Tailing A Tabby

Chapter 18

At sunset the next evening, Cade settled into one of my chaise longues. I took my cell and the binoculars I’d borrowed from Rafe and found a comfortable spot under a corner of a large, leafy shrub next to the marina office.

The night before, we’d put a Facebook post on Cade’s page, saying that he was going to be doing some recuperating alone on a friend’s houseboat. We knew that the killer had probably looked at Cade’s Facebook page before, so we were hoping he’d do it again. And since the killer knew I drove the bookmobile, it was likely that he also knew where I lived.

This creeped me out in a big way, but I tried not to let it show as we sketched out the right words to use. Finally we clicked POST and off it went.

Now I sat cross-legged on a swim towel and checked the batteries on my phone. Powered up and ready for a night of surveillance. “We’re on,” I whispered, and made myself as comfortable as possible while sitting on the ground half under a shrubbery.

Comfortable was good. It might be a long night.

• • •

“A pointless night,” I told Eddie when I returned at half past four. Tried to tell him, anyway, since I was doing as much yawning as talking. “Who would ever have expected the Olsons to show up on a Tuesday and have a party?”

It had turned out that Tuesday had been Mrs. Olson’s birthday and Gunnar had surprised her with a quick trip north via chartered aircraft large enough to hold their closest friends, of which I now knew there were many.

Cade and I had stayed in place until long past the hour when all the partying people had gone to bed, but our quarry hadn’t shown. “The only danger involved was the danger of falling asleep,” I murmured sleepily.

My furry friend flicked his tail at me and jumped down. I followed him, still yawning, as he stalked through the kitchen, down the steps, past the bathroom, and into the bedroom, where he jumped up on the spare bed and started rubbing his chin against the bulletin board. I’d installed the magnetic bulletin board a few weeks ago when I discovered that my former cat-free existence had given me habits that did not suit a life with cats. Specifically, how I kept track of my household paperwork.

In the old days, I’d put all my receipts in a tidy pile in the middle of the spare bed until I got around to checking my credit card and bank statements. Now I stuck the small slips of paper to the board and hoped they didn’t attract Eddie’s attention.

“Not a cat toy,” I said, pushing at his hind end and twisting him away from the latest object of his affection. “There’s nothing about a magnetic board that should interest you.” I started pulling my sweatshirt over my head. “I mean, can’t some things be off-limits? For example, I don’t eat your cat food, so why do you—”

A small thunk set me on pause. So much for asking nicely. I yanked off the sweatshirt and inspected the Eddie damage.

“Not so bad,” I said, pulling the small calendar out from underneath the furry black-and-white body and putting it back where it belonged. “Pulling down the receipts would have made a much bigger mess. Better luck next time.” I leaned down to kiss the top of his head.

“Mrr,” he said.

“I know just what you mean,” I said, and gave him another kiss.

• • •

For the first time ever, I was glad the next day wasn’t a bookmobile day. With my level of fatigue, it was extremely possible that I could have fallen asleep at the wheel, and that wasn’t a possibility I wanted to dwell upon at all.

I made it through the morning by pouring copious amounts of coffee down my throat and decided the best way to stay awake through the early part of the afternoon was to take an informal inventory of the reading room. Check on the wear of the magazines, straighten the newspapers, all things to keep me on my feet and conscious.

As I put the copies of Time magazine into chronological order, Mitchell’s booming voice bounded across the room. “Minnie! Hey, Minnie! Guess what?”

He was grinning and more full of life and energy than I’d ever seen. I’d been ready to tell him my guess was that he’d decided to enter the world beard and mustache championship, but he looked so happy that I didn’t have the heart. “Hey, Mitchell. What’s up?”

“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “About what you and Holly and Josh have been saying, and I think maybe you’re right. I should get out more. It’s good to try new things, right? Keeps the old noggin going, yeah?”

He tapped the side of his head. It made a hollow sound, but that could have been my imagination. “So you know what I’m going to do?” he asked. “I’m going to open my own business. It’s going to be great, and I’m sure I’m going to be real busy real soon. I probably won’t be hanging around here as much anymore, but I’ll stop in every once in a while so you remember my name.” He laughed, flashed a dazzling smile, and bounced out.

I stared after him. Mitchell was starting a business? What could it possibly be?

“Well, well, well.” Stephen stood in the reading room’s doorway, his arms folded on his chest. “Looks like you’ve finally taken care of The Situation. Excellent work, Minnie. Nicely done.” He gave me a nod and strode off.

Excellent work? I hadn’t done a thing. And nicely done? I wasn’t so sure.

At all.

• • •

All that afternoon and through the evening I mentally tossed everything I knew about Carissa into a big pot and tried melting it together.

As I should have known, all that did was make a big muddled soupy mess that gave me no answer in particular and only made my stomach start to hurt. I didn’t feel any closer to keeping Cade out of jail now than I’d been the day I vowed to help him.

The next day was a bookmobile day. Being out and about, bringing books and good cheer to the countryside, should have made me feel better, but the black cloud of fear hung on my horizon all day. On the plus side, Thessie had returned, and her chatter about her college visits kept my darkest doubts out of view.

We had a busy stop late in the day, which was our favorite kind of stop. Kids looking for books, teenagers looking for books, adults looking for books. It did my heart good to see the bus so crowded, and when I heard footsteps creak up the stairs, I turned, ready with a welcoming smile.

“Hello,” I said, then stopped. “Hey, Brett.” The man, tallish and thinnish, with sandy brown hair, looked at me oddly and I realized it wasn’t Greg Plassey’s friend at all. It was just someone who resembled him.

“Sorry.” I gestured an apology. “I thought you were someone else.”

“I get that a lot. Guess I have one of those faces,” he said, shrugging. “I was wondering—can I get a library card here or do I have to go into Chilson?”

Happy day! Was there any job better than this? I reached for the forms and a pen. “All you have to do is fill this out. I’ll give you a temporary card now and send you a permanent one tomorrow.”

He put the paper down on the computer desk, scribbled in his name and address, and handed it back. “That’s it?” he asked.

“Easier than buying groceries,” I said. “If you want, you can go select any books you’d like, and by the time you’re done, I’ll have you entered in the system and…”

In the act of turning away, he paused when I did. “Something wrong?” he asked.

“Your name.” I stared at the form.

“Oh. Yeah, sorry about my handwriting. It’s Randall,” he said. “With two L’s. Last name is Moffit, two F’s, one T.”

I looked at the form. Looked at him. “You have a cousin named Faye.”

“Sure. She’s the one who told me I should try the bookmobile.”

“You dated Carissa Radle.”

He shifted. “Yeah. Hate that she died, but we’d been over for a couple of years. I’m dating a dental hygienist these days.” He smiled, showing bright white teeth.

I pointed him in the direction of the thrillers and watched, thinking, as he browsed through the Stuart Woodses and James Pattersons.

Randall Moffit and Brett Karringer looked enough alike to be brothers. Randall had dated Carissa. And I remembered Jari saying that Carissa had said she needed to break out of her lean build and sandy brown hair boyfriend rut. Jari had said the Weasel lived downstate. Brett lived downstate. Could Brett be the Weasel? Could Brett be the killer? Could Greg’s golfing accident have been a murder attempt?

The questions tumbled around in my brain. I needed to find Greg. For the first time ever, I was in a hurry for the bookmobile day to be done.

At long last, the forty-five-minute stop was over. Thessie and I started shooing people in the direction of the door while Eddie surveyed our efforts from his new perch on the dashboard. Finally only Randall was left. As I slid his checked-out books over to him, he handed me a slip of paper. “My guess for the contest,” he said, gesturing at the candy jar, whose lid was now firmly taped shut with clear packaging tape.

I glanced at it and my mouth fell open. “This is exactly right. How on earth did you do that?”

“Felt right, I guess. Sometimes you just gotta go with your gut, you know?” He tromped out into the afternoon sunshine without another word.

But I wasn’t paying attention to his lack of social niceties. Sometimes you just gotta go with your gut, he’d said. And what had my gut been trying to tell me?

“Mrr,” said Eddie, who moved to the passenger’s headrest.

I patted his head absentmindedly. What was my gut saying? I really didn’t know. I wasn’t even sure it was saying anything at all.

• • •

When I got home, I let Eddie out of his carrier, made sure his food and water dish were at the required levels, then headed out again.

The screen door to the marina’s office banged shut behind me. Chris looked up from the boat parts he had strewn across the countertop. “Hey, Minster. What’s up?”

“I’m looking for Greg. Is he around?”

“Oh, man.” Chris put down the greasy whatever it was. “You haven’t heard?”

“Heard what?”

“Greg’s in the Charlevoix Hospital. Just this afternoon, he fell off his roof. Almost got killed, I guess. Broken legs, broken arm, and who knows what happened to his insides… Minnie, hey, Minnie!”

But I was already out the door and halfway to my car.

• • •

“He said what?” Greg snorted out a laugh. “You got to be kidding.”

I smiled. “Well, you know Chris. There’s no story he hears that he can’t make better by adding a few exaggerations.”

“A few?” Greg gestured at his arms and legs. “No broken bones, and no internal injuries. There isn’t much he got right.”

“Except,” Tucker said, “the almost-got-killed part. Because it was a close call, Mr. Plassey.”

“I’m fine.” Greg moved to sit up but winced and flopped back down. “Well, almost fine.”

Tucker looked at him over the top of a clipboard. “You dislocated a shoulder, damaged a number of ribs, and sprained an ankle. I wouldn’t call that fine.”

“Hey, I been worse.” Greg winked at me.

By the time I’d reached the Charlevoix Hospital, Tucker had talked Greg into staying at the hospital overnight and the three of us were a cozy group in Greg’s newly assigned hospital room.

“What happened, anyway?” I asked. “Chris said you fell off your roof.”

“At least he got that part right.” Greg grinned. “I was up there looking at the flashing around the chimney. There’s a leak up there somewhere. I been using that wooden ladder of my dad’s for years and never thought to check it. My own stupid fault, you know? I leave it out back of the garage—no surprise it fell to bits.”

“Did you ever think that someone tampered with it?” My voice sounded loud in the small room.

Greg stared at me, then started laughing. “Oh, right. Who’s going to do that? Because I have so many enemies.”

Tucker was also looking at me. He opened his mouth but then shut it.

His eyes were so blue I thought I might be looking into pieces of the sky. His smile was so warm I thought I might kiss it. And I suddenly thought that I might be falling in love with him.

“Hello?” Greg said. “Are you two still here?”

Tucker murmured that he’d be back later, gave us nods, and went off to do busy doctor things. I tore my gaze away from Tucker and turned my attention back to the man in the bed.

“How long have you known Brett Karringer?”

“My buddy Brett?” Greg frowned. “Why?”

Excellent question. Unfortunately I didn’t have a good answer prepared. “He looks a lot like someone I met the other day. I was wondering if they were related somehow.”

“Oh. Well, I only met him a couple months ago. He lives downstate, but he seems okay. A little intense, if you know what I mean, but okay.”

“Has he ever dated anyone up here?”

“No idea.”

Internally, I cursed the male gender for their stereotypical tendency not to talk about anything of importance. What I needed was a connection from Brett to Carissa, and I didn’t have one. Even a vague one would be good, but I had nothing.

“Say,” Greg said. “You want to watch the ball game for an inning or two?”

About as much as I wanted to watch grass grow, but I studied the lines of pain and weariness on his face, smiled, and said, “Sure.”

• • •

When I got home, I explained Greg’s accident to Eddie.

“So, what do you think?” I asked. “Accidental or intentional?”

Eddie, who was sitting on the back of the dining bench, rotated around so that his back faced me.

“Hey, don’t be like that. I’m sorry that you had to spend the evening inside, but you know I have to figure this out. The police still think Cade did it and—”

Eddie was paying no attention to my explanation. The newspaper on the dining bench must have suddenly needed scratching, because he jumped off the seat’s back and onto the paper and started ripping it to shreds with his clawed feet.

“Hey! Cut that out!” His current paper of choice was a freebie supplement to the Petoskey newspaper. The Graphic was a guide to everything fun that was going on in the area, which mostly meant weekends, but there were—

My brain suddenly spun off into a direction it had never gone. Weekends. Greg Plassey had been whacked on the head with that golf ball at a weekend tournament. Trock Farrand had almost been run off the road when? On a weekend. Hugo Edel’s boat had blown up on a weekend, and it had been on a weekend, a Friday night, that Carissa had been killed. Okay, Greg’s ladder escapade was a weekday event, but the ladder could have been damaged on a weekend.

“Everything happened on a weekend,” I said softly. “Do you think it matters?”

Eddie opened his mouth in a silent “Mrr” and jumped back onto the back of the bench, where he sat and started cleaning his left front paw. To get the newsprint off, no doubt.

“Well,” I told him, “since you think it matters, maybe I should call a detective.” Eddie had no response to that. I took that as confirmation, found the number for the sheriff’s department, and dialed. Since it was getting close to ten at night, of course there was no detective around. I left a message to call.

“Think one of them will?” I asked Eddie. He stared at me, unblinking. “Yeah, I don’t think so, either.”

Which meant it might be time for another trap.