On the floor next to the kitchen sink.”

“Mrr.”

“You’re welcome,” I said and, smiling, headed out for a night of watching Kristen cook. And with any luck, I’d also come up with some ideas for a reason someone might want to kill two men who were different in almost every way.