Lindsey looked at me. Like I was a germ under a microscope. Or a specimen in a bottle of that stinky formaldehyde. I started to shrink, shoulders sagging, head bowing, but something in me reared up. Yes, Ash’s mom was beautiful and capable and successful and tall, and I was just a short librarian, but that was no reason for her to look down on me.
I lifted my chin and met her gaze straight on. And, after a moment, she smiled.
“It’s time for me to apologize,” she said. “I should have realized what had happened and I am truly sorry I let this go on for so long.”
At some point this conversation would start making sense. “Let what go on?”
“When Ash introduced us at the Round Table, I could tell you were nervous about meeting me. I should have been more understanding. Instead, I went all proper and uptight and made you even more anxious.”
“Well,” I said, “I have to confess that I didn’t expect Ash’s mom to look like she stepped out of a Nordstrom catalog.”
Lindsey laughed. “It’s a hard thing, being a woman, isn’t it? We want to look good, but when we succeed, we can end up intimidating more than impressing.”
“You were trying to impress me?” My eyes went wide.
“Good heavens, of course I was. Ash has talked about you for weeks. I couldn’t possibly meet you wearing old jeans and a T-shirt.”
“Wow. I had no idea.”
“How could you? And then Ash was called away and we were left with each other, and I still felt the need to make a good impression. Which was when you started tripping over your words.”
I thought back. “I did, didn’t I? It’s something I do when I’m . . .” I grinned. “When I’m nervous.”
She nodded. “You weren’t making fun of Ash; you were simply nervous.”
“Making fun?” I stared at her, aghast. “No! Of course not!” No wonder she’d frozen me out—she’d thought I was mocking her son, who had had a severe stutter as a kid. “I’d never do a thing like that.”
“I know that now,” she said. “And that’s why I’m apologizing.” She stuck out her hand. “Friends?”
Smiling, I shook. “Friends.” After the ritual was complete, I asked, “What are you doing in Chilson this fine evening?”
“Working.” She made a face. “You’d have thought financial consultants wouldn’t need to make house calls.”
“Someone win the lottery?”
Lindsey started to say something, then changed it to, “Everyone’s financial situation is different.”
Which was a lot like what Tolstoy had written in Anna Karenina. “‘All happy families are alike,’” I quoted. “‘Each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.’”
Lindsey’s eyebrows went up. “That’s what Monica said, not ten minutes ago.”
“Monica?” My brain twitched. It was a Monica Utley who’d switched her stint in the book-sale room with Andrea right before she’d been killed. “Is this the same Monica who volunteers at the library?”
“I couldn’t say.” Lindsey looked at her watch. “And I’m sorry to interrupt our chat, but there’s a roast in the slow cooker at home that’s going to be overdone if I don’t get there soon. Have a good night, Minnie.”
She turned away and I reached into my backpack for my phone. “Aunt Frances? Quick question: Do you know Monica Utley?”
“Not very well,” my aunt said. “She grew up downstate. Met her husband in college—he’s from Chilson—and they moved up here after they got married.”
“What’s her husband’s name?” I was gripping the phone so tight that my hand hurt. “Do you know?”
“Paul. He’s a lawyer.”
“Do you happen to know where they live?”
“In that big pale yellow house a block or so from downtown. At least they do for now,” she said wryly. “I hear they’re having troubles of some sort. Why?”
“Thanks,” I said, and thumbed off the phone as a car with tinted windows drove past.
Slowly.
The skin at the back of my neck prickled unpleasantly. Was someone following me?
“Don’t be stupid,” I told myself, but all the way home, I kept looking over my shoulder to make sure I was alone.
Chapter 17
As far as I was concerned, the answer to the why of Andrea Vennard’s death had been answered days ago; she and someone else had been looking for Wildflowers, only that someone else had been willing to kill for the sake of an expensive book.
Now I knew who that someone was.
Well, maybe.
Angry Guy Shane Pratley was still a possibility, as was Jared Moyle, the guy who owned the used-book store, and Kim and Bob Parmalee, but things were lining up that Paul Utley was the guy. Or Monica Utley. Or both of them. Because if they were in financial trouble, wouldn’t they both be scrambling to find an answer to their problem? And why else would someone be talking to a financial consultant on a Friday night?
I waited until I got back to the dubious privacy of the houseboat to call Ash. No sense in people on the street overhearing what I suspected. Because all I had were suspicions. I had no real evidence and no real proof. Ash and Detective Inwood would have to come up with those. Unfortunately, I’d recently received a text from Ash that they’d both just left for a long weekend of law-enforcement training. But, hey, what were cell phones for if not to interrupt people?
“Hi, this is Ash.”
“Hey,” I said, “I know you’re at that training—”
“I can’t talk right now,” his recorded voice said, “but I’ll call you back when I can. Thanks.”
I growled into the phone. When the beep came, I gave him my information about Paul and Monica Utley, that Paul had learned about Wildflowers through his role as attorney for the DeKeysers’ estate, that Paul and Andrea had known each other from high school, and that Paul could have learned about the value of the book through Andrea, so it might be a good idea to check to see if any of her phone calls had been to him. Or if they’d had any other contact. Or something.
When I was done rambling, I said, “Okay, um, that’s about it. Give me a call when you have a minute, okay?”
“Mrr.”
I looked down at Eddie. “What do you think? Should I call the sheriff, too?”
My cat put his head down and whacked my shin. It didn’t help my decision-making process, but it did encourage me pick him up for a snuggle. “How about if I e-mail the sheriff?” I asked. “She might not check her e-mail until Monday, but this can wait that long.” Eddie didn’t disagree with me, so I set him onto the dining bench while I did some tapping on my phone.
It didn’t take long to find Sheriff Richardson’s e-mail address—it was on the county’s Web site—and I sent her a note that replicated the voice mail I’d left for Ash. “There,” I told Eddie as I hit the Send button. “I’ve done what I can, and the rest will be up to the law-enforcement professionals. Want to go to the Friday marina party with me?”
“Mrr?” He jumped on my backpack and scratched at the opening until he’d managed to get himself inside.
“A backpack is not a cat toy,” I said, pulling him away. This was a little mean of me, because I’d watched him strain with the effort to get in and not done a thing to either help or hinder him, but I tamped down my guilt with the knowledge that he’d be sleeping on my head later that night.
“Mrrrr.”
I could hear Eddie latching on to something inside the backpack. I reached out and detached his front claws from whatever it was that he was sinking them into. “Don’t ruin my stuff, okay? Some of those things aren’t even mine, you know, and it wouldn’t look good for me to return books to the library with cat-claw marks in them.”
Eddie wriggled out of my grasp, gave me a dirty look, and jumped down. He stalked across the kitchen floor, thumped down the steps, stamped across the bedroom, and launched himself up onto the bed.