Holly was in the break room, opening up a plastic tub. “Leftovers from the last day of school,” she said. “Have at it.”
I peered in and pulled out the smallest brownie. Holly’s treats were the stuff of legend, and it wouldn’t do to offend the creator. “Ash called,” I said, after swallowing the chocolatey goodness. “They’re releasing the name of the woman who was killed.”
Holly sat heavily. “I don’t like to think that someone was murdered in our library.”
Neither did I, but we had to move on. “The police are working hard to find the killer. I’m sure it will all be over soon.”
“Will it?” Holly’s face turned to mine. “Will it, really?”
No, and we both knew it. I couldn’t conceive of a time when I wouldn’t look at that aisle of bookshelves and not be reminded of what I’d seen. We would always remember what had happened, and it would always be a part of the library’s history.
I gave her a vague half nod, half head shake, and said, “Her name was Andrea Vennard. She was from downstate. Brighton, I think.”
“No, she wasn’t.”
Holly and I looked up to see Donna walking into the room.
“Andrea was from here,” she went on. “She may have lived downstate, but she was born in Chilson, grew up here, and graduated from Chilson High School.”
“Never heard of her,” Holly said. “Or the name Vennard.”
Donna went to the coffeepot and held it poised over her mug. “Who made this?”
“Josh,” I told her.
She nodded and filled her mug. “Vennard was her married name, though she got divorced a number of years ago. She was a Wiley.”
“No kidding.” Holly sat back. “Why didn’t I know her?”
“Older than you by ten years, I’d say.” Donna shrugged. “And she was Bob’s daughter.”
“Bob, not Rob?”
The two of them dropped deep into a discussion of Chilson genealogy and, within seconds, since I hadn’t grown up in Chilson or been provided with visual aids, I was totally lost. Which was okay, because it was relaxing, in a way, to lean against the counter and let the conversation wash over me. Normal. Everyday. Typical. For a couple more minutes, I could stand here and think about nothing while—
“Wiley,” I said, cutting into something Donna was saying.
Donna glanced at Holly, then at me. “What about them?”
“If Andrea was a Wiley, was she related to the DeKeysers?” I asked, remembering Talia DeKeyser’s obituary.
“Hmm, let me think.” Donna frowned and stared at the ceiling. “Yes,” she finally said. “She must have been a great-niece of Talia’s.”
She went off into an explanation, but this time I wasn’t even trying to pay attention, because my brain was too busy thinking, connecting A to B.
Andrea Vennard lived downstate.
She was a great-niece of Talia DeKeyser.
Talia DeKeyser had recently passed away.
Andrea had, most probably, returned to Chilson for her aunt’s funeral.
So . . . what? Nothing, really, was the conclusion I reached as I reached for another brownie. Because none of those facts answered the question of why Andrea had been in my library.
I waved at Donna and Holly, but they barely noticed my leave-taking. As I walked back to my office, my brain was already on the things I had to finish before the bookmobile could back out of its garage, so when a large voice called my name, I jumped high enough to slop coffee over the side of my mug and onto the tile floor.
“Oh, geez, Minnie, sorry about that. Here, hang on.” Mitchell Koyne, when standing, was well over a foot taller than my five feet. On his knees, using a grimy handkerchief to mop my spill, he was all arms and legs and awkwardness.
Mitchell was my age, but as far as I knew, he’d never held the same job for longer than six months. He bounced from summer construction labor to ski-lift operator to hauling firewood to plowing snow. Last year he’d started his own investigation business, but he’d never had a client and was still living in the attic apartment of his sister’s house. He was clueless about almost everything, so totally clueless that it was easy to dismiss him as an Up North hick who’d never set foot in a real city.
But the thing was, Mitchell was smart. Extremely smart. In his untucked flannel shirt, ratty baseball cap, worn sneakers, and unshaven face, Mitchell would spend hours in the library, reading books and magazines, and I’d once watched him read an encyclopedia. Why he didn’t translate some of that knowledge into useful skills, I did not know.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“Checking out books?”
“Not a chance,” I said. “Your overdue fine is still the highest in the library’s history, and just because Stephen’s gone doesn’t mean I’m going to let you start checking out books until your account is down to zero.”
“Doesn’t hurt a guy to ask,” he said, grinning.
“But it’s not even close to noon.” I tipped my head in the direction of the wall clock. “You’re never here before noon. Ever.”
“Yeah.” He took off his baseball hat, scratched his head, and put the hat back on. His hair, I noted, had been cut recently, which was unusual. Mitchell would go for months without a haircut; then he’d go to the barber and get it buzzed close to his skull. Neither the long hair nor the buzz was a good look for him, and it was interesting that his habits were changing.
Very interesting.
“So, Minnie,” he said, “I got a question for you.”
I made a come-along gesture and started walking again. Mitchell’s long legs took two strides to every three of mine. “What’s your question?” I asked. “But, just so you know ahead of time, I can’t say anything about yesterday morning.” More like “didn’t want to” than “couldn’t,” but Mitchell didn’t need to know that.
“Huh?” He peered down at me. “Oh, right. That Andrea Wiley got killed, didn’t she? No, it’s not about that.”
I breathed a small sigh of relief. In the past, Mitchell had tried his best to insert himself into police investigations; that he wasn’t inclined to do so now could only be a good thing.
“It’s about Bianca,” Mitchell said.
Then again, maybe it wouldn’t be so horrible if Mitchell could be distracted by a murder investigation. Because if his girlfriend had dumped him, even if it was weeks past the latest guess from the library pool that Josh had started, Mitchell would need serious amounts of distraction.
“How is she?” I asked. Bianca Sims was one of the most successful real estate agents in the area. Blond, attractive, energetic, and outgoing, it boggled the mind that she and Mitchell had gone out on more than one date, let alone been seeing each other for two months. While I understood that Mitchell had his own variety of charm, I’d long held the opinion it was an appeal that was more attractive at arm’s length. Still, there was no accounting for what attracted people to one another, a fact for which I should be grateful.
“She’s great,” Mitchell said gloomily.
I quirked up my eyebrows at his tone. “She’s great, but there’s a problem?”
“It’s not her. It’s me.”
Now, that I could believe, but it didn’t make sense that Mitchell was coming to me for advice on how to change his life. First off, Mitchell was one of those people who never seemed to recognize that improvements needed to be made. Second, while we’d been friends of a sort for years, we’d never shared soul-baring confidences.
“What’s the matter?” We’d reached my office door, and I stopped to look up at him. Talking to Mitchell in the hallway was one thing, but I flat-out did not have time for him to come in and sit for a long, cozy chat.
“You’re like her,” he said. “I mean, you’re short and she’s nice and tall, and you have all that curly black hair and she has that nice smooth blond hair. Plus you read all the time and she’s more fun and—”
“So how are we alike?” I asked, cutting into the brutal blow-by-blow comparison.