Quickly, I scrolled through my text messages and found where Ash had sent me Lindy Bernier’s address, and did it . . . yes! It also had her phone number.

“Lindy? This is Minnie Hamilton, from the bookmobile. Sorry to call so late.”

“You’re fine,” Lindy said, but there was a question mark in her voice.

Once again, I’d jumped into action without thinking through all the steps. Or any of the steps, other than pushing buttons on the phone. “Um, I just wanted to say again how sorry I am about Brown.”

“Oh. Well, thank you. It’s going to take time, but I have friends and family to help me through this.”

And there was my opening. “Must be good to have the support of Brown’s brother. From those pictures you were showing me, they looked like they were close.”

“When they were young, yes,” Lindy said. “But to tell you the truth, they haven’t talked since I can’t think when.” Her sigh gusted into the phone. “All those years. Makes me so sad. You always think there will be time to fix things, and then suddenly there isn’t.”

I asked softly, “Is it something you want to talk about?”

“Not much to tell. And it was all so silly. My in-laws died years back, and we needed to make a decision about their house. It had been in the family for a hundred years, but the medical bills had taken priority over maintenance, and it needed, oh, just so much work.”

“I can imagine,” I said feelingly.

“The only sensible thing to do,” Lindy said, “was to sell it. Neither of them had the money to fix it, and it would have taken thousands and thousands of dollars. Brown didn’t want to sell, but Bob did. And, since Bob was the executor of the estate, he . . . well, he just went ahead and did it.”

“Brown must have been furious.”

She half laughed. “My husband rarely got angry, but when he did, everyone within a five-mile radius knew it. He . . . oh, Minnie, I’m sorry, but I’m going to start crying so I’ll say good night.”

“Good-bye,” I started to say, but she was already gone.

Eddie bumped the bottom of my shoe. “Mrr?”

I lightly tapped the top of his head with the corner of the phone. “Not. A. Cat. Toy.”

“Mrr,” he said, reaching up for it.

I pulled him into my lap and held him tight. He struggled for a moment, then melted into my hug and started purring.

So the Bernier brothers had been estranged for years. Could something have happened recently to flame those angry embers into murder? And if so, what?

Chapter 7

The revelation that Brown and his brother hadn’t spoken in ages had, at night, seemed to be proof of revenge for motive. The next morning, the connection felt tenuous at best and ridiculous at worst.