Lending a Paw(39)

“No fish tonight,” I said. “You’re probably smelling the salmon Skeeter gave to Louisa.”

Louisa was, once again, harboring matchmaking tendencies. “There’s plenty for four,” she’d said when I’d seen her at the post office. Though I’d begged off, citing bills to pay and a report to write for work, she had that glint in her eye. She’d had it last summer, too, when she’d tried to pair me up with Rafe Niswander. Great guy, and now a good friend, but no sparks, same as Skeeter, no matter how cute a couple Louisa thought we’d make.

“Where do you think Skeeter got his nickname?” I asked Eddie.

He yawned and starting licking his chest.

“And my first attempt at investigating was a complete failure, by the way.” I leaned against the kitchen counter and explained my brilliant idea of trying to talk to Caroline about mutual Hamilton ancestors. Somehow saying it out loud helped me think it over. “But she’s not into genealogy. So now I’m back to having no ideas.”

Eddie sent me a look that clearly said, You are so stupid, and went back to work, now licking his right paw.

I opened the refrigerator door, didn’t see anything worth cooking, and shut it. “Tell me I’m dumb, but when’s the last time you had a good idea?” I opened kitchen cabinets, looking for dinner inspiration. “Maybe eating that salmon would have been a good idea—hey!” I yelped because Eddie had launched himself across the space from bench to kitchen counter, skidded across the plastic laminate, and knocked my mail to the floor.

“What’s the matter with you?” I picked him up, dumped him onto the floor, and stooped down to pick up the mess. “You know you don’t belong up there. If Kristen saw that, she’d . . . oh.”

In my hand was the card from my mother.

And suddenly I knew how to arrange a meeting with Caroline Grice.

• • •

The rest of the week was busy with covering for vacationing library staff and last-minute reshuffling of the bookmobile schedule. On Saturday, the paperwork on my desk had piled so high that I skipped Saturday’s boardinghouse breakfast and went in to work early.

Happily, by Sunday noon I caught up with life in general and left the houseboat with a clear conscience.

I bought a small bag of cookies from Tom, probably the last time I’d do so until after Labor Day when the summer crowds left for home, and headed for the Lakeview Art Gallery.

A couple of blocks later, I walked into the gallery for the first time ever. My mom’s card had reminded me of Caroline’s long-running support for the arts. Thanks to the reporting of the local newspaper, I knew that it was mainly Caroline’s money that had allowed the nonprofit arts association to rent this side street storefront.

Inside, artwork of all shapes and sizes hung on walls painted a light blue-gray. Large landscapes, small portraits, wall sculpture, photographs. Acrylics, watercolors, oils, pastels. The sheer variety made me blink in surprise.

“Welcome to the gallery,” a young woman chirped from behind a jewelry showcase. “I’m Lina. Let me know if you have any questions, okay?” Lina had long flowing honey brown hair and wore a loose top that looked like something hauled out of the back of my mother’s closet, circa Mom’s high school graduation class of 1969.

“Busy today?” I asked.

“Let’s see.” She plopped her elbows on the glass. “The first person who came in wanted directions to the fudge shop, the second person who came in wanted to use our bathroom, and you’re the third person.”

“Sounds a little boring.”

“Dull as fifth-grade math class, some days. Other days it’s pretty cool.” Her thin face grew animated. “Last week? On Tuesday? You’ll never guess who came in that door.” With an index fingernail painted with daisies, she pointed at the door I’d just walked through. “That hot guy from that new show? Everyone’s talking about it.”

She named a cop show I’d heard Josh and Holly discuss, but since I didn’t have a television on the houseboat and watched very little at the boardinghouse, I couldn’t offer a sound opinion on the actor’s hotness.

“That must have been exciting,” I said.

“Yeah, I keep hoping somebody else famous will walk in.” She looked at me hopefully. “I don’t suppose . . .”

“Sorry. I live here in town.”

“Oh.” She deflated. “Have you ever met anybody?”

“Nope. Famous people don’t hang out at libraries very often.”

“You work at the library? That’s pretty cool.”