Лори Касс - Pouncing On Murder

“Good morning, ladies,” a voice said.

We turned around and saw a man coming up the stairs. “Good morning,” Julia said.

I would have said the same thing, but I was busy being puzzled. Though I was pretty sure I’d never seen this middle-aged man before, something about him seemed very familiar.

“Minnie?” he asked, looking from one of us to the other.

I held up my hand. “That would be me. And you are?”

“Bob,” he said. “Gordon’s my cousin.”

Light dawned with a sudden, illuminating flash. “You’re Bob!” Which was a stupid thing to say, but it wasn’t the first time I’d said something stupid to a stranger and I was sure it wasn’t going to be the last. “I’ve been calling you.”

He nodded. “Yeah. I’ve seen your bookmobile out here before, so I figured I’d just stop and talk to you instead of calling.”

That would have made perfect sense to another man, I was sure. “So you pinned down the date Cole was here in April?”

“Hey, there’s that cat I heard about. Here, kitty, kitty.” Bob crouched down and rubbed his fingertips. Eddie, the ham, came trotting over. “You’re a friendly little cuss, aren’t you?” He chucked Eddie under the chin. “Got a good purr machine there.”

Eddie bumped his head against Bob’s knee hard enough that the resulting crack echoed around the bookmobile.

“When was Cole Duvall here?” I asked a little louder.

“What’s that?” Bob looked up. “Oh, right. Duvall came north that first weekend in April.”

He went on about what he’d done for Cole, how he’d had to haul in logs for the fireplace, how he’d scraped ice off the driveway, and how he’d even been asked to go for groceries.

I tried to listen politely, but all I could think was one thing.

Cole Duvall had been here the weekend Henry died.

Chapter 18

I woke up the next morning, which was Friday morning, which was also the day before the book fair, knowing that my day was going to be packed full of things that had to get done. It was unlikely I’d have time to stop for lunch, so I slapped together my typical bookmobile lunch of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a little baggie of potato chips.

Eddie, lying on the back of the dining booth, watched this preparation with great interest.

“It’s not a bookmobile day,” I told him, trying to stuff the plastic bag of potato chips to that perfect limit: full enough so the chips didn’t slide around, but not so full as to have the chips break from internal pressure. “I’m going to the library and you’re staying here.”

“Mrr.”

I shrugged. “Okay, don’t believe me. But you’re not going anywhere. Not today and not tomorrow, either.”

“Mrr.”

“I’ve told you why,” I said. “Tomorrow’s not a bookmobile day because it’s the book fair.”

“Mrr.”

“No, you can’t go to the book fair. It’s not for cats and”—I tried to head off any pending argument—“while I know that any place a cat wants to be is a proper place for cats, please trust me when I say that you won’t enjoy a book fair. Too much noise, too many people, too many feet that might accidentally step on your tail. It’s not a good place for Eddies.”

“Mrr.”

This kind of conversation could go on all day, so I shoved my lunch into my backpack and kissed the top of Eddie’s head. “See you later, pal. Be good.”

“Mrr.”

• • •

The morning zoomed by. Then lunchtime went roaring past and I remembered to eat my sandwich and chips only when the emptiness in my middle told me it was past time to fill ’er up or bear the consequences.

Since I tended to get either light-headed or cranky when I was really hungry, and sadly, sometimes both, I wolfed down my lunch between the last few phone calls I needed to make.

All went well until I called Pam Fazio. “Hey, Pam, it’s Minnie. Do you—”

“Pickle!”

“Bread and butter or dill?” I asked.

She laughed. “Don’t deserve either. I was going to bring up those cookbooks, but I haven’t had a minute to get away. You wouldn’t believe how busy we’ve been.”

Pam, upon hearing that the famed Trock Farrand was appearing at the book fair, had not only volunteered to redo the book fair flyer for use in every e-publication I could come up with, but she’d also volunteered to lend the library a number of antique cookbooks for a tie-in display.

“Tell you what,” I said, thinking fast. I’d walked to work, but Pam’s store was only a few blocks away. It wouldn’t be too much of a chore to take the library’s handcart for a short jaunt. “If you can get them in a box in the next half hour, I’ll come and take them away.”

“You will? That would be wonderful!”

“I should have done this in the first place,” I said. “You’re the one doing us the favor.”

“Silly Minnie!” She laughed. “See you in half an hour. And thank you!”

I didn’t understand why she was thanking me, but shrugged and went back to the phone calls.

In slightly less than half an hour, I was trundling down the sidewalk, trying to determine whether it was easier to push or to pull the ancient handcart, when I looked up and saw a sign I’d walked past hundreds of times before but had never had any reason to bring into my frame of reference.

Northern Development.

Hmm. I tucked the handcart next to the office’s window box and went in the front door.

An extremely blond young woman was sitting behind a desk. “Hi,” she said.

She couldn’t have been thirty—might not have been twenty-five—and from what I could see of her above the desk, she was taking to heart the idea of dressing for the job you’d like to have. Assuming that she wanted to be a real estate developer, that is. Her blazer was trim and tailored, her hair was neat and tidy, the only jewelry she wore was a simple gold chain, and I didn’t see a single tattoo.

“I’m Janine, Felix’s new assistant,” she said, smiling. “What can I do for you?”

“Hi.” I smiled in return but didn’t give my name. “I have some friends who inherited some property and they’re not quite sure what they’re going to do with it.” Which wasn’t exactly true, but surely Henry’s sons hadn’t planned out everything. “I was walking past, so I thought I’d ask a few questions about development.”

“You’ve come to the right place.” She nodded. “Have a seat and ask away.”

I sat on the edge of one of the two chairs in front of her desk. “I suppose timing is the first thing. How long does it take to develop a property?”

Janine nodded again. “Great question. The only thing is, it depends.” Her expression was one of sympathy and understanding. If she kept on in real estate, she was bound to make a fortune. “Depends on the property, on what you want to do with it, on the existing infrastructure, on the market, and on dozens of other things.”

“Let’s use a for instance, then,” I said. “Are you familiar with Henry Gill’s property?”

Her smile dipped a little. “Actually yes, I am. Why do you ask?”

Uh-oh. “My friends say the property they inherited is a lot like that one.” So similar, as a matter of fact, that you’d think they were the same. “How long do you think it might take to, well . . .” I ducked my head in faux embarrassment. “Not to be crass, but how long do you think it might take to get money out of it.”

“Oh, I see.” Janine was back to nodding. “Well, again, it depends. If you want to turn it over fast, your friends could sell it to a developer. You might not realize the highest possible profits, but it would be cash in hand and no risk.”

My new acquaintance Janine was not only personable, but extremely bright. “Could my friends develop it themselves?”