“I’ll talk to Graydon,” I said. True enough. “But they’re both new. I’d say they’re both just asking questions to learn about the library and how we integrate with the community.”
She didn’t look convinced, but I said I had to make a phone call before six and headed off, not sure I’d convinced myself, either.
After closing my office door behind me, I pulled out my cell phone and did a search for the specialty wood store I’d visited with Rafe. “Darden Hardwoods,” a male voice answered.
I blew out a sigh of relief. It was a few minutes shy of six and their posted hours said they were open until then, but it was also the dead of winter and I wouldn’t have been surprised if no human had answered. After introducing myself, I brought out the question I’d formulated on the drive back to Chilson. I needed to do more to help find Rowan’s killer, needed to help Collier and Anya and Neil, and this was one thing I could do.
“When Rafe and I were at your store the other day,” I said, “I could have sworn I saw Land Aprelle pull into your parking lot. A friend of mine knows him, but she hasn’t seen him in ages and was wondering if he was okay.” Though the story was plausible, it was weak, and I expected an abrupt answer and a dial tone.
“Land?” The guy laughed. “Sure, I’ve known Land for years. Quite a character, isn’t he?”
“I didn’t know he was into woodworking.”
“Well, I wouldn’t call what he’s doing woodworking. Furniture, yeah, but his stuff is more like sculpture. You know the Eames chair? Fancy like that, only hardwood instead of plywood. And not steamed. He’s doing a lot of carving.”
“Sounds interesting.”
“Yeah, I’m not explaining it very well. And I’ve never seen any of his pieces. Land’s quiet about it. He wants to get accepted into the juried show up there in Chilson, but the first time he said that, his buddies laughed at him. Now he keeps his lip zipped and he’s just doing it.”
“Good to know he’s okay,” I said, and thanked him for his time.
So Land was a closet fine woodworker. Was that enough to explain why he’d acted so oddly at the store? Was Rowan one of the people who’d laughed at him? Could he have possibly killed her to punish her for that?
Though it seemed outside the realm of possibility, killing anyone at all was hard to believe, but it happened on a regular basis.
After dropping Eddie at home, I headed straight to Rafe’s house, where his wide smile and huge hug lifted my spirits and made me forget about the sad possibilities that were all around.
• • •
Only one other table in the Red House Café was occupied the next morning when Aunt Frances and I came in, stomping our boots free of snow. We’d started the day with a simultaneous realization that neither one of us had remembered to buy milk.
“Hmm.” My aunt had eyed the contents of the refrigerator. “There are eggs. All the bacon is frozen, though.”
“Is it possible to have eggs without bacon?”
Aunt Frances frowned mightily. “Possible, I suppose. But it sounds sad and dreary.”
It did indeed. “If I were a good niece,” I’d said, “I’d volunteer to run out for milk. But since you don’t have to be to school until ten today, and I don’t have to be at the library until nine, how about going out for breakfast?”
And so, twenty minutes later, we arrived at the restaurant owned by Sunny Scoles. The other occupant of the dining area was an elderly man, who was sipping coffee and reading a newspaper. He looked as if he’d been there for a while and as if he intended to stay for quite some time. It also didn’t look as if he’d ordered anything except coffee. I hoped, for Sunny’s sake, that the restaurant was busier on weekends.
Unless she’d killed Rowan. Then the number of people who came to her restaurant wouldn’t matter a bit.
“What’s the matter?” Aunt Frances asked. “You look a little sad.”
I shook off the feeling. “Hungry,” I said. “Where would you like to sit?”
As my aunt aimed us toward a table for two directly underneath a light fixture crafted out of an old hand lantern, Sunny hurried in from the back.
“Sorry I took so long,” she said. “Let me get you some menus. Here you go. Would you like some . . .” She peered at me. “Weren’t you in here a week or two ago? Oatmeal with all the fixings.”
“That’s me. My aunt and I are looking for real food today, though.”
Sunny laughed. “Eggs, bacon, hash browns, toast?”
“That sounds heavenly,” Aunt Frances said. “I can’t think of the last time I had a full breakfast in a real restaurant.”
“Coffee first, though, please,” I said. At this point my morning had been caffeine-free and it wasn’t a condition I wished to continue.
“You got it.”
Sunny headed back to the kitchen and my aunt looked around, admiring the room. “This is fun,” she said. “How was the oatmeal you had?”
“Good. But, you know.”
“Still oatmeal.”
Aunt Frances made some comments about the location and how she hoped the food was good enough to make it a destination for folks. I nodded, but a large part of my brain was engaged in wondering why I didn’t want Sunny Scoles to be the one who’d killed Rowan.
Was it because I enjoyed the way she’d decorated her restaurant? Because my instinctive response to her was one of friendship? Because I didn’t want anyone who rejoiced in the name of Sunny to be a killer?
None of those were good reasons, but I had no others.
“And here you go, ladies!” Sunny poured coffee into our upturned mugs. “Do you need more time or are you ready to order?”
“Full breakfast for me,” Aunt Frances said. “Bacon, scrambled, sourdough, and hash browns a little crispy on the edges.”
“The only way to cook them.” Sunny turned to me. “What can I get you?”
But I was staring at the table’s small wire rack. “The last time I was here, you had another kind of sugar. It was maple flavored, wasn’t it?”
“It was,” Sunny said. “And really, really good.” She started to smile, but the happy expression hadn’t fully crossed her face before it faded. “It was expensive, though, so I only ordered a small batch. I put it out once a week on different days to track sugar use. Geeky, right?”
Yes, and it also sounded like something Kristen would do. I had high hopes for Sunny and her restaurant, and I didn’t in the least want her to be the killer. On the plus side, I had information on the sugar packets that Hal and Ash might find interesting. The availability of the sugar wasn’t as wide open as I’d thought, which had to narrow down something.
But there was still a big question: Why had Sunny inflated the numbers on her loan application? And with it came the even bigger question: Had Rowan’s denial of the loan incited Sunny to murder?
• • •
Aunt Frances and I went our separate ways after eating, both of our stomachs contentedly stuffed full of breakfasty yumminess. On our way out, my aunt took a stack of the business cards at the cash register and waggled them at Sunny.
“Old-school advertising,” she said, “in an old school. I love it. And I love your restaurant, so I will be spreading the news far and wide. Expect great things, young lady, because I’m sure they’re about to happen.”
Sunny’s smile looked a bit forced. “Thanks,” she said. “I appreciate that. Very, very much.”
Outside, my aunt looked back at the old red schoolhouse. “I meant what I said. Sunny has a great place there and I will spread the news and—oooff! What was that for?”
I released her from the hug I’d enveloped her in. “Because you’re a nice lady and I love you.”
She patted me on the head, which made me feel a little like Eddie. “Keep it up, favorite niece, and I might remember you in my will.”
“I’m your only niece, and you’ll probably outlive me.” At least I hoped she would. I didn’t want to think about a world that didn’t include Aunt Frances.