Cat With a Clue (27 page)

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
tink
ed 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 kids 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.”

T
he 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.”

Once again, she was right, and I pushed away my concerns. Because things would work out, one way or
another, and worrying about it wouldn't help. So I decided to stop thinking about it. Jennifer would start at the library the second week of August, and that's when we'd find out what she'd be like. Why ruin the next few weeks worrying?

I told this to Aunt Frances, who smiled. “Just so you know,” she said, “I think you made the right decision about not applying for the director's spot. You're young and you're enjoying what you're doing. When it's time to make a move, you'll know.”

“Really?”

Her smile deepened. “Absolutely. It may be difficult in many ways, especially if the decision will create ripple effects for others, but, in the end, you have to think about what's best for yourself. It's no good making life choices based on what other people think.”

I looked at her carefully. “We're talking about something else now, aren't we?”

“Minnie,” she said, laughing, “you are not the most observant of nieces today.” She held up her left hand, and only then did I notice that it was glittering with the light of a thousand suns.

I gaped at the gorgeous ring, which was encrusted with light blue jewels that matched the color of her eyes. “Otto asked you to marry him?”

“He asked me over a month ago,” she said. “It took me this long to decide.”

Which explained her odd behavior the past few weeks. Hah!

“Well, it's about time,” I said, grinning hugely, and reached over to give her a hug. Halfway through, a thought bolted into my brain and I pulled back. “Aunt Frances, what about the boardinghouse? Is Otto going to move here? Or . . .”

“Things will work out,” my aunt said, patting my arm. “Don't worry. Everything will be fine.”

And, since Aunt Frances was the best aunt in the whole wide world and was one of the wisest people I'd ever met, I believed her.

*   *   *

“What do you think?” I asked.

Eddie, whom I'd just told about the engagement, picked up his head and blinked at me.

“Never mind,” I said, giving him a long pet. “You had a long night two days ago and must be way behind on your rest. Go back to sleep.”

He sighed and settled in deeper on my legs.

We were sitting on the front deck of the houseboat, watching the sun slip down behind the horizon. Or at least I was, since Eddie's eyes were closed. There wasn't a single cloud in the sky, and the clarity of the air and water was so beautiful it almost hurt.

I watched the colors above me ease from medium blue to dark blue to indigo. As I watched the slow changes, I thought about all that had happened in the past weeks, and came to the conclusion that if people only spent more time watching the sun go down and the stars come out, that there would be less suffering in the world.

The marina lights were just bright enough for me to see the black-and-white tabby cat on my lap. “What do you think?” I asked, my hand on his warm back. “Am I being profound tonight, or what?”

He opened and shut his mouth in a silent “Mrr” just as my cell phone trilled.

To answer or not to answer? That was the question. An even better question, though, would have been why had I brought the cell out here in the first place? I
turned it over.
Detective Inwood?
Why was he calling so late?

I snatched up the phone, suddenly worried about Ash. “Detective. What's the matter?”

There was a pause. “Why would you think anything is wrong?”

Which could only mean that Ash was safe and sound. “Because it's ten thirty at night.”

“It is?” He sounded surprised. “I apologize. I was working late, catching up on things, and didn't realize what time it was. I'll call you back tomorrow.”

I had a sudden sympathy for the man. He'd been gone for a couple of days and his desk must have been piled high with work. “Or you could just tell me now. Then you can cross something off your list.”

“Thank you,” he said. “I appreciate that. What I wanted to tell you is that all parties involved in the ownership of Chastain's book have agreed on a temporary holding location.”

“Oh? That's good.” Although why Inwood needed to tell me about it, I wasn't sure.

“Yes,” he said. “The location is the rare-books collection of the Chilson District Library.”

“It . . . What?”

“You do have a rare-books collection, yes?”

“Well, sure, but . . .”

“And you have proper security for that collection?” When I didn't answer straightaway, he prompted, “Or you can get some in a reasonable time frame?”

“Yes,” I said, visualizing various budgets. When I mentally located a line item for contingency expenses that had a four-figure balance, I said, “Yes,” again, this time more firmly. “Absolutely yes.”

“Excellent,” Inwood said, and I was pretty sure I
heard the stroke of a pencil crossing out an item on a list. “Let me know when you have things in place, and I'll have the book delivered.”

A copy of
Wildflowers
? In my library? There couldn't possibly be anything I could do that would impress the new director more. Aunt Frances was right: Everything was going to work out. My heart began to sing.

“Nicely done, by the way, Ms. Hamilton,” the detective said.

The song came to an abrupt halt. Had he really said what I thought he'd said? “Sorry?”

“Saturday night. You found yourself in a difficult and dangerous situation and were alert enough to do what needed to be done.”

“Oh. Um, thanks.” He didn't hang up, so I said, “Most people think I was nuts for rushing a guy with a knife.”

“Most people.” He chuckled. “You are not most people, Ms. Hamilton.” His chuckle turned into an outright laugh, and he ended the call, still laughing.

“‘Nuts' wasn't the first term that came to my mind,” came a voice out of the dark. “‘Brave' was the first. Then ‘stupid.' Then came ‘nuts.'”

I turned off the phone. “Hey, Eric.” Over our Sunday-morning newspapers, I'd told my neighbor about the events of the night before. “How long have you been sitting out there?”

“Long enough to hear you ask your cat about being profound. Were you?”

“Doubt it.”

“Tell me anyway.”

So I shrugged and did, telling him how sunsets and stars might lead us to a better world.

After a long moment, he said into the evening's darkness, “You know what, Minnie? You're probably right. I can't believe your cat didn't say so.”

Smiling, I gathered Eddie up into my arms. “See you tomorrow, Eric.”

“Night, Minnie.”

I carried Eddie inside and set him gently on the bed. I brushed my teeth and changed into jammies, and, finally, slid between the sheets, trying to disturb my sleeping cat as little as possible. “Night, pal,” I whispered, and kissed him on the top of his head. “Sleep tight. Tomorrow's a bookmobile day.”

“Mrr.”

And I would have sworn that he was
smiling.