“You know what?” I mused out loud. “I need to know more about Stan’s past.”
My cat catapulted himself onto my shoulder and clonked his forehead against the side of my skull. “Ow! Eddie, jeez, what’s with you?” He started purring loud enough to rattle my teeth. I reached up to pet him. “You are such an Eddie.”
“Mrr,” he said, and purred some more.
Chapter 14
I rolled out of bed early the next morning and trotted up to the library as the sun was creaking over the hilltops. No one else would be in for at least two hours, so I had a nice slice of time to start my research into Stan’s past.
Though many of the old local newspapers had been microfilmed, microfiched, or scanned, many had not. The grant I’d obtained had paid for archiving about half of the library’s newspapers. After long debate, we’d decided to start with the most recent issues and work our way backward. It was a decision I now regretted. Deeply.
We’d shoehorned the unarchived papers into the local history room. I turned on the overhead lights, shocking the sleeping books, and went straight to the narrow drawers that held seventy-year-old copies of the Chilson Gazette.
There were a lot of newspapers.
A lot.
“Well,” I said out loud. This project could possibly take longer than I’d hoped it would. But was there any other way to get the information I needed? Any easier way?
I couldn’t think of one. So I scraped out a chair, sat down, and got to work.
• • •
In the end, it didn’t take as long as I thought it might. I knew the year Stan was born, so all I had to do was find the page of the newspaper where the births were typically printed and hunt through the papers until I found the right announcement.
“Stanley Warren Larabee,” it read, “born at home to Silas and Belinda Larabee. Seven pounds, ten ounces. Mother, infant, and his six older sisters are doing well.”
“Onward and upward,” I said, and put that newspaper away. Next was high school. Back in Stan’s day, Chilson was the location of the only high school in the county. The library didn’t have a complete set of old yearbooks, so the paper was the next best source. I had no idea if Stan had played any sports, been a member of any clubs, or excelled at anything that might have been considered newsworthy fifty-odd years ago, but I had to look. Who knew what I’d find?
What I found, after an hour and a half, was nothing. Maybe Stan had been too busy on the family farm. Maybe he didn’t care about sports, maybe he hadn’t wanted to join the debate club. Maybe—
“Oh, my,” I breathed. “My, my, my.” I’d found the edition of the newspaper with pictures of the graduating seniors from Chilson High School. There, in black and white and gray, was a photo of a young Stanley W. Larabee. I could see no resemblance between the Stan I’d known and this young man, but there was his name, and there was the picture right above it. And since there were only thirty-seven kids graduating, it wasn’t likely that the paper had gotten the names mixed up.
“Wow,” I said. “Stan was gorgeous.” Saying the words out loud made me cringe. Somehow, admiring the youthful looks of a murdered elderly man felt downright weird. And a little creepy, to boot.
For a moment, I wondered if I was being disrespectful. I couldn’t see it, but maybe it was another moral question for my mother. One of these days I should write them all down and actually ask her.
Idly, I paged through a few more editions. What I’d hoped for hadn’t materialized. I’d hoped to find evidence of sport- or activity-oriented friendships, hoped that I could find some of the friends, hoped to ask a few questions that would lead me to something that would lead me to—
And there it was. Black and white and no gray, this time, because it was a short text-only announcement. Extremely short. Like one sentence short.
“Marriage license to Stanley W. Larabee, 18, and Audry M. Noss, 17.”
Audry. That was the name of the woman in the bookmobile, the one who’d been helping out at Maple View. Her name had been Audry. And how many Audrys roughly seventy years old could there be in Tonedagana County? What were the odds that my Audry and Stan’s were the same?
I didn’t know, but I was going to find out.
• • •
“Here’s a nice table for you two,” the hostess said, grinning from ear to ear. “Here are your menus and this is the wine list.” She aimed the latter in Tucker’s direction. “The wine steward will be with you in just a moment.” She winked at me broadly and left.
I sighed. “This may not have been a good idea.”
“No?” Tucker picked up the wine list but didn’t open it. “I’ve wanted to eat here ever since I moved up north. Everyone says it’s great.” He studied me. “Have you had a bad experience here? Because we don’t have to stay. We can—” He stopped and looked up. “Hello,” he said politely.
“Good evening,” Kristen said, grinning wide. “My name is Kristen and I’ll be your server tonight.”
I stared at her. “You will not.”
She opened my menu and slid it in front of me. “I can think of nothing I’d like to do more than help you plan your dinner.”
“You are an evil woman,” I muttered.
“And you, sir?” she asked, turning to Tucker. “Do you have any questions about the menu?”
“Not the menu, no.” He looked from Kristen to me, then back again. “But I’m getting the impression there’s something going on here that I don’t know about.”
Kristen’s smile went even wider. “Our menu has a considerable depth—it’s one of our trademarks.”
“Something in here is deep,” I said. “Not sure it’s the menu.”
Kristen batted her eyes at me. “Let me treat you to an amuse-bouche. On the house. The smallest of quiches with pesto, cheese, and sun-dried tomatoes. Yes?” She beamed. “Of course, yes. I’ll be back directly with your wine.”
Tucker frowned after her. “But we didn’t order any wine.”
I rarely did, not at Kristen’s restaurant. The day she’d caught me drinking a glass of white zinfandel had been a memorable one. She hadn’t let me near her wine list since.
“Um,” I said. “I should probably tell you that—”
“Hey, Minnie!” Josh appeared, escorting a young woman over to our table. “This is Megan.”
Well, well, well. So after months of soulful sighs, Josh had finally taken Holly’s and my advice and found the courage to ask Megan out. Wonders never did cease. “Nice to meet you,” I said to the girl, and introduced Tucker. Megan’s freckles and open countenance made her look cheerful and warmhearted. I hoped looks didn’t deceive and that she wouldn’t break Josh’s heart.
“Josh says you drive the bookmobile,” Megan said, her tone rising at the end, making it sound like a question. “That must be like the coolest job ever!”
I spared Tucker a glance. While I’d told him I was a librarian, I hadn’t gone into detail. He looked almost as interested as Megan. “Two or three days a week,” I said. “We don’t have the staffing to do more than that.”
She was starting to ask more bookmobile questions when Kristen came back with our wine. With a professional expertise, Kristen shooed Josh and Megan off to their table and presented us with the wine she’d chosen.
“Malbec from the Chateau Chantal label. You’ll enjoy it.” She popped the cork and poured a swallow for Tucker. He sniffed, tasted, and got a happy look on his face.
“As I said”—Kristen filled our glasses to the appropriate height—“you’ll enjoy it. As to your dinner selection, Miss Hamilton here is going to have a simple yet elegant meal of filet mignon, medium rare, with roasted red-skin potatoes and fresh young carrots steamed long enough to be tender yet cooked lightly enough to retain a slight bit of crispness. For you, sir, I’d like to suggest the same. Yes? Yes. Your amuse-bouche is being prepared this very moment by Chef Larry. Enjoy your wine.” She wafted off.