Cat With a Clue (18 page)

Denise tossed her hair. “Of course I do. What kind of operation do you think I run?”

With great restraint, I didn't say what I really thought. “Could you please e-mail me a list of everyone who was working that week the books were thrown off the shelves?”

Denise's eyes came together into narrow slits. “You can't think that one of my volunteers did that. That's just stupid.”

“I don't think anything of the sort. But I would like to talk to each of them, ask if they noticed anything different.”

“Hmph. It's about time you did something about that.” Denise gave me a quick look up and down. “It's because you're getting a new library director, I bet. You're afraid the new guy is going to fire you for letting a murder and two break-ins happen on your watch.”

How she'd come to that bizarre conclusion, I had no idea. But since I also didn't care to learn how Denise's thought process worked, I just said, “If you could send me the list, I'd appreciate it.”

“Well.” Denise sighed. “I suppose. But that stuff is at home, and I'm doing the flowers at church this morning, then I have a volunteer shift at Lake View this afternoon, and tonight my friend Bobbi is hosting a euchre tournament, and she always says she can't play cards without me, so I can't promise when.”

“Whenever you have a minute is fine,” I said, edging away. “Thanks.” And I fled before she could start talking about her Monday schedule. During my hurried walk, I went past Benton's, stopped, turned around, and stepped up to the front door. The store wouldn't be open for almost another hour, but maybe Rianne was in. I knocked loudly and, sure enough, Rianne's head poked out of the back doorway.

She saw my frantic gestures and came forward to unlock the door. “Minnie, what's up?”

“Do you have a few minutes?”

“Sure,” she said, glancing outside at the big clock. “Would you like some coffee? I was just going over some inventory numbers. Come on back.”

As we settled ourselves in her office, coffee in hand, I trailed my fingers across a few spokes of the ship's wheel. “Do you remember a book about wildflowers at your grandparents' house? It was on the sideboard.”

“Flowers?” She blew steam off her coffee. “I guess so, but I was more of a Boxcar Children fan. Why do you ask?”

“Because I think that book is why Andrea was killed.”

Rianne stopped midsip. “I don't understand.”

“This is going to sound impossible, but the book
Wildflowers
, by Robert Chastain, is potentially worth a lot of money.”

“How much is a lot?” Rianne went back to sipping.

“If it's in mint condition, half a million dollars.”

Rianne's mouthful of coffee blew out in a spray all over her desk. “Half a
million
? That can't be right. No way did Deke and Granny have anything worth that much. No way.”

I told her that Cade himself had seen the book. “Plus, I think that's why Andrea was in the library that night. Somehow she knew the value of the book and was trying to find it. And I think someone is still trying to.”

“Why didn't they put it in a safety-deposit box?” She looked around a little wildly. “Get it insured? Something. Anything.”

“I'm not sure they believed Cade about its value. To
them it was just a book that had been sitting on the sideboard.”

“Now, that I can believe.” Rianne pulled a tissue out of a box and dabbed at the coffee-colored spray on her papers. “But why would anyone think the book ended up in the library?”

“Because in her later years, your grandmother gave away a lot of things. Because I'm guessing it isn't on the sideboard anymore.”

“Let's find out.” Rianne put down her coffee mug and reached for the phone. “Honey? Can you go into the dining room? You know that pile of kids' books on the sideboard? Is there a book about wildflowers in there?”

“
Wildflowers of Northern America
,” I said.

She nodded, passed on the title, and, after a few moments, said, “Thanks. I'll tell you about it tonight.” She hung up the phone and looked at me. “It's not there. And there's nowhere else in the house it would be. It's gone.”

Though that was what I'd expected, it was still a punch in the stomach.

The skin around Rianne's mouth was tight. “Did Granny give it away, or did someone steal it?”

“If someone had stolen it from the house, Andrea wouldn't have been in the library, looking for it.” At least that was my assumption. “I think your grandmother gave it away.”

Rianne relaxed a fraction, but only a fraction. “So, someone out there is willing to murder for the sake of this book?”

“For half a million dollars,” I said.

She blew out a long sigh. “My grandparents had a lot of people in that house over the years. It could be
almost anyone. I just . . . I just hope it isn't anyone I know.”

For her sake, I hoped so, too.

*   *   *

“Keep your elbows in.”

I nodded at Ash's instruction, trying not to think that he sounded like my father had, years back when I was being taught table manners. I still didn't honestly see why it was such a horrible thing to put your elbows on the table when you were eating a hamburger, especially if you were like me and had elbows that ended closer to the tabletop than most people's, but I still couldn't do it without feeling guilty.

Speaking of parents . . . “How did it go at your mom's?” I asked.

Though Ash was about twenty feet away, over the flat water that was between us, there was no need to speak any louder than if he'd been right next to me. We were in kayaks, sitting low, and the world looked different from the way it did from a standing position. Though I'd canoed many times, this was my first-ever kayak outing, and I was already a convert. The only thing I had to unlearn from my earlier canoeing efforts was the elbow thing.

“All set,” he said.

He'd gone to his mom's house to help her plant trees that a landscaping company had delivered the day before. Maples, to replace the ash trees that had been killed by the emerald ash borer. Since Ash's name had come from how much his mother had loved those trees, it had only made sense that the human Ash work on the replacements.

“I would have been glad to help.” Digging hard into the water with the paddle's blades, I sent the kayak scooting forward fast.

“Hey there, Speedster!” Ash laughed and caught up to me in seconds. “I told Mom you'd be happy to help, but she said she didn't want to bother you.”

There was a small kernel of worry tucked away in a corner of my tummy. It was a stone kernel that had the name Lindsey Wolverson etched into its surface, and I had no idea what to do about it. Maybe it was a personality thing and we would never get along. Or maybe it was something I'd done, but I had no idea what. Then again, it was possible that she just didn't like short people.

“What's so funny?” Ash asked.

I glanced over. In the year that I'd known him and the few weeks we'd been dating, the thing I liked most about him was that he kept an open mind. There was no possible way that he had been raised by a mother who was prejudiced.

“Lots of things are funny,” I said. “Take the duck-billed platypus, for—”

The low growling sound of a big boat's motor came up fast behind us. “Boat coming up,” Ash called. “Turn to face it diagonally, okay?”

Without too much flailing around, I did as he said, and was in proper position to take the boat's wake when it passed underneath us.

The boat itself was a charter fishing boat headed for the channel and the open waters of Lake Michigan. On board were the typical passengers: men in their forties to early fifties, wearing jeans, fleece jackets, and baseball caps with downstate team names. A grizzled man was behind the boat's wheel, his skin crinkled from too many years without enough sunblock. The boat's single crew member was a tall man who was busying himself by stowing coolers and checking fishing gear,
joking with the passengers, and constantly adjusting his hat.

Mitchell Koyne.

I watched the boat slide past and stared at Mitchell the entire time. When it had gone by and we'd ridden out the bobbing wake, I turned to Ash. “Did you see that?”

“Yeah,” he said, watching the boat's stern grow ever more distant. “A bunch of guys out having a lot of expensive fun.”

His tone was a little envious, and I hoped that the next activity he taught me wasn't going to include rods and reels and sharp hooks, because I didn't see the attraction to sitting in a boat for hours on end, hoping you were clever enough to outsmart a fish. “Mitchell Koyne was crewing.”

“Heard he was working hard this summer.” Ash turned his kayak to run parallel with the lake's shore, and I did the same. “Maybe he's trying to save enough money to buy a house. He's lived with his sister for how long? I bet her husband's ready to see him go.”

Though that last part was undoubtedly true, I was fairly sure Mitchell's new work ethic wasn't a product of his brother-in-law's urgings.

“I've been thinking about what you told Hal this morning,” Ash said.

For a moment, I had no idea what he was talking about. Hal who? I almost asked, then, at the last second, I remembered that Detective Inwood, unlike Lieutenant Columbo, did indeed have a first name, and that it was Hal.

When Ash had arrived at the marina with two kayaks, I'd given him the same spiel I'd given the detective as we wrestled the boats off the top of his SUV and into the water.

“And?” I asked now. “Please tell me you had a magical leap of insight. A brilliant flash. Any kind of flash.”

“Sorry.” Ash leaned back and rested his paddle across the kayak's cockpit. “What I was thinking was that almost everybody in town worked for Benton's at one point in their life. I grew up in Petoskey, so I don't know for sure, but from what I heard, the DeKeysers treated all of their staff like family.”

“A dysfunctional family?”

Ash laughed. “What other kind is there? No, what I meant was that I've heard people who worked at Benton's say it wasn't unusual for staff to be invited to the DeKeyser's house for lunch or dinner.”

Outstanding. “So anyone who ever worked at Benton's could have noticed that copy of
Wildflowers
.”

“Yup.” Ash glanced over. “Which means the people who might know about the book's value could be anyone from all the DeKeysers to Shane Pratley to Rafe to the mayor.”

“Shane worked at Benton's?”

“Well, sure.” Ash frowned. “I thought you knew. He was more or less in charge at Benton's when Deke and Talia handed over the management to Rianne. Shane was fine with that until Rianne moved back to run the store hands-on. He quit cold and went to work at the grocery store.”

“No,” I said. “I didn't know.” But suddenly Shane's anger made . . . well, not sense, but at least now I knew there was a reason behind it. But was he angry enough to kill? I looked up at the big blue sky. Though it sent no answers, it was clear that Ash needed to know about Shane's temper. I sighed. “There's something I have to tell you.”

When I described the encounter I'd had with Shane
at the grocery store, Ash went still. “And you didn't mention this at the time because?”

I shrugged, because I wasn't sure why. “He was just letting off steam.”

“You don't know that.”

He was right. “Sorry,” I said. “I should have told you.”

“Okay.” Ash nodded. “I'll tell Hal and see what he wants to do with it.” He twirled his paddle in his hands, started to dig the blades into the water, then stopped and looked at me. “Just so you know, we are looking at Steve Guilder.”

“Andrea's high school boyfriend?”

“That's the one.” Ash nodded. “We're looking, so leave that alone, okay? He moved back to Michigan about a year ago. We're trying to track him down.”

“Is he in Chilson?” For some reason I glanced around. “Do you know where he's working?”

“We're trying to track him down,” Ash repeated. “We'll find him. Don't worry.”

It was a beautiful summer day with hardly a cloud in the sky, and worrying had been the furthest thing from my mind.

Until then.

T
he next morning, I woke to the sound of rain pattering on the houseboat's roof. I lay quietly for a moment, trying to decide which was noisier, the rain or Eddie's snores, then reached for my clock to check the time. “It's not even eight,” I said, yawning. “What do you think, bud? Option one is get up, get going, and be productive in the four hours before I have to be at the library. Option two is roll over and see what happens.”

“Mrr,” Eddie said sleepily.

I murmured agreement, rolled over, and went back to sleep.

Two hours later, I blinked and found that I was wide-awake. Eddie tried to convince me to stay in bed, but it wasn't any good. I was awake and going to stay that way.

“You, of course, get to remain in bed if you wish,” I told him as I towel-dried my hair, postshower. “That's one of the benefits of being a cat.”

Eddie's eyes opened slightly.

“You want me to name all of them?” I pulled on clothes suitable for an afternoon in the library; dress
pants, a dressy T-shirt, and a light jacket. “There's no time for the complete list, but I can hit the highlights. A cat's sense of self-confidence, for one. The absolute nonnecessity of having to change your clothes. Plus there's the ability you have to purr. What's that all about, anyway? And then there's—”

I stopped, because my audience of one had gone back to sleep. I could tell, because he was snoring again, this time most certainly louder than the rain.

“Have a good day,” I whispered. Then I kissed him and headed out to hunt down some food.

*   *   *

The folks at the Round Table were happy enough to stuff me full of cinnamon apple pancakes, link sausage, and some healthy wedges of watermelon. I put up my rain jacket's hood and scooted from restaurant to car, telling myself that driving to the library when I normally walked on nonbookmobile days was okay on a day like this. Far better to use the gas to drive the mile than to walk and end up with wet shoes and socks and pants from which I might never get the mud spatters out.

I arrived at the library long before the noon opening and used the time to catch up on e-mails and to open the snail mail that had been accumulating on my desk. At straight-up twelve, I unlocked the doors and headed across the quiet lobby to the reference desk.

Donna, who was a deacon in her church, wouldn't arrive until half past. She'd worried over me being the only staff member in the entire library, saying that maybe someone else should work on Sunday afternoon. I'd said if I couldn't manage half an hour by myself, that my librarianship should be irrevocably revoked.

And, for the first fifteen minutes, absolutely nothing happened. Not a single soul walked in the door, and I was left free to research a new educational software program for the children's computers. Then, just as I was thinking that I must not have unlocked the doors, I heard one swing open and a troop of children scampered in. A motherly type cast a worried glance in my direction and shushed her charges.

I got up, smiling, and walked toward them. “Hi, I'm Minnie. If you need anything, just let me know.”

The woman pushed back her rain-damp hair. “How about something for three siblings and four cousins to do for an hour or two? We're staying with friends and we were all supposed to go out on the boat, but . . .” She sighed.

“I have just the thing,” I said with confidence. The brick-and-mortar library might not have a cat, but in addition to books, we had a puppet theater, a tree-shaped resin structure designed to be climbed upon, and jigsaw puzzles galore. I herded the entourage to the children's section, and the kids instantly scattered to various parts of the room.

“Thank you,” the woman said. Deep feeling rang in every vowel and consonant. “I promise to remember you in my will.”

“No need,” I assured her. “All in a day's work for a librarian.”

I left them to their devices and headed back to the reference desk, exquisitely satisfied with my profession, glad I hadn't given in to a brief temptation in my sophomore year to switch majors. Though the archaeology class I'd taken had been fascinating, it wouldn't have suited me nearly as much as being a librarian did.

As I neared the desk, I saw that in my absence a man had come in and sat at a computer. “Hi,” I said. “If you need any help, my name is—” I blinked. “Oh, hey. I didn't recognize you.”

A hatless Mitchell nodded. “Hey, Minnie. What's up?”

“Not much,” I said, leaning against the barrier that separated the computer carrels from each other. “But I'm wondering what's up with you?”

“Nothing.”

“I don't believe that.”

He glanced up sideways at me, then turned his attention to the computer, shrugging.

“You've been working at the toy store,” I said quietly. “You're been crewing on a charter boat, and you're working that renovation construction job.” From what I'd been told, Mitchell had never held more than one job at time in his life, and often not even that.

“Work isn't so bad,” he muttered, whacking at the keyboard.

I thought about what I might say next, trying to choose words that would sound concerned yet lack any hint of condescension. “Mitchell,” I said softly, “if your girlfriend truly loves you, she loves you just the way you are.”

“Yeah?” He reached up for his baseball hat, but his hand found nothing but air, so he was forced to let his hand flop back down uselessly. “That's what my sister says, but Bianca, she's so great, you know? She deserves someone who works as hard as she does. Someone who's worth something.”

“But—”

Mitchell pushed on through my objection. “You told me to stay busy, remember? And I figured working lots
of jobs was the best way to do that. And now I see that I can save some money, you know? I need to show Bianca that I'm worth more than just an attic apartment in my sister's house.” His voice was full of disgust for himself. “I've wasted so much time hanging around and not doing anything much. I need to change before it's too late.”

Negative point to Minnie for not thinking her advice through. I reached out to touch him on the shoulder, but let my hand drop. “Mitchell, I understand that you don't want to lose Bianca.”

“She's the one,” he said. “I love her.”

The stark declaration startled me. I blinked, then said, “It's great that you're making a living. But don't change yourself too much, okay? We like you just the way you are.”

Mitchell faced me. “Do you? Do you really? Or are you just saying so because you like to have me around to make fun of?”

His accusation stung. I didn't want to think it was true, but I was the least bit afraid there was some truth in what he said. My mother would have been ashamed of me, and for good reason. I flushed. “Mitchell—”

“And you know what?” he said, interrupting, yet another thing that was very un-Mitchell-like. “It's kind of stupid. All these years people have been telling me to get a real job, and now that I'm working like crazy, people are asking me why I'm working so hard. I can't win for losing.”

He had a point. A very good one. And when I told him so, he shrugged again.

“Anyway,” he said, “I bet you're working as many hours as I am at your one job than I am at all of mine put together.”

“That's different.”

“Yeah?” He grinned, and there was the old Mitchell, right there in front of me. “How's that exactly?”

I opened my mouth to respond, couldn't think of anything to say, and closed it again.

Because there was a strong possibility that there was no difference.

*   *   *

“Your splits are getting faster,” Ash said.

“My what?” I asked, panting. My body was not made for doing splits. The last time I'd tried had been in third-grade gym class and, if I thought about it, the humiliation still stung, so I'd done my best not to think about it for the past twenty-odd years.

“Splits,” he said, not panting at all. “Your mile times on our runs. They're down almost thirty seconds since we started running together.”

How nice for me.
And as soon as I found the breath enough to say so out loud, I would.

But as soon as I had the uncharitable thought, I tried to unthink it. Most runners wouldn't slow down so much for a friend. This wasn't helping Ash's fitness level at all; he was only doing this for my sake. To spend time with me.

And I did enjoy our morning routine. No matter what I did the rest of the day, I could think back to this run and know I'd done something right.

We were about halfway through our normal route, which started out at the marina and went up the hill, through downtown and its outskirts, toward the high-priced real estate on the point, then back along the edge of Janay Lake along the public walkway.

“How about trying for a fast quarter mile?” Ash asked. “Bet you can do under two minutes.”

A few weeks ago, I'd been happy enough to run three miles at all; now I was trying to improve my times. “You think?” I asked, trying not to gasp.

“Sure,” he said easily. “Interval training is the way to go.”

If I'd had the wind, I'd have asked, “The way to go where?” but I didn't, so I didn't.

“We can start at the next intersection.” Ash pointed ahead. “Through the last block of downtown, past the gas station, past the church, and up to the Point Road. That's a quarter mile. I've clocked it.”

“Sure,” I said. What the heck. I didn't mind pushing myself. I might even learn what an interval was.

His running watch made some beeping noises, and when we reached the upcoming intersection, he said, “Go!” at the same time his watch made another beep.

I put my head down and concentrated on my running.
Don't be a rabbit,
I told myself.
Don't go out too fast. Set a pace you can maintain for a couple of minutes. You can do anything for two minutes.

So I tried. I really did. But then, in front of the office to the local propane dealer, I saw a man who looked familiar. He must have heard our footsteps, because he turned. “Morning, Minnie,” he said.

I slowed to puff out, “Morning!” then worked to return to my former pace, but must have been distracted by trying to remember the guy's name and missed my target time by ten seconds.

It wasn't until I was showered, dressed, breakfasted, and walking to the library that something went
click
in my brain and I remembered why I knew the guy in front of the propane company. Or at least I'd been introduced to him. He was the attorney for Talia DeKeyser's estate,
the one I'd met in Rianne's pilot's house of an office. Peter? Paul? Something like that.

For some reason, I was suddenly embarrassed, which made no sense because I had, in fact, said good morning; I just hadn't remembered his name.

And then, since the thing was done and there was nothing I could do about it, I put the incident from my mind.

*   *   *

“Long time no see,” Josh commented.

Startled, I jerked the coffeepot and narrowly missed pouring hot coffee all across the counter. “What are you talking about? I was here yesterday afternoon. And all day Friday.” I counted back. “And Wednesday and Monday and the—”

“I mean mentally here.” He picked up the coffeepot I'd set down and filled his own mug. “The past two weeks you've been walking around like a zombie, hardly paying attention to anything anybody says.”

My knee-jerk reaction was to deny all, but I had a sneaking suspicion he was onto something. And it was one of those somethings I would address as soon as I had a spare few minutes. Of course, when that might be, I didn't have a—

“Minnie, I need to talk to you right now.” Denise Slade stood in the doorway of the break room, her arms crossed.

“Have fun,” Josh murmured. “Hey, Denise,” he said in a normal voice. “See you later, okay?”

And he was gone.

“Hello,” I said to Denise. “How are you this fine morning?”

“What?” She frowned. “I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?”

I could have mentioned a number of reasons, starting with the death of her husband less than a year earlier, moving on to the troublesome situation in the Middle East, and ending with the cost of bacon, but I just smiled and asked, “What's up?”

“Here.” She uncrossed her arms and brandished a piece of paper. “It's that list of names you wanted, all the Friends who worked in the book-sale room.” She flapped the paper up and down, which made a bizarrely loud noise.

I walked around the table and reached out to take the paper from her. “Thanks, Denise. This really—” I stopped. The list, which I'd anticipated to have four or five names, had more like twenty. “All of these people worked in the sale room that week?”

“No idea,” Denise said. “Say, can I get a cup of caffeine? I'll even take it if you made it.” She laughed.

Silently I took a mug from the cupboard, checked its insides for dust, and poured it full of coffee. When I handed it to Denise, I also pushed over the small tray that held creamer, sugar, and a jar taped with a note that said,
Please donate to our coffee fund
. Ignoring the jar, Denise added two packs of sugar and one pack of creamer to her mug.

Denise stirred the contents of her mug with a spoon and then laid the spoon on the table, where it would leave a small puddle, “That list is all the people who were scheduled to work this month.”

Though it was wonderful that the Friends had so many people who volunteered for the good of the library, the task of calling them all would take a while. “I thought you said you'd know who worked that week.”

Denise paused in the act of sipping her coffee. “I do. They're on that list.”

I almost looked around for the rabbit hole I must have fallen into. “Which ones?”