“Don’t forget the malt vinegar.” I pushed the tall bottle toward her.
“Right. Good idea.” She sprinkled vinegar liberally over her fries. “Man,” she said as she got ready to stuff her mouth, “these things are awesome.”
“And you’re just as much a hypocrite as Trock Farrand.” I might have sworn secrecy to not tell anyone about Trock’s secret eating habits, but letting Kristen know didn’t really count as telling. For one thing, I didn’t want to sit here all by myself, and for another, it might do her good to know that her idol had feet of clay.
“I hate you,” she muttered as she picked up the saltshaker.
“You do not. You just don’t like having reality slap you in the face.”
“Who does?” She grinned and tossed another fry into her mouth. “Much nicer to live with rose-colored glasses on, if you ask me. No one would ever accomplish anything if they had to stare at reality all the time.”
I thought about this. If you truly understood the odds against success when, say, starting a new restaurant, would you even try? Maybe the only way to accomplish anything significant was to decide you were going to be the one to beat the odds. “You know, I think you’re right.”
“Well, duh. You’re a case in point. Would you ever have started the effort to get the library a bookmobile if you’d known how unlikely it was that you’d get the funding?”
Huh. I’d never thought of it that way.
Kristen laughed. “You never thought of it that way, did you?”
“You two ladies look like you’re enjoying yourselves.” Our waitress approached. “Is there anything else I can get you?” she asked.
That was my cue. We’d taken this corner table specifically because we’d asked to be seated at one of Whitney’s tables, she of the smiley face on Trock’s receipt. “Do you watch Trock’s Troubles, that cooking show?”
Whitney nodded. “Sure. It’s not like I have to see it every week, but I’ve watched it a few times. Say, did you know that that Trock guy has a house up here? Petoskey, I think, or maybe Harbor Springs.”
I elbowed Kristen, who was starting to correct her. “That’s what I’ve heard, too. And I heard someone say he was here late on Friday night, three weeks ago. Were you here then? Because I was wondering if he’s the same in person as on television.”
“Three weeks ago?” She squinted at the sky. “Last week in July, right? The whole weekend was a nutso-busy zoo. I’m not sure I would have noticed if Daniel Radcliffe had been here.”
“Who?” Kristen asked.
I elbowed her again. If she didn’t know the name of the actor who’d played Harry Potter, now wasn’t the time to expand her information base. “So you’ve never waited on Trock Farrand?”
“Sorry.” She shrugged, then smiled. “Of course, you never know who’s going to walk in here. Wait a few minutes and he might show up.”
• • •
The next evening after work and dinner, I decided that what I needed was a long walk. Even though it was a Monday night, all the downtown stores would be open to catch the summer tourist trade. A walk would be an excellent idea. Partly to clear my head, but also to work off all the fried food that I’d snarfed down over the weekend.
“How can something so bad for you taste so good?” I asked Eddie as I refilled his water bowl.
He ignored both me and my water offering. He’d been standoffish ever since the bookmobile lunch where I’d abandoned him. “Hey, I said I was sorry. But fried food is even worse for cats than it is for humans. How about a treat?” I opened an upper kitchen cabinet, took out the small canister of cat treats, and shook it to rattle the contents enticingly.
Eddie’s ears twitched, but he didn’t move. He still didn’t move when I opened the can and rolled small treat bits onto the floor.
“Wow, you really are mad, aren’t you?” I hunched down to pet him. “Hope you get over it soon. I love you—you know that, right?”
He looked away and kept looking away as I walked out the door. As soon as it shut behind me, however, he spun and launched himself on top of the treats. I couldn’t decide whether to pull out my hair or to laugh, but since my tummy was still feeling heavy with fried food, I opted for neither and walked away, shaking my head. Maybe Eddie wasn’t the strangest cat in the universe, but he had to have a good shot at being the strangest cat in the world.
Or maybe he was a new breed of cat. If breeders could come up with a new cat variety, why couldn’t nature? Maybe Eddie was the start of a new species. I tried to remember high school biology class and how scientific nomenclature worked. Kings Play Chess On Friday Golf Saturday. Kingdom Phylum Class Order Family Genus Species. Felis was the cat genus. Felis domesticus, the genus and species for domesticated cats. “Felis Eddicus,” I said, then laughed.
Smiling, I looked around. And saw that passersby were moving away from me, pulling their children out of my path. Oh, dear. The laughing cat lady, that’s what I was turning into. “Mrs. Eddie,” I murmured, sputtering out another laugh. Eddie would like that one. I’d have to—
My humor came to an abrupt end. Detective Inwood was walking toward me. He was deep in conversation with a uniformed officer who looked familiar… I snapped my fingers. Wolverson. He was with Deputy Wolverson. And I didn’t want to talk to either one of them, not right now.
I dodged sideways into the nearest storefront and quietly shut the door, keeping my gaze on the street. As soon as they walked past, I’d—
“Oooo, it’s beautiful!”
I started at the familiar female voice and looked around. Saw the brightly lit glass cases. Felt the thick carpet under my feet. Heard the soft music.
A jewelry store. Of all the stores in downtown Chilson, I’d ended up in the one in which I had the least interest. Not that there was anything wrong with jewelry stores; I just didn’t have the means to purchase anything in one. Besides, pretty much everything in here would just turn into a really expensive cat toy.
“Oh, Quincy!”
I edged farther in, far enough to see around the large display case in the middle of the room. There, throwing her slim arms around Quincy’s flushed neck, was Deena, her face wreathed in smiles.
“You like it?” he asked.
“I can’t imagine a better engagement ring,” she said.
Up until that point, I’d been harboring a teensy-weensy hope that Quincy had bought the ring for someone else, say Paulette, and was only showing it to Deena. The kiss that Deena and Quincy were now sharing, however, with the jeweler beaming in the background, smushed that hope into flat dust. Reality was in front of me, and it was time to get used to it.
I stepped out of my hiding place. “Hey, you two. Congratulations!” After a flurry of hugs and well-wishes, I left the store to face another reality.
There was no detective or deputy in sight, so I walked rapidly in the direction I’d seen them heading. Halfway down the next block, I saw them coming out of an antique store and hurried to catch up.
“Detective Inwood,” I called. “Deputy Wolverson. Do you have a minute?”
We adjourned to what the city was calling a pocket park, a narrow passageway between two buildings that had been landscaped with plants and brick pavers. We sat down on benches that faced each other. At least the police officers sat on theirs; I perched on the edge of mine as words spilled out of me.
I told them about the candy jar note. I told them that the bookmobile’s door had been left unlocked at the art fair and how that was probably when the note had been left. I told them what I knew about Hugo Edel and Trock Farrand and Greg Plassey. The detective nodded all through this while the deputy took notes. I even mentioned what looked like a post from the killer on Cade’s Facebook page and was reassured when they told me their forensic computer analyst was working on tracking back the poster’s IP address. But when I told them that an old boyfriend of Carissa’s had been following her around, Inwood’s face twitched.