Лори Касс - Pouncing On Murder

“If you were a true friend,” I said, “you’d be a little more help. I mean, don’t tell me you don’t know any bestselling authors who would jump at an opportunity to visit a small town in northern lower Michigan.”

Eddie rolled onto his side, one front leg stretched out long, the other curled up against his chest. I had no idea what that meant in cat language, but no matter what he was saying, it wasn’t helpful.

“Not even one name?” I asked. “It doesn’t have to be a New York Times bestselling author. Any old kind of bestselling author will do. People magazine. USA Today . Detroit News . The Traverse Record-Eagle . Anything.”

Eddie yawned, showing small, pointed teeth. Then he sat up, blinked once, and began studying a duck flotilla that was looking for dinner handouts.

“Again,” I said, “that isn’t much help.”

“Mrr.”

“If you were that sorry, you’d find some way to lend me a hand.”

My cat stood, jumped into the air, and landed on my chaise. He butted my sweatpants-clad shin with the top of his head, then flopped next to me and began to purr.

I petted his fur smooth. “You are okay,” I said, “no matter what Aunt Frances says.” Of course, my aunt loved Eddie dearly, but Eddie didn’t need to know that, not for sure. I let the peace of a cat comfort me for a few minutes, then picked up the phone again.

And, after another half an hour and another dozen phone calls, I struck out a second time.

“Can you believe that?” I asked. “No one knows if the Duvalls have a caretaker.” Not my aunt, not Kristen, not Rafe, not Holly, and not any of the other people I’d called. The Duvalls were newcomers, sure, but usually word got around about who was taking care of whose cottage.

It had been an evening of frustrations, and a need to get up and move around stirred in me. I’d have gone out for a run, but I hadn’t bought new running shoes in a couple of years and everyone knew you shouldn’t start a running program on old shoes. I might have taken my bike out for a ride, but I knew for a fact that the tires were flat and I had a feeling my hand pump was still at my aunt’s house. And there was no way I was going for a swim—the water in Janay Lake wouldn’t reach even sixty degrees for weeks.

“I could go for a walk,” I said, petting Eddie. “There’s more than an hour until it gets dark. Want to come along?”

His reverberating snore was answer enough.

• • •

It was past dark when I returned. My walk had taken me past the boardinghouse, where I’d stopped in to talk to Aunt Frances, past the Three Seasons, where I’d popped in to say hello to Kristen and her crew, and I’d paused to shake my head at Rafe, who was on his roof brushing Black Jack onto his chimney’s flashing.

“Do you realize,” I called up to him, “that it’s too dark to see what you’re doing?”

“Minnie, is that you? You know I can’t hear when it’s dark out.”

“I said, I hope I don’t have to take you to the hospital for falling off the ladder when you can’t see the rungs for climbing down.”

“When you hear a thud, come running.”

There were many things I didn’t understand about Rafe Niswander; his penchant for working so hard on his house was just one more. I called a good-bye and walked the last few yards to the marina, but when I made the final turn toward my dock, I stopped short in surprise.

When I’d headed out for my walk, the berth to the right of my adorable little houseboat was empty. Now it was filled with a sleek cruiser half again as wide as my boat and almost twice as long. Chris had said I’d be getting a new neighbor, but I hadn’t thought it would be so soon.

I eyed the boat’s insignia. Well, at least it was a Crown, which meant it was designed and built right here in Chilson. And it wasn’t nearly the size of the boat that had berthed in that slip the last few years. What remained to be seen was if the new folks would turn out to be friends, like my left-hand neighbors Louisa and Ted Axford, or if they would turn out to be more like what Gunnar Olson had been. I didn’t even know which to hope for, since my cut-rate slip fee more or less depended on the new guy being a jerk.

“Nice night, isn’t it?”

I spun around and looked up at a fortyish man. In the light cast by the marina lights, I could see that he was wearing shorts, running shoes, and a Wayne State University sweatshirt that had seen better days. He also had untidy brown hair, an easy smile, and was high on the one-to-ten scale of hotness. Not a ten, I wouldn’t award that to anyone who wasn’t an angel descended from heaven, but certainly a solid eight.

“Hi,” I said. “Minnie Hamilton. That’s mine.” I gestured at my slip and steeled myself for the inevitable smirk.

He introduced himself as Eric Apney, then nodded at my summer home. “Nice,” he said. “I’ve always had a thing for houseboats. Yours looks handcrafted. Did you do it yourself?”

Aunt Frances could have done it in a winter, but my woodworking skills were more in the paint-what-Aunt-Frances-made category. Still, I was pleased that my new neighbor had assumed I was that capable and mentally slid him into the Friend side of the aisle. I told him I’d purchased it from a local couple who’d since moved to Florida.

“Where are you from?” I asked.

“Grand Rapids. My family has summered in the area for more than fifty years and I love it up here. I don’t want to take care of another house, but you don’t have to snowplow a boat’s driveway.” He grinned.

Smiling back, I asked, “And your wife? Has she spent much time in Chilson?”

“No wife,” he said. “Divorced years ago, and never got around to marrying again.”

We chatted a little more, then went our separate ways. But as I got myself ready for bed, which consisted mostly in brushing my teeth and moving Eddie to the side of the bed instead of the exact middle, I kept thinking one thing: Hmm. It was too soon after my breakup with Tucker to think about dating, but still . . . hmm.

Just as I was sliding between the sheets, maneuvering myself around Eddie, who’d edged back toward the center, my cell phone rang.

I picked it up off the small chest of drawers that served as my nightstand and looked at the screen. “No idea who this is,” I said to Eddie. “Looks like a corporate name. And I don’t even recognize the area code. What do you think, should I answer?” I was starting to put the phone back down when Eddie picked up his head and stared at me.

“Okay, fine,” I grumbled. “But if it’s a telemarketer, you don’t get any treats for a week.” I thumbed on the call. “Hello?”

“Minnie, my dearest, my beloved, my most treasured of all bookmobile librarians, how are you this evening?”

Grinning, I sat up and pulled my knees to my chest. “Trock, my most favorite of all the celebrity chefs I have ever met in my life, I am just wonderful. How are you?” I’d met Trock Farrand, host of Trock’s Troubles , last summer and was still reeling from the force of his personality.

“I am,” Trock said cheerfully, “in the depths of despair.”

“You are?”

“I am. And it’s all your fault, dear one.”

“Oh?” I reached out to pet Eddie, who began a low rumbling purr. “How’s that?”

“Because I heard through the grapevine—a very twisted one, mind you—that you are in difficulties and that you did not call me for assistance.”

I frowned. “What difficulty? I haven’t been in the kitchen for a week.” Which wasn’t exactly true, but it was the point that mattered when conversing with Trock, not the details.

“Your library’s book fair, my sweet. That last-minute cancellation from the erudite Ross Weaver.”