Laurie Cass - Bookmobile Cat 02 - Tailing a Tabby

Chapter 16

Tucker had denied reality until his skin had started to turn a splotchy red. Even then, he’d said he’d be fine. It was the steady stream of eye and nose drippage that sent him home.

Eddie had been nestled in my lap throughout Tucker’s ordeal, saying nothing but blinking every so often, almost as if he were calculating.

I looked over at him. Over and down, to be exact, since he was in his cat carrier on the floor of the bookmobile. Ivy had pulled the carrier up against the bottom of the passenger’s seat, and her legs were draped over the top of the carrier.

What had Mr. Eddie been thinking about last night? Though it was great fun to think that Eddie comprehended everything that was going on around him, it wouldn’t do to anthropomorphize him too much. He was a cat, with a cat’s brain and a cat’s sensibilities. He wasn’t a small furry human and he didn’t think like one. It was far more likely that Eddie had been studying Tucker’s every move to make sure the stranger wasn’t a threat to him than that he’d been calculating how to get rid of a rival.

“Ivy?” I asked. “How smart do you think cats are?”

She turned and looked at me, a quizzical expression on her face. “You sure you want to ask a question like that so close to lunchtime?” I laughed, but she shook her head and tapped Eddie’s carrier with the toes of one sandaled foot. “And do you really want to have that conversation where this one can hear? If you think there’s any chance at all of—”

“Mrrrroowww!”

I winced and jumped at the same time. “Eddie? Are you okay?”

“MrrrRROOWW!”

Ivy was already bending down and examining the howling, yowling critter that Eddie had suddenly become. “He looks all right,” she said, “but—”

“MRRRR-rrrr-OOWW!”

It was the three-syllable howl that got to me. It sounded as if Doom were heading straight for Eddie with no turns in sight.

We were halfway between bookmobile stops, pretty much out in the middle of nowhere. There was only one decent place to pull the bookmobile over, and it was just ahead.

“Hang on, pal,” I told Eddie. “I’ll get this buggy stopped in a minute.”

My promise did nothing to soothe the savage-sounding beast, because he continued to howl and groan and moan the entire time I slowed, braked, and turned into the parking lot of a small restaurant where there was a nice large tree to shade the bookmobile.

At last we came to a complete stop. I unbuckled myself and leaned across to open Eddie’s cage.

“I hope he’s not sick,” Ivy said.

I was fervently hoping the same thing, but as soon as the cage door was open, Eddie stopped howling and looked at me. Blinked. He flopped over onto his side, reached out for my fingers with one white-tipped paw and held my hand.

“He’s purring,” I said flatly.

“Maybe he was a little carsick,” Ivy suggested. “And now that we’re stopped, he feels fine?”

From the doubtful tone of her voice, I don’t think she believed that scenario any more than I did. Eddie had ridden along on the bookmobile perfectly fine for weeks. Why would he suddenly start getting motion sickness?

“I’ll get him some water,” I said, pushing myself to my feet. “See if he can keep that down.”

He could and he did. When he was done, he sat up, dried his whiskers with his paw, and leapt to the headrest behind the driver’s seat.

I sighed. “He’s purring again.”

Ivy laughed. “You sound almost disappointed that he’s not sick.”

“Can you have a cat who cries wolf?”

“Cats can do pretty much anything they decide they want to do.”

I looked at Eddie and was very glad that he didn’t have opposable thumbs. “Well, since it’s lunchtime and since we’re in the parking lot of a restaurant, we might as well get something to eat.”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Ivy said, getting up and opening a cabinet door to retrieve her purse. “I love this place. Fried everything. They even have fried Oreo cookies for dessert.”

“Mrr,” Eddie said.

“You,” I told him, “do not get fried anything.”

“Mrr.”

“Yeah, well, if you’re still hale and hearty when we’re done with lunch, you’ll get some cat food.” I kissed the top of his furry head and locked the bookmobile’s doors behind me. Even though it was the middle of August, it wasn’t anywhere near hot outside, and since I’d parked the bookmobile in the shade, it would take hours before the bookmobile’s interior warmed up to anything Eddie might pant at. He had water and a serious number of cozy places to sleep. What more could an Eddie want?

Inside the restaurant, Ivy was already sliding into a wooden booth. At least I hoped it was Ivy; the place was so dark that I was going by assumption. Dark wooden floor, dark wood-paneled walls, and a dark ceiling that might have been tin, but because it was so dark, I couldn’t tell.

“What can I get you ladies to drink?” A beefy young man slid plastic-covered menus across the tabletop.

I opted for ice water. Ivy grinned. “I’m going to be bad,” she said to me in a stage whisper. To the waiter, she said, “Give me a large soda. Lots of caffeine and none of that diet stuff. I want the fully leaded version.”

“Gotcha.”

He started to turn away and Ivy put out a hand. “And we’ll want an appetizer while we make up our minds about lunch. Let’s say an order of onion rings. And some ranch dressing to go with.”

I pushed my menu over to her. “How about if you order for me? I’m not allergic to anything that I know of, and the only thing I don’t like is mushrooms.”

Her face lit up. “You are a treasure. Barb and Cade are so health-conscious. Every time I manage to drag them out here, they read over the menu a hundred times before ordering a side salad. And then they sigh when it shows up and it’s nothing but iceberg lettuce with a little cheese on top.”

I smiled, but I was thinking about allergies and cats and boyfriends and futures. Then I shook my head and cast my gaze about the darkness.

“Restrooms are over there.” Ivy tipped her head sideways. “You’ll want to shade your eyes going in. It’s as bright in there as it is dark out here.”

She was right. The glaring fluorescent fixtures that some heartless soul had installed on the ceiling were bright enough that I squinted from entry to hand washing. Then, just as my eyes started to adjust, it was time to leave.

When I pushed open the door with my elbow, light flooded out into the dining room, illuminating the scars in the worn booths and the scratches on the floor. It also brushed light across the face of the sole occupant of the booth in the dining area’s farthest corner.

I stopped. Peered into the gloom. Couldn’t make up my mind. I backed up and opened the restroom door again. This time, when the light came across the man’s face, he turned away, pulled his hat down lower, and rearranged his sunglasses.

But it wouldn’t have mattered if he’d painted his face purple with blue polka dots. It wasn’t his face that I recognized so much as his large, rotund shape, his bulky shoulders, his massive arms, and his sausagelike fingers.

Hmm.

I walked closer. He hunched over his drink. I slid into the booth across from him. He bent his head lower and sipped through his straw, making a gurgling noise at the bottom of the glass.

“Didn’t your mother tell you not to do that?” I asked.

Trock Farrand flicked me a glance. “Dear heart. What are the chances of you going away and pretending you never saw me?”

“Isn’t your show all about organic food and healthy eating and sustainable living?”

“What television show doesn’t have some small element of fiction?”

The waiter came over, his arms laden with plates. Platters, really. Fried fish. Fried chicken. French fries. And a plate of fried something or other that could have been anything from cauliflower to cheese.

I gestured at the array of unhealthy, but undeniably yummy, food items. “This is what you call a small element?”

Trock tossed aside his sunglasses and looked at me earnestly. “Minnie, my love, my paragon of a bookmobile librarian, my shining star, what can I do to earn your silence? If word gets out about this little incident, my credibility will be a thing of the past and, like the dodo bird and the passenger pigeon, it will never return.”

I eyed the plates and said nothing. I was not going to out this man to anyone, but he didn’t need to know that. Not yet, anyway.

“Minnie, Minnie, Minnie, please understand. I am a man with a deep need for fried food. There are only so many days I can go without. If I do not ingest items such as these lovelies on a weekly basis”—he cast a longing look at the cooling items—“there is a strong possibility that I will curl up and die.”

He caught my sardonic glance. “Well, perhaps I won’t die, but I will become irritable and annoying and even more difficult to work with than I already am.” His quirk of a smile gave me the distinct feeling that his on-set antics were intentionally staged. “If I get more irritable, the show will suffer, and in all honesty, my sweet, it’s in enough trouble as it is.”

My first instinct was to suspect him of straightforward Minnie Manipulation. My second was to think he was telling the truth. He didn’t even look at the food for seven straight seconds, but stared at his hands, a bleak expression on his face.

“Are those mushrooms?” I asked, pointing.

He brightened. “Nothing remotely that healthy. Cheese, my dear. Large chunks of sharp cheddar cheese.” He pushed the plate over. I picked up one piece and dipped it into a white goo that I assumed was ranch dressing.

“Let’s make a bargain,” I said, holding the delectable morsel in front of me. “I’ll keep quiet about your eating habits if you tell me everything you know about Carissa Radle and her boyfriend.”

He looked at me with brown basset hound eyes. “Can’t we make another type of bargain? Perhaps one of those Faustian varieties will do.”

“Carissa.” I popped the glorious hunk of cheese into my mouth.

“Even from our short acquaintance, I sense that you are a woman of your word. You swear upon your honor that you will not pass my current location to members of the press, any social media site, or worst of all, the suave and debonair Mr. Scruffy?”

I gave him a single nod, then firmly said, “Carissa.”

He sighed, added malt vinegar to the fries, and started talking. “We have many spectators at the local shoots as a matter of course. Carissa had been showing up on a regular basis. It was fine at first, but then I realized her presence was slowing down the filming. Slow filming means more time on the set means higher costs.”

“You sound like Scruffy,” I said.

“For good reason.” Trock waved a fry at me. “He’s my son. Don’t be fooled by the last name. You didn’t think I was christened with this name, did you?”

I hadn’t really thought about it, but now that he mentioned it, Trock Farrand did sound made up. “Carissa,” I said.

He smiled, his white teeth appearing Cheshire cat–like in the dim light. “I predict you will go far. It is focused minds like yours that get results. Carissa. Yes. I finally had to ask her to stay away. It wasn’t her, but the aftermath. Every time she watched a filming, that man would appear the next day, asking questions.”

“What kind of questions?”

“Odd ones. Who had Carissa talked to, had she talked to anyone in particular, what had she said?” He studied his plate and chose what I thought was a small piece of chicken. “It made everyone on the set uncomfortable because Carissa had told everyone she was seeing an athlete, and this young man was clearly not the athletic type.”

“Why didn’t you just ban him from the set?” I asked.

“We don’t have the budget for real security, and the network is already threatening to cancel the show. The contract is up for renewal in two months, and if I can’t deliver these last episodes on time…” He buried the last of his sentence in a huge bite of fried chicken.

“So Carissa was more or less a threat to the renewal of your contract?”

He chewed and nodded.

“You know,” I said, “that’s not a bad motive for murder.”

He swallowed, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a wad of receipts. “Perhaps. However, I have a lovely alibi. The night she died, I was down on Torch Lake, eating at the Dockside on the deck’s farthest corner. Their fried shrimp are delectable.” He sorted through the flimsy pieces of paper. “Here, love. There is no possible way I could have signed that credit card receipt and driven all the way up to Chilson to kill that poor woman.”

I brought the smudgy receipt close to my nose. Read the handwritten note: Thanks! Whitney with a smiley face. Read the time and date stamp. He was right; there was no way the timing could have worked.

Then again, he was a celebrity chef with resources I couldn’t even imagine. If anyone could have faked a credit card receipt, it was the friendly, charming, and extremely intelligent man in front of me.

• • •

I parked the bookmobile in its cozy garage and turned off the engine. “Home, sweet home.”

Eddie was too busy napping in Paulette’s nest of soft pink to pay attention, but Ivy had already unbuckled her seat belt and was piling up the returned books for hauling over to the library. How this was going to work during the snow-filled days of winter, I wasn’t quite sure, but I’d already decided not to worry about it. Things would work out.

Ivy nodded at the contest jar. “Don’t forget that we need to recount the candies, to make sure we know how many are left in there.”

I made a face. “Thanks. I forgot about that.”

“Here.” She put down the milk crate she’d picked up. “Let’s do it right now. It won’t take but a minute with the two of us.” Before I could get out a protest, she’d opened the jar and dumped the candies on the computer desk.

“This must be someone’s guess.” She picked up a slip of paper and handed it to me. “Someone else who couldn’t read the directions you so clearly taped to the jar. There’s always at least one, isn’t…” She realized that I wasn’t part of the conversation. “Minnie? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” I slipped the paper into my pants pocket. “Let’s count those candies.”

Ivy gave me a measuring look, but she didn’t ask any questions. Which was good, because I wasn’t sure how to react to the message on the paper, printed in block letters and now burning hot against my skin. TO THE BOOKMOBILE LADY. STOP ASKING ABOUT CARISSA. OR ELSE.

• • •

The note in the candy jar rattled me. I tried to convince myself it wasn’t a threat, but I couldn’t. Ivy knew something was up, but she must have respected my privacy enough to leave me alone when I said I was fine.

That night I slept poorly. I kept rolling over, trying to find a position that would send me into slumber land, and I eventually rolled enough times that Eddie jumped down and left me alone to my troubled thoughts.

I knew I should take the note to the police. Of course I should. But if I did, they’d know that I was toeing the line between helping a friend and interfering with police business. I would get a lecture that would make me steaming mad, I’d say something to make them mad, and we’d end up with a bunch of angry people, which wouldn’t be productive at all.

Sunday dawned with a scattering of clouds and a breeze strong enough to make the edges at the houseboat’s aging windows whistle. I spent the morning doing chores; then after a quick lunch I dressed in library clothes and patted Eddie on the head.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, okay?”

He lifted his head, blinked, then put his head back down. He was snoring by the time I reached the door.

As was often the case on summer Sundays when the weather wasn’t nice enough for water sports, the library was busy. I spent the first two hours helping out at the front desk, then took a stint at the reference desk, answering questions and directing people to the books they wanted.

“Excuse me,” a woman asked, “but could you show me where the book on diets and exercise might be?”

I blinked. She was fiftyish and slender enough that she looked like the last person on the planet who needed a book on dieting. She was also Annelise Edel.

“It’s Mrs. Edel, isn’t it?” I put on a wide smile. “Minnie Hamilton. We met briefly at Crown the other day. I was going out, you were going in?”

“Oh, yes, that’s right. How are you?”

It was the polite voice. She clearly didn’t remember me, but that was okay. I stood and led her toward the 613 numbers.

“Are you looking for anything specific?” I asked. “Because, honestly, you look great, and if it’s because of a particular book I want to know which one it is.”

Annelise laughed in a quiet library-appropriate way. “The way I look is due to long walks, a little weight work, lots of swimming, and watching every bite I eat. It’s a lot of work, but that’s what it takes after you turn fifty. I just want to look through the books here to see if I can learn anything new.”

“Fifty?” I shook my head. “No way are you fifty.”

She smiled. “Fifty-three, actually.”

“Well, I hope your husband appreciates all the work you put into keeping in shape,” I said with admiration. “If he doesn’t, let me know and I’ll tell him.”

“Aren’t you the sweetest?” She touched my arm. “You should be bottled up and sold to middle-aged women to… to… oh, dear.” She dipped her hand into her purse. “I seem to be…” Sniffing, she pulled out a tissue and dabbed at her eyes, which were filling with tears.

Sympathy swelled. “Hugo doesn’t appreciate you?”

She kept dabbing, then sighed. “No. He doesn’t. And I’ve been so afraid…” She bit her lower lip.

I jumped the conversation ahead. “You’re afraid he’s having an affair.”

She sniffed. “He denied it, said she was a potential customer who happened to be single, but she was so pretty and so… so…” More tears, more tissue blotting. “Then she died, a horrible thing for the poor girl. But now I’m wondering about every woman he talks to and it’s an awful thing. These days I can’t sleep for worry. Can’t eat, but I don’t mind that so much.” She gave a small smile.

“The customer,” I said. “Was it Carissa Radle? The woman who was murdered?”

“She was so pretty and cheerful, I could see how Hugo would be attracted. Every man she met wanted to be with her.”

“Not quite every man,” I said quietly, then decided to put out a rumor. “I hear there was an ex-boyfriend involved.”

Annelise’s face cleared out to sadness. “Oh, how awful for her. Yes, I see what you mean. At least one person wanted her dead.” She looked thoughtful. “Even me, I suppose, on one of those bad nights. But I was at a hotel spa down in Traverse City getting a three-day special treatment.”

She darted a glance at me. “You know Hugo, don’t you? Please don’t mention the spa. I told him I went to Chicago to meet my sister. He thinks spas are a waste of time and money, but this spa specializes in skin revitalization. I know my skin isn’t ever going to look like a twenty-five-year-old’s, but maybe…” She ran her hands over her thin hips. “Maybe if I lose a few more pounds he’ll look at me the way he used to.”

• • •

“I am not a snob,” Kristen said.

“What makes you say that?” I looked over at her. She was slumped down in a white metal chair, her long legs sticking out so far that they would have been a tripping hazard to anyone coming near our table if we hadn’t chosen the far corner. “You sneer at white zinfandel wine, you won’t set foot in a fast-food restaurant, and you practically asphyxiate at the idea of eating anything frozen.”

“That’s not snobbery,” she said, “that’s good sense. White zin is nasty, fast food is horrible for you, and no one should have to eat frozen food, not when there’s fresh around that can be eaten.”

“Yet you’re here.” I nodded at our surroundings. This included a stupendous view of the deep-blued Torch Lake, the Clam River, and the large deck for which the Dockside Restaurant was famous. Boats laden with young people and old, all reddish from a day on the water, idled up and down the river. It was a peaceful scene punctuated with seagull cries and cries from small children who didn’t want their fun to end in spite of the setting sun.

“Hey,” Kristen said, “you’re the one who wanted to come here, not me.”

“Don’t forget the malt vinegar.” I pushed the tall bottle toward her.

“Right. Good idea.” She sprinkled vinegar liberally over her fries. “Man,” she said as she got ready to stuff her mouth, “these things are awesome.”

“And you’re just as much a hypocrite as Trock Farrand.” I might have sworn secrecy to not tell anyone about Trock’s secret eating habits, but letting Kristen know didn’t really count as telling. For one thing, I didn’t want to sit here all by myself, and for another, it might do her good to know that her idol had feet of clay.

“I hate you,” she muttered as she picked up the saltshaker.

“You do not. You just don’t like having reality slap you in the face.”

“Who does?” She grinned and tossed another fry into her mouth. “Much nicer to live with rose-colored glasses on, if you ask me. No one would ever accomplish anything if they had to stare at reality all the time.”

I thought about this. If you truly understood the odds against success when, say, starting a new restaurant, would you even try? Maybe the only way to accomplish anything significant was to decide you were going to be the one to beat the odds. “You know, I think you’re right.”

“Well, duh. You’re a case in point. Would you ever have started the effort to get the library a bookmobile if you’d known how unlikely it was that you’d get the funding?”

Huh. I’d never thought of it that way.

Kristen laughed. “You never thought of it that way, did you?”

“You two ladies look like you’re enjoying yourselves.” Our waitress approached. “Is there anything else I can get you?” she asked.

That was my cue. We’d taken this corner table specifically because we’d asked to be seated at one of Whitney’s tables, she of the smiley face on Trock’s receipt. “Do you watch Trock’s Troubles, that cooking show?”

Whitney nodded. “Sure. It’s not like I have to see it every week, but I’ve watched it a few times. Say, did you know that that Trock guy has a house up here? Petoskey, I think, or maybe Harbor Springs.”

I elbowed Kristen, who was starting to correct her. “That’s what I’ve heard, too. And I heard someone say he was here late on Friday night, three weeks ago. Were you here then? Because I was wondering if he’s the same in person as on television.”

“Three weeks ago?” She squinted at the sky. “Last week in July, right? The whole weekend was a nutso-busy zoo. I’m not sure I would have noticed if Daniel Radcliffe had been here.”

“Who?” Kristen asked.

I elbowed her again. If she didn’t know the name of the actor who’d played Harry Potter, now wasn’t the time to expand her information base. “So you’ve never waited on Trock Farrand?”

“Sorry.” She shrugged, then smiled. “Of course, you never know who’s going to walk in here. Wait a few minutes and he might show up.”

• • •

The next evening after work and dinner, I decided that what I needed was a long walk. Even though it was a Monday night, all the downtown stores would be open to catch the summer tourist trade. A walk would be an excellent idea. Partly to clear my head, but also to work off all the fried food that I’d snarfed down over the weekend.

“How can something so bad for you taste so good?” I asked Eddie as I refilled his water bowl.

He ignored both me and my water offering. He’d been standoffish ever since the bookmobile lunch where I’d abandoned him. “Hey, I said I was sorry. But fried food is even worse for cats than it is for humans. How about a treat?” I opened an upper kitchen cabinet, took out the small canister of cat treats, and shook it to rattle the contents enticingly.

Eddie’s ears twitched, but he didn’t move. He still didn’t move when I opened the can and rolled small treat bits onto the floor.

“Wow, you really are mad, aren’t you?” I hunched down to pet him. “Hope you get over it soon. I love you—you know that, right?”

He looked away and kept looking away as I walked out the door. As soon as it shut behind me, however, he spun and launched himself on top of the treats. I couldn’t decide whether to pull out my hair or to laugh, but since my tummy was still feeling heavy with fried food, I opted for neither and walked away, shaking my head. Maybe Eddie wasn’t the strangest cat in the universe, but he had to have a good shot at being the strangest cat in the world.

Or maybe he was a new breed of cat. If breeders could come up with a new cat variety, why couldn’t nature? Maybe Eddie was the start of a new species. I tried to remember high school biology class and how scientific nomenclature worked. Kings Play Chess On Friday Golf Saturday. Kingdom Phylum Class Order Family Genus Species. Felis was the cat genus. Felis domesticus, the genus and species for domesticated cats. “Felis Eddicus,” I said, then laughed.

Smiling, I looked around. And saw that passersby were moving away from me, pulling their children out of my path. Oh, dear. The laughing cat lady, that’s what I was turning into. “Mrs. Eddie,” I murmured, sputtering out another laugh. Eddie would like that one. I’d have to—

My humor came to an abrupt end. Detective Inwood was walking toward me. He was deep in conversation with a uniformed officer who looked familiar… I snapped my fingers. Wolverson. He was with Deputy Wolverson. And I didn’t want to talk to either one of them, not right now.

I dodged sideways into the nearest storefront and quietly shut the door, keeping my gaze on the street. As soon as they walked past, I’d—

“Oooo, it’s beautiful!”

I started at the familiar female voice and looked around. Saw the brightly lit glass cases. Felt the thick carpet under my feet. Heard the soft music.

A jewelry store. Of all the stores in downtown Chilson, I’d ended up in the one in which I had the least interest. Not that there was anything wrong with jewelry stores; I just didn’t have the means to purchase anything in one. Besides, pretty much everything in here would just turn into a really expensive cat toy.

“Oh, Quincy!”

I edged farther in, far enough to see around the large display case in the middle of the room. There, throwing her slim arms around Quincy’s flushed neck, was Deena, her face wreathed in smiles.

“You like it?” he asked.

“I can’t imagine a better engagement ring,” she said.

Up until that point, I’d been harboring a teensy-weensy hope that Quincy had bought the ring for someone else, say Paulette, and was only showing it to Deena. The kiss that Deena and Quincy were now sharing, however, with the jeweler beaming in the background, smushed that hope into flat dust. Reality was in front of me, and it was time to get used to it.

I stepped out of my hiding place. “Hey, you two. Congratulations!” After a flurry of hugs and well-wishes, I left the store to face another reality.

There was no detective or deputy in sight, so I walked rapidly in the direction I’d seen them heading. Halfway down the next block, I saw them coming out of an antique store and hurried to catch up.

“Detective Inwood,” I called. “Deputy Wolverson. Do you have a minute?”

We adjourned to what the city was calling a pocket park, a narrow passageway between two buildings that had been landscaped with plants and brick pavers. We sat down on benches that faced each other. At least the police officers sat on theirs; I perched on the edge of mine as words spilled out of me.

I told them about the candy jar note. I told them that the bookmobile’s door had been left unlocked at the art fair and how that was probably when the note had been left. I told them what I knew about Hugo Edel and Trock Farrand and Greg Plassey. The detective nodded all through this while the deputy took notes. I even mentioned what looked like a post from the killer on Cade’s Facebook page and was reassured when they told me their forensic computer analyst was working on tracking back the poster’s IP address. But when I told them that an old boyfriend of Carissa’s had been following her around, Inwood’s face twitched.

“You seem to have been following in our footsteps, Ms. Hamilton. If you’d talked to us, you would have known we’ve already made most of these inquiries. But please let us know if you learn more about the ex-boyfriend.”

That didn’t make sense. “But you’ve already talked to him. It’s Randall Moffit.”

Deputy Wolverson started to say something but stopped and looked at Inwood. When he nodded, the deputy went on. “He has a solid alibi for the time of the murder.”

“Sure, but he could have hired someone else to do that.” How, I didn’t know, but if he had buddies that would paint their bodies in Tigers blue, maybe he had a friend good enough to commit murder for him. “Moffit must have been the one who was following her around to Crown and Trock’s TV set. Did you check his alibi for those days?”

The detective sighed, so I knew they hadn’t. “And what about the phone call that lured Cade to Carissa’s house?” I persisted. “Did you ever check up on that?”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Hamilton,” he said, “but we’ve found no proof it was ever made.”

My mouth went dry. “But maybe it was a landline call. A local one. That doesn’t mean it was never made. You can’t prove a negative.” I could see I was losing the detective’s interest and started talking faster. “But local calls do show up somewhere. I mean, they must, right? Every call is routed through computers, and computers keep track of everything. It’s just a matter of getting the data.”

Inwood stood. “Thanks for your input, Ms. Hamilton. And please drop that note off at the sheriff’s office tomorrow morning. Have a good night.”

He walked off, the deputy followed, and I was left alone with nothing but my own frightened thoughts to keep me company.