“Fifty seconds already,” he said.
Whatever. “I take it you heard about what happened Saturday?”
“Yeah.” Rafe’s voice was quiet. “I meant to call you, but . . .”
Rafe was good at many things, from being a school principal to home improvement to boat repairs, but handing out sympathy wasn’t part of his skill set. “I know,” I said. “It’s okay. Anyway, I wanted to ask you a couple of things.”
“Fire away.” He paused. “Um, I mean, go ahead.”
“You remember where that gas station is, right?” I asked, my heart suddenly pounding hard. “Do you know any guys who hunt around there?”
“Nope. There’s no state land in that part of the valley. Most of the property out there is owned by a timber company, and they don’t like guys hunting, because of liability reasons.”
“What about poaching?” I persisted. “Do you think there’d be much of that going on?” A guy hunting illegally—it would make sense for someone like that to have killed Roger.
There was another pause. “Minnie,” Rafe said slowly, his voice sounding suddenly serious. It was an odd way for him to sound and I wasn’t sure I liked it. “Why are you asking?”
“I just . . . I just want to know who . . .”
This time the pause lasted a lot longer. “Tell you what,” he finally said. “I’m going to give you two phone numbers. One is a guy who lives out there; the other is the conservation officer for that part of the county. And, for crying out loud, don’t tell them who gave you the numbers. I have a reputation to keep up.”
“Thanks,” I whispered. Coughed, then said more loudly, “You’re not so bad for a misogynistic, prejudiced redneck wannabe.”
“And you’re not so bad for an uptight know-it-all.”
His voice was sounding normal again, which was a small relief. I wrote down the numbers as he read them off, thanked him again, and started dialing.
* * *
Dinner that night was an Aunt Frances–inspired creation of seafood, coconut milk, and who knew what else. My contribution was washing the baby spinach for the salad.
“Another outstanding meal,” I said, dipping my soup spoon into the hearty mix. “I don’t know how you find the energy.”
“Oh, it comes and goes.” She covered her mouth to hide a yawn. “And right now it’s going. Tell me a story to keep me awake.”
Normally I would have a funny library story for her, but not today. So I told her about Stephen’s tale of a pending lawsuit and I told her about my trip to the sheriff’s office. I also told her about my phone calls to Rafe, plus my calls to the guy who lived near the gas station, and the conservation officer.
“The sheriff’s department had already talked to both of them,” I said. “The guy who lives there was gone that weekend, and the conservation officer, the CO, is already following up on some leads.” It was an active investigation, the officer had said, so he couldn’t talk about it. Though he was nice enough, I hadn’t learned much.
“I’ll keep asking around,” I said, “but with the sheriff’s office and this CO working on it, I’m not sure I’ll be able to find out anything they don’t already know.” I looked at her hopefully. “Unless you have some ideas?”
My intelligent and thoughtful aunt frowned. I waited, anticipating words of wisdom or reassurance, or both. Preferably both. Both would be excellent.
“That Deputy Wolverson,” she said. “Is his first name Ash?”
I blinked at her. “Sounds right.” I knew it had something to do with fires, but couldn’t remember exactly what. “Do you know him?”
“Not him.” Aunt Frances ground more pepper onto her salad. “I know his mother. She lives in Petoskey.” She yawned again.
I looked at her fondly. She was too tired for niece reassurances, and, besides, I didn’t really need them. Wanted them, sure, but that was different.
After dinner, I encouraged her toward the living room couch and started a fire. I brought her a book, a blanket, and an Eddie, and asked whether there was anything else I could get her. “I could open the TV if you’d like.”
Throughout the summer, my aunt’s television was hidden away in a clever cabinet that looked so much like an extension of the fireplace mantel that the summer boarders didn’t even know it was there. “Summers aren’t for television,” Aunt Frances always told them. “Go outside and play.” Even in winter, we didn’t use the TV much except for watching movies and the weekly episode of Trock’s Troubles, the cooking show that was sometimes filmed in Chilson.
“Not tonight, thanks.” Aunt Frances smiled down at Eddie as he settled on her legs. “You sure you don’t want him?”
I did, but I was trying to learn how to share. Plus, the rain had stopped while we were eating dinner. I’d even seen a few stars while I was doing dishes, and I felt the need to get outside and see some open sky.
When I told Aunt Frances as much, she pulled the blanket up to her neck. “Have a nice time, dear. I’ll be here when you get back.”
I looked at Eddie. “How about you? Will you still be here?”
He closed his eyes at me and didn’t even bother to say “Mrr.”
Outside, the air had shot up at least ten degrees since my walk home. Hard to believe that two days ago we’d been swimming in snow, but these things happened in November. I stood on the porch steps for a moment, enjoying the warm air that must be at least fifty degrees. It wouldn’t stay this way, and I didn’t really want it to, but there was no reason not to enjoy it while it lasted.
The front door of the house across the street opened and shut. I peered into the dark, but I couldn’t see if Otto Bingham had come outside or if he’d been out and gone in.
I came down the rest of the creaky wooden steps and headed across the street. It was just plain weird that neither Aunt Frances or I had ever talked to the guy. He’d lived there for weeks, and at this time of year he was our only neighbor for a block in either direction.
“Mr. Bingham?” I crossed the street, looking for nonexistent traffic both ways because I couldn’t make myself not check. “How are you tonight?”
The man, because there was indeed a man standing at the bottom of his porch steps, looked straight at me. But as I got closer, I could see that he wasn’t smiling the polite neighborly smile I’d expected. Instead he was giving me a look that was more deer in the headlights than anything else.
Which was weird, but now that I was standing in front of his picket fence, I was already committed to a conversation. “I’m Minnie Hamilton.” I considered holding out my hand, but eyed the distance and decided against it. There were unwritten rules about handshake distances, and I was pretty sure the gap between Mr. Bingham and me was outside the appropriate range.
Then again, since he hadn’t said anything, it was getting awkward even without the handshake. “Um, you are Mr. Bingham, aren’t you?”
He nodded in a vaguely friendly way. Well, it wasn’t unfriendly, anyway.
“Okay, good. Like I said, my name is Minnie. I live at the boardinghouse in the winter, with my aunt, Frances Pixley.”
Mr. Bingham jumped visibly when I said my aunt’s name. I frowned. A mention of my aunt usually made people smile, if anything. What was with this guy? I studied him a little closer. Well dressed, handsome enough—if you didn’t mind a cleft chin—with salt-and-pepper hair, and, judging from the distance between porch railing and the top of his head, tallish. He had “retired successful professional” written all over him. So why was he jumpy?
Puzzled, I went on. “I work at the library here in town and”—I paused for my coup de grâce—“two or three times a week I drive the bookmobile.” I waited for his reaction. If this guy didn’t respond to the mention of a bookmobile, he was a lost cause.