Dad smiled. “Three exclamation points?”
“Four.”
“She used my name four plus three times.” Truman tapped the paper. “That equals seven.”
***
Ironic, considering it was the last day of school before vacation, but Truman was on an arithmetic kick that morning. He counted the stairs going up to brush his teeth, and coming down to get his jacket. And as we made our way out to the car, we calculated how many hours were left before the Lake School bell rang for dismissal.
Five, we decided. “And Uncle Joe and the FN451z will be at school in three hours for show and tell,” he said as we climbed into my Honda.
Speak of the devil—Joe was turning into his driveway as I was backing out of mine. I waved vaguely and kept my focus on the rearview mirror, but the kid pleaded for me to stop. And of course Joe parked his car and walked over.
“Open your window,” Truman told me.
I rolled my eyes and did so, and thanked Joe for the show and tell thing.
He bent down to peek in the back seat. “We’ll be there at eleven,” he promised the little guy.
“That’s three hours from now.”
“And afterwards we’ll head to Burlington.”
“To get Paige!” Truman screamed, and I told Joe we were just a little excited about school vacation.
“You’re sure he won’t be in your way?” I asked.
“No!” Truman said.
“No,” Joe agreed.
“You two certainly have been spending a lot of time together lately.”
“Is that a problem?”
“No!” from the peanut gallery.
Joe smiled at me. “I missed you last night,” he said quietly. “Why didn’t you visit?”
Seriously? Was the man that clueless?
I made sure he noticed the frown. “Space,” I said firmly. “A little space is a marvelous thing.” I remembered the audience in the back seat and changed the subject. I pointed to Joe’s car. “Where were you so early?”
“The Lake Store.”
“Before eight?”
He shrugged and mumbled something about talking to Oliver before the store got too busy. “We had some—business to discuss.”
“What business?” I asked, and he told me the concept of space goes both ways.
Okay. Fine. I frowned once more and began rolling up the window, but Truman took issue. “Stop, Momma Cass!”
“Why?” I said impatiently. “What is it, Sweetie?”
“Roll down the window again. Ple-eease?”
I rolled my eyes and rolled down the stupid window, and Joe leaned down. “What’s up?” he asked the peanut gallery.
“Did you see Aunt Maxine’s article about me and Mr. X?”
“I did. She mentioned you seven times.”
“Four plus three,” the kid agreed.
Chapter 20
I lost track of how many terrible essays I graded that morning, but I finally, finally reached the bottom of the stack, did some simple arithmetic to calculate the final grades, and was only a few minutes late meeting Bambi at the mens and boys clothing store in downtown Montpelier. I found her in mens sportswear.
“School’s out!” I exclaimed, and she told me I sounded like my kindergartener.
“School’s out,” I whispered. “What are we shopping for?”
“Earth to Cassie Baxter.” Bambi looked up from a stack of sweaters. “You’re shopping for your son, and I’m shopping for my husband.” She held up a navy blue pullover.
“Nice color for Pete,” I said, and she tossed it in her cart.
She held up something in green, I sliced my hand across my neck, and she returned that sweater back to the stack. “Remind me why we didn’t drive from campus together?”
“Because I have a—” I stopped. “Because I’m going somewhere afterwards.”
She raised an eyebrow. “I’m afraid at ask.”
“Well then don’t,” I said and feigned interest in a bright red cardigan.
“Pete is not Santa Claus,” she told me and waited until I looked up. “The Bouillabaisse Bistro?” she asked.
I shrugged. “Jason agreed to meet me a little later than usual today.”
“Jason Sterling will agree to anything you want, Cassie.”
“Maybe, but if it makes you feel any better, this will be our last date—our last meeting—for a while. I won’t be in Montpelier for three weeks after today.”
Bambi’s shook her head. “Why do I know you’ll find some excuse to drive down here occasionally?”
“Because you’re brilliant,” I muttered. “And can we please change the subject? And can we please get to the boys department?”
She dropped a grey sweater into the cart, and started rolling. “Any progress on Mr. X?” she asked, and I told her Arlene Pearson thought everyone at Lake Bess should get a DNA test. Bambi stopped the cart, and luckily we were right in front of a display of little boys jeans. “Say what?”
“You heard me.” I held up what I thought might be Truman’s new size, decided to go one up from that, and began pawing through the stack. “Arlene thinks Jason’s forensics experts should test lots of Elizabethans for a connection to Mr. X.”
“I’m afraid to ask who.”
I looked up from the jeans. “Joe.”
“Who!? What!?”
“You heard me. And Oliver Earle, and Fanny Baumgarten.” I found the size I was searching for and tossed the jeans into the cart.
“And here I thought you were the Queen of Cockamamie.”
I nodded. “In others words, I haven’t made any progress on the loved-ones looking front.”
But hark and herald. On the jeans front, I found another pair in Truman’s size, tossed those in the cart, and steered us toward sweaters.
***
Then onward to boys pajamas. “What about Joe?” Bambi asked me.
“Joe doesn’t wear paja—” I stopped and took a deep breath. “I kissed him,” I said, and somehow my best friend knew I was not referring to Joe.
“Jason Sterling,” she hissed. “Whatever happened to the guy being too tall for you to kiss?”
“He was sitting down,” I said. “And it wasn’t my idea anyway. What was I supposed to do when the waitress dangled mistletoe over his head?”
“How about ignore it?”
“It was mistletoe, Bambi. There are rules about these things.”
She shook her head. “There are rules about not cheating on your boyfriend, Cassie.”
Oh, brother. I insisted it was a teeny-tiny, innocent little kiss. “I’m sorry I even mentioned it.”
“Then why did you mention it?”
How about guilt. Oh, but hark the herald again. I found a pair of cow print flannel pajamas, tossed them in the cart, and headed towards socks and underwear.
Bambi tagged along. “You are so impulsive,” she scolded. “Joe’s a really nice guy, he’s a hunky-boo, and he’s perfect for you.”
“Yep, I think you’ve mentioned that.” I grabbed a package of socks, found some underwear while I was at it, and headed toward the cash registers.
Good old Bambi remained on topic. “Joe’s even the right height for you,” she said. “Unlike your state trooper.” Joe, FYI, is five-ten. And Jason, in case I haven’t mentioned it, is about seventeen inches over six feet tall. “Joe’s great with Truman, too,” Bambi kept nagging. “Why are you messing this up?”
I blinked. Then I pulled the cart to the edge of the main aisle and whispered why. In other words, I told my best friend about my heart to heart with my son the night before.
“Wow!” Bambi gazed off towards mens’ shoes. “Wow,” she said again. “So Bobby’s avoided a serious relationship because he’s been waiting for you? And you’ve avoided a serious relationship because you’re waiting for him?”
“I can’t believe I never understood this.” I scowled at a pair of brown Oxfords. “At least not consciously.”
Bamb
i scowled also. “And Truman,” she said. “Truman figured this out.”
“He’s scary observant.”
“An understatement,” she agreed, and we headed to the cash registers.
Chapter 21
I headed to our usual table and learned that Jason had already ordered our usual lunches.
“You’re scary punctual for these dat—” I stopped.
“You’re scary late for these dates,” he said.
I apologized and sat down. “I’ve had a busy day,” I said, and he picked up a pencil, presumably supplied by Rhonda the waitress.
“What have you been up to?” he asked.
“Nothing pencil-breaking worthy.”
Jason said something about a first time for everything, but he did drop the pencil. “No sleuthing at all?” he asked.
“Not today.”
“How about yesterday?”
“Oh. Well.”
He grabbed the pencil again. “Who have you been bothering?” he asked.
“I will have you know, Oden Poquette appreciated my company,” I said. “As did Rose and Ruby.”
“The goats? That odd goat guy? Why?”
Rhonda came by with our lunch and chose to answer for me. “Because everyone in Cassie’s little town is odd,” she said. She set down our plates, winked at me, and left us to discuss the various kooks of Lake Bess.
“Oden was there that day when Pru found Mr. X,” I said. “It’s all in Sheriff Cleghorn’s report.”
“Is there anything Sarah Bliss doesn’t share with you?”
“You should talk to Oden.”
Jason shrugged and admitted he had seen the name in the reports. “But I assumed he and his goats just got in the way that day. Like they did during your dead redhead incident.”
“Jason!” I jumped. “Oden did not get in the way. Not with the Mr. X incident, anyway. It’s because of him you even have a report to look at.”
He stopped eating. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. It was Oden who convinced the Pearsons to call the authorities.”
Jason carefully put his fork down and carefully picked up a pencil. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Arlene insisted the skeleton would be bad for her business, and Pru claimed it was giving her a migraine. They wanted to bury it and forget it. Oden had to convince them to call the sheriff.”
What a shocker, the pencil broke.
“Santa should bring you a sleigh load of those,” I mumbled.
“My sister gives me a stockingful every Christmas. This specific information about Oden Poquette isn’t in any of the reports, Cassie. Are you sure?”
I was.
Jason studied me. “Any reason Mr. Poquette would lie?”
“None whatsoever. Oden’s odd, but honest.”
Mr. State Trooper continued watching me. “And yet he never mentioned this to the authorities that day. That the sisters were reluctant to report the skeleton.”
“He didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot with his new neighbors,” I said. “He was trying to be helpful, which is more than I can say for the Pearson sisters. Both of them refused to get DNA tests, no matter how much I begged, and then Arlene actually suggested everyone in town get their DNA test—”
“You spoke to the Pearson sisters?” Jason interrupted.
“That’s right.”
“No, Cassie. That’s wrong. You shouldn’t be talking to any of these people.”
Another pencil broke, and about then, Rhonda came by to collect our plates. I pulled out my credit card and mentioned I was in a hurry. “Christmas shopping,” I said, and she scurried off.
I turned back to Jason. “What have you been up to?” I asked. “Who have you questioned? What does the forensics report say?”
“Nothing yet.”
“Say what?”
Jason insisted he was still waiting on the final forensics report. “It’s due later today, then maybe I’ll have a few leads to follow.”
“So that’s it? No news at all?”
“Patience is a virtue,” he reminded me, but for the record, he also seemed a little frustrated. “I can’t believe I’m saying this,” he told me, “but I hope that column your neighbor contributes to the local paper stirs up something.”
“Maxine’s column was a doozy today—” I jumped when my cell phone rang. “What in the world?” I said and fished around in my purse. FYI, we Vermonters aren’t used to hearing our cell phones ring, but in downtown Montpelier the thing does work on occasion.
I found my phone, noticed who was calling, and must have scowled.
“Who?” Jason asked.
I waved vaguely and stepped away from the table.
***
“Paula?” I answered as I walked toward the hostess station. “What’s up?”
“I hope it’s okay that I’m calling,” she said. “I’m not disturbing you at work, am I?”
“Nope. I’m now officially free for the holidays, and I have a question for you.” I stopped near the doorway and turned to make sure Jason hadn’t followed me. “Who told you my house and the Fox Cove were designed by the same person? No one seems to know about that detail.”
“Not even the current owners of the B and B?”
“Not even them. So, like, where did you hear this?”
She admitted she wasn’t sure. “Perhaps from their father?” she suggested. “I must have heard this back when I had a potential buyer for the place.”
“Arnie Pearson, then,” I said.
“I guess. Is it important?”
I noticed Jason Sterling staring at me, waved a few fingertips and returned to my call. “Probably not,” I said. “But hey, you called me. What’s up? Something about Mr. X, I hope.”
“No, but Lake Elizabeth has been on my mind. First your visit, and then this new listings report.”
I blinked. “Listing of what?”
Paula said something about old habits dying hard, and explained that, retired or not, she still makes a habit of scouring the real estate listings for the entire state of Vermont. “For anything new on the market,” she said. “It’s been my lunchtime homework for decades.”
I tilted my head. “There’s a new listing at Lake Elizabeth?”
“I wouldn’t have given it a second thought, but after seeing you the other day. And this house is on Leftside Lane.”
“What!?” I exclaimed, and Jason Sterling probably heard me from across the restaurant. I turned my back. “Whose house?” I hissed. “There are only three.”
“Oliver Earle’s the listing agent,” she continued calmly, as my heart started racing. “It’s quite a coincidence, isn’t it? I can’t help thinking this must have something to do with that skull—”
“Whose house, Paula? Stop pussy-footing around.”
“Oh, right. Sorry. Let’s see. Here it is—Josiah Wylie.”
***
Jason stood up as I staggered back to the table. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Cassie. What’s wrong?”
“I gotta go.” I grabbed my purse, but noticed that Rhonda had returned my credit card and the bill. Still standing, I did some very quick math to calculate the tip, added a little extra for the holiday, and dropped it onto the table. “I gotta go,” I repeated and turned toward the door.
“Who was that?” Jason more or less blocked my path.
“Jason!” I flapped my arms. “It was Paula Erikson, if you must know. Now let me get by—”
“The realtor?” He kept blocking my progress. “The realtor remembered something important and called you instead of me?”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake! This isn’t about Mr. X. It’s about Joe. Joe Wylie is selling his house!”
Jason blinked. “Why?”
Oh, for Pete’s sake! I stopped flapping my arms and used them to manhandle the man out of my way. And it was only then that I noticed the mistletoe Rhonda had left on the table.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake!” I said again and hea
ded for the door.
Chapter 22
“Why is he doing this?” I asked the stupid, stupid “For Sale” sign sticking out of the snow. In case you’re not quite sure, I had gone directly home, and in case you’re still wondering, I had asked my steering wheel that question about a thousand times during the half-hour drive from Montpelier to Lake Bess.
I heard a rap on the window behind me and turned. “Why?” I mouthed to my father and stomped inside.
Dad met me at the door. “This came as a surprise to you also?”
“Umm. Yeah!” I wiped my feet on the mat, stumbled over Notz, and stomped over to the window. “Why?” I asked again.
Charlie sat at my feet and offered me his paw, and my father, unfortunately, offered a little more explanation. “One assumes it’s because of you,” he said.
“Me!?” I flapped my arms, realized I was still in my coat, and stomped over to the closet. I yanked at a hanger. “Trust me, this wasn’t my idea.”
Dad stared at me.
“What?” I snapped.
“Cassie. You have to admit, that you have, on occasion, complained about Joe living next door. You keep harping on and on about your supposed ‘space.’”
“Oh, please.” I hung up my coat. “He should have warned me, Dad.”
Will wonders never cease, the old man actually agreed with me. But of course he had to add a caveat. “What if Joe had mentioned it?” he asked. “What would you have told him?”
I blinked.
“Especially after these last few days?”
“I would have told him to go ahead and move.” I sighed loudly and started pacing past the Christmas tree. “But I wouldn’t have meant it.” I turned and paced over to the window. “And of course he’s not here to explain himself. No-ooo. He’s off galivanting to Burlington with my chil—” I gasped and spun around. “Does Truman know? Do you think he told Truman?”
My father shrugged. “Joe is as honest as you are with that child,” he said. “I’m sure he’s explaining it somehow.”
I whined. “Truman will be heartbroken, Dad. He loves Joe.”
“Like someone else I know.”
I folded my arms and offered a withering glare. Then I paced back to the closet and grabbed my coat.
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