“Told you.”
I ignored her. “It also took me four times through to see that stuff, and that was when I was looking for it. Your average viewer isn’t going to watch it more than once, and even then they won’t be assuming that they’re going to see the fantasy version of Chilson. The average person recognizes that lake water contains the occasional leaf, you know.”
Kristen looked at me, a grin starting to quirk up one side of her mouth. “And that streets near beaches might have sand on them?”
“And that windows might have a speck of dust.”
My friend’s grin went wide. “See? This is why I needed you. You’re the absolute best at making fun of me to my face without me knowing I’m being made fun of until it’s too late.”
In a convoluted way, I followed her sentence structure. “When will the show be ready?”
She shrugged. “I’ve decided not to ask for updates. It’ll make me nuts.”
“How self-aware of you.”
“Yes, isn’t it?” She twisted the monitor back. “But it’s summer. I’m getting too busy to obsess about anything except running this place.” She pointed to the kitchen. “Now that you’ve taken care of me, what can I do for you? I know you don’t want any cooking pointers, but how about career advice? Romantic tips?” She waggled her eyebrows.
I thought a moment. Gossip was an unreliable source of information, but it often held a kernel of truth. “Have you heard anything about Kim and Bob Parmalee?”
“Why?”
“Her name came up, that’s all.”
“Right,” Kristen said. “That sounds about as likely as me not obsessing about that video.” She turned her hands palm up and made fluttery “talk to me” gestures with her fingers. “Talk, or I’ll tell Harvey to wait on dinner until you do.”
That was a cruel thing to threaten, but I knew she’d carry it out if pressed. And it wasn’t like I wasn’t going to tell her everything, anyway. “It had to do with Andrea Vennard’s murder . . .”
We were done with the salad and halfway through the main course of seasoned pork tenderloin with mashed sweet potatoes and the last of the season’s asparagus by the time I finished talking.
“So.” Kristen, who had scooted her chair around to the small table Harvey had brought in with our food, pointed at me with her fork. “At this point, you have four suspects. Kim Parmalee. Jared, the used-book store guy. Paul Utley, the attorney. Shane Pratley, the angry guy. Anyone else?”
“Steve Guilder, the old boyfriend.”
“And have you told Ash or your detective friend about this?”
I shook my head, first because it sounded just wrong to hear Detective Inwood spoken of as a friend, and second, because neither the detective nor Ash had returned my calls.
When I said as much to Kristen, she sighed and speared another piece of asparagus onto her fork. “The only thing I know about Kim and Bob Parmalee is that they haven’t been in here since I opened for the summer and they used to be regulars.”
I nodded thoughtfully. Eating out, especially eating out in a fancy restaurant, was the first thing to go when people had money troubles.
After a moment, our talk turned to other topics, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that if I didn’t find out something soon, Chastain’s book—and the killer—were going to disappear forever.
* * *
The sun had dropped below the horizon by the time I left the restaurant, my tummy full of fine food and my face hurting from laughing so hard at Kristen’s stories. How much was pure truth and how much was embellishment, I didn’t know and wasn’t sure I cared. Kristen wasn’t one to let the truth get in the way of a good story, and her winter in Key West had given her a healthy supply.
In the gloaming, I walked along the waterfront, nodding to the occasional passerby, usually a hand-in-hand couple, and thought about what I’d told Kristen.
I’d tried to tell her everything I’d learned in the past couple of weeks, but there was bound to be something I’d forgotten. Kristen had a knack for distilling vast amounts of information down into a single sentence, and she’d done it again tonight, just as I was heading out the door.
“It’s not about the book, you know,” she’d said.
I’d squinted at her. We’d been talking about her dad, which was the reason we’d had to skip last week’s written-in-stone Sunday-evening dessert. Her father was coming along nicely from a recent bypass surgery, but he was getting bored, and I’d been telling her about the books I’d drop off for him to read when she’d interrupted me.
“It’s not?” I’d asked, cocking my head. She was wrong, of course. Books were the only thing that mattered.
“No,” she said. “It’s the value of the book. That wildflower book.”
“Well, sure.” As in, “duh.”
“What I’m saying,” she said, a little exasperated, “is that not everyone puts the same value on things. That book, for instance. It had sentimental value to the DeKeysers and monetary value to whoever is trying to find it. But maybe somebody is attaching another kind of value to it, a kind that we’re not thinking about yet.”
Although I was sure the monetary value was the only thing that counted—because who couldn’t use more money?—it was an interesting idea, and I said so.
“Yeah,” Kristen said, already turning back to her kitchen. “That and two bucks will get me half a coffee at Starbucks. Harvey! Have you started the stock for tomorrow?”
But it was interesting, and it sent my thoughts back to the era when Robert Chastain had given away copy of his not-yet-famous book. In those days, the streets would have been dirt. There were no cars. No electric lights. No refrigeration.
And so it was, when the voice came out of the darkness, that my mind was both miles and years away.
“Hey, Minnie.”
I jumped, gasping out a silent shriek. After my feet came back to the ground and my breaths returned to normal speed, Rafe said, “You know, if you started paying more attention to where you are and what you’re doing, people saying hello won’t scare the snot out of you.”
Throughout my youth, my mother had told me much the same thing. Not that Rafe needed to know.
“Bet your mom used to tell you that,” he said.
“She told me a lot of things,” I replied. “Have you been sitting on your porch all night?”
“Far as you know, sure. What’s up with Kristen?”
“She’s nervous about being on Trock’s TV show.”
“Figures. She has about the least reason to be nervous as anyone in the history of that show.”
True, but I wasn’t going to discuss my best friend with Rafe, no matter that he’d known her longer than I had. “I saw Mitchell Koyne tonight,” I said. “He was mowing the lawn of his third-grade teacher.”
“Yeah? Who was it?” Rafe opened the cooler that was still sitting on the same spot on the porch and peered in. “Want one?”
“Beer or fish?”
He flashed me a grin, his white smile brightening the darkness, Cheshire Cat–like. “Which one would you prefer?”
“Neither, but I wouldn’t mind a water.” I sat down next to him.
“There should be one in here somewhere,” he said, rummaging around in the cooler. “Hah!” He held it out to me triumphantly. When I reached out, our hands touched and an odd shiver went over me. I put it down to the cold of the water bottle, but when I looked at Rafe’s face I saw an expression I couldn’t interpret. He’d felt the same chill, probably, and was getting ready to make a rude comment about my chilly personality.
“Mr. Wahlstrom,” I said quickly. “That was Mitchell’s teacher.”
“Wally Wahlstrom,” Rafe said, sipping at his beer. “Sure, I remember him. He looked about a hundred years old when we were in grade school, but he didn’t retire until after I started teaching at the middle school.”
“Mitchell said Mr. Wahlstrom had given him an award at the end of the year.” I squinched my nose at the beery smell wafting down the steps. “He seems to have left a big impression on Mitchell. Whatever the award was, I bet Mitchell kept it for years.”