Лори Касс - Tailing A Tabby

I smiled at him, which wasn’t an easy thing to do in the face of his glower. “Hi, I’m Minnie Hamilton. A friend of mine knew your neighbor, Carissa, and he’s so upset about her death that I thought I’d stop by and ask—”

His frown went so deep it was probably etching grooves in his skin. “You got a warrant?”

“A what? No, of course not. I’m not a police officer. I’m a friend of—”

His bloodshot eyes glared at me. “I’m not talking to nobody about nothing unless they bring a warrant.”

“Sure, I understand, but—”

The door slammed so hard that the wind of its passing rocked me back a step. I retreated to my bicycle, toed up the kickstand, climbed aboard, and pedaled off.

The road felt much rougher than it had a few minutes ago. I glanced at the asphalt. Didn’t see any noticeable cracks, bumps, or potholes. Why, then, were my bicycle handlebars quivering so much that I was afraid of being tossed onto my head?

I slowed to a stop. Put my feet on the ground, released the rubbery grips, and stared at my hands.

They were shaking.

I took a deep breath. Another. Looked at my hands again. Still shaking, so I swung my leg over the bike’s crossbar and looked around for somewhere to sit. Providence was with me, because there was a nice Minnie-sized rock at the end of the driveway across from the duplex. Perfect. I walked my bike over, leaned it against the rock, and sat down.

The stone was in the sun, and its warmth spread into my skin, soothing and relaxing me. Soon my breaths came easier and my hands stopped shaking.

Yep, I’d been silly to let that man get to me. I was used to dealing with recalcitrant types—it was part of being a librarian—so why had this particular brand of crankiness bothered me so much? Was it because part of me had been afraid that he’d killed Carissa and that I might be next?

“Hello.”

I jumped high enough that, when I landed, I came down half on the rock and half off, then slid in a very ungainly way to the ground.

“Oh, dear.” The woman frowned in concern. “Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to startle you. I just saw you sitting on my rock, looking like you lost your best friend, and I wondered if you needed some help.”

I clambered to my feet, my brain still stuck firmly in awkward mode. “No, I’m fine, thanks. I just… had an odd encounter and I needed to sit for a little. Sorry about using your rock.”

The woman peered at me, her short salt-and-pepper hair framing a square face that topped a body trending to, but not quite achieving, plumpness. “You look familiar. Do I know you?”

“Minnie Hamilton. I’m the assistant librarian here in Chilson. That’s where most people have seen me. Or on the bookmobile. I drive that two or three days a week.”

She was shaking her head, then switched to nodding sharply. “Three Seasons. You’re Kristen Jurek’s friend, aren’t you?” She grinned wide, exposing teeth with wide gaps. “You look like you could use something to drink. Come on up to the house.”

Ten minutes later, we were sitting in white wicker chairs, the kind that lived on almost every front porch in Chilson, only we were sitting on a back porch of the home’s second story with an amazing view of Janay Lake, the channel, and beyond.

“That’s a great view of Lake Michigan,” I said, taking in the watery vista.

“Only from the second floor, though,” Abby said, “because of all the trees. That’s why my great-grandfather designed the house backward, or so the family story goes.”

My hostess was Abby Sterly, who was the head honcho loan officer at the bank where Kristen had applied for the money to fund her restaurant’s renovations. Abby had given me the nickel tour of the rambling cottage she’d inherited. “No one else wanted to take care of the old place,” she told me, “let alone pay the taxes. But it would have broken my heart to have the property go out of the family, so I found a way to make it work.”

She’d made it happen thirty years ago by building the duplex where Carissa Radle had lived. “Those rents have paid the property taxes nicely, but now I’m thinking about selling it. Don’t suppose you would be interested, would you?” She eyed me over her glass of soda. “No, never mind answering. I can tell already what you’d say.”

I laughed. “I’m not a property-owning kind of person. My houseboat is about all I can deal with right now.”

She made a “hmm” sort of noise and I suspected my name was being entered into a mental list titled “Contact at a Later Date.”

“Besides,” I said, “the guy who lives there gave me the creeps.”

“Rob Pew?” Abby blotted her glass on a coaster. “He’s not a bad guy.”

My mother had taught me, if I couldn’t say anything nice, not to say it at all. And maybe someday her lessons would sink in. “He scared the snot out of me,” I said honestly.

Abby half smiled. “He works the night shift at Northern Fabrications. He hates being woken up before his alarm goes off. I’m surprised he even answered the door.”

So there it was: a simple explanation for the extreme surliness of a large man named Rob. Not justification, of course, because there was none for rudeness, but a little explanation could go a long way.

“What did you want from Rob, anyway?” Abby asked.

She’d been so nice to me that I almost told her the whole truth and the entire truth right then and there, but something in her sharp gaze stopped me. There was no reason for her to know about Cade, and you never knew who might say what to whom and then the whole town would know that the famous artist guy had been tossed into the slammer—however briefly—for murder. And they’d also know that the bookmobile librarian was trying to help him clear his name, and that was a complication I could do without. Certainly the library could do without it. So I sort of made something up.

“Carissa Radle and I came from the same town,” I said. “It’s just a little weird, if you know what I mean.”

“You grew up in Dearborn, too?” Abby toasted me. “Dearborn High or Edsel Ford?”

“Dearborn High.”

“Hail, fellow graduate well met!” She held her hand high and leaned forward so we could slap palms. “Was Mrs. Koch still teaching Latin when you were there? I loved that woman. Did you know she spoke five languages?”

“She’d retired by the time I got there,” I said.

“Too bad. And how about the Beefeater?” She switched easily from education to food. “My grandparents took us there every Sunday after church. Short dresses and tights and those shiny black shoes with the strap across the instep that was always either too tight or too loose.” She laughed, but it ended fast. “So long ago.”

“Lives on in your memories, though,” I said.

Her face brightened a little. “Yes, it does, doesn’t it?” Then she sighed. “Just like Carissa will for her parents.”

After a pause, I said, “Kristen said she would have liked to hire Carissa, but she needed people with experience.”

“Makes sense, but I’m sure Carissa would have learned fast.” Abby put her feet up on a low table. “From what I heard, she was already getting a return clientele at Talcott. Still…” She stopped talking to kick off her sandals.

When she didn’t start up again, I asked, “What’s that?”

“Well, it’s just a little odd. When Carissa was moving in, I stopped by the duplex to see if she needed anything. We got to talking, so I helped her unpack a few boxes. In one of them was a framed diploma from Wayne State University, and textbooks with all sorts of medical titles. So… it’s a little odd.” She shrugged. “But then lots of people can’t find jobs in their fields these days, so I didn’t ask about it.”