Лори Касс - Booking The Crook

Aunt Frances rolled her eyes, but didn’t actually force me back to the table and put the coffee mug in my hands. “When did Darren say they were going to get out there?” she asked.

Darren was the bookmobile’s mechanic and he’d been the first number I’d called after dialing 911 and Rafe. I’d called Darren even before I’d called Aunt Frances, a tiny little fact that she had no reason ever to learn.

I glanced at the wall clock. “The tow truck should be on its way. I’ll know after lunch what Darren thinks the damage will be.” And then I’d be on the phone with the insurance people. My afternoon would be nothing but fun.

Aunt Frances dropped a handful of silverware into the strainer. “Sometimes I wonder if I should have gone into the car repair business instead of woodworking.” She grinned. “But then I remember I can’t stand the feel of grease under my fingernails.”

Before I could acknowledge that could be an occupational difficulty, she said, “Forgot to tell you. Celeste must have read about your bookmobile escapade on Facebook. She sent me an e-mail this morning and her exact words—her only words—were, ‘Tell Minnie to keep her feet warm.’”

I smiled and wiggled my toasty-warm toes. Cousin Celeste understood priorities. It was entirely possible we’d get along just fine.

My phone, sitting in the middle of the table, dinged with an incoming text. I wandered over to look. It was from Trock: Had my scout look at Red House Café, like you said. Will fit in perfect for a spring episode since we need a replacement restaurant for one that closed. (Off to buy a tux for the wedding. Always wanted one, couldn’t justify until now. Life is good.)

I texted him a quick thanks with lots of exclamation points, and hummed a happy tune. It was good to have friends, and every once in a while it was great to have a friend who was the star of a popular television restaurant show.

Aunt Frances, still washing, said, “Forgot to tell you. Yesterday I met up with Land Aprelle.”

My ears perked up. “You did? How did that go?”

“Seems odd he’s only a year younger than I am,” she said. “But age is a funny thing. Anyway, I did what you suggested, stopped at his house and didn’t go away until he showed me some of his pieces.”

I waited, but she didn’t say anything. She’d fallen into a fast and sudden silence, and it was clear from the way she was missing half the soapsuds as she plied the spray nozzle that her mind wasn’t on what she was doing.

“And?” I prompted. “What did you think of Land’s work?”

“What?” She blinked out of her trance. “Oh. It’s outstanding. Truly amazing stuff. I’m still trying to figure out how he did the interior hinge work on that box. He said he didn’t use a biscuit joiner or a hand chisel, so how on earth . . .”

She went quiet again, but before she went to a mental dimension where I couldn’t follow, I asked, “The big summer art show. Is his stuff good enough?”

My aunt gave a very unladylike snort. “Are you kidding me? He’ll be the star of the show and I’m going to make sure he prices his pieces right. He has a dining table inlaid with the state of Michigan, showing inland lakes, for crying out loud, that he had priced for a few hundred dollars. He’s an idiot if he doesn’t sell that one for thousands.”

Smiling, I dried and put things away as she talked. After last night, hearing some good news was soothing. “You’re still my favorite woodworker,” I said. “Especially since you’re making that wedding present for Collier.”

“Ah, he’s a decent kid,” she said. “By the way, I hear Anya and Bax Tousely are talking again.”

“Really? Where did you hear that?” Social media wasn’t her thing.

“I have my sources,” she said airily. She glanced at me and relented. “Emily Tousely, one of my students, is Bax’s younger sister. Before class started, I heard her chatting with a friend. She was all excited that her brother was talking to Anya again. He’d been worrying about it for days, trying to get up the courage to call, and he finally did.”

Then that day at Lakeview, the look on his face probably hadn’t been sadness or guilt, but anxiety. So much for my powers of observation.

But at least a few things were starting to right themselves for the Bennethums. Rowan’s killer was behind bars, which should help Collier come to grips with his mother’s death; Anya and Bax might get back together; and the mystery of Neil’s absence had also resolved itself.

Last night at the sheriff’s office, just as I was getting ready to leave, he’d returned Ash’s call and apologized for his recent noncommunication, saying that he wasn’t dealing well with Rowan’s death and had checked into a personal retreat center, and one of the conditions of staying there was to leave all electronics behind. He’d told Anya and Collier where he was going, but being one of those guys who felt therapy wasn’t manly, he’d asked them to keep quiet about it.

I almost felt guilty about briefly suspecting him of his wife’s murder, but not quite, since I still thought he’d let down his children by leaving when they needed him most.

“Speaking of weddings,” I said, “we should talk about yours.”

My aunt scrunched up her face. “Do we have to? Because I’d really rather not.”

“Yes, because I have the answers to all your problems.”

“How nice,” Aunt Frances muttered. “I can hardly wait.”

“Oh, ye of little faith,” I said, and I was probably smirking a bit, because I really did have all the answers. They’d come to me as I was tromping about in the cedar forest, fully formed solutions to problems that, compared to freezing to death while running from a guy with a gun, were easily solved.

“Problem number one,” I said, “is the wedding and honeymoon venue. You wanted it to be in Bermuda, but that just isn’t possible. The solution is to have the wedding here—and I’ll offer the library’s community room as a location—and have the honeymoon in Bermuda. You don’t get to have a destination wedding, but you still get to go to Bermuda, and isn’t that what you really wanted?”

I knew it was, because she’d talked about visiting Bermuda for years. The destination wedding angle had been a spark of an idea that had managed to find enough fuel to grow, but it was time to toss a final bucket of water on it and move on.

“Hmm.” Aunt Frances slowly slipped the plates into the sink. “You know, you could be right.”

“The other real problem,” I said with confidence, “isn’t directly a wedding problem, but is more of a post-wedding problem. You hate Otto’s kitchen and can’t stand the idea of cooking in it.”

“I’ll get used to it,” she said stoically. Then she completely undercut the stiff-upper-lip attitude by sighing and adding, “Eventually.”

“Or not.”

Aunt Frances frowned. “Don’t toy with me, young lady. What are you talking about?”

“Last night when you were making hot chocolate, Otto and I had a little chat. No, don’t look like that. He said he always suspected you hated the kitchen and was already planning a renovation. He’s just going to move it up a little, is all. Give him the name of your favorite kitchen designer and he’ll get an appointment as soon as possible.”

My aunt stared at me, slack jawed. “You didn’t. He didn’t. He’s not.”

“He is,” I said. “And if the timing works out—and if you make decisions as fast as you normally do, it should—the work can happen while the two of you are in Bermuda.”

Though her jaw moved up and down a couple of times, no words came out. Since I didn’t know what else to do, I kept going.