I knew the feeling.
“It’s that Frances Pixley,” Caroline said. “One of her former boarders works for the Chilson Police Department, did you know? She’s using her influence over the officers to make them look the other way.”
“I’m sure that’s not true.”
“You think not?” Caroline’s voice was rising. “Then why haven’t they investigated her actions? Why haven’t they had her in for questioning? Why haven’t they arrested her?”
“Um, they probably need some proof.”
“Proof?” She tsked the problem away. “They’d find proof if they only looked. Frances Pixley is—”
I’d had enough. “Is my aunt.”
“Your . . . ?” Caroline Grice was speechless.
“Aunt.” I nodded. “She’s my dad’s sister.”
“But you . . .”
“I know, we don’t look anything alike. But we’re blood relatives, I love her very much, and I don’t think she killed Stan any more than I think you killed him.”
“Than I?” She drew back.
“Sure.” I shrugged. “From what you’ve said, you have the same kind of jealousy-induced motive. Why shouldn’t you be a suspect, too?”
“Why . . . why . . .” She picked up her purse. “Excuse me,” she said, and left.
• • •
“Don’t say it,” I said.
“Wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing.” Kristen grinned from behind her desk. “But may I point out that this makes three—yes, three—career-killing moves inside of two weeks?”
“No.” I slid down in the chair.
“How about mentioning the fact that I warned you about trying to figure out who killed Stan?” Kristen put her feet up on an open drawer and her hands behind her head.
“You didn’t.”
She frowned. “I must have.”
“You said helping Holly was going to take up too much of my time. You never once said I shouldn’t investigate.”
“And if I had?”
“I’d have ignored you.”
“Exactly. Which is why I saved my breath.”
I gusted out a sigh. “Caroline will never donate any money to the library now. Stephen’s going to be way mad.”
“Probably going to fire you,” Kristen said comfortably.
“You think so?”
“Oh, sure. He could replace you in a snap. Bet people are already lining up for your job.”
Another sigh. “Yeah, you’re right. They probably are.”
“Just so you know, don’t come to me looking for a waitress job. You’d be terrible.”
She was right, I’d be the worst waitress ever. I’d get talking to people and forget I had orders to take, and I’d be a disaster at giving people the right change. “How about dishwashing?”
“Nah.” Her feet came down. “You’re too short to put away dishes on the top shelves.”
“Isn’t that discrimination?”
“Most likely.” She stood and whipped a cloth from a small table that, in my misery, I hadn’t even noticed was there. She lifted covers off two desserts. “Crème brûlée topped with shavings of dark chocolate,” she said, handing me a plate and spoon and putting a second set on her desk. “Eat up.”
I looked at the custard-filled ramekin. “This is supposed to make me feel better?”
“It is and it will. Eat.”
I didn’t see how, but I picked up the spoon and cracked open the sugar. At the sound, I felt a small smile whisper onto my face. I loved crème brûlée. I loved dark chocolate. Most of all, I loved them together, and Kristen knew it.
Three bites in, the world looked brighter. “Stephen isn’t going to fire me, is he?”
“Nope.”
Another bite. “And there aren’t a bunch of people who want my job, are there?”
“Are you kidding? With the hours you work?”
I crunched into a big piece of caramelized sugar. “You’re a true friend.”
“Yeah, well, it takes one to know one.”
One more bite of custardy goodness and I asked, “Would you really turn me down for a waitress job?”
“Do you really want to know the answer?”
“Not really.”
“Good choice.”
Even true friends deserve an occasional tongue-sticking-out. So Kristen got one.
• • •
I decided to walk home not along the waterfront but through downtown. Now that school was done, the summer tourists were out in force even on a weeknight, and a walk by the water would be punctuated by baby-stroller dodging and small-child evasion.
The crowds were part of summer, just like the smell of suntan lotion and cut grass, but I didn’t want to mingle tonight. I wanted to get home quickly and quietly and have Eddie purr at me until I fell asleep.
So I walked east through the downtown blocks, head down, hands in my pockets, not seeing much, not thinking much, trying not to feel sorry for myself because I was such an idiot, trying not to see the look on Stephen’s face when I told him that it’d be a cold day in you-know-what before Caroline Grice gave the library any money.
My efforts weren’t working very well, so I was easily distracted by the sight of a man sitting on the bench outside the Round Table. A familiar-looking man. I’d seen him at the library . . . yes. It was Bill D’Arcy. He’d checked out a monstrous pile of books. He was on Rafe’s list of suspects. And he was sitting there, typing away on his laptop, catching the Round Table’s free Wi-Fi.
Was using free Wi-Fi provided by a restaurant when you weren’t inside the restaurant itself weenie-like behavior? I wasn’t sure, and made a mental note to ask my mother next time we talked. Mom was always good for making sure my moral compass pointed straight north.
I crossed the street and sat down on the bench. “Bill D’Arcy, right?”
The look he gave me was guarded, but not overtly hostile. “I am.”
“Hi.” I smiled wide and held out my hand. “Minnie Hamilton. I’m assistant director at the library. We met the other day when you were checking out a bunch of books.”
He glanced at my hand. Hesitated. Shook it briefly. “Nice to meet you,” he muttered, going back to his computer.
“You’re not from around here, are you?” I asked. He grunted, but I couldn’t tell if it was one of agreement or disagreement. Still, it was a reply of sorts, so I kept going. “Not that it matters, of course. I’m not from here, either. Turns out that spending your childhood summers up here doesn’t count at all. If you didn’t graduate high school here, you’re not from here. Actually”—I made a hmm sort of noise—“you have to be born here. A friend of mine, his parents moved up here when he was starting middle school, and he’s not considered a local.” Which annoyed Josh to no end, but there was nothing he could do about it.
“Where are you from?” I asked.
He hunched away from me and typed rapidly.
“I don’t care, really,” I said. “Just curious. It’s a standard question. I bet a lot of people have asked you already, right?”
“Too many,” he muttered, whacking at the keyboard keys.
“Sounds familiar,” I said, laughing. “I tell people I’m from Dearborn, and next thing they want to know is, what high school did I go to? Then it’s what year did I graduate? After that, we’re talking restaurants and what street I lived on. Conversations like that can go on forever.”
He gave me a pointed look. I smiled. “But lately all anyone wants to talk about is Stan Larabee. You know, the man who was killed? Well, not so much talking about him, but who killed him. I’ve heard all sorts of theories, from my boss to his sisters to some guy named Chris. Some people even think I did it.” I laughed heartily. “Since you’re not from here, I bet your theory has less baggage than anyone else’s.”
Either he’d managed to turn off his ears, or he was intentionally ignoring me. I talked louder.