by Laurie Cass
Kristen frowned at me fiercely. “One more answer like that, and I’ll call your mother and tell her what you did last night.”
And she would, too. “How about this? I was so angry that I’d become invulnerable. Nothing short of kryptonite would have hurt a hair on my head.”
“Three.” Kristen snapped up another finger. “And that reason wasn’t much better. The last one better be bulletproof.”
I looked through the leaves of the big maple tree that stood outside Rafe’s house and over at the marina, where I could just see the back end of my houseboat. “Maybe this won’t fight the stupidity allegation,” I said quietly, “but I had to get Eddie away from Paul Utley. At least, I had to try.”
Kristen studied me for an eternal moment, then sighed and got to her feet. “Okay. You got me on that one. Be right back.”
She went inside, and, closing my eyes, I slouched down in the chair.
It had, after all, been a long night. After Paul Utley had been hauled away in the back of a police cruiser, the city police chief had shown up. He’d taken one look at me and at the mess in the museum’s basement, and after I’d made it partway through my explanation of the evening’s events, he’d held up his hand and called the sheriff’s office.
Since I’d known Detective Inwood and Ash were out of town, I wasn’t surprised when the sheriff herself walked in. Sheriff Richardson gave the room and its contents—human, feline, and inanimate—one sweeping glance and said, “Go home and get some sleep. Inwood and Wolverson will be back tomorrow morning. Stop by at ten and we’ll take your statement.”
She’d crouched in front of the occupied cat carrier, reached through the wires to give Eddie a chin scratch, stood, given us a collective nod, and left.
I’d woken Sunday morning to a cat wrapped around the top of my head and a ringing cell phone. Ash, on his way back north, was calling to make sure I was all right. Groggily, I’d said I was fine, and we’d met at the Round Table in time for a quick breakfast before the ten-o’clock meeting at the sheriff’s office.
He’d apologized for not calling me back. “It was part of the training,” he’d said. “I didn’t know until we got there, and I’m sorry about that, but it was what they call an immersion training session. We had to hand over our cell phones when we checked in.”
My mouth was full of French toast, so I couldn’t say anything, but he nodded. “Yeah, I know. I should have called right then and said I’d be out of touch. I really am sorry.”
And, since it was obvious that he was indeed sorry, I’d smiled and forgiven him.
Now I yawned comfortably. My feet were in the sunshine, staying nice and warm, the rest of me was in the shade, staying cool, and Andrea’s killer was in jail. And while waiting for the sheriff the night before, I’d opened one last box and, lo and behold, there was the DeKeysers’ copy of Chastain’s Wildflowers, right on top.
The book was currently in the sheriff’s evidence lockup, where it would stay until the ownership question was solved. Sheriff Richardson had contacted Paul Utley’s partner, who would now be handling Talia DeKeyser’s estate. After recovering from the shock of discovering that his partner had been arrested for murder, he had been, according to the sheriff, flabbergasted to hear that the DeKeysers had owned such a valuable book. The attorney would be contacting the estate’s heirs and it would be interesting to hear who would wind up as the book’s official owner.
Considering the book’s value, there would inevitably be a legal wrangle, but since that didn’t have anything to do with me, I didn’t have to think about it at all.
What Sheriff Richardson had told me was that the local DeKeysers she’d spoken with had gone very quiet when Andrea’s attempted theft was described. “I think Leslie, the oldest daughter, was crying when she got off the phone,” the sheriff had said. “That family sticks together. At least they used to.”
The other thing the sheriff and Detective Inwood had said was that Monica Utley claimed to have absolutely no knowledge of her husband’s activities. Inwood thought Monica was in it up to her teeth; the sheriff disagreed, and it would be interesting to see which one of them was right.
I was glad, however, to have the question of the X-Acto knife answered. Paul Utley, who, as an attorney, should have known better than to talk without representation present, had told Detective Inwood that he’d met Andrea at the library to look for the book together. They’d gotten into a heated argument about when he’d divorce Monica, during which he’d strangled Andrea and then stabbed her with her own X-Acto knife in a fit of rage.
I sank deeper into the chair and sighed. All this, for the sake of money? A life ended, other lives ruined, for what? A new boat? A new car every couple of years? I didn’t understand and didn’t want to. Even thinking about it was making me tired and sick at heart.
My eyes fluttered open at the sound of Rafe’s front door shutting. That noise was accompanied by the tinkle of glassware and I sat up. “What’s that?” I asked.
Kristen set down a pitcher filled with a heavily ice-cubed pink concoction and handed me a glass. “It’s medicinal. Drink up.”
“Alcoholic?”
“Just the right amount. Cheers.”
We tinked the rims of our glasses and drank. At first sip, the sweetness made me shudder, but the second sip went down easier. “This isn’t half bad,” I said.
“You don’t tend bar in Key West and learn nothing. So, what else had happened since I saw you last? Have you saved any small children from drowning? Fended off a nuclear holocaust?”
“I met Bianca Sims.”
Kristen’s eyebrows went sky-high. “Mitchell’s girlfriend? How did that go?”
It had been at the Round Table that morning. Bianca, in real-estate agent mode, had been meeting with clients. I’d waited until they’d left, then slid into her booth and introduced myself.
“It’s weird,” I told Kristen, “but I think it’s going to work out.”
“Hang on. You mean . . . ?” She couldn’t say the word.
“Marriage?” I smiled. “Probably too soon to say, but she really seems to love him. Loves him just the way he is, and wishes he’d stop trying to impress her with all his hard work. She figures it’s just a phase and hopes he’ll go back to being the normal Mitchell soon, because that’s the man she fell in love with.”
“‘Weird’ is right,” Kristen said.
I nodded. “Speaking of love interests, what’s the news from Scruffy? Has he asked you to marry him lately?”
“Actually, no, and it’s a big relief.” But she glanced at the empty ring finger of her left hand as she spoke. I started drafting a mental note to text Scruffy that progress was being made, when Kristen asked, “What about you and Ash?”
I blinked. “What about us?”
“Any chance of wedding bells? You’ve been seeing him for a while now. You must have a good idea of what’s possible.”
“We’ve only been going out for a few weeks.” I shifted my feet, realizing that if I didn’t move them out of the sun soon, I’d end up with a very strange-looking case of sunburn. “It’s too early to say.”
“Sure,” Kristen said.
I checked her expression for sarcasm, but couldn’t detect anything overt. “It’s too early,” I repeated. “But at breakfast, we were talking about skiing this winter.”
“A week out West?” Kristen rotated her glass, making the ice cubes clink.
“What? Oh. No, we were talking about our favorite places to ski up here.” I watched her ice cubes go round and round. “Speaking of ski places, when I was talking to Bianca, I found out how the rumor about Kim and Bob Parmalee going bankrupt got started.”
“Yeah? How’s that?”
“They have a condo in Colorado. Breckenridge. When their kids were young, they used to spend a lot of family time out there, skiing. Now that the kid
s are grown and gone, they’re selling it and buying a couple weeks in a time-share instead.”
“Gossip,” Kristen said, rolling her eyes. “The whole bowl contains one grain of truth, but which grain is it?”
“Speaking of gossip, I have a question.”
“And I might possibly have an answer. What’s up?”
“Dana Coburn. Why haven’t I met her before now? I would have thought a kid like that would practically live at the library.”
Kristen looked out at the sparkling waters of Janay Lake, then back at me. “You liked her?”
“I’m annoyed it’s taken me this long to meet her. She’s obviously smart to the genius level, she’s personable, she’s . . .” I stopped, frowning. “What’s so funny?”
“Peas in a pod,” she said, still laughing. “I should have known you two would get along.”
“I’m no genius.”
“No, but I’ll lay down money that you and Dana have more in common than you have differences.”
“Not if she’s not visiting the library.”
Kristen gave me a speculative look. “I kind of don’t want to tell you why.”
“Then don’t.” I slid my toes back into the sunshine. “Especially if it’s gossip, because we know how true that’s likely to be.”
“Not gossip,” Kristen said vaguely. “It’s just, well, Dana has this bizarre condition. She can’t stand being touched. She freaks out if anyone other than her mom or dad touches her, and even that she doesn’t like much.”
“Oh. That’s . . .” I searched for a word, but couldn’t find the right one.
“Horrible,” Kristen supplied.
It wasn’t quite right, but it would have to do.
“Anyway,” she went on, “that’s why she’s being homeschooled, and that’s why she doesn’t go out in public much. Even accidental touches can . . . well, let’s just say it’s not good. If she’s willing to talk to you, that’s great. I’m sure her mom was all over it.”
“She was,” I said, remembering Jenny’s grateful tone and eagerness to have me stop back at the house. Any time, she’d said. An exaggeration, of course, but still. “I like her,” I said. “Dana, I mean.”
Kristen sent me a lazy thumbs-up. “Excellent. You can’t have too many friends.”
We sat for a while, chatting about this and that, me suffering the occasional pointed comment about running headlong into danger every time it came near, her taking my abuse that her perfectionist ways were going to shorten her life by decades, both of us guessing Rafe’s golf score for the day, both of us guessing in the hundreds and laughing ourselves silly.
It was a fine way to spend a hot Sunday afternoon, but eventually, when the pink pitcher was nearly empty and the sun was starting its slide down the far side of the sky, Kristen looked at me. “Is it tomorrow you’ll hear about your new boss?”
“Yup.”
“Do you know what’s going to happen?” she asked.
“Nope.”
“Are you going to guess?”
I made a face. “There’s enough of that going around without me joining in.”
She sighed and poured the last of the pink concoction into my glass. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
I grinned. “Have I ever not?”
“Well,” Kristen said, flopping back in her chair, “there was that once. The summer when we were fourteen, remember? When you thought Robby Teller was going to be the love of your life forever and you wrote letters telling him so.”
I did, and the memory still made me squirm, which was why she’d brought it up. “I’m really, really glad he moved to Hawaii.”
“Didn’t you hear?” Kristen peered at me through half-closed eyes. “He’s in town for a family reunion.”
My eyes went wide with horror and my mouth dropped open.
“Gotcha,” my best friend said. “You are so gullible.”
I took a long drink of pink as I tried to plan an appropriate method of revenge.
“You know what?” she asked.
“What?”
“I’m glad you didn’t get sliced up with a big, long, scary knife,” Kristen said softly.
“Yeah,” I said just as softly. “I know.”
Chapter 20
The next morning, I got to the library early and dove deep into the pile of work on my desk. I kept my head down, ignored the footsteps passing my open doorway, and, in general, did all that I could to keep busy and not think about what was happening upstairs in the boardroom.
It didn’t work, of course, but I made a valiant effort.
Finally I couldn’t stand it any longer. I needed to hear a human voice and, almost as much, I needed caffeine. I grabbed my coffee mug and headed for the break room, which seemed to be packed full of noisy library employees.
I looked around, counting heads and trying to remember how many people I’d scheduled to work that morning. I’d been preoccupied lately, but surely I hadn’t put this many people on the calendar. Had I? “Please tell me that someone is at the front desk.”
Holly gave me a stern glance. “How can you think about things like that when the Big Decision is about to come down?”
“Kelsey’s out there,” Donna said, coming by with a full pot of coffee.
“Did you switch with someone?” I asked. “I’m sure I didn’t put you on the schedule today.”
Donna grinned. “What makes you think I’m on the clock?”
“I’m not working, either,” said another part-time clerk a little tentatively. “Um, that’s okay, isn’t it? To come in if I’m not scheduled to work.”
Josh held up his mug for a refill. “Like Minnie would be one to talk about that. She’s here seventy hours a week, and she’s salaried.”
“She’s dedicated,” Gareth said as he winked at me.
“Or she’s stupid,” Josh muttered.
“Or both,” Donna said, laughing. “Anyone want more coffee?”
“How long do you think they’re going to be?” Holly said, pointing at the ceiling.
Trying to guess the length of a board meeting was a pointless exercise. “No idea.” A large number of speculative glances were being sent in my direction, so I said, “Anyone want to hear about Saturday night?”
On a normal Monday morning, the first thing we would have done was exchange any significant weekend stories, but this Monday was far from normal.
“That’s right,” Gareth said. “I heard you were in the hospital with a gunshot wound to the gut.” He studied me. “You must be a fast healer.”
“What!” Donna turned around so fast I was afraid the coffee in the pot she was holding would swirl out. “Minnie, are you okay? What happened?”
So I explained everything, starting with the passing of Talia DeKeyser, the murder of Andrea Vennard, the break-ins, and Pam Fazio’s injury. When I told them that a copy of Chastain’s Wildflowers had been sitting on the DeKeysers’ sideboard for decades, a collective gasp went through the room, and I finished up with the arrest of Paul Utley and the uncovering of the near-pristine Wildflowers.
“What about the gun?” Josh demanded. He looked angry and, oddly, protective. “Did that Utley hurt you? That’s got to put him in jail even longer.”
“No gun,” I said mildly, and decided not to talk about the weapon that had been involved. The sharp blade of that knife would haunt my dreams for many nights, and I didn’t want to talk about it any more than I had to.
“How’s Eddie?” Donna asked. Back in the pre-Julia days, Donna had gone out on the bookmobile a few times and had taken a liking to the fuzzy little guy. “Is he okay?”
“He was fine when I left him this morning,” I said. “That is, if being curled up on the middle of my pillow and purring at sixty decibels is an indication of being fine.”
The rest
of them started pelting me with more questions about the events of Saturday night, some that I could answer (Where’s Wildflowers now?) and some that I couldn’t (How long will Utley be in prison?), and it was when the questions were dwindling to speculation about the ownership of Chastain’s book that a polite voice asked, “Minnie, do you have a minute?”
All other sounds in the room stilled. I turned to the library board’s vice-president. “Of course,” I said, and followed him upstairs to hear who the board had selected as the new director for the Chilson District Library.
* * *
My aunt Frances handed me a plate of chocolate-chip cookies.
We were sitting on the creaky metal glider that had been on the screened porch of the boardinghouse for longer than I’d been alive. Birds sang in the trees, leaves rustled in spite of there being no detectible breeze, and the evening sun lit everything with an almost magical golden glow.
I sighed, not feeling any magic inside of me, and took a cookie, which probably wouldn’t help, but why risk it?
“What do you think the new director is going to be like?” my aunt asked.
“Jennifer Walker?” I studied the cookie, formulating my approach. The last bite had to have more than one chocolate chip, but so did the first bite. “Remember when Eddie threw up on a candidate’s Italian shoes?”
“Oh, dear.”
I glanced at Aunt Frances. “You’re laughing. How could you? My new boss already hates me, and she most certainly hates Eddie. She’s going to ban him from the bookmobile, she’s going to get rid of the bookmobile, and then she’s going to fire me.” Savagely, I bit into the cookie.
“I’m laughing because it’s funny,” my loving aunt said, now laughing out loud. “The only time Eddie is in the library and what does he do? Urp all over the shoes of your next boss.”
“Well,” I said, half smiling. “Maybe it’s a little funny.”
“See?” My aunt bumped me with her elbow. “It’ll all work out—you know it will.”