Tailing A Tabby

Chapter 10

Sunday passed as my Sundays often did, with morning chores, a few hours at the library, and dessert with Kristen. Monday I didn’t have to work at all, so of course it started out cloudy with a spattering of rain. Then, just as I was gathering my dirty clothes to haul to the marina’s coin laundry, the sun broke through the clouds. What had been a gray day of mild summer gloom instantly transformed into an outstanding morning.

Eddie, who had been following me, twining around my ankles and criticizing my cleaning efforts as only a cat can, spotted his favorite square of sunshine and settled down in the middle of the kitchen floor with a purring sigh.

I looked at the piles of laundry, looked out at the enticing blue sky, looked at my cat. “What do you think, Eddie? Should I be a responsible adult and do the chores that need doing, or should I skip out into the sunshine and play the rest of the day?”

He opened one eyelid, gave me a brief look, then went back to sleep.

Play. He’d clearly said play. No doubt about it.

I ate a quick lunch of peanut butter and jelly, scrawled my vague plans on the kitchen whiteboard as I promised my mother I would always do, and headed out.

• • •

“So much for playing,” I said. Or that’s what I would have said if I’d had the breath to talk. The hill up which I was riding my bike was far steeper than any hill had a right to be. And I had a feeling that the hill wouldn’t seem nearly as precipitous when going the other way. How a hill could be twice as steep riding up as riding down, I didn’t know, but it was one of those harsh realities of life.

After leaving the snoring Eddie, I’d decided a bike ride was a good idea and hauled my bicycle out of my marina storage unit. Then I’d decided it would be an excellent idea to take a look at Carissa’s house. I used my cell to call Jari for the address, then set off. Then up. As in serious amounts of up.

At long last, I topped the hill and turned onto a tree-lined street. The houses on the right were set back from the road, perched on the edge of the hill with a fine view of Janay Lake. These were old homes, built in the early nineteen hundreds by upper-middle-class people come north from Chicago or the Detroit area for the summer. Lots of clapboard, lots of gingerbread trim, lots of porches and swings and irrigated lawns.

The houses on the left were a little different. Most were ranch houses set close to the road, and looked as if they’d been built in the last thirty years. Nice enough, but none had anywhere near the class of their across-the-street neighbors.

I had slowed to the point of wobbliness while reading the house numbers. Carissa’s address was half of a duplex. The left side of the house had curtains drawn across every window, so I swung down my bike’s kickstand and walked to the front door on the right, where the windows had half-open blinds. On a Monday morning in July, the people who lived here were probably at work.

Knocking on the door, I imagined a young family renting this place while trying to save money for a down payment on a house. I had started visualizing their dog as a golden retriever when the front door was flung open.

“What do you want?” The man barking at me was tall and wide and hadn’t shaved in at least two days.

I smiled at him, which wasn’t an easy thing to do in the face of his glower. “Hi, I’m Minnie Hamilton. A friend of mine knew your neighbor, Carissa, and he’s so upset about her death that I thought I’d stop by and ask—”

His frown went so deep it was probably etching grooves in his skin. “You got a warrant?”

“A what? No, of course not. I’m not a police officer. I’m a friend of—”

His bloodshot eyes glared at me. “I’m not talking to nobody about nothing unless they bring a warrant.”

“Sure, I understand, but—”

The door slammed so hard that the wind of its passing rocked me back a step. I retreated to my bicycle, toed up the kickstand, climbed aboard, and pedaled off.

The road felt much rougher than it had a few minutes ago. I glanced at the asphalt. Didn’t see any noticeable cracks, bumps, or potholes. Why, then, were my bicycle handlebars quivering so much that I was afraid of being tossed onto my head?

I slowed to a stop. Put my feet on the ground, released the rubbery grips, and stared at my hands.

They were shaking.

I took a deep breath. Another. Looked at my hands again. Still shaking, so I swung my leg over the bike’s crossbar and looked around for somewhere to sit. Providence was with me, because there was a nice Minnie-sized rock at the end of the driveway across from the duplex. Perfect. I walked my bike over, leaned it against the rock, and sat down.

The stone was in the sun, and its warmth spread into my skin, soothing and relaxing me. Soon my breaths came easier and my hands stopped shaking.

Yep, I’d been silly to let that man get to me. I was used to dealing with recalcitrant types—it was part of being a librarian—so why had this particular brand of crankiness bothered me so much? Was it because part of me had been afraid that he’d killed Carissa and that I might be next?

“Hello.”

I jumped high enough that, when I landed, I came down half on the rock and half off, then slid in a very ungainly way to the ground.

“Oh, dear.” The woman frowned in concern. “Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to startle you. I just saw you sitting on my rock, looking like you lost your best friend, and I wondered if you needed some help.”

I clambered to my feet, my brain still stuck firmly in awkward mode. “No, I’m fine, thanks. I just… had an odd encounter and I needed to sit for a little. Sorry about using your rock.”

The woman peered at me, her short salt-and-pepper hair framing a square face that topped a body trending to, but not quite achieving, plumpness. “You look familiar. Do I know you?”

“Minnie Hamilton. I’m the assistant librarian here in Chilson. That’s where most people have seen me. Or on the bookmobile. I drive that two or three days a week.”

She was shaking her head, then switched to nodding sharply. “Three Seasons. You’re Kristen Jurek’s friend, aren’t you?” She grinned wide, exposing teeth with wide gaps. “You look like you could use something to drink. Come on up to the house.”

Ten minutes later, we were sitting in white wicker chairs, the kind that lived on almost every front porch in Chilson, only we were sitting on a back porch of the home’s second story with an amazing view of Janay Lake, the channel, and beyond.

“That’s a great view of Lake Michigan,” I said, taking in the watery vista.

“Only from the second floor, though,” Abby said, “because of all the trees. That’s why my great-grandfather designed the house backward, or so the family story goes.”

My hostess was Abby Sterly, who was the head honcho loan officer at the bank where Kristen had applied for the money to fund her restaurant’s renovations. Abby had given me the nickel tour of the rambling cottage she’d inherited. “No one else wanted to take care of the old place,” she told me, “let alone pay the taxes. But it would have broken my heart to have the property go out of the family, so I found a way to make it work.”

She’d made it happen thirty years ago by building the duplex where Carissa Radle had lived. “Those rents have paid the property taxes nicely, but now I’m thinking about selling it. Don’t suppose you would be interested, would you?” She eyed me over her glass of soda. “No, never mind answering. I can tell already what you’d say.”

I laughed. “I’m not a property-owning kind of person. My houseboat is about all I can deal with right now.”

She made a “hmm” sort of noise and I suspected my name was being entered into a mental list titled “Contact at a Later Date.”

“Besides,” I said, “the guy who lives there gave me the creeps.”

“Rob Pew?” Abby blotted her glass on a coaster. “He’s not a bad guy.”

My mother had taught me, if I couldn’t say anything nice, not to say it at all. And maybe someday her lessons would sink in. “He scared the snot out of me,” I said honestly.

Abby half smiled. “He works the night shift at Northern Fabrications. He hates being woken up before his alarm goes off. I’m surprised he even answered the door.”

So there it was: a simple explanation for the extreme surliness of a large man named Rob. Not justification, of course, because there was none for rudeness, but a little explanation could go a long way.

“What did you want from Rob, anyway?” Abby asked.

She’d been so nice to me that I almost told her the whole truth and the entire truth right then and there, but something in her sharp gaze stopped me. There was no reason for her to know about Cade, and you never knew who might say what to whom and then the whole town would know that the famous artist guy had been tossed into the slammer—however briefly—for murder. And they’d also know that the bookmobile librarian was trying to help him clear his name, and that was a complication I could do without. Certainly the library could do without it. So I sort of made something up.

“Carissa Radle and I came from the same town,” I said. “It’s just a little weird, if you know what I mean.”

“You grew up in Dearborn, too?” Abby toasted me. “Dearborn High or Edsel Ford?”

“Dearborn High.”

“Hail, fellow graduate well met!” She held her hand high and leaned forward so we could slap palms. “Was Mrs. Koch still teaching Latin when you were there? I loved that woman. Did you know she spoke five languages?”

“She’d retired by the time I got there,” I said.

“Too bad. And how about the Beefeater?” She switched easily from education to food. “My grandparents took us there every Sunday after church. Short dresses and tights and those shiny black shoes with the strap across the instep that was always either too tight or too loose.” She laughed, but it ended fast. “So long ago.”

“Lives on in your memories, though,” I said.

Her face brightened a little. “Yes, it does, doesn’t it?” Then she sighed. “Just like Carissa will for her parents.”

After a pause, I said, “Kristen said she would have liked to hire Carissa, but she needed people with experience.”

“Makes sense, but I’m sure Carissa would have learned fast.” Abby put her feet up on a low table. “From what I heard, she was already getting a return clientele at Talcott. Still…” She stopped talking to kick off her sandals.

When she didn’t start up again, I asked, “What’s that?”

“Well, it’s just a little odd. When Carissa was moving in, I stopped by the duplex to see if she needed anything. We got to talking, so I helped her unpack a few boxes. In one of them was a framed diploma from Wayne State University, and textbooks with all sorts of medical titles. So… it’s a little odd.” She shrugged. “But then lots of people can’t find jobs in their fields these days, so I didn’t ask about it.”

“What degree was the diploma for?”

But she shook her head. “I didn’t get that close a look at it.”

After a pause, I asked, “What was Carissa like? Her personality, I mean.”

Abby pointed to Janay Lake. “Like that. All shiny and sparkly. She was one of those happy people, the kind that make you smile when they walk into a room. I can’t think of anyone who didn’t like her.”

“Even her neighbor, Rob?”

She smiled. “Even Rob. He’s been all broken up since she died. Not that there was anything going between them. He and his girlfriend have been dating forever. Carissa was like a little sister to Rob.”

Enough like siblings that murderous anger could have been spurred up during a spat of teasing? I gave the idea some thought, then gave it a pass. If the killer had been so obvious as to be the next-door neighbor, the police would already have latched onto him.

“Did you know Carissa very well?” I asked.

There was a moment of quiet. “I’d like to say yes,” she said, “but since I got the news, I’ve realized that I hardly knew her.” Abby watched the lake far below us. “I didn’t know her hopes and dreams and I didn’t know what she lay awake at night worrying about. I didn’t even know why she moved up here.”

Her sadness tugged at me, but I knew what she meant. There were people who let us into their lives, and people who didn’t.

“I worry about losing my eyesight,” I offered.

Abby pulled in a shaky breath and smiled. “I worry about knee replacement surgery.”

“I moved up here because this is my favorite place in the whole world, even in March.”

She lifted her glass to me. “Here’s to Chilson.”

“To Chilson.” We tinked glasses. My hand, I was happy to notice, didn’t shake at all.

• • •

After riding back to the marina, switching my bike for my car, and taking a short drive, I walked through the main entrance of Crown Yachts and into a cavernous showroom featuring extremely large, very shiny, and amazingly expensive boats. A chair at the desk near the front of the room was occupied by a twentysomething guy whose attention was completely focused on his smartphone.

At my question, he made an over-there gesture with his head. “Hugo? I think he’s in his office.”

The guy’s thumbs were moving rapidly, but from this angle I couldn’t tell if he was texting or playing Angry Birds. “Should you call ahead, let him know I’m coming?”

“Nah. Hugo’s okay.”

His being okay wasn’t what I was worried about; it was whether or not he’d be annoyed at my unannounced arrival. I wanted him friendly, not irritated. But I shrugged and made my dwarfish way around the massive boats, being exceedingly careful not to touch anything. My mother had instilled the “if you break it you buy it out of your allowance” creed in me at a young age.

The first office door off the showroom floor was large and spacious and sported a brass label that read HUGO EDEL, PRESIDENT. The man inside, who was fit with short hair and tanned skin, was standing in front of a paper-covered desk, staring at a set of boat plans, talking on a cell phone, and tapping a particular spot on the plans over and over.

“Phil, I know you want that storage compartment next to the head, but—” A torrent of words came through the phone’s receiver. Edel listened, then said, “Right. I’ll get the designer to work on it.” He clicked off the phone and looked up at me. “Good morning,” he said, then frowned. “No, wait. It’s afternoon, isn’t it?”

The phone in his hand buzzed. He looked at the readout. “Sorry. I have to take this. Sit down, if you can find a spot.”

I tried not to listen in on his conversation, but it was a little hard to pretend I couldn’t hear him when we were less than ten feet apart. I picked up a pile of Crown Yachts brochures, sat down in the chair where they’d been, and did my best to show an interest in boats I would never be able to consider purchasing.

As soon as that phone call was over, another one began. He held up his index finger, indicating that he’d be with me in a minute, and I contented myself with choosing what color fabric to upholster my yacht’s master suite in.

“No more.” He turned his phone off and tossed it, skittering, across the boat plans. “Hugo Edel. What can I do for you?” He came around the desk to shake my hand.

I introduced myself, adding that I was the bookmobile librarian.

He smiled, and ten years dropped off his face. “I’ve seen you driving around. That looks like a great job. I’m a little jealous.”

“It’s not all fun and games.” I said, then grinned. “But to tell you the truth, a lot of it is.”

He laughed and leaned against the edge of his desk. “So, what does the bookmobile librarian want with Crown Yachts?”

I made my smile as warm as I could. “As the library’s assistant director, I get stuck with doing everything that the director doesn’t have time to do. In this case, it’s fund-raising. I’m contacting the area’s most successful businesses and asking them to consider a donation.” It was a brilliant idea, and I was glad I’d thought of it that morning.

Edel was losing interest fast. “I’m afraid our donation budget is tapped out for the year.”

I nodded. “Sure, I understand. That’s why I’m talking to you now, so you can keep a donation in mind for next year.” I handed him my card. “Do you have any questions? Lots of people want to know about the bookmobile.”

Sadly, he didn’t have a single one. This meant I was forced to take a more direct approach to the Carissa question than I would have liked.

“Say,” I said, “I know where I’ve seen you before. Didn’t I see you having dinner with Carissa Radle a couple of weeks ago? You know, that poor woman who was killed?”

“Rotten thing to have happen,” he said. “But sure, I had dinner with her. There’s lots of wining and dining in this business. She was asking about boats for some car client of hers from downstate.” He tipped his head back, considering me. “You’re not thinking that I had anything to do with her death, are you?”

I opened my eyes innocently wide. “What? Oh, gosh no. I just remembered seeing you, that’s all.” Well, technically Faye had seen him, but that was close enough.

“Okay, then,” Edel said. “Because if you thought she seemed interested in me, you’re wrong. Once we got done talking about boats, she mostly talked about how much fun it was to hang out on the set for that TV cooking show they film around here.”

“Trock’s Troubles?” I asked.

“That’s the one.”

And I suddenly had another lead to follow.

• • •

The twentysomething guy waved at me as I left. “Have a nice day!”

I walked into the small vestibule area, and, with my hand reaching for the doorknob, came to a sudden halt.

A trim, fiftyish woman was using the door’s glass as a mirror. She pushed a stray strand of hair into place, patted a little color into her cheeks, checked for lipstick on her teeth, gave herself a bright smile, then opened the door.

“Oh!” She stopped abruptly. “I didn’t know anyone was there.”

I’d stepped backward, but there was no getting around the embarrassing fact that I’d caught her primping. There were two options here, either politely ignore the incident or make the most of it. I smiled and said, “You look great.”

A faint red stained her cheeks. “Thank you,” she murmured. “I hope you have a nice day.” She gave me a nod and walked into the showroom.

“Hey, Mrs. Edel,” I heard the twentysomething say. “How you doing?”

So the woman who was so concerned about how she looked was Annelise Edel, Hugo’s wife. Hmm, I thought, as I left the building.

Definitely hmmm.