A Troubling Tail, page 16
How tall did he say?”
As he asked the question, Rafe had half of his attention on the red pepper he was slicing and half on me. This concerned me, as I didn’t want to take the time to drive to the emergency room and didn’t have a book handy to take with, other than the ones on my phone, and reading on the phone always gave me a headache, so it was never the preferred option. Then again, he was showing signs of high knife competence, so I averted my eyes from the potential catastrophe. I had annual emergency first aid training, after all, thanks to what I’d included in the library’s bookmobile operations policy, and if something happened here in my own kitchen, surely I’d remember the pertinent parts.
I went back in time a few hours, to the interview room where Detective Inwood had spoken to me so pompously. “He said, and I’m quoting here as closely as I can, that ‘the report indicates the killer was approximately six feet tall.’ That’s all he said.”
Rafe swept the cut-up peppers to one side and reached for the head of cauliflower. I had no idea what he was going to do with any of it, but as long as I didn’t have to cook, all was good.
“Six feet,” Rafe repeated. “Toby Guinn fits that description. Fits right into the case for prosecuting him.”
I wasn’t buying it. “That has to be—well, I’m not sure ‘circumstantial’ is the right term, but you know what I mean. There are a lot of people that tall.”
“Six feet is not the far end of the height bell curve, I give you that. Still, it does cut down the suspect list.”
And that was the disconcerting truth. “Kurt’s, what, five foot six? So he’s out.” I told myself to remember to tell Leah her ex-husband couldn’t be the killer and got the feeling that was not going to be a fun conversation.
“Who’s left?” Rafe asked.
“Well, Toby’s still on there.” I got up to wash the cutting board Rafe had put in the sink. “Plus, there’s Rene Kinney and Dan Calhoun.”
“You have a favorite candidate?”
Of course I did. “Dan Calhoun,” I said promptly. “He’s wanted the candy store property for years, he didn’t want to donate to the memorial fund for Whippy, and you know that since his wife died, he’s changed. Doesn’t go out as much, more irritable. Now that she’s gone, he doesn’t have anyone to calm him down or to distract him.”
As I was talking, the theory was making more and more sense. “Maybe, living alone, Dan had been getting hyperfocused on expanding his business. That’s all he’s thinking about, all he cares about. And this time, when Whippy said he wasn’t going to sell, Dan snapped. He didn’t walk in meaning to kill Whippy. It wasn’t premeditated. He just couldn’t take it any longer, and—”
I paused. There’d been an odd noise coming from upstairs, which almost certainly had a cat origin. It stopped, so I kept talking.
“And he grabbed something that was sitting right there in the store.” I picked up a dish towel and dried the cutting board, thinking about the cases of chocolates, taffy, and fudge. “Not sure what, though.”
“Ribbon,” Rafe said. “For gift wrapping. They have a bunch of it by the cash register.”
Then I saw them, the spools and spools of bright colors, and knew Rafe was right. I hated the idea of Whippy’s breath, his life, being cut off by his own ribbons, and hoped the image wouldn’t haunt my dreams. Or the dreams of his family. “Yeah,” I whispered. “That sounds about right.”
“Hey.” Rafe wrapped his arms around me from behind, his solid presence a sudden comforting warmth. “Have I told you lately how much I love you?”
“No,” I said, putting towel and cutting board on the counter and rotating to face him. “Pretty sure you haven’t said anything of the kind for seconds. Minutes, even.”
“Time to fix that,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss me on the temple, then my ear, then my cheek. “Minerva Joy Hamilton, I love you.” He tipped my chin up and kissed my lips gently, lovingly, and thoroughly.
“Well,” I said when we both came up for breath. “That wasn’t bad. Maybe we should do it again. Practice makes perfect and all.”
“Absolutely.” Rafe leaned down and—
THUD!
Rafe and I gave simultaneous sighs. The second noise had sounded a lot closer than the first. “You keep cooking,” I said, pulling out of his embrace. “I’ll go see what he’s doing.”
“I support whatever punishment decision you make.”
“And you think that will make a difference to his future behavior?”
Rafe shrugged. “Can’t hurt.”
True enough. I sucked in a deep breath for courage, let it out slowly, and went to investigate. The sound had been a thud, not a crash, so maybe the Eddie damage would be minimal. He wasn’t often destructive, if you left off the occasional shredding of paper products, but he was a big cat and could knock things over unintentionally.
I called his name as I entered the dining room. “Eddie? Where are you, buddy? I know you’re okay, because otherwise you would have been howling, right?”
“Mrr,” came a cat voice from under the dining table.
I went down on my hands and knees. “Nice,” I said, looking through the small forest of table and chair legs. Somehow he’d managed to bring a rubber duck from the master bathtub all the way downstairs. “But I’m not sure how you made so much noise with such a small item. Is this a new talent, or one that was previously untapped?”
His yellow eyes glared at me. “Mrr!” he said, and launched himself out from underneath the table, through the living room, and up the stairs.
“Yeah, mrr to you, too,” I said. Cats were always mysterious, but some days they were off the charts.
“All right in there?” Rafe called.
I stood up, ducky in hand, and looked at it. “Sure,” I said. The bright yellow toy had been among the things that had been moved over from the houseboat last fall. I’d had it for so long that I wasn’t sure where it had come from. I had no memory of buying it myself, but since by noon every day I often couldn’t remember what I’d eaten for breakfast, that didn’t mean much.
“Not that it matters,” I said to its smiling face as I took it back upstairs and returned it to the edge of the tub. “What matters is that you reminded me of something I need to do.”
Luckily, the duck didn’t reply, and when I returned to the kitchen, I didn’t tell Rafe about the one-sided conversation. Instead, I said, “After dinner, do you want to go over to the marina with me?”
He looked up briefly, then returned his attention to the grill pan. “Maybe.” He flipped the two chicken breasts and, when the sizzle died down, asked, “Any particular reason?”
“To see how Corey and Isabella are doing. They’re renting my houseboat, after all, and I want to make sure they’re getting the full benefit of marina life.”
Rafe poked the chicken with tongs. “You could just let nature take its course.”
“I could, but that’s not as much fun.” I watched him add roasted red peppers and cauliflower to our plates. “So are you going to come with me or not?”
It turned out that he did, and so, after I’d washed the grill pan and put the last dish in the dishwasher, we walked the short distance to the marina, hand in hand. As soon as we got close, however, we heard a hail from the office’s front door.
“Niswander!” Chris shouted. “Skeeter is grilling turkey legs and we’re picking the best barbecue sauce. We have eight kinds. Want to vote?”
“Don’t do it,” I murmured to Rafe. “They’ll suck you into their insanity.”
My beloved, of course, ignored my caution. He gave my hand a quick squeeze, then headed toward the office.
I left him to his fate and wandered over to the dock where the houseboat was moored. “Anyone home?” I asked as I approached. “Corey? Isabella?”
“Hey, Minnie.” Corey, who’d been lying on one of the two lounges in front, stood up, yawning. “Sorry, I must have fallen asleep. Isabella’s at work.”
I smiled. “I’d ask if you had a long day, but all restaurant days are long ones, aren’t they?”
“Truth.” He gestured to the other lounge and I sat.
“Had lunch at your place today,” I said. “Met your intern, Marlow. Seems like a nice kid.”
“So far, so good.” Corey nodded. “Good work ethic, knows when to ask for help, interacts well with the customers.”
“And wants to be a famous chef,” I said, smiling.
“Don’t we all.” Corey made a wry face.
I wasn’t sure about that, but I knew what he meant. I was also impressed that Corey, only a few years out of high school, was already able to assess a new employee so clearly and concisely.
“How are you settling in?” I nodded to the boat next door. “Hope you don’t mind, but I asked Eric to give you the inside scoop on living here at the marina.”
“Yeah, he’s helping us out quite a bit. Thanks.”
But after asking a few more pointed questions, I realized that Eric’s mentoring consisted of showing the Moncadas the best way to coil lines and telling them the ideal time of day to fill coolers with ice.
Which was all well and good, but that hadn’t been the kind of mentorship I’d been hoping for.
“Did you see?” Corey pointed. “The other day Isabella and I both had time off, so we got old toothbrushes and some chrome cleaner and did the railing all round. How does it look compared to when you did it?”
I got up and inspected the sparkling surface. Since I’d never once taken any kind of brush to the railing, it looked a zillion times better than I’d ever seen.
“Looks fantastic,” I said. Corey smiled and looked about twelve years old.
“Say,” Corey said. “Do you know if they figured out who killed Mr. Henika? We’re still a little nervous about being so close to a murder. I mean, that store is just down the street, you know?”
I came to a sudden and hard conclusion: I really wanted this young couple to stay in Chilson. They were fun, hardworking, and an asset to the community. And if what it took to keep them in town was to step up my efforts to find Whippy’s killer, then that’s what I’d do.
* * *
* * *
“What do you think?” I asked Rafe as I walked off the end of the dock and onto the concrete sidewalk. “Or is it just me? Maybe I’m overly sensitive. Maybe I’m seeing things that aren’t really there.”
“Might be that way.” He took my hand. “Then again, it might not.”
“So not helpful.”
“After we’re married, it’ll be different.”
“Can’t believe you said that with a straight face.” I looked up and saw his grin. “Oh, wait. You didn’t. Never mind.”
His half smile went full wattage. “Glad we understand each other.”
I gave him a mild hip check. “Back at you. But I’m talking about Whippy’s murder. I really don’t think Toby did it. What do you think?”
Rafe went oddly quiet. Then, as we approached the house, he said, “Honestly? I want to believe you’re right, but I’m afraid that you’re not.”
Something inside of me drooped. I wasn’t sure if it was my confidence or my self-esteem, or what, but if Rafe was so sure I was reading the situation all wrong, then I should listen to him.
“But,” he added, “you see things I don’t. When people talk, you hear things people don’t say. So if you think there’s something there”—he nodded—“then there might be something there.”
“Trust my instincts is what you’re saying.”
“You have them for a reason, right?”
It was a point worthy of printing out in a fancy font and taking to the frame shop. And maybe someday I’d do that, but my next investigative task was to roll up my metaphorical sleeves, flex my keyboarding fingers, and see what I could find about Whippy’s high school girlfriend. Surely my hunch that Leah’s birth mother might be involved was worth some exploration time.
Rafe and Eddie settled on the couch to watch baseball, and I settled in next to them, computer on my lap and earbuds tuned to the soundtrack from The Sound of Music, original Broadway cast, because Julia had said my life would be incomplete until I heard it start to finish.
My first Internet site was one that gave an estimate of how many people by any given first and last name there were likely to be in the United States. I checked me first, of course, and was interested to see that there was one more Minerva Hamilton since the last time I’d looked. I wondered where number seventeen had been born, but restrained myself and typed in “Lillie Siler.”
“Four of her,” I said. Interesting. Finding women wasn’t as easy, though, thanks to that maiden name thing. But lots of women used both their maiden and their married names on Facebook pages, so maybe—
“You are so stupid,” I said out loud.
Rafe poked me and waited until I took out my earbuds. “Hey. Don’t talk about my fiancée that way.”
“If she wasn’t so dumb, I wouldn’t.”
“Just keep things kind, okay? Eddie doesn’t like it when people make fun of her.”
I looked at our cat, who was facedown along the length of Rafe’s legs. “I think I’m safe for now.” I put my earbuds back in place, went to the Scovill Funeral Home website, found Whippy’s obituary, and scrolled through the comment section.
Not every person who posted left their name, but many did, and it didn’t take long to find a comment from Lillie Davis: “Condolences. So many fond memories of Will.” I wondered if I’d ever remember to ask someone where—and when—the Whippy nickname had come about, and also thought about the odds of Whippy knowing two women named Lillie.
Slim to none was my conclusion, and I started the social media search for Lillie Davis. Roughly two minutes later, I found her on Facebook. Or at least I found a Lillie Davis whose profile said she was from Chilson, a critical care nurse, and living in Cadillac, Michigan.
Hmm. It was less than a two-hour drive to Cadillac, if you assumed dry roads, daylight, and little traffic, easily a down-and-back trip in one day. But how should I approach her? How should I introduce myself? How did I—
“Just type,” I said, quietly enough that no one except me could hear, and sent Lillie a stream-of-consciousness message.
Hello, you don’t know me, but I knew Will “Whippy” Henika. If you’re the Lillie he dated in high school, I’d like to talk. You might be able to help find his killer. I’d be happy to meet you this weekend at a restaurant you choose. Please let me know. Thanks so much.
I added my name and a link to my staff bio on the library website, read and reread the message, which grew more and more stupid the more times I read it, then finally just closed my eyes and hit Send. I slapped my laptop shut and yanked out the earbuds. Baseball. Sure. I’d watch baseball for a couple of innings, then see if she replied. It was unlikely that she’d be on the computer right that second. Probably I shouldn’t even check until tomorrow. Maybe not even tomorrow night.
Five minutes later, I couldn’t stand it and opened my computer.
Message from Lillie Davis: More than happy to help, but I’m out of town right now. Next Friday in Cadillac at After 26—how about eleven-ish?
Message from Minnie Hamilton: Thanks so much. See you then.
* * *
* * *
When Carolyn and I had crossed paths at Fat Boys, we’d made plans to meet up once a month for coffee. “And let’s start this Friday,” Carolyn had said, tapping into her phone. “The earlier we start, the faster it becomes a habit, so why wait?”
My mouth had flapped open and shut a few times, but she was right. There was no reason to wait. I’d figured that, as a hospital administrator, she would have to check multiple calendars before scheduling a non-hospital event, maybe even have her assistant make the appointment. That she had so quickly, easily, and non-fussily created a brand-new standing commitment impressed me and gave me a new standard for decision-making. If there was no point in waiting, go ahead and get things done. Saved time in the long run, and time was the nonrenewable resource to end all nonrenewable resources.
I walked through the sparkling morning air of late May, thinking about all of that and wondering if it was profound or just an obvious statement of fact. Or was it possible it was so obvious it was profound? Hah. As if. I scrunched my face up into a twist, annoyed by the weirdness my brain conjured up.
Laughter floated down the sidewalk. “You know what your mother would say about that face,” said Carolyn.
“Good thing she can’t see me, then.” I smiled. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”
“Glorious.” The older woman turned her face to the sun, soaking in its radiant heat, her short hair shining and her eyes closed. “It’s days like this that make me regret my career choices. Why did I decide on a profession that forces me to be inside?”
“Toss it all away,” I suggested. “Come out on the bookmobile. We pay hardly anything, and it won’t be a full-time job, but we have fun pretty much all the time.”
“Don’t tempt me.” Carolyn’s eyes stayed closed. “Tell you what. How about we talk outside on the waterfront? I’ll buy if you go in and get our coffees. I don’t want to waste a minute of this sun.”
Once again, I was taken aback by the speed of her decision-making. I also wanted to take notes on how easily she’d proposed a change in plans. And since it sounded like a fine change, that’s what we did.
After waiting for the traffic to clear—which at this time of year was minimal: one dusty sedan, one black pickup with a cracked back window, and one shiny European convertible—we walked across the street and down the hill toward the broad swath of concrete the city had constructed next to the water.
I asked, “Does all that come naturally, or did you develop the skills over years?”
