Лори Касс - Gone With The Whisker

It wasn’t fair, of course, and I was still trying to find a way to like the irascible forty-ish woman—we had many things in common, or at least we were the same height, which should have been a special bond—but every time I saw Violet striding down the road to the bookmobile stop, I made every attempt to be busy when she came aboard.

Julia found the situation amusing, and had no problem saying so every time Violet left. “It’s nothing personal; she’s horrible to everyone. Think of her as a character in a play,” she said, turning her palms upward in a stage gesture of openness. “A minor character who wreaks havoc in the lives of everyone else. Or think of her as a foil to display the fine qualities of the other characters.”

“I’d rather not think of her at all,” I said later that afternoon as I drove out of Chilson. Though the day had started out with blue sky, a thick bank of clouds had been creeping across from west to east, and now rain was starting to splatter on my windshield.

When I’d remembered that Violet and Nicole and Rex had been on the bookmobile at the same time, I’d spent some time trying to think of reasons for Violet to commit murder. I hadn’t come up with anything I could take to Detective Inwood, or even Ash, but that didn’t mean there couldn’t be something.

Maybe there was some long-running Hatfield and McCoy thing between the three families and Violet was carrying out her grandfather’s dying wish. Maybe she was a wannabe poet, and Rex and Nicole had seen her copying something out of a book that she was trying to get published as original work. Or maybe Kate had been on the right track with the hired killer idea, and Violet was the hiree.

Because Violet as the killer had a certain appeal. And maybe she had a darker personality than I’d ever suspected. Maybe her angry nature rippled out to widespread anger against humanity, and maybe that day on the bookmobile had tipped her over the edge.

But even as I mentally played with the concept of a murdering Violet, I was ashamed of myself. Bad Minnie, to think someone I didn’t get along with could more easily be a murderer than someone I liked. And an even worse Minnie to want to think of someone who rejected every book I recommended as a killer.

“I’m a horrible person,” I said, glancing over at Eddie.

But Eddie wasn’t there. He was back at the houseboat, probably still on the dashboard. And Kate was hanging out with one of our nearest marina neighbors, Louisa Axford. Louisa and her husband, Ted, were in their early sixties and spent a large chunk of most summers in Chilson on their boat.

Though we hadn’t seen much of them the previous year due to the birth of a grandchild, this summer the Axfords had convinced their daughter and son-in-law that they wouldn’t let the toddler drown and had brought the child north for her first Chilson summer. Kate, in what I’m pretty sure was an effort to avoid spending time with me, had volunteered to help entertain the youngster, and seemed to be happy learning the ins and outs of caring for a tiny human.

“Better her than me,” I murmured to the absent Eddie. Cleaning litter boxes was as much caretaking as I wanted to deal with at this point in my life. What I wanted to do most right now was find a connection between Rex Stuhler and Nicole Price, something that would prove to Detective I’m-so-smart-and-you-aren’t that they should be looking for one killer and not two.

“There has to be a link,” I said, mentally inking Violet onto the list of suspects and vowing to learn more about her later.

During lunch, I’d availed myself of the opportunities provided by the good taxpayers and commissioners of Tonedagana County and used their online Geographic Information System to find the location of the cabin owned by Nicole Price’s family. Luckily, she’d once mentioned her maiden name—Rodriguez—and joked that she’d married Dominic because his last name was short and sweet. “Just like him,” she’d said.

I swallowed down tears at the memory, and concentrated on traffic. Which was a total of one pickup truck at that point, but you never knew when someone might drop their cell phone and swerve. This focus kept me from dropping into heaving sobs, and I thanked every vehicle on the road between there and the gas station/convenience store that was my final destination.

It was one of those classic Up North places, clean but worn at the edges, all the coolers full of beer and soda, all the shelves only one product deep. It was also halfway between Rex and Nicole’s houses and stood an excellent chance of being a point of contact for the two of them.

The kid behind the counter made brief eye contact and said something that, if I’d been required to spell the word, would have been “Uhnh,” but which I decided to interpret as a sprightly, “Good evening, how can I help you?”

“Hi,” I said, smiling and ready to trot out the story I’d concocted on the drive. “My name is Minnie. I drive the bookmobile.”

The kid just looked at me. My smile got a bit fixed, but I kept going.

“Anyway, I’m sure you know that two of your customers recently died. They were also bookmobile patrons, and I was wondering if anyone was putting together a fund for flowers, or a contribution.”

But he was shaking his head. “I just started working here. This is, like, my second day. I don’t know anyone that’s dead.”

Not a situation I’d anticipated. “Well, who’s the person who worked here the longest? And when would she or he be working next?”

“Dunno. Like I said, I just started here.” He shrugged. Then, when I kept looking at him expectantly, he sighed. “Guess I could leave a note.”

“That would be great,” I said, beaming. “Thanks so much.”

“Yeah. Sure. Uh, have a good night.”

I drove away, pleased with myself, but when I reached the Chilson city limits, I realized something. The kid hadn’t actually reached out a hand to find a pen and paper. Sighing, I guessed the odds that he’d write anything down as unlikely at best. I parked the car and headed to the houseboat, where I could see that Eddie was indeed still on the dashboard.

“It’s hard to find good help,” I told him through the window.

“Mrr,” he said. “Mrr.”

I went inside, dropped my small purse on the counter, wrote At the house on the whiteboard, and headed up to spend the rest of the evening with Rafe. As I hurried down the dock and onto the sidewalk, I heard something I hadn’t ever heard before—giggling noises coming from my niece.

“Huh,” I said, slowing down to walk on my tiptoes, which was the only way I could see over the edge of the Axfords’ boat and onto the deck. Yep, there was Kate and the kid, playing what I vaguely remembered as patty cake.

The sight made me happy and sad at the same time. Happy Kate was enjoying herself, but sad that she never seemed that happy around me.

“What am I doing wrong?” I asked Rafe.

My beloved was in the downstairs half bath, standing on a ladder with his back to me and his attention fully on the ceiling. He had a small hand-held light in his hand and was peering at the trim he’d recently installed. “You want a list?” he asked.

I should have been ready for that response. It was the same one I’d given the other day when Rafe had watched Eddie bounce from one piece of furniture to another for no apparent reason and asked, “What is wrong with that cat?”

So, yes, I should have been prepared, but somehow I wasn’t, and felt as if I’d been slapped. Down in the base of my throat I could feel tears forming and I whirled around. I had to get away, find a dark quiet spot where I could—

Rafe, who magically managed to get down the ladder, across the room, and to the door before I did, put a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Minnie, please talk to me. What’s wrong?”