Cat With a Clue (15 page)

“Not true?” I asked.

“When I took over the store, I crawled underneath the desk during a cleaning frenzy and found the manufacturer's label. Made in 1923.”

“Didn't Roosevelt die just after World War I?”

“In 1919.”

“Hmm.” I studied the desk. “Who made it? Maybe there was some association with the name.”

“The desk?” She looked at it, too. “Something to do with kitchens. Something Furniture. Pot, pan . . .” She snapped her fingers. “Kettle. Kettle Furniture.”

A report I'd written in sixth grade bounced out of my brain. “Kettle Hill,” I said. “The Spanish-American War. Kettle Hill and San Juan Hill were where the big battles took place.”

She considered the possibility for half a second, then shook her head. “Don't see it. Thanks for trying, though
. By the way, I'm Rianne Howe,” she said, standing up and holding out her hand. “You're Minnie Hamilton, and I'm not sure why we haven't met before today.” After we shook, she waved me to a chair. “I love libraries, and I think your bookmobile is the best thing that has happened to this town since Cookie Tom opened up.”

I beamed. “We welcome volunteers on the bookmobile. Julia and Eddie and I love to have new folks along.”

“Sounds like adding one more might make it a little crowded.”

“Well, one of us is a cat. He doesn't take up too much room.” I thought about what I'd said, then added, “Most of the time, anyway.”

Rianne laughed. “So, what can I do for you? I'd love to make a donation to the library, but I'm still trying to figure out how to make sure this store actually turns a profit.”

“You haven't been running the store very long?” I asked.

“Technically I took over when Grandpa Cal retired six years ago. I was downstate then, managing some big-box retail stores. No one else wanted to run this place, and I couldn't stand to see it go out of the family,
so I said I'd do it.” She looked around the office, smiling. “But we wanted our youngest to graduate from high school first, so I hired a manager. Then when Brian graduated last June, we started making plans to move up. My husband's an RN. He got a job with Lake View Medical Care Facility, and here we are.”

It wasn't an unusual story, but there was one part of it I was curious about. “It seems odd that with seven children and who knows how many grandchildren, you were the only DeKeyser who wanted the store.”

“That's because you don't know how much work it is. My grandparents were wonderful people, but one of their strongest beliefs was that a strong work ethic made for strong character.”

“Sounds like my mother,” I murmured.

“Each and every DeKeyser relative,” Rianne said, “worked in this store when they were kids. After school, on weekends, through the summer. Probably half the kids in town worked here, too, but it was the DeKeyser kids who had to work harder and better.” She gave a wry smile. “No nepotism in my family. Raises? Not a chance. Holidays off? Not for a DeKeyser. It was our store, and we have to live up to its reputation.”

“I can see how that would sour you on working here.”

“Yet this is where I want to be,” she said. “I even got a degree in retail management. Go figure.”

“It was your fate,” I said, although I wasn't certain I believed in fate.

“Maybe.” She looked around the room again. “Though it's more likely,” she said, half smiling, “that I just want to be able to play with the ship's wheel every day.”

“Every office should have one,” I said, slipping my hands under my thighs so I didn't reach out to give it a whirl. “But I'm not here for a donation. If you have a
couple of minutes, there are a couple of things I think you should know.”

“Sounds serious.”

I sighed. “Sorry, but yes. I assume you heard about the break-in at Pam Fazio's store the other night?”

“Horrible thing,” Rianne said. “I would have been over to help, but I was downstate last weekend for a wedding. How is Pam doing?”

“Cranky that she's going to get weird tan lines with a cast on her arm,” I said. “And it's the break-in at Pam's store that got me thinking. I've talked to the police, but I'm not sure they're taking it seriously.”

“Haven't I heard that you're dating Ash Wolverson? Isn't he training to be a detective?”

Sometimes this town was way too small. “Yes, and he's not sure I'm right about this.”

“About what?” Rianne asked.

“I think everything that has gone on the last couple of weeks is all about books. Or maybe even one book.”

“Not sure I'm catching this,” Rianne said, leaning back in her chair.

Yes, folks, it's true. Everyone in town thinks Minnie Hamilton is a nutcase. Nevertheless, I forged ahead with my theory. “Your grandmother's funeral—and I'm so sorry for your loss—was what brought Andrea Vennard to town. That's when—” I looked at her. “Um, I haven't figured out the relations, exactly. Was Andrea your cousin?”

“She was a great-niece to Grandma Talia, which made her my . . .” She frowned. “Second cousin? Anyway, I knew her more from school than through family, and even then not very well. She was a few years ahead of me.”

I nodded. “Andrea came north for your grandmother's funeral and was killed in the library. The Friends of the Library book-sale room was vandalized soon after that. Then the bookmobile was broken into, and Pam's store was burglarized.” I held up the fingers I'd been using to count. “Four incidents that involved books.”

Rianne looked puzzled. “But there was a lot more damaged in Pam's place than books.”

“Yes, but when you look at the pictures we took of her store before we started cleaning, you can see that it was the books that were tossed around the most. Nothing was stolen from Pam's. Not one thing.”

“Huh.” Rianne leaned back a little farther and let out a long, slow breath. “That's downright weird.”

Hurray!
Finally, there was someone who understood my concerns. “So, there are two things I wanted to talk to you about. One, if you could think of any possible link between Andrea and your grandmother, something beyond the normal family connection.”

Rianne's eyes grew distant as she tried to come up with an idea. When I could see that she was coming up dry, I said, “What about books? Did your grandmother have any valuable books? Or maybe a journal?”

“The only valuable thing my family has ever owned is this store,” Rianne said, glancing around fondly.

Another brilliant idea bites the dust.
“If you think of anything, will you let me know?”

She nodded. “Sure. What's the second thing?”

“If this is all about books, you should be extra careful.” I thumbed toward the front of the store. “You have books, too.”

Rianne blinked, then laughed. “Minnie, I appreciate your concern, but I can't think that our small selection
of paperbacks is going to tempt anyone, no matter what this is all about.”

I'd expected that kind of reaction, but I stuck to my theme. “We don't know what's going on. Until this is over, please be extra careful.”

“This one be careful?” A tall man entered Rianne's office. He wore the unofficial summer uniform for Up North male professionals: khaki pants, a polo shirt, and a blazer. “She hasn't been careful since the day she was born, and probably was a problem to her mother in utero.”

Rianne rolled her eyes. “So nice to see you, Paul. Minnie, don't ever hire an attorney who used to babysit you. There's just no respect in the relationship.”

“From either side,” Paul said. “For example, when her attorney asks her to get together the items listed in her grandmother's will for distribution to the family, she puts the list who knows where and says she'll look when she has time.” He spread his hands. “And that will be when? October? Back before Cal died, I went through the house myself to put together the list, so I know there's not much. Meanwhile, the estate remains unsettled and the papers continue to clutter my desk.”

His tone was jocular, but there was an undertone of annoyance. I stood. “Well, I should get going. Thanks for letting me take so much of your time, Rianne.”

“Not a problem,” she said. “I'm glad you stopped.”

Paul held out a business card. “In case you never need an attorney,” he said. “Any friend of Rianne's is a future client of mine,” he said, laughing.

I smiled. I already had an attorney, Shannon Hirsch, who'd set up my will and advised me on some estate issues. Shannon had been one of the people who'd
answered my call to help set Pam's store to rights. “Thanks,” I said, taking the card and sliding it deep into my backpack. “You never know, do you?”

He grinned. “Nope. That's why we have insurance and lawyers. You can't prepare for everything.”

“Sounds like a tagline,” Rianne said. “All you need is a tune, and you'll have the best lawyer jingle in the north.” She hummed a nonsense tune.

Paul laughed. “Lawyers don't do jingles. It's beneath our dignity.”

“Oh yeah?” Rianne challenged. “Didn't I see you wearing the ugliest holiday sweater in the history of ugly sweaters?”

“That was twenty years ago.” He dropped into the seat I'd just vacated. “Way past the statute of limitations for embarrassment.”

I nodded my good-byes and walked out. As I made a left turn, back into the store, I heard Rianne say in a low voice, “What's going on with Aunt Kim—do you know?”

Paul gusted out a sigh. “All I can say is, Bob Parmalee hasn't been in to see me in months.”

“The rest of the family is saying they're going bankrupt,” Rianne said in a shaky voice. “I keep wanting to call, but you know how they keep to themselves. They spend more time in Petoskey than they do in Chilson.”

“Almost makes me glad your grandparents are gone,” Paul said. “They would have been devastated about a bankruptcy in the family.”

I eased away, not wanting to be caught eavesdropping—
Sorry, Mom. I won't eavesdrop ever again, but if I do, I promise I'll feel horrible about it afterward
—and walked out into the store.

“All set?”

I looked at Brian Howe, latest in the long line of DeKeyser relatives to spend a summer working in the store. “Yes, thanks,” I said, and headed out into the day.

But as much as the sun and the fresh air tried to distract me from my dark thoughts, on the way back to the library, all I could think about was how money was one of the most common motives for murder.

“E
xcuse me,” said a polite voice.

I jumped. “Sorry,” I said, moving away from the middle of the grocery store's aisle, which was where I'd parked myself and a small cart. “I was just . . . thinking.”

The sixtyish woman sent a vague smile in my direction and moved on past.

“Good job,” I muttered. “Next thing is you'll start talking to yourself in public.” I glanced around fast, but I was alone with the spices and baking supplies.

Which, truly, was a strange place for me to be, considering my inclination to cook as little as possible. Then again, even noncooks had to feed themselves once in a while in order to avoid spending too much disposable income in restaurants.

Then I remembered that eating out could be considered doing my bit to help the local economy. Commendable, that's what it was, not indulgent.

Cheered, I faced the spices and tried to remember what it was I used for the steak dry rub I'd made last summer and liked so much. I shoved my hands into my pockets and tried to think, but my brain kept going
back to my chat with Rianne and the conversation about her aunt Kim.

It was easy enough to imagine that a pending bankruptcy could drive almost anyone to do deeds she—or he—would never have considered otherwise. But in this situation, I still had no idea if there was anything involved that was worth a lot of money.

“Maybe whatever it is, it's worth something that isn't money,” I murmured. Which led me back to the possibility I'd posed to Ash and Detective Inwood, that this thing someone was looking for might be a tell-all journal. Of course, that didn't tie back to Aunt Kim's need for money, so maybe—

“Can I help you?” asked a male voice.

Startled, I whirled around to face the twentysomething store employee who'd asked the question. He wore black pants, a black cap, and a polyester short-sleeved shirt in a color that did nothing for his skin tone. “Uh, no, thanks. I was just . . . looking.” As I manufactured a fake smile, I realized that I'd seen him recently. My fake smile grew fixed. This was the guy who'd looked vaguely familiar at Cookie Tom's. This was the guy who'd yelled at me for cutting in line. Angry Guy.

The expression on his face shifted from polite to hostile. He was recognizing me, and there was no Cookie Tom around to save me.

I put my chin up. I was short, but I was strong and invincible in many ways, none of which I could remember just then, but if I had a few minutes, I was sure I would. I didn't need Tom. I had myself.

“You're that
librarian
,” he said, making it sound like a swearword. Certainly it was italicized.

I glanced at his name tag. Shane Pratley. “Hi, Shane,” I said politely, holding out my hand. “Yes, I'm the
bookmobile librarian. Minnie Hamilton. We got off to a bad start the other day. I understand that you're upset about the arrangement I have with Tom, but I think I can explain.”

My arm was getting tired from holding my hand out for so long, but I gamely kept it up there. “Tom's a longtime supporter of the bookmobile, you see. He's a big believer in getting books to people who can't come to the library. His margin is so slim that he can't afford a big donation, even though he'd like to, so giving me a discount on cookies and letting me jump the line is his way of—”

“I don't care what Tom thinks.” Shane pushed my hand away. “You got no right to take cuts. That's just wrong.”

What was wrong was his rudeness. This was a man who was desperately needed to borrow an etiquette book from the library. Why was it always the people who needed a library the most were the least likely to visit one?

Of course, this was a tricky situation, because in principle I agreed with Shane; cutting in line was wrong. Then again, if I wanted to provide cookies to the bookmobile folks, and I did, zipping to the front of the line was the only way it was going to happen.

It was a moral question and an ethical dilemma and, for once, the voice in my head that sounded so much like my mother's whenever one of these situations turned up was silent.

“I understand why you're angry,” I said. “If it was me in your position, I might—”

“But you aren't, are you?” He glared. “You're the fancy librarian, driving around, making yourself queen of the town, looking down on us little people.”

“I . . . What?”

“Oh yeah,” he said, sneering. “I seen you around, your nose up in the air, acting like you're better than everyone else. You and your friends with the restaurant and the art gallery and the boats and the big houses. You're not from here. Why don't you go back where you came from, you and all your rich friends.”

Clearly, young Shane had no idea how little money a librarian made. Or that at least half my friends had been born in Tonedagana County. Yet he knew so much enough about me that my skin itched.

“I live here,” I said firmly. “This is my home. I'm sorry you resent that I've moved to Chilson, but—”

“If you were really sorry,” he snarled, “you'd leave Chilson to the people who belong here.”

He spun and marched off, leaving me to gape after him. I'd run into his attitude before, that only people born here truly belonged, but it wasn't even close to the majority opinion.

I took in a deep breath, another one, one more, and went back to my shopping. But when I realized I'd started to add a jar of bay leaves to my empty cart instead of basil, I gave up, returned the cart to the front of the store, and headed back out into the sunshine.

Halfway home, my brain began to unscramble and I started thinking again. I mentally walked back through the events of the past couple of weeks and came to an abrupt realization.

“Huh,” I said. Angry Shane Guy had caught me cutting in line two days before the break-in at the bookmobile garage. He clearly knew who I was and where I worked and, just as clearly, he didn't like me. Was it possible that he was on a one-man mission to rid Chilson of people who hadn't been born Up North? It
sounded bizarre, but the guy's anger at someone he didn't even know was also bizarre.

Was it possible he'd made a mess of the bookmobile just to make my life more difficult?

And if he could do that, could he have killed Andrea?

*   *   *

“So, what do you think?” I asked Eddie.

My cat, of course, didn't reply. We were on the houseboat's front deck, and he was busy staring at my plate, which was on my lap. The two of us had started out on separate lounge chairs, but once Eddie had realized I was eating the sub sandwich I'd picked up for dinner at Fat Boys, he'd moved over to my chair. At first he sat at the end, down by my feet. Then he'd inched closer and closer, ever so slowly, and now that I was on the last two bites, he was on my thighs and practically had his chin on the edge of the plate.

I'd tried to gently shove him away and even onto the floor, but when Eddie decided to become an immovable object, no brute force in the universe could possibly dislodge him.

I tossed in the penultimate bite of veggie sub—see, Mom? I am eating properly—and chewed and swallowed. “No comment?” I asked Eddie. “I would have thought for sure that you'd have something to say about my two suspects.”

The last bite of sandwich was still in my hand, and Eddie's eyes were intent on following its every move.

“There's Kim, a DeKeyser daughter, who people are saying is about to declare bankruptcy. If we're going to assume that Andrea was trying to steal something valuable—say, a book—maybe Kim knew what it was and killed her to get it.

“But wait,” I said, popping in the last bite of sandwich.
Eddie watched it disappear. When I'd finished chewing and swallowing, I said, “There's also Shane. For whatever reason, he's mad at the world and he's taking it out on the folks he feels have invaded his town. Is he mad enough to break into places he's never been before? Did Andrea make him mad, too?”

I thought about that for a minute, wondering how I could find out if Andrea and Shane had known each other.

“Ash needs to know about Shane,” I said, petting Eddie and watching a generous collection of cat hair slide off his back and spin away into the air. “Not sure what good it will do, but you never know.”

One white-tipped paw slowly stretched out long, and I let Eddie try to gather up a crumb from the sandwich bun. “Don't make this a habit, okay? One time only.”

“Mrr,” he said, and reached out a second time.

“Say, you know what else happened on the way home?” I glanced over to the boat next door. No Eric, which was just as well, because I was about to enter the gossip zone. “Remember that construction site downtown, where they're renovating that old department store into condos and offices? You'll never guess who I saw hauling bricks in a wheelbarrow.”

Eddie was paying no attention to me, so I pushed the last little crumb of bun his way. It was a bad idea, though, to let him take food off my plate. With Eddie, all it took was once to establish a bad habit. How long it took for him to establish a good habit, I didn't know.

“It was Mitchell,” I told my uncaring cat. “Mitchell Koyne. You know, tall and loud and typically unemployed?” It wasn't unknown for Mitchell to take on
summer construction jobs, but if he was working at the toy store, why was he doing hard labor? It was very unlike Mitchell, and I was starting to worry that aliens had invaded his body.

“What do you think?” I asked.

But for once, Eddie had nothing to say.

*   *   *

After I took care of the dishes (meaning I threw away the foam container and napkins, and washed the plate and the fork that I'd used to eat what had spilled out of the sandwich) I debated on what to do with the rest of my evening.

It was a beautiful night, and even though I could easily continue to sit outside and read, I felt a pull to get up and do something. The absence of yard work on a houseboat was usually a bonus, but today I could have used a few weeds to pull.

I considered the social possibilities. Ash was working. Kristen was working, Aunt Frances and Otto were at a concert in Petoskey's Bay View, Pam was working, Rafe was sanding drywall and being cranky about it, Holly had houseguests for a couple of nights, and, since it was past seven o'clock, it was too late to start calling around and finding out what my other friends were doing.

“What about you?” I asked my furry friend. “Want to go for a bike ride?”

Eddie, who was sprawled across the boat's dashboard, opened one eye a fraction of an inch, gave me a look of utter disdain, and went back to sleep.

“I take it that's a no?”

His mouth opened and closed silently.

Smiling, I kissed the top of his fuzzy head and headed outside.

*   *   *

Five minutes later, I was rolling along on two wheels, the sun on my face and the wind in my hair. Which would turn it into a frizzy mess later on, but I wasn't out to impress anyone, so who cared?

I pedaled up from the marina, riding around the edge of downtown to avoid the ice-cream-cone and fudge-eating tourists, and thought about who, if she or he had been in town, I might actually want to impress.

There wasn't a sports figure in the universe that I cared about enough to do more than make sure my shirt was tucked in. Same thing for actors, singers, and politicians. If I could go back in history, I'd have loved to meet Amelia Earhart, but wanting to talk to someone and impressing them were two different things.

No, the only kind of people I'd ever consider trying to impress were authors. Barbara Kingsolver, for one. Louise Erdrich for another. Plus Laurie R. King, John McPhee, Ann Patchett, Malcolm Gladwell, Mary Roach, and lots more. But, again, all those folks were people I wanted to meet more than to impress.

Of course, there was one person I'd recently wanted to impress but upon whom I'd totally failed to make a positive impression. And I was uneasily certain the consequences were going to last a long time. Ash was still saying that his mom liked me just fine, but he was wrong about that; he just didn't realize it yet.

“Seriously wrong,” I said out loud.

“Are you sure?”

I stopped my slow pedaling, squinted, and looked around. Had I really heard someone say something?

“Is ‘seriously wrong' a proper term?”

It was a young voice, it sounded familiar, and it sounded like it was coming from the sky, which made
no sense. I looked left and right and finally focused on where I was. Right in front of the oh-so-symmetrical house in which the prodigy Dana Coburn lived. Only where was he? She?

“Are there degrees of wrong?” Dana continued. “Or is modifying ‘wrong' as nonsensical as modifying the word ‘unique'?”

“There's no modifying ‘unique.'” I slid off the seat, straddled the bike, and looked up into a large maple tree.

“Glad to hear that.” Dana slid backward on a large branch until he—she—came up against the massive tree trunk. Sitting up, the child asked, “Is it always going to be painful to listen to people assault the English language? My mom says I'll get used to it.”

“Maybe,” I said. “Maybe not.”

Dana scrambled down the tree. “That's not a satisfying answer.”

“No, but it's an honest one.”

Two small feet hit the ground with a light and very Eddie-like
thump
. Dana ignored the dirt and bits of tree bark clinging to shirt and pants and faced me. “Explain, please.”

“Sure.” I leaned forward, putting my elbows on my handlebars. “You'll grow accustomed to some things people say, maybe even most, but there will always be a few things that drive you batty.”

Dana nodded. “I understand. It makes me sad to hear anyone say ‘ain't,' but I attribute that to poor education. Hearing people say ‘kind of unique,' however, makes me want to tear out their hair in large clumps.”