Лори Касс - Gone With The Whisker

“Thank you!” Celeste lunged at me and gave me a hug. “Thank you so much! I’m no good at confrontation. I know you’ll straighten this out in no time.”

“No problem,” I murmured, as I wondered how in little green apples I was going to make both Celeste and my aunt happy.

* * *

Donna, one of the library’s part-time clerks, frowned from behind the front desk. “What are you doing here?”

I looked around. “Are you talking to me?”

“Do you see anyone else?” she asked dryly.

The lobby, entry, and main room of the library were quiet and, except for the two of us, completely empty. A low patron count was normal on nice summer days, but this was a little ridiculous. And a bit eerie. Then I heard the distant voice of a child and an adult murmuring in reply, and relaxed. The zombie apocalypse had not overtaken the Chilson District Library and swooped away all our library-goers.

“So again I ask,” Donna said, putting her elbows on the counter and her chin in her hands. “What are you doing here? You took the day off. So take yourself outside and go play.”

I grinned. Donna was in her early seventies and had already retired from a full-time job. She had children and grandchildren and a husband who was within a year of retiring from his much-loved job as the local barber.

Donna was also an active long-distance runner, and the primary reason she worked at the library was to help fund trips to run marathons in faraway places. And for Donna, far away meant Norway, Ethiopia, and Argentina. And the trips weren’t just to run. Last winter she’d traveled to Antarctica, and she and her equally adventurous daughter had enjoyed themselves immensely.

“Couldn’t stay away,” I said, spreading my arms. “I mean, look at this place.”

The building around us had once upon a time been Chilson’s elementary school. The town’s young demographic had eventually expanded to the point where a new, larger building had been necessary and this handsome L-shaped brick building, filled with Craftsman details, had been shuttered.

For years it sat empty, deteriorating slowly but surely, and then, just before the roof collapsed, the library board put a bond proposal on the ballot to renovate the building. The people of Chilson had overwhelmingly voted in favor, and the school was transformed into a stupendously gorgeous library that was the envy of all.

Well, maybe not all. I’d heard the Library of Congress had a decent space. But what other small town library had a reading room with a fireplace and window seats? What other library had a vaulted ceiling over the main stacks? Who else had gorgeous metallic tile in the restrooms and lobby?

“It is nice,” Donna said. “But it’s nice outside, too.” She tipped her head toward the massive oak front doors. “And while this building will stay nice, out there could change in the next five minutes.”

“The Wi-Fi at the marina is painfully slow,” I said. “I’m just here to look something up.”

“Research? Ooo, let me play, please?”

I looked at her and decided I might as well get it over with. So I told her about the night of the fireworks, and Rex Stuhler, how Katrina—Kate—was having a rough time of it, and how I was going to do my best to help track down whoever killed Rex.

“The poor girl,” Donna said sympathetically. “But at least she has you. How many other aunts have also found murder victims? You two could create your own support group.”

My penchant for finding dead bodies was not something I wanted to discuss at length with Kate, but I half nodded. “I was going to look on the county’s website to see where Rex and his wife live.”

“Foundation research. Good idea.” Donna rotated her large monitor so I could see, pulled out her keyboard, and started typing. “Tonedagana County, parcel search . . .” She clicked away. “Do you know what township? Never mind, there can’t be many Stuhlers . . . okay, here we go. ‘Owners Rex and Fawn Stuhler,’” Donna read out loud. “So that’s their property.” She pointed at a yellow rectangle on Ayers Road. “Let’s see what we can find out about the neighbors. If they’re people I know, I can ask about Rex.”

A few clicks later, we learned that the parcels to the west and south of the Stuhlers were owned by the county. “Forestry parcels, is my guess,” Donna said. “The county forester sets up parcels to get logged off every thirty years or so. Makes the county a little money, and wow, would you look at that?” She’d turned on the aerial photography layer, and the Stuhlers’ roof practically popped us in the eyeballs. “That’s a bright red roof.”

It certainly was. “Who owns that?” I nodded at a smaller parcel to the north.

“Hang on . . . here we go. Somebody named Vannett. First name ‘Barry.’”

“Do you know him?” I asked. Except for a short stint at college, Donna had never lived anywhere but Chilson. If she didn’t know someone, or at least know of them, odds were approximately a hundred percent they weren’t from here.

“Nope.” She drummed her fingers on the countertop. “But the name sounds familiar. Let me think.”

Meanwhile, something was twitching inside my own brain. “Hang on,” I said slowly. “Isn’t Ayers Road part of the route for that new bike trail?”

Donna shrugged. “I haven’t been paying close attention. If it ever gets built, I’ll be long gone. Those things take forever.”

I asked Donna to let me know if she remembered anything about Barry Vannett, then wandered out into the sunshine, wondering who might know about the trail. All I knew was from the newspaper, which had reported that a group of local folks had banded together to plan a route connecting Chilson to Petoskey via back roads and county-owned property. I could talk to my friend Camille at the paper, but what I wanted was insider information.

“Got it,” I said, making a 180-degree turn and marching the other way. I was on nodding-acquaintance terms with Jeremy Hull, director of the nonprofit Northern Lakes Protection Association. If Jeremy didn’t have information on the trail, he was bound to know someone who did.

I entered the blue lobby of the Protection Association’s office and saw Jeremy and his wife sitting together at his desk, picking apart the delectable treat that was an elephant ear, that classic deep-fried, cinnamon-sprinkled doughy goodness.

“Hey, Minnie.” Jeremy waved a piece of ear at me. “You’ve met my wife, haven’t you? Honey, Minnie Hamilton, the bookmobile librarian. Minnie, this is my wife, Honey Hull.”

Honey and I murmured nice-to-meet-you’s and Jeremy asked, “Don’t suppose you’re here to make a sizable donation to our new project. We’re raising money to rework that undersized culvert on the Mitchell River.”

“Sorry,” I said, pulling the pockets of my shorts inside out. “Nothing here. I just stopped by to ask if you knew anything about that new trail they’re proposing, the one that would connect Chilson to Petoskey . . .”

Jeremy was shaking his head. “I don’t, but—”

“But I do.” Honey smiled. “I’m on the planning committee. If you’d like to help, we’re holding a meeting next week.”

“Um.” I shifted from one foot to the other. I’d hit the jackpot! Too bad I didn’t have a good explanation of what I wanted! “It’s about Rex Stuhler. My niece is the one who found him the other night, and . . .” And what? But I needn’t have worried.

Honey’s face flushed a fast red. “That poor girl. But I knew something like this would happen, I just knew it. Rex didn’t take him seriously, though. Fawn laughed it off, too. The whole thing makes me want to—” She broke off and covered her face with her hands.