Лори Касс - Pouncing On Murder

I’d just decided that the rhythm of its humming was close to the beat of “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida” when I heard footsteps coming my way.

“Ms. Hamilton,” Detective Inwood said. “I had a feeling it was you.”

Since I was sure the desk deputy had described who was up front and since there probably weren’t many other five-foot-tall women in the county with curly black hair named Hamilton, I didn’t applaud his extrasensory powers. “Don’t you ever get a day off?” I asked. “You do know it’s Sunday, right?”

He plucked at his golf shirt. It was a faded maroon and had paint spatters of numerous colors across the front. “This,” he said, pointing to a light yellow, “is the color in the paint can that’s still open in my downstairs bathroom. I hope to return before it dries.”

I squinched my eyes at him. “You didn’t leave the brush out, did you?”

“Wrapped in plastic and in the refrigerator. Now. I hear you ran into Neva Chatham.”

“Hang on,” I said. “Please tell me you didn’t come in just to talk to me.”

“Sorry, Ms. Hamilton.” The detective smiled faintly. “You are not the sun around which my world revolves. Another situation demanded my attention. This is just a little bonus for me.”

I almost laughed out loud. In another five years or so, the detective and I might come around to having a decent working relationship.

“Neva Chatham,” he said. “What were the circumstances?”

So I told the story again, starting with driving down the road, minding my own business, and ending with me sending my car far faster down a rutted road than was good for it. Or me.

“Uh-huh.” Inwood leaned against the counter and put his hands in his pockets. Which meant he wasn’t writing anything down. “So you were trespassing.”

“You’d have to get a surveyor out there to be sure,” I said a little sharply. “There’s a strong possibility the boat was inside the road right-of-way.”

Inwood’s grin came and went so quickly that I wasn’t sure I’d even seen it. “Ms. Hamilton, what exactly are you here for? To press charges? And what would those be? Mrs. Chatham didn’t touch you, so there’s no bodily harm involved. And she didn’t damage your vehicle, so there’s no property damage.”

My mouth opened and shut. What was going on? “A woman threatened me with a firearm,” I said carefully.

Detective Inwood smiled. It was a good look on him; he should do it more often. “And if you hadn’t been poking around her boat, this never would have happened, now, would it? All you have to do to avoid a situation like this in the future is to stay away from that Hacker-Craft.”

I frowned, wondering how he knew what kind of boat it was, but strong-mindedly stayed on topic. “Aren’t you concerned that she’ll hurt someone? What if she goes after a child with that gun?”

Inwood’s smile went even wider. “I don’t think we have to worry about that, Ms. Hamilton. Now, please don’t tell me you want me to spend my Sunday afternoon trudging out to see a little old lady and then writing up a long report.”

“She threatened me with a firearm,” I said again.

“Did she really?” Inwood asked. “What were her exact words?”

“That . . .” I thought back an hour. “She said to get away.” And there it was. Not a threat, not really. Although you’d think having a gun in her hand would make it one.

“So that’s it.” The detective nodded. “Not sure something like that will come to anything. You’re welcome to talk to the prosecutor, of course, if you’d like to pursue the case.”

Oh, right. As if that would get me anywhere. First thing the county prosecuting attorney would want was the police report, and since the pertinent police didn’t look as though they were about to move a muscle, getting a report was going to be a bit of a problem.

“That sounds like a fine idea. Hope your paint hasn’t dried up,” I said politely, and was rewarded by watching his face go from patronizing kindness to one of anxiety. Ha! Score one petty point for Ms. Minnie Hamilton.

Outside, the wind and wet was still going on, but I stood there and let it whuff against me. For whatever reason, the detective and the deputy were protecting Neva Chatham. And while I could appreciate their concern for an elderly woman who might be a touch unhinged, I was more than a little concerned about what she might do to anyone who stopped to look at her boat. Or what she might do to herself, for that matter.

Again, I saw that small black hole at the end of her gun. A shiver ran over me, top to bottom, and I was fairly sure it didn’t have anything to do with the weather.

Because I’d just realized what I should have realized earlier. If Neva Chatham could charge after me with a gun, she might not have been far from firing it. And if she could shoot at me, could she have dropped a tree on Henry? Could she have tried to run over Adam?

I stood there, staring out at the wind-whipped Janay Lake, and wondered.

• • •

The next morning I bounced out of bed five minutes before the alarm went off. “Good morning, sunshine,” I said to Eddie.

My furry friend opened his eyes, then closed them again. Firmly.

“Come on, get up.” I tapped one of his white paws. “It’s a brand-new day out there. The wind has dropped, the clouds are gone, and it looks like it’s going to be a stunning spring day.”

Eddie squirmed around and put one paw over his eyes.

“Fine.” I gave him a head pat and stood. “I’ll leave you alone. But don’t blame me if you get bedsores, okay?”

Less than an hour later, I’d showered, breakfasted, and walked up to the library, while sending a morning text of Beautiful morning, wish you were here to Tucker. After a moment, I got a Stuck in traffic, wish I was there, too text back, so my perky mood continued all the way into my office.

The first thing I did when I sat at my computer was start up Google. I typed in Why don’t cats get bedsores? and frowned at the lack of results. Really? I was the only one who’d wondered? Surely the question had occurred to every cat owner at least once. Clearly someone needed to get going on their cat research.

Grinning at myself, I started checking my office e-mail.

“Uh-oh,” I said. Because there was an e-mail from Pam with an attachment, dated late last night, subject line Book fair flyer . Happily I’d managed to tuck the Flyer Fiasco into the back of my mind over the weekend. My index finger hovered over the mouse button for a long moment.

“Be brave,” I said out loud, and clicked open the attachment.

When it appeared in front of me, I stared at it for a long time before I did anything. Since that lack of anything included breathing, it wasn’t long before my lungs burned and I was sucking in air while reaching for the phone.

“Pam,” I said, when she answered groggily. “It’s Minnie. Call me when you’ve finished your coffee, okay?”

The minutes ticked past slowly, but the phone eventually rang. “Hey, Minnie,” Pam said. “What’s up?”

“What, exactly,” I asked, eying the flyer she’d sent, “did you do in Ohio?”

Pam had moved to Chilson a year ago, and though we got along wonderfully, I didn’t know much about her. I knew that she possessed more fashion sense than I ever would and that she loved coffee with a passion that bordered on scary, but I knew very little about her background.

“Worked for a large corporation that shall remain nameless,” she said.

“Doing . . . ?”

“Graphic design,” she said, and I could hear the grin in her voice.

“You are a scammer,” I said.

“Every chance I get.”

The design she’d sent was eye-catching, readable, and fun without being overly cute. It was perfect. “This is the best graphic that’s ever come out of this library,” I said, “and I’m sorry, but I absolutely can’t pay you. There’s nothing in the budget.”