Лори Касс - Gone With The Whisker

“Hmm.” Julia did some focused typing. “Let’s look at a broader list.”

“Of what?”

“People who checked out books in this part of the county. Just looking at the names might jog something in our memories. Turning over all stones, yes?” She entered the specifics into the system, then turned the laptop so we both could see. “We’ve stopped out here four times since Memorial Day. Here’s a side-by-side comparison.”

Though I was pretty sure it was going to be a wasted effort, I expended the energy to get up and study the list. Eddie, who was sleeping pancake-flat on the dashboard, ignored it.

After a few minutes, I shook my head. “There are some anomalies, but we know the why of most of them.”

Julia nodded. “Darla Holton and John Currie didn’t show up for the first July stop because they both had family in from all over the country and didn’t have time.”

“Mrs. Karden showed up in July but not in June because of her husband’s surgery.”

“Bob Balogh was only here in June because he and his wife are taking a road trip up the Alaska Highway.”

“And Mary Santos was only here this last time because she’s been working double shifts at the brewing company but finally got a day off.” I was once again reminded of how much we knew about our patrons, information that came easily on the bookmobile but would never have happened in the bricks and mortar library. It was just different out here.

“There are a couple of others,” Julia said. “But they’re all absences, not presences, if you know what I mean.”

Somehow, I did. “And it’s hard to see how an absence could have anything to do with a motive for murder.”

“Really?” Julia did the one-eyebrow thing. “I can see all sorts of reasons. A husband promising to pick up a book, but forgetting.” She tsk’ed. “A regular patron, instead of coming here, instead dallied with the mail carrier and the spouse caught them.”

I could tell she was winding up for a long litany of murder motives that she’d read or imagined or acted in. “Yes, fine, there are probably an infinite number of possibilities, but knowing our regular bookmobile patrons, and of who is missing, can you think of any realistic ones?”

“Well,” she said, “if you’re going to insist on reality, boring as it is, then no. I can’t think of anything.”

My brain circled around lazily. “So we have Violet, who was angry at both Rex and Nicole for checking out books she wanted, and . . .” I stopped. It was starting to feel like a story problem in algebra class. “So,” I said slowly, “could something possibly have happened when Nicole and Rex were here on the bookmobile that led to their murders?”

“Seems far-fetched.” Julia yawned. “Because wouldn’t Violet be dead, too? And the two of us? Oh, I know, you think we’re in danger, but I haven’t seen hide nor hair of a killer in the last three weeks, so I feel pretty safe.”

I wished I did.

* * *

That evening I deposited Eddie back onto the houseboat and checked the whiteboard for Kate’s whereabouts. She’d written, Working late at Pam’s, sleeping up the hill at Aunt Frances and Otto’s if that’s okay , followed by a stick figure with beads of sweat pouring off that, if you used a lot of imagination, could have looked like Kate.

I stood there, staring at the board. So there was hope. Hope that I wasn’t the worst aunt in the history of the universe. Hope that the two of us would eventually grow into a happy and comfortable niece-aunt relationship. Hope things would all work out.

Smiling to myself, smiling at the world in general, I headed back outside, where it had grown even hotter and more humid though I wouldn’t have thought it possible.

“How do people in Florida stand it?” I asked.

Louisa Axford, who was starting charcoal in one of the marina’s grills installed for the boaters, looked up. “Stand what?” she asked.

“This weather.” I took the neck of my T-shirt and fluffed it up and down, trying to get some air movement. “Hot. Humid. Bleah.”

“You have the question all wrong,” Louisa said, glancing up at the hazy sky. “It’s not how do people in Florida stand the heat, it’s how do people Up North stand the winters?” She shivered, and I wasn’t sure it was fake. “Cold and snowy for weeks at a time, with maybe a single day of sunshine a month to tide you over? No thank you.”

I’d long ago stopped trying to convince Louisa of the joys of winter—that the transformations a fresh snowfall wrought were wondrous, that the one sunny day was so gorgeously brilliant it made all the cloudy ones fade from memory, and that venturing out into winter’s sharp cold made you feel brave and adventurous, even when you weren’t—and we’d agreed to disagree about what climate was best for human habitation.

Louisa dribbled the charcoal with lighter fluid and lit it with a match. She eyed the conflagration, poked at the pile of bricks with tongs, and nodded with satisfaction. “Steak should be done in forty-five minutes. Do you and Kate want to come over? We have extra.”

I explained Kate’s whereabouts. “And I need to get to the house. Rafe promised to pick up dinner.”

“Sub sandwiches?” She laughed. “Veggie with extra cheese for you?”

“When you have a good rut going, it’s best to stay in it,” I said.

“Unless you’re tired of your nice, comfy rut,” Louisa said. “I hear it happens.”

“I’ll let you know.” I sketched a wave and walked off, stopping at the front steps of the house. There was a law enforcement officer on the porch, slouched in a chair with his feet up on the railing, paging through what looked like a recent copy of Field & Stream. “Are you here to help or hinder?” I asked.

Ash looked up. “Can’t I do both?”

“Sure,” I said, climbing the wood stairs and pulling a chair around to match Ash’s arrangement, which looked so comfortable I couldn’t believe I hadn’t tried it myself. “Just not at the same time. Where’s Rafe?”

“Hunting and gathering.”

“Are you staying? Please say yes. We need to install upper cabinets in the master bath, and my height efficiency isn’t exactly a help in this case.”

He nodded. “That’s why Rafe’s getting three subs plus loaded potato skins.”

“Perfect.” I sat and put my feet up on the railing. It was a stretch for me, but still comfortable, and I gave a sigh of contentment. “What would be nice out here is a ceiling fan.”

Ash eyed me. “What, for the six days a year it gets this hot?”

“Do you have a problem with that?” I asked, closing my eyes.

He turned a page. “Not really. But I’m guessing it’s not going to be at the top of Rafe’s punch list.”

Though I figured a ceiling fan was more a change order than a punch list item, Ash was probably right. “Speaking of murders,” I said, and ignored Ash’s heavy sigh. And then before he could object that I was making him work when he was off duty, I went on. “First off, I have to tell you about Kate.”

“How’s she doing?” Ash asked. “She was pretty upset after the fireworks, and I get it. Stumbling across a dead body on TV or the movies isn’t anything like it is in real life.”

No, it wasn’t. On the screen there was no indication that the sounds, tastes, and smells that accompanied such a traumatic experience would forever remind you of what had happened. I figured that, the rest of my life, whenever I heard Beyoncé’s “Crazy in Love,” I’d think about Nicole, because that song was playing on the radio as we drove home that awful afternoon. And I wasn’t exactly looking forward to the fireworks next July. So if it was this bad for me, who was reasonably close to a fully functional adult, how must the adolescent Kate be feeling?