She fled.
Thessie looked from the door to me and back. “What was that all about?”
I put on a puzzled expression. “No idea.”
• • •
Happily, the rest of the bookmobile run went without a hitch. Eddie and Thessie engaged in a mutual admiration society. He purred, she cooed, and I tried not to make gagging noises. Back at the library, Thessie helped me get Eddie into the picnic basket and spotted for me during the transfer from bookmobile to car.
“Same crew next time?” she asked, winking.
“We’ll see,” I said.
• • •
The next day I got to the library early. With the numbers from the bookmobile continuing to exceed expectations, I wanted some time to think about how to get more runs into the schedule.
I was in the act of carrying my first cup of coffee into my office when I heard the unmistakable sound of Stephen’s footsteps.
“Morning,” I said, toasting him with my Association of Bookmobile and Outreach Services mug. “Can I get you . . .” But once I got a good look at him, I could see that coffee wasn’t going to do him much good. In addition to the previous danger signs of rumpled hair and clothing issues, now Stephen also had the ashen skin that spoke of exhaustion. What the man needed was sleep.
“The library board . . .” He slid his index fingers under his glasses to rub his eyes. When he opened them again, he spied my mug. “Is that coffee?” He held out his hand peremptorily.
I held the mug out to him. “Stephen, are you okay? You look beyond tired.”
He knocked back half the contents of the mug, paused, then drank the other half. “I’m fine.”
Riiiight. And I was the Queen of the Library. But if he didn’t want to discuss whatever it was that was bothering him, I wasn’t going to badger him to talk. Not today, anyway. Tomorrow was a different matter.
“The library board,” he said, “has been in contact with the executors of Stan Larabee’s estate. His relatives have indicated that they’ll be contesting the will.”
Just as Rafe had said. For once the word on the street had been right. “They won’t be able to break it, will they?”
“Extremely doubtful. But the issue could tie up dispensation of the will for as long as his family wishes to pay lawyers.”
“I heard he had a lot of sisters.”
“Six,” Stephen said.
I’d often wondered what it would be like to have a sister or two. I’d never once wondered what it would be like to have six.
“The library board is concerned,” he went on. “If the news gets bandied about that the library is losing Larabee’s bequest, they fear we’ll lose other sources of money, and you know how much this library depends on donations.”
“But that’s nuts,” I blurted out. “No one except you and the board knew the library was getting money from Stan’s will until a week ago. And, anyway, why would any potential donor care?”
“The library board is concerned,” Stephen repeated. “It’s our job to allay their concerns. With that in mind, we need to consider alternative sources for donations. As I recall, you are meeting with Caroline Grice this evening. The gallery will be closed, yes? Good. Sound her out for becoming a library supporter. A onetime ‘no’ isn’t necessarily a permanent no. You have a certain expertise at noting people’s reactions and emotions. Notice hers and exploit them.”
“I . . . what?”
“The library is depending on you,” Stephen said.
“It . . . is?”
“We need to head off any financial troubles before they start. Now is the time, and you’re in the right place at the right time. It’s up to you, Minnie.” He upended the coffee cup, swilling down the last drops. “I’ll expect a complete report first thing tomorrow morning.”
And off he went, taking my favorite mug with him.
• • •
“Minnie? Hey, Minnie!”
I slowed, then stopped in the front lobby, as Holly hurried to my side. The day had passed quickly, and now late-afternoon sun spilled over both of us, blinding me and putting Holly into dark silhouette.
“Sorry, sorry to bother you,” she said, her words running over the top of one another. “I wanted to catch you since I won’t be in tomorrow. Do you have a second?”
“Sure. What’s up?”
“Remember, a little while ago, I was downstairs and you said . . . you said that you’d try to help prove I didn’t kill Stan Larabee . . . and I was wondering, you know, if you really meant it?”
“I promised,” I said, stepping close to her and lowering my voice. “So, yes, I meant it.”
“Right.” She smiled, relief washing over her face. “So, um, have you found out anything?”
What I’d discovered was that many residents of Chilson were getting far too much enjoyment speculating about murder, that rumors did, in fact, travel faster than the speed of light, that the new doctor in Charlevoix was appearing in my dreams, and that it was going to take hours and hours to clean the Eddie hair out of the bookmobile.
I started to say something to that effect. Luckily, I took a good look at Holly before I opened my mouth.
Her brown hair, normally shiny and smooth, had a straggly look. Her face looked almost gaunt and her hands didn’t know what to do with themselves. They were in her pockets, cupped around her elbows, around her upper arms, back to her pockets.
She was worried and scared and she was relying on me. But what could I tell her? Rumors? No way was I going to repeat those stupid stories. Yet what else was there to say?
“There’s a chance,” I said, “that I’ll learn something soon.”
“Really?” Hope shone in her eyes.
No, not really, and I was already sorry I’d said so. “Just a chance,” I said. Firmly. “It’s not as if I have any experience doing this. All I can do is listen and—”
“But you’re so good at listening!” Smiling, she nodded, apparently reassured by my seeming confidence.
Unfortunately, she was the only one.
• • •
“Thank you so much for meeting with me, Mrs. Grice.”
“Caroline, please.” The older woman smiled. She wasn’t showy or even glamorous, but the simple lines of her white shirt spoke of a tailoring that was designed to flatter without being revealing, to complement without drawing attention to itself.
Not to mention the fact that her shirt was whiter than I’d ever been able to get my own shirts.
“Thank you,” she said, “for giving our artists a more public audience.” She tipped her head at the gallery around us, a head that didn’t have a hair out of place. I had a hunch I was looking at a hundred-dollar hairstylist’s creation.
Not that I begrudged Caroline her money. And I liked to work. Work was worthwhile. If I didn’t work, what would I do with myself? Of course, I could always volunteer. Maybe at hospitals. In, say, Charlevoix, where there was a new doctor who—
“If we can,” Caroline was saying, “I’d like to represent every single one of our artists at the library. All have work that is deserving of purchase, and, to be honest”—she gave a wry smile—“all of them could use the money.”
That was another thing that separated the wealthy from the rest of us. They could afford to purchase original art.
“I’ve talked to the artists, and to a soul, they would be glad to be displayed in the library.” She smiled at the walls. “If you see anything in particular you’d like displayed, please let me know.”
Since my knowledge of art didn’t go much beyond the Mona Lisa, I made a positive yet noncommittal noise. “Have you thought about a schedule?” I asked. “We’ll want to advertise and the sooner the better.”
“Of course.”
She opened her leather-bound planner, and I pulled out my phone. We agreed that a mid-July date would give us enough time to plan yet leave enough time in the season to catch the summer visitors.