Лори Касс - Wrong Side Of The Paw

“It might work to her advantage,” I said. “Even if this place gets busy enough to be a destination, it’s not likely that people will eat here twice in a weekend.”

Otto, a retired accountant with an astute business sense, nodded. “Clustering makes sense, particularly for a tourist town.”

My aunt picked up her menu, gave it a short glance, then set it down again. “Before I even think about food, I need to ask if you’re okay. I know you’ll say you’re fine, but it’s been a week since you had that horrible experience of finding Dale Lacombe and I want to know if you’re having nightmares.”

I gave her a sideways grin. “I’m fine.”

Aunt Frances looked at Otto— See? I told you— then back at me. “I notice you didn’t answer the question about the nightmares.”

The chair in which I was sitting was suddenly uncomfortable. Apparently my aunt knew more about my sleeping habits than I’d realized. I shifted a little and repeated myself. “I’m fine.” Because I was sure that if I talked about the dreams that I was still having, the dreams with those staring blue eyes, the talking would fasten the images even deeper into my brain and that was the last thing I wanted. The dreams would go away. Eventually. They always did.

“Hmm.” Aunt Frances studied me. Then, just when I was afraid she was going to play the Aunt Card ( Talk to me about this or I’ll call your mother ), she said, “I like Leese. It’s only because of her mother that she turned out so well.”

“You knew Dale?” Of course she did. Though my aunt wasn’t in the construction business, she was a master woodworker and there was overlap between the two circles.

“To my great regret, yes.” She picked up her menu, but kept an eye on me. “You’re going to work on finding his killer, aren’t you?”

I grinned. “Might as well keep my eyes and ears open.”

“Hmmph. The problem with Dale will be narrowing down the suspects. He was a miserable excuse for a builder. He lied to clients. He used cheap materials and billed as if he’d installed high end. He was an embarrassment to the building trade,” she said, enunciating each consonant precisely. “He was a wretched employer and I’m sure he cheated on his taxes.”

Otto glanced up from his menu. “Did he kick puppies, too?”

“I wouldn’t put it past him,” she said feelingly. Then she sighed. “But he didn’t deserve to die like that. No one does.”

It wasn’t like my aunt to be so negative about someone. Her default tendency was to live and let live. “You sound as if you had a bad experience with him,” I said.

“He owes me thousands for a custom dining table and chairs I made for him.”

I went very still, suddenly nervous that my aunt was going to be a murder suspect.

“Oh, don’t look like that.” She smiled. “It was almost twenty years ago. If I was going to pitch him off a tall building, I would have done it then and there.”

Relief blew through me. “Not that you’re holding a grudge,” I said.

“What would make you say that?” She laughed. “Speaking of the past, there’s something we want to talk to you about.”

“Oh?” I was delighted at the use of the “we” pronoun. My aunt had been alone for so long that I hadn’t thought she would ever find a life companion. Or even look for one. “I know I’m too old, but I’m probably still short enough to be the flower girl at your wedding.”

Aunt Frances ignored my gestures of tossing rose petals from a basket. “It’s about the boardinghouse,” she said.

“More specifically,” Otto said, “it’s about the future of the boardinghouse.”

“Oh.” I clutched my menu, making its edges curl around. “It’s your decision, not mine.”

“Duh,” my aunt said. “But I still want your opinion. You have a stake in this, too.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll find somewhere else to live during the winter. I’m sure it won’t be hard to find some summer people giddy to have someone to rent their place in the off-season.” And now that I’d come up with the idea, I was pretty sure it was a solid one.

“Good to know you won’t be homeless,” Aunt Frances said, “but that’s not what I meant. What I want to know is, do you want the boardinghouse to continue?”

My throat was suddenly so tight it was hard to talk. “Please tell me you’re not asking me to run the place in the summers,” I squeaked out.

It wasn’t just the thought of arranging breakfasts and dinners for the six boarders and myself all summer long, which was bad enough. It was also the thought of continuing my aunt’s unspoken matchmaking projects. I still wasn’t sure if I approved of the endeavor, but there was no denying that my aunt’s careful perusal of applications and her subsequent selections had resulted in many permanent partnerships.

“Not what I asked,” Aunt Frances said. “No offense, but you’d be horrible at it.”

I put on a fake hurt expression. “Didn’t you always tell me I could do anything I wanted?”

“And you can. But it also makes sense to play to your strengths, which are library inclined, not boardinghouse related. Back to my question. Do you want the boardinghouse to continue after I marry Otto and move into his house?”

Though her voice was matter-of-fact, I could tell she was deeply serious. So I thought about it. I thought about the front porch swing and the fireplace. I thought about the dining room that looked over the tree-filled backyard and the bathroom with the claw-foot tub. I heard the slap of the wooden screen door and the mealtime laughter that filled the dining room.

With a blink, I came out of my memories. “Yes,” I said. “I want the boardinghouse to continue. I don’t want the tradition to end.”

“Okay, then.” Aunt Frances nodded.

And that seemed to be that.

• • •

I spent the afternoon at the reference desk. My first customer was an elderly gentleman who wanted some help researching an ancestor who may or may not have homesteaded on property in Tonedagana County. After I sent him to the county building, the next person to ask for assistance was a seven-year-old girl who wanted to know how long it would take her to become a doctor.

Her thin shoulders sagged a little when she’d learned the harsh truth, but her chin had a determined look by the time she walked away. I watched her go, patting myself on the back once again for choosing the best job in the world, when I felt a presence at my elbow.

“Minnie, do you have a minute?” the presence said.

I turned. It was Brad Lacombe. “Sure. What can I do for you?”

“Leese said you were helping her and Mom go through Dad’s papers.”

“Sort of.” Absentmindedly, I rubbed the backs of my knuckles. My skin still felt dry from shuffling all those folders. “Mostly I just happened to be there when your mom showed up with the boxes.”

He shook his head. “Yeah. I wanted to apologize for that. There’s no reason for you to get caught up in our mess.”

“I didn’t mind.” In retrospect, the entire exercise had been interesting. I’d learned a lot more than I’d ever expected to about lawsuits and court documents, plus I’d had the entertainment of listening to the bickering between Leese and her stepmother. There had been tension, certainly, but there had also been a strong current of respect and a feeling of . . . well, of family.

Brad gave a snorting laugh that was eerily reminiscent of Leese. “Either you’re nuts or you’re lying.”

I smiled. “Since I’m a horrible liar, I must be nuts.”

He instantly colored a dark red. “Oh, geez, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . .”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said, laughing. “I’ve been called worse things. And besides, you might be right.”