Detective Inwood shook his head. So did Detective Devereaux.
Mitchell-time had struck again. “He said something you should know.” They exchanged a glance that was over my head. Literally over my head, not figuratively. I could guess what that glance was all about. It meant, I bet this is nothing, but we have to listen to her, don’t we? Why, yes, you do. “A few days before Stan was killed,” I told them, “Mitchell was cutting down some trees near that farmhouse. He saw a guy on a quad.”
Their faces, which had been politely blank, stayed that way.
“A quad,” I said. “It was a guy on a quad who shot out the tires on the bookmobile, remember?”
Detective Devereaux said, “Ms. Hamilton, do you know how many quads are in this county?”
I didn’t know and I didn’t particularly care. What I did care about was that the detectives apparently hadn’t followed up on the tire-shooting incident. They’d chalked it up to a kid messing around and hadn’t bothered their pretty little heads about it any further. A sharp anger started to heat up inside me. Somewhere, I heard my mother saying, “Now, Minerva, don’t lose your temper. You know it never helps anything,” but she wasn’t talking loud enough for it to have any real effect.
“It seems to me,” I said, “that you should look for quad tracks near the farmhouse. Maybe the guy cleaned up the tracks close by the house, but maybe there are still tracks nearby.”
Detective Inwood started to say something, but I wasn’t done.
“And you said you were investigating Stan’s business associates. Have you come across Gunnar Olson by any chance?” My sarcasm was starting to show and I knew I needed to dial it down. I released the fists that my hands had become and went on.
“He has a summer slip at Uncle Chip’s Marina and was partners with Stan in a development deal. Gunnar lost out big-time. He still carries a huge grudge. And what I just found out is he used to hunt up in the hills behind the farmhouse. There was a cabin up there.”
This part seemed to matter to them. Devereaux took some notes, and even made sure he had the correct spelling of “Olson.”
“Thank you for the information,” Detective Inwood said. “We’ll follow up on this.”
He made a move as if to go, but I wasn’t done yet. My anger was still too hot. This was when Mom really should have spoken up. “Will you? Will you really?” I asked. “You’re detectives for the Tonedagana County Sheriff’s Office—at least that’s what your badges say—but what detecting have you been doing?”
“Ms. Hamilton,” Detective Devereaux said. “Give us time to do our job. Can we investigate as fast as you’d like? No. But—”
He was patronizing me. I hated that. “But meanwhile,” I cut in, “Stan’s killer is running around free, and innocent folks are suffering because you’re questioning the wrong people.”
“Ma’am, we’re doing the best we can.”
“I’m sure you are,” I said with exquisite politeness. “But the killer isn’t in jail, is he? Maybe it’s time to contact the state police. I’m sure the post in Petoskey would be happy to talk to me.”
“Gaylord,” said Detective Inwood. “The regional post is in Gaylord. There’s not much going on in the Petoskey post these days.”
I stared up at him. He stared down at me. Neither one of us was going to budge a fraction of an inch. We were both going to die in this spot, frozen to death come January.
An electronic ringing sallied forth from Detective Devereaux’s chest. He thumbed on his cell. “Yeah . . . yeah . . . okay. We’ll be there.” He slipped the phone back in his pocket. “Let’s go, Hal. Ms. Hamilton, you have a nice day, now.”
They swung around and headed off.
I stood there, watching them go, my hands on my hips, then started walking in the opposite direction. The detectives were blowing me off. They were ignoring everything I said. Had they done a single thing I’d suggested? No. If they had, I’d surely have known.
Holly was a mess, Aunt Frances wasn’t much better, and the detectives were ignoring the person (yours truly) who was handing them clues on a freaking platter.
Oh, Stan . . .
“Working on it, Stan,” I said out loud, startling a middle-aged couple who were walking toward me, hand in hand.
Not only was I working on it, I was moving it to the top of the list.
Chapter 17
In spite of the odd hour of eleven a.m., the Round Table was packed with people. Half of them were having a late breakfast; half were eating an early lunch.