A Troubling Tail, page 10
“End of the summer?” My voice came out a little squeaky. “That’s months from now.”
He shrugged. “What can I tell you? We’re busy. But I tell you what.” He reached into a back pocket and held out a business card. “My cell number is on there. I’d have to look at your place to get you a solid price, but for a cash job, I can do it on my own time in the next few weeks. No reason to get North Lakes involved.”
Though he was clearly giving the card to Rafe, I took it from his hand. “Wasson?” I asked, reading. “Are you related to a Leah Wasson? She’s an elementary school teacher.”
His face, which had, up until that time, been pleasant enough, closed down tight. “Not anymore,” he said, and turned to face Rafe. “Let me know on that sink.” He pushed past us and was gone.
* * *
* * *
“Did you think that was weird?” I asked Rafe.
We were driving home, windshield wipers swiping back and forth, clearing our vision momentarily each time. He slowed as a line of wild turkeys took their own sweet time crossing the road. “Got to say, I don’t think much of guys who troll for their own work while on the job for someone else.”
I nodded. Since I wasn’t part of the plumbing world, I didn’t know where the ethical line was, but if we talked to Mr. North Lakes Plumbing, I doubted he’d be happy. “And he sure didn’t want to talk about Leah.”
“That’s no surprise,” Rafe said.
“No. Still, wouldn’t a more normal reaction be ‘She’s my ex,’ and leave it at that?”
“Is there a normal reaction to divorce?”
He had a point, and the rest of the way home, we came up with divorce anecdotes ranging from complete career changes to selling everything and moving to Baja, Mexico, to live on a boat.
“Speaking of boats,” I said as he parked the truck in the garage, “I’m going to pop in and see how Corey and Isabella are doing. You want to come with me?” As there was an important baseball game to watch, he did not, so after a quick study of the clouds—Minnie the meteorologist—I decided the rain was over for the time being and walked over to the marina.
I’d expected a sentimental pang or two, but I must have used all those up when we’d helped with the move-in, because all I felt as I neared my houseboat was pleasure. From everything I could see, the Moncadas were taking care of things as if they were the owners, not just renters. The deck was swept clean, the outside windows were washed, and there were even tiny houseplants perched on the windowsills, something I hadn’t done for years because of cat inclinations.
I stood on the dock at the houseboat’s gate. “Anyone home? It’s Minnie.” There was no response, so I called out a little louder. “Isabella? Corey?”
“No one’s home.”
I jumped at the disembodied voice. “You have got to stop doing that.”
Eric Apney, whose big powerboat had shared a dock with me the last two summers, poked his head over his gunwale and grinned. “What, and ruin one of the great pleasures of my life?”
“How old are you?” I asked. “Never mind. Clearly not old enough to know better.”
By this time I’d accepted his waving invitation and stepped aboard his boat. Eric, known as Dr. Apney to many downstate folks needing cardiac surgery, had already retreated to his glassed-in sitting area, plopped himself at a dining chair, and was pushing a bag of tortilla chips across the table. “If you want anything to drink, you know you have full refrigerator rights here.”
Instead, I took a plastic glass from a cabinet and ran it full of water from the tiny bar sink. “When did you get up?” I asked, sitting and reaching for the chips. I’d noticed that his boat had slid into its slip a couple of days ago, but I hadn’t seen Eric himself until now.
“Yesterday. Showed up in time to get dinner at Hoppe’s,” he said. “How was your winter? You and Niswander set a date yet for that wedding?”
I caught him up with the wedding plans, which didn’t take long, then asked, “Have you met Isabella and Corey?”
“Who?”
An uneasy feeling started gathering somewhere in my midsection. “My houseboat renters.”
“Right.” He nodded. “Chris told me their names. No, I haven’t met them.”
Chris Ballou, the marina’s manager, had vowed, hand on heart, that he’d do the introductions. That he hadn’t done so was proof positive that the man didn’t actually have a heart.
“Have you seen them?” I asked.
Eric shrugged. “I’ve seen lights. Chris said they’re doing restaurant work. Their schedules are probably nuts. Might take a while to run into them.”
I nibbled at a chip. I shouldn’t be concerned; it was the middle of May. Only a few of the boat slips were occupied. There was plenty of time for Isabella and Corey to grow accustomed to marina life. They had weeks and months to meet people, make friends, all of that. But if so, why did my insides have this tiny knot of concern?
Eric took a chip and dipped it deep into an open jar of salsa. “Chris told me something else. That Whippy Henika was murdered. He can’t be right on that, can he? Who would kill a guy as nice as Whippy?”
Something went click in my head.
Maybe my unease about Isabella and Corey wasn’t due to an easy slide into marina life. Maybe it was because I was remembering the questions they’d asked about Whippy’s murder. Because I was remembering the way Corey drew Isabella close, protecting her. Were they so concerned about the murder that they might leave Chilson forever?
* * *
* * *
Rafe, as I’d expected, scoffed at my notion that the Moncadas might bail on Chilson because of Whippy’s death.
“You’re basing this on what? A few questions?” He was holding the ice cream scoop with one hand. With the other he held up fingers; two, then one. I nodded at the one, and he put a single big mound of Mackinac Island Fudge into a dish. He gave himself two scoops, and I topped them both with whipped cream, chocolate sprinkles, and a maraschino cherry. The clouds had blown off, the sun had come out enough to dry things up, so we took our desserts onto the back patio.
“It wasn’t just the fact of the questions; it was how they asked them.”
“How was that?”
And since I couldn’t articulate precisely what I meant—mainly because I didn’t know what I meant, other than feeling concerned—the conversation turned to other things. But I was still thinking about it on Monday morning.
“Maybe it wasn’t the questions themselves,” I told Eddie. Rafe had already left, and I was doing the breakfast dishes before I headed downtown to meet up with Pam Fazio, an arrangement we’d made via text the day before. “It was the fear underneath the questions. I heard it even if Rafe didn’t.”
Eddie, who was sleeping on a fuzzy blanket next to the heat register, yawned and curled himself into an Eddie-size ball. So much for his input.
I was still wondering about it when I walked up to the Coffee Corner. Pam was already sitting at a sidewalk table. After she’d abandoned corporate life, Pam had vowed to have her morning coffee outside every single day the rest of her life. As far as I knew, she’d done so, if you considered her glassed-in front porch as outside during times of rain and snow, which I did.
“Be right there,” I said, and three minutes later I sat down across from her with a happy amount of caffeine. “Is it a generational thing?” I asked.
“Probably,” she said. “But it might be nice to know what we’re talking about.”
“Exactly.” I tipped my coffee at her and tried to think of something to say that would make at least a little bit of sense. “Talking. Do younger people talk faster than we do?”
Pam, who was twenty years my senior, raised one eyebrow. “How young? There was a two-year-old in the store the other day talking so fast I wasn’t sure what language he was speaking.”
I shook my head. “Never mind. Off topic.” Sort of. “We’re supposed to be discussing a downtown donation for Whippy. Have you talked to Colleen about it?” Colleen, Whippy’s wife, was one of Pam’s good friends.
“No.” Pam sighed. “I mean, yes, I’ve talked to her, but I didn’t want to bring this up. Too soon.”
Though I understood that completely, if we were going to ask downtown people for donations, we needed to do it before the summer season got rolling. “His obituary mentioned donations to the community foundation. We could just do that.” The obituary also noted his crossword puzzle habit and his love of the outdoors and the Detroit Red Wings. It had also mentioned that a memorial service would be held in July, and I’d already added it to my calendar.
“Sure,” Pam said, “but I think it would be a nice remembrance to come up with some kind of project.”
That was a great idea, and I said so.
“Wasn’t me.” She shook her head. “It was my sister. She did that for her father-in-law. They contacted the town where he lived and asked about a gift. There was a list of things to buy, preapproved by the city council.”
“Do we have anything like that here?” I looked around as if a list might magically materialize.
“Nope. But the county’s park system does.” She sounded a bit smug, but it was a well-deserved smugness.
“You are brilliant. How do we want to do this? I suppose we could bring a list when we go around asking for donations. Or just tell people some of the things on the list and say we’ll choose whatever best fits the final collection amount?” I frowned, thinking of more possibilities. “But what if we want to buy two of something? Or two different things?”
Pam tossed a wadded-up napkin at me. “Stop. You are making this way harder than it has to be.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
“Such a surprise. All we have to do is say we’re collecting for a capital donation to the parks, and we’ll send a photo of what’s purchased to everyone who donates.”
“Genius.” I looked at her with admiration.
“Thank you, thank you,” she said, nodding graciously. “Now. We have to make sure to approach everyone, but let’s make it easy on ourselves and just talk to the people we come across. After a week, if we haven’t hit everyone, we can make special stops.”
From my backpack, I extracted the list of downtown businesses I’d assembled. “I uploaded this to the cloud so we can both keep track, but do you see anyone I missed?”
Pam scanned the names, then looked up. “Here comes one now,” she said, putting the paper down. “Hey, Dan. Happy Monday.”
Dan Calhoun, owner of the store next to Whippy’s, nodded. “Pam. Minnie. Working on something, are you?”
“We’re starting a collection,” I said, “for a tribute to Whippy. The county parks department has a list of things they need, and we’re taking donations to buy something in his memory.”
“Count me out.” Dan glanced at the list of names. “Maybe I’ll be the only one who doesn’t donate, but no way will I give any of my hard-earned money to glorify Whippy Henika!”
By that time, he was almost shouting. He gave us a hard glare, then stalked off, his hands in fists.
Pam and I, our mouths gaping open, stared after him.
“What was that all about?” Pam asked.
“No idea.”
But I was going to find out.
Chapter 9
By the time I needed to head up to the library, Pam and I had donations from half a dozen business owners and pledges from a dozen more.
“Not a bad morning’s work,” Pam said, holding up her fist for a knuckle bump. “Well done, us.”
I smiled. It had been rewarding to see how many people were willing to donate. So far, Dan Calhoun was indeed the only holdout. “I’ll update the online list at lunch today.”
Which meant thoughts of Whippy and murder and Toby Guinn and Kurt and Dan and Rene bounced around in my head all morning long, going from one to the other at the speed of Minnie’s brain.
When the end of my working day started to draw nigh, I popped upstairs to Graydon’s office, asking if he minded me leaving a couple of hours early.
He looked up from his computer screen. “Only if you commit to working two extra hours later this week. Oh, wait. You’re salaried for a forty-hour week but regularly work at least fifty. Never mind, then. Fly and be free.” He twiddled his fingers at me, and I left, thinking once again that I had the best boss in the world.
I hurried home, grabbing a donation commitment from Cookie Tom on the way, and jumped in my car without even going in the house. What I needed to do was talk to Leah again. I had no idea where she lived, so I hoped to catch her as she left the school.
When I pulled into the school parking lot, the buses were rolling out. I parked in an empty slot and tapped the steering wheel, deciding on next steps. I didn’t have her cell number, so should I go in or wait outside? How long did teachers stay in their classrooms after the kids had left? There were so many things I didn’t know.
Once again, procrastination paid off. I’d just unbuckled my seat belt, having decided to go in, when Leah came outside. She was carrying two canvas totes that had to be on the heavy side, given the pained way she was walking.
I jumped out of the car and hurried her way. “Need some help?”
“Minnie! What are you doing here? If you could open the back end of my car, the key fob is in that bag there . . .”
I unlocked her small SUV and fiddled with the fob buttons, raising its back door without making the car alarm go off—hooray!—and Leah pushed the bags inside. “Wow, this parking lot is farther from my classroom than I thought!” She flexed her hands. “I almost lost all feeling in my fingers.”
“Lots of homework to grade tonight?”
She laughed. “No, I’m getting a jump on the end-of-the-year classroom cleanout. That was a bunch of winter books and project materials I’m ready to get rid of. There’s a group of homeschooling parents who are always interested in new materials.” She took her keys back. “I have to go back in for another load.”
“Happy to help. I was hoping you had a minute to talk about . . . about Whippy and the, um, the situation.”
Leah looked around and saw what I had seen, a group of teachers walking toward the parking lot.
“Sure,” she said. “It’s nice out. Let’s go over here.”
I followed her to a playground sized to make five-foot me feel big. With a wide inside smile, I sat on a belt swing and toed myself back and forth, back and forth.
After a few contented arcs, I said, “I don’t want to upset you, so if you don’t want to talk about this, you’ll say so, right?” I waited until she nodded. “Okay. The biggest question I have is why you and your ex-husband are the only ones who know you’ve been in contact with your birth father.” Well, Leah and Kurt and now me, but I didn’t correct myself. “Why haven’t you told your parents?”
Leah, who’d sat in the swing next to me, turned in a circle, rubbing her swing’s chains against each other in a metallic screech.
“It’s my dad,” she said finally. “Mom and Dad are in their seventies, and Dad’s health is a mess. Heart problems, digestive issues, high blood pressure, vertigo.” She sighed. “Mom does her best to take care of him, but it’s wearing her out. They moved downstate to be closer to the university hospital just after my divorce. The last thing I want to do is make things harder for them, and I’m afraid . . .”
Her voice trailed off. But I knew where she was going.
“And you’re afraid telling them you’ve met your birth father would be an additional stressor. Might even be something that puts your dad’s health on a downward path.”
Leah was leaning forward, far enough that her hair covered her face, hiding her expression. “I can’t tell them right now,” she said quietly. “Maybe not ever. They’re great and I don’t want to hurt them. What would be the point of telling them? I don’t see how anything good could come of it.”
“Sure,” I said. “I understand.”
And I did. But I also understood something else, that Leah was determined to keep her parents in the dark about her contact with Whippy. Could that have anything to do with the murder? I didn’t see how, but . . . maybe?
* * *
* * *
I looked at Rafe across the grocery store’s selection of bananas. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
“You don’t like bananas and never have? Now you tell me.” He picked up the bunch he’d just placed in our cart.
“Put those back. I like bananas just fine.” As long as the skins weren’t green or dotted with more than half a dozen spots of brown. “It’s about—”
“Hello, Minnie. And you must be Rafe.” Carolyn Mathews, the new library board member I’d had coffee with the other day, smiled at us. “Fancy meeting you here.”
I made the introductions and said, nodding at her, “So, you finally found time to get a haircut? Looks nice.”
“Had a family photo shoot last weekend, and my daughter said I had to get an updated look or she would just die of embarrassment.” She fluffed her now super-short brown hair, making some of the fine strands stick out with static electricity. “Not sure it’s an improvement, but I’m told I’m now stylish, so there’s that.”
Rafe said, “Mallory is your daughter, isn’t she? And Spencer is your son. Nice kids.”
She blinked. “How did . . . Oh, that’s right.” Her face, which had gone tight, brightened. “You’re Mr. Niswander. Of course. The things I forget these days! You two are getting married soon, aren’t you? July? No, that’s my niece.” She shook her head. “I’ve shoved too many things into my head. Retrieval is a problem.”
