by Laurie Cass
Chandra glanced toward the DeKeyser’s house. “Macey, honey,” she said, “I need you to set the table.”
“But, Mommy—”
“Now, please,” Chandra said firmly. She bent to kiss the top of her daughter’s head. “And I’ll be checking to make sure you got it right.”
“How long do I have?” Macey started walking backward.
Chandra looked at her watch. “Six and a half minutes.”
Macey whirled and ran to the kitchen. “Ticktock, ticktock,” she sang to herself. “Ticktock.”
Her mother smiled after her, then faced me. “So. You’re here about Deke and Talia? I was sorry to hear about Talia’s passing, but . . .” She sighed.
I nodded, understanding exactly what she meant. Death was always a loss, but when tied with a person whose memories had long since gone, the loss wasn’t quite so bitter. “It’s Talia I’m wondering about,” I said. “In her last years, she’d given away many of her possessions, and I wondered if she’d happened to give anything to your family.”
Chandra frowned. “The daughters put her in Lake View because of that, but if you ask me, Talia had every right to give her things away.”
“Even if they were family heirlooms?” I asked. “Things that had been in the family for decades, handed down across the generations?”
“Well . . .” Chandra glanced around her, seeing an antique clock, a framed embroidery sampler, a brass umbrella stand, clearly remembering where they’d come from, who they’d come from, and who she was already intending to give them to when the time came.
“Specifically,” I said, “what I’m wondering about is a book. I’ve been told there was a stack of children’s books on the sideboard in their dining room. There was a book on wildflowers in there, too.”
Chandra’s frown cleared. “Oh, those!” She laughed. “Talia came over last fall and gave them to Macey. They sat on that table over there, but no one ever looked at them.”
I glanced at the table, but it was bare of books. “Do you still have them?” I asked. The question came out as a creaky squeak.
“Gave them away,” Chandra said, casually. “No point in keeping things around that you don’t use, right?”
“Where did you take them?” My words came out so fast they almost ran into each other.
She shrugged. “I could see that some of them were old, so a few weeks ago I dropped them off at the museum.”
* * *
I walked downtown, barely knowing where I was, and certainly not thinking about where I was going, because how could I think about that when I’d just been handed a wonderful answer?
The museum. Chastain’s Wildflowers was in the museum. What a perfect place for it to be. How appropriate! Only, what was the best thing to do with the information? Should I tell the police? Tell the family?
Thinking, I paused in front of Pam Fazio’s store. It was past closing time, but she was in the front window doing something creatively cool to the display. I knocked on the glass, and she pointed to the front door. “It’s unlocked,” she mouthed.
I poked my head inside. “Don’t want to interrupt. I just wondered how you’re doing.”
“As good as can be expected.” She adjusted the propeller of a large wooden model airplane and grimaced. “If I used my broken arm less, I’d be better off, but who has time?”
I nodded at the plane. “That’s really cool. Where did it come from?”
“Walked in the door just last week,” she said. “Closed on a deal for a bunch of fun stuff from . . . Oh, I think you saw me with Kim a while back at Cookie Tom’s, standing in line like the rest of the unwashed masses while you sailed to the front.”
I ignored the good-natured gibe. “Kim?” I asked.
“Kim Parmalee. She and Bob are selling off a slew of things,” Pam said, studying the arrangement.
Yet more evidence that Kim not-a-DeKeyser-anymore Parmalee and her husband were in financial trouble. I murmured good-bye and was out on the sidewalk when things finally went click in my head. The woman I’d seen with Pam was the same woman I’d seen at the bookstore, which was the same woman I’d seen at City Park Grill, arguing with her husband, Bob, about a six-figure sum. The sale price of their house? The size of their debt?
I scuffed along the sidewalk, deep in thought. . . . And suddenly there was Ash’s mother, Lindsey, closing the front door of a wine shop and turning my way. Tonight she wore a simple midnight blue sheath dress, low heels, and a golden necklace hammered thin and wide.
She looked stupendous.
For a short second, I was tempted to dash into whatever store was closest and hide until she passed by, but I shoved away the temptation and said, “Hi, Lindsey. How are you this evening?”
“Ah. Hello, Minnie.” She gave me a quick up-and-down glance, taking in my plain pants, my sensible shoes, my uninteresting shirt, and equally uninteresting jacket. I saw, suddenly and clearly, that though my clothes were eminently suitable for life in the library, they were dead boring.
And, just like that, I went from being the intelligent, competent professional that I was ninety-nine percent of the time to a mumbling preadolescent who knew she would stay an ugly duckling the rest of her life and never come close to being as self-assured as the woman in front of me. “You . . . I–I mean . . . it’s j-just . . .” I sighed and gave up.
Lindsey looked at me. Like I was a germ under a microscope. Or a specimen in a bottle of that stinky formaldehyde. I started to shrink, shoulders sagging, head bowing, but something in me reared up. Yes, Ash’s mom was beautiful and capable and successful and tall, and I was just a short librarian, but that was no reason for her to look down on me.
I lifted my chin and met her gaze straight on. And, after a moment, she smiled.
“It’s time for me to apologize,” she said. “I should have realized what had happened and I am truly sorry I let this go on for so long.”
At some point this conversation would start making sense. “Let what go on?”
“When Ash introduced us at the Round Table, I could tell you were nervous about meeting me. I should have been more understanding. Instead, I went all proper and uptight and made you even more anxious.”
“Well,” I said, “I have to confess that I didn’t expect Ash’s mom to look like she stepped out of a Nordstrom catalog.”
Lindsey laughed. “It’s a hard thing, being a woman, isn’t it? We want to look good, but when we succeed, we can end up intimidating more than impressing.”
“You were trying to impress me?” My eyes went wide.
“Good heavens, of course I was. Ash has talked about you for weeks. I couldn’t possibly meet you wearing old jeans and a T-shirt.”
“Wow. I had no idea.”
“How could you? And then Ash was called away and we were left with each other, and I still felt the need to make a good impression. Which was when you started tripping over your words.”
I thought back. “I did, didn’t I? It’s something I do when I’m . . .” I grinned. “When I’m nervous.”
She nodded. “You weren’t making fun of Ash; you were simply nervous.”
“Making fun?” I stared at her, aghast. “No! Of course not!” No wonder she’d frozen me out—she’d thought I was mocking her son, who had had a severe stutter as a kid. “I’d never do a thing like that.”
“I know that now,” she said. “And that’s why I’m apologizing.” She stuck out her hand. “Friends?”
Smiling, I shook. “Friends.” After the ritual was complete, I asked, “What are you doing in Chilson this fine evening?”
“Working.” She made a face. “You’d have thought financial consultants wouldn’t need to make house calls.”
“Someone win the lottery?”
Lindsey started to say something, then changed it to, “Everyone’s financial situa
tion is different.”
Which was a lot like what Tolstoy had written in Anna Karenina. “‘All happy families are alike,’” I quoted. “‘Each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.’”
Lindsey’s eyebrows went up. “That’s what Monica said, not ten minutes ago.”
“Monica?” My brain twitched. It was a Monica Utley who’d switched her stint in the book-sale room with Andrea right before she’d been killed. “Is this the same Monica who volunteers at the library?”
“I couldn’t say.” Lindsey looked at her watch. “And I’m sorry to interrupt our chat, but there’s a roast in the slow cooker at home that’s going to be overdone if I don’t get there soon. Have a good night, Minnie.”
She turned away and I reached into my backpack for my phone. “Aunt Frances? Quick question: Do you know Monica Utley?”
“Not very well,” my aunt said. “She grew up downstate. Met her husband in college—he’s from Chilson—and they moved up here after they got married.”
“What’s her husband’s name?” I was gripping the phone so tight that my hand hurt. “Do you know?”
“Paul. He’s a lawyer.”
“Do you happen to know where they live?”
“In that big pale yellow house a block or so from downtown. At least they do for now,” she said wryly. “I hear they’re having troubles of some sort. Why?”
“Thanks,” I said, and thumbed off the phone as a car with tinted windows drove past.
Slowly.
The skin at the back of my neck prickled unpleasantly. Was someone following me?
“Don’t be stupid,” I told myself, but all the way home, I kept looking over my shoulder to make sure I was alone.
Chapter 17
As far as I was concerned, the answer to the why of Andrea Vennard’s death had been answered days ago; she and someone else had been looking for Wildflowers, only that someone else had been willing to kill for the sake of an expensive book.
Now I knew who that someone was.
Well, maybe.
Angry Guy Shane Pratley was still a possibility, as was Jared Moyle, the guy who owned the used-book store, and Kim and Bob Parmalee, but things were lining up that Paul Utley was the guy. Or Monica Utley. Or both of them. Because if they were in financial trouble, wouldn’t they both be scrambling to find an answer to their problem? And why else would someone be talking to a financial consultant on a Friday night?
I waited until I got back to the dubious privacy of the houseboat to call Ash. No sense in people on the street overhearing what I suspected. Because all I had were suspicions. I had no real evidence and no real proof. Ash and Detective Inwood would have to come up with those. Unfortunately, I’d recently received a text from Ash that they’d both just left for a long weekend of law-enforcement training. But, hey, what were cell phones for if not to interrupt people?
“Hi, this is Ash.”
“Hey,” I said, “I know you’re at that training—”
“I can’t talk right now,” his recorded voice said, “but I’ll call you back when I can. Thanks.”
I growled into the phone. When the beep came, I gave him my information about Paul and Monica Utley, that Paul had learned about Wildflowers through his role as attorney for the DeKeysers’ estate, that Paul and Andrea had known each other from high school, and that Paul could have learned about the value of the book through Andrea, so it might be a good idea to check to see if any of her phone calls had been to him. Or if they’d had any other contact. Or something.
When I was done rambling, I said, “Okay, um, that’s about it. Give me a call when you have a minute, okay?”
“Mrr.”
I looked down at Eddie. “What do you think? Should I call the sheriff, too?”
My cat put his head down and whacked my shin. It didn’t help my decision-making process, but it did encourage me pick him up for a snuggle. “How about if I e-mail the sheriff?” I asked. “She might not check her e-mail until Monday, but this can wait that long.” Eddie didn’t disagree with me, so I set him onto the dining bench while I did some tapping on my phone.
It didn’t take long to find Sheriff Richardson’s e-mail address—it was on the county’s Web site—and I sent her a note that replicated the voice mail I’d left for Ash. “There,” I told Eddie as I hit the Send button. “I’ve done what I can, and the rest will be up to the law-enforcement professionals. Want to go to the Friday marina party with me?”
“Mrr?” He jumped on my backpack and scratched at the opening until he’d managed to get himself inside.
“A backpack is not a cat toy,” I said, pulling him away. This was a little mean of me, because I’d watched him strain with the effort to get in and not done a thing to either help or hinder him, but I tamped down my guilt with the knowledge that he’d be sleeping on my head later that night.
“Mrrrr.”
I could hear Eddie latching on to something inside the backpack. I reached out and detached his front claws from whatever it was that he was sinking them into. “Don’t ruin my stuff, okay? Some of those things aren’t even mine, you know, and it wouldn’t look good for me to return books to the library with cat-claw marks in them.”
Eddie wriggled out of my grasp, gave me a dirty look, and jumped down. He stalked across the kitchen floor, thumped down the steps, stamped across the bedroom, and launched himself up onto the bed.
“Whatever,” I muttered. There were, in fact, two library books inside the pack, and I pulled them out. One looked intact and, after wiping off what might have been a small amount of Eddie spit, I started to slide the other book back inside. This one was nonfiction, with the cover a painting of a single pink rose. Though I’d never admit it to anyone, I’d checked out the book solely for the beauty of its cover art. You should never judge a book by its cover, of course, but it sure could give a hint about—
“Oh,” I said out loud. “I am so stupid. I forgot all about calling Amelia.”
“Mrr,” Eddie called from the bedroom.
I dug out my phone and scrolled down toward the end of the alphabet. “Ha,” I said. “Thought she was in there.” I stabbed at the button and waited for the phone to ring on the other end.
Amelia Singer had grown up in Chilson, moved downstate to attend college, worked as a teacher, married, had two children, worked as a school principal, divorced, worked as a school superintendent, and had recently retired and moved back to the town of her youth. She’d cast around for something to do and, when the museum director said he’d had enough after eleven years, which was one year too many by most accounts, she’d stepped in with both feet.
“Hi,” I said, when she answered. “Minnie Hamilton. How are you?”
“Minnie!” Amelia boomed. She did a lot of that, and I had yet to figure out if she’d always talked that way or if it was a natural result of her career choices. “Couldn’t be better if I were twins,” she said. “How are you?”
One of the first things Amelia had committed to doing was a faster processing of the multitude of donations that poured in. Not once had she said she’d bitten off more than she could chew, but I’d caught her looking at the vast pile of boxes with more than a small amount of loathing. Still, if anyone could turn the Chilson Historical Museum from a dusty, slightly musty, and ill-lit warehouse of castoffs from the town’s attics into a showpiece, it was Amelia.
I pictured her, my height but about twice my weight, her long reddish brown hair rolled up into a bun, her active mind whirring along at a hundred miles an hour. “Got a question,” I said. “How caught up are you with the donations?”
“Humor is the last refuge of the scoundrel,” she misquoted darkly. “And if you ever remind me that I’d vowed to organize this place by the end of my first year as director, I will never speak to you again.”
Laughing, I said, “I would never do that. I v
alue your advice too much.”
“Advice?” She sighed audibly. “If I’d listened to my friends, I would never have become director of the museum. Why is it that we refuse to accept the experience of others?”
“Because we think we’re going to be different.”
“Why are we so often so wrong?”
“It’s a survival mechanism. If we were completely honest about our chances at completing any given task, we’d never get out of bed in the morning.”
Her laugh was deep and contagious. “How did you get to be so smart at such a young age?”
“It’s not me. It’s Alexandre Dumas, Elizabeth Goudge, and Charles Dickens.”
“Elizabeth Goudge,” Amelia mused. “Sad that so few people have heard of her these days.”
I was doing my best to take care of that, but I didn’t want to get too far off topic. Amelia and I could talk books for hours—we’d met at the library when she’d come in to get a library card—but I had a question for her. “Have you had many books donated lately?”
“You are a cruel, cruel woman,” Amelia said.
I smiled. “Not intentionally, honest. I take it you’ve had a few?”
“Tens of boxes. Hundreds of boxes. Thousands of boxes. Millions of boxes. And none of them are going to St. Ives or anywhere, because they’re all in the museum basement.” She sighed again. “I would love to look through them. I crave to look through them, but all I have time right now to do is open the flaps every so often and gaze at the contents longingly.”
The decision about what to do with my knowledge of the likely whereabouts of Wildflowers gelled into action. If anyone from the sheriff’s office called back soon, I’d pass the information on to them, but I couldn’t tell the family, not when parts of the family were suspects. Which left me, a librarian to the core, with only one possible course of action.
“Amelia,” I said, “I have a favor to ask . . .”