“Nah. Hugo’s okay.”
His being okay wasn’t what I was worried about; it was whether or not he’d be annoyed at my unannounced arrival. I wanted him friendly, not irritated. But I shrugged and made my dwarfish way around the massive boats, being exceedingly careful not to touch anything. My mother had instilled the “if you break it you buy it out of your allowance” creed in me at a young age.
The first office door off the showroom floor was large and spacious and sported a brass label that read HUGO EDEL, PRESIDENT. The man inside, who was fit with short hair and tanned skin, was standing in front of a paper-covered desk, staring at a set of boat plans, talking on a cell phone, and tapping a particular spot on the plans over and over.
“Phil, I know you want that storage compartment next to the head, but—” A torrent of words came through the phone’s receiver. Edel listened, then said, “Right. I’ll get the designer to work on it.” He clicked off the phone and looked up at me. “Good morning,” he said, then frowned. “No, wait. It’s afternoon, isn’t it?”
The phone in his hand buzzed. He looked at the readout. “Sorry. I have to take this. Sit down, if you can find a spot.”
I tried not to listen in on his conversation, but it was a little hard to pretend I couldn’t hear him when we were less than ten feet apart. I picked up a pile of Crown Yachts brochures, sat down in the chair where they’d been, and did my best to show an interest in boats I would never be able to consider purchasing.
As soon as that phone call was over, another one began. He held up his index finger, indicating that he’d be with me in a minute, and I contented myself with choosing what color fabric to upholster my yacht’s master suite in.
“No more.” He turned his phone off and tossed it, skittering, across the boat plans. “Hugo Edel. What can I do for you?” He came around the desk to shake my hand.
I introduced myself, adding that I was the bookmobile librarian.
He smiled, and ten years dropped off his face. “I’ve seen you driving around. That looks like a great job. I’m a little jealous.”
“It’s not all fun and games.” I said, then grinned. “But to tell you the truth, a lot of it is.”
He laughed and leaned against the edge of his desk. “So, what does the bookmobile librarian want with Crown Yachts?”
I made my smile as warm as I could. “As the library’s assistant director, I get stuck with doing everything that the director doesn’t have time to do. In this case, it’s fund-raising. I’m contacting the area’s most successful businesses and asking them to consider a donation.” It was a brilliant idea, and I was glad I’d thought of it that morning.
Edel was losing interest fast. “I’m afraid our donation budget is tapped out for the year.”
I nodded. “Sure, I understand. That’s why I’m talking to you now, so you can keep a donation in mind for next year.” I handed him my card. “Do you have any questions? Lots of people want to know about the bookmobile.”
Sadly, he didn’t have a single one. This meant I was forced to take a more direct approach to the Carissa question than I would have liked.
“Say,” I said, “I know where I’ve seen you before. Didn’t I see you having dinner with Carissa Radle a couple of weeks ago? You know, that poor woman who was killed?”
“Rotten thing to have happen,” he said. “But sure, I had dinner with her. There’s lots of wining and dining in this business. She was asking about boats for some car client of hers from downstate.” He tipped his head back, considering me. “You’re not thinking that I had anything to do with her death, are you?”
I opened my eyes innocently wide. “What? Oh, gosh no. I just remembered seeing you, that’s all.” Well, technically Faye had seen him, but that was close enough.
“Okay, then,” Edel said. “Because if you thought she seemed interested in me, you’re wrong. Once we got done talking about boats, she mostly talked about how much fun it was to hang out on the set for that TV cooking show they film around here.”
“Trock’s Troubles?” I asked.
“That’s the one.”
And I suddenly had another lead to follow.
• • •
The twentysomething guy waved at me as I left. “Have a nice day!”
I walked into the small vestibule area, and, with my hand reaching for the doorknob, came to a sudden halt.
A trim, fiftyish woman was using the door’s glass as a mirror. She pushed a stray strand of hair into place, patted a little color into her cheeks, checked for lipstick on her teeth, gave herself a bright smile, then opened the door.
“Oh!” She stopped abruptly. “I didn’t know anyone was there.”
I’d stepped backward, but there was no getting around the embarrassing fact that I’d caught her primping. There were two options here, either politely ignore the incident or make the most of it. I smiled and said, “You look great.”
A faint red stained her cheeks. “Thank you,” she murmured. “I hope you have a nice day.” She gave me a nod and walked into the showroom.
“Hey, Mrs. Edel,” I heard the twentysomething say. “How you doing?”
So the woman who was so concerned about how she looked was Annelise Edel, Hugo’s wife. Hmm, I thought, as I left the building.
Definitely hmmm.
Chapter 11
I’d been wanting to check on Aunt Frances, so I headed over to the boardinghouse after work on Wednesday.
As I was trotting up the porch’s wide steps, I spotted young Harris and the approaching-elderly Zofia sitting side by side on the porch swing, Zofia with her legs tucked up underneath her, Harris using his long legs to push them gently to and fro.
“Hey, you two,” I said. “Do anything fun today?”
Zofia patted the strong shoulder next to her, the colored glass of her costume jewelry rings flashing bright in the sunshine. “This gentleman spent the day updating the statistics for his fantasy baseball team. A nice task for a summer day, don’t you think?”
All I knew about fantasy sports leagues was that they could occupy an inordinate amount of time, even more so at the beginning of your sport’s season. I knew this because the upcoming professional football season was all that Josh wanted to talk about, in spite of the facts that it was barely August and that no one else on the library staff cared about football.
Once, Holly had told Josh to talk about football to someone who cared, like maybe Mitchell Koyne. Poor Josh had looked so hurt that I’d felt obliged to ask a couple of questions about his picks. Two years later, I was still paying the price. So instead of asking Harris about his fantasy baseball team, I gave him a smiling nod and headed into the house.
Inside, young Deena was practically sitting on the lap of the balding Quincy. They were paging through an old scrapbook of vintage postcards, their heads almost touching. While their gazes were ostensibly on the book, it was clear from the lingering touches and sidelong glances that they were only interested in each other.
My genial wave in their direction went unnoticed. I passed through to the empty kitchen, poured two glasses of lemonade, checked the cookie jar, put four oatmeal cookies on a plate, got out an old Coca-Cola tray, and carried the lot onto the screened-in porch that overlooked the forested backyard.
Aunt Frances smiled up at me from the rocking love seat. “Just what I needed. How did you know?”
“Years of experience.” I put the tray on a low table and sat next to her. “It’s what you always brought me whenever I was upset.”
As soon as I was old enough to be put on a Greyhound bus, I’d begged to be sent north to stay with Aunt Frances for the summer. She’d nursed me after I’d fallen out of a tree and broken my arm, hugged me when the boy I’d liked had called me a Mini-Munchkin, and wiped away my tears when I’d been rejected by my top college choice. Every occasion had been eased with lemonade and cookies.