“You look pleased,” I said cautiously.
“Every penny will go into the Stan Larabee Endowment. There’s enough capital to generate healthy annual dividends and the board, with oversight from Mr. Larabee’s attorney, will make decisions on how to use that money, with Mr. Larabee’s wishes regarding the bookmobile a guiding principle on disbursements.”
I tried to do the mental math on how long it would take to get enough dividends to buy a new bookmobile. Failed completely.
“It’s the wisest possible use of the bequest,” Graydon said.
“Sounds like something a lawyer would say.”
“Direct quote,” he agreed. “There’s just a couple of things. Mr. Larabee must have been quite a character, because his will included two, ah, interesting requests. He wanted to have the next bookmobile painted in his favorite color, purple.”
“And that sounds like Stan,” I said softly.
Graydon eyed me. “Minnie, I thought you’d be happy.”
“Oh, I am. It’s just . . .” I smiled, albeit sadly. “It’s just this was the last thing Stan left behind. Now it’s over and Stan really feels gone.”
“Au contraire.” Graydon stood. “Mr. Larabee’s endowment will last essentially forever. The way I see it, this is only the beginning.”
He was right, and by the time he’d left my office, I was ready to say so. “You’re right,” I called after him, and received an “I know. See you tomorrow” in reply.
“Well, there you go,” I said to the empty air. “It’ll be a little like Stan is watching over us.” And somehow, I got the feeling of a nod from Mr. Larabee himself.
* * *
An hour later, I tiptoed back outside. Donna spotted me, but she averted her eyes when I held up my index finger in the universal “Shh!” gesture.
“See you tomorrow,” she said as I went by. “Hope you’re bringing provisions, because I anticipate a long story at break time.”
Small towns being what they are, how she knew about the shed less than twenty-four hours later was a mystery only in the specifics. “I’ll stop at Cookie Tom’s,” I promised, and escaped into the sunshine.
Half a block later, my phone beeped with an incoming text.
Rafe: had lunch?
Minnie: I was planning on stopping at Shomin’s. Do you want me to get you something?
Rafe: don’t buy food all here
Minnie (while smiling at her phone): Could you please spell that out in proper English, with punctuation to ensure proper communication?
Rafe: can but not gonna-see U soon
Laughing, I shut down my phone and started walking faster as I wondered what Rafe was planning. Fat Boys subs were always a winner, but maybe he’d gone all out and fired up the grill. We hadn’t had hamburgers in at least a week so he was probably on the edge of withdrawal.
My brain was so full that I didn’t pay much attention to where my feet were taking me until I was all the way downtown and mired in late summer pedestrian traffic, heavy this weekend because of sidewalk sales.
Instead of being annoyed, however, I found myself smiling at the gamboling children, the sunburned parents, and everyone who was crowding the sidewalks with bulging shopping bags. All would be gone in a month and Chilson would, once again, be a place where you could find a parking spot anywhere you wanted.
“How has your summer been going?”
I stopped and looked around, but the question hadn’t been asked of me; it had been asked of someone behind a rack of vintage linens outside Older Than Dirt. The questioner sounded familiar, though, and I hesitated as I tried to place the name.
“Great,” said a young and very familiar voice. “I’m so glad my parents let me come up here to stay with Aunt Minnie. I’ve been begging them for years, but this is the first year they thought I was old enough.”
“So you’re enjoying the houseboat?”
I almost snapped my fingers. Bianca Sims, now Bianca Koyne. Mitchell’s wife, which was a two-word phrase I still couldn’t wrap my head around.
“You bet. And Eddie is like the best cat ever.” Kate’s hands appeared over the top of the rack as she tidied the goods. “Aunt Minnie talks to me like a real person, you know? Not like I’m a little kid, but like I’m an adult. She asks my opinion on stuff and really wants to know the answers.”
Bianca murmured something I couldn’t hear.
“Let me know where to send the nomination,” Kate said, laughing. “She’s the Best Aunt in the World if you ask me. You know what happened yesterday? She literally saved my life!”
My cheeks burned with embarrassment and I cut across the street, staying out of their view. No way did I want them to know I’d been eavesdropping, but I wasn’t sorry I accidentally had. Now I knew that Kate didn’t hate me and maybe, just maybe, there was hope of an Aunt Frances–type relationship in our future.
“All is not lost,” I said out loud, smiling up at the sun.
* * *
By the time I got to the house, my stomach was telling me that breakfast, while large, had been a long time ago and it was past time to eat something. I hurried up the steps and opened the front door. No food smells or cooking sounds emanated from the dining room or kitchen. I wandered through the rooms and found nothing, and no one. Then a faint noise from up above my head gave a clue as to Rafe’s whereabouts.
“Hey!” I called. “Where’s all that food you promised?”
“Up here!”
I traipsed up the stairs, thinking about the phone call I’d just finished with Kristen, who had been in line to get the Shed Story. With her atrocious restaurant hours, I hadn’t wanted to bother her much before noon. But as it turned out, she’d already heard a large percentage of what I’d told her.
“How did you know all that?” I’d asked.
“You seriously think I’m going to give away my sources?” she’d scoffed.
“It’s not like you’re a reporter, trying for first amendment protection.”
“There are parallels,” she’d said. “But let’s get to the good stuff. Tell me again how you and Kate wriggled your way across the floor. No, wait. Tomorrow during dessert you can demonstrate.”
She’d howled with laughter, then said softly, “I’m really glad you and Kate didn’t get shot.”
Remembering, I was sorry for the catch I’d heard in her voice, sorry for the pain she would have suffered if last night had included a nasty death or two. Which was a weird thing to be sorry about, but there you go.
I reached the second floor hallway and looked around. No food. No Rafe. “Where are you?”
“Keep going!”
Where? I wondered. But his voice was still coming from above my head, so that was a clue. I turned and saw that the small, narrow door at the end of the hall was open. “Are you in the attic?”
“Come on up.”
Huh. I’d been in the attic all of twice—once to note its existence, a second time to reassure myself there was room for the boxes of books that were in the boardinghouse attic, from whence they would eventually be shifted, but not yet, as Rafe and I were still working on bookcase design. I’d considered not moving until said bookcases were installed, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to wait that long.
I climbed the narrow stairway and peered at the cobwebby gloom. Still no Rafe. But . . . hang on . . .
A window at the end of the gable facing the water was wide open. I walked over, stepping around the broken chairs, tables, and toys, and poked my head outside. “You’re on the roof,” I said.
Rafe reached for my hand and helped me clamber through the window frame and onto the balcony. It was an odd part of the house, because it could only be reached via defenestration, and I hadn’t been sure we would ever use it. But since I’d known Rafe for more than twenty years, I should have known better.