Лори Касс - Tailing A Tabby

“Excuse me,” a woman asked, “but could you show me where the book on diets and exercise might be?”

I blinked. She was fiftyish and slender enough that she looked like the last person on the planet who needed a book on dieting. She was also Annelise Edel.

“It’s Mrs. Edel, isn’t it?” I put on a wide smile. “Minnie Hamilton. We met briefly at Crown the other day. I was going out, you were going in?”

“Oh, yes, that’s right. How are you?”

It was the polite voice. She clearly didn’t remember me, but that was okay. I stood and led her toward the 613 numbers.

“Are you looking for anything specific?” I asked. “Because, honestly, you look great, and if it’s because of a particular book I want to know which one it is.”

Annelise laughed in a quiet library-appropriate way. “The way I look is due to long walks, a little weight work, lots of swimming, and watching every bite I eat. It’s a lot of work, but that’s what it takes after you turn fifty. I just want to look through the books here to see if I can learn anything new.”

“Fifty?” I shook my head. “No way are you fifty.”

She smiled. “Fifty-three, actually.”

“Well, I hope your husband appreciates all the work you put into keeping in shape,” I said with admiration. “If he doesn’t, let me know and I’ll tell him.”

“Aren’t you the sweetest?” She touched my arm. “You should be bottled up and sold to middle-aged women to… to… oh, dear.” She dipped her hand into her purse. “I seem to be…” Sniffing, she pulled out a tissue and dabbed at her eyes, which were filling with tears.

Sympathy swelled. “Hugo doesn’t appreciate you?”

She kept dabbing, then sighed. “No. He doesn’t. And I’ve been so afraid…” She bit her lower lip.

I jumped the conversation ahead. “You’re afraid he’s having an affair.”

She sniffed. “He denied it, said she was a potential customer who happened to be single, but she was so pretty and so… so…” More tears, more tissue blotting. “Then she died, a horrible thing for the poor girl. But now I’m wondering about every woman he talks to and it’s an awful thing. These days I can’t sleep for worry. Can’t eat, but I don’t mind that so much.” She gave a small smile.

“The customer,” I said. “Was it Carissa Radle? The woman who was murdered?”

“She was so pretty and cheerful, I could see how Hugo would be attracted. Every man she met wanted to be with her.”

“Not quite every man,” I said quietly, then decided to put out a rumor. “I hear there was an ex-boyfriend involved.”

Annelise’s face cleared out to sadness. “Oh, how awful for her. Yes, I see what you mean. At least one person wanted her dead.” She looked thoughtful. “Even me, I suppose, on one of those bad nights. But I was at a hotel spa down in Traverse City getting a three-day special treatment.”

She darted a glance at me. “You know Hugo, don’t you? Please don’t mention the spa. I told him I went to Chicago to meet my sister. He thinks spas are a waste of time and money, but this spa specializes in skin revitalization. I know my skin isn’t ever going to look like a twenty-five-year-old’s, but maybe…” She ran her hands over her thin hips. “Maybe if I lose a few more pounds he’ll look at me the way he used to.”

• • •

“I am not a snob,” Kristen said.

“What makes you say that?” I looked over at her. She was slumped down in a white metal chair, her long legs sticking out so far that they would have been a tripping hazard to anyone coming near our table if we hadn’t chosen the far corner. “You sneer at white zinfandel wine, you won’t set foot in a fast-food restaurant, and you practically asphyxiate at the idea of eating anything frozen.”

“That’s not snobbery,” she said, “that’s good sense. White zin is nasty, fast food is horrible for you, and no one should have to eat frozen food, not when there’s fresh around that can be eaten.”

“Yet you’re here.” I nodded at our surroundings. This included a stupendous view of the deep-blued Torch Lake, the Clam River, and the large deck for which the Dockside Restaurant was famous. Boats laden with young people and old, all reddish from a day on the water, idled up and down the river. It was a peaceful scene punctuated with seagull cries and cries from small children who didn’t want their fun to end in spite of the setting sun.

“Hey,” Kristen said, “you’re the one who wanted to come here, not me.”

“Don’t forget the malt vinegar.” I pushed the tall bottle toward her.

“Right. Good idea.” She sprinkled vinegar liberally over her fries. “Man,” she said as she got ready to stuff her mouth, “these things are awesome.”

“And you’re just as much a hypocrite as Trock Farrand.” I might have sworn secrecy to not tell anyone about Trock’s secret eating habits, but letting Kristen know didn’t really count as telling. For one thing, I didn’t want to sit here all by myself, and for another, it might do her good to know that her idol had feet of clay.

“I hate you,” she muttered as she picked up the saltshaker.

“You do not. You just don’t like having reality slap you in the face.”

“Who does?” She grinned and tossed another fry into her mouth. “Much nicer to live with rose-colored glasses on, if you ask me. No one would ever accomplish anything if they had to stare at reality all the time.”

I thought about this. If you truly understood the odds against success when, say, starting a new restaurant, would you even try? Maybe the only way to accomplish anything significant was to decide you were going to be the one to beat the odds. “You know, I think you’re right.”

“Well, duh. You’re a case in point. Would you ever have started the effort to get the library a bookmobile if you’d known how unlikely it was that you’d get the funding?”

Huh. I’d never thought of it that way.

Kristen laughed. “You never thought of it that way, did you?”

“You two ladies look like you’re enjoying yourselves.” Our waitress approached. “Is there anything else I can get you?” she asked.

That was my cue. We’d taken this corner table specifically because we’d asked to be seated at one of Whitney’s tables, she of the smiley face on Trock’s receipt. “Do you watch Trock’s Troubles , that cooking show?”

Whitney nodded. “Sure. It’s not like I have to see it every week, but I’ve watched it a few times. Say, did you know that that Trock guy has a house up here? Petoskey, I think, or maybe Harbor Springs.”

I elbowed Kristen, who was starting to correct her. “That’s what I’ve heard, too. And I heard someone say he was here late on Friday night, three weeks ago. Were you here then? Because I was wondering if he’s the same in person as on television.”

“Three weeks ago?” She squinted at the sky. “Last week in July, right? The whole weekend was a nutso-busy zoo. I’m not sure I would have noticed if Daniel Radcliffe had been here.”

“Who?” Kristen asked.

I elbowed her again. If she didn’t know the name of the actor who’d played Harry Potter, now wasn’t the time to expand her information base. “So you’ve never waited on Trock Farrand?”

“Sorry.” She shrugged, then smiled. “Of course, you never know who’s going to walk in here. Wait a few minutes and he might show up.”

• • •

The next evening after work and dinner, I decided that what I needed was a long walk. Even though it was a Monday night, all the downtown stores would be open to catch the summer tourist trade. A walk would be an excellent idea. Partly to clear my head, but also to work off all the fried food that I’d snarfed down over the weekend.