“You know,” I said, “those are to eat, not to play with.”
Since Eddie was intent on his new game, the rules of which seemed to change at any given moment, he ignored me completely.
“So, you know what I’ve done today?” I asked him. “I talked to Trock Farrand. And you know what I found out? That Carissa was seeing a professional athlete.”
Eddie licked at one of the treats, got it wet with cat spit, rolled it around a little to spread the spit around, walked away from it with the obvious intention of never returning, then came straight over and whacked my shin with the top of his head.
“Yeah, I know,” I said. “It’s probably Greg, isn’t it?” Maybe not, but probably. There were other sports guys around; I’d heard of a few retired NFL players who had places nearby, and a number of hockey players, but given Greg’s reaction when I’d talked about Carissa, he definitely had some connection to her.
The knowledge was depressing. Though I barely knew Greg, I liked the guy. Thinking that he was hiding something made me feel icky inside.
“And if that’s not a medical term,” I told Eddie, “it should be.”
He jumped up next to me on the chaise longue and rubbed the side of his face against my arm.
“Of course,” I said, pulling him onto my lap, “there are variations of ick. Take the way you just rubbed Eddie spit on me. That’s also icky. I mean, you don’t catch me doing that to you.”
He bumped his head against my leg, which almost always meant Pay attention to me. Now!
I started to pet the thick black-and-white fur. Full, purring rumbles began half a second later. “Greg lied,” I said quietly. “But I don’t think he’s the only one.”
Eddie’s mouth opened in a silent Mrr.
“I agree. I think Hugo Edel and Trock lied, too.” Or at least hadn’t told me everything. Now all I had to do was figure out why.
• • •
Saturday morning was unseasonably cool and threatened rain. I pulled on long pants and a fleece pullover and drove up to the library to back the bookmobile out of the garage. It was odd not to have Eddie with me, but the morning’s schedule wasn’t a suitable one for a cat.
Though it wasn’t anywhere near as big as the famous art fairs in Charlevoix or Petoskey, the Chilson version was enjoying a steady growth that boded well for the local arts world. I’d talked the director into believing that having the bookmobile parked at the fair would be an asset and hoped that it would be true.
From eight until eleven, I opened the bookmobile to one and all, answering questions, checking out books, and even giving out a few new library cards. Though the morning was chilly, I was warmed by the many smiles, especially the smile that walked up the steps at eleven sharp.
Tucker looked around. “So this is the bookmobile. Nice. It’s a lot like one of those bloodmobiles they have downstate.”
I nodded. “The company that fabricated this also does medical vehicles.” I gave Tucker the tour, then said, “All I have to do is drive it back to the garage at the end of the day.”
“Sounds good,” he said. “Lunch first or fair first?”
We discussed the question as we descended the steps, kept discussing it as we browsed through a dozen booths of varying displays of art, and only ended the discussion when we walked up to a trailer selling corn dogs. We kept discussing if that was enough food for lunch until we found a booth offering hamburgers. The dessert discussion ended at the booth selling elephant ears. Tummies contentedly full, we wandered through the booths, admiring most of the work and being puzzled by some, but enjoying the crowd and each other’s company.
And the crowd was large—poor boating weather often made for well-attended summer events. I saw half the regular library patrons and my marina neighbors. I also saw Hugo and Annelise Edel, Greg Plassey and his friend Brett, and though I didn’t see him I could have sworn I heard Trock Farrand’s voice.
Tucker and I had walked through about half the booths when one particular display caught my eye.
“Hello.” A woman sitting on a tall stool smiled at me. “How are you?”
“Excellent,” I said. “How about you? Busy?”
“The little ones are selling.” She waved at the showcases. One case was full of Petoskey stones cut into the shapes of bears, turtles, and wolverines. Another case contained Petoskey stones formed into drawer pulls, switch plates, clocks, and doorknobs. Yet another case was full of raw stones. “You’re familiar with them?” she asked.
I nodded, knowing that the stones were fossilized coral. I also knew it was great fun to find them on the lakeshore. I’d picked up a couple myself. “How expensive are the big ones?” I nodded at the softball-sized behemoths.
When she named the price, my eyes bugged out. She laughed. “Petoskeys that large are hard to find. You typically don’t find them any bigger than small paperweight size.”
Tucker admired the shined-up surface. “I didn’t know you were interested in Petoskey stones, Minnie.”
I gave the price tag one last disbelieving glance, then edged out of the booth. “I’m not, not really. It’s just…”
Tucker put his hand in mine as we walked. “It’s just what?”
Could there be anything nicer than walking hand in hand with your boyfriend? I sighed happily. “Well,” I said, “it’s just that a Petoskey stone was what killed that woman a while back. Remember when that happened?” Tucker nodded and I went on. “The police think that a friend of mine killed her. But there’s no way he did it, none at all.”
Tucker didn’t say anything for a moment. “How long have you known this guy?” he finally asked.
I glanced up at him. “Long enough to know that he’s not a killer.” My voice had a little edge to it. “You don’t have to know someone very long to know that.”
He stopped, and since my hand was still in his, I stopped, too. The park was full of people, but they walked around us like the water in a stream breaking around a rock. “Minnie,” he said, “I know you’re a smart person, but I also know you like to think the best of people. If the police think your friend killed someone, have you considered the possibility that they may be right?”
“No,” I said shortly. The afternoon was taking a sudden turn for the worse.
Tucker sighed and shook his head. “Minnie—”
“Hey, Kleinow, you slumming it today?” A tall, broad man was walking toward us.
Tucker squeezed my hand, then let go. “Minnie, this is Dr. Miller Alvord. He’s an orthopedic surgeon. Miller, this is my friend Minnie.”
Friend? Not girlfriend? My stomach clenched and I was pretty sure it wasn’t because of the corn dogs.
“Charmed, I’m sure.” Miller gave my hand a perfunctory shake and turned his attention to Tucker. “Say, I’ve been wanting to talk to you. What do you think about helping me convince the higher-ups to buy a new X-ray machine?”
I stood first on one foot, then the other, waiting for Tucker to finish his conversation. When they segued smoothly into a discussion of treatments for dislocated hips, I told Tucker I was heading back to the bookmobile.
“What’s that?” He looked over at me with a distracted look. “Right. Okay. See you later.”
My thoughts were black as I wandered through the fair. If he wasn’t calling me his girlfriend, what was I doing calling him my boyfriend? And if he wasn’t my boyfriend, why did I already know his birthday, birthplace, and shoe size?
I was so mired in my own miserable thoughts that I was halfway up the bookmobile steps when I realized that I hadn’t unlocked the door.
The bookmobile had been unlocked. Unlocked and unattended for hours.
I pounded up the rest of the steps, freaking out a little, scared that there’d been vandalism or theft or…