by Laurie Cass
“Darn,” I said, sighing dramatically, and left them to their evening.
Chapter 12
Two things accompanied me to bed that night, a brand-spanking-new copy of Bernard Cornwell’s latest historical novel and an Eddie. Both were heavy, but both gave me comfort, and after a relaxing hour of reading about the early days of England, I turned off the light and slept the night through.
The next morning, I was halfway through my prework preparations when I realized I wasn’t scheduled to work that day. And since I was the one who made up the schedule, there was no excuse for my early rising.
“Here I am,” I said. “All dressed up and almost ready to go. Now what?”
I asked the question of Eddie, who had squeezed himself onto the houseboat’s small dashboard. Since I docked the boat nose-out, the dash not only allowed a view of Janay Lake and the passing boats, but also showcased seagulls, mourning doves, swallows, the occasional evening bat, and every so often a bald eagle.
He hunched down and made a cackling noise at the feathered creatures that were wheeling about.
“You do realize those birds are on the other side of the window, don’t you?” I spooned up the last bite of cereal. The bottom of the bowl held a cat-sized pool of milk. “Ready, Eddie?”
The second he heard the light thump of the bowl hitting the floor, Eddie leapt down and trotted over for his morning treat.
I listened to the noise of his laps. “You know, my mother always said to eat with my mouth closed.” Eddie ignored me. When he finished with the milk, he sat down and began cleaning his back leg, which had mysteriously gotten dirty when he was drinking.
That wasn’t something I had much interest in watching, so I started sliding out of the booth.
My movement startled Eddie. He jumped, squirreled sideways, and fell over, all four legs scrambling for purchase on the smooth flooring. After an eternity of effort, he managed to right himself. One long jump later, he was back on the dashboard, staring at the birds as if nothing had happened.
But one thing had. Eddie’s bumbling antics had given me an idea for the day’s activities.
• • •
A little bit of Internet searching and one phone call later, I tracked down the location of the day’s filming of Trock’s Troubles, the cooking show that had made Trock Farrand a national celebrity.
Or at least a national celebrity in certain circles. For someone like me, who wasn’t overly interested in food except as fuel, the man’s name had scarcely been heard except from my aunt and my down-to-earth best friend who started talking in giggles when asked if there was any chance her restaurant was ever going to be featured on the show.
However, since said best friend was also the person who had confirmed that Farrand’s show was being taped at his house today, I forgave her future giggles and even made an internal vow not to make fun of her for turning into a bedazzled thirteen-year-old at the mention of the man’s name. After all, if I ever met Nancy Pearl, the famous librarian, I might get a little giggly, too.
I parked my car on the side of the road and walked up Farrand’s driveway. At this point, however, it looked more like a parking lot than anything else. Vans, SUVs, pickup trucks, and even a few sedans crowded the asphalt from garage door to right-of-way.
People milled about, some looking bored, some looking worried, some looking tense. But since none of them were paying any attention to me, I waltzed on past as if I belonged, nodding vaguely to everyone I passed.
“Morning,” I said calmly, and every one of them nodded back. Though I’d thought there’d be some sort of security in place, I didn’t see even a single guard keeping an eagle eye out.
It seemed weird, because Trock’s Troubles was a long-running television show and they were bound to get gawkers who could make a nuisance of themselves. But what did I know about taping a television show? I didn’t even know for sure if they called it taping or filming, and I certainly didn’t know who got to eat the food that was made during the show. Kristen said I was a Philistine to even think about something like that, but I thought it required careful consideration.
“Oh, man,” a male voice at my right shoulder muttered. “Not again. I can’t freaking believe it.”
I glanced at the guy. A few years older than me, with sharply defined arm muscles and white-blond hair, he was shaking his head and tucking a cell phone into his pocket. “What’s the matter?” I asked.
He looked at me. “You must be new,” he said, smiling in a sour way that still managed to be friendly. “Our friend Trock has a habit of changing the meal plan just as we’re starting to shoot. Throws everything off schedule something fierce. Trock says that’s part of the show’s charm, but I say he’s nuts.” He stared in the direction of the most activity. “The troubles that get on the air aren’t half of the troubles we have to suffer.”
I smiled and stuck out my hand. “Minnie Hamilton.” Whoever this guy was, and in spite of his harsh-sounding words, it was clear that he had a deep respect for Trock Farrand.
“Scruffy Gronkowski.”
I eyed the sharp crease in his khaki pants and the perfectly rolled collar of his polo shirt and raised my eyebrows.
He laughed. “Nickname from when I was a kid. It’s better than the name on my birth certificate, so what do I care? And since I’m the producer on this wretched show, I should probably know what you’re doing here.”
So there was security. It just came in a different form than expected. “I was hoping to talk to Mr. Farrand. I’m a friend of Kristen Jurek’s. She owns a local restaurant, the Three Seasons—it’s on your short list for being featured on the show—and I was hoping to put in a good word for her. I’m sure you hear this all the time, but her restaurant is something special. The only thing is, she thinks the Three Seasons is good enough to speak for itself. She’s too proud to come out there and promote herself.”
“And you’re not?” Scruffy asked, raising his own eyebrows.
“Not when it comes to asking for help for my friends,” I said seriously. “And it’s an outstanding restaurant—it really is.”
Scruffy picked a piece of invisible lint off his shirt. “Outstanding restaurants are a dime a dozen.”
“Sure, but how many of them are only open three seasons a year so they can offer only fresh and local ingredients?”
“That cuts it down quite a bit.” He squinted down at me. “You got anything else?”
“She grew up in Chilson, went away to multiple colleges, got a Ph.D. in biochemistry, hated every second she worked for a large pharmaceutical company, and came back home to open a restaurant.”
A slow grin spread across his face. “Now, that’s a good story.”
I beamed at him. “Isn’t it? But she doesn’t like talking about it. She’s annoyed that she wasted all that time and money.”
“Education is never wasted,” he said. “After all, you never know when you’ll need to know Avogadro’s number.”
“Six-point-zero-two-two times ten to the twenty-third, the number of atoms in a mole, but I have no idea why anyone would need to know that, or even what it means, exactly.”
He laughed. “If you want to talk to Trock a minute, he’s over there.” Scruffy nodded at a large, very round man who was mopping his forehead with a towel. “And you’ll have my undying gratitude if you can point him back to grilling pork tenderloin. Tell him we can do the whitefish some other episode. Just not today.”
I squared my shoulders and saluted. “Yes, sir. I’ll do my best, sir.”
He gave me a sharp return salute. “Good luck to you.”
Smiling, I made my way through the snaky maze of cables and wires, staying behind cameras and trying very hard to stay out of everyone’s way. At long last I reached the table where Trock Farrand had seated himself. He’d crossed his oversized arms and slid down in his chair far enough that
a strong breeze would have pushed him onto the bricked floor of the massive patio.
“Mr. Farrand?” I asked. “Scruffy sent me over here. He—”
“Whitefish,” he growled. “I will not listen to another lackey sent by Sir Scruffy. I suppose you have yet another point to make in favor of the porcine product?”
“Nope,” I said. “But that’s not what I wanted to talk about.”
“Eh?” He lifted his head. “You don’t have an opinion on pork tenderloin versus whitefish?”
“Not really, sir.”
He sat up and lost his sulky expression. “Ye gods, a woman of pluck, discernment, and wisdom. Give me your hand, young lady. I would press your flesh but lightly.”
I blinked and held out my hand for shaking purposes.
“Milady.” He took my hand gently in his and kissed the back of it. “I am your devoted servant, yet I don’t even know your name. Sit, please.”
Suddenly I understood the attraction to his show. It wasn’t the food; it was him. Sitting and laughing, I said, “Minnie Hamilton. I’m a librarian. I drive the bookmobile and—”
“Ah, a bookmobile!” His pudgy face lit up. “What a glorious conveyance. I have seen your bookmobile whilst out and about, and now I’ve met its beautiful young driver. What luck!”
“I’m glad you think so, sir.”
“Trock,” he said, patting my hand. “No sirs on this set. Makes me feel as if I’m about to get paddled by my sixth-grade teacher. Now tell me why the bookmobile librarian is on my set.”
I told him about the Three Seasons and about Kristen and about how good she’d look on his show.
“Attractive, is she?” He smoothed his eyebrows.
“If you think a slender, blond, and almost six-foot-tall woman could be attractive, then yes.”
“Hmm.” He kept smoothing his eyebrows. “I will send young Scruffy to investigate. Meanwhile, since you are not making any movements regarding leaving, methinks you have more to say.”
Bumbling he might be, but Trock Farrand was also perceptive. I used the looking-for-bookmobile-donations spiel again and got about as far as I had with Hugo Edel. And that was my link to divert the conversation.
“I asked Hugo Edel for a donation,” I said, sighing, “and got about the same level of excitement.”
Trock smiled. “Dear Minnie, you need to find an emotional connection. Intellectual appeals are all well and good, but you need to tug on the heartstrings.”
An excellent tip. “I think Mr. Edel’s heartstrings were a little damaged,” I said, mostly, but not completely, lying. “He knew that woman who was killed a couple of weeks ago.”
“Carissa,” Trock said, and the name came out almost as a curse. “I wish I knew nothing of her. She was nothing but a pain in the behind. It’s situations like hers that might drive me to have a closed set.” His voice grew loud. “This show has enough troubles with timing and schedules and I’m the one who has to—” He stopped. Breathed in and out. Sighed. “But I’m sorry she’s dead, of course I am. Especially since she seemed to have found a new love interest. A new man who, I hoped, would make her very happy indeed.”
I’d been sitting up fairly straight, but my spine suddenly went even straighter. “Do you know his name?”
“Dear heart.” Trock gave me a pitying smile. “I barely remember my own.”
“Trock!” A wild-haired woman in shorts, canvas sneakers, and a tie-dyed shirt appeared in front of us. “We need a decision and we need it now.”
He sighed heavily and turned to me. “Which do you think, Lady Minnie? The exquisite whitefish creation I so long to bring to platter, or the staid pork tenderloin that will do nothing for the history of culinary arts.”
Out of Trock’s view, the woman clasped her hands and got down on her knees, mouthing a single word over and over: Pork!
I gave her a tiny nod. “What do you think about doing your whitefish some other day?” I asked Trock. “With a little time to plan, you could make a show around it, maybe go out on the boat and help catch the fish.”
Trock’s eyes opened wide. “Minnie, that’s an outstanding idea, simply outstanding.”
I wasn’t sure it was a good idea at all, but maybe I was wrong.
“But…” He hesitated. “The pork. So bland. So basic. So blasé.”
“Not after you get done with it, I’m sure.”
His sudden smile was wide and deep and he looked sincere as Santa Claus three days before Christmas. The man had charm out the wazoo. Maybe I’d ask Kristen to record some of his shows. It was possible I’d even learn something about cooking.
On my way out, Scruffy pulled me aside. “I heard you talking to Trock,” he said. “That Carissa? She was a big fan. We all liked her.”
I eyed him. Was he trying to establish that no one from the TV show had anything to do with the murder? “Okay,” I said, “but Trock seemed to have some issues with her.”
Scruffy shrugged. “Trock has issues with everyone. And that new guy she was seeing?” He glanced away as Trock started shouting orders to fetch the pork. “Hallelujah,” he muttered. “Anyway, I don’t know his name, either, but I know he used to play some sport. A professional sport.”
“Football?” I asked as casually as I could. “Basketball? Baseball? Hockey? Tennis?”
But he was shaking his head. “No idea. I’m not into that kind of thing. Sorry.”
• • •
Eddie and I had a late lunch out in the sunshine of the houseboat’s front deck. Or rather, I ate a nice lunch of grilled cheese and a salad while Eddie batted around the three cat treats I gave him.
“You know,” I said, “those are to eat, not to play with.”
Since Eddie was intent on his new game, the rules of which seemed to change at any given moment, he ignored me completely.
“So, you know what I’ve done today?” I asked him. “I talked to Trock Farrand. And you know what I found out? That Carissa was seeing a professional athlete.”
Eddie licked at one of the treats, got it wet with cat spit, rolled it around a little to spread the spit around, walked away from it with the obvious intention of never returning, then came straight over and whacked my shin with the top of his head.
“Yeah, I know,” I said. “It’s probably Greg, isn’t it?” Maybe not, but probably. There were other sports guys around; I’d heard of a few retired NFL players who had places nearby, and a number of hockey players, but given Greg’s reaction when I’d talked about Carissa, he definitely had some connection to her.
The knowledge was depressing. Though I barely knew Greg, I liked the guy. Thinking that he was hiding something made me feel icky inside.
“And if that’s not a medical term,” I told Eddie, “it should be.”
He jumped up next to me on the chaise longue and rubbed the side of his face against my arm.
“Of course,” I said, pulling him onto my lap, “there are variations of ick. Take the way you just rubbed Eddie spit on me. That’s also icky. I mean, you don’t catch me doing that to you.”
He bumped his head against my leg, which almost always meant Pay attention to me. Now!
I started to pet the thick black-and-white fur. Full, purring rumbles began half a second later. “Greg lied,” I said quietly. “But I don’t think he’s the only one.”
Eddie’s mouth opened in a silent Mrr.
“I agree. I think Hugo Edel and Trock lied, too.” Or at least hadn’t told me everything. Now all I had to do was figure out why.
• • •
Saturday morning was unseasonably cool and threatened rain. I pulled on long pants and a fleece pullover and drove up to the library to back the bookmobile out of the garage. It was odd not to have Eddie with me, but the morning’s schedule wasn’t a suitable one for a cat.
Though it wasn’t anywhere
near as big as the famous art fairs in Charlevoix or Petoskey, the Chilson version was enjoying a steady growth that boded well for the local arts world. I’d talked the director into believing that having the bookmobile parked at the fair would be an asset and hoped that it would be true.
From eight until eleven, I opened the bookmobile to one and all, answering questions, checking out books, and even giving out a few new library cards. Though the morning was chilly, I was warmed by the many smiles, especially the smile that walked up the steps at eleven sharp.
Tucker looked around. “So this is the bookmobile. Nice. It’s a lot like one of those bloodmobiles they have downstate.”
I nodded. “The company that fabricated this also does medical vehicles.” I gave Tucker the tour, then said, “All I have to do is drive it back to the garage at the end of the day.”
“Sounds good,” he said. “Lunch first or fair first?”
We discussed the question as we descended the steps, kept discussing it as we browsed through a dozen booths of varying displays of art, and only ended the discussion when we walked up to a trailer selling corn dogs. We kept discussing if that was enough food for lunch until we found a booth offering hamburgers. The dessert discussion ended at the booth selling elephant ears. Tummies contentedly full, we wandered through the booths, admiring most of the work and being puzzled by some, but enjoying the crowd and each other’s company.
And the crowd was large—poor boating weather often made for well-attended summer events. I saw half the regular library patrons and my marina neighbors. I also saw Hugo and Annelise Edel, Greg Plassey and his friend Brett, and though I didn’t see him I could have sworn I heard Trock Farrand’s voice.
Tucker and I had walked through about half the booths when one particular display caught my eye.
“Hello.” A woman sitting on a tall stool smiled at me. “How are you?”
“Excellent,” I said. “How about you? Busy?”
“The little ones are selling.” She waved at the showcases. One case was full of Petoskey stones cut into the shapes of bears, turtles, and wolverines. Another case contained Petoskey stones formed into drawer pulls, switch plates, clocks, and doorknobs. Yet another case was full of raw stones. “You’re familiar with them?” she asked.