“The Bookmobile Effect,” he said again. “Bringing books and the love of reading wherever the road takes you.”
I beamed at him. “Would you mind writing that down in letter form and sending it to my boss? Because I’m still having to justify the expense.”
Andrew looked around. “Yeah, this can’t be cheap, can it? And after what happened the other Saturday . . .” He caught my expression. “Oh. Sorry. You probably didn’t need a reminder of that.”
Didn’t need and didn’t want. I put on a smile and changed the subject, but the gleam had gone out of the day.
* * *
That evening, my loving aunt met me at the door and handed me a piece of paper as soon as I released Eddie from the carrier.
“We need a few more things for Thanksgiving,” she said.
I scanned the lengthy list, then turned over the paper and read the other side. “What are fennel seeds?”
She gave me a look. “Do you really want to know?”
Of course I didn’t. I was perfectly happy to be the grocery store–goer, the table setter, and the cleaner-upper. The last thing I wanted was any part of the actual cooking. The one time I’d tried to partake in the annual ritual, back in my graduate school days, when I couldn’t afford the gas to drive home, had been a meal of overcooked Cornish game hens and undercooked potatoes.
I pointed at the list. “All I want to know is where to find fennel seeds.”
“In with the spices,” she said. “Don’t be too long—I’m making fajitas for dinner and the chicken is almost done marinating.”
After rezipping my coat, I headed back out, thinking for the zillionth time how lucky I was to have Aunt Frances in my life. Someday I’d want to buy my own house, but until I could gather up a nice down payment, there wasn’t any likelihood of that happening.
Standing on the bottom step of the porch, the wood creaking a bit underneath my weight, I read the list one more time. It was long, but none of the items was bulky (except for paper towels) or heavy (except for a can of tomato soup), and, since I’d spent most of the day sitting, I eschewed taking the car and went on foot. Without a doubt, I’d regret the decision before I got halfway back, but I pushed that thought out of my head and started walking.
Just outside the grocery store, however, my fast walk slowed to a slow stroll and then to an amble. Denise Slade was getting out of a car not thirty feet away from me. If I used exquisite timing, I could keep my head down while studying the list and avoid eye contact altogether. After all, the last time I’d seen her, she’d said it was my fault that Roger was dead. Why would I want to open myself up to another round of that? Plus, there was the little matter of Roger’s sister’s lawsuit. I wasn’t sure whether Denise was on board with it, but this was one librarian who really didn’t want to find out.
It was tempting to avoid her. So tempting that I pulled the list out of my pocket and unfolded it. But then my mother’s voice boomed inside my head: “Minnie, don’t let me catch you taking the easy way out.”
Why her voiced boomed, I wasn’t sure, since my mother was a soft-spoken woman who only raised her voice if there was imminent danger of bloodshed. Well, that or if someone happened to mention a dislike of history.
But, once again, Mom was right. Denise was grieving, and grief could make you lash out at people. I should forgive her and do what I could to help.
Even if I don’t want to?
I asked the question of my mom via mental telepathy, which I was pretty sure didn’t work.
Especially then, came the answer.
I sighed and put the list back into my pocket. “Hey, Denise,” I said. “How are you?”
She jumped. “Oh. Hi, Minnie.”
A long moment of silence went by. Just after it got extremely uncomfortable, I asked, “I heard you were in a car accident. That must have been frightening. I’m so sorry.”
She nodded slowly. “Thank you.”
I looked at her. Denise normally talked at a rate a notch faster than the rest of the world, but right now she was speaking as if she were translating in her head. That, in addition to her unusual politeness, indicated that something was seriously wrong. Of course, it could have been her way of dealing with Roger’s death, but this wasn’t carrying the sense of grief.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” I asked. “You weren’t hurt in that crash, were you?”
“Fine,” she said vaguely. “I’m fine. It’s just . . .”
My baser self, the part of me that deeply wanted to escape into the store, warred with the part of me that remembered my mother’s admonitions to treat others as we would like to be treated. For years I’d thought she’d meant that people should be nicer to me, but I’d eventually caught on.
I took a step closer. “Just what?”
Denise looked at me, anguish on her face, and the words she’d been holding inside came rushing out.
“It’s that deputy. Wolf-something. He talked to me, said that someone might have been trying to kill me, that someone had done something to my car to make it crash, that you said Roger had my hat when he was killed, that it might have been me who someone wants dead, that Roger . . . that it was me . . . that I should have been the one, not him . . .”
Her sentence dissolved into a racking sob. I stepped close, put my arms around her, and let her hang on to me as she cried and cried and cried.
When her body stopped shaking, I gave her a hard hug and released her. I searched my pockets, came up with a tissue that probably hadn’t been used, and held it out.
She took it and blew her nose. “That deputy detective wanted to know if I had any enemies, if anyone was angry at me. Can you believe it?”
Um. “What did you tell him?”
She found a dry part of the tissue and blew again. “That anyone who has lived a full life has enemies. Take Shannon Hirsch. She’s hated me for thirty years, ever since I beat her out for the basketball team’s cheerleading squad. You wouldn’t believe the stunts she’s pulled on me since then.”
Denise tried to hand back the tissue, but I shook my head. “Anyone else?”
“I told that deputy I’d think about it.” She dabbed at her nose. “Don Weller is another one. My neighbor. For months he’s done nothing but try to make my life miserable, ever since that fence of his.”
It was a big step from high-school rivalries and neighbor irritations to murder. I knew Don through Rafe—Don taught at the school where Rafe was principal—and couldn’t imagine that cheerful man wanting to kill anyone. Then again, do we ever know what truly motivates another person?
Denise swallowed and took in a few breaths. “If I was the one supposed to die, if Roger died because of me . . .”
I waited, wishing I could help, knowing there wasn’t anything I could do.
“How am I going to tell the kids?” she asked in a whisper, but I had no answer for her. I gave her another hug, told her to call me if she needed anything, and went in to the bright lights of the grocery store.
Inside, I pulled out a small cart and looked back outside.
Denise was still standing on the sidewalk. Just standing and looking at nothing.
“All right, already,” I told my mother, and went out again. “Hey, Denise? Do you have a minute? I could use some help with this grocery list. Aunt Frances made it out for me, and I have no idea where half this stuff is.” I proffered the crumpled sheet of paper.
She wiped her eyes and took the list. “Fennel seeds? You don’t know where fennel seeds are?” She make a clucking noise. “Goodness, you do need help, don’t you? Come on. Did you get a cart? No, not that one, it has a wobbly wheel. This one will do.” She pushed a cart toward me. “Are you coming or not?”