Лори Касс - Gone With The Whisker

Rafe hitched his chair closer and held my hand. “What was she like?”

“She was . . .” I let the sentence wander off as I thought about the question. Nicole hadn’t been chatty. She hadn’t talked much about anything, and hardly at all about herself. Even still, a few things had leaked out. “She loved it up here. One of her favorite things was to swim in the lake.”

I closed my eyes against the memory of Nicole’s long hair spread over her shoulders like a dark red fan, but the image didn’t go away. Then I remembered Eddie bumping up against my shin as I called 911, and remembered his purring, and the sharp pain eased to a dull ache.

“Nicole,” I said, thinking back to the few conversations we’d shared, “liked coffee and ice cream. She was left-handed. She loved a good thunderstorm. She liked quirky novels. The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy was her favorite, but she was a big fan of A Gentleman in Moscow and anything by Alexander McCall Smith. And I introduced her to Jodi Taylor’s books.” I smiled, remembering. She’d loved the Chronicles of St. Mary’s so much that she’d sent me a Christmas card last year.

“So that was where she used to swim?” Rafe asked. “At that little park? You don’t have to answer,” he added quickly, “if you don’t want to talk about it.”

“No, it’s okay.” And, I discovered a second later, it actually was. “Yes, that was her usual swimming spot. Although I thought her normal time was first thing in the morning. And I do mean first thing. She said she liked being out alone, before anyone else messed up the water.”

I frowned, thinking about that. Nicole always went for morning swims. Always. So why had she been out there in the afternoon? And . . . I suddenly felt a shiver at the back of my brain. Both Rex and Nicole had been on the bookmobile that Thursday before the Fourth of July, and now they were both dead. Tragic coincidence? Or could Nicole’s death be related to Rex’s murder?

Rafe reached around and opened a small cooler. He poured me a glass of wine, then popped a can of beer and held it up in toasting position, waiting.

“To Nicole,” I said, then stopped, because I had no idea what else to say.

Rafe tapped his beer can to my glass. “To Nicole. To live in hearts we leave behind is not to die.”

And so we drank to her memory.

* * *

The next day, Saturday, I spent the morning with my niece. Well, to be more specific, we were both on the same houseboat at the same time, and while I spent our quality together time cleaning the bathroom, kitchen, and outside deck, Kate whiled away the morning either poking at her tablet, checking her phone, or commenting on the spots I’d missed.

When I replied back that she could, you know, help, she’d heaved a heavy teenage sigh and flounced off. Since the houseboat was small, her flouncing only lasted as long as it took for her to get out to the deck, but I gave her points for quality.

At half past eleven, she bolted up from one of the deck’s two chaises and ran past me into the bathroom, wailing, “I’m going to be late to work! Why didn’t you tell me how late it was?”

She was showered, dressed, and out the door in ten minutes, which gave her more than enough time to walk up to Benton’s, but from the glare I got as I handed her a brown bag of peanut butter and jelly, chips, and an apple for her dinner, you’d have thought I was responsible for the air’s high humidity, unrest in the Middle East, and the declining population of honeybees.

The next day wasn’t much better, and I breathed an invisible sigh of relief when she declined my invitation to go up to Three Seasons for Sunday night dessert.

“You know what your problem is?” Kristen pointed her custard-laden spoon at me.

“Friends who think they have the answers to my problems?”

Leese Lacombe started to laugh, but changed it into a very fake cough when Kristen pointed the spoon in her direction.

“I’ll get to you later,” she said, then closed her eyes as she ate the custard. “A bit more vanilla,” she murmured. As per always, I thought the creme brûlée was perfect, but I also knew better than to disagree with Kristen on food, especially when we were in her own restaurant eating food she’d prepared herself.

“Right.” Kristen opened her eyes. “So what’s new?” She sent me a meaningful glance.

I focused on getting the perfect ratios of strawberry, custard, and sugar on my spoon. It was a difficult job, but worth doing. “I was hoping to hear when you and Scruffy were scheduling some quality married time.”

“Next week,” she said, “and no changing the subject.”

Leese looked from Kristen to me and back again. “What’s up? Because there’s unspoken subtext going on between you two so loud I can almost hear it.”

Kristen smacked the back of her spoon against the dessert’s thin hard layer of sugar, making a loud cracking noise. “She’s not talking to me,” she said to Leese, tipping her head in my direction. “Is it because I got married? He’s not even in the state, for crying out loud. Why is she holding back?”

“Holding back what?” Leese asked, frowning.

“She’s gotten involved with another death!” Kristen waved her arms about. “Every time somebody in this county dies who isn’t old as the hills, it’s on her doorstep.”

“Well,” I said, “doorstep is a little strong.”

My best friend seared me with an Eddie-quality glare. “You know perfectly well I was using a metaphor and it was a darn good one, if you ask me.”

Leese put down her spoon. “Who died?”

Bowing to the inevitable, I told them about Nicole Price. About her job downstate, her family cabin, and how she’d drowned while swimming. And about how we’d found her.

“You poor thing,” Leese said sympathetically. “But I see Kristen’s point. You do have a tendency to find dead bodies.”

“See?” Kristen gripped her spoon and thumped the table with its handle. “What is it with you?”

I looked from one friend to the other. Though Leese’s concern was obvious, Kristen’s was manifesting itself as annoyance, irritation, and anger. She had a long history of reacting this way and I was used to it.

Well, almost.

My chin went up. “It’s not like I’m trying to find dead people. What am I supposed to do, walk away?”

“Of course not,” Leese said gently. “We just want you to be careful.”

Kristen made a rude noise. “She’s careful enough when she wants to be. It’s just she doesn’t think things through before jumping in.”

I glared at her. “When I want my mother’s advice, I’ll call her and ask.”

“Maybe you—”

Leese cut into the burgeoning argument. “Minnie. It’s just . . . we don’t want you to be next.”

“Next?” I had no idea what she meant. “Next what?” Then it sank in. They didn’t want me to be next to die. I laughed, because the idea of dying was ridiculous, especially in Kristen’s office on a summer Sunday with dessert in front of me. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Then my brain snapped back to that day downtown, that day when I’d tumbled to the street, the day I may or may not have been pushed.

But I didn’t say a word.

* * *

My thoughts were bouncing all over the place as I walked back to the houseboat through the dusky light. I thought about Nicole and her husband, Dom. Then I wondered what kind of mood Kate would be in when I returned. Which led me to thinking about Rex Stuhler. About Fawn Stuhler. About Barry Vannett. About John and Nandi Jaquay. And about everyone else who might possibly be involved with Rex’s death, which included everyone who’d been at the fireworks that night, which got me wondering what kind of progress Hal and Ash had made with Kate’s photos, which led me . . .