Detective Inwood smiled. It was a good look on him; he should do it more often. “And if you hadn’t been poking around her boat, this never would have happened, now, would it? All you have to do to avoid a situation like this in the future is to stay away from that Hacker-Craft.”
I frowned, wondering how he knew what kind of boat it was, but strong-mindedly stayed on topic. “Aren’t you concerned that she’ll hurt someone? What if she goes after a child with that gun?”
Inwood’s smile went even wider. “I don’t think we have to worry about that, Ms. Hamilton. Now, please don’t tell me you want me to spend my Sunday afternoon trudging out to see a little old lady and then writing up a long report.”
“She threatened me with a firearm,” I said again.
“Did she really?” Inwood asked. “What were her exact words?”
“That . . .” I thought back an hour. “She said to get away.” And there it was. Not a threat, not really. Although you’d think having a gun in her hand would make it one.
“So that’s it.” The detective nodded. “Not sure something like that will come to anything. You’re welcome to talk to the prosecutor, of course, if you’d like to pursue the case.”
Oh, right. As if that would get me anywhere. First thing the county prosecuting attorney would want was the police report, and since the pertinent police didn’t look as though they were about to move a muscle, getting a report was going to be a bit of a problem.
“That sounds like a fine idea. Hope your paint hasn’t dried up,” I said politely, and was rewarded by watching his face go from patronizing kindness to one of anxiety. Ha! Score one petty point for Ms. Minnie Hamilton.
Outside, the wind and wet was still going on, but I stood there and let it whuff against me. For whatever reason, the detective and the deputy were protecting Neva Chatham. And while I could appreciate their concern for an elderly woman who might be a touch unhinged, I was more than a little concerned about what she might do to anyone who stopped to look at her boat. Or what she might do to herself, for that matter.
Again, I saw that small black hole at the end of her gun. A shiver ran over me, top to bottom, and I was fairly sure it didn’t have anything to do with the weather.
Because I’d just realized what I should have realized earlier. If Neva Chatham could charge after me with a gun, she might not have been far from firing it. And if she could shoot at me, could she have dropped a tree on Henry? Could she have tried to run over Adam?
I stood there, staring out at the wind-whipped Janay Lake, and wondered.
• • •
The next morning I bounced out of bed five minutes before the alarm went off. “Good morning, sunshine,” I said to Eddie.
My furry friend opened his eyes, then closed them again. Firmly.
“Come on, get up.” I tapped one of his white paws. “It’s a brand-new day out there. The wind has dropped, the clouds are gone, and it looks like it’s going to be a stunning spring day.”
Eddie squirmed around and put one paw over his eyes.
“Fine.” I gave him a head pat and stood. “I’ll leave you alone. But don’t blame me if you get bedsores, okay?”
Less than an hour later, I’d showered, breakfasted, and walked up to the library, while sending a morning text of Beautiful morning, wish you were here to Tucker. After a moment, I got a Stuck in traffic, wish I was there, too text back, so my perky mood continued all the way into my office.
The first thing I did when I sat at my computer was start up Google. I typed in Why don’t cats get bedsores? and frowned at the lack of results. Really? I was the only one who’d wondered? Surely the question had occurred to every cat owner at least once. Clearly someone needed to get going on their cat research.
Grinning at myself, I started checking my office e-mail.
“Uh-oh,” I said. Because there was an e-mail from Pam with an attachment, dated late last night, subject line Book fair flyer. Happily I’d managed to tuck the Flyer Fiasco into the back of my mind over the weekend. My index finger hovered over the mouse button for a long moment.
“Be brave,” I said out loud, and clicked open the attachment.
When it appeared in front of me, I stared at it for a long time before I did anything. Since that lack of anything included breathing, it wasn’t long before my lungs burned and I was sucking in air while reaching for the phone.
“Pam,” I said, when she answered groggily. “It’s Minnie. Call me when you’ve finished your coffee, okay?”
The minutes ticked past slowly, but the phone eventually rang. “Hey, Minnie,” Pam said. “What’s up?”
“What, exactly,” I asked, eying the flyer she’d sent, “did you do in Ohio?”
Pam had moved to Chilson a year ago, and though we got along wonderfully, I didn’t know much about her. I knew that she possessed more fashion sense than I ever would and that she loved coffee with a passion that bordered on scary, but I knew very little about her background.
“Worked for a large corporation that shall remain nameless,” she said.
“Doing . . . ?”
“Graphic design,” she said, and I could hear the grin in her voice.
“You are a scammer,” I said.
“Every chance I get.”
The design she’d sent was eye-catching, readable, and fun without being overly cute. It was perfect. “This is the best graphic that’s ever come out of this library,” I said, “and I’m sorry, but I absolutely can’t pay you. There’s nothing in the budget.”
She made a gagging noise. “It’s April. I was glad to have something to do. There’s just one thing,” she said sternly. “Don’t tell a soul I did this. Lie if you have to, but if word gets out that I’ve done something for free, my days are numbered. I mean, it was fun now, when there’s nothing else going on, but in summer I won’t have time for it.”
After vowing to keep her involvement a complete secret, I thanked her, thanked her again, and hung up.
I printed the flyer and tacked it to my bulletin board, which was right next to the portrait of Eddie that Cade had forced upon me as a thank-you gift. For the ten thousandth time, I admired the painting, and then I moved on to admiring Pam’s flyer; not only the design, but also the name of thriller writer Ross Weaver. Yes, indeedy, Ross Weaver was coming to the Chilson Library and yours truly would get to meet him in less than two weeks.
Less than two weeks?
A small alarm of panic went off in my head. There were a million things I had to do between now and the fair date of Friday after next. Flyers to distribute. Authors to confirm. Tent rentals and catering issues to finalize. Make that two million things. What was I doing, just standing there?
I flung myself into my chair and got busy.
• • •
Late in the day, so late you could call it evening, I’d finished as much book fair business as I could get done that day, but I wasn’t ready to walk back to the houseboat. Not by a long shot. The library’s Internet connection was much faster than the marina’s, and there was research to be done.
I pushed up my metaphorical sleeves, typed the name “Seth Wartella” into Google, and hit the Search button. With the faster connection, I wouldn’t stop looking after the top twenty searches. No, indeedy, this time I would keep looking at Seth Wartellas to the end of all the listings. Plus, there was Facebook to try, LinkedIn, Pinterest, and all sorts of other social media sites where I might catch a glimpse of the man.
Maybe he was completely innocent of all wrongdoing, except for that tax fraud thing along with a side order of embezzlement, so maybe I was wasting my time. But if there was any chance of finding evidence that Seth had been in, say, Hawaii, when Adam was almost run over, then I had to try. I’d promised Adam and I’d promised Irene and I’d promised myself.