Cat With a Clue (22 page)

We were done with the salad and halfway through the main course of seasoned pork tenderloin with mashed sweet potatoes and the last of the season's asparagus by the time I finished talking.

“So.” Kristen, who had scooted her chair around to the small table Harvey had brought in with our food, pointed at me with her fork. “At this point, you have four suspects. Kim Parmalee. Jared, the used-book store guy. Paul Utley, the attorney. Shane Pratley, the angry guy. Anyone else?”

“Steve Guilder, the old boyfriend.”

“And have you told Ash or your detective friend about this?”

I shook my head, first because it sounded just wrong to hear Detective Inwood spoken of as a friend, and second, because neither the detective nor Ash had returned my calls.

When I said as much to Kristen, she sighed and speared another piece of asparagus onto her fork. “The only thing I know about Kim and Bob Parmalee is that they haven't been in here since I opened for the summer and they used to be regulars.”

I nodded thoughtfully. Eating out, especially eating out in a fancy restaurant, was the first thing to go when people had money troubles.

After a moment, our talk turned to other topics, but I couldn't shake the feeling that if I didn't find out something soon, Chastain's book—and the killer—were going to disappear forever.

*   *   *

The sun had dropped below the horizon by the time I left the restaurant, my tummy full of fine food and my face hurting from laughing so hard at Kristen's stories. How much was pure truth and how much was embellishment, I didn't know and wasn't sure I cared. Kristen wasn't one to let the truth get in the way of a good story, and her winter in Key West had given her a healthy supply.

In the gloaming, I walked along the waterfront, nodding to the occasional passerby, usually a hand-in-hand couple, and thought about what I'd told Kristen.

I'd tried to tell her everything I'd learned in the past couple of weeks, but there was bound to be something I'd forgotten. Kristen had a knack for distilling vast amounts of information down into a single sentence, and she'd done it again tonight, just as I was heading out the door.

“It's not about the book, you know,” she'd said.

I'd squinted at her. We'd been talking about her dad, which was the reason we'd had to skip last week's written-in-stone Sunday-evening dessert. Her father was coming along nicely from a recent bypass surgery, but he was getting bored, and I'd been telling her about the books I'd drop off for him to read when she'd interrupted me.

“It's not?” I'd asked, cocking my head. She was wrong, of course. Books were the only thing that mattered.

“No,” she said. “It's the value of the book. That wildflower book.”

“Well, sure.” As in, “duh.”

“What I'm saying,” she said, a little exasperated, “is that not everyone puts the same value on things. That book, for instance. It had sentimental value to the DeKeysers and monetary value to whoever is trying to
find it. But maybe somebody is attaching another kind of value to it, a kind that we're not thinking about yet.”

Although I was sure the monetary value was the only thing that counted—because who couldn't use more money?—it was an interesting idea, and I said so.

“Yeah,” Kristen said, already turning back to her kitchen. “That and two bucks will get me half a coffee at Starbucks. Harvey! Have you started the stock for tomorrow?”

But it was interesting, and it sent my thoughts back to the era when Robert Chastain had given away copy of his not-yet-famous book. In those days, the streets would have been dirt. There were no cars. No electric lights. No refrigeration.

And so it was, when the voice came out of the darkness, that my mind was both miles and years away.

“Hey, Minnie.”

I jumped, gasping out a silent shriek. After my feet came back to the ground and my breaths returned to normal speed, Rafe said, “You know, if you started paying more attention to where you are and what you're doing, people saying hello won't scare the snot out of you.”

Throughout my youth, my mother had told me much the same thing. Not that Rafe needed to know.

“Bet your mom used to tell you that,” he said.

“She told me a lot of things,” I replied. “Have you been sitting on your porch all night?”

“Far as you know, sure. What's up with Kristen?”

“She's nervous about being on Trock's TV show.”

“Figures. She has about the least reason to be nervous as anyone in the history of that show.”

True, but I wasn't going to discuss my best friend with Rafe, no matter that he'd known her longer than
I had. “I saw Mitchell Koyne tonight,” I said. “He was mowing the lawn of his third-grade teacher.”

“Yeah? Who was it?” Rafe opened the cooler that was still sitting on the same spot on the porch and peered in. “Want one?”

“Beer or fish?”

He flashed me a grin, his white smile brightening the darkness, Cheshire Cat–like. “Which one would you prefer?”

“Neither, but I wouldn't mind a water.” I sat down next to him.

“There should be one in here somewhere,” he said, rummaging around in the cooler. “Hah!” He held it out to me triumphantly. When I reached out, our hands touched and an odd shiver went over me. I put it down to the cold of the water bottle, but when I looked at Rafe's face I saw an expression I couldn't interpret. He'd felt the same chill, probably, and was getting ready to make a rude comment about my chilly personality.

“Mr. Wahlstrom,” I said quickly. “That was Mitchell's teacher.”

“Wally Wahlstrom,” Rafe said, sipping at his beer. “Sure, I remember him. He looked about a hundred years old when we were in grade school, but he didn't retire until after I started teaching at the middle school.”

“Mitchell said Mr. Wahlstrom had given him an award at the end of the year.” I squinched my nose at the beery smell wafting down the steps. “He seems to have left a big impression on Mitchell. Whatever the award was, I bet Mitchell kept it for years.”

I half closed my eyes and saw Mitchell's award. A certificate of some sort, framed by Mitchell's proud mother, for best speller. Or the fastest times-table
reciter. His mom would have hung it on the wall in the living room, in a place of honor for everyone to see. What a nice thing for a kid. He would have been bursting with pride.

“Have to tell Wally next time I see him.” Rafe laughed. “Bet he never thought his prizes were that memorable.”

The young Mitchell of my imagination paused and looked back at me, his lower lip trembling. “What do you mean?”

“Wally gave every kid in his class a prize,” Rafe said. “It was a ceremony, sort of, on the last day of school. Wally would call up the kids by name and hand out whatever it was he'd picked out. The kids loved it, but it's not like Wally spent a lot of money. He bought stuff at garage sales and thrift stores, everything from T-shirts to superhero juice cups to comic books.”

My dream bubble popped so loudly I almost flinched. “So Mitchell's wasn't anything special.”

“Special to him, maybe.” Rafe drained the last of his beer and tossed it over his shoulder onto the porch, where it rolled around and hit a number of other empties. “With Mitchell, who knows?”

Who knew, indeed?

Speaking of things I didn't know, I remembered that I'd meant to ask Rafe about Cal DeKeyser's nickname. “Is there some guy named Deke that's famous in hockey?”

Rafe, who was in the act of opening the cooler, paused to look back at me. “What are you talking about?”

“Cal DeKeyser. I heard that people called him Deke, because of his last name and because he played a lot of hockey. Who's Deke?”

“So much learning,” Rafe said, sighing and shaking
his head, “but so little knowledge where it really counts. Deke isn't a person, it's a technique. When you fake out a guy and skate around him, that's a deke.”

“Weird word.”

He shrugged. “They say it's short for decoy, but who knows? Most of us who worked at Benton's were calling Cal by his nickname within a couple of weeks.”

“Did Steve Guilder ever work at Benton's?” I asked.

“Don't know for sure, but it's a good bet. That's where he and Andrea first hit it off, right after she and what's-his-name broke up.”

“Which what's-his-name is that?” I asked idly, not really caring, though I was yet again astounded at the depth and breadth of Rafe's knowledge of Chilson gossip.

“That Paul what's-his-name. Attorney.”

I sat up straight. “Paul Utley?”

“Yeah, that's the guy. Do you know him?”

“We've met,” I said, my mind whirling in tiny circles. Andrea had probably known about the value of
Wildflowers
through a client. She had probably known about its existence because she was related to the family and been in and out of the house a hundred times as a kid. Paul, as the DeKeysers' attorney, might have known of the book's existence while making that inventory of the house he'd mentioned in Rianne's office.

So the question was, had Paul and Andrea still been in contact? Could she have told him about the book? Could they have been in cahoots to steal it and he had, instead, killed her?

Rafe leaned over and tapped my head. “What's going on in that curly-haired brain of yours?”

His hand lingered on my hair for a moment, and I felt that odd shiver again.

“You're always thinking,” he said quietly. “That's one of the things I like best about you.”

This time the shiver went deep into my bones.

Rafe cleared his throat and pulled away. “Of course, there are things I don't like about you, too.”

The shiver vanished and was replaced by an uncomfortable feeling in my middle. Was it possible that I cared what Rafe thought about me? “Like what?” My question came out a little squeaky.

“Your taste in cars, for one,” he said.

“I don't care about cars.”

“Like I said.”

I smiled into the dark.

“So, you going to tell me what you were thinking about?” he asked.

Too much, actually. Books and theft and murder, and now I was wondering if Andrea and Paul had been having an affair. Sighing, I got up and dusted off my behind. “Nothing much. I should get back and make sure Eddie hasn't figured out how to get into the microwave.” The microwave was one of the few places truly safe from Eddie's reach, and was where I stored the bread.

“Want me to walk you home?” Rafe asked.

I squinted at him. “What would you do if I said yes?”

“Die of shock, probably.” He grinned. “How about if I sit here and watch you walk over. If I see a suspicious character, I'll heave this at him.” He held up his beer can.

“Sounds like a plan,” I said. A stupid plan, but a plan nonetheless. “See you later.”

When I reached the dock, I could see Eric standing on the end of his boat, casting a fishing line into the water.

“Catch anything?” I asked.

“Nah.” He reeled his line in slowly. “Niswander over there was making so much noise that I swear he scared all the fish.”

Either that or the lake bed in a marina wasn't the best fish habitat. “When I left for dinner, he and Skeeter were sitting on his front porch, looking like they were stuck there for the night.”

“That would have been nice.” Eric whipped his fishing rod back and cast out again with a long, slow ratcheting noise. “They spent the past two hours on their hands and knees, sanding that porch with hand sanders. Horribly whiny things. Sound like dentist drills.”

I laughed. “Well, they're probably done now.”

“Oh, it'll be something else tomorrow.” He watched his bobber for a moment, then started reeling in again. “Is Niswander ever going to finish that place? Chris Ballou said he's been working on it for three years.”

“Whatever you do,” I said, “don't ask him. Do that and next thing you know, he'll dragoon you into helping. If he's sanding the porch now, painting will be next.”

“Painting? Now, that's a job for a surgeon. With hands as steady as mine, you don't need any of that so-called painter's tape.” He reeled in fast and clipped the hook to his fishing rod. He plopped his rod across the arms of a chair and stepped off the boat and onto the dock. “See you later, Minnie.”

And he was off, headed in Rafe's direction. Thirty seconds later, I heard two male voices, and the
pop
of another beer can.

I shook my head and opened the houseboat's front door. “If you had thumbs,” I asked my cat, “would you spend all evening on Rafe's porch, hanging out with the guys?” Not that Rafe had done that, technically, but he'd certainly given a fine imitation of a man who would eschew things that needed to be done for the sake of beer.

“Mrr,” Eddie said, simultaneously yawning and stretching.

He was on the dashboard again, and I suspected he'd fallen asleep while watching the seagulls swoop around the marina.

“So, I was a little disappointed,” I told Eddie, “learning the truth behind the story of Mitchell's award from his Mr. Wahlstrom. And I was also disappointed that Kristen didn't have any insight into who killed Andrea. I mean, the why is pretty clear—well, to me, anyway—but the who of it isn't coming.”

I flopped myself onto the dining bench. “If someone killed Andrea to keep her away from Chastain's
Wildflowers
, hurt Pam while rifling through her store”—the thought made me jump off the bench and walk around the kitchen, fists clenched and jaw tight—“and is willing to set a library on fire and risk the entire building and everything in it, what else is that someone willing to do to get that book?”

Eddie looked straight at me and yawned again.

“Yes, I know I'm boring you.” I stopped my pacing about and patted him between the ears. “But do you really have to make it so obvious that I'm not nearly as interesting as I think I am?”