“Stephen,” they said simultaneously.
“What’s he done this time?” I asked. “Recommended Helter Skelter to a nine-year-old?”
They ignored me. “He knows about Eddie,” Holly said, at the same time Josh said, “I’m positive he doesn’t know about Eddie.”
I put my sandwich down. “Hmm. One of you has to be wrong. I wonder who it is?” They pointed at each other. “Right,” I said. “Josh, you were here first. What’s your proof?”
“It’s like I was saying: I was in his office the other day, checking up on his computer. I pretended to pick a cat hair off my sleeve, see, and said, “Looks like a cat hair. Wonder how that got on me? And he didn’t say a word. Didn’t blink, didn’t move, didn’t do anything.” He grinned. “See? If he’d known about Eddie, he would have said or done something.”
“Oh, please.” Holly rolled her eyes. “This is Stephen we’re talking about. He has the best poker face ever.”
“Yeah?” Josh folded his arms across his chest. “What’s your proof that he knows?”
“Pinterest,” she said. “He has an account.”
“He does?” From what I knew, Pinterest was all about pictures. Pin a picture to your account’s board. Make comments. Make comments on other people’s pictures. It sounded fun, but I was wary of the time-suck factor.
“Yeah, it’s an open network, so it wasn’t hard to find him. He’s pinned a lot of photos of antique cars.”
I ran over the top of the sports-loving Josh’s surprise about Stephen having any interests outside of books. “So, how does Eddie come into this?”
“Stephen pinned a picture of this old car that had a cat sitting on its hood, and made a comment that the owner didn’t deserve to own it if he was going to treat it like that.”
“What kind of car?” Josh asked.
Holly and I looked at him.
“What? I’m just saying it’s important. If it was an antique Aston Martin, or, something like a Duesenberg, I’d have to agree with him.”
“You are such a guy,” Holly said.
He shrugged. “Goes without saying.”
I thanked them for their conclusions, but I wasn’t sure either one had definitive proof. A few weeks ago, I would have been concerned. This week, however, the Secret of Eddie was way down my worry list. Not that I had a list, but if I did, that’s where it would have been.
When I sighed, my friends exchanged glances.
“All right.” Holly dragged over the spare chair and sat herself down. “Tell Aunt Holly what’s wrong. And don’t leave anything out, because I’ll be able to tell if you do.”
I opened my mouth to say I was fine, that everything was fine. But before the first denial was out of my mouth, I knew I couldn’t do it.
“Tammy Shelburt’s negligence suit against the library starts next week,” I said, “and if the sheriff’s office doesn’t arrest Roger’s killer before then, the library board will probably take the bookmobile off the road. The library attorney said it will help the library’s case.”
Holly gasped. “Seriously? I mean, I know you told me they might, but I figured they’d have come to their senses by now.”
“No one has told me anything different.”
“Geez.” Josh shoved his hands in his pockets. “What are you going to do?”
I looked at my computer monitor, which had gone into screen-saver mode and was now showing a slide show of bookmobile photos. “The only thing that will save the bookmobile is figuring out who killed Roger Slade. So that’s what I’m going to do.”
Holly half laughed. “If anyone else told me something like that, I’d laugh in their face. But you know what? I believe that you’ll do it. Right, Josh?”
He nodded. They both smiled at me, and I smiled back, because if they could believe it, then I could, too.
* * *
By the time I left the library, the light had completely gone from the day. It was a school night for Aunt Frances, so I was on my own for dinner. She’d left the porch light on for me, and when I opened the front door, I called out, “Eddie? Hey, Eddie?”
No feline came bounding over to greet me. I put my coat in the closet and wandered through the house on a cat hunt. “Eddie? Where are you, pal?” No Eddie on the couch, no Eddie on the dining-table buffet, no Eddie in the kitchen or in the downstairs bathtub.
I went upstairs. No Eddie on or under my pillow, no Eddie on any shoes in my closet. No Eddie in my aunt’s room, and no Eddie in the upstairs bathrooms. I stood at the top of the stairs and called again. “Eddie?” There was no need to get worried—of course there wasn’t—but there was a chance he could have scooted outside when the door was open and no one had noticed. He could have been outside all day. He could be lost, cold and shivering and—
Something thumped me in the back of my knee. “Ahh!” I jumped and yelled at the same time.
“Mrr.”
I put my hands on my hips and looked down at my cat. “Funny, mister. Very funny. I was calling and calling you. Where have you been?”
He sat down and started cleaning his back paw.
“Okay, I can see you don’t want to talk about it. But you could at least give me a hint.”
He glanced at me, then switched to cleaning the other back paw.
I sat on the edge of the bed, feeling the need to talk to someone. About the bookmobile, about the library board, about Roger and Jeremy and Pam and Don and all the things I’d learned in the last two and a half weeks. And about how none of it was adding up to a motive for murder.
“Mrr.”
“Thanks,” I said, “and I’m sure you’re right, but your advice would be more helpful if I could understand cat speech.”
Eddie had nothing else to say, so I reached into my backpack for my cell phone. “Now or never,” I muttered, and tapped in the name. “Hey, Denise,” I said when she answered. “Do you have a couple of minutes?”
“Not really.” Her voice was hard to hear over what sounded like a large crowd. “I’m down in Traverse City, eating at Red Ginger with some friends.”
My mouth watered. Red Ginger was an Asian restaurant with a hefty list of sushi offerings. I didn’t get there often, because of the distance and the prices, but it was still one of my favorite places to eat in Traverse. “This won’t take long,” I said.
Even over the background noise, I could hear her sigh. “Fine. Hang on.” She made excuses to whomever she was with. “There. I’m headed downstairs, but our food is coming soon, so I can’t talk long. What do you want?”
Condensed conversation was ideal. I skipped what I’d planned as an introduction and, talking fast, went straight to the heart of it. “Remember when I saw you right before Thanksgiving, outside the grocery store, and you mentioned some people who might be your enemies?”
“Yeah. What of it?”
Sometimes it was really hard to be nice to people. At least certain people. “Can you think of anyone else?”
“You mean, is there anyone else running around who might want to kill me?” She laughed. “The police are about to arrest the guy who killed Roger—they’ve told me so. And that slice in my radiator hose probably came from some mechanic who cut it accidentally. Really, Minnie, is your life so boring that you have to manufacture drama?”
Boring might be nice for a change. “Can you think of anyone else?”
“Minnie, you’re being—”
“Can you,” I cut in forcefully, “think of anyone else?”
“I already gave the police all the names I could think of,” she said. “I’m sure they’ve followed up on everyone.”
Or not, because they were sure they knew who the guy was.
“Just think a minute,” I told her. “Assume there’s someone else. Assume someone does want to kill you. Assume you’re still in danger.”
“That’s a lot of assuming,” she said, chuckling. “You know what assuming does, don’t you? It makes an—”