“What I think—what the Friends think—Stan Larabee’s money should do is build an addition.”
I blinked. “Addition to what?”
“To the library, of course.” She waved her arms. “I told them from the beginning that having our space upstairs was ridiculous, but did they listen to me? No, they didn’t. If the Friends are going to be truly successful, we need to have our book sale room on the main floor, and Stan’s money is exactly what we need to get there.”
“Um.” There were so many things wrong with her idea, I didn’t know where to start. But it also occurred to me that it wasn’t my job to break that particular piece of news to her, so I just asked, “Have you talked to the board about this?”
She harrumphed. “I’m on the agenda for their next meeting, for all the good it will do.”
“You never know,” I said. “And if you don’t get the idea in front of them, they’ll definitely never consider it.”
She muttered agreement, stood, and stomped off. Well, technically she just walked away, but there was something about the way Denise carried herself that made her gait come across as an angry thumping.
I got up to put her chair away and thought about the differences in the two conversations I’d had that morning. I’d told the sheriff’s office about my street-side accident, but didn’t want anyone else to know. Denise had told me about her addition fantasy, and wanted everyone to know.
And then it occurred to me that, though I’d asked Hal and Ash to keep quiet about my not-so-near-death experience, neither one had actually agreed to do so.
* * *
“Fish?” Kate wrinkled her nose, which in person is not nearly as attractive as it sounds. A true nose-wrinkling isn’t just the nose, but includes the entire face and, if you’re really skilled, the neck, jaw, and hairline. Though Kate’s attempt scored a solid seven, she had a long way to go before she could achieve the classic Minnie face my brother had recorded for posterity with his camera the day I’d tried jalapeño peppers for the first time after being told by that same brother that they were “kind of like pickles.” I’d been six years old and still didn’t care for jalapeños.
“It’s walleye,” Rafe said. “Fresh. You’ll like it, trust me.”
I’d kept quiet during this little interchange, as I’d reluctantly come to the conclusion that Kate was more likely to try something if it wasn’t me who was encouraging the attempt.
We were on the front porch, all of our knees knocking against each other as we sat at the small table Rafe had conjured up out of nowhere. Rafe had grown up in Chilson, as had his parents, grandparents, great-grandparents, all the way back to the days of homesteading. His connections in the area were broad and bone deep, and given his twin tendencies of laid-back-ness and a willingness to lend a hand to anyone in need, he could call in favors like no one else I’d met in my life.
“What’s this stuff on it?” Kate poked at the fish with her fork.
Rafe reached back into the cooler and handed out sodas. “Bread crumbs and Parmesan cheese.”
“I like cheese.” It was a grudging admission, but an admission nonetheless, which put it into the Win column.
The two legal adults at the table surreptitiously held their collective breaths as the adolescent deigned to try the food hunted, gathered, cooked, and plated for her. She chewed, swallowed . . . and then went back for another bite. “This isn’t too horrible,” she said.
Not wanting to startle the girl out of her newfound liking for fresh fish—Rafe and a friend had been out on the lake that morning—we kept quiet, but underneath the table, Rafe and I bumped knuckles.
When the fish and accompanying grilled potatoes and red peppers were mostly gone, I realized I’d become so successful at keeping my mind off the events at the sheriff’s office that morning that I hadn’t told Rafe any of it. And Kate should probably hear about it from me instead of hearing it second or third or fourth hand.
“This morning,” I said, “Ash asked me to stop at the sheriff’s office.”
“Oh?” Rafe asked. “Why’s that?”
His tone was casual, but Kate looked at me straight on. “Do they know who killed Mr. Stuhler? Did they arrest someone?”
I shook my head. “Not yet.”
She shrank back inside herself a bit, and my heart ached for her. She needed some good news, but what I was about to say was anything but. “Ash and Hal wanted to tell me about Nicole Price, that drowning victim we found on Stump Lake.”
Rafe and Kate looked up from their plates. “What about her?” Rafe asked.
I did not want to tell them about this; I really truly did not. “Nicole didn’t drown.” I sighed and said the words echoing in my head out loud. “She was murdered.”
“What?” Rafe sat back. “You’re kidding.”
“Don’t I wish. They said the preliminary report from the medical examiner was conclusive.”
“That’s . . .” He frowned. “Well, hard to believe, first off. The two of you make quite the team for coming across murder victims.”
I looked at Kate, but she was still working on her fish. “Can I pull Eddie into this conversation?” I asked. “We would have driven right past Stump Lake if he hadn’t gone into that bizarre howling fit.”
“When all else fails, blame the cat,” Rafe said. “Doesn’t seem fair.”
Clearly, he did not yet understand what living with a cat was like. The man had so much to learn. “No, you blame the cat from the beginning. Especially when the cat is Eddie.”
Kate pushed her plate away. “Was she married?”
“Nicole? Yes,” I said. “Dominic is her husband’s name.”
“What if . . .” My niece pleated her paper napkin. “What if this Dominic and Mr. Stuhler’s wife were having an affair? What if they killed their spouses so they could marry each other? It would be a lot cheaper to do that than to get divorced. That costs a lot and you lose half your stuff.”
Soap opera drama at its finest. I did not look at Rafe. Did not even think about looking at him, because if I did, I might start laughing, and if that happened, Kate would retreat from me even further and—
My thoughts came to an abrupt halt. I’d gone through that same murder-instead-of-divorce thought process not so very long ago. A different scenario altogether, but I shouldn’t laugh at her for having the same idea I’d had. Especially since, if I remembered correctly, when I’d presented my theory to law enforcement, they’d basically laughed at the notion.
I didn’t want Kate to suffer that, so I thought a moment and said, “That possibility wasn’t mentioned this morning. It might be a little melodramatic, but I’ll pass it along to Ash.”
Kate looked up. “You will? Really?”
“Absolutely.” Maybe not right away, and maybe not as a serious theory, but I absolutely would. Someday.
“Cool,” she said, and smiled at me.
* * *
Early the next morning while crunching my cereal as quietly as possible because Kate was still in her sleeping bag, snoring gently, I spent a few minutes in a text exchange with Deputy Ash Wolverson. Early on, it became clear that he did not want to drag Detective Hal Inwood into another meeting with Ms. Minnie Hamilton, even if it did mean fresh baked goods from Cookie Tom’s.
Ash: Anyway, Hal’s wife wants him to drop 20 pounds.
Minnie: One doughnut isn’t going to make that much difference.
Ash: Try telling Mrs. Inwood that.
Minnie: Isn’t she downstate this week with grandkids?
Ash: She has spies. Don’t do it.
I smiled at that, but the spy thing was probably true, and I would have bet it was the sheriff herself who tattled on Hal. Women in an overly male environment tend to stick together, especially when the health of the men in their lives is involved.