Holly shook her head. “No, I can take care of this. If I see anything about Eddie—” She stiffened at the sound of a man’s footsteps crossing the tile in the lobby. We both turned to look, saw Jim Kittle, a regular library patron, and heaved small sighs of relief.
“Right,” Holly went on. “So, that’s where I am. I have a couple of leads already on connection names. I just wanted to give you an update.”
Leads? Update? She was starting to sound like the last visitor to the reference desk. I almost said so, but stopped myself just in time. Holly would not appreciate being compared to Mitchell.
“I appreciate all your work on this,” I said. “If I was any good at baking, I’d make you cookies.”
“Please don’t.” She grinned. “Anyway, it’s kind of fun. You can start calling me Trixie anytime now.”
I knew she was referring to Trixie Belden, the amateur sleuth who starred in many juvenile mysteries. “Not Nancy Drew?”
“Nah. I’m a small-town girl.” She laughed and headed off.
I watched her go, wondering what I’d ever done to deserve such good friends. It was enough to make you believe in past lives, because there was no way I’d done enough good things in my thirty-three years to have earned what I had.
Then again, what had Eddie ever done to earn what he was getting?
“Negative-income stream, for sure,” I said to myself. Not only was Eddie using cat food and cat litter on a daily basis that he apparently had no intention of paying for, but he also had that habit of destroying paper products.
Plus, I bought him cat treats. And cat toys. Sometimes I even bought him things that weren’t cat toys but were things I knew he’d enjoy playing with. Bath puffs, for one. Felt Christmas-tree ornaments, for another. He seemed especially fond of one I’d found at the thrift store: a Santa Claus head. To me it was a little disturbing to see Eddie fling Santa’s head around the living room, but Aunt Frances found it hilarious.
“All that,” I murmured, “and no financial return. Huh.” I’d have to have a talk with Eddie when I got home. Maybe he’d have some ideas about how to boost his earning potential.
Then again, Eddie’s suggestions probably wouldn’t be very useful, even if he had any. At best he’d look at me, say “Mrr,” rub up against my leg, and purr until I picked him up and snuggled him.
Smiling, I went back to work.
Sure, he was a negative-income stream, but what did you need with money when you had an Eddie?
* * *
I was in my office, rearranging the piles of paper on my desk in the vain effort to convince myself that I’d made some progress in figuring out what to do with them, when my desk phone rang.
“Ms. Hamilton, this is Deputy Wolverson from the Tonedagana County Sheriff’s Office.”
I squinted at the ceiling. As if I’d know a Deputy Wolverson from any other sheriff’s office. “Hi. What’s up?”
“We were wondering if you’d have time to drop by for a short meeting.”
A meeting? What could they have to say in a meeting that the deputy couldn’t tell me over the phone? Did they have more questions for me? Or had they found something? Better yet, had they arrested someone for Roger’s death?
But none of that necessitated a jaunt by me to the sheriff’s office. Conversations like that were why phones were invented. So why the summons?
Huh.
“Sure,” I said. “I haven’t had lunch yet.” It was almost two, but I’d been busy. “I can walk over right now.”
“I’ll see you in a little bit, then.”
I hung up the phone and stared at it for a while, wondering. Then I got up, grabbed my coat and purse, and headed out.
* * *
According to the clock on the wall of the same small meeting room I’d been in two days before, it was exactly nine minutes after the phone call that Deputy Wolverson came in and sat across from me.
“Good afternoon,” he said.
“Hey.” I glanced at the open doorway. “No Detective Inwood?”
The deputy opened the notebook he’d carried in and didn’t look up. “Hal had to leave.”
So I was left with the junior officer, a guy who wasn’t even a detective yet. Did that mean anything? If it did, I had no idea what it might be.
I sat up straight and clasped my hands on the table. “So, what’s the news?”
Deputy Wolverson looked up at me, and I was suddenly reminded that he was a very good-looking guy, especially if you had an attraction for men in uniform. Which I’d never had. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t acknowledge that particular type of handsomeness.
“Most people call me Ash,” he said. “My first name.”
I blinked. “Okay. Sure.” I could do that. Maybe. But there was no way I’d ever be calling Detective Inwood by his first name. I tried it out in my head. Morning, Hal. How are you today, Hal? Nope. Wasn’t going to happen.
Deputy Ash Wolverson was still paging through his notebook with one hand and tapping the table with the pen he held in the other. I mentally tsked at him for not being prepared for a meeting he’d set up. “So, you’ve figured out something about Roger’s death?” I asked.
“In a way.” He flipped another page, paused, flipped another, then went back three pages and poked at it with his pen. “Detective Inwood and I have conducted extensive interviews with Roger Slade’s friends, family, neighbors, and coworkers.”
That sounded like a lot of work to have accomplished in two days, and I said so.
Ash smiled, and it almost took my breath away. I must not have ever seen him smile before, because I would have remembered how it changed him from a good-looking member of the male species to a drop-dead-gorgeous man that no woman would ever tire of mooning over. How could something so simple as a smile make such a dramatic difference to a person’s appearance? I had no idea, but there the evidence was, right in front of me.
“I had help,” he said, and it took me a moment to remember what he was talking about.
Oh. Right. The interviews. I nodded for him to go ahead. As quickly as possible, because if he talked, he’d have to stop smiling.
“Detective Inwood and I talked to the key people,” he said, “but we enlisted the aid of other deputies. Anyway, I—we—wanted to let you know that as of today we’ve found no motive for Roger Slade’s murder.” He tapped at his notes. “But while we have no reason, at this point, to believe it was murder, if someone did kill Mr. Slade intentionally, it’s clear that this is a very dangerous person.”
It was such an obvious point that I couldn’t think of a response that didn’t drip with sarcasm, something my mother had always warned me against. “I think I might have been able to figure that out on my own,” I said. Sorry, Mom.
Ash colored. “Minnie, if there is a killer out there . . .” He stopped, then started again. “I just want you to be careful out on the bookmobile. That’s all.”
I squinted at him. “Are you saying I’m in danger?”
“It’s a very small possibility. Please keep your eyes open and give us a call if you see anyone suspicious.”
While it was refreshing to have someone in the sheriff’s office who was concerned about my well-being, I was pretty sure it was because no one would want the job of figuring out how I’d gotten myself killed. “Thanks,” I said. “I’ll make sure to keep an eagle eye out for rifles pointed in my direction.”
He looked down, and it was my turn to flush. Once again, my mother’s admonition to think first and be sarcastic in privacy at a later time had gone unheeded. This time I did start to thank him, but he ignored me.
“As we told you before,” he said, “we’ll do our best to find the person who killed Mr. Slade.”
“Sure.” But I couldn’t help thinking how hard it might be. What if the shooter had been a guy from downstate? From out of state? No matter how hard they tried, Ash and Detective Inwood might never catch the guy who was responsible. And if this someone might actually have taken a shot at me . . . ? The skin at the back of my neck prickled.