Kristen stood. “No, I’ll see him in the kitchen. Minnie, if you want some dinner, we have some portabella mushrooms I’m trying to finish off. If you ask nice, this guy will whip up something interesting for you. He’s the new one I told you about.” And in three leggy strides, she was out the door and gone.
The chef looked at me. “Do you want mushrooms for dinner?”
“I’d rather eat road salt.”
He grinned. “I’m not a big fan, myself.” His white jacket was embroidered with the name “Larry.” He might have been thirty, but his round face had that cherubic look that aged slowly. He also had a thick elastic brace around his left hand and wrist.
I nodded at it. “Can’t be easy doing chef stuff with that on.”
“Fact.” He cradled it on the opposite hand. “Keep it elevated, they say. Like that’s going to happen.”
“What did you do?”
He looked over his shoulder, then at me. “I told the boss I sprained it playing softball.”
“But . . . ?”
“You promise not to tell?”
What was one more promise? “Don’t see why I would.” The words hung in the air and I made a fast amendment. “Unless it hurts Kristen. She’s my friend.”
“Yeah, I get that.” He made a slicing motion with his good hand. “The other night I stayed late, practicing with the knives. I’m saving up to buy my own Wüsthofs, but Kristen got a new set and I wanted to work with them a little.”
My eyes went wide. “You cut yourself?”
“Ah, just nicked the tendon a little. It was late, I was still nervous about starting this new job, you know how it goes. No big deal. I’ll be fine in a week.” He grinned and I grinned back, thinking that Kristen might have herself a winner this time.
“What do you think of Three Seasons?” I asked.
“This place is great.” He nodded eagerly. “It’s a lot like the place I’m going to have. Someday, I mean. I’d want to build a brand-new building, though. You never know what’s going on inside old walls, right?”
He was right, but building new wasn’t cheap. When I said so, he nodded. “Yeah, but you got to do like they say, dream your dream and live into it, so that’s what I’m doing. And it’s just money. They print more every day. I have a spot all picked out—”
“Thought so!” Kristen’s voice rang out, and I don’t know who jumped higher, me or Larry. “Here.” She slapped a full plate on her desk. “Yeah, yeah, I know you think you don’t like mushrooms. Just try it.”
I looked at the plate, looked at Kristen, looked at Larry. He grinned. “Nice meeting you,” he said. “Have a good dinner.”
• • •
“Mrr?”
“Of course I didn’t try them,” I told Eddie. “Fungus among us. Eww.” Ever since a childhood bout of stomach flu had coincided with my mother’s dinner offering of sautéed mushrooms on Swiss steak, I hadn’t been able to eat a mushroom nausea-free. I wasn’t fond of Swiss steak, either.
Eddie and I were sitting on the front end of the houseboat with a pizza from Fat Boys between us. Sausage, green peppers, and bacon. Pre-cat, I used to get anchovies, but Eddie liked them too much.
“So.” I wiped my face with a paper napkin. “Caroline Grice. Go figure.”
A white paw reached out for the pizza box.
“Hey, that’s tomorrow’s lunch.” I tossed my napkin in the box and flipped the top shut. “My lunch, not yours. You get cat food.”
He stared at the pizza box, then flopped down on the chaise lounge.
“I mean, Caroline Grice? Sure, she and Stan were about the same age, but other than that . . .” I shook my head.
Stan had been a farm boy who’d made his fortune through smarts, timing, savvy, and incredible chutzpah. Caroline had been born into wealth, had married wealth, and was now an extremely wealthy widow.
Caroline was an alumna of Smith College; Stan was a Chilson High School graduate. Caroline was a patron of the arts; Stan had been a NASCAR fan. Caroline wore clothes purchased from stores that didn’t advertise. I’d heard Stan say that a thousand dollars spent on a suit was a thousand dollars wasted. Caroline’s world was curved edges and calm voices; Stan’s had been full of hard knocks and braying laughter.
I looked at Eddie. “They say opposites attract. Do you think that’s true?”
He made a pointless swipe at the pizza box.
“Don’t waste your energy,” I told him. “Save it for tomorrow when you’ll need to sleep all day.”
He ignored me and I went back to thinking about Stan and Caroline Grice.
Though Stan had been stratospherically rich, he’d been accessible. If you’d wanted to run the risk of hearing him tell you his canoe joke for the forty-second time, all you had to do was find LARABEE, STAN in the phone book and dial.
The Grices were different. Grices had lived in splendid isolation out on the point, a couple of miles from town, since before Chilson was Chilson. Grice children attended private schools; Grice adults spent their leisure hours at the country club or tootling around in boats that cost more than the bookmobile. No Grice had ever checked a book out of the public library and no Grice (rumor said) had ever set foot in the Round Table.
I spent a moment wondering how they’d even met, then shook my head at myself. Of course they knew each other. Even if they didn’t have common interests, Chilson was still a small town, and people in their economic stratosphere would inevitably meet.
“You know,” I said to Eddie, “maybe Caroline had a reason to kill Stan. Jealous rage, maybe? They say murders are almost always committed by someone you know.” I could give Caroline’s name to the police, but I didn’t see that going anywhere. I could just imagine the response if I called and suggested that one of the detectives talk to Caroline Grice. “Thank you, Ms. Hamilton. We’re investigating all possibilities.” Click.
“I guess I’ll just have to find a way to talk to her myself.”
Eddie opened his mouth in a yawn so big and wide that I had time to count the ridges on the roof of his mouth.
Cats.
Chapter 8
At noon the next day I shut myself in my office and tried to make a plan. Most of what I knew about Caroline Grice had come from Stephen. A few months after I’d been hired, he’d handed me a list of names and her name was halfway down the page.
“We need new blood,” he’d said. “Our most loyal donors are in their seventies and we need to freshen up the pool.”
At the time I’d been appalled at his heartlessness, but now I was beginning to understand the need. I didn’t like it, but I understood. If you’re not growing, thanks to natural attrition you’re shrinking, and having a community’s financial support is a critical part of a library’s success.
Back then, thanks to letters, phone calls, and face-to-face visits, I’d drawn a few new regular donors into the fold. Caroline Grice had not been one of them.
Now I leaned back in my chair and tried to go at the situation in a manner of which Stephen would approve. Action items. You must distill a project into action items. I pictured the agenda.
Goaclass="underline" Talk to Caroline about Stan, face-to-face if possible.
Proposed Methodology: none.
And the meeting is adjourned. Thanks for coming, folks.
“Research,” I said to myself. “It’s time for research.”
I opened up my computer’s browser and typed Caroline’s name into the search engine: 178,000 results. Huh. I put quotes around her name: 4,658 results. Better, but more than I could drill through during my lunch break. I added “Michigan” to the string and found her husband’s obituary, a press release announcing her husband’s retirement, and her daughter’s wedding announcement.
All the people in the world to research and I managed to pick the only one who wasn’t on Facebook.