Ash took out his notebook. “You had something to tell us?”
He kept his head down, but even so I detected a faint shade of red on his cheeks. It was some comfort to know that he was uncomfortable, too. As the silence started to lengthen, his color deepened, and I saw that he was, in fact, far more uncomfortable than I was. The poor guy.
“I remembered something,” I said. “From the day Roger was killed.”
Ash gave me a quick glance, then started writing as I told him about seeing the not-a-car, not-an-SUV, that it had sported a number of bumper stickers, and that I’d just seen Jeremy Hull driving in that same vehicle not far from the gas station. Jeremy had said he was at Jurco Dam, but the dam was miles from there.
“You’re sure?” Ash asked.
Once again I saw the thirty-seven-million acres sticker, saw it on the bumper, right next to the decal of the Great Lakes. “I’m sure.” I didn’t like it, didn’t like it at all, but I was sure.
He wrote a few notes and thanked me, but he didn’t once meet my eyes.
“You still think a hunter accidentally killed Roger?” I asked.
Ash’s jaw tightened. “You know I can’t talk about an active investigation.”
So what else was new? I nodded and left.
* * *
My return walk to the library wasn’t nearly as full of cheerful feeling as the walk out had been. Instead of a jaunty saunter, with my head up and my spirits light, I was practically scuffing my feet, with my head down.
I didn’t want Jeremy Hull to have killed Roger. Didn’t want anyone to have killed him, really. What I wanted was for Roger to be hale and hearty. Swallowing down a clump of sorrow, which didn’t sit at all well in my stomach, I climbed the steps of Older Than Dirt.
Though the day outside hadn’t been sunny, the snow had brightened things up enough that the interior of the antiques store seemed dark in contrast. Which was my excuse for almost stepping on top of Pam Fazio, who was kneeling on the floor, arranging a display of . . .
“Are those what I think they are?” I asked, my eyes slowly adjusted to the inside light.
Pam glanced up. “Hello, Minnie. Lunch boxes, yes, but with a twist.” She moved a Wonder Woman lunchbox to the left, edged a Minnie Mouse lunchbox to the right, and positioned a Bionic Woman lunchbox in the center. On nearby shelves were a dozen more vintage lunchboxes, from Barbie to Holly Hobbie to Charlie’s Angels.
She bounced to her feet and waved at the display, grinning. “What do you think?”
I studied the attractive, colorful display. “Are lunch boxes an in thing?”
“No idea,” she said. “But do you see? Every lunch box features a female. A girl! You could use one of these as a purse, a jewelry box, a cosmetics case, even a lunch box.” Smiling, she reached to reposition Chris Evert. “These are so much fun, I’m not sure I want to sell any of them.”
As I stood there, watching her, I knew I really, really didn’t want to find any evidence that would implicate her in Roger’s death. Then again, I deeply wanted to find out who’d killed him.
Two wishes, and there was a possibility that they were in complete opposition to each other. Which one did I most want to come true?
I sighed. There was only one true answer to that.
“Minnie, Minnie, Minnie.” Pam was smiling at me. “You look sad. What’s the matter—too many turkey leftovers? I have just the cure.” She beckoned me toward a back corner of her store. The entire place was an eclectic mixture of old and new, familiar and strange, shabby and shiny. Items for sale ranged from a large weathered wardrobe to top hats to leather suitcases to pincushions. Something for everyone, including me, because I often browsed the collection of used books.
“Sit.” Pam said pointed at a ladder-back chair. “Now take your boots off—yes, all the way off—and slip into these.” She brandished a pair of antique shoes. They were black, had a small heel, skinny waxed laces, and tops that went six inches past my ankle. I loved them instantly.
Pam grinned. “Had a feeling you’d like those. How do they fit?”
I wiggled my toes. “Perfect.” I pulled the laces through the eyelets. “Where did you get these?”
“Now, Minnie, you should know better than to ask an antiques dealer that question.” When I started to apologize, she waved me off. “Anyone else, I probably wouldn’t tell, but you won’t say anything. You haven’t spread any gossip about me and Denise, and if you haven’t done that, you’re probably the most trustworthy person in town.”
I started to stammer an objection, but Pam cut me off. “I know this because I hear things you wouldn’t believe in this store. People think the staff doesn’t have ears, I guess, because it can get worse than a hair salon in here when a group comes in.”
It was something I’d never thought about, and probably should have.
“Anyway,” Pam was saying, “I bought those boots in Kentucky. I was down there on a buying trip a while back, about two weeks before Thanksgiving. I was late coming home because I called my neighbor and she said we were supposed to get eight inches of snow—remember that? So I decided to stay south.” She laughed. “Good thing I did. You wouldn’t believe the things in this barn that I wouldn’t have found if I’d left when I’d planned.”
I was so stupid. If I’d had the sense of a soap dish, I would have found out a long time ago that Pam had been out of town the day Roger had died and thus would have saved myself all sorts of anxiety.
“Tell you what.” Pam was looking thoughtful. “I’ll sell you these boots for ten percent over cost, and you promise to never again try to scam my morning coffee away from me.”
“Twenty-five percent,” I said firmly. “And not a penny less.”
We bargained our way to fifteen percent over cost, and, as I continued my walk back to the library, I realized that my mood had lightened considerably. New boots, even if they’re old, can be a wonderful thing.
* * *
My temporarily high spirits crashed that night as I lay in bed, trying to sleep but being all too aware of time ticking away. The court date with Tammy Shelburt was only eight days off and I was no closer to a solution now than I’d been the day I’d met with the library board.
Sleep wasn’t easy in coming, and what rest I did get was haunted by uncomfortable dreams of forgetting my high-school locker combination and missing a flight to Paris.
I spent the next day, a bookmobile day, drinking a lot of caffeine and doing my best to be a cheerful and professional librarian. I faked my way through all the stops, but when Lina was gone and the bookmobile was tucked in for the night, I wasn’t at my alert best.
Eddie, on the other hand, was wide-eyed and awake.
“Mrr,” he said.
“Yeah.” Yawning, I buckled my car’s seat belt. “You said that before. Lots of times.” I started the engine and aimed us in the direction of home. “Over and over. You should work on a broader vocabulary.”
He didn’t say anything. I did, however, hear a scratching noise.
“Eddie, please don’t tell me you’re using your carrier as a litter box.” I was almost begging, which was never a good plan with a cat. They exploited weakness better than anyone. “We’re almost home, and—”
“Mrr.”
That “Mrr” hadn’t sounded the same as the twelve hundred previous versions he’d vocalized in the last three minutes. I glanced over and had a small panic attack. “Eddie! What are you doing out of the carrier?”
He was sitting atop his former abode, looking out the passenger’s window, every muscle in his body at ease. Clearly, he thought he belonged there.
I spent a few quick seconds debating between stopping the car, trying to capture a reluctant Eddie, and shoving him back into the carrier, or just driving carefully and slowly the rest of the way home.