Лори Касс - Cat With A Clue

Kristen nodded. “I know.”

I took another bite, then asked, “Say, who should I talk to about the DeKeysers?” Kristen and Rafe, being Chilson born and bred, were my sources for insider knowledge. If they didn’t know the dirt on someone, there was a roughly 99.9 percent chance they’d know someone who did. And since I was convincing myself that Andrea’s death was somehow linked to Talia DeKeyser’s passing, getting background on the DeKeysers was a good starting place.

My friend stared at me. “Does this have to do with Andrea Vennard’s murder? Don’t you dare tell me you’re getting mixed up in that. Remember what happened last time.”

“Yeah, I ruined my cell.” The water resistance of cell phones clearly needed to be improved. Sure, I’d accidentally immersed the thing for nearly twenty minutes, but still.

“And you were almost killed,” Kristen said accusingly.

“Like the man said, the report of my death was an exaggeration.”

“Is that Shakespeare?”

“Mark Twain,” I said, sighing and shaking my head. “See what a PhD in biochemistry got you? An unrounded education.” I finished the last bite of dessert and laid my fork across the plate. “Can I come and watch the filming?”

“Not a chance.”

“Please? I promise I won’t make faces at you.”

She snorted. “Now, that’s a promise that you can’t possibly keep. See? You’re making a face right now.”

I flattened my expression, which felt really strange. Something else I needed to work on. Next week, maybe. “So, who should I talk to about the DeKeysers?”

“No one,” she muttered.

“You might as well tell me. Otherwise I’ll ask Rafe, and he’ll tell me without any lectures.”

Kristen forked in another bite. She swallowed, then said, “Well, if you insist on being stupid about this—”

“I do.”

“—you should talk to Dana Coburn.”

I’d never heard the name. “Is that a female Dana or a male Dana?”

Kristen grinned, her good humor suddenly restored. “That’s for me to know and you to find out.”

Since Kristen wasn’t being helpful, on the way home I stopped at Rafe’s house to get more information. He was in his dining room, up on a six-foot stepladder and installing crown molding.

“Looks nice,” I said, hitching myself up onto a battered wooden stool.

“You think?” He eyed the length of trim he’d just attached. “I wasn’t sure about the proportions. Maybe half an inch more height would be better.”

“Nope. It’s good just the way it is,” I said, exactly as if I knew what I was talking about.

“All righty, then.” Rafe came down the ladder, moved it over a few feet, and went back up with another piece of trim in his hand.

I watched his efficient movements. Out of school, he had a tendency to play up his chosen role as an Up North redneck wannabe, but with only me for an audience, he was mostly himself. With his longish black hair, slim build, white teeth, and cheerful disposition, I wasn’t sure why he didn’t have a girlfriend or a wife, but, then again, maybe all the women in town knew him as well as I did.

“What’s so funny?” he asked.

“Do you know a Dana Coburn?”

He laughed. “Kristen give you the name?”

“Yes.” Lying was pointless, since if I denied it he’d call and ask.

“Did she tell you anything about Dana?”

“No. Why?”

He laughed again. “Then I’m not going to tell you anything, either.”

“Not even an address? A phone number? How about where she—or he—works?”

“Works?” He snorted.

“Stop that,” I said. “You sound like a pig rooting around for truffles.”

“Yeah? How many pigs have you seen up close and personal, city girl?”

“You’d be surprised what I see out on the bookmobile, Mr. Niswander,” I said loftily. Which was true, although it hadn’t yet included many pigs. But with the bookmobile you never knew.

“And what do pigs eat, Ms. Smarty Pants?”

“Anything they want,” I said promptly.

There was a short silence. “Okay, you got me,” he said. “Let me make a phone call, and we’ll see if I can give you Dana’s address. Hang on a second—my cell’s in the kitchen.”

He clambered down the ladder and scuffed into what I called a kitchenlike area, since it lacked cabinets, dishes, and any silverware other than the ones that came with takeout. What it had was a utility sink, a battered refrigerator, and a hot plate, and I hadn’t yet figured out how Rafe had wangled an occupancy permit out of the building inspector.

I heard a few sentences of muffled conversation, and then the refrigerator door opened and closed. Rafe returned, cracking open a water bottle, another one under his arm.

He handed me the open bottle and I took it, asking, “So? Am I in or out?”

“In, with qualifications.” He tipped his head backward and took a long drink, then went back up the ladder, noisily crimping the empty plastic bottle and tossing it halfway across the room to land in a pile of sawdust and scrap wood. “Hand me that hammer, will you?” he asked.

I slid off the stool and reached for the tool he’d dropped on top of a box as he’d gone into the kitchenlike area. “What are,” I asked, handing up the hammer, “the qualifications of which you speak?”

He turned and blinked down at me. “Oh, right. Dana. You know that house on Fourth Street, the big white one with the columns that’s set back a little ways from the other houses? That’s where Dana lives.”

“Okay.” I’d walked past that house dozens of times on my way back and forth to my aunt’s and had often wondered who lived there. All I had to do was ask someone, but I’d never remembered to actually do so. “You still haven’t told me the qualifications.”

He pulled a handful of small nails from a pouch on his tool belt and put most of them into his mouth. “Stop there anytime tomorrow morning,” he said around the nails. “All you have to do is be interesting.”

I frowned. “It’s hard to hear you when there’s a pound of nails in your mouth. Because I could have sworn you said I had to be interesting, and that doesn’t make any sense.”

“No?” Rafe chuckled. “That’s because you haven’t met Dana.”

And, try as I might to get more details, he wouldn’t say anything else about the mysterious Dana Coburn.

* * *

The next day was Friday. I’d scheduled myself the morning off for an eye doctor’s appointment. I knew she’d want to dilate my pupils for retina-examination purposes, and since my vision was nearly worthless for three hours afterward, there was no way I’d be able to work. I’d planned to go grocery shopping—I was down to condiments and wilted lettuce in my refrigerator—but I eschewed that in favor of tracking down Dana Coburn.

Soon after the appointment, I knocked on the front door of the house on Fourth Street. It was what I’m sure my father, an engineer who should have been an architect, had taught me was a Greek Revival. Columns ran from the porch floor to the bottom of the pedimented gable. There was a heavy cornice over a wide and plain frieze, and, above all, it was perfectly symmetrical. Two windows left of the front door, two windows right. Six columns across the front, with the front door centered between numbers three and four. Even the entry mat was perfectly centered.

The perfection was the teensiest bit disconcerting, and I’d had to make a conscious decision between tiptoeing my way across the front porch so I didn’t ruin the symmetry with a single speck of dirt, and kicking the entry mat to an odd angle. And there was a puddle out on the sidewalk that I’d walked around. What would the house do if I tracked mud onto the porch?