“Huh?” He stared at me. “Oh. Both, I guess.”
“You have to tell the police,” I said.
“Why the . . . I mean, why should I?”
I gave him the Librarian Look and started the lecture. “Because Stan Larabee was killed there. Because, not too far from there, someone on a quad shot out the bookmobile’s tires. Because it could be important. Because—”
“Okay, okay.” He reached up and reset his baseball cap. “I’ll stop by the cop shop, uh, later on.”
“Today,” I told him, but to Mitchell, the term was a fluid one. Later, he’d said. That meant he’d stop by the sheriff’s office when he got around to it. Or when he happened to remember. Mitchell-time, Holly called it. There was a reason Mitchell spent so much time at the library reading books and magazines he could have checked out; his overdue fines were nearing the three-figure mark. Right after Christmas, Stephen had laid down the law—no more lending books to Mitchell Koyne no matter how much he begged and pleaded, not until he paid up his fines. And maybe not even then, Stephen had thundered.
But this was too important to leave to Mitchell-time. The police needed to go back to the farmhouse and search for quad tracks. And I needed to tell them about Gunnar. Sure, Detective Inwood had said they were looking at Stan’s business associates, but how many of those associates had hunted near the old Larabee farm? If the cabin was still there, Gunnar could have hidden the quad and walked down to the farmhouse. How that worked with Gunnar’s lack of transportation, I wasn’t sure. Maybe he had a car stashed somewhere at the airport and only hired Mitchell to drive him as a cover and—
“Which reminds me,” Mitchell was saying. “It’s what, Wednesday? Do you want to, maybe, go out to a movie or something with me on Friday?”
Thanks to a good fortune I didn’t deserve, my mouth did not drop open and I didn’t blurt out the first thing that popped into my head. I took a breath, smiled kindly, and said, “Thanks, Mitchell, that’s very nice of you, but I’m seeing someone else right now.”
“Oh, yeah? Anybody I know?”
“I don’t think so. He’s the new emergency room doctor in Charlevoix.”
“Oh.” Mitchell’s shoulders drooped.
My heart ached for him. It was a brave thing to do, to ask someone on a date, and here I’d crushed his ego with one short sentence. He’d be despondent for weeks and—
He raised his head. “Say, do you think your friend Kristen would go out with me?”
I blinked, then smiled, remembering the night she’d barged into my date with Tucker. Paybacks can be glorious. “Why don’t you ask her?”
• • •
Late on Friday morning I decided I couldn’t wait for Mitchell any longer and decided to take matters into my own hands. Besides, I hadn’t taken a break yet and what better way to spend a morning break than at the sheriff’s office?
I passed the front desk, but stopped when I saw Holly, biting her lower lip and staring at nothing. “What’s the matter?” I asked. She shook her head and didn’t meet my eyes. “Hey, are you okay?”
Her head went up and down in a slow-motion nod. “It’ll be fine,” she said. “Right? The police . . .” She stopped, either not knowing where to go or not liking where she was going.
“It will be fine,” I said firmly. “Very fine. Matter of fact . . .” But then I stopped, too. I had no right to give her hope, no right to promise anything.
She turned to look at me. “What?”
Think, Minnie, think! “Matter of fact, I have the perfect thing to make you feel better. What do you think about a cinnamon roll from the Round Table?”
A wan smile came and went. “That sounds nice.”
“If anyone asks, I took a late break. I’ll be back in a few, okay?”
Out in the warming sun, I walked down the backstreets as far as I could, staying out of the heavy pedestrian traffic that was bound to be in the downtown’s core. At the last possible street, I dove into the downtown flow, stepping around a stroller, avoiding a woman talking on her cell phone, slowing down to avoid bumping into a tall, thin man walking with a short, round one who looked as if they’d just come out of the cookie shop.
Tall and thin, short and round. The letters I and D.
Serendipity was my friend. I fell into step behind the two men, then surged forward to split them apart. “Hello, Detectives, how are you this fine morning?”
They came to an immediate halt, one on either side of me. Since even the short detective was taller than I was by a good seven inches, this wasn’t a position of power for Ms. Hamilton. I took a quick step away from them. “I’m fine, thanks,” I said in response to their nonresponse. “Has Mitchell Koyne talked to either of you recently?”
Detective Inwood shook his head. So did Detective Devereaux.
Mitchell-time had struck again. “He said something you should know.” They exchanged a glance that was over my head. Literally over my head, not figuratively. I could guess what that glance was all about. It meant, I bet this is nothing, but we have to listen to her, don’t we? Why, yes, you do. “A few days before Stan was killed,” I told them, “Mitchell was cutting down some trees near that farmhouse. He saw a guy on a quad.”
Their faces, which had been politely blank, stayed that way.
“A quad,” I said. “It was a guy on a quad who shot out the tires on the bookmobile, remember?”
Detective Devereaux said, “Ms. Hamilton, do you know how many quads are in this county?”
I didn’t know and I didn’t particularly care. What I did care about was that the detectives apparently hadn’t followed up on the tire-shooting incident. They’d chalked it up to a kid messing around and hadn’t bothered their pretty little heads about it any further. A sharp anger started to heat up inside me. Somewhere, I heard my mother saying, “Now, Minerva, don’t lose your temper. You know it never helps anything,” but she wasn’t talking loud enough for it to have any real effect.
“It seems to me,” I said, “that you should look for quad tracks near the farmhouse. Maybe the guy cleaned up the tracks close by the house, but maybe there are still tracks nearby.”
Detective Inwood started to say something, but I wasn’t done.
“And you said you were investigating Stan’s business associates. Have you come across Gunnar Olson by any chance?” My sarcasm was starting to show and I knew I needed to dial it down. I released the fists that my hands had become and went on.
“He has a summer slip at Uncle Chip’s Marina and was partners with Stan in a development deal. Gunnar lost out big-time. He still carries a huge grudge. And what I just found out is he used to hunt up in the hills behind the farmhouse. There was a cabin up there.”
This part seemed to matter to them. Devereaux took some notes, and even made sure he had the correct spelling of “Olson.”
“Thank you for the information,” Detective Inwood said. “We’ll follow up on this.”
He made a move as if to go, but I wasn’t done yet. My anger was still too hot. This was when Mom really should have spoken up. “Will you? Will you really?” I asked. “You’re detectives for the Tonedagana County Sheriff’s Office—at least that’s what your badges say—but what detecting have you been doing?”
“Ms. Hamilton,” Detective Devereaux said. “Give us time to do our job. Can we investigate as fast as you’d like? No. But—”
He was patronizing me. I hated that. “But meanwhile,” I cut in, “Stan’s killer is running around free, and innocent folks are suffering because you’re questioning the wrong people.”
“Ma’am, we’re doing the best we can.”
“I’m sure you are,” I said with exquisite politeness. “But the killer isn’t in jail, is he? Maybe it’s time to contact the state police. I’m sure the post in Petoskey would be happy to talk to me.”