Лори Касс - Lending А Paw

I stared at him until the car’s tires hit the rumble strip on the edge of the two-lane highway. “That’s . . . that’s . . . ,” I spluttered, steering the car back to the middle of the lane.

“Yeah, I know.” Rafe grinned. “Nutso. I’m just saying what they’re saying. Ready for the next one?”

“Not yet.” I sucked in a few breaths, blew them out. “Okay, I’m good.”

“I heard someone say you saw Stan hiding something in the farmhouse, that some mob guy killed him for it, and now you’re scared they’re after you.”

“Somebody’s been watching too much TV.”

“Way.” Rafe nodded. “I heard that one at the diner.”

The diner. My anger at the detective went bright red all over again. He hadn’t taken anything I said seriously, not one thing. Was he even taking this investigation seriously? Maybe Holly was right; maybe they were pegging her for Stan’s murder and not looking for anyone else.

The back of my throat tightened and it took me a couple of swallows before I could say, “Anything else?”

“Normal stuff. There’s a ghost in the farmhouse who killed Stan. That no one killed him, that Stan set it up himself to look like a murder so he could make the ultimate payback.”

“Payback against who?”

Rafe shrugged. “Dunno. I heard that one at the auto parts store.”

“If Stan set it up to look like a murder, he would have set it up so someone would be framed for the murder.”

“Never said those boys were brilliant.” He grinned.

“So who are they saying killed Stan?”

“Besides you? Well . . .” He held up the index finger on his good hand. “There’s your boss. Doesn’t look right, the library getting all that money. And there’s Cookie Tom.” Rafe put up a second finger. “He hated Stan’s guts because of some boat deal. Stan sold him an old Century and the motor died on Tom first time he took it out.” Rafe smirked. “And there’s Otis what’s-his-name.”

“Rahn?”

“Yeah. Ran where?” Rafe laughed. “Word is old Otis was dating one of Stan’s sisters way back when and Stan dumped a bucket of pig feed on him right before he made the big move.” He looked at his fingers. “What was that, three? Yeah. Next is Bill D’Arcy.”

“Who’s he?”

“Nobody. He’s new in town. Hangs out at the Round Table and never talks to anyone. Which is pretty suspicious. So he’s four. And there’s that Holly you work with. The cops have been talking to her. And there’s Lloyd Goodwin.”

I frowned. “Mr. Goodwin? How could he kill anyone? He can’t even walk without a cane.”

“Maybe that’s what he used before he got out his gun.” Rafe twirled an imaginary cane and whacked it on the dashboard. “Yah! Gotcha!”

“Why would Mr. Goodwin kill Stan?”

Rafe got in one more whack. “Wouldn’t. Neither would you or old Otis or Holly or Stephen or Tom. I figure it was one of his relatives. He had a ton of sisters and all of them had a passel of kids. Bound to be one of them, hoping they’d get money. Everybody says they’ll challenge the will. Or maybe there’s some old family feud and it ended up in murder. Like the Hatfields and the McCoys, only with Larabees and former Larabees.” He laughed.

“I didn’t know Stan had so many relatives.”

“Oh, sure. He didn’t like them, is all.” Rafe grinned. “Can’t say I blame him. You ever met any of his sisters?”

“How many does he have?”

“Three?” He squinted, peering through the front windshield as if the view of the rolling countryside would jog his memory. “Four, maybe.”

“You’re no help.”

“Get what you pay for.”

“I’m paying for gas money to Charlevoix and back. Plus I spent my whole night on you. Doesn’t that count for something?”

“Almost makes up for the time I spent fixing the roof of your houseboat last September.”

Point to Rafe. A big one. “And I still owe you for that.” Fall was the busiest time for his job, and he’d spent two straight weekends helping me repair my rotting roof. “I can’t believe anyone thinks I killed Stan.”

“Yeah, well, you know people. Some of them will say anything just so they can say something.”

I glanced at him. “Rafe Niswander, I’m not sure if you’re the smartest person I know or the dumbest.”

“Smartest,” he said, and put his feet up on the dashboard.

I pushed them down. “How many stitches did you just get? Dumbest.”

“Oh, yeah? Bet I can tell you something about Stan Larabee you don’t know.”

“You’re on.” I slid a five-dollar bill out of my front pocket and laid it on the console. Time spent with Rafe almost always resulted in a five-dollar bet and I’d prepared myself while he was getting sewn up. “Let’s see yours.”

Rafe oof ed and grunted and eventually got his wallet out of his back pocket. He put his five on top of mine. “That farmhouse where you found Larabee? He owned it.”

“He . . . what?”

“Paid cash for it a couple weeks ago.” Rafe nodded. “Heard it firsthand from a guy who used to work with the brother of the guy Larabee bought it off of.” He swiped the fives off the dashboard and shoved them in his front pocket. “Not much of a mystery, then, why he was out there. He was checking out his new digs.”

So, one question answered. But a bigger one remained. Why had Stan bought a decrepit farmhouse in the middle of nowhere? I opened my mouth to ask, but Rafe jumped in.

“But I got no idea why he bought it. Eighty acres in the middle of east county flatland?” He snorted. “Hardly anyone wanted to live there fifty years ago and no one wants to live there now. Real estate in that part of the county moves slower than my hair grows.”

He was right, and I said so.

“See?” He preened. “Smart.”

I pointed at his bandage. “Or not.”

He gave me a hurt look. “Hey, these things happen. I can’t be careful all the time, you know. No one can.”

Which was truth itself. I smiled at him. “Let’s go see what Kristen has for leftovers.”

“If she has steak to get rid of, will you cut it for me and not make fun?”

I held up my hand in the three-fingered Scout salute. “I promise.”

• • •

The next morning I walked a different route to work and passed the Lakeview Art Gallery. Closed, of course, that time of day, but I stopped and looked in through the wide windows at the paintings. Charcoal portraits, abstract acrylics, watercolors of water views.

Hmm.

The rest of my walk to work, my thoughts went from art to music to literature to libraries and back to art. By late morning, I’d come up with an idea, so I went upstairs and tugged on the lion’s beard.

“You want to do what?” Stephen asked.

His hair had a rumpled look and . . . I took a quick count of buttonholes. Yes, Stephen’s shirt was one button off. If he’d been anyone else, I would have smiled and made a shirt-buttoning gesture, but this was Stephen, and there were lines one was not invited to cross.

Lots of lines, in fact. Stephen wasn’t one to socialize with us minions, and no one was absolutely certain if he was even married. Holly said there was a Rangel child in the middle school and one in high school. Josh said there was no way Stephen had ever fathered children, not with that haircut. They’d looked at me to cast the deciding vote and I’d claimed noncombatant status.

All of which meant that though Stephen was practically wearing a sign that said, “I’m upset,” there was no crossing that big fat boundary line he drew over and over again.

I averted my eyes from his shirt. “I’d like to have a display of local art here in the library. A temporary exhibit for a month.”