Лори Касс: Booking The Crook

“It’s so sad,” I finished, blowing my nose with a tissue. The nose-blowing was hampered somewhat by Eddie, who’d heaved himself off my aunt’s lap and trundled over to mine. His purrs were so loud that I could feel them in my inner ear. “Neil’s going to be lost without his wife,” I said, “and the twins have lost their mother forever. Yes, they’re in college and don’t need her like little kids would, but it’s still going to be hard.”

Aunt Frances eyed me. “You’re not blaming yourself, are you?”

“No.” I laid my hand on Eddie’s back. “She was gone before we got there, so—” I stopped. “If we’d arrived earlier. If I hadn’t waited until the end of the bookmobile stop. If—”

“Stop.” My aunt got up and came over to sit next to me. “Don’t go there. Don’t you dare go there. Your overdeveloped sense of guilt may lead you in that direction, but you are not responsible.”

“Mrr,” Eddie said, twisting his head around to glare at me.

I smiled faintly. “It seems to be unanimous.”

“We can widen the sample if you’d like.” Aunt Frances gave me a quick hug. “I can call Rafe. Then I’ll call your parents. Your brother and sister-in-law. Kristen and your college roommates and everyone at the library. They’ll all say the same thing. It wasn’t your fault. And I’m willing to bet if the tables were turned, you’d say the same thing to me.”

“Probably,” I murmured. Then, after thinking about it for a moment, I said, “You’re right. I would tell you that.”

“Then it’s settled.” She gave me a quick hug, patted Eddie’s head, and went back to her couch. “No more guilt. Yes, Rowan’s death was a shock, but you did everything you could.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I saluted her.

“Quit that.” She tucked the blanket around her legs. “Now you can ask about my day.”

I blinked. It was a very un-Aunt-Frances-like statement. If she had something to tell me, she simply told me. “How was your day?”

“The classroom was fine. There’s nothing like the combination of power tools and nineteen-year-olds to get the blood flowing. It’s the other stuff that makes me want to pull my hair out.”

My aunt’s hair looked fine, so whatever it was couldn’t be too horrible. “What kind of things?”

She slumped down. “Wedding stuff,” she said darkly.

I let out a breath I hadn’t known I was holding. Wedding problems were solvable, and my aunt’s wedding problems were ones for me, the maid of honor, to deal with. I sat up and put my shoulders back. If I listened carefully, I might be able to hear the William Tell Overture, a clear indication that someone was riding in to save the day. “Any particular issue, or just in general?”

Aunt Frances sighed and slid a few inches farther down. If I squinted a little, I saw her as she might have looked forty-five years ago in the throes of teenage angst.

“It’s not the wedding so much as the guests.” She crossed her arms and dropped her chin to her chest. “Makes me think we should have just walked to the county building and been married by the magistrate.”

That ship, however, had sailed months ago. She and Otto, who bore a strong resemblance to Paul Newman, had told oodles of people about their plans for a destination wedding. If they changed their minds at this point, they’d be opening themselves up to the public censure a small town could deal out. Aunt Frances would shrug it off, but she and I both knew that Otto, a newcomer, was still figuring out how to fit into the fabric of Chilson life. A sudden change in wedding plans would not help.

“What’s wrong with the guests?” I’d helped my aunt and Otto put together the list and it wasn’t very long, which was part of the point of having a destination wedding in the first place. “Is anyone complaining about having to go to Bermuda?”

The hotel they’d chosen was reasonably priced. And Otto, who was retired but had been a very successful accountant, was subsidizing the cost of the airfare for a few people, myself included. (I’d protested, but not very loudly.)

“It’s not the guests we invited,” Aunt Frances said. “It’s the ones we didn’t. Two teachers at the college asked when their invitations would show up. When we were in Harbor Springs the other day, getting sandwiches at Gurney’s, we ran into my bridge partners from thirty years ago, who wanted to know about their invites. And a few minutes ago, I got an e-mail from an old high school friend who’d heard about the wedding and wanted to know the date so she could make her plans!” she almost wailed.

I slid Eddie off my lap and went over to the other couch. I put an arm around my aunt. “There, there,” I said soothingly. My aunt Frances was the most unflappable person I’d ever met. To see her like this was wholly unexpected.

“You think this is funny, don’t you?” she asked.

I could not tell a lie. “A little.”

“Please don’t tell Kristen,” Aunt Frances said.

My best friend, Kristen Jurek, was a force of nature and was in the middle of planning her own wedding. I was her maid of honor, too, but Kristen was in Key West for the winter and to date my involvement had been limited to confirming Kristen’s choices. “Scout’s honor,” I promised, making the official salute.

“Excellent.” My aunt pushed herself up. “Having her know I’ve gone all bridezilla is not something I want to live down.”

“You’re as likely to be a bridezilla as Eddie is to stop shedding hair. This is your wedding and you have every right to make your own guest list. You two wanted a destination wedding and a small group of friends and relatives attending. It’s your dream and you need to hold fast to it.”

Aunt Frances looked around. “Where’s the soundtrack? That speech should have been scored with harps and violins.”

I shook my head. “Trombones and trumpets.”

“No arguments,” she said severely. “I am the bride, remember?”

“Mrr,” my cat said.

“See? Eddie agrees with me.”

“He would,” I muttered, but on the inside I was smiling, because my aunt’s dark mood had lifted. There was no way that I was going to sleep well because I’d keep reliving that afternoon’s eternal minutes of kneeling in the snow, but at least Aunt Frances had a good shot at it.

• • •

The following week I was in my office, staring bleary-eyed at an article I was writing for the library’s newsletter. Or, more accurately, trying to write. Every sentence I wrote looked stupid, boring, or both. Mostly both.

Frustrated, I banged my computer’s mouse on the desk.

“Problems?” asked a male voice.

“Only with my brain,” I said, looking up in surprise. “To what do I owe the honor?”

The tall man standing in the doorway was none other than Detective Hal Inwood of the Tonedagana County Sheriff’s Office. He was the only fully certified detective the sheriff had at the moment, and the number of hours he worked was showing. He’d retired from a job downstate for a large metropolitan police force and moved north, only to find himself with too much time on his hands. Now he had the opposite problem and the sheriff was doing all she could to keep him happy. Deputy Ash Wolverson, my former boyfriend, was training to become the county’s second detective, but he had almost a year to go. I hoped Hal made it that long.

“Do you have a few minutes?” Hal asked.

“Um, sure.” I stood, picked a towering stack of books and papers up off the guest chair, and dropped them on the floor, where they’d probably stay until spring. “All yours.”

Inwood sat, his long arms and legs folding themselves tidily. “What are you working on?” He nodded at my computer.