Cat With a Clue (4 page)

“Eva?” My aunt's gaze wandered back to the book. “Forrest. They went down to Bellaire, if I remember correctly. Glacial Hills—is that right?”

It was. “How about Liz and Morris?” I prompted.

They were my favorite intended couple. At fifty-seven years old, Liz was taking a “summer sabbatical” from her life. An extremely successful sales representative for a clothing manufacturer, she'd woken up one morning and been too exhausted to drag herself out of bed. She needed a rest, her doctor had told her, so here she was, not resting all that much, but having a wonderful time.

Her intended match, Morris, was a little different. At fifty-three, Morris was a middle-aged man who'd for years slid from one job to another without a specific career goal in mind. He made a lot of friends but not much money, at least until one of his buddies introduced him to a guy who know a guy who produced voice-over advertising. Morris's voice was now ubiquitous on radio
and television, and he'd made enough money in five years to take a nice, long break.

The two of them had been the summer's first arrivals at the boardinghouse and, from the second day, had been inseparable. They were spending a lot of time on the multitude of beaches on the many area lakes and had started a blog about their observations.

“Liz and Morris.” My aunt sounded puzzled. “Liz and . . . oh yes.” She smiled. “They've gone to a beach.”

I did an internal eye roll. “The matches are going well this summer?”

“Mmm.” She thought a moment. “Well enough, I suppose.”

I peered at her. If I didn't know better, I would have said she didn't care about the matchmaking results. Which was odd, because making sure her pairs paired up properly had been the focus of her summers for umpteen years. “Are you feeling okay?” I asked.

“What?” She blinked again. “I'm fine. What makes you think there's something wrong?”

I held up my index finger. “For one thing—”

She laughed and got to her feet. “Out, favorite niece.” Since I was her only niece, this meant nothing, but hearing her say so still made me feel warm and fuzzy. “Or stay for dinner,” she said, “but you'll have to eat all your vegetables.”

“Got to go,” I said, jumping up. “Eddie is waiting, and you know how he can get. I'll see you later.”

I was halfway to the door when Aunt Frances said, “Minnie, I'm sorry about the woman who was killed, but . . .” Her voice caught on itself. “But I'm really glad it wasn't you.”

Turning back, I gave her a quick, hard hug. “Me, too,” I whispered.

*   *   *

“What do you think?” I held out a forkful of shrimp pad Thai.

Eddie, sitting across from me, with his chin almost resting on the houseboat's compact dining table, sniffed at the food, then blew out a quick breath and disappeared. A second later, I heard his feet
thump-thump
to the floor.

“Yeah,” I agreed. “A little too spicy.” But since this was the only food I had available, other than cold cereal, I forked it in, anyway, alternating bites of pad Thai with swallows of milk. “The take-out place has a new cook,” I said. “I'll have to be careful next time I order.”

My cat was supremely uninterested in my culinary concerns. He was far more interested in planning his jump to the boat's dashboard, where he would have an excellent view of the seagulls wheeling about over the lake's waving waters.

Janay Lake, twenty miles long, was connected to the mass of Lake Michigan by a narrow channel that was just out of sight. Chilson had come into being because back in the mid-to-late 1800s, it had been a transportation hub for logging, favored both for its natural harbor and for the railroad that skimmed around the north shore.

“Did you know that Alfred Chilson was the first postmaster?” I asked Eddie. “That's where the town got its name.”

Eddie didn't seem to care about this, either. His body made a long arc in the air and he hit the deck.

“Need something to do?” I asked, getting up from the dining booth. After leaving Aunt Frances, I'd gone back to the library and worked a little longer. By the time I was done, it was far too late to cook
anything—how unexpected!—so I'd picked up dinner at the local Chinese-Thai place and patted myself on the back for supporting the local economy.

I ran the water warm and started washing my minimalist dishes. “It was a little creepy,” I said, “being in the library when everyone was gone.” I'd jumped every time the ventilation system had kicked in. “I ended up locking my office door. I felt silly, but you won't tell anyone, will you?”

“Mrr,” Eddie said.

“And if I'm jumpy about being in the library, I bet other people will be, too.” And that couldn't be allowed to happen. Libraries were safe places. Havens. Harbors. Refuges. Places to learn. Repositories of knowledge. Locations of possible wisdom. Knowing that the Chilson library—
my
library—had been violated was an affront to everything I believed in.

Right then and there, I vowed to do whatever I could to help the police find Andrea's killer and to repair any and all damage to my library's reputation.

“Mrr.”

That time his voice sounded a little too close. I turned.

“Hey!” I flicked soap suds at him. “Get off the counter! You know that's not allowed, at least not when I'm home. What are you thinking?”

“Mrr.” He chin-rubbed the corner of the knife block—which had been a joke gift from Kristen, because she'd put bookmarks into the slots instead of the utensils for which it had been designed—one more time and jumped off the countertop.

“Cats,” I muttered, or tried to, because a yawn interrupted the single syllable, turning it into something that sounded more like, “Caaa.”

“Mrr,” Eddie said from the top of the short flight of stairs that led to the bedroom.

“Hold your little kitty horses,” I said. “Humans brush their teeth before going to bed.” I'd heard of people brushing the teeth of their pets, but unless Eddie developed a health problem that threatened to shorten his life, I wasn't ready to try.

In short order, I was sliding between the sheets. “What do you think?” I asked. Eddie was walking around me, clearly trying to decide which of my body parts he wanted to cut off the circulation to the most. “Jane Austen, Tess Gerritsen, or L. A. Meyer?”

He flopped down on the bed, rested his chin on my right hip, and started purring.

“You know,” I said through another yawn, “you could be right. It would probably fall on my face, smashing some pages in the process, and that's never—”

Eddie reached out and put his front paw across my lips.

“Eww.” I turned my head. “I know where that paw has been.”

“Mrr,” he said firmly.

“Fine.” I turned off the light and rolled onto my side. Eddie restarted his purr and, despite the morning's event, I fell into a dreamless sleep.

T
he next morning was a bookmobile day—or, more accurately, thanks to my current schedule, a bookmobile three-quarters of a day—and I shut myself up in my office to steam through as much work as I could before hightailing it for Tonedagana County's lake-strewn, rolling countryside. I even filled my favorite Association of Bookmobile and Outreach Services coffee mug with Kelsey Coffee rather than waiting for a fresh pot to brew.

“Brave woman,” Josh said, as I headed back to my computer. “Are you brave enough to send your director application to the board?”

“Working on it,” I said over my shoulder.
Sort of.

Back at my desk, I had just set my hands to the keyboard when my phone rang. I was tempted to ignore it. There were few phone calls I got these days that lasted less than fifteen minutes, and time was a-wasting, but my politeness reflex kicked in (thanks so much, Mom) and I picked up the receiver.

“Ms. Hamilton?” asked a warm male voice.

I leaned back, smiling. “Deputy Wolverson. How may I help you this morning?”

“I'm feeling stressed and overworked,” he said. “No, hang on. It's you that's feeling stressed and overworked, isn't it? Either way, I think it would benefit both of us to take the day off and do as little as possible.”

Since I could hear office noises in his background, I knew he was at work and wasn't about to run off into the sunset with me, but the idea was interesting. “Sounds good,” I said. “How about I pick you up in the bookmobile in two hours? No one will know that I'm not making my appointed rounds.”

“Isn't that the post office?”

“We have a lot in common.”

He laughed. “I bet you go out in weather the mail carriers wouldn't touch. But believe it or not, I didn't call to entice you into an unplanned play day.”

“Well, rats. I'd already shut down my computer,” I said, expecting him to laugh again, and was surprised when he didn't.

“Sorry.” His voice was sliding into formal cop mode. This was not a deeper voice, but was slower, measured, with sentences that were simple and direct. I'd been told that he'd had a severe stuttering issue as a kid, but I'd never detected a trace of it. “The city police chief,” he said, “has contacted Andrea Vennard's family. Her name is being released to the press.”

My emotions sagged. “Thanks for letting me know.”

“No problem.”

“Does this mean I'm free to talk about this?”

“Sure,” he said.

I perked up a little; I'd detected a definite move out of cop speak. “Do you have any idea what happened?”

“Minnie . . .”

“I know, I know. You can't talk about an active investigation.” I thought a moment. “How about this: Is it safe to be alone in the library late at night?” It hadn't been until last night, when I was working late, that I'd thought about the bad guy coming back. Something else I wasn't going to tell my mother.

“Safe?” he repeated. “Is anywhere truly safe?”

“Ash . . .”

“I know,” he said. “Most people are good folks, and I shouldn't assume that bad guys lurk behind every corner.”

It was a conversation that, in the short time we'd been together, we'd already had multiple times.

“Exactly,” I said.

“That doesn't mean the bad guys aren't out there,” he pointed out.

“But it also means the vast majority of the corners don't have bad guys anywhere close by.”

Ash was silent for moment, then said, “But there was a bad guy, Minnie. And he was in your library.”

Yes, he had been. And how icky did that make me feel? Very. “I know.”

After a few beats, he said, “Take care, Minnie. You set for tomorrow morning?”

“Bright and early. And, Ash? Thanks for caring.”

“No problem, ma'am,” he said. “You have a good day, now.”

Smiling, I hung up the phone and picked up my empty coffee mug. How I'd managed to down a full mug of Kelsey's brew in such a short time, I wasn't sure.

Holly was in the break room, opening up a plastic tub. “Leftovers from the last day of school,” she said. “Have at it.”

I peered in and pulled out the smallest brownie. Holly's treats were the stuff of legend, and it wouldn't do to offend the creator. “Ash called,” I said, after swallowing the chocolatey goodness. “They're releasing the name of the woman who was killed.”

Holly sat heavily. “I don't like to think that someone was murdered in our library.”

Neither did I, but we had to move on. “The police are working hard to find the killer. I'm sure it will all be over soon.”

“Will it?” Holly's face turned to mine. “Will it, really?”

No, and we both knew it. I couldn't conceive of a time when I wouldn't look at that aisle of bookshelves and not be reminded of what I'd seen. We would always remember what had happened, and it would always be a part of the library's history.

I gave her a vague half nod, half head shake, and said, “Her name was Andrea Vennard. She was from downstate. Brighton, I think.”

“No, she wasn't.”

Holly and I looked up to see Donna walking into the room.

“Andrea was from here,” she went on. “She may have lived downstate, but she was born in Chilson, grew up here, and graduated from Chilson High School.”

“Never heard of her,” Holly said. “Or the name Vennard.”

Donna went to the coffeepot and held it poised over her mug. “Who made this?”

“Josh,” I told her.

She nodded and filled her mug. “Vennard was her married name, though she got divorced a number of years ago. She was a Wiley.”

“No kidding.” Holly sat back. “Why didn't I know her?”

“Older than you by ten years, I'd say.” Donna shrugged. “And she was Bob's daughter.”

“Bob, not Rob?”

The two of them dropped deep into a discussion of Chilson genealogy and, within seconds, since I hadn't grown up in Chilson or been provided with visual aids, I was totally lost. Which was okay, because it was relaxing, in a way, to lean against the counter and let the conversation wash over me. Normal. Everyday. Typical. For a couple more minutes, I could stand here and think about nothing while—

“Wiley,” I said, cutting into something Donna was saying.

Donna glanced at Holly, then at me. “What about them?”

“If Andrea was a Wiley, was she related to the DeKeysers?” I asked, remembering Talia DeKeyser's obituary.

“Hmm, let me think.” Donna frowned and stared at the ceiling. “Yes,” she finally said. “She must have been a great-niece of Talia's.”

She went off into an explanation, but this time I wasn't even trying to pay attention, because my brain was too busy thinking, connecting A to B.

Andrea Vennard lived downstate.

She was a great-niece of Talia DeKeyser.

Talia DeKeyser had recently passed away.

Andrea had, most probably, returned to Chilson for her aunt's funeral.

So . . . what? Nothing, really, was the conclusion I reached as I reached for another brownie. Because none of those facts answered the question of why Andrea had been in my library.

I waved at Donna and Holly, but they barely noticed
my leave-taking.
As I walked back to my office, my brain was already on the things I had to finish before the bookmobile could back out of its garage, so when a large voice called my name, I jumped high enough to slop coffee over the side of my mug and onto the tile floor.

“Oh, geez, Minnie, sorry about that. Here, hang on.” Mitchell Koyne, when standing, was well over a foot taller than my five feet. On his knees, using a grimy handkerchief to mop my spill, he was all arms and legs and awkwardness.

Mitchell was my age, but as far as I knew, he'd never held the same job for longer than six months. He bounced from summer construction labor to ski-lift operator to hauling firewood to plowing snow. Last year he'd started his own investigation business, but he'd never had a client and was still living in the attic apartment of his sister's house. He was clueless about almost everything, so totally clueless that it was easy to dismiss him as an Up North hick who'd never set foot in a real city.

But the thing was, Mitchell was smart. Extremely smart. In his untucked flannel shirt, ratty baseball cap, worn sneakers, and unshaven face, Mitchell would spend hours in the library, reading books and magazines, and I'd once watched him read an encyclopedia. Why he didn't translate some of that knowledge into useful skills, I did not know.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“Checking out books?”

“Not a chance,” I said. “Your overdue fine is still the highest in the library's history, and just because Stephen's gone doesn't mean I'm going to let you start checking out books until your account is down to zero.”

“Doesn't hurt a guy to ask,” he said, grinning.

“But it's not even close to noon.” I tipped my head in the direction of the wall clock. “You're never here before noon. Ever.”

“Yeah.” He took off his baseball hat, scratched his head, and put the hat back on. His hair, I noted, had been cut recently, which was unusual. Mitchell would go for months without a haircut; then he'd go to the barber and get it buzzed close to his skull. Neither the long hair nor the buzz was a good look for him, and it was interesting that his habits were changing.

Very interesting.

“So, Minnie,” he said, “I got a question for you.”

I made a come-along gesture and started walking again. Mitchell's long legs took two strides to every three of mine. “What's your question?” I asked. “But, just so you know ahead of time, I can't say anything about yesterday morning.” More like “didn't want to” than “couldn't,” but Mitchell didn't need to know that.

“Huh?” He peered down at me. “Oh, right. That Andrea Wiley got killed, didn't she? No, it's not about that.”

I breathed a small sigh of relief. In the past, Mitchell had tried his best to insert himself into police investigations; that he wasn't inclined to do so now could only be a good thing.

“It's about Bianca,” Mitchell said.

Then again, maybe it wouldn't be so horrible if Mitchell could be distracted by a murder investigation. Because if his girlfriend had dumped him, even if it was weeks past the latest guess from the library pool that Josh had started, Mitchell would need serious amounts of distraction.

“How is she?” I asked. Bianca Sims was one of the most successful real estate agents in the area. Blond, attractive, energetic, and outgoing, it boggled the mind that she and Mitchell had gone out on more than one date, let alone been seeing each other for two months. While I understood that Mitchell had his own variety of charm, I'd long held the opinion it was an appeal that was more attractive at arm's length. Still, there was no accounting for what attracted people to one another, a fact for which I should be grateful.

“She's great,” Mitchell said gloomily.

I quirked up my eyebrows at his tone. “She's great, but there's a problem?”

“It's not her. It's me.”

Now, that I could believe, but it didn't make sense that Mitchell was coming to me for advice on how to change his life. First off, Mitchell was one of those people who never seemed to recognize that improvements needed to be made. Second, while we'd been friends of a sort for years, we'd never shared soul-baring confidences.

“What's the matter?” We'd reached my office door, and I stopped to look up at him. Talking to Mitchell in the hallway was one thing, but I flat-out did not have time for him to come in and sit for a long, cozy chat.

“You're like her,” he said. “I mean, you're short and she's nice and tall, and you have all that curly black hair and she has that nice smooth blond hair. Plus you read all the time and she's more fun and—”

“So how are we alike?” I asked, cutting into the brutal blow-by-blow comparison.

He shoved his hands into his pockets and looked at the floor. “You're both smart. Way smarter than me.
And you're both, you know, going places. I'll never be anything different from what I am right now.”

I blinked at the naked truth of his words. Who knew that Mitchell was so self-aware? Served me right for thinking that I had him all figured out. Once again I realized that we could never truly know what went on inside someone else, and my heart ached for him. “If Bianca likes you,” I said, touching his arm, “she likes you just the way you are.”

“But will she ever, ahh, you know”—he shrugged and kicked at the floor—“love me. Like the way I'm getting to love her.”

Whoa. I was not qualified to give romantic advice. My previous relationship had fallen to bits in less than a year, and before that I'd fallen out of love with the guy I'd become engaged to in graduate school, so slowly it had taken a total lack of interest in bridal magazines to make me realize what had happened.

“Mitchell,” I said, “there are only two people who can help you.”

“Yeah?” He perked up. “Do you have their numbers? Because I'll take any advice I can get, even if I don't like it.”

But I was shaking my head. “The only two people who can help are you and Bianca. Talk to her, Mitchell. Tell her how you feel.”

He sighed. “Not going to happen. I use the L word now, and she'll run for the hills. I need her to love me before I say anything, see?”

“How do you know she doesn't?”

“Why would she?”

The conversation was starting to circle around. “Do you two have a good time together?”

“Well, yeah.”

“And she calls you to make dates?” He nodded, and I said, “Then she obviously likes you, Mitchell. If you love her, give her time to fall in love with you.”