Лори Касс - Gone With The Whisker

Barb patted my arm. “He’s heard worse, don’t worry about him.”

“‘Sentimental schlock’?” I quoted a famous art critic.

“‘But quality schlock,’” Barb quoted back, citing another famous critic.

We laughed and went inside. But I made a vow to have a firm chat with Kate on the way home.

* * *

The chat, of course, didn’t go well. As soon as we got back to the marina, Kate hurled herself out of my car and stormed off.

“Where are you going?” I called. It was getting dark and I didn’t want her wandering around by herself.

“Someplace where people don’t think I’m a complete screwup,” she yelled.

I watched as she stomped down the sidewalk and up to the railing of the Axfords’ boat. “Works for me,” I muttered, and immediately felt like the worst aunt, and possibly the worst person, in the world. Sighing, I pulled out my phone. Louisa and I exchanged a short flurry of text messages, during which she indicated that Kate was always welcome and that she (Kate) would be sent home to the houseboat no later than ten thirty, which was the time that my brother and sister-in-law had laid down as Kate’s weekday curfew.

“Well.” I stood in the middle of the marina parking lot and surveyed my options. Go for a walk? Too hot. Go back to the houseboat? Possible, but the undone dinner dishes would be there waiting for me and I was very disinclined to put my hands in hot soapy water until it cooled down a bit. I sent up a short prayer that my mother never learn of my lapse in housekeeping, and walked over to the house, which was where I’d wanted to go all along.

Rafe, sitting on the porch with a sweating can of what I recognized as Keweenaw Brewing Company’s Widow Maker, saw me approach on the sidewalk. “Hey there, honey bunch. How did your night go?”

I climbed the steps and flopped into the chair next to him. “Don’t want to talk about it. But . . . really? ‘Honey bunch’? Where did that come from?”

“No idea.” He leaned over to give me a kiss and, simultaneously, opened the small cooler behind my chair. “Would you like an adult beverage?”

I wasn’t much of a drinker, but every once in a while it was just the ticket. “Do you have a tiny bottle of white wine in there?” Because something cool and light sounded perfect.

“Your wish is my command.” He flourished a small plastic bottle and wrenched the screw top off. “And look, I even have a glass.” Grinning, he poured the pale liquid into a plastic cup of questionable origin. When he handed it over, however, I didn’t see anything floating, and the rim looked clean.

“Did you bring this out here for me?” I asked.

“Sure. Let’s go with that.”

I gave him a look, which he ignored. This meant I could either pursue the issue and learn how the cup had really ended up on the porch, or I could let it go and, for the rest of my life, wonder about the possibilities.

Settling deeper into the chair, I sipped the crisp liquid and listened as he described the progress he’d made with the house. Due to the heat and humidity and the fact that not only did the house lack air-conditioning, we also hadn’t installed any ceiling fans, the progress was limited.

“Is this house ever going to get done?” I asked.

“Don’t be silly,” he said. “Of course it won’t. That’s part of the fun. I thought you knew.”

I snorted. “You and I have vastly different ideas of what constitutes fun.”

“Yes, but I have high hopes that someday you’ll come around and see how funny the bloop joke really is.”

That would never happen, because the bloop joke was horrible. However, I didn’t like to destroy a man’s dreams, so I changed the subject. “I learned something today.”

“Then it’s a good day.” Rafe tapped his beer bottle to my plastic cup. The resultant noise was an odd, soft, and ultimately unsatisfying clunk .

“Yes, but I’m not sure this is useful.”

“Does it have to be?” My beloved yawned.

“If we’re going to help solve these murders, it would be nice.”

At the word “murder,” his yawn snapped shut. “Tell me,” he said, suddenly all ears. “Maybe talking about it will help.”

So I told him about stopping at Rupert and Ann Marie’s house, about how I’d met Courtney there before, and about how I’d realized Courtney was in one of the two vehicles that had driven past the day both Rex and Nicole had been at the bookmobile.

“Not exactly,” Rafe said. “We don’t know for sure it was Courtney. What we know is that someone was driving her car. It might not have been her.”

I drank the last of my wine. He was right, but somehow I couldn’t see anyone else voluntarily getting into that rattletrap. “But I don’t see how it matters anyway,” I said. “Courtney was working the Fourth of July. She couldn’t have killed Rex.”

“Well, even if we’re figuring the two murders are connected,” Rafe said, “there could still be two killers. Isn’t that how the love quadrangle theory would play out?”

Though I wasn’t truly buying the quadrangle thing, he was right about the two-killer concept. But if Courtney was one of the killers, who was her partner? Fawn? Dominic? Barry Vannett? Lowell? Violet? Mason? One of the Jaquays? Both of them? And how was anyone on that list connected to Courtney?

Rafe reached over and took my hand. “Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll figure it out.”

I nodded, appreciating his confidence, and loving him for it.

But I wasn’t sure we were anywhere close to finding the answers.

* * *

Josh poured coffee into my mug. “How much sleep did you get last night?” he asked. “You look like crap.”

“Geez, Josh.” Holly came into the break room, shaking her head. “Hasn’t dating that cute-as-pie Mia taught you anything about women? Hearing we look like crap is the last thing we want to be told, but it’s even worse to say that first thing in the morning.”

“Whatever.” He shrugged. “Minnie doesn’t look too upset about it.”

Mainly because I knew he was accurate. When I’d looked at myself in the mirror that morning, I’d immediately looked away. “If those are brownies in there,” I said, gesturing at the container Holly had just put on the table, “I might be able to forget about my lack of sleep.” My stomach had recovered from the outreach trip, which was good for brownie eating, but not so good for calorie counting. Happily, I wasn’t doing that today.

“Is everything all right?” Holly, who was rattling through the utensil drawer, looked over her shoulder. “You’re not sick, are you?”

“Sick and tired of this heat,” I said. Josh and I hovered as Holly extracted a knife and used it to slice big brownies into the smaller brownies that would equal the number of library employees. “I can’t believe you baked last night.”

“Me either, but the kids were begging, and Bad Mom that I am, I caved.”

“Wish my mom had been as bad as you.” Josh reached for a brownie and yelped when Holly slapped his hand. “Hey!”

“Ladies first,” she said. “And quit that face. Minnie’s a lady, even if you’re too dumb to see it.”

I could see that the conversation was about to devolve into a bickering session, so I tossed up a diversion. “Do either of you know Courtney Drew?”

“The name isn’t familiar. Is she from here?” Josh asked.

Now that was an excellent question. But given her relative youth, I figured the odds were good. “I think so. She’s about ten years younger than us.” I described her, but their faces remained blank.

“There are some Drews over in Dooley,” Holly said. “Could be related. Why are you asking?”

I thanked them, saying that I’d met her out at Rupert and Ann Marie’s. But I was disappointed, because what I’d wanted was firsthand knowledge of the young woman, an assessment of her character, that kind of thing. Also, an estimate as to how likely she was to commit murder.