“Have to tell Aunt Frances,” I said out loud. My aunt was forever reminding me that worrying never helped a thing, that it mostly made things worse. Some days her advice was easy to take, other days not so much. But if I could push away the notion that Kate couldn’t stand living with me and that she was secretly plotting to get back to Florida as soon as possible, maybe I was making progress in the non-worrying department.
My phone rang. It was Ash. “Morning!” I said. “What’s up?”
“Make a right turn, please.”
I blinked and looked to my right. I was almost in front of the sheriff’s office, and Ash was standing at the door, waving at me. He thumbed off his phone and said, “Do you have a minute? Hal and I need to talk to you.”
Seconds later, I was sitting in the interview room across the table from Deputy Ash Wolverson and Detective Hal Inwood. “Before you say anything,” I said, “last night I was thinking about Rex Stuhler’s death, and maybe we need to get really creative about—”
Hal cut across my words. “This isn’t about Mr. Stuhler.”
“Oh.” I sat back a little. Please, I thought, don’t let it be about Kate again. “This, um, doesn’t have to do with my niece, does it?”
Ash half smiled. “After her talk with the sheriff, I don’t think that kid will so much as break the speed limit until she’s thirty.”
Though I didn’t agree, his opinion was good to hear. “What’s the matter, then?” Because from the looks on both of their faces, something was clearly not right. It wasn’t as easy to tell with Hal, because his long face had a permanently morose cast, but Ash’s default expression hadn’t yet hardened into cop mode and I could tell he wasn’t happy.
“We have received,” Hal said, “the preliminary autopsy on Nicole Price.”
Since I didn’t know how to respond to that, I kept quiet, because there was obviously more coming.
“Ms. Price was murdered.”
I stared at Hal. “No, she wasn’t. She drowned. It’s sad, but it happens. There are all sorts of reasons she could have drowned. Tell your medical examiner to look again.” I could hear my voice going high and shrill, so I took a short breath. “Look again,” I said calmly. “There has to be a mistake.”
But both Hal and Ash were shaking their heads. “She double and triple checked,” Ash said. “She said there’s no doubt whatsoever. I’m sorry, Minnie, but someone strangled Nicole.”
Hal droned on about the particulars of Nicole’s death, citing all sorts of medical evidence that I understood sort of, but not really. I made a mental note to brush up on my basic knowledge of human physiology, and after he finished talking about the cellular level of something I’d never heard of before, I asked the obvious question. “Do you know who killed her?”
Ash glanced at Hal, who remained impassive. “We’re looking at all possible suspects,” Hal said.
I knew the drill. All avenues of investigation will be pursued, blah blah blah. They’d leave no stone unturned as they went down the avenues of investigation, the roads of investigation, and the streets of—
Streets. I sighed. It was time to tell them about my own street-side experience. “There’s something I should tell you.”
The two men waited.
“It’s possible that . . . I mean it might be . . .” I took a breath and came out with it. “I think someone tried to kill me.”
Chapter 12
Staffing the reference desk was, right after the bookmobile, the best part of working at the library. Yes, people came to me with the everyday questions, starting with “What’s the library’s Wi-Fi password?” and the whispered “Where are the bathrooms?” But there were also the fun quests, like “Is there any book that could turn my nine-year-old son into a reader?” and “When did the first fudge shop in Chilson open?” and the search was on. I practically lived for moments like that, and seeing a patron’s face light up when we found the answer was worth every dollar of the student loans I still owed.
Today, however, the building seemed to be empty of everyone except staff and there was little to distract me from my final moments in the sheriff’s office.
“You what?” Ash had sat up straighter, something I wouldn’t have thought possible because he always had better posture than I’d ever been able to achieve with a book on my head.
“Um, fell into traffic. I wasn’t hurt,” I added hastily. Because scrapes couldn’t possibly count as a real injury to anyone except my mother, and since I hadn’t told her about the incident, and since the scrape on my shoulder had healed days ago, the memory of the whole thing was getting a bit fuzzy.
“But someone pushed you,” Hal said. And I knew I was in trouble because he took a notebook out of his shirt pocket.
I often walked along without paying too much attention to where I was and where I was going, but it was a stretch from that to falling into traffic. “I didn’t fall sideways into the street of my own volition,” I said. “Someone pushed me. But what I don’t know is whether or not it was intentional.”
“You’re telling us now? Almost two weeks later?” Ash asked, his voice a little too loud for the small room. “Minnie, why on earth didn’t you mention this earlier?”
I shrugged. “And you would have done what? It was the week of the Fourth, the sidewalks were packed with people, and I didn’t see who pushed me. All you or the city police would have done was file some sort of pointless report, and you had better things to do with your time.”
Hal and Ash exchanged a glance at my “pointless report” comment, and I knew I’d hit a nerve. “So instead of a long report that would have taken hours,” I said, “all you have to do now is make a note in Rex Stuhler’s murder file. Way easier. And . . .” I looked at them beseechingly. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention my falling to anyone outside this office.”
“Like your aunt Frances?” Hal asked.
Ash eyed me. “Like Rafe, Kristen, or anyone at the library?”
Yes, and yes, and now that I was at the library, and my mind was full of Nicole Price, I wouldn’t have minded a distraction and wished fervently for someone—anyone—to ask me any question whatsoever.
Just then, Denise Slade appeared in front of me, feet wide, hands on her hips, scowl in place.
I quickly revised my fervent wish, but it was too late. She was here and would stay until I listened to what she had to say.
Denise had been, once again, voted president of the Friends of the Library, and it was, once again, my job to get along with her. To be agreeable. Some days this was easy, as Denise was smart, capable, and efficient. She also had a personality that would be better suited to foreman of a demolition crew.
“Do you want to know what the Friends think the Board should do with Stan’s money?” she demanded.
In my heart of hearts, I wanted to make a flippant reply. Like the money should pay for a giant statue of Stan (something he would have found appalling) or that it should perpetually fund monthly Big Name author events. Or that it should pay for uniforms that the Friends would wear.
“Of course I want to know,” I said, smiling at the style of uniform I’d already selected. Not everyone would look attractive in horizontal stripes, but Stan had favored bold patterns, so my imaginary design only made sense.
The fifty-ish and fireplug-shaped Denise dragged a chair away from a nearby table, slid it next to my desk, and plopped down. “Well, it’s not an official vote.” She glanced around. “But I’m sure everyone agrees with me.”
“I’d like to hear it,” I said, nodding and doing a mental fist pump for saying something that didn’t overtly agree with Denise yet gave the appearance of congeniality and cooperation.