“You are a cat of many talents.” I crossed the kitchen to pick up the phone. “You even managed to turn it on to the calendar screen. How’d you do that?”
Once again, he didn’t answer, but this time it was because he was sound asleep, deep into my backpack, the only part of him visible a pinkish nose.
Weirdest cat ever. No doubt about it.
Chapter 9
The first bookmobile visitors the next day were a boy of about seven and his mother. They’d been on the bookmobile once before, but the boy, whose name was Sheridan, had been too shy to say a word to any of us, and that included Eddie.
This time it was different.
Sheridan marched straight up to me. “Miss Minnie,” he said in a strong voice, “I have a question.”
I glanced at his mother, Tonya. She nodded, smiling. “Go right ahead,” I told him.
“Your candy contest,” he said. “You told me that if I’m closest to guessing the number of candies, I get the candies and the bookmobile will come to my house.”
“Absolutely right,” I said, crossing my fingers that the winner’s driveway would be wide with a huge area in which to turn around.
He looked up at me with serious blue eyes. “If I win, does it have to come to my house?”
“You want it to go somewhere else?” This was a possibility I’d never considered.
“I want it to go to my grandma’s. I want her to see the bookmobile. It’s my favorite place in the world. And I want her to meet Eddie.”
We all looked toward the front of the bookmobile. The Eddie in question had perched himself on the passenger seat headrest. He was staring straight at us, the tip of his tail drumming to a beat only he could hear.
“Eddie is my favoritest cat in the world,” Sheridan said. “We can’t have cats at home because we live on a busy road. My grandma likes cats, too, and I want my grandma to pet Eddie.”
“If you win,” his mother prompted. “You might not, Sheridan.”
“If you do,” I told him, “we’ll work something out.”
Sheridan nodded. “Okay. Thank you.” Business transacted, he headed off to the candy jar. Soon he was holding his pencil against the jar and muttering measurements and what sounded like volumetric calculations.
Tonya smiled. “He’s only shy at first. Now you won’t be able to shut him up.”
“A kid who says the bookmobile is his favorite place in the world?” I smiled wide. “I forgive any transgression he’s ever made and any he ever will make.”
She laughed and started browsing through the books on CD. When another set of footsteps came up the stairs, Tonya turned and said, “Hi, Faye. How are you this morning?”
It was Faye of the Cookbooks. And the second she saw me, she spun in a half circle and fled back down the stairs.
Tonya and Thessie and I looked at one another. “I have no idea what that was all about,” I said.
“She’s my neighbor,” Tonya murmured, “but I’ve never seen her do anything like that.”
Before we could formulate a good theory, Faye came running back up the steps. “I had them in the car,” she said breathlessly, and held out the stack of overdue cookbooks. “Here you go, Minnie, and I’m horribly sorry about them being so late.”
Laughing, I took the books from her. “If I had a gold star, you’d get one for the most sincere apology I’ve ever had.”
She rummaged around in the bottom of her purse for the change to pay the overdue fine. “But I have to tell you, the heavenly deviled eggs were a huge hit at the reunion.”
Faye had borrowed the cookbooks to prepare for a family get-together. I checked in the books and tried to remember what weekend her reunion had been. “You had good weather, too, didn’t you?”
“Chamber of commerce stuff,” she said. “We had cousins show up that I’d never met.”
Tonya looked over from her perusings. “Faye, don’t you have a cousin who knew that woman who was killed?”
The back of my scalp prickled.
Faye’s face crumpled a little with what looked like worry. “That was a few years ago,” she said. “But you know what? I saw that Carissa a couple of weeks ago in Petoskey, all cozy with some guy who looked old enough to be her father.”
I was twitching with questions. “Who was he? Do you know his name? What did he look like?”
She was shaking her head. “He looked familiar, but even that day I couldn’t come up with his name. Maybe he was just that type. You know, mid-fifties, lots of money, and just good-looking enough that he figured every woman was half in love with him. Those guys all kind of look the same, don’t they?”
We laughed, but she had a point.
The slippery sound of books starting a downward slide made me whirl around. “Eddie!” Before I could move, the books hit the floor. My furry friend looked up, his front paw still extended. He’d jumped, stealthlike, to the computer desk and had pushed at the pile of books Tonya had returned.
“You are a rotten cat,” I told him, and crouched down.
“Here, let me help.” Faye helped pick up the books, waving Tonya away. “No, we’re all done.” She put the stack back on the desk and patted Eddie on the head. “I’m sure he didn’t do it on purpose.”
I was sure he had, but I just smiled.
Faye selected two books—new releases by Nora Roberts and Tess Gerritsen—and promised to bring them back in short order.
“Before they’re overdue is all I ask,” I said, smiling. “And if you remember the name of that man Carissa was with, the police should know. The more information they have, the faster they’ll find out who killed her.”
She looked startled. “I never thought of it that way. You’re right. I’ll try harder to think of his name.” She made her good-byes and left.
I was in the process of beeping the return books into the computer when Faye pounded back up the bookmobile’s steps. “I remembered!” She reached for the books I was working on. “Here. This is what made me remember,” she said, sorting through the stack and extracting a book that had a boat on its cover.
“The Boys in the Boat,” I read. “Nine Americans and Their Epic Quest for Gold at the 1936 Berlin Olympics.”
“It was wonderful,” Tonya said.
Faye tapped the picture of the rowing shell on the book’s cover. “The guy I saw with Carissa, it was Hugo Edel. Boats, that’s what made me remember. He’s that boat guy.”
He certainly was. Edel, along with his wife, Annelise, were the founders of Crown Yachts, a local manufacturer of high-end boats. My cranky neighbor’s boat, as nice as it was, probably cost a fraction of what a Crown would run.
So the question was, what had Carissa, who sold cars, been doing with a man like Hugo Edel? Certainly not buying a boat from him.
“That’s great,” I told Faye. “Call the sheriff’s department and talk to either Detective Devereaux or Detective Inwood. They’ll want to know.”
At least I hoped they would.
• • •
The next day, Saturday, I’d scheduled the bookmobile to appear at the opposite end of the county, including a stop at the marina Chris had asked me to visit, so instead of sitting down to breakfast at the boardinghouse, I was driving east with Thessie at my side and Eddie in the carrier at her feet. He’d snuggled himself into Paulette’s pink blanket so deep that only the tips of his ears were visible.
“Hey, did I tell you?” Thessie asked.
“Can you be a teensy bit more specific?” I checked the side mirrors, flicked on the right turn signal, and aimed the bookmobile at a shady spot created by a clump of white birches.
Uncle Chip’s Marina East looked a lot like the Chilson version, which looked a lot like most fifty-year-old marinas I’d seen. Worn a little at the edges, but worn in a way that was comfortable rather than unsightly. Weathered docks, but no splintered wood. An elderly marina office built with small-diameter vertical logs. Boats of all shapes, sizes, and costs bobbed in the slips, and I could already see people out on their boat decks, pointing at the bookmobile and smiling.