Lending a Paw(102)

Oops. “I never told you about that? Well, it was only a few days ago. And nothing happened, so—”

“Nothing happened?” She sent me her fierce I-could-make-life-miserable-for-you-if-I-wanted-to look. “My best friend gets shot at by one of my employees—shot at!—and she doesn’t think I might want to know?”

“It wasn’t me, it was the tires. And at the time I didn’t know it was Larry.”

“Kyle,” she muttered. “Should have known from the beginning that guy was trouble. Anybody named Kyle who’d rather go by Larry is bound to have a screw loose.” She squinted a little. “Of course, he looks like a Larry, doesn’t he?”

“If you live in the town where you grew up, it can be hard to get rid of a nickname.” Or a reputation.

When I’d called Aunt Frances last night, I’d told her that not only was Stan’s killer in jail, but none of it had been her fault. Not in the least. She hadn’t believed me at first, but I’d eventually convinced her. After her tears had stopped, we’d made a pact to rehabilitate Stan’s reputation. It would take time, but with two determined women on the job, maybe it wouldn’t take so very long.

“Yeah, well.” Kristen sipped her wine. “I just hope when he gets out of jail, he comes to me looking for work.”

“Why’s that?”

“So I can beat him over the head, of course.” One-handed, she used an imaginary bat to do the job. “By the way, what’s going on with that hot doctor of yours?”

I looked at her sideways. “You were there our whole first date. What don’t you already know?”

“Oh, come on, it was funny. Yeah, I see you trying not to laugh. Don’t laugh, Minnie, don’t laugh. . . .”

I swiped off my smile with the back of my hand. “So how about a double date, me and Tucker, you and Mitchell Koyne?”

She nodded. “Good idea. How about Friday?”

My jaw dropped. “You . . . you’re going out with Mitchell?”

“Why not?” She shrugged. “He’s about our age, can almost speak a complete sentence, sometimes has a job, and of course I’m not going out with him, you goofus.” She laughed. “Had you going there, didn’t I?”

I rested my head against the chair’s back and blew out a huge breath. “For a second I thought I’d created a monster.”

“The only monster around here is in jail,” she said. “And now I’m short a chef three days before the Fourth of July. You know, if you’d been more considerate of your friends, you would have waited until after the holiday to get tossed in that barn.”

“I’ll try to do better next time.”

She grinned. “Good. So, now that we know what happened, who’s going to get Stan’s money? Is the library going to make out like a bandit?”

“From the number of attorney letters I’ve seen on Stephen’s desk, I’d guess it’ll be tied up in courts for months, if not years.”

Kristen snorted. She wasn’t a big fan of the lawyer breed.

“On the other hand,” I said, “both Caroline Grice and Gunnar Olson have sent nice donation checks.”

“Hey, congratulations!” Kristen held out her glass to tink with mine, but before the glasses clinked, she looked down. “Hmm. Minnie, methinks you might have an escapee.”

“Mrr.”

Sure enough, it was my rotten cat. “Eddie, what are you doing out here?” I’d left him inside the boat with the windows shut and the door . . . The door. I’d left the solid door open, leaving only the screen door latched. Wonderful. Eddie had learned how to open the screen door. Simply outstanding.

He bumped my shin with the top of his head, jumped up onto my lap, and turned around one, two, three times. When he finally settled down, he was facing Kristen. “Mrr,” he said to her, dipping his head.

She laughed. “And to you, Mr. Bookmobile Cat.”

I petted his thick fur. Eddie, the bookmobile cat. Eddie, the cat who had found Stan. Eddie, the cat who’d ripped up the Grice genealogy research that had been a waste of time. Eddie, who’d gone ballistic when he’d seen Audry. Eddie, who had nearly scratched a hole in the door when I’d left for the farmhouse.

I stared at him. Had he actually guided me toward the answers? Pushed me in the right direction when I was taking the wrong path? Tried to warn me of danger?

My hand stilled and I looked down at him. He looked up at me and our gazes met, my brown eyes staring into his yellow ones.

Nah. It was my imagination. Had to be. Eddie might be smart, but he wasn’t that smart. No cat was.