Then something clicked in my head. “Was that Hugh Novak?” I asked.
Charlotte glanced in the direction of the front door, paused until it shut, then said, “He’s been pushing for us to build a new township hall for years, and with the board we have now, he just might get what he wants.”
“A new building?” I looked around. “How old is this place?”
“About ninety years, so our maintenance expenses are creeping up. Nothing we can’t deal with, though.”
“Do you need more space?”
“Just like everything else up here, in the winter no and in the summer yes.” She shrugged. “I figure we can muddle through for the three or four busy months. It’s not worth it to build something big that’ll go mostly empty most of the year.”
There was something I wasn’t grasping. “Then why does . . . I mean, why would Hugh . . .” I stopped, not sure how to phrase the question.
Charlotte helped me out. “Why on earth would anyone want to spend taxpayer money on a building we don’t need, even if we happen to have the money right now? If you’re some board members, you want to leave a legacy. If you’re some other board members, you feel the need to spend money on something reasonable to keep a stupid future board from wasting it on something stupid. And if you’re Hugh Novak . . .” She glared in the direction he’d gone. “If you’re Hugh Novak, you want the township to build on the property you own on the state highway, which happens to be property right next to a parcel you bought. If you’re Hugh Novak, you think a new township hall out there will increase traffic, creating the perfect climate for the business you want to start.”
“What business is that?” Hadn’t Neil Bennethum, Rowan’s husband, mentioned that Hugh and Rowan had been arguing about township politics? Could this be the topic?
Charlotte made a hmph-ing noise. “With Hugh, it changes every time you talk to him.”
I thanked her and, as I walked out, pulled out my cell and called Neil. It went to voice mail, of course, so I left him a message.
Back on the bookmobile, Julia looked up from her book. “How did that go? All set?”
I blinked. All set about what? Oh. Right. “Good to go,” I said, sliding into my seat and buckling in. Yes, we were all set. With the bookmobile stop and with another clue that might lead to tracking down Rowan’s killer.
• • •
I’d unscheduled myself from the library for a couple of days in order to help Kristen with wedding plans, but when I texted her the next morning, she texted back that she was doing restaurant work instead.
Me: Decisions need to be made.
Kristen: no kidding . . . need a new strawberry supplier and someone who can grow black carrots . . . plus have lined up two chefs to interview.
Me: Don’t you have a wedding to plan?
Kristen: priorities missy priorities.
Me: What I’m saying.
Kristen: wedding will be fine . . . you have the day off . . . go play!!!
Me: But
I paused with my thumbs over the phone’s tiny keyboard. But what? If Kristen preferred to procrastinate on her wedding plans, there wasn’t much I could do about it short of dragging her around by her hair, and since she was taller, stronger, and far more fit than I was, I didn’t see how that strategy could possibly succeed.
So I deleted the But, and instead sent, Let me know when you have time to do wedding stuff, and clicked off the phone. “What do you think?” I asked Eddie.
My feline friend didn’t say anything. This wasn’t a surprise since he was curled up into a tight ball half the size of a regular Eddie. What was a surprise was the location—the precise middle of the doorway between the living and the dining room.
He was directly on top of a low threshold—Aunt Frances said she removed the physical door years ago to open up the space—so how he could find that particular spot a relaxing location, I did not know, yet I could hear the dulcet tones of Eddie snores.
Which somehow reminded me of one thing I could do.
“Sleep tight,” I said, reaching down to pat Eddie’s head. Fifteen minutes later, I was knocking on the toy store’s front door. Mitchell appeared and let me in. “Hey, Minnie. What’s up?”
I came in, stomping my boots on the mat. Six or so inches of snow had fallen in the night, and though the main roads were clear, the side streets and sidewalks were still waiting for plows and shovels. “Could you make me a list? When you and Bianca started seeing each other, when you met her family, when she met yours, that kind of thing. Approximate dates are fine.”
“A list of . . .” He frowned. “Yeah. How is that—”
“Great.” I wasn’t sure how a list would help me figure out anything, but it couldn’t hurt. Data was always good, especially if it kept Mitchell busy for a few days. I edged toward the door. “E-mail it to me when it’s done, okay?”
“When do you want it?” Mitchell glanced at his watch. “I have a couple of things I need to do first, but I bet I can write that up before noon.”
I blinked. The slacker Mitchell, the Mitchell I’d known for years, the one who’d dragged any task out for days if not weeks, the Mitchell I still kept expecting to turn up, was gone forever. “Whenever you have time.”
“This is something I’ll make time for,” he said.
For some reason, his grim tone made me want to cry. I didn’t, of course, because I hated to cry in front of anyone, let alone Mitchell Koyne, but I did sniff once or twice and was pleased to be distracted by an incoming text message. “Sorry,” I muttered, fishing my phone out of my coat pocket. “I should check this . . .”
Rafe: Snow day. You busy with Kristen’s wedding?
Frowning, I looked outside. The snow didn’t look any worse today than it had on days when the superintendent hadn’t canceled school, but the ways of school administrators were mysterious. My image of a superintendent calling a snow day involved charts, radar, satellite images, and phone calls to secret phone numbers, and I’d firmly told Rafe not to disillusion me.
Me: Nope.
Rafe: Cool. Want to drive to Traverse with me?
Fifteen minutes later, we were in Rafe’s SUV, southbound on US 31. “Isn’t it a little wrong to head out of town on a snow day?” I asked.
“How?”
“Well, doesn’t a snow day mean the roads aren’t safe to drive? Shouldn’t you be staying home, staring out the window, and worrying about your students?”
He made a rude noise in the back of his throat. “When I was a kid, a snow day meant I’d call whoever had access to a car. I’d make a pile of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, stuff them back into the bread bag, and we’d head to Nub’s to ski. And before any of us could drive, we’d walk that trail north of town and go sledding.”
“Um, doesn’t that hill drop right into Lake Michigan?”
He grinned, his white teeth gleaming in the morning light. “My parents still don’t know. But even if they found out now, the statute of limitations for childhood punishments is long over.”
Though he spoke confidently, I wasn’t so sure his mom and dad would agree. Over dinner someday, the subject would come up and we would all see what happened.
“What are you smiling about?” Rafe reached over and squeezed my hand briefly.
“Oh, just happy to spend the day with you.” And I was. It had been weeks since we’d done anything other than work on the house or grab a quick meal somewhere. “But if I’m going to be completely honest—”