Cat With a Clue (10 page)

Yes, folks, primogeniture had been alive and well in
northern lower Michigan in the 1900s. I stirred but didn't say anything. After all, maybe none of the daughters had wanted to run the store.

“Calvin and Talia,” Dana was saying, “also had a large family.” Dark eyes peered at me through long bangs. “Are you interested in Talia's ancestry?”

“As a matter of general interest, yes,” I said, “but I doubt it's pertinent in this case.”

“I agree,” Dana said, and I felt an embarrassingly happy rush that a thought out of my small brain matched a thought out of the big one. “Talia had seven children who lived: four daughters and three sons. Would you like their names?”

I quickly pulled out my cell and opened the notes app. “Yes, please.” I typed away as Dana dictated the names and birth dates.

Leslie, born 1953. Kimberly, born 1956. Thomas, born 1958. Kelly, born 1961. David, born 1962. Melissa, born 1965, and Robert, born 1968.

After that, Dana rattled off the names of the spouses, names and birth dates of the next generation of DeKeysers, and the cities in which they were born.

“Do the sons still run Benton's? Or one of them?” I asked, typing in the last few letters.

“There was a change of ownership after I completed my project,” Dana said. “I don't have that information.”

Well, stone the crows, as Rafe might have said. There was something the kid didn't know.

“The DeKeyser family,” Dana went on, “is well respected in the community. There wasn't a hint of scandal in any of the newspaper articles I read, and none of them has ever died of anything other than natural causes or the typical diseases of their times.”

“Any theories about a connection between Andrea
Vennard and Talia?” I asked. “And I'm not talking about the genetic relationship. I'm talking about something that would be a motivation for Andrea's death. Even a guess might be helpful.”

The kid frowned. “I don't guess.”

“Dana!”

Both Dana and I turned to see a woman standing at the back door to the kitchen. She was probably a little older than I was, with hair the color of Dana's pulled back into a ponytail. Her forehead was streaked with dirt and there was a scratch across one cheek.

“Dana, I told you to call me when Ms. Hamilton showed up.” She looked at me apologetically. “Sorry about that. I'm Jenny, Dana's mother. I was clearing out the backyard. Now that we're only here in the summers, the spring-cleanup chores don't get done until June.”

Which explained why I hadn't met Dana during the school year, but not why I hadn't come across this amazing human intelligence during the summers.

“Would you like something to drink?” Jenny asked, toeing off her garden clogs and walking stocking footed into the kitchen. “Water, soda, iced tea?”

“Thanks,” I said, “but I need to get going. Dana was very helpful and I'm grateful for”—
his? Her?
—“the time.”

“Did you get everything you need?” Jenny took a glass out of a cupboard and went to the sink. “The DeKeysers were a pet project of Dana's a few years ago. I'm sure you were inundated with information.”

I glanced at the kid. “I think I have everything.” Dana nodded. “Thanks again for the help. I really appreciate it.”

“Stop by if you need anything else,” Jennifer said as she walked me to the front door. “Dana could use more
human interaction.” She smiled wryly. “Even if it's just spouting off facts.”

After thanking her again, I walked down the pristine steps thoughtfully.

I now knew all sorts of things about Talia, her husband, and their children. I had numbers and dates, facts and figures, straight data that might or might not be useful. But I didn't know what kind of people they were. Didn't know what made any of them tick. Didn't know what any of them thought important, didn't know what might move any of them to an act of crime.

*   *   *

Thanks to Dana's rapid-fire delivery, I had plenty of time for lunch at Shomin's Deli. Somehow I'd managed to leave the house without a book in hand, but there was a quick cure for that.

A wide block from downtown, some hopeful soul had recently opened up a used-book store. I went inside, walked around a sixtyish woman haggling with the clerk over a bag of books she wanted to sell, spied a Colin Cotterill book I'd never read, handed over my dollar plus tax, and was out the door in less than three minutes, which had to be a new record for me.

My steps were nearly jaunty. Yes, my library was in turmoil, what with a murder and the unknown leadership issue, and, yes, I had no idea how I was going to keep juggling my interim-director duties and the bookmobile without sliding into permanent sleep deprivation. Yes, the bookmobile, its garage, and the Friends' book-sale room had all been vandalized, and, yes, my boyfriend's mother hated me, but I had an unread book in my backpack and almost a full hour in which to read. What was there, really, to complain about?

I hummed a happy little tune as I walked through
the first block of Chilson's downtown. Past the real estate office in an old house, past the shoe store, past the pharmacy with its wood front painted this spring with a fresh coat of a disturbingly bright blue, past the toy store with its display windows filled with rocking horses and pedal cars and—

And Mitchell.

My pace went from Happy Traveler to Grandpa Shuffle. Yes, that was indeed Mitchell Koyne standing in the toy store's window. If I'd been asked to state a reason why Mitchell would have been in a toy store, I would have laid down money that he'd have been buying something for himself. Beanbags for juggling, maybe, or one of those three-dimensional brainteaser puzzles that would take me hours to figure out, but that my brother could take apart in three minutes flat.

Mitchell, however, wasn't buying anything. He was wearing the toy store's signature polo shirt. He had a feather duster in hand, and he was using it to dust. Mitchell was working.

I waved, but his concentration was so focused that either he didn't see me or he was ignoring me.

Either way, he wasn't being Mitchell-like.

“Who are you?” I asked softly, “and what have you done with the real Mitchell?”

He didn't answer, of course, and I moved on, troubled and more than a little sad.

I
worked late into the evening on Friday, but left with plenty of time to hang out at the summer's first Friday-night marina party. Ash was on duty both weekend nights, but we'd made plans to get together Monday after I got off work. During our last morning run, I'd tried to explain how the dinner with his mother had gone wrong, but, manlike, he'd said not to be silly, that everything was fine, and he'd run off to finish his ten-mile loop, calling over his shoulder to tell me to bring my swimsuit on Monday.

After a night during which even the soft purrs of my furry friend didn't help me fall asleep, when I got out of bed on Saturday morning, I felt the need for a family connection. “Do you mind?” I asked Eddie. “It's a bookmobile day, so you'll have to stay in the car for a little while.”

He yawned, sending bad cat breath straight into my nostrils, and said, “Mrr.”

I took this to be assent and whirled through my morning routine in record time. In short order I was
tromping up the steps of the boardinghouse and banging through the front door.

“Hello?” I called. “It's me.” I found my aunt Frances in the dining room, reading the newspaper.

“Good morning, sunshine!” she said, smiling and reaching up to give me a hug. “I didn't know you were stopping by this morning. Let me set you a place.” She set down the coffee cup she'd been holding.

“Can't stay,” I said. “Too much to do at the library before we head out.”

Conversation and the
tink
of pots and pans filtered out to us from the kitchen. My aunt provided her boardinghouse guests with dinner every night and breakfast six days of the week. Saturday morning, however, was the day she put her guests to work. Co-cooking the occasional breakfast with another boarder was part of the deal, she told her applicants. What she didn't tell them was that the task was designed to get them to work as a team, which would help them get to know each other, which would nudge them into love.

Aunt Frances gave me a brief appraising look and reached for her mug. “How about some of this?”

I looked longingly at the beverage, but shook my head. “Too many miles to drive and too few bathroom stops.”

My aunt tsked at me and drank deep.

“Cruel, you are,” I said, pulling out a chair.

“But funny.” She waggled her eyebrows, and I couldn't help but laugh out loud. “So, what brings you to my humble abode this fine morning?”

I shrugged. “Nothing, really. Just felt like stopping by.” She peered at me and I hurried into a question. “Who's cooking? Is that bacon I smell?”

Aunt Frances had known me all of my life, and
knew that I was throwing out a distraction, but she also knew I'd talk about whatever was bothering me when I was ready.

“It's Eva and Forrest's turn this morning,” she said.

My night of half sleep and bad dreams had made my brain sluggish, and it took a moment for me to recall the details on Eva and Forrest. Teachers, I finally remembered, although I couldn't think where or what they taught. In their mid-forties, divorced. Both did a lot of mountain biking. “What's on the menu?”

“Straight up traditional breakfast,” Aunt Frances said. “But with the twist of freshly made English muffins and clotted cream.” She smiled at me over the top of her coffee. “Perked up at that, I see. You sure you don't want a plate?”

I glanced at the wall clock. “No time. Maybe next Saturday.”

“How are things at the library?” she asked. “You've had a hard week.”

Via phone calls and texts, I'd kept my aunt apprised of the multitude of events. As always, her deepest concern had been for me, and, as always, I'd begged her not to tell my mother about any of it. But though I could have burst forth with a long litany of concerns and questions, I really didn't feel like talking. “We're muddling through,” I said. “How about you?”

Her eyebrows went up. “You think I had a hard week?”

“Busy, anyway,” I said. “With the boarders and all.”

“True,” she agreed, her gaze flicking toward the living room. I had a feeling, however, that she was looking through the walls, across the street and into the house where Otto lived.

“How is Otto these days?” I asked.

She gave the vaguest of shrugs. “He's busy; I'm busy. We haven't seen much of each other the past few weeks.”

Which was unusual, because they'd been hand in hand since December. I could hardly think of a time in the past six months when I'd seen one of them without the other. “You miss him, don't you?” I asked.

“Silly old me,” she said with a wry smile. “Live without a man for decades, and now I hate to have a day go by without seeing this particular one.”

We sat there a moment in companionable silence, thinking about things and not thinking about things. Then I got to my feet. “Time for me to go,” I said. “Eddie's in the car, waiting, and you know how he gets.”

“Sleepy,” Aunt Frances said. “And if there's any sunshine on him, he's probably snoring.”

I laughed. Last winter, my aunt and Eddie had become fast friends. She knew his quirks almost as well as I did.

We reached the front door and went through to the porch. Outside, the sun was shining, the birds were singing, and the road was beckoning.

“Minnie?” my aunt asked. “Are you okay?” Her voice was low and full of concern.

“I'm fine.” I put on a smile. “It's been a long week—that's all. I just wanted to stop by and . . . and make sure you're still here.”

She made a rude noise in the back of her throat. “I'm not going anywhere. It's too hot in the South, too dry out west, and too humid most other places.” She gave me one last look. “Are you sure there's nothing I can do?”

I thought, then said, “Well, there's one thing. Can I . . . can I . . . ?” My voice faltered.

“Can you what?” Aunt Frances asked gently.

I swallowed. “What I'd really like is a big hug.”

“Silly girl.” My aunt reached out and pulled me into her warm embrace. “You silly girl,” she said again, kissing the top of my head.

I did feel a little silly, like a kid again, going to my aunt and expecting that a hug would make me feel better, that some aunt comfort would fix everything.

Silly, yes, but the funny thing was, after a bit, I did feel better.

*   *   *

“What do you think is going on?” Julia asked, reworking her long hair. We'd just parked at the third stop of the day, in a church parking lot out in the southeast part of the county, and most of the conversation heard on the bookmobile that morning had been shocked questions and theories about the murder and the break-ins.

I watched Julia with a twitch of envy. Her smooth hair smoothly obeyed her long and limber fingers, going easily from a simple ponytail to a tidy bun. If I'd tried to do that with my curly hair, all I'd get was a red face and an unruly mess.

“Mrr,” Eddie said. He stalked down the aisle and set his furry self onto the carpeted step near the nonfiction section.

“Nicely done,” I told him. “You do realize you're right underneath the books on how to train your dog.”

“Mrr!”

“That's what I think, too.” Eddie had been even more Eddie-like than usual that morning. He'd insisted on being cuddled by a nice elderly lady wearing a floppy gardening hat, and had literally rolled around on the work boots worn by the foreman of a landscaping crew. Luckily, the guy had found this amusing, but I'd hauled my protesting cat away.

“Chill, already, will you?” I'd whispered. “I know you like footwear and all, but this is the first time this guy has visited us. And that was only because his crew was on break at the house across the street. What are you trying to do, embarrass me?”

Eddie had twisted away and hadn't replied, which I took as corroboration. If raising children was remotely like having a cat, I wasn't sure I was ever going to be ready.

Julia patted the back of her head, found two stray hairs, and tucked them in expertly. “Do you have any theories? Because a murder in the library, vandalism of the Friends' sale room, and a break-in at the bookmobile garage seem far more than coincidence.”

It did to me, too, but I didn't see how the three events tied together.

“I have an idea,” Julia said.

She'd had lots of ideas already, all of them outlandish, melodramatic, and completely unrealistic. My favorite had been tightly localized earthquakes, though her theory of a malevolent library ghost had come a close second. “What is it this time? Does it involve time travel? Because I've always wanted to believe it was possible.”

“It's one of the library director candidates.”

I opened the back door, letting fresh air waft through the bookmobile. Though Eddie blinked at the change, he didn't seem inclined to move. “Don't you start, too,” I said.

“About your application?” she asked. “That is your business and your decision.”

I was about to thank her when she added, “You would make an excellent director and the library needs you, but don't let my opinion sway you.”

“Of course not,” I said sardonically. “But please tell me how one of the director candidates could be involved with murder and break-ins.”

Julia put her hands behind her back and walked up and down the aisle. Playing the part of an attorney, no doubt, and I wondered in how many productions she'd acted as one.

“Motive is everything.” Her voice was calm and measured, and I steeled myself to disbelieve every word she said. If she tried, Julia would be able to convince a classically trained musician to purchase weekend passes to a rap festival.

“Okay.” I wasn't sure I agreed one hundred percent, but playing along wasn't going to hurt anything.

“Let's say that getting this job means everything to one of the candidates,” she posited. “Let's say that she—or he—has made commitments and promises and is now in a situation that demands she—or he—become the library director.”

“I don't see it,” I said. “What could possibly make that true?”

“Use your imagination, young lady! There could be a hundred good reasons.”

I couldn't think of even one, but Julia had already waved off my objection and was moving on.

“An excellent way to get hired,” she said, “is to demonstrate your value to an organization. All this candidate has to do is ride to the rescue by finding a scapegoat for the murder and the break-ins. Do that, and he's in like Flynn.”

“Wouldn't finding a scapegoat be hard?”

This, apparently, was another difficulty not worth considering. “All he needs to do,” Julia said, “is find someone who's close to being a killer. That will demonstrate
his commitment to the library nicely enough to get him the job.”

“What do you think?” I asked Eddie.

He shifted back and forth on the step, leaning left and right, then back to center, but didn't move his feet.

Julia frowned. “Interpretation, please.”

Most likely he'd had an itch that he'd managed to scratch without going to much effort. “He thinks your idea would be better if it involved a cat.”

“Hmm.” Julia rubbed her chin. “He could be right. Let me work on it.” She grinned. “Unless you want a time-travel version.”

“I'd like to go back to 1978, please,” said a new voice.

Julia, Eddie, and I turned. Lawrence Zonne, a newcomer to the bookmobile, was at the top of the steps, smiling at us. Mr. Zonne's sharply white hair and the wrinkles on his face were the only indicators that he was an octogenarian. He moved as easily as a twenty-year-old, had vision sharper than mine, and had a memory that rivaled . . . well, everyone's.

Mr. Zonne had lived in Tonedagana County most of his life and moved to Florida when he and his wife took early retirement. But after his wife died the previous winter, he'd looked around and realized that home was elsewhere. Though I was sorry he'd lost the companionship of his wife, I was glad to have him back in Michigan. His sharp intelligence and wit made every conversation a treat, and, besides, Eddie liked him.

“What happened in 1978?” Julia asked.

“The blizzard, young ladies. Don't you remember?”

I shook my head. “I wasn't born yet.”

Mr. Zonne looked at Julia.

“I was living in New York City,” she said. “When it snowed, I stayed inside until it was gone.”

Mr. Zonne eyed Eddie. “And you?”

“Mrr.”

“Exactly,” Mr. Zonne leaned down to pat my cat on his fuzzy head. “Mrrr-low. As in Merlot, my preferred varietal of wine. You are a cat of great discernment, Mr. Edward. My wife and I spent the entire week of that blizzard without a decent wine in the house. If I could go back in time to just before the storm hit, I'd make sure to stock up. Just think how much easier we could have endured the snow and wind and cold with a case of good Merlot. But why, may I ask,” he said, straightening, “are we discussing time travel?”

“We're not,” I said. “Julia might be, but only to make up another wacky explanation for all the . . . the things that have been going on at the library.”

Mr. Zonne nodded. “An odd litany of incidents. I can see why one would turn to unusual interpretations.”

“Do you have a theory?” I asked.

He smiled. “Of course. However, I regret to say that while I am a man of great memory, my imagination is entirely earthbound. Limited, you might say.”

“Your memory,” I said, “could do us more good than a guess about alien invaders.”

“Hey,” Julia protested. “I never said anything about aliens.” But she looked thoughtful.

“Did you know the DeKeysers?” I asked. “Especially Talia? Because it was her funeral that the murder victim came north to attend.”