“Mrr.”
This kind of conversation could go on all day, so I shoved my lunch into my backpack and kissed the top of Eddie’s head. “See you later, pal. Be good.”
“Mrr.”
• • •
The morning zoomed by. Then lunchtime went roaring past and I remembered to eat my sandwich and chips only when the emptiness in my middle told me it was past time to fill ’er up or bear the consequences.
Since I tended to get either light-headed or cranky when I was really hungry, and sadly, sometimes both, I wolfed down my lunch between the last few phone calls I needed to make.
All went well until I called Pam Fazio. “Hey, Pam, it’s Minnie. Do you—”
“Pickle!”
“Bread and butter or dill?” I asked.
She laughed. “Don’t deserve either. I was going to bring up those cookbooks, but I haven’t had a minute to get away. You wouldn’t believe how busy we’ve been.”
Pam, upon hearing that the famed Trock Farrand was appearing at the book fair, had not only volunteered to redo the book fair flyer for use in every e-publication I could come up with, but she’d also volunteered to lend the library a number of antique cookbooks for a tie-in display.
“Tell you what,” I said, thinking fast. I’d walked to work, but Pam’s store was only a few blocks away. It wouldn’t be too much of a chore to take the library’s handcart for a short jaunt. “If you can get them in a box in the next half hour, I’ll come and take them away.”
“You will? That would be wonderful!”
“I should have done this in the first place,” I said. “You’re the one doing us the favor.”
“Silly Minnie!” She laughed. “See you in half an hour. And thank you!”
I didn’t understand why she was thanking me, but shrugged and went back to the phone calls.
In slightly less than half an hour, I was trundling down the sidewalk, trying to determine whether it was easier to push or to pull the ancient handcart, when I looked up and saw a sign I’d walked past hundreds of times before but had never had any reason to bring into my frame of reference.
Northern Development.
Hmm. I tucked the handcart next to the office’s window box and went in the front door.
An extremely blond young woman was sitting behind a desk. “Hi,” she said.
She couldn’t have been thirty—might not have been twenty-five—and from what I could see of her above the desk, she was taking to heart the idea of dressing for the job you’d like to have. Assuming that she wanted to be a real estate developer, that is. Her blazer was trim and tailored, her hair was neat and tidy, the only jewelry she wore was a simple gold chain, and I didn’t see a single tattoo.
“I’m Janine, Felix’s new assistant,” she said, smiling. “What can I do for you?”
“Hi.” I smiled in return but didn’t give my name. “I have some friends who inherited some property and they’re not quite sure what they’re going to do with it.” Which wasn’t exactly true, but surely Henry’s sons hadn’t planned out everything. “I was walking past, so I thought I’d ask a few questions about development.”
“You’ve come to the right place.” She nodded. “Have a seat and ask away.”
I sat on the edge of one of the two chairs in front of her desk. “I suppose timing is the first thing. How long does it take to develop a property?”
Janine nodded again. “Great question. The only thing is, it depends.” Her expression was one of sympathy and understanding. If she kept on in real estate, she was bound to make a fortune. “Depends on the property, on what you want to do with it, on the existing infrastructure, on the market, and on dozens of other things.”
“Let’s use a for instance, then,” I said. “Are you familiar with Henry Gill’s property?”
Her smile dipped a little. “Actually yes, I am. Why do you ask?”
Uh-oh. “My friends say the property they inherited is a lot like that one.” So similar, as a matter of fact, that you’d think they were the same. “How long do you think it might take to, well . . .” I ducked my head in faux embarrassment. “Not to be crass, but how long do you think it might take to get money out of it.”
“Oh, I see.” Janine was back to nodding. “Well, again, it depends. If you want to turn it over fast, your friends could sell it to a developer. You might not realize the highest possible profits, but it would be cash in hand and no risk.”
My new acquaintance Janine was not only personable, but extremely bright. “Could my friends develop it themselves?”
“Sure. But it takes time and money and a lot of decision making. They’d be hiring a surveyor, a civil engineer, a contractor.” She ticked off the expensive professions on long, slender fingers. “They’d have to talk to utility companies and to attorneys and then there are the tax issues.”
“It sounds complicated,” I said faintly.
“But fun, too.” Janine grinned. “I can’t wait until Felix starts up another big project. To be a part of something like that?” Her grin became wide. “It’ll be great.”
“So Felix is looking for something big?” I asked.
“Developers are always looking for the next big thing,” she said. “Take the Gill property. After Mr. Gill died, Felix was talking to the heirs of the estate, but they’re not interested in selling. There’s always another property around the corner, though. You never know what’s going to walk in the door.”
I laughed. “Sorry I wasn’t bringing you the next big thing. But I wish you luck in finding it.” And somehow I was sure she would.
Once outside and wheeling the handcart away, I reflected on what I’d learned, which was that Janine didn’t seem to know that Felix’s finances were precarious, and that she also didn’t appear to have any knowledge of Felix talking to Henry last fall about selling.
Then again, maybe Janine was just very good at not letting people see what she didn’t want them to see.
I continued down the street. Two doors away from Pam’s store, a dark green truck passed me, the image of a gold shield on its door, and even through the truck’s closed windows, I could see the bright red of the driver’s hair. The truck slowed. Its turn signal blinked on, and the truck made a left turn into the Round Table’s parking lot.
As I stood there, watching, a tall man stepped out from behind the wheel, stretched even taller, and walked into the diner.
I slapped my pocket for my cell phone and pulled it out. “Irene? Could you take a break and come downtown for a minute? . . . I know, but this is important.”
• • •
Irene and I walked into the restaurant’s lobby. “Over there,” I murmured. It was an unnecessary comment, because the dining area was empty except for an elderly couple at a table and the red-haired guy sitting in a booth by himself.
“Is that who you saw?” I asked. “The guy you thought was Seth Wartella?”
“Um . . .” She stared at him hard. “I . . . don’t know.”
“Hang on,” I said, and walked up to him. “Hi,” I said. “Tony, right? I’m Minnie Hamilton. We talked late last year, in the winter.”
He smiled, which made his ears seem to stick out even farther, and stood, forcing me to look up, his height being six foot. “Sure. You’re the bookmobile lady, right? Nice to put a face to the name.” He held out a hand and we shook. “How are things going in library land?”
We chatted for a moment, and then I said, “Nice meeting you.”
“Likewise.” He smiled and slid back into the booth, and I walked away.
Irene had her hand on the door and led me outside to the fresh air before I could say a word.
“He was the one I saw,” she said, hugging herself. “He’s wearing the same clothes in that weird green color. But he’s not Seth. This guy is way too tall. And he looks a lot more, oh, I don’t know, outdoorsy somehow.”