Лори Касс - Tailing A Tabby

“Or drives,” said a male voice. “Don’t forget drives.”

The three of us turned. Deputy Ash Wolverson stood a few feet away, looking from the detectives to me and back. Too late, he’d sensed the mild tension fizzing in the air. “Uh, Detectives. Ms. Hamilton, right? With the bookmobile.”

I nodded. “Deputy.” He was at least two decades younger than the detectives, making him maybe a few years older than me. He was also what many women would have called hot, with his muscular build, square jaw, and short brown hair. Right now, however, I would have called him uncomfortable. Which amused me on many levels.

“The library’s order is up.” The girl at the register hefted two large white plastic bags. Deputy Wolverson made a move to pick them up, but Detective Inwood blocked him and did the honors.

“Ms. Hamilton,” he said, handing me the bags. “We’re doing all we can to find Ms. Radle’s killer. It’s unfortunate if this offends your friends, but that’s what police work can be like.”

I sighed. “Yeah, I know. I don’t suppose you can tell me if any of those other avenues are looking productive?”

“Inquiries are proceeding,” Detective Devereaux said.

So, no, they couldn’t tell me. I nodded and headed out but had to wait for a large family group to come in before I could get outside. While I waited, I craned my neck around to see the back corner. Bill D’Arcy, a new Chilson resident, was sitting in his normal spot, reading away on his computer, as per usual.

Sabrina, the diner’s forever waitress, filled his coffee mug and leaned over to kiss the top of his head. As she did, the sparkle of her new engagement ring caught the light and flashed back to me, bright and shiny.

I grinned. Every once in a while, things really did work out.

• • •

Halfway back to the library, I stopped, put the bags of food on a bench, and dug my phone out of my purse. Seeing Sabrina and Bill’s happiness made me want to talk to Tucker. And though Tucker had, in fact, called me as he’d promised, I’d been at the library with my phone turned off. Since then, we’d carried on a serious game of phone tag and it was getting a little silly.

I stared at my phone. Maybe a call wasn’t the best idea. Maybe a text would be better. I squinted my brains into gear and thumbed out a message. Miss you. When can we get together?

The phone was in my purse and the bags were in my hands when I heard the ping of an incoming text message.

Down went the bags. I got out the phone and peered at the screen.

Me not Rafe?

I sat. What on earth was he talking about? So I typed that out. What are you talking about?

After a short but endless wait, he texted back. Batteries in bedroom?

“Oh…” Suddenly all was clear. When Tucker had stopped by the boat, Rafe had needed a new battery for his volt-doohickey. The only reason Rafe knew where things lived in my bedroom was that every spring he helped me open up my houseboat and get it in the water in exchange for my helping him with his spring yard work. But Tucker didn’t know that. Tucker must have thought… I wanted to gag. Rafe was a good friend, but if we ever spent more than a single uninterrupted hour together, one on one, I’d have to muzzle him.

My thumbs got busy. I sent Tucker a long message about the spring chores. Before I hit the SEND button, I added the part about the muzzle.

Less than a minute later came a new message from Tucker.

Okay. Sorry I freaked out.

Right after that came a longer message that included his work schedule for the next couple of weeks, ending with How about you?

My schedule, naturally, was almost the complete opposite of his, but I did have a Saturday off in the not too distant future that matched up. I pointed that out, and he sent back a text. We’ll do something fun.

A happy feeling filled me, lifting me, and making me grin like a kid on Christmas morning. I texted him back. Count on it.

• • •

At noon the next day, I headed off to do something I’d never thought I’d do—I drove onto the premises of Talcott Motors, the place Carissa’s obituary had said she worked.

Sleek, shiny cars were placed just so on the grassy area between the road and the parking lot, cars that even car-challenged me knew were outrageously expensive. Cars from Germany, Italy, France, Scandinavia—and those were the ones I could identify.

I parked my sedan, which looked like something a teenager of the hired help would drive, and walked into the showroom.

Car doors were invitingly open, hoods were propped up, and that new car scent was everywhere. Even though I knew I was being manipulated, I couldn’t help walking up close to a sports car that looked fast even when it was standing still. “Wonder if Eddie would like this,” I murmured.

“Eddie’s your husband?” A middle-aged man, as smooth as the car against which he was leaning, smiled at me. “It’s a beauty, isn’t it?” He stepped toward me, one hand held forward for shaking, the other holding out a business card. “Bob Slocum, assistant manager of sales, at your service.”

I shook his hand and took his card. “Hi, Minnie Hamilton, assistant director of the Chilson District Library.”

His eyes, which had lit up upon hearing my title, dulled down at the mention of the library. The man clearly had a good idea of my salary. “Looking for a summer car?” he asked. “This is a top seller for us. Clients tell us that driving it is more fun than anyone should be allowed to have.” He waved me toward the driver’s door. “Take a seat, see what it feels like.”

I put my hands behind my back and edged away. “Actually I’m looking for someone.” Who exactly, I didn’t know, but surely the line I’d prepared would work. “A friend of Carissa Radle’s.”

His gaze flicked briefly toward the row of offices lining the showroom’s far wall. “Minnie, I’d love to help, but I hear my phone ringing. If you’ll excuse me.” He strode off, entered an office, and shut the door. Through the glass that made up the row’s outside wall, I watched him lean back in his chair and pick up a magazine.

I mentally shrugged at the casual rejection—he was so good at it his coworkers probably called him Brush-off Bob—and walked toward the small office at which he’d glanced. It was occupied by a woman in her late thirties. Her sandy brown hair was cut short and stuck out into cute multiple spikes. I approached her open door, read her nameplate—Jari Mayes—and knocked on the doorjamb.

She looked up from the papers piled high on her desk. “Hi. If you’re looking for a salesguy, they’re down that way.” She jerked her head. “If you have a bookkeeping question, though, you’ve come to the right place.” Her smile was friendly, but her attention was clearly on the papers.

I introduced myself and said, “Could I talk to you a minute?”

“Uh, sure. What can I do for you?”

“It’s about Carissa Radle,” I said.

“About…” She swallowed and put her hand to her mouth, showing fingernails that were ragged from chewing. “. . . Carissa?” She blinked, once, twice; then the tears spilled over and down her cheeks.

• • •

After the tears that had overwhelmed Jari abated, I suggested that we head for lunch at the Three Seasons, my treat. Jari had sniffled, blown her nose, and agreed.

Once we were settled into a quiet corner, I’d spun Jari a story about being a friend of a friend who’d known the dead woman, that said friend was so troubled by Carissa’s death that sleep was becoming impossible, and that I’d promised I’d try to find someone who could answer some questions about Carissa, that maybe this would help the friend sleep at night.