Лори Касс - Lending А Paw

Back then, thanks to letters, phone calls, and face-to-face visits, I’d drawn a few new regular donors into the fold. Caroline Grice had not been one of them.

Now I leaned back in my chair and tried to go at the situation in a manner of which Stephen would approve. Action items. You must distill a project into action items. I pictured the agenda.

Goal: Talk to Caroline about Stan, face-to-face if possible.

Proposed Methodology: none.

And the meeting is adjourned. Thanks for coming, folks.

“Research,” I said to myself. “It’s time for research.”

I opened up my computer’s browser and typed Caroline’s name into the search engine: 178,000 results. Huh. I put quotes around her name: 4,658 results. Better, but more than I could drill through during my lunch break. I added “Michigan” to the string and found her husband’s obituary, a press release announcing her husband’s retirement, and her daughter’s wedding announcement.

All the people in the world to research and I managed to pick the only one who wasn’t on Facebook.

I flexed my hands and cracked my knuckles. There had to be some way to find a connection that would give me an excuse, some way to find common ground, some . . . “Got it.” I searched for genealogy Web sites, found one that looked serious, dithered a little about the ethics of what I was about to do, then signed up for a free two-week membership.

Twenty minutes later I found what I needed. And here I’d thought the only benefit to having an extremely common last name was never needing to spell it for other people.

I printed out my brand-new data and opened my phone book to the G s. There it was: GRICE, BRANSON. Ten years after her husband died and she still had the phone in his name.

I punched in the numbers and waited. “Grice residence,” a polite voice said.

“I’d like to speak to Caroline Grice, please.”

“This is she.”

“Really?” I blurted, then winced at myself. Even the Grice staff must get a day off once in a while.

“I’m quite certain, yes. How may I help you?”

“This is Minnie Hamilton. We spoke a couple of years ago when the Friends of the Library were working on a fund-raiser.”

“Yes, I remember.” Still the polite voice. “Stephen Rangel’s work, if I recall correctly. The man is tireless.”

“Yes, ma’am. But I’m calling you regarding a different matter. I’ve been doing some genealogy research and I’ve come across an ancestor we might have in common. Would it be possible to meet with you?”

“How interesting.” So polite. “But I’m afraid I must disappoint you. The only relations about which I know anything are my parents and my children. My cousin Richard, however, has been doing extensive research into the family. Shall I give you his number?”

• • •

I dumped my backpack on the kitchen counter. “Hi, honey, I’m home!”

No Eddie came running to greet me. I wandered around, looking.

A faint snore came rattling out of the closet. I slid open the door and found a black-and-white cat nestled in among my shoes. His body lay across my hiking boots and his front paws were wrapped around a blue flip-flop. The right one.

“You are the weirdest cat ever,” I told him.

He opened his eyes to thin slits and opened his mouth in a soundless “Mrr.”

I picked him up. “Come hang out with me, okay?”

We went to the kitchen and I deposited him on the back of the bench seat. I pulled the stack of mail I’d picked up from my post office box out of my backpack. “Junk mail, more junk mail, and a reminder from my mother that Thanksgiving isn’t far away.” Mom was nothing if not aggressive when it came to holiday plans. “Cool note card, though.” I propped the reprint of what the card said was a Diego Rivera mural up on the kitchen counter. “Maybe if you wrote letters, you’d get some mail.”

Eddie’s nose twitched.

“No fish tonight,” I said. “You’re probably smelling the salmon Skeeter gave to Louisa.”

Louisa was, once again, harboring matchmaking tendencies. “There’s plenty for four,” she’d said when I’d seen her at the post office. Though I’d begged off, citing bills to pay and a report to write for work, she had that glint in her eye. She’d had it last summer, too, when she’d tried to pair me up with Rafe Niswander. Great guy, and now a good friend, but no sparks, same as Skeeter, no matter how cute a couple Louisa thought we’d make.

“Where do you think Skeeter got his nickname?” I asked Eddie.

He yawned and starting licking his chest.

“And my first attempt at investigating was a complete failure, by the way.” I leaned against the kitchen counter and explained my brilliant idea of trying to talk to Caroline about mutual Hamilton ancestors. Somehow saying it out loud helped me think it over. “But she’s not into genealogy. So now I’m back to having no ideas.”

Eddie sent me a look that clearly said, You are so stupid , and went back to work, now licking his right paw.

I opened the refrigerator door, didn’t see anything worth cooking, and shut it. “Tell me I’m dumb, but when’s the last time you had a good idea?” I opened kitchen cabinets, looking for dinner inspiration. “Maybe eating that salmon would have been a good idea—hey!” I yelped because Eddie had launched himself across the space from bench to kitchen counter, skidded across the plastic laminate, and knocked my mail to the floor.

“What’s the matter with you?” I picked him up, dumped him onto the floor, and stooped down to pick up the mess. “You know you don’t belong up there. If Kristen saw that, she’d . . . oh.”

In my hand was the card from my mother.

And suddenly I knew how to arrange a meeting with Caroline Grice.

• • •

The rest of the week was busy with covering for vacationing library staff and last-minute reshuffling of the bookmobile schedule. On Saturday, the paperwork on my desk had piled so high that I skipped Saturday’s boardinghouse breakfast and went in to work early.

Happily, by Sunday noon I caught up with life in general and left the houseboat with a clear conscience.

I bought a small bag of cookies from Tom, probably the last time I’d do so until after Labor Day when the summer crowds left for home, and headed for the Lakeview Art Gallery.

A couple of blocks later, I walked into the gallery for the first time ever. My mom’s card had reminded me of Caroline’s long-running support for the arts. Thanks to the reporting of the local newspaper, I knew that it was mainly Caroline’s money that had allowed the nonprofit arts association to rent this side street storefront.

Inside, artwork of all shapes and sizes hung on walls painted a light blue-gray. Large landscapes, small portraits, wall sculpture, photographs. Acrylics, watercolors, oils, pastels. The sheer variety made me blink in surprise.

“Welcome to the gallery,” a young woman chirped from behind a jewelry showcase. “I’m Lina. Let me know if you have any questions, okay?” Lina had long flowing honey brown hair and wore a loose top that looked like something hauled out of the back of my mother’s closet, circa Mom’s high school graduation class of 1969.

“Busy today?” I asked.

“Let’s see.” She plopped her elbows on the glass. “The first person who came in wanted directions to the fudge shop, the second person who came in wanted to use our bathroom, and you’re the third person.”

“Sounds a little boring.”

“Dull as fifth-grade math class, some days. Other days it’s pretty cool.” Her thin face grew animated. “Last week? On Tuesday? You’ll never guess who came in that door.” With an index fingernail painted with daisies, she pointed at the door I’d just walked through. “That hot guy from that new show? Everyone’s talking about it.”