by Laurie Cass
“Adam?” I asked. “It’s Minnie. Got a question for you. When you and Henry stopped to look at Neva Chatham’s boat, did you take a close look at it?” I’d asked him earlier about it, and he’d said Henry had looked closely at the boat, but that he hadn’t. Now I wanted to know exactly what that meant.
“Got close enough to see that it was too big a project for me,” Adam said.
“Sure, but how close was that?”
There was a pause. “I didn’t crawl around on the ground, if that’s what you mean. What are you getting at?”
“Well . . .” I wasn’t exactly sure how to say what I was thinking—excellent preparation, Minnie!—so I didn’t say anything for a moment. Adam, however, was happy to fill the conversational gap.
“But if I had the skills, I’d pick up that boat in a heartbeat. Did you see what it was? It’s a 1934 Hacker, triple cockpit. Hardly any of those are left and it’s a crime it’s in such rough shape. This baby is twenty feet long, and I looked it up, it has a six-foot, seven-inch beam. Too small for the big lake, but it’d be perfect for Janay.”
“It would?” I asked vaguely.
“Nothing better. Now, it’ll probably need a new engine, but if it were me, I’d put in a Chevy MerCruiser, a two-hundred-and-sixty-horse. It’d probably top out around thirty-five miles an hour, and that’s a nice speed for a twenty-footer.”
He started to go on about the kind of varnish he’d use when I interrupted. “I think Neva might have been the one who almost ran you over.”
Dead silence. “You . . . what?”
I repeated what I’d said. “Are you laughing?” I asked suspiciously.
“A little,” he said, sputtering. “Thanks for your concern, Minnie, but I’m pretty sure I could handle Neva Chatham. I mean, do you really think that frail little old lady could have cut down the tree that hit Henry? She’s not even five foot tall!”
“Size doesn’t matter,” I said, “when it comes to murder.”
Adam was quiet for a moment. “You’re right,” he said, sighing. “And I suppose it could have been her driving that car, easy enough. It’s just so weird, to think someone I’ve actually met might have tried to kill me.”
There were oodles of statistics out there that informed us that the vast majority of murders are committed by someone who knows their victim very well indeed, but I didn’t say anything. Adam probably knew it anyway.
I felt basically useless. “Take care of yourself,” I said.
“Sure,” he said. “You, too.”
The phone went silent, but I continued to stand there for some time, just thinking.
If size didn’t matter when it came to murder, what did?
What was I missing?
Chapter 15
Thanks to being suddenly short-staffed because of illness and my continued and fruitless phone calls in pursuit of another big-name author, my lunch hour was reduced to the time it took to eat the sandwich I’d made that morning and the time it took to make a few phone calls to more downtown businesses, telling my tale of the man who might have left a nice leather notebook at the library, a man who was short and had bright red hair.
I heard the same thing that everyone else had said, that though the man sounded like someone familiar, no one had seen anyone like that, not that they could remember.
In the evening, I went downtown and asked a few more questions about a red-haired man, but heard nothing that would confirm the presence of Seth Wartella. The closest I got was the owner of the jewelry store, who squinted at the ceiling. “Red hair? A while back there was a guy in here, looking for a present for his wife, but that was around Valentine’s Day. And he was tall, not short.”
Just because I couldn’t find anyone who remembered seeing Seth didn’t mean that he hadn’t been in Chilson, but I’d run out of time Monday for asking around, and Tuesday would also be out because it was a bookmobile day.
“But this is our favorite kind of day, isn’t it, Eddie?” I nudged my feline friend, who was sitting on the carpeted step. It ran the length of the bookmobile on both sides, making a handy seat and an even handier step for those on the bookmobile who needed an extra few inches to reach the top shelf. This included me and almost all the children under the age of seven and a few of our elderly patrons who’d started doing the shrinking thing.
Eddie and I were sitting on the step, doing our combined best to encourage a number of small children to come on over to the picture book section. We were parked at a new stop, which had been squeezed in because how could I turn down a request from a day care provider who said she wanted, more than anything, to show kids how wonderful books could be?
The only problem was, the kids seemed more interested in climbing up and down and up and down the bookmobile steps than in books.
“Emily,” coaxed the beleaguered day care lady. “Don’t you want to see the books? Yesterday, you couldn’t wait for the bookmobile. And here’s the bookmobile kitty. Remember? There’s a kitty just over there.”
“His name is Eddie,” I said. “And he’d love to meet you.”
Emily didn’t seem interested, but one of her companions did. “Where’s the kitty?” he asked, abandoning the stairs and looking all around. “I want to see the kitty cat.”
“Right here.” I put Eddie on my lap and gently arranged him into a lying-down position. “He’s purring,” I said as the kid came closer. “Do you hear it?”
The boy dropped to his knees and slapped his head against the furry body. “He’s noisy!” he exclaimed.
You have no idea, I thought. “That’s because he likes you,” I said.
“Emily, Emily!” The boy jumped to his feet. “The bookmobile kitty likes me!”
There was a small stampede of children, headed by the apparent ringleader, Emily, and it was coming straight toward Eddie and me. Eddie had already tolerated much that day: a slam-hard-on-the-brakes stop to avoid hitting a deer, a shrieking baby at the first stop, a complete lack of treats because I’d forgotten to refill the canister, and this was apparently the tipping point.
He took one look at the oncoming horde and launched himself out of my lap.
“Ah . . .” I gritted my teeth at the pain and made a mental note to clip his back claws that night. And to file them round.
“Where did the kitty go?” Emily said plaintively. “I want to hear the bookmobile kitty go purr, purr, purr.”
I smiled at her and the rest of her cohorts. “He just needs a minute to himself. When he’s ready, I’ll bring him back and each of you can pet him, one at a time.”
Emily, with her lower lip stuck out in an adorable sort of way, gave the topic serious thought. “I guess that’s okay.”
With the group subdued, at least for now, I showed them the picture books and pulled out a copy of Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel. I handed it to the day care lady. “Always a crowd pleaser,” I said.
She laughed and sat herself on the step. “Who wants to listen to a story?”
The kids crowded around and I headed to the front of the bookmobile to check on Mr. Ed’s whereabouts.
“Hey,” I said quietly. “Eddie. Where are you?”
His black-and-white head popped up from underneath the driver’s seat.
“They’re not coming after you,” I told him. “Come on out. I promise I won’t let them— Hey, what are—”
Eddie jumped up to the seat, clambered over the steering wheel in a completely graceless manner that no self-respecting cat would be caught dead doing, landed on the dashboard, and shoved his face up against the windshield.
“Wonderful,” I muttered. My arms weren’t quite long enough to clean the glass, so now I’d be looking at Eddie nose prints until I could get someone else to do the washing. “Come down, will you? There’s nothing out there except a straight mile of road, a bunch of trees, and maybe a squirrel or two. You might want to play with the squirrels, but I’m sure they don’t want to play with you, so turn around and come join the party,
okay?”
My monologue was doing nothing to distract Eddie from his inspection of the windshield. “Mrrrr,” he said.
“Mrr to you, too.” I sat in the driver’s seat and reached forward, but Eddie was having nothing to do with me. Without visibly moving, he edged six inches away and said, “Mrrrr!”
“Right. You said that before. Now, if you’d just—”
“Mrr!”
I winced. “Quit howling,” I whispered. “You’re going to scare the kids and I know you don’t want to do that, so—”
“Mrrr!”
Just as Eddie’s howls pierced my eardrums, a battered pickup truck rattled past. On the side was a magnetic sign that read BOB’S BUSINESS; WE DO THE CHORES YOUR HUSBAND WILL NEVER GET AROUND TO.
I smirked at the sign and, since Eddie was studying the truck intently, used the opportunity to lean forward and snatch him off the dashboard. I gave him a good snuggle and in seconds he was purring. “Now, what was that all about?” I asked. “Didn’t you like the noise that truck made?” Because it had been loud. “I bet that’s what was bothering you, wasn’t it?”
Eddie made an annoyed kind of chirp and squirmed off my lap. As he marched down the aisle toward Mike Mulligan, a new thought popped into my brain.
Did Henry’s neighbor, Cole Duvall, have a guy who did chores for him? Because I couldn’t think of anyone better to talk to about Duvall than his caretaker. A caretaker would have opinions about Duvall’s character, would know when Duvall had been north, and would know his habits and hobbies. And maybe, just maybe, the caretaker would be able to give me that magic piece of information that would make the entire puzzle fit together.
I tucked the idea in the back of my head for later follow-up and went to join the story.
• • •
The evening was close to warm, and after a dinner of grilled cheese and salad—no, Mom, I don’t eat out every night—I went to sit in the front deck’s sunshine and make some phone calls. Half an hour later, not even the brilliant sun sparkling off the water was making me feel any better.
I tossed my cell onto the table and looked over at Eddie, who was lounging on the chaise like a lion overlooking his pride.
“If you were a true friend,” I said, “you’d be a little more help. I mean, don’t tell me you don’t know any bestselling authors who would jump at an opportunity to visit a small town in northern lower Michigan.”
Eddie rolled onto his side, one front leg stretched out long, the other curled up against his chest. I had no idea what that meant in cat language, but no matter what he was saying, it wasn’t helpful.
“Not even one name?” I asked. “It doesn’t have to be a New York Times bestselling author. Any old kind of bestselling author will do. People magazine. USA Today. Detroit News. The Traverse Record-Eagle. Anything.”
Eddie yawned, showing small, pointed teeth. Then he sat up, blinked once, and began studying a duck flotilla that was looking for dinner handouts.
“Again,” I said, “that isn’t much help.”
“Mrr.”
“If you were that sorry, you’d find some way to lend me a hand.”
My cat stood, jumped into the air, and landed on my chaise. He butted my sweatpants-clad shin with the top of his head, then flopped next to me and began to purr.
I petted his fur smooth. “You are okay,” I said, “no matter what Aunt Frances says.” Of course, my aunt loved Eddie dearly, but Eddie didn’t need to know that, not for sure. I let the peace of a cat comfort me for a few minutes, then picked up the phone again.
And, after another half an hour and another dozen phone calls, I struck out a second time.
“Can you believe that?” I asked. “No one knows if the Duvalls have a caretaker.” Not my aunt, not Kristen, not Rafe, not Holly, and not any of the other people I’d called. The Duvalls were newcomers, sure, but usually word got around about who was taking care of whose cottage.
It had been an evening of frustrations, and a need to get up and move around stirred in me. I’d have gone out for a run, but I hadn’t bought new running shoes in a couple of years and everyone knew you shouldn’t start a running program on old shoes. I might have taken my bike out for a ride, but I knew for a fact that the tires were flat and I had a feeling my hand pump was still at my aunt’s house. And there was no way I was going for a swim—the water in Janay Lake wouldn’t reach even sixty degrees for weeks.
“I could go for a walk,” I said, petting Eddie. “There’s more than an hour until it gets dark. Want to come along?”
His reverberating snore was answer enough.
• • •
It was past dark when I returned. My walk had taken me past the boardinghouse, where I’d stopped in to talk to Aunt Frances, past the Three Seasons, where I’d popped in to say hello to Kristen and her crew, and I’d paused to shake my head at Rafe, who was on his roof brushing Black Jack onto his chimney’s flashing.
“Do you realize,” I called up to him, “that it’s too dark to see what you’re doing?”
“Minnie, is that you? You know I can’t hear when it’s dark out.”
“I said, I hope I don’t have to take you to the hospital for falling off the ladder when you can’t see the rungs for climbing down.”
“When you hear a thud, come running.”
There were many things I didn’t understand about Rafe Niswander; his penchant for working so hard on his house was just one more. I called a good-bye and walked the last few yards to the marina, but when I made the final turn toward my dock, I stopped short in surprise.
When I’d headed out for my walk, the berth to the right of my adorable little houseboat was empty. Now it was filled with a sleek cruiser half again as wide as my boat and almost twice as long. Chris had said I’d be getting a new neighbor, but I hadn’t thought it would be so soon.
I eyed the boat’s insignia. Well, at least it was a Crown, which meant it was designed and built right here in Chilson. And it wasn’t nearly the size of the boat that had berthed in that slip the last few years. What remained to be seen was if the new folks would turn out to be friends, like my left-hand neighbors Louisa and Ted Axford, or if they would turn out to be more like what Gunnar Olson had been. I didn’t even know which to hope for, since my cut-rate slip fee more or less depended on the new guy being a jerk.
“Nice night, isn’t it?”
I spun around and looked up at a fortyish man. In the light cast by the marina lights, I could see that he was wearing shorts, running shoes, and a Wayne State University sweatshirt that had seen better days. He also had untidy brown hair, an easy smile, and was high on the one-to-ten scale of hotness. Not a ten, I wouldn’t award that to anyone who wasn’t an angel descended from heaven, but certainly a solid eight.
“Hi,” I said. “Minnie Hamilton. That’s mine.” I gestured at my slip and steeled myself for the inevitable smirk.
He introduced himself as Eric Apney, then nodded at my summer home. “Nice,” he said. “I’ve always had a thing for houseboats. Yours looks handcrafted. Did you do it yourself?”
Aunt Frances could have done it in a winter, but my woodworking skills were more in the paint-what-Aunt-Frances-made category. Still, I was pleased that my new neighbor had assumed I was that capable and mentally slid him into the Friend side of the aisle. I told him I’d purchased it from a local couple who’d since moved to Florida.
“Where are you from?” I asked.
“Grand Rapids. My family has summered in the area for more than fifty years and I love it up here. I don’t want to take care of another house, but you don’t have to snowplow a boat’s driveway.” He grinned.
Smiling back, I asked, “And your wife? Has she spent much time in Chilson?”
“No wife,” he said. “Divorced years ago, and never got around to marrying again.”
We chatted a little more, then went our separate ways. But as I got myself ready for bed, which consisted mostly in brushing my teeth and moving Eddie to
the side of the bed instead of the exact middle, I kept thinking one thing: Hmm. It was too soon after my breakup with Tucker to think about dating, but still . . . hmm.
Just as I was sliding between the sheets, maneuvering myself around Eddie, who’d edged back toward the center, my cell phone rang.
I picked it up off the small chest of drawers that served as my nightstand and looked at the screen. “No idea who this is,” I said to Eddie. “Looks like a corporate name. And I don’t even recognize the area code. What do you think, should I answer?” I was starting to put the phone back down when Eddie picked up his head and stared at me.
“Okay, fine,” I grumbled. “But if it’s a telemarketer, you don’t get any treats for a week.” I thumbed on the call. “Hello?”
“Minnie, my dearest, my beloved, my most treasured of all bookmobile librarians, how are you this evening?”
Grinning, I sat up and pulled my knees to my chest. “Trock, my most favorite of all the celebrity chefs I have ever met in my life, I am just wonderful. How are you?” I’d met Trock Farrand, host of Trock’s Troubles, last summer and was still reeling from the force of his personality.
“I am,” Trock said cheerfully, “in the depths of despair.”
“You are?”
“I am. And it’s all your fault, dear one.”
“Oh?” I reached out to pet Eddie, who began a low rumbling purr. “How’s that?”
“Because I heard through the grapevine—a very twisted one, mind you—that you are in difficulties and that you did not call me for assistance.”
I frowned. “What difficulty? I haven’t been in the kitchen for a week.” Which wasn’t exactly true, but it was the point that mattered when conversing with Trock, not the details.
“Your library’s book fair, my sweet. That last-minute cancellation from the erudite Ross Weaver.”
“You know Ross Weaver?” Maybe everyone did, except me.
“But of course.” He chuckled, and I could almost see the big man’s round face all puffed up with laughter. “It’s New York, Minnie dear. The biggest small town in the world. Besides, we share a publisher.”