Лори Касс - Gone With The Whisker

“How’s Kate doing?” Holly asked.

“Fine,” I said automatically, then took my allocated brownie and fled, because I didn’t feel up to talking about my niece.

But after getting a cup of coffee and Holly’s brownie into me, it turned out I actually did want to talk, because when I went up to Graydon’s office to review the new health insurance rates and saw his family photo on his desk, I asked, “When your kids were teenagers, were you and your wife always worn out?”

Graydon focused on the pile of papers he’d been shuffling through. “Um . . .”

“Because I’m exhausted. How does anyone do this? If you’re not worrying about where they are, you’re worrying about what they’re doing. Or what they’re thinking. Or what they might think or do tomorrow.”

“It was hot last night,” Graydon said. “I’m sure that had a lot to do with it. Now, about this—”

“No, really. How does any parent survive? And there’s something else I don’t get. Every time I talk to Kate, she ends up stomping off like a two-year-old, yet her three bosses are telling me she’s a fantastic worker, and they wish all their employees were that well mannered and capable.”

Graydon nodded. “It’s a conundrum. So these rates. What do you think about—”

“And how on earth can anyone sleep that much? Some days I think I need to take her into urgent care to check for signs of life,” I said, scowling and crossing my arms. “I love her dearly, but I’m not sure I can take much more of this.”

My boss leaned back in his chair. “Minnie, if you have concerns about your niece, you should talk to her parents.”

This was excellent advice and I knew he was right. “But I don’t have any huge concerns, not really. She’s home every night at the time she says”—close enough anyway—“and my aunt says she’s fine. It’s just . . .” What was the problem, at its heart? I swallowed. “It’s just I don’t know how to talk to her.”

“And you want to.” Graydon didn’t make it a question.

“Of course! So . . . what should I do?”

“Minnie, you need to know one thing.”

“What’s that?” I perked up and prepared myself for life-changing advice.

“I don’t give advice on parenting.”

“But—”

He shook his head. “Or aunting, which is close enough. If I give advice and it doesn’t work, you’ll hate me. If I give advice and it does work, you’ll come back to me for more until I give advice that doesn’t work, and then you’ll hate me. It’s a vicious circle and we’re not getting on that particular hamster wheel. Now, let’s talk about something fun, like health insurance.”

“You won’t give me any help?” I asked in a small voice. “At all?”

He laughed. “Okay, but only this once, and only because I like you. Open your high school yearbook. Look at your picture, read what your friends wrote, remember what it felt like to be that age.”

And then we talked about insurance.

* * *

My dreams that night were a jumble of what was on my mind. The bookmobile was towing Kate, who was in a canoe with Eddie, and we were being chased by a mob led by Violet Mullaly. Courtney Drew and my sister-in-law were close behind, followed by the unusual trio of a college roommate I hadn’t seen in years, Mitchell Koyne, and Reva Shomin, who was asking why I hadn’t stopped by the deli lately. Holly was at the rear of the group, brandishing a plate of brownies and yelling that she’d cut them all to the same size so there was no need for everyone to buy rulers.

I surfaced out of slumber partly because the dream was so stupid, and partly because Eddie was lying on my chest and putting his front paw on my nose.

“And good morning to you, too.” I patted his head, which he appeared to enjoy about as much as I’d enjoyed his paw on my face. “That is what you were saying, yes? That it’s a beautiful day in northwest lower Michigan and you’re thrilled that you get to live here with me?”

“Mrr-rr.”

“Exactly,” I said, putting my feet on the floor, which was when I realized the outside temperature must have dropped, because the thought of putting my own self into a hot shower didn’t make me cringe inside. “Did you notice?” I asked Eddie.

“Mrr-rr,” he said.

“What is it with you and the double meow this morning? Did a frog get in your little kitty throat?” I eyed him, but decided against peering inside. “It almost sounds like you’re trying to say something. Mrr-aculous? No, too many syllables. Mirror? Mister? Monster? Mon—” And then I remembered something. Clella, up at Lakeview, had said Nicole taught school in Monroe, Michigan.

“And Monroe,” I said, snapping my fingers, “is where Lauren lives!”

“Mrr!”

“Sorry, you don’t know Lauren, do you? We were roommates my first two years of college, until she decided to go to massage school instead.” And from what I saw on Facebook, she was doing well. “A business, a husband, two children, three dogs. Yeah, sorry about that, buddy, she’s a definite dog person. But she’s nice, honest.”

Eddie rubbed his face against my elbow, so apparently he forgave Lauren her erroneous ways.

I reached for my phone, scrolled through my contacts, and sent her a quick text: Hey there! Have a question. Can I call you later? What time?

Lauren: In five minutes.

Minnie: Awesome! Thx!

Accordingly, right after I finished brushing my teeth, I picked up the phone and called.

“Minnie Hamilton, as I live and breathe,” Lauren said. “What’s the occasion? Life in paradise getting to be too much for you? If you need to come down here and slum a little, we can put you up. Well, if you don’t mind dirt, disorder, and dogs, not necessarily in that order.”

I laughed, delighted at her use of D words. “Why is it we don’t talk more often?”

“Stupid, I guess.”

This was undoubtedly true. But our friendship was the kind that, no matter how long it had been since we’d met, we were back into the rhythm instantly, as if we’d never been apart. It was like that with Kristen, too. And my brother and sister-in-law, come to think of it.

“So what’s up?” Lauren asked. “I’m happy to chat all morning long, or at least until my youngest wakes up, but you said you have a question.”

“Did you know Nicole Price?”

“Nicole . . .” Her voice drifted off, then sharpened. “Hang on, she’s that teacher. The one who was killed somewhere Up North. Did you know her?”

I blew out a breath and admitted that not only was she a bookmobile patron, but that I’d been there to discover her body.

“Oh, Minnie.” Lauren’s voice was full of empathy. “I’m so sorry. Sorry for Nicole and her family, too, of course, but finding someone you know who was murdered must have been horrible.”

I shook away the memory and got to the point of the call. “The weird thing is, a guy I ran into at the local nursing home is also from Monroe, and he acted all weird when I asked him about Nicole.”

“Who’s that?”

“Lowell Kokotovich.”

“Hmm. The last name is familiar, but I can’t place him. How old is he? Mid-twenties, you say?” The phone muffled for a moment and all I heard was Mom comments along the line of “Put that down right now! Do you want me to start counting? One . . . two . . .” She came back. “Sorry about that. My oldest likes to pretend she knows how to use the clothes steamer. Where were we?”

“Kokotovich,” I said, laughing.

“Right. I happen to be having lunch today with my yoga group, which includes the former high school secretary. I can ask her if you’d like.”

I did like, and said so, accompanied by my deep thanks.