Лори Касс - Lending А Paw

Serendipity was my friend. I fell into step behind the two men, then surged forward to split them apart. “Hello, Detectives, how are you this fine morning?”

They came to an immediate halt, one on either side of me. Since even the short detective was taller than I was by a good seven inches, this wasn’t a position of power for Ms. Hamilton. I took a quick step away from them. “I’m fine, thanks,” I said in response to their nonresponse. “Has Mitchell Koyne talked to either of you recently?”

Detective Inwood shook his head. So did Detective Devereaux.

Mitchell-time had struck again. “He said something you should know.” They exchanged a glance that was over my head. Literally over my head, not figuratively. I could guess what that glance was all about. It meant, I bet this is nothing, but we have to listen to her, don’t we? Why, yes, you do. “A few days before Stan was killed,” I told them, “Mitchell was cutting down some trees near that farmhouse. He saw a guy on a quad.”

Their faces, which had been politely blank, stayed that way.

“A quad,” I said. “It was a guy on a quad who shot out the tires on the bookmobile, remember?”

Detective Devereaux said, “Ms. Hamilton, do you know how many quads are in this county?”

I didn’t know and I didn’t particularly care. What I did care about was that the detectives apparently hadn’t followed up on the tire-shooting incident. They’d chalked it up to a kid messing around and hadn’t bothered their pretty little heads about it any further. A sharp anger started to heat up inside me. Somewhere, I heard my mother saying, “Now, Minerva, don’t lose your temper. You know it never helps anything,” but she wasn’t talking loud enough for it to have any real effect.

“It seems to me,” I said, “that you should look for quad tracks near the farmhouse. Maybe the guy cleaned up the tracks close by the house, but maybe there are still tracks nearby.”

Detective Inwood started to say something, but I wasn’t done.

“And you said you were investigating Stan’s business associates. Have you come across Gunnar Olson by any chance?” My sarcasm was starting to show and I knew I needed to dial it down. I released the fists that my hands had become and went on.

“He has a summer slip at Uncle Chip’s Marina and was partners with Stan in a development deal. Gunnar lost out big-time. He still carries a huge grudge. And what I just found out is he used to hunt up in the hills behind the farmhouse. There was a cabin up there.”

This part seemed to matter to them. Devereaux took some notes, and even made sure he had the correct spelling of “Olson.”

“Thank you for the information,” Detective Inwood said. “We’ll follow up on this.”

He made a move as if to go, but I wasn’t done yet. My anger was still too hot. This was when Mom really should have spoken up. “Will you? Will you really?” I asked. “You’re detectives for the Tonedagana County Sheriff’s Office—at least that’s what your badges say—but what detecting have you been doing?”

“Ms. Hamilton,” Detective Devereaux said. “Give us time to do our job. Can we investigate as fast as you’d like? No. But—”

He was patronizing me. I hated that. “But meanwhile,” I cut in, “Stan’s killer is running around free, and innocent folks are suffering because you’re questioning the wrong people.”

“Ma’am, we’re doing the best we can.”

“I’m sure you are,” I said with exquisite politeness. “But the killer isn’t in jail, is he? Maybe it’s time to contact the state police. I’m sure the post in Petoskey would be happy to talk to me.”

“Gaylord,” said Detective Inwood. “The regional post is in Gaylord. There’s not much going on in the Petoskey post these days.”

I stared up at him. He stared down at me. Neither one of us was going to budge a fraction of an inch. We were both going to die in this spot, frozen to death come January.

An electronic ringing sallied forth from Detective Devereaux’s chest. He thumbed on his cell. “Yeah . . . yeah . . . okay. We’ll be there.” He slipped the phone back in his pocket. “Let’s go, Hal. Ms. Hamilton, you have a nice day, now.”

They swung around and headed off.

I stood there, watching them go, my hands on my hips, then started walking in the opposite direction. The detectives were blowing me off. They were ignoring everything I said. Had they done a single thing I’d suggested? No. If they had, I’d surely have known.

Holly was a mess, Aunt Frances wasn’t much better, and the detectives were ignoring the person (yours truly) who was handing them clues on a freaking platter.

Oh, Stan . . .

“Working on it, Stan,” I said out loud, startling a middle-aged couple who were walking toward me, hand in hand.

Not only was I working on it, I was moving it to the top of the list.

Chapter 17

In spite of the odd hour of eleven a.m., the Round Table was packed with people. Half of them were having a late breakfast; half were eating an early lunch.

I waited my turn at the cash register, listening to the conversations about boat rides and weekend plans and where the next meal was going to be eaten. When I got to the front of the line, I asked if there were any cinnamon rolls left.

“Not sure,” said the young woman. “Hang on, okay?” She scurried off through the narrow double doors that led to the kitchen. On the wall behind the register hung a calendar displaying a picture of the Petoskey breakwater and lighthouse. I simultaneously admired the photo and wondered where the month of June had gone. It was the last Friday of the month, a month to the day that Stan was killed.

Oh, Stan . . .

I turned away, looking for a distraction. And there, in the back corner, I found it. Bill D’Arcy’s booth was occupied by someone else. Four someone elses, to be exact, and they looked as if they’d been there for some time, judging by the breakfast detritus scattered about.

I spotted Sabrina, weaving through the crowded tables with plates of burgers and fries. When she’d distributed the meals, I called to her. “Morning, Sabrina. Where’s your best customer?”

She made a face. “Mr. Won’t-Talk D’Arcy? Don’t know and don’t care.”

That sounded a little harsh. “Has he been in today at all?”

“Nope.”

Just like the day Stan had been killed. One month ago, exactly. I frowned. Something was tickling the back of my thoughts. What would take someone away from a favorite haunt? What would be four weeks apart? Did men get their hair cut that often? But how could that take all day or even half a day?

WHUMP!

The entire building shook. There was a short second of silence; then children screamed, women shrieked, and men yelled. Dust filtered down. “Earthquake!” someone yelled. But I was already running through the front door with Sabrina and half the restaurant patrons on my heels.

It wasn’t an earthquake. Not only were earthquakes exceedingly rare in this part of the country, but through the window I’d seen the cause of the whump.

Half a dozen running steps and I’d reached the passenger door of the car that had struck the building. I grabbed the handle and flung the door open. “Are you all right?” I hunched down and saw large hairy arms flailing around, shoving aside the released air bag. I half sat on the passenger seat. “Sir? Are you all right? Do you need an ambulance?”

“No!” he yelled.

“Bill?” Sabrina ran around to his side of the car. “Bill! Are you okay?”

It was Bill D’Arcy. How Sabrina had recognized his voice, I didn’t know. I wasn’t sure he’d ever spoken more than one word in a row.