Лори Касс - Wrong Side Of The Paw

She sighed and rubbed at her face with the heels of her hands. “Anyway, that’s why Brad and Mia and I have a different kind of relationship than most half siblings. We haven’t had a single argument since the day of the accident.”

The car crash hadn’t been their fault, and on some level I was sure she knew that, but I also knew nothing I could say would convince her that she didn’t deserve part of the blame. So instead of wasting my breath and her time, I moved to sit on the step beside her and put my arm around her waist.

After a while, she stopped crying, but my mind kept on whirring and went in a whole new direction. Could this accident be the reason for Dale’s murder? Could there be a connection?

Then the rational part of my brain started working again. No, that didn’t make any sort of sense. The poor guy had died, and it had been more than twenty years ago. What connection could there possibly be at this late date?

Most of me was convinced, but there was a small part of me that went on wondering.

Chapter 13

A bare minute after Leese had finished her story, a mother and her three homeschooled children jumped aboard the bookmobile, all three filled with boundless energy and enthusiastic questions about their current project of learning about the constellations. Julia shepherded the group to the appropriate section as Leese wiped her eyes with the tissue I offered.

“Sorry I came apart like that,” Leese murmured, pushing herself to her feet. “I don’t, usually. Thanks for listening.”

“What happens on the bookmobile stays on the bookmobile,” I said. “And I’m glad we were here.” I also thought her mini-breakdown had probably been overdue. Even if she and her father hadn’t had much of a relationship, Dale had still been her father and some grief would have to be worked through.

“And now,” Leese said, tapping her pile of new books, “I need you to play librarian so I can go home and drown my sorrows in fiction.”

“An excellent way to spend a weekend,” I said.

She smiled. A weak version, but still a smile. “Is that what you’re going to do?”

Not exactly. “Fiction is always a priority in my life,” I told her, which was true, though it didn’t exactly answer her question. Luckily, she didn’t notice that particular detail and went away with her books.

Julia, who’d overheard my last exchange with Leese, gave me a look that was Oscar-worthy in its complexity. One glance, and she clearly communicated sympathy, skepticism, and curiosity, along with a small dollop of exasperation. “Let me guess,” she said. “You’re not planning on reading tonight.”

I grinned. “Eventually, sure.”

My coworker rolled her eyes, but Eddie, who had remained sitting on the step after Leese had deposited him there, came over to bump me on the shin.

“Mrr,” he said.

I took his reaction as a clear indication that my plans for the post-bookmobile afternoon were good ones, so after work I dropped him off at the boardinghouse, kissed him on the top of the head, and headed out again.

This time I drove to a construction site on Janay Lake. My discussion with Mitchell about Ron Driskell, the building inspector, had got me thinking. The man himself had certainly seemed to harbor ill feelings toward Dale Lacombe, and I wondered how many people were aware of that fact.

Thus, my next step in learning more about the relationship between Dale and Ron Driskell was to trespass on a building site. Howard Upton, according to my local sources (Kristen, Rafe, Donna, and Aunt Frances) was one of the most reputable builders in the area. He was also one of the most expensive. One Friday phone call to the county’s building department provided me with the location of Upton’s current construction projects, and the chatty staff person also told me that Upton was behind on the biggest house.

“Saturday?” the guy said. “Oh, I’d lay money he’ll be working Saturday. Sunday, too. He promised the owner he’d have it done in time to host the family Thanksgiving dinner and they’re still roughing in the plumbing.”

Through hanging around Rafe’s fixer-upper, I’d learned what that meant in a limited sort of way, and what it meant for certain was that Howard Upton had a lot of work to do in the next five and a half weeks.

The building department staffer gave me enough information to locate the house. (“Address? Well, I don’t know if I can give you that. But it’s past the gas station and across the road from that farm with the fieldstone barn. You know what one I mean?”)

I did, and it didn’t take me long to drive the few miles out of Chilson and locate the site. The raw dirt and bare foundation were big hints, as was the driveway that was filled by half a dozen pickup trucks with open tailgates and in-bed toolboxes with the covers raised high.

At the site where Dale Lacombe’s crew had been working, the grounds had been littered with the detritus that came with construction: bits of cardboard and insulation, short snippets of wire, and stockpiles of dirt and stone. The workers’ trucks had been parked higgledy-piggledy, and the trucks themselves had been coated with various combinations of rust, dirt, and dents.

This site was different. Here, there was no litter or debris of any kind. There was bare dirt, but it was raked smooth and looked ready to accept plants. The trucks were parked in an orderly fashion at the side of the house and every vehicle looked, if not new, at least clean and tidy.

By the time I walked halfway to the front porch, I’d already chosen Howard Upton as my future builder—assuming I won the lottery, of course, which wasn’t likely to happen because I never played—and was toying with the location for my fantasy home when a woman who looked to be a few years older than myself walked out the front door and onto the porch.

My first assumption, that she was the owner, went by the wayside when I noted her work boots, tool belt, and nylon jacket, which was the same color as one of the trucks next to the house—the truck with an Upton Builders logo emblazoned on the driver’s side door.

“Afternoon,” she said cheerfully. “Looking for someone?”

Upton was definitely going to build my imaginary house. A contractor who hired personable help, female personable help at that, had to be something special. “Hi,” I said, walking forward. “I was hoping to talk to Howard Upton, if he has a minute.”

She laughed, making her brown ponytail bounce up and down. “Howie hasn’t had a spare minute since 2011, but I’m sure he won’t mind talking to you. Go on in.” She tipped her head in an ushering motion. “Tell him Nan sent you in,” she said, trotting down the porch steps. “And tell him I’ll be right back with that corner piece,” she called as she climbed into one of the trucks.

As her engine started, I turned to the front door and frowned. Though the opening was for a door with an arched top, the door in place was rectangular with a piece of plywood filling in the gap. Odd, I thought, but opened it and went in.

From outside, the noise had been a dull roar. Inside, my ears felt assaulted by a cacophony of noises, ranging from the whine of a circular saw to the whunk whunk of a firing nail gun to the metallic screech of ductwork being assembled. I counted five men and one woman hard at work, and from the sounds of the footsteps above my head, there were at least two more people upstairs.

I stood near the door, not wanting to get in anyone’s way, and waited for someone to note my presence. Soon enough, one of the men, a guy wearing sawdust-covered jeans and a Ferris State University sweatshirt, glanced up. He nodded at me, put down the drill he’d been using, and motioned me outside.