Лори Касс - Tailing A Tabby

An excellent tip. “I think Mr. Edel’s heartstrings were a little damaged,” I said, mostly, but not completely, lying. “He knew that woman who was killed a couple of weeks ago.”

“Carissa,” Trock said, and the name came out almost as a curse. “I wish I knew nothing of her. She was nothing but a pain in the behind. It’s situations like hers that might drive me to have a closed set.” His voice grew loud. “This show has enough troubles with timing and schedules and I’m the one who has to—” He stopped. Breathed in and out. Sighed. “But I’m sorry she’s dead, of course I am. Especially since she seemed to have found a new love interest. A new man who, I hoped, would make her very happy indeed.”

I’d been sitting up fairly straight, but my spine suddenly went even straighter. “Do you know his name?”

“Dear heart.” Trock gave me a pitying smile. “I barely remember my own.”

“Trock!” A wild-haired woman in shorts, canvas sneakers, and a tie-dyed shirt appeared in front of us. “We need a decision and we need it now.”

He sighed heavily and turned to me. “Which do you think, Lady Minnie? The exquisite whitefish creation I so long to bring to platter, or the staid pork tenderloin that will do nothing for the history of culinary arts.”

Out of Trock’s view, the woman clasped her hands and got down on her knees, mouthing a single word over and over: Pork!

I gave her a tiny nod. “What do you think about doing your whitefish some other day?” I asked Trock. “With a little time to plan, you could make a show around it, maybe go out on the boat and help catch the fish.”

Trock’s eyes opened wide. “Minnie, that’s an outstanding idea, simply outstanding.”

I wasn’t sure it was a good idea at all, but maybe I was wrong.

“But…” He hesitated. “The pork. So bland. So basic. So blasé.”

“Not after you get done with it, I’m sure.”

His sudden smile was wide and deep and he looked sincere as Santa Claus three days before Christmas. The man had charm out the wazoo. Maybe I’d ask Kristen to record some of his shows. It was possible I’d even learn something about cooking.

On my way out, Scruffy pulled me aside. “I heard you talking to Trock,” he said. “That Carissa? She was a big fan. We all liked her.”

I eyed him. Was he trying to establish that no one from the TV show had anything to do with the murder? “Okay,” I said, “but Trock seemed to have some issues with her.”

Scruffy shrugged. “Trock has issues with everyone. And that new guy she was seeing?” He glanced away as Trock started shouting orders to fetch the pork. “Hallelujah,” he muttered. “Anyway, I don’t know his name, either, but I know he used to play some sport. A professional sport.”

“Football?” I asked as casually as I could. “Basketball? Baseball? Hockey? Tennis?”

But he was shaking his head. “No idea. I’m not into that kind of thing. Sorry.”

• • •

Eddie and I had a late lunch out in the sunshine of the houseboat’s front deck. Or rather, I ate a nice lunch of grilled cheese and a salad while Eddie batted around the three cat treats I gave him.

“You know,” I said, “those are to eat, not to play with.”

Since Eddie was intent on his new game, the rules of which seemed to change at any given moment, he ignored me completely.

“So, you know what I’ve done today?” I asked him. “I talked to Trock Farrand. And you know what I found out? That Carissa was seeing a professional athlete.”

Eddie licked at one of the treats, got it wet with cat spit, rolled it around a little to spread the spit around, walked away from it with the obvious intention of never returning, then came straight over and whacked my shin with the top of his head.

“Yeah, I know,” I said. “It’s probably Greg, isn’t it?” Maybe not, but probably. There were other sports guys around; I’d heard of a few retired NFL players who had places nearby, and a number of hockey players, but given Greg’s reaction when I’d talked about Carissa, he definitely had some connection to her.

The knowledge was depressing. Though I barely knew Greg, I liked the guy. Thinking that he was hiding something made me feel icky inside.

“And if that’s not a medical term,” I told Eddie, “it should be.”

He jumped up next to me on the chaise longue and rubbed the side of his face against my arm.

“Of course,” I said, pulling him onto my lap, “there are variations of ick. Take the way you just rubbed Eddie spit on me. That’s also icky. I mean, you don’t catch me doing that to you.”

He bumped his head against my leg, which almost always meant Pay attention to me. Now!

I started to pet the thick black-and-white fur. Full, purring rumbles began half a second later. “Greg lied,” I said quietly. “But I don’t think he’s the only one.”

Eddie’s mouth opened in a silent Mrr.

“I agree. I think Hugo Edel and Trock lied, too.” Or at least hadn’t told me everything. Now all I had to do was figure out why.

• • •

Saturday morning was unseasonably cool and threatened rain. I pulled on long pants and a fleece pullover and drove up to the library to back the bookmobile out of the garage. It was odd not to have Eddie with me, but the morning’s schedule wasn’t a suitable one for a cat.

Though it wasn’t anywhere near as big as the famous art fairs in Charlevoix or Petoskey, the Chilson version was enjoying a steady growth that boded well for the local arts world. I’d talked the director into believing that having the bookmobile parked at the fair would be an asset and hoped that it would be true.

From eight until eleven, I opened the bookmobile to one and all, answering questions, checking out books, and even giving out a few new library cards. Though the morning was chilly, I was warmed by the many smiles, especially the smile that walked up the steps at eleven sharp.

Tucker looked around. “So this is the bookmobile. Nice. It’s a lot like one of those bloodmobiles they have downstate.”

I nodded. “The company that fabricated this also does medical vehicles.” I gave Tucker the tour, then said, “All I have to do is drive it back to the garage at the end of the day.”

“Sounds good,” he said. “Lunch first or fair first?”

We discussed the question as we descended the steps, kept discussing it as we browsed through a dozen booths of varying displays of art, and only ended the discussion when we walked up to a trailer selling corn dogs. We kept discussing if that was enough food for lunch until we found a booth offering hamburgers. The dessert discussion ended at the booth selling elephant ears. Tummies contentedly full, we wandered through the booths, admiring most of the work and being puzzled by some, but enjoying the crowd and each other’s company.

And the crowd was large—poor boating weather often made for well-attended summer events. I saw half the regular library patrons and my marina neighbors. I also saw Hugo and Annelise Edel, Greg Plassey and his friend Brett, and though I didn’t see him I could have sworn I heard Trock Farrand’s voice.

Tucker and I had walked through about half the booths when one particular display caught my eye.

“Hello.” A woman sitting on a tall stool smiled at me. “How are you?”

“Excellent,” I said. “How about you? Busy?”

“The little ones are selling.” She waved at the showcases. One case was full of Petoskey stones cut into the shapes of bears, turtles, and wolverines. Another case contained Petoskey stones formed into drawer pulls, switch plates, clocks, and doorknobs. Yet another case was full of raw stones. “You’re familiar with them?” she asked.