Gone with the Whisker Page 8

  Hang on a minute . . .

  I made a hard left, walked past a resale shop and a chiropractor’s office, and walked into Lakeview Art Gallery. The twenty-something woman at the counter looked up and her long honey-brown hair flowed over her shoulders and down her back. “Good even—oh, hey, Minnie. What’s up?”

  I smiled at Lina Swinney. As a former part-time bookmobile clerk, Lina would always have a special place in my life. “Just stopping by,” I said. “Does Cade have anything new?”

  Russell McCade, better known to his millions of fans as Cade, had, along with his wonderful wife, Barb, a home on nearby Five Mile Lake. Our first meeting had been unusual—I’d rushed Cade to the emergency room in the bookmobile—and the three of us had bonded over use of the letter D.

  Cade painted gorgeous, lifelike paintings of lake scenes, cozy cottages, and sunsets. Many critics dismissed his art as mediocre works that pandered to the lowest common taste, but Cade just smiled and deposited the checks.

  Lina tipped her head at an empty spot on the wall. “Someone bought it yesterday. But there’s this cool new weaving piece from a new artist I bet you’ll like.” She hopped off her stool and led me into a side room. I admired the weaving’s complicated mix of textures and colors, and since no one else was in the building, I asked oh-so-casually, “Do you happen to know Nate Vannett? I hear he works next door.”

  “Um, sure.”

  I turned and focused on Lina’s face. Yep. She was blushing. “Hmm,” I said, mock-frowning. “Do I detect a romance? Please say yes.”

  Lina’s blush went deeper. “He’s a friend of my brother’s. I’ve known him forever, but haven’t seen him much since my brother moved downstate. Then this spring he leased that place next door and . . .” She gave a goofy smile.

  My return smile was also on the silly side, since my relationship with Rafe had taken a similar trajectory. “What’s he like?” I asked. “Tall, dark, and handsome?”

  She laughed. “More like shortish, blondish, and cute in a baby face kind of way. But he’s . . . he’s wonderful. He actually listens to me. I mean, really listens. To me! Can you believe it?”

  I could, since I knew Lina was smart and funny, but I also knew what she meant. To have a friend who valued you inside and out was a wonderful thing. I made appreciative noises, then, since being belatedly clever was better than not being clever at all, I said, “I hear the Vannetts have a huge Fourth of July party every year. Were you there?”

  “It was awesome,” she said, nodding. “Their family place is like a ten-minute walk away from the waterfront, so it’s really convenient.”

  “I hear Barry and his wife were hosting this year. Bet they were busy all the time.”

  “Oh, you know them?” Lina asked, frowning a bit. “You’re friends?”

  “Not exactly,” I said, in complete truth.

  “Good. I mean, Barry is Nate’s cousin, but Barry is kind of a jerk. Technically, he and his wife were hosting, but she was doing all the work. Half the time no one knew where Barry was.”

  “Even during the fireworks?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Especially then. That’s the big Vannett family moment. Everybody’s supposed to be down next to the dock, because right before the fireworks, there’s a family reading of the Declaration of Independence. Everybody gets a section, but this year no one could find Barry to start it off. He showed up later, with this lame excuse that he had to do a beer run.”

  “But there was plenty of beer?”

  “Well, he came back with some, but why would he need to buy more when there was a whole other cooler full?”

  Lina went on to list reasons for Barry to be gone for an hour, reasons that ranged from a hatred of the writings of Thomas Jefferson to an affair. But never once did she mention the possibility of murder.

  Thinking hard about fireworks and motives, I left the gallery and headed home. When I turned onto the Main Street sidewalk, I suddenly remembered why I’d avoided that street half an hour earlier. Even at eight o’clock at night, it was still wall-to-wall people, with vehicles jammed tight from intersection to intersection.

  I eyed the mess, then shrugged and plunged in. Two steps later, something banged into the back of my legs. “Oomph!”

  “Honey,” said a man to a toddler, “watch where you’re walking, okay?”

  “Okay, Daddy,” the kid said, eyes still looking everywhere but at the ground right ahead.

  “Sorry,” the guy apologized. “She’s just excited about being here.”

  “No problem,” I said, because he was being nice and the kid was cute. But I edged over toward the curb, where the pedestrian traffic was lighter. I didn’t need to see the retail shops, the restaurants, or the fudge stores; all I wanted was to get back to the houseboat, take my cat on the deck, think about what I’d just learned, and when I’d figured everything out, I’d walk over to the house and talk to—

  And then I was on one foot, teetering and off balance.

  And then there was nothing to keep me from falling toward the street, toward the moving traffic, falling, falling, falling . . .

  Chapter 6

  Iwas falling directly into moving traffic. My arms flailed wildly and my feet had no idea what they should be doing. I hit the asphalt hard, and through nothing but sheer instinct I started rolling sideways, rolling away from the tires that were so very close to me.

  My ears, which hadn’t heard anything for quite a while, suddenly started working again, hearing all sorts of things. Brakes shrieking, people yelling, a child screaming. I rolled to a stop and lay there for a moment, face up, looking at the sky. Still cloudy.

  Footsteps ran to my side. “Are you all right?” a woman asked.

  A car door slammed. “She fell right in front of me,” a male voice said, his tone tight and high. “There was nothing I could do.”

  In seconds, I was looking up at a circle of strangers. “I’m fine,” I said, because I was pretty sure I was, but my voice came out quiet and no one heard me.

  “Minnie! Look at me!”

  I looked around and finally focused on a familiar face. “Hey, Pam. What’s up?”

  “Not you, apparently.” Pam Fazio elbowed her way to my side. “Let’s give her some room, folks, okay?” Pam, owner of Older Than Dirt, the antique/gift store where Kate was spending a third of her working hours, kneeled by my side. “I’m sure someone has already called nine-one-one. Do you need an ambulance?”

  I sat up, brushed myself off, and with Pam’s help, got to my feet. Everything seemed to be in working order, except my shirt had a new hole in the shoulder. I pulled out my phone and called dispatch, telling them to cancel everything, that it was just an accident. All was well.

  The car’s driver hovered until I swore on an imaginary stack of Bibles that I wouldn’t sue him for almost running me over, and he eventually left.

  “What was that all about?” Pam asked, brushing a bit of dirt off my back. “You just being your normal awkward and bumbling self?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Maybe it’s time to start paying more attention to what you’re doing?”

  “Start a habit like that now, at my age?”

  Pam shook her head, which made her short dark hair shake, too. “Well, since I have two decades on you and don’t have the habit, I suppose I shouldn’t ask it of you.”

  I smiled. “Good to know you’re aware of the hypocrisy.”

  “But honestly, Minnie, what happened?”

  By now we were back on the sidewalk, and the vehicular and pedestrian traffic had cleared as much as it was going to until late August. I nodded at the congestion. “I’m not sure. Maybe someone accidentally pushed me?” I shook my head, trying to loosen the memory, but it didn’t come free. “But mostly likely, I just fell. I was trying to get around a woman pushing a stroller and I just . . . trippe
d.”

  Pam picked a piece of leaf out of my hair, told me to take care of myself, and headed back into her store.

  Slowly, I walked back to the marina, feeling the bumps and scrapes that were going to make me horribly stiff in the morning, wondering about what had just happened. Had I really felt someone shove me into the road? Yes, I was pretty sure of it. But had it been accidental or intentional?

  There was no way for me to know, so I decided not to think about it too much. By far the likeliest scenario was an accident. But just in case it wasn’t and just in case someone knew I was helping the police with the murder investigation and wanted me out of the way, I decided to double down my efforts to find Rex Stuhler’s killer.

  And maybe I’d be a little more careful, too.

  * * *

  * * *

  At the house that night, I very casually explained to Rafe that the new bruises on my arms and legs were a sad example of what could happen on the mean streets of Chilson, and immediately changed the conversation to next steps in looking for Rex’s killer.

  “There’s a hole in your shirt.” Rafe put three of his fingers through it, and I deeply wished I’d taken the time to go back to the houseboat to change.

  “Old shirt,” I said, pulling the fabric out of his reach. “I was thinking about the Stuhlers’ pest control business. Are you familiar with any of those websites that review local businesses?”

  Rafe squinted. “What, you think because Rex couldn’t get a squirrel out of an attic fast enough someone killed him?”

  “People kill over dumber things,” I said. “And what if it was a skunk? What if the skunk sprayed all over . . . over . . . some historic papers, a signed letter from Abraham Lincoln, and now it’s not worth anything. Or what if Rex had guaranteed an attic critter-free, but it wasn’t, and someone had stored their, um, their Queen Anne furniture up there and raccoons got in and—”

  Rafe held up a hand. “Don’t spend all your brain power dreaming up unlikely but possible scenarios. I take your point and, yes, I can think of a couple of websites people around here use.”

  Grinning, I rubbed my hands together and, because of the recent abrasions, immediately regretted doing so. “Great,” I said. “Where’s your laptop?”

  “You want to do this now?” Rafe pointed at the tool belt around his waist.

  “No time like the present.” Darkness was coming and Kate was about to spend another night dreaming of things that made her wake up crying. “Just tell me and you can go back to doing whatever it was you were doing.” I hesitated. “Unless you need my help, of course.”

  “If it’s the kind of help where you ask what I’m doing and why I’m doing it and slowing things down more than you speed them up, then I’m fine alone.”

  “You hurt me,” I said, giving him a look of fake pain. “Truly and deeply.”

  “Oh?” He moved closer. “Where exactly does it hurt? Let me kiss it and make it better.”

  Which is what he did, so it was a few minutes before we extricated ourselves from each other and moved on to our appointed tasks. I found his laptop right where he said it was, on a counter in the kitchen, underneath a stack of newspapers and magazines.

  I fired it up and typed in the first review site Rafe had mentioned. Nothing came up under the name of Rex’s company, ABK Pest Control. “Rats,” I muttered, then giggled at myself. Rats? When I was looking up pest control? Hah! Still giggling, I pulled up the other review site. This one included an entry for ABK. I scrolled down and read the comments that had been posted.

  DaveR: Rex did a great job getting rid of the bats in our belfry. Okay, it was an attic, but they’re gone and that’s what matters. Thanks!

  Suzie11K: One panicky phone call about the squirrel my cat brought in and Rex was here in less than an hour. He saved me from a heart attack. I love this man and if he wasn’t already married I’d snap him up. Sorry, honey :)

  There were more in that same vein, but then I read a post from JNJ132: Don’t ever call Rex Stuhler. He’ll make your life so miserable you’ll wish you hadn’t been born.

  I stared at the harsh words. Studied the cryptic name of the poster. And knew exactly what I’d be doing first thing in the morning.

  * * *

  * * *

  The sixtyish woman looked at me over the top of her computer. “Morning, Minnie. What brings you here so early? Coffee?” She nodded at the machine set on a counter near her desk.

  “Polly,” I said, “you are the answer to my prayers.”

  “That’s what all the bookmobile librarians tell me,” she said. “What can the chamber do for you today?”

  Polly, director of the Chilson Chamber of Commerce for twenty years, was a whirlwind of energy in summer and essentially hibernated in winter. She had privately lamented to me that with the tourist season expanding into spring and fall, the hibernation thing was getting harder to do, but she was hoping to continue her habits until retirement.

  “Well,” I said, opening the cupboard and choosing a slightly chipped yellow mug with the logo of Chilson’s sesquicentennial, “I saw on your website that ABK Pest Control is a member of the chamber.”

  Polly sighed. “Rex and Fawn. It’s so sad. Do you know if the police have found out who killed him?”

  “Not yet, but last night I had an idea.” I leaned against the counter, which on most people would have hit them at hip level, but on me nestled into the small of my back. “Do you keep a list of complaints against your members?”

  Polly eyed me. “You mean like a Better Business Bureau?”

  “Exactly.” I wrapped my hands around the mug and sipped of the life-giving liquid. “Maybe it could give the sheriff’s office a lead.”

  “Sorry,” Polly said, “but we don’t keep a list like that.”

  I deflated. I’d been so sure. “Do you remember anyone complaining about them?” I explained about the review site and the nasty comment.

  “What was the name?”

  “Of who posted? It was a combination of letters and numbers. Don’t remember the numbers, but the letters were JNJ.”

  Polly nodded. “Well, there you go. I’d lay money that was John and Nandi Jaquay. JNJ, see? They blamed Rex for an infestation of raccoons that spent an entire winter in their summer cottage. Made a huge mess of the place, from what I hear.”

  “How was that Rex’s fault?”

  “Who knows.” She shrugged. “People like to have someone to blame, I guess. John and Nandi kept e-mailing and calling, telling me to strike him from our membership.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “From one complaint?” She snorted. “But they were angry, that’s for sure. And they seemed intent on ruining Rex’s business.”

  I thanked her and went out into the morning sun, walking up to the library slowly as I thought through what I’d learned.

  The Jaquays wanted to ruin Rex. How big a step was it from destroying a man’s livelihood to murder?

  * * *

  * * *

  I worked in the library all Thursday and did bookmobile runs on Friday and Saturday morning. After waving good-bye to Julia at noon and taking Eddie back to hearth and houseboat, I grabbed a quick lunch of peanut butter and jelly sandwich, washed it down with a few bites of cottage cheese straight out of the container since Kate wouldn’t touch the stuff and wasn’t there to see me commit food heresy, and stuffed a bottle of water and a book (because you just never knew) into my backpack.

  “I’ll be back soon,” I called to Eddie from the kitchen. But he was doing his usual post-bookmobile routine, that of being flopped on his side on my bed, snoring like a steam engine.

  “Sweet dreams.” I blew him a kiss and headed out into the sunshine. The day was bright as a shiny penny and my heart was light as I rolled my bicycle out of my marina storage unit. Rafe was out fishing with some frien
ds and we’d be meeting in a couple of hours, so I had plenty of time to explore the idea I’d dreamed up that morning.

  What I’d learned about the Jaquays had been interesting, and I’d passed on that information to Ash, but I was still convinced that Barry Vannett, he of the nasty temper, was a likely candidate for Rex’s murder. What was it he’d yelled at Rex? That if Rex came back to talk about a trail, he’d get a “face full of shotgun.” So obviously, what I needed to do was learn more about the trail proposal.

  My clever use of the Internet during a nonbusy bookmobile stop had turned up a website for a grass-roots trail advocacy group. Chilson Connection was both the website and tentative trail name, which had a theoretical route laid out.

  I clicked on the map and saw that, yes indeed, the proposed route was zipping right across Vannett and Stuhler land and diving deep into the adjacent state forest. I also noted that the website talked a lot about conceptual design, construction design, and costs that made my mouth drop open.

  But it was the site’s home page that I found most interesting, because it told me all about a fund-raising event being held at an existing trailhead just outside Chilson that very day.

  “Fate,” I said to myself as I pedaled up the hill. Well, gasped to myself, really, because the hill was long and steep and my exercise the last few months had been more sanding and painting and much less running and biking.

  The trailhead was only a mile outside the city limits, and I coasted into the parking lot glad I’d decided to bike and not drive. The parking lot was jammed so full that people were parking on the grass and on the road’s shoulder. A tent with a banner proclaiming COUNTDOWN TO THE CHILSON CONNECTION was packed with people and all of them appeared to be reaching for their wallets.