Лори Касс - Gone With The Whisker

What I’d learned about the Jaquays had been interesting, and I’d passed on that information to Ash, but I was still convinced that Barry Vannett, he of the nasty temper, was a likely candidate for Rex’s murder. What was it he’d yelled at Rex? That if Rex came back to talk about a trail, he’d get a “face full of shotgun.” So obviously, what I needed to do was learn more about the trail proposal.

My clever use of the Internet during a nonbusy bookmobile stop had turned up a website for a grass-roots trail advocacy group. Chilson Connection was both the website and tentative trail name, which had a theoretical route laid out.

I clicked on the map and saw that, yes indeed, the proposed route was zipping right across Vannett and Stuhler land and diving deep into the adjacent state forest. I also noted that the website talked a lot about conceptual design, construction design, and costs that made my mouth drop open.

But it was the site’s home page that I found most interesting, because it told me all about a fund-raising event being held at an existing trailhead just outside Chilson that very day.

“Fate,” I said to myself as I pedaled up the hill. Well, gasped to myself, really, because the hill was long and steep and my exercise the last few months had been more sanding and painting and much less running and biking.

The trailhead was only a mile outside the city limits, and I coasted into the parking lot glad I’d decided to bike and not drive. The parking lot was jammed so full that people were parking on the grass and on the road’s shoulder. A tent with a banner proclaiming COUNTDOWN TO THE CHILSON CONNECTION was packed with people and all of them appeared to be reaching for their wallets.

Hmm.

I biked past, watching and thinking, and hours later, was still thinking when Rafe arrived at the house with a cooler in hand. Since one of my hands was holding a paintbrush and the other was all painty, I declined to hug him, and instead tipped my head forward.

“This is the only part of you not covered in paint,” he said, kissing the top of my head. “How do you do that?”

“It’s a skill,” I said, eyeing his cooler. “If only I could monetize it. Does that hold what’s left of your beverages, or does it hold future dinner that someone is going to have to cook?”

“None of the above.” He set it down and, with a flourish, opened the top and presented two foam containers. “Hot off the grill from the Round Table, two fish sandwiches made of fish caught by yours truly. Fries on the side, but I had nothing to do with those.”

“How did . . . ?” Then I remembered that one of his fishing partners was the head cook at the Round Table. My beloved was quite the catch. Smiling at my own internal pun, I scrambled to my feet, since I’d been sitting on the floor to paint the living room’s baseboard. In short order I’d cleaned up and we were on the front porch eating fresh fish and fries.

He told me a little too much about his day out on his buddy’s boat and all the bad jokes they’d shared, and I told him about the Jaquays and their intent to ruin ABK Pest Control. I also told him about my bike ride and what I’d seen at the trailhead.

“So,” I told him, opening a packet of malt vinegar and sprinkling liberally, “to me all that energy and enthusiasm about the trail means murdering Rex couldn’t possibly have changed a thing.”

“Did Vannett know that?” Rafe asked. “Maybe he thought Rex was the leader and the group would fall apart without him.”

Possible, but it didn’t seem likely. “I’m back to thinking Barry’s marijuana application has something to do with the murder. Marijuana involves money, like we were saying before, remember? Legal or black market, it means cash, and that’s always a great motive.”

Rafe nodded. “Sure, but what’s the connection in this case? What was Stuhler going to do, steal all of Vannett’s plants? Burn them? Do we even know if Stuhler was against having a grow operation next door? Maybe he was thrilled with the idea.”

“But—” I stopped myself. Because Rafe was right. We didn’t know, and we needed to find out.

Chapter 7

The next morning, I dragged Kate out of bed and up the hill to the boardinghouse.

“But I was just here the other day,” she protested. “Celeste and I had fruit-flavored water and oatmeal cookies on the front porch.”

With her jaw jutting out like that, she looked so much like my brother that I had to hide my smile. “We haven’t been up for breakfast all summer,” I said, “and breakfast is different.”

“How?”

I hemmed and hawed as I considered how much to tell her about past boardinghouse processes and the reconnaissance I was doing for Aunt Frances, trying to determine if those old processes remained intact.

“When Aunt Frances was running the boardinghouse,” I finally said, “Saturday was the only morning she didn’t cook breakfast. The boarders paired up to cook and clean.” Even though I’d never been a summertime boarder, I’d often dropped by for Saturday breakfast, just to watch the fun.

“Huh.” Kate didn’t sound impressed. “But today is Sunday. And it doesn’t sound like much of a boardinghouse if you had to do your own cooking.”

“One meal a week,” I said. “With six boarders, no one cooked more than three or four meals all summer.”

“What if someone was a horrible cook?”

“Then breakfast was horrible. But house rules were that cooks got compliments, not criticism.” I smiled, remembering one memorable time when the eggs had been overdone, the bacon underdone, and the fruit hard as a rock. The dining room had been quiet except for the tinkle of knives and forks until the oldest boarder, a woman who’d retired from decades of teaching kindergarteners, finally said, “I love the way you two folded the napkins.”

“The whole thing seems weird,” Kate said, and this I couldn’t disagree with. “Is Celeste doing the same thing?” she asked.

But since that was what we were here to find out, I couldn’t tell her.

“There you are!” Celeste called from the front porch. “I was just about to call out the dogs!” We climbed the steps and she crushed us into a three-way hug. “You won’t believe the breakfast that Amy and Zach are cooking. Hang on, where’s that nice-looking young man of yours?”

It took me a moment to catch my breath after she released us. “I didn’t know you wanted him, too.”

“Well, of course.” Celeste patted my cheek. “You two are a pair. A matched set. You don’t get one without the other. Call the boy and get him up here. There’s time, if he hurries.”

And because I knew she wouldn’t rest until I did the deed, I started texting. Celeste chattered as she escorted us inside, through the entryway and living room with its pine-paneled walls, massive fieldstone fireplace, and bookcases stacked with books, jigsaw puzzles, and board games, and into the dining room.

Kate immediately went to the sideboard to pour herself a cup of coffee from the carafe, and I allowed myself to be tugged forward by Celeste.

“This is my cousin Minnie,” she announced to the foursome at the far end of the dining table. “She drives the bookmobile with her cat, Eddie. And that’s her niece, Katrina.”

“Kate,” I said before I got the evil eye. “She prefers Kate.”

“Hi, Kate,” the four said, almost at the same time.

“And you too, Minnie,” a middle-aged man said, nodding. “I hear you’re the one to ask about scenic back roads. Yvette here is longing to get my pickup stuck in the most remote two-track possible.”

The middle-aged woman on his left jabbed him lightly with her elbow. “Bert here likes to think I want to have my way with him. Don’t say anything,” she said in a stage whisper, “but he might be on to something.”