Settling deeper into the chair, I sipped the crisp liquid and listened as he described the progress he’d made with the house. Due to the heat and humidity and the fact that not only did the house lack air-conditioning, we also hadn’t installed any ceiling fans, the progress was limited.
“Is this house ever going to get done?” I asked.
“Don’t be silly,” he said. “Of course it won’t. That’s part of the fun. I thought you knew.”
I snorted. “You and I have vastly different ideas of what constitutes fun.”
“Yes, but I have high hopes that someday you’ll come around and see how funny the bloop joke really is.”
That would never happen, because the bloop joke was horrible. However, I didn’t like to destroy a man’s dreams, so I changed the subject. “I learned something today.”
“Then it’s a good day.” Rafe tapped his beer bottle to my plastic cup. The resultant noise was an odd, soft, and ultimately unsatisfying clunk.
“Yes, but I’m not sure this is useful.”
“Does it have to be?” My beloved yawned.
“If we’re going to help solve these murders, it would be nice.”
At the word “murder,” his yawn snapped shut. “Tell me,” he said, suddenly all ears. “Maybe talking about it will help.”
So I told him about stopping at Rupert and Ann Marie’s house, about how I’d met Courtney there before, and about how I’d realized Courtney was in one of the two vehicles that had driven past the day both Rex and Nicole had been at the bookmobile.
“Not exactly,” Rafe said. “We don’t know for sure it was Courtney. What we know is that someone was driving her car. It might not have been her.”
I drank the last of my wine. He was right, but somehow I couldn’t see anyone else voluntarily getting into that rattletrap. “But I don’t see how it matters anyway,” I said. “Courtney was working the Fourth of July. She couldn’t have killed Rex.”
“Well, even if we’re figuring the two murders are connected,” Rafe said, “there could still be two killers. Isn’t that how the love quadrangle theory would play out?”
Though I wasn’t truly buying the quadrangle thing, he was right about the two-killer concept. But if Courtney was one of the killers, who was her partner? Fawn? Dominic? Barry Vannett? Lowell? Violet? Mason? One of the Jaquays? Both of them? And how was anyone on that list connected to Courtney?
Rafe reached over and took my hand. “Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll figure it out.”
I nodded, appreciating his confidence, and loving him for it.
But I wasn’t sure we were anywhere close to finding the answers.
* * *
Josh poured coffee into my mug. “How much sleep did you get last night?” he asked. “You look like crap.”
“Geez, Josh.” Holly came into the break room, shaking her head. “Hasn’t dating that cute-as-pie Mia taught you anything about women? Hearing we look like crap is the last thing we want to be told, but it’s even worse to say that first thing in the morning.”
“Whatever.” He shrugged. “Minnie doesn’t look too upset about it.”
Mainly because I knew he was accurate. When I’d looked at myself in the mirror that morning, I’d immediately looked away. “If those are brownies in there,” I said, gesturing at the container Holly had just put on the table, “I might be able to forget about my lack of sleep.” My stomach had recovered from the outreach trip, which was good for brownie eating, but not so good for calorie counting. Happily, I wasn’t doing that today.
“Is everything all right?” Holly, who was rattling through the utensil drawer, looked over her shoulder. “You’re not sick, are you?”
“Sick and tired of this heat,” I said. Josh and I hovered as Holly extracted a knife and used it to slice big brownies into the smaller brownies that would equal the number of library employees. “I can’t believe you baked last night.”
“Me either, but the kids were begging, and Bad Mom that I am, I caved.”
“Wish my mom had been as bad as you.” Josh reached for a brownie and yelped when Holly slapped his hand. “Hey!”
“Ladies first,” she said. “And quit that face. Minnie’s a lady, even if you’re too dumb to see it.”
I could see that the conversation was about to devolve into a bickering session, so I tossed up a diversion. “Do either of you know Courtney Drew?”
“The name isn’t familiar. Is she from here?” Josh asked.
Now that was an excellent question. But given her relative youth, I figured the odds were good. “I think so. She’s about ten years younger than us.” I described her, but their faces remained blank.
“There are some Drews over in Dooley,” Holly said. “Could be related. Why are you asking?”
I thanked them, saying that I’d met her out at Rupert and Ann Marie’s. But I was disappointed, because what I’d wanted was firsthand knowledge of the young woman, an assessment of her character, that kind of thing. Also, an estimate as to how likely she was to commit murder.
“How’s Kate doing?” Holly asked.
“Fine,” I said automatically, then took my allocated brownie and fled, because I didn’t feel up to talking about my niece.
But after getting a cup of coffee and Holly’s brownie into me, it turned out I actually did want to talk, because when I went up to Graydon’s office to review the new health insurance rates and saw his family photo on his desk, I asked, “When your kids were teenagers, were you and your wife always worn out?”
Graydon focused on the pile of papers he’d been shuffling through. “Um . . .”
“Because I’m exhausted. How does anyone do this? If you’re not worrying about where they are, you’re worrying about what they’re doing. Or what they’re thinking. Or what they might think or do tomorrow.”
“It was hot last night,” Graydon said. “I’m sure that had a lot to do with it. Now, about this—”
“No, really. How does any parent survive? And there’s something else I don’t get. Every time I talk to Kate, she ends up stomping off like a two-year-old, yet her three bosses are telling me she’s a fantastic worker, and they wish all their employees were that well mannered and capable.”
Graydon nodded. “It’s a conundrum. So these rates. What do you think about—”
“And how on earth can anyone sleep that much? Some days I think I need to take her into urgent care to check for signs of life,” I said, scowling and crossing my arms. “I love her dearly, but I’m not sure I can take much more of this.”
My boss leaned back in his chair. “Minnie, if you have concerns about your niece, you should talk to her parents.”
This was excellent advice and I knew he was right. “But I don’t have any huge concerns, not really. She’s home every night at the time she says”—close enough anyway—“and my aunt says she’s fine. It’s just . . .” What was the problem, at its heart? I swallowed. “It’s just I don’t know how to talk to her.”
“And you want to.” Graydon didn’t make it a question.
“Of course! So . . . what should I do?”
“Minnie, you need to know one thing.”
“What’s that?” I perked up and prepared myself for life-changing advice.
“I don’t give advice on parenting.”
“But—”
He shook his head. “Or aunting, which is close enough. If I give advice and it doesn’t work, you’ll hate me. If I give advice and it does work, you’ll come back to me for more until I give advice that doesn’t work, and then you’ll hate me. It’s a vicious circle and we’re not getting on that particular hamster wheel. Now, let’s talk about something fun, like health insurance.”
“You won’t give me any help?” I asked in a small voice. “At all?”
He laughed. “Okay, but only this once, and only because I like you. Open your high school yearbook. Look at your picture, read what your friends wrote, remember what it felt like to be that age.”