Cat With a Clue (13 page)

T
he next morning I woke up sore in all sorts of odd places. I sat on the edge of the bed.

“Mrr?” Eddie asked.

“Hang on a second. I'm still trying to figure it out.” I stood, not bothering to stifle a whimpering groan, and hobbled around in a small circle. “Worst is probably the backs of my shoulders,” I said. The trapezius? I tried to remember the diagrams from a high school physiology class. No, that wasn't right. I reached around with my fingers and tenderly poked at the sore parts. “Latissimus dorsi.” I eyed my cat, wondering if he had a corresponding muscle. If he did, would he be able to water-ski? There'd been that video of a water-skiing squirrel; maybe I could make Eddie famous.

“Mrr,” he said, stretching out a long paw.

“Sorry.” I nodded. “Back to the inventory. Shoulders hurt the most; thighs aren't far behind. And my neck is stiff, although I'm not sure why.”

Eddie flopped over on his side with a soft
thump
.

“You're right,” I agreed. “It probably is from that last time I crashed. I hit the water pretty hard.” I rotated my
head around, trying to loosen up the muscles. “And all that crawling around on the floor of Pam's store, sorting out books, probably didn't help, either.” Or the sleep I'd lost. But, hey, I was young and relatively fit, and I'd be able to catch up on sleep soon enough. All I needed was a hot shower and breakfast.

Eddie yawned and drew himself into a ball that was half his size, a miracle achieved on a daily basis by cats around the world.

“I wouldn't get too comfortable,” I told him as I headed toward the bathroom. “It's a bookmobile day, you know.”

His eyes opened wide.

“Would I mess with you about a thing like that?” I asked. “Yes, I might give you a hard time about your snoring, your tendency to sleep draped across my neck, and your complete disregard of the only ultimate demand I've ever had of you—you know, that one about staying off the kitchen counter—but I would never joke with you about the bookmobile.”

“Mrr!”

He jumped off the bed, galloped through the bedroom and up the stairs, and only screeched to a stop when he reached my backpack, upon which he sat upright until it was time to leave.

*   *   *

The bookmobile day was crowded with patrons who wanted information even more than they wanted books. We were making stops in this part of the county for the first time since Andrea's murder, and by this time, even the people who eschewed newspapers had heard the news.

But even though the concern about a murder was real, what seemed to be upsetting people the most was the attack on the bookmobile.

“It's all right, isn't it?” asked seven-year-old Ethan Engstrom. He looked up at me anxiously, his face full of concern.

I'd met Ethan on the first stop of the bookmobile's maiden voyage, the one upon which Eddie had been a stowaway. Not wanting word of a cat hair–laden beast to get back to my boss, I'd emptied a storage cabinet and encouraged Eddie to stay inside during the stops.

Young Ethan was curious and helpful, and he'd opened the Eddie cabinet in hopes of finding a place to store the things I'd taken out of Eddie's cabinet and had to put on the floor. Eddie came out of the closet, and life hadn't been the same since.

“The bookmobile is fine,” I assured him.

“They didn't hurt Eddie, did they?” asked Cara, the middle of the three Engstrom girls.

“Eddie was sound asleep in bed,” I told her, smiling. “He wasn't anywhere near the bookmobile when it happened.”

This, apparently, puzzled Emma, the youngest Engstrom girl. Emma was twin to Ethan. Cara was twins with Patrick, and the oldest of the statistically impossible Engstrom twins were Trevor and Rose, now thirteen. Last year Rose had been going through a princess phase, but she seemed to have grown past that and was now into horses.

Their father, Chad, worked from home designing educational video games, and homeschooled the kids with the help of a retired neighbor who'd once taught high school biology. His wife worked for Tonedagana County as human resources director, and one of these days I hoped to actually meet the woman who'd given birth to such a great collection of intelligent young people.

“Eddie doesn't sleep here?” Emma asked, frowning.

“Not at night,” I said, because denying that he slept in the bookmobile would be ridiculous. Right that very second, for instance, he was sprawled on the dashboard, overdosing on sunshine. “At night he comes home with me.”

“Oh,” she said, her face drooping.

I felt like a heel. I'd obviously just destroyed one of her illusions. Accidentally, but that didn't matter. No one should have to suffer the destruction of an illusion without some compensatory relief, so I moved closer to her and whispered, “Do you want to know a secret?”

Her lips curled up in a slow smile. She nodded.

“Eddie knocked over a vase of flowers last night,” I said. “Twice.”

She giggled and slapped her hands over her mouth. “He was a bad kitty?” she asked through her fingers.

“The worst,” I said solemnly. “He didn't even help clean up the mess afterward.”

“Bad Eddie!” She giggled again.

“Hey, now. No laughing,” her father said, mock sternly. “Not unless you share why you're laughing.”

I shook my head. “It's a secret,” I told him.

Still giggling, Emma ran off, singing, “Bad, bad, Eddie. Bad, bad, bad.”

Her father watched her go. “Do you know what's going on?” he asked. “A murder, two break-ins at the library, and now another burglary downtown?” His face was serious now, and it wasn't a look that sat well on him. “Not that I really think crime in Chilson is going to spread over here, but you have to wonder, especially with six kids in the house.”

“The police are . . .” I sighed. “Are exploring all avenues of investigation.”

Chad squinted at me. “You did not just say that.”

“Sorry.” I half smiled. “Would it help if I told you it was a direct quote from the detective working on the case?”

“A little.” He studied me. “But it would help even more if I knew they were close to figuring out what's happening.”

“You're not alone,” I said, and went to help Julia help Trevor find a book that would answer his questions about capacitors and inductors.

*   *   *

As soon as we got back to Chilson, I hurried through the post-bookmobile routine as quickly as I could, even to the extent of leaving some tasks for the next day. Julia said she'd be willing to work late, but I shooed her off, saying it was too nice a night, and locked all the doors behind us, checking them twice. And then three times.

I dropped Eddie off at the houseboat, sent him an air kiss, then hauled my bicycle out of my storage locker and hurried across town.

The parking lot of the Three Seasons was packed with vehicles of all shapes and sizes. Vans, cars, trucks, and SUVs littered the lot with no regard for where the lines had been painted. Black cables thicker than my wrist snaked across the asphalt, a tripping hazard to the unwary, which explained why the lot's entrance had been blocked off by bright yellow sawhorses.

I leaned my bike against the restaurant's white clapboard siding and went inside a way I rarely did: through the front door.

People wandered hither and yon, hauling lights and clipboards and rolls of tape. Most of them were younger than I was and were wearing black pants and black
T-shirts, looking extremely serious. I spotted two people I knew and made my way toward them.

“Don't tell me we're actually going to finish on time,” said Scruffy Gronkowski.

A wild-haired woman in capris, flip-flops, and a tie-dyed shirt nodded. “If we get this last part in the can in less than two takes, we'll even be early.”

“Lynn,” Scruffy said, “you are a marvel.”

“Ha. It wasn't me. It was your girlfriend. You sure she's never done this before?”

“Far as I know, she didn't even do high school acting.”

“She tried out for a nun in a production of
The Sound of Music
,” I said, “but it turned out she can't sing for beans.”

“Hey, Minnie,” Scruffy said, turning toward me and smiling. “You met Lynn last summer, didn't you?”

“Over pork tenderloin, if I remember correctly.”

Lynn grinned. “And I'm still grateful that you steered Trock away from changing the menu.” A distant voice called her name, a note of panic clear in the single syllable. “What now?” she asked, rolling her eyes. “See you two later.”

I looked up at Scruffy. “How did it go today?”

He picked a piece of invisible lint off his tailored polo shirt. His nickname hadn't come about because of reality. “Outstanding. And would you please go tell her so?”

“Pulling a Kristen, is she?”

“Perfection is a worthy goal and all, but it's also an unattainable one.”

Uh-oh.
“Are they done in there?” I tipped my head toward the kitchen.

“If you walk fast, you might catch the last take of the sous chef cutting parsley into perfect tiny squares.”

I blinked. “Harvey's going to be on TV?”

“Kind of,” Scruffy said. “He froze up if he talked or if the camera was on his face, but he was fine with a hands-only shot.”

The world righted itself. Harvey was a great guy, but if I'd been asked to describe his social skills, I would have backed away from the conversation, pleading a dire emergency somewhere else. Harvey was quiet around men and tongue-tied with women, and the concept of his blossoming in front of a television camera was nearly impossible to comprehend.

I went to the kitchen, where bright lights shone everywhere, highlighting everything to the point that I understood Kristen's recent obsession with cleanliness.

“And that's it, Harve,” someone called. “We're good. Thanks.”

“Okay,” Harvey said, continuing to cut parsley.

“Um, we're all set, Harvey. You can stop now.”

He shook his head, his attention on what he was doing. “It's for tonight. Kristen wants all this cut up.”

Grinning, I cut through the back corner of the kitchen. That was Harvey in a nutshell. Who cared if there was a national television show being filmed in the restaurant that day, who cared if his hands were going to be broadcast across the land? What mattered was taking care of what Kristen wanted.

I walked along the wide hallway that led to her office, a little surprised to see that none of the boxes and trays and chairs and general restaurant miscellanea that always littered one side of the passage hadn't been cleared away. Then again, it was just like Kristen not to change anything for the sake of a TV show. I could almost hear her saying, “They can take me or leave me.
I'll clean, but I'm not about to transform myself. If they don't like who I really am, they shouldn't have come here.”

Then I actually did hear her say to someone, “You shouldn't have come here at all.”

A deep voice rumbled back, “Dear lady, you must not judge yourself. Leave that to me.”

I pushed her office door open wide. “And me. I've had lots of experience, you know.”

Kristen and Trock Farrand turned to face me. Kristen's expression was one I'd seen many times before, one that combined anger at herself with deep despair. Trock, on the other hand, was nothing but smiles.

He lumbered to his feet. “Dearest Minerva! I had hoped to see you this fine day.” He leaned forward in a half bow, reaching out for my hand and lifting it to his lips. Postkiss, he straightened his rotund body and released my hand.

“You missed an exceptional day of filming,” he said grandly. “This will go down in history as the episode of
Trock's Troubles
that absolutely cannot be missed. From beginning to end it was perfection. Nothing went wrong. The food was exquisite, and the presentation was superb. Kristen here could take over my job without blinking her deep blue eyes. Which,” he added, beaming, “will show up brilliantly. I ordered as many close-up shots as they could manage.”

“Nothing went wrong?” Kristen asked. “What about the strawberries? There was mold. Mold!” she practically shouted.

I winced, knowing that Harvey, poor soul, would have borne the brunt of her anger.

“Piffle.” Trock waved away the problem. “Easy to
drop that on the cutting floor, as it were. My dear, the magic of television has an infinite capacity to show what it wishes to show, and I wish to only show the best.”

“Mold,” she muttered. “I can't believe it. They were fine this morning.” She sat up straight, her chin lifted. “If you want to cancel airing this show, I'd understand completely. I won't hold you to the contract.”

“Good gad.” Trock blinked. He turned to me. “Is she serious?”

“As a chocolate soufflé.”

Both Kristen and Trock frowned in my direction. “What's so serious about a chocolate soufflé?” Kristen asked.

I shrugged. “Didn't want to say heart attack, and I've heard a chocolate soufflé is hard to make. Seriously hard, see?”

The twosome stared at me a moment, then went back to their discussion. “My darling restaurateur,” Trock said, “love of my son's life and highlight of my own, please believe me when I tell you the finished product will be wonderful.”

Kristen crossed her arms across her chest. “Why should I believe you? You exaggerate from morning to night. You probably talk hyperbole in your dreams.”

Which was most likely true, but there was one difference. “Not this time,” I said.

“How can you possibly say that?” she asked.

“Because he never exaggerates about his show.” She started to object, but I held up my hand. “He may talk on and on about a restaurant he's featured, and he may wax lyrical about a particular entrée that he made, but he never deviates from the absolute truth about an episode of the show itself.”