by Cass, Laurie
“Very nice, thank you.” She smiled at Larry, the new chef, whose arm was now brace-free. “Every bit as good as the party you catered for me at New Year’s. How is your lovely wife?”
He nodded. “Now, is there anything else I can get you? Mrs. Grice, if I recall correctly, you have a small weakness”—he held his thumb and index finger a fraction of an inch apart—“for strawberry shortcake. As it happens, we got a fresh delivery of strawberries this morning, and I can’t think of anything I’d rather do than bring you a special creation.”
“Thank you, Larry.” Caroline kept smiling. “That’s a wonderfully kind offer, but I’m afraid I’ve eaten too much of your cream sauce. And strawberry shortcake?” She shook her head sadly. “I’ll lose my figure in a week if I continue down that path.”
“Too bad about Mr. Larabee,” Larry said. “I remember him from your party. He seemed like a real nice guy. He said with talent and skills like mine that I had a bright future. I told him all I needed was a little money and he said money is easy enough to come by if you know the right people.” Larry colored slightly. “I’m talking too much again. Sorry, Mrs. Grice. Let me know if you need anything else.” Smiling, he left.
“You miss him, don’t you?” I asked softly. “Stan, I mean. I miss him very much, but I’m guessing you miss him even more.”
She gazed at, then through me. “There are so few people who are true friends. It’s heartbreaking to lose even one.”
The deep truth of her words kicked me back. Then I pushed it away. I’d think about it later. “Do you know his sisters?”
“Only through Stan’s tales.” A brief smile flickered, then faded. “He dearly loved to tell stories. I was certain many of them were sheer fabrication, but he swore they were all true. When he claimed to have bought and sold a piece of property three times and doubled the profit each time, I demanded proof.”
“And he had it?”
“If anything, he’d played down the money he’d made.”
Stan. “What a character.”
“It’s unfortunate he wasn’t more successful at family relations,” Caroline said. “He thought it would be enough to purchase them each a house of their choosing and establish a trust that would pay for their health insurance.”
It sounded generous, and I said so.
“I’m sure they don’t agree.” Caroline dabbed at the corners of her mouth with her linen napkin. “Their attorneys will make their case. Meanwhile, our county sheriff’s office continues to flounder about, looking for a killer in all the wrong places.”
“Oh. Right.” I shifted in my comfortable chair. Maybe she meant Stan’s sisters. Because it sure seemed as if they should be suspects. Who could be better suspects than people who thought they might inherit even part of Stan’s fortune? Unfortunately, she was probably talking about someone else. “There’s something you should know.”
But Caroline wasn’t listening to me. “I’ve never let anyone say a word against law enforcement, against the men and women who put their lives on the line every time they go on duty. I’ve supported the city and the county officers, gone to their fund-raisers, voted for their millages, and now they barely tolerate my phone calls.”
I knew the feeling.
“It’s that Frances Pixley,” Caroline said. “One of her former boarders works for the Chilson Police Department, did you know? She’s using her influence over the officers to make them look the other way.”
“I’m sure that’s not true.”
“You think not?” Caroline’s voice was rising. “Then why haven’t they investigated her actions? Why haven’t they had her in for questioning? Why haven’t they arrested her?”
“Um, they probably need some proof.”
“Proof?” She tsked the problem away. “They’d find proof if they only looked. Frances Pixley is—”
I’d had enough. “Is my aunt.”
“Your . . . ?” Caroline Grice was speechless.
“Aunt.” I nodded. “She’s my dad’s sister.”
“But you . . .”
“I know, we don’t look anything alike. But we’re blood relatives, I love her very much, and I don’t think she killed Stan any more than I think you killed him.”
“Than I?” She drew back.
“Sure.” I shrugged. “From what you’ve said, you have the same kind of jealousy-induced motive. Why shouldn’t you be a suspect, too?”
“Why . . . why . . .” She picked up her purse. “Excuse me,” she said, and left.
• • •
“Don’t say it,” I said.
“Wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing.” Kristen grinned from behind her desk. “But may I point out that this makes three—yes, three—career-killing moves inside of two weeks?”
“No.” I slid down in the chair.
“How about mentioning the fact that I warned you about trying to figure out who killed Stan?” Kristen put her feet up on an open drawer and her hands behind her head.
“You didn’t.”
She frowned. “I must have.”
“You said helping Holly was going to take up too much of my time. You never once said I shouldn’t investigate.”
“And if I had?”
“I’d have ignored you.”
“Exactly. Which is why I saved my breath.”
I gusted out a sigh. “Caroline will never donate any money to the library now. Stephen’s going to be way mad.”
“Probably going to fire you,” Kristen said comfortably.
“You think so?”
“Oh, sure. He could replace you in a snap. Bet people are already lining up for your job.”
Another sigh. “Yeah, you’re right. They probably are.”
“Just so you know, don’t come to me looking for a waitress job. You’d be terrible.”
She was right, I’d be the worst waitress ever. I’d get talking to people and forget I had orders to take, and I’d be a disaster at giving people the right change. “How about dishwashing?”
“Nah.” Her feet came down. “You’re too short to put away dishes on the top shelves.”
“Isn’t that discrimination?”
“Most likely.” She stood and whipped a cloth from a small table that, in my misery, I hadn’t even noticed was there. She lifted covers off two desserts. “Crème brûlée topped with shavings of dark chocolate,” she said, handing me a plate and spoon and putting a second set on her desk. “Eat up.”
I looked at the custard-filled ramekin. “This is supposed to make me feel better?”
“It is and it will. Eat.”
I didn’t see how, but I picked up the spoon and cracked open the sugar. At the sound, I felt a small smile whisper onto my face. I loved crème brûlée. I loved dark chocolate. Most of all, I loved them together, and Kristen knew it.
Three bites in, the world looked brighter. “Stephen isn’t going to fire me, is he?”
“Nope.”
Another bite. “And there aren’t a bunch of people who want my job, are there?”
“Are you kidding? With the hours you work?”
I crunched into a big piece of caramelized sugar. “You’re a true friend.”
“Yeah, well, it takes one to know one.”
One more bite of custardy goodness and I asked, “Would you really turn me down for a waitress job?”
“Do you really want to know the answer?”
“Not really.”
“Good choice.”
Even true friends deserve an occasional tongue-sticking-out. So Kristen got one.
• • •
I decided to walk home not along the waterfront but through downtown. Now that school was done, the summer tourists were out in force even on a weeknight, and a walk by the water would be punctuated by baby-stroller dodging and small-child evasion.
The crowds were part of summer, just like the smell of suntan lotion and cut grass, but I didn’t want to mingle tonight. I wanted to get home quickly and quietly an
d have Eddie purr at me until I fell asleep.
So I walked east through the downtown blocks, head down, hands in my pockets, not seeing much, not thinking much, trying not to feel sorry for myself because I was such an idiot, trying not to see the look on Stephen’s face when I told him that it’d be a cold day in you-know-what before Caroline Grice gave the library any money.
My efforts weren’t working very well, so I was easily distracted by the sight of a man sitting on the bench outside the Round Table. A familiar-looking man. I’d seen him at the library . . . yes. It was Bill D’Arcy. He’d checked out a monstrous pile of books. He was on Rafe’s list of suspects. And he was sitting there, typing away on his laptop, catching the Round Table’s free Wi-Fi.
Was using free Wi-Fi provided by a restaurant when you weren’t inside the restaurant itself weenie-like behavior? I wasn’t sure, and made a mental note to ask my mother next time we talked. Mom was always good for making sure my moral compass pointed straight north.
I crossed the street and sat down on the bench. “Bill D’Arcy, right?”
The look he gave me was guarded, but not overtly hostile. “I am.”
“Hi.” I smiled wide and held out my hand. “Minnie Hamilton. I’m assistant director at the library. We met the other day when you were checking out a bunch of books.”
He glanced at my hand. Hesitated. Shook it briefly. “Nice to meet you,” he muttered, going back to his computer.
“You’re not from around here, are you?” I asked. He grunted, but I couldn’t tell if it was one of agreement or disagreement. Still, it was a reply of sorts, so I kept going. “Not that it matters, of course. I’m not from here, either. Turns out that spending your childhood summers up here doesn’t count at all. If you didn’t graduate high school here, you’re not from here. Actually”—I made a hmm sort of noise—“you have to be born here. A friend of mine, his parents moved up here when he was starting middle school, and he’s not considered a local.” Which annoyed Josh to no end, but there was nothing he could do about it.
“Where are you from?” I asked.
He hunched away from me and typed rapidly.
“I don’t care, really,” I said. “Just curious. It’s a standard question. I bet a lot of people have asked you already, right?”
“Too many,” he muttered, whacking at the keyboard keys.
“Sounds familiar,” I said, laughing. “I tell people I’m from Dearborn, and next thing they want to know is, what high school did I go to? Then it’s what year did I graduate? After that, we’re talking restaurants and what street I lived on. Conversations like that can go on forever.”
He gave me a pointed look. I smiled. “But lately all anyone wants to talk about is Stan Larabee. You know, the man who was killed? Well, not so much talking about him, but who killed him. I’ve heard all sorts of theories, from my boss to his sisters to some guy named Chris. Some people even think I did it.” I laughed heartily. “Since you’re not from here, I bet your theory has less baggage than anyone else’s.”
Either he’d managed to turn off his ears, or he was intentionally ignoring me. I talked louder.
“Outside points of view can be very helpful. If you know anything about Stan, anything at all, you should tell the police. You look like an observant man; I bet there’s something you know. I bet—”
He slapped his laptop shut, stood, and walked away without even the courtesy of a backward glare.
There were two ways to interpret that little scene, I thought, watching him stalk off, his legs stiff and his shoulders set. One, that he was trying to become a hermit and was well on his way to success. Two, that he knew something about Stan’s death that he didn’t want to share.
I stood and walked the rest of the way home, thinking that I wasn’t ready to cross Bill D’Arcy off the suspect list. Not by a long shot.
Five seconds after I walked in the door, I walked back out again. Rafe. I needed to ask Rafe about working on my electrical stuff.
• • •
The lights were on in his house, which, when he was done restoring it to its original status as an early-nineteen-hundreds Shingle-style cottage, would be a showpiece. Now, however, it was a cobbled-together mess of tiny apartments on the inside and was covered on the outside with the widest variety of siding seen anywhere but a lumberyard. The former owners hadn’t exactly been concerned with aesthetics.
I knocked on the front door. “Rafe? It’s Minnie. I know you’re in there—I can hear that horrible music you play.”
“No one’s here.”
Uh-oh. Rafe always defended his music. “What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Nothing. Go away.”
I banged on the door with my fist. “Let me in or I’m coming in anyway.”
The door swung open slowly, making a creepy screeching noise. Rafe stood in the doorway. “Has anyone ever told you what a pain in the heinie you can be?”
“Daily. What’s the matter with your arm?”
He was holding it away from his side at an awkward angle. “Nothing.”
I stepped inside. “Let me see.”
“Aw, Minnie, don’t—”
“Let. Me. See.”
Once again, the Librarian Voice did the trick. His shoulders slumped and he let me pull him into the brightness cast by the halogen work lights scattered around the entryway. “It’ll be fine,” he said. “It just needs a little more time.”
I pulled at a corner of the first aid tape and started tugging. “This might hurt a little.”
“Jeez, Min, that stings like a you-know-what. Do you have to?”
With one quick rip, I yanked off the tape.
“Ow!”
“Quit being such a baby,” I said. “Now let me see your stitches. Come on. Show me.”
“Don’t want to,” he muttered, but held out his arm.
I took hold of his wrist, pulled off the gauze, and turned the wound to the light. I sucked in a quick breath. “We’re going to the hospital. Now.”
“Aw, Min—”
“Rafe Niswander, your arm is red and puffy with infection. Next thing is you’ll get those red streaks and then you’ll get a staph infection and then they’ll cut off your arm, but by then the infection will have gone too far and you’ll spend two weeks in the hospital sliding toward an early death, all because you wouldn’t listen to me.”
“Can’t die, I got too many things to do.”
“Rafe.” I swallowed. “Come to the hospital with me. Please.”
He looked at my face. I don’t know what he saw there, but for once he didn’t argue.
• • •
Forty-five minutes later, we were back in Charlevoix’s emergency room. The attractive Dr. Tucker Kleinow came in as I was helping Rafe up onto the hospital bed.
“Back again?” he asked. “Another problem with your saw?”
“Nah,” Rafe said. “Minnie here is all worried about that cut you sewed up a while back. Tell her it’s okay, will you? She’s getting on my case something fierce.”
I crossed my arms. “Only because you’re not taking care of yourself. If you had, this wouldn’t have happened.”
Dr. Kleinow snapped on gloves and examined Rafe’s arm carefully. “You definitely have some infection going on. Did you fill the prescription for antibiotics that I gave you?”
“Sure did,” Rafe said.
I glared at him. “But did you take them?”
“Well, yeah.”
“All of them?”
“Not all in a row, like,” he said. “I forgot a couple of days and it looked good, so what was the point, right?”
I drew in a long breath, the better to yell at him with, but the doctor stepped in between us. “I’ll clean this up again, if you two don’t mind putting a pause on your argument. You can yell at your husband on the way home.”
“My . . . what?” Surely he hadn’t said what I thought he’d said.
Rafe chuckled. “Don’t know what’s funnier, thinking
that she’d marry me, or that I’d be dumb enough to ask her.”
I frowned. “Was I just insulted? Because it sure sounded like it.”
Dr. Kleinow looked from one of us to the other. “Siblings?” He looked a little closer, undoubtedly noting the complete lack of family resemblance. “Adopted, maybe?”
Rafe and I shook our heads. “We’re just friends,” I said. “Neighbors.”
“Only relatives are allowed with the patient in the examination room,” the doctor said.
Rafe and I looked at each other. We shrugged simultaneously. “Everybody must have thought we were married,” Rafe said. “I can see it. Did you hear how she was ragging me for not taking those pills?”
“She was right,” Dr. Kleinow said.
“Oh, sure, take her side,” Rafe said. “The cute girl’s always right, is that it?”
“There are worse reasons to take sides.” The doctor grinned. “Now, let’s get a closer look at that arm.”
• • •
After another forty-five minutes, Rafe was cleansed, rebandaged, and more or less beaten into submission about taking the newer and much stronger prescription. His post-emergency-room care, however, was being more problematic.
Rafe looked at the doctor mournfully. “Don’t tell me Minster here was right, that I could lose my arm. Taking these new freaking horse pills will be enough, right? You’re not going to cut my arm off, are you?”
“It’s been known to happen.” The doctor handed Rafe a handful of papers, all of it with teeny tiny print. “Here’s what you need to do.”
“Man.” Rafe hefted the paperwork. “This is a lot of reading. I really need to look at all of it?”
Dr. Kleinow started to say something. Stopped. Eyed Rafe. Eyed me. “Well . . .”
I grinned. He couldn’t have transmitted what he was thinking more clearly if he’d written it on a chalkboard. “Though Mr. Niswander here is a born and bred northern redneck wannabe, he not only graduated from high school, but he earned a bachelor’s degree from Northern Michigan University and a master’s degree from Michigan State.”
“A Spartan?” The doctor frowned. “Yet you’re certain he can read?”
“Hey!” Rafe sat up.
I pushed him back down. “He’ll read it. And he’ll follow the directions this time.” I thumped a gentle fist on his leg. “Won’t you?”