He rotated one and a half times, settled onto my legs, and started purring. Which I’m pretty sure was cat for Not a chance, but it’s cute of you to ask.
I muttered about rotten cats, gave him a few pets, then tried to uncrumple my paper. I wasn’t one of those people like my father, whose day could be ruined by a newspaper that wasn’t pristine, but even I preferred my printed news to be on sheets that didn’t have peaks and valleys in every paragraph.
“You know,” I told Eddie as I smoothed the pages, “you could have jumped on the end of the chaise and walked up. That way you wouldn’t have crinkled anything. Okay, I know, I know. The way you did it was much more fun for you, and that’s what really counts.”
Outstanding. Not only was I talking to my cat; I was also answering for him. The habit was getting a little out of hand and—
“Huh,” I said. “Would you look at that?”
Given his body language, Eddie wasn’t going to look at anything except the insides of his eyelids, but I kept going anyway.
“There was a boat explosion a couple of weeks ago, remember?” I was sure I’d read the short article to him. “That big one that blew up out on Lake Michigan? Well,” I said, scanning to the end of the article, “it turns out that the guy on the boat was Hugo Edel, can you believe it?”
Eddie apparently did, because he sighed and settled down deeper into my lap. I kept reading.
“This says Edel was out on the big lake alone. He was thrown from the boat in the explosion. Then another boat zoomed over to the site and picked him up.” Except for Edel’s name, that much had been in the newspaper before. Eddie started moving around, but I kept sharing my stream-of-consciousness thoughts.
“Anyway, the investigation is over and they’re saying it’s an accident. I wonder how close that boat explosion was to Carissa’s murder, timingwise. Which kind of makes you wonder if the two things are related somehow. And I wonder if Faye has called the sheriff’s office about Edel. Do you think I should—”
“Mrr-rrrooww.”
I lowered the paper and looked at my cat, who was now lying along the length of my shins with his chin propped over the tip of my right flip-flop. “Was that a yawn,” I asked, “or is your dinner disagreeing with you?”
“Mrr.”
“Back at you, pal.” I dropped the newspaper and pulled him onto my lap for a good snuggle. “Back at you.”
Chapter 10
Sunday passed as my Sundays often did, with morning chores, a few hours at the library, and dessert with Kristen. Monday I didn’t have to work at all, so of course it started out cloudy with a spattering of rain. Then, just as I was gathering my dirty clothes to haul to the marina’s coin laundry, the sun broke through the clouds. What had been a gray day of mild summer gloom instantly transformed into an outstanding morning.
Eddie, who had been following me, twining around my ankles and criticizing my cleaning efforts as only a cat can, spotted his favorite square of sunshine and settled down in the middle of the kitchen floor with a purring sigh.
I looked at the piles of laundry, looked out at the enticing blue sky, looked at my cat. “What do you think, Eddie? Should I be a responsible adult and do the chores that need doing, or should I skip out into the sunshine and play the rest of the day?”
He opened one eyelid, gave me a brief look, then went back to sleep.
Play. He’d clearly said play. No doubt about it.
I ate a quick lunch of peanut butter and jelly, scrawled my vague plans on the kitchen whiteboard as I promised my mother I would always do, and headed out.
• • •
“So much for playing,” I said. Or that’s what I would have said if I’d had the breath to talk. The hill up which I was riding my bike was far steeper than any hill had a right to be. And I had a feeling that the hill wouldn’t seem nearly as precipitous when going the other way. How a hill could be twice as steep riding up as riding down, I didn’t know, but it was one of those harsh realities of life.
After leaving the snoring Eddie, I’d decided a bike ride was a good idea and hauled my bicycle out of my marina storage unit. Then I’d decided it would be an excellent idea to take a look at Carissa’s house. I used my cell to call Jari for the address, then set off. Then up. As in serious amounts of up.
At long last, I topped the hill and turned onto a tree-lined street. The houses on the right were set back from the road, perched on the edge of the hill with a fine view of Janay Lake. These were old homes, built in the early nineteen hundreds by upper-middle-class people come north from Chicago or the Detroit area for the summer. Lots of clapboard, lots of gingerbread trim, lots of porches and swings and irrigated lawns.
The houses on the left were a little different. Most were ranch houses set close to the road, and looked as if they’d been built in the last thirty years. Nice enough, but none had anywhere near the class of their across-the-street neighbors.
I had slowed to the point of wobbliness while reading the house numbers. Carissa’s address was half of a duplex. The left side of the house had curtains drawn across every window, so I swung down my bike’s kickstand and walked to the front door on the right, where the windows had half-open blinds. On a Monday morning in July, the people who lived here were probably at work.
Knocking on the door, I imagined a young family renting this place while trying to save money for a down payment on a house. I had started visualizing their dog as a golden retriever when the front door was flung open.
“What do you want?” The man barking at me was tall and wide and hadn’t shaved in at least two days.
I smiled at him, which wasn’t an easy thing to do in the face of his glower. “Hi, I’m Minnie Hamilton. A friend of mine knew your neighbor, Carissa, and he’s so upset about her death that I thought I’d stop by and ask—”
His frown went so deep it was probably etching grooves in his skin. “You got a warrant?”
“A what? No, of course not. I’m not a police officer. I’m a friend of—”
His bloodshot eyes glared at me. “I’m not talking to nobody about nothing unless they bring a warrant.”
“Sure, I understand, but—”
The door slammed so hard that the wind of its passing rocked me back a step. I retreated to my bicycle, toed up the kickstand, climbed aboard, and pedaled off.
The road felt much rougher than it had a few minutes ago. I glanced at the asphalt. Didn’t see any noticeable cracks, bumps, or potholes. Why, then, were my bicycle handlebars quivering so much that I was afraid of being tossed onto my head?
I slowed to a stop. Put my feet on the ground, released the rubbery grips, and stared at my hands.
They were shaking.
I took a deep breath. Another. Looked at my hands again. Still shaking, so I swung my leg over the bike’s crossbar and looked around for somewhere to sit. Providence was with me, because there was a nice Minnie-sized rock at the end of the driveway across from the duplex. Perfect. I walked my bike over, leaned it against the rock, and sat down.
The stone was in the sun, and its warmth spread into my skin, soothing and relaxing me. Soon my breaths came easier and my hands stopped shaking.
Yep, I’d been silly to let that man get to me. I was used to dealing with recalcitrant types—it was part of being a librarian—so why had this particular brand of crankiness bothered me so much? Was it because part of me had been afraid that he’d killed Carissa and that I might be next?
“Hello.”
I jumped high enough that, when I landed, I came down half on the rock and half off, then slid in a very ungainly way to the ground.
“Oh, dear.” The woman frowned in concern. “Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to startle you. I just saw you sitting on my rock, looking like you lost your best friend, and I wondered if you needed some help.”