I brought the smudgy receipt close to my nose. Read the handwritten note: Thanks! Whitney with a smiley face. Read the time and date stamp. He was right; there was no way the timing could have worked.
Then again, he was a celebrity chef with resources I couldn’t even imagine. If anyone could have faked a credit card receipt, it was the friendly, charming, and extremely intelligent man in front of me.
• • •
I parked the bookmobile in its cozy garage and turned off the engine. “Home, sweet home.”
Eddie was too busy napping in Paulette’s nest of soft pink to pay attention, but Ivy had already unbuckled her seat belt and was piling up the returned books for hauling over to the library. How this was going to work during the snow-filled days of winter, I wasn’t quite sure, but I’d already decided not to worry about it. Things would work out.
Ivy nodded at the contest jar. “Don’t forget that we need to recount the candies, to make sure we know how many are left in there.”
I made a face. “Thanks. I forgot about that.”
“Here.” She put down the milk crate she’d picked up. “Let’s do it right now. It won’t take but a minute with the two of us.” Before I could get out a protest, she’d opened the jar and dumped the candies on the computer desk.
“This must be someone’s guess.” She picked up a slip of paper and handed it to me. “Someone else who couldn’t read the directions you so clearly taped to the jar. There’s always at least one, isn’t…” She realized that I wasn’t part of the conversation. “Minnie? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I slipped the paper into my pants pocket. “Let’s count those candies.”
Ivy gave me a measuring look, but she didn’t ask any questions. Which was good, because I wasn’t sure how to react to the message on the paper, printed in block letters and now burning hot against my skin. TO THE BOOKMOBILE LADY. STOP ASKING ABOUT CARISSA. OR ELSE.
• • •
The note in the candy jar rattled me. I tried to convince myself it wasn’t a threat, but I couldn’t. Ivy knew something was up, but she must have respected my privacy enough to leave me alone when I said I was fine.
That night I slept poorly. I kept rolling over, trying to find a position that would send me into slumber land, and I eventually rolled enough times that Eddie jumped down and left me alone to my troubled thoughts.
I knew I should take the note to the police. Of course I should. But if I did, they’d know that I was toeing the line between helping a friend and interfering with police business. I would get a lecture that would make me steaming mad, I’d say something to make them mad, and we’d end up with a bunch of angry people, which wouldn’t be productive at all.
Sunday dawned with a scattering of clouds and a breeze strong enough to make the edges at the houseboat’s aging windows whistle. I spent the morning doing chores; then after a quick lunch I dressed in library clothes and patted Eddie on the head.
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, okay?”
He lifted his head, blinked, then put his head back down. He was snoring by the time I reached the door.
As was often the case on summer Sundays when the weather wasn’t nice enough for water sports, the library was busy. I spent the first two hours helping out at the front desk, then took a stint at the reference desk, answering questions and directing people to the books they wanted.
“Excuse me,” a woman asked, “but could you show me where the book on diets and exercise might be?”
I blinked. She was fiftyish and slender enough that she looked like the last person on the planet who needed a book on dieting. She was also Annelise Edel.
“It’s Mrs. Edel, isn’t it?” I put on a wide smile. “Minnie Hamilton. We met briefly at Crown the other day. I was going out, you were going in?”
“Oh, yes, that’s right. How are you?”
It was the polite voice. She clearly didn’t remember me, but that was okay. I stood and led her toward the 613 numbers.
“Are you looking for anything specific?” I asked. “Because, honestly, you look great, and if it’s because of a particular book I want to know which one it is.”
Annelise laughed in a quiet library-appropriate way. “The way I look is due to long walks, a little weight work, lots of swimming, and watching every bite I eat. It’s a lot of work, but that’s what it takes after you turn fifty. I just want to look through the books here to see if I can learn anything new.”
“Fifty?” I shook my head. “No way are you fifty.”
She smiled. “Fifty-three, actually.”
“Well, I hope your husband appreciates all the work you put into keeping in shape,” I said with admiration. “If he doesn’t, let me know and I’ll tell him.”
“Aren’t you the sweetest?” She touched my arm. “You should be bottled up and sold to middle-aged women to… to… oh, dear.” She dipped her hand into her purse. “I seem to be…” Sniffing, she pulled out a tissue and dabbed at her eyes, which were filling with tears.
Sympathy swelled. “Hugo doesn’t appreciate you?”
She kept dabbing, then sighed. “No. He doesn’t. And I’ve been so afraid…” She bit her lower lip.
I jumped the conversation ahead. “You’re afraid he’s having an affair.”
She sniffed. “He denied it, said she was a potential customer who happened to be single, but she was so pretty and so… so…” More tears, more tissue blotting. “Then she died, a horrible thing for the poor girl. But now I’m wondering about every woman he talks to and it’s an awful thing. These days I can’t sleep for worry. Can’t eat, but I don’t mind that so much.” She gave a small smile.
“The customer,” I said. “Was it Carissa Radle? The woman who was murdered?”
“She was so pretty and cheerful, I could see how Hugo would be attracted. Every man she met wanted to be with her.”
“Not quite every man,” I said quietly, then decided to put out a rumor. “I hear there was an ex-boyfriend involved.”
Annelise’s face cleared out to sadness. “Oh, how awful for her. Yes, I see what you mean. At least one person wanted her dead.” She looked thoughtful. “Even me, I suppose, on one of those bad nights. But I was at a hotel spa down in Traverse City getting a three-day special treatment.”
She darted a glance at me. “You know Hugo, don’t you? Please don’t mention the spa. I told him I went to Chicago to meet my sister. He thinks spas are a waste of time and money, but this spa specializes in skin revitalization. I know my skin isn’t ever going to look like a twenty-five-year-old’s, but maybe…” She ran her hands over her thin hips. “Maybe if I lose a few more pounds he’ll look at me the way he used to.”
• • •
“I am not a snob,” Kristen said.
“What makes you say that?” I looked over at her. She was slumped down in a white metal chair, her long legs sticking out so far that they would have been a tripping hazard to anyone coming near our table if we hadn’t chosen the far corner. “You sneer at white zinfandel wine, you won’t set foot in a fast-food restaurant, and you practically asphyxiate at the idea of eating anything frozen.”
“That’s not snobbery,” she said, “that’s good sense. White zin is nasty, fast food is horrible for you, and no one should have to eat frozen food, not when there’s fresh around that can be eaten.”
“Yet you’re here.” I nodded at our surroundings. This included a stupendous view of the deep-blued Torch Lake, the Clam River, and the large deck for which the Dockside Restaurant was famous. Boats laden with young people and old, all reddish from a day on the water, idled up and down the river. It was a peaceful scene punctuated with seagull cries and cries from small children who didn’t want their fun to end in spite of the setting sun.
“Hey,” Kristen said, “you’re the one who wanted to come here, not me.”