Sleight Of Paw

8

I was dressed and ready with my thermos of hot chocolate when Marcus pulled into my driveway in the morning. It was a clear morning, sharp and biting cold, and the sun seemed far away in the cloudless sky. Hercules sat on the bench, looking out the porch window.

I picked up the stainless-steel thermos sitting on the bench beside him and gave him a quick scratch just above his nose. “Stay out of trouble,” I told him. “I won’t be long.”

He turned back to the window. He liked winter as long as he was only looking at it. It was almost as cold in the porch as it was outside, but I knew Hercules had his own way to get in the house again when he got cold.

I locked the door and headed around the house to the driveway. Marcus was just getting out of his SUV. He wore a blue parka with the hood thrown back, black snow pants, and lace-up boots. His cheeks were red from the cold. Okay, so Maggie was right. He was cute. His blue eyes flicked over my old brown quilted coat and insulated pants, and for a second I had the ridiculously childish urge to strike a model’s pose, hands on my hips and feet apart, with a vaguely haughty look on my face. But I didn’t. I kept the fantasy to myself and smiled at him instead.

“Good morning.”

He smiled back. “Good morning.”

I walked around the front of the car and got in the passenger’s side. As I fastened my seat belt, I took the opportunity to quickly check out the SUV. It was clean. Not no-cardboard-coffee-cups-on-the-floor-or-junk-on-the-backseat clean. It was how-the-heck-can-he-be-so-clean-in-the-middle-of-winter? clean. The only thing on the backseat was an old gray blanket. The dashboard in front of me was shining—no smudges, no dust, no fingerprints. There was no mug of half-finished coffee in the cup holder.

I clicked my seat belt into place and then set the thermos at my feet. The floor mats looked like they’d just come from the dealer. Okay, so it seemed as though Marcus Gordon was a bit of a clean freak, at least with respect to his personal vehicle. Being a fairly tidy person myself, I couldn’t exactly see that as a flaw. I wasn’t going to tell Maggie about this. She’d see the clean-car thing as another karmic sign that Marcus and I were soul mates.

He backed out of the driveway and started up the hill. The overnight snow had been plowed and there was sand on the road. As we drove past the road to Oren’s place, I made a mental note to talk to him about which pieces of his father’s artwork I wanted to display in the library for the centennial celebrations. I still had to figure out how to get the massive metal sculptures from his workshop to the library. I was hoping Harry Taylor would have some ideas on that.

“You’re somewhere else,” Marcus said.

I turned from the window to look at him. “Excuse me?”

“You were thinking about something else,” he said, shooting me a quick glance.

“The library centennial.”

“End of May?” he asked, putting on his left turn signal to pull onto the road to Wisteria Hill.

“Close,” I said. “End of June. That’s the one hundredth anniversary of the original construction being completed.”

There was a break in the line of passing cars, and we pulled onto the road. The rear wheels spun for a second on an icy patch and then found traction.

“Are you staying?” Marcus asked.

I’d forgotten that the conversation could take some quick detours with him. I had the feeling sometimes that his mind was three steps ahead of everyone else’s. Thank goodness he didn’t drive the way he talked.

“I have another year on my contract.”

The car in front of us slowed and so did we. Marcus took the opportunity to look directly at me for a moment. “No, I meant are you going to stay beyond that, or are you going back to Boston when your contract is up?”

“I don’t know.” I adjusted the shoulder belt so it wasn’t pushing the hood of my coat against my neck.

That was the truth. I didn’t know if I wanted to stay in Mayville or even in Minnesota. I also didn’t know if I’d be offered the chance. There was always the possibility that the library board would smile politely, shake my hand, thank me for my service and send me on my way.

And did I want to stay? The decision to apply for the two-year job supervising the upgrade of the library and organizing its centennial had been an impulsive one. Probably the most impulsive choice of my life.

Except it wasn’t spontaneous; it was mostly running away, from Andrew—him marrying that waitress had pretty much ended our relationship—and from my wildly unpredictable family, who’d come to expect I’d always be the dependable, responsible one.

But I’d discovered that I liked it here, and I said so.

“You don’t miss Boston?”

“Sometimes,” I said. “I miss my family. I still have friends there.” I pulled my hat down over my ears. “But I have friends here, too. And I can’t exactly picture Owen or Hercules in an apartment in the city.”

I’d never be able to hide the cats’ little idiosyncrasies in an apartment. And Owen would go nuts if he couldn’t stalk around the yard like one of his genetically distant African cousins hunting a gazelle.

“They really won’t let anyone else touch them?” Marcus asked. Again, the conversation went off in a direction I wasn’t expecting.

I thought about Old Harry and Agatha. I didn’t have any explanation for how the boys reacted to them. “Mostly no,” I said.

“Do you think it’s because they came from Wisteria Hill, because they were feral?” He was watching the left side of the road for the two reflectors Harry had set into the ground to mark the long driveway into the old estate.

“I think that’s part of it,” I admitted. I did sometimes think Owen and Herc were the way they were because they’d come from Wisteria Hill. There were things about them I just couldn’t explain logically. And there was something about Wisteria Hill I couldn’t explain, either. Whenever I was out there I always felt as though all my senses were amped up on high alert.

Marcus put on his blinker and started up toward the house.

“Roma thinks they might not have been feral,” I said as we bumped up the long driveway. Harry had plowed and sanded, but the track was dirt and gravel and driving up it in the winter was a bit like being stuck in one of those vibrating machines that promises to shake away excess pounds.

We hit a ridge that ran the width of the driveway and my stomach rebounded like a rim shot off the edge of a basketball hoop. I grabbed the seat on either side of me.

“So someone might have left them out here?” Marcus said.

“Yes.” I didn’t add that if someone had left two tiny kittens at Wisteria Hill, they’d left them to die.

We bounced into a deep well in the frozen ground and the car lurched. “Sorry,” Marcus muttered.

“Is it just me or is this driveway getting worse?” I asked.

He gripped the steering wheel tightly as we bounced over and around the last turn. “It’s been a colder than usual winter, plus all that rain we had last fall made a mess of this.” He pulled into the space Harry had cleared for parking, shut off the SUV and turned to me. “How would you like to talk to Everett Henderson? Maybe he’d agree to have the driveway graded and leveled this spring.”

I pulled on my mittens and tugged the scarf a little tighter around my neck. “Sure,” I said. “What exactly needs to be done?”

“Wait. You’re serious?”

“You’re not?”

“I was being sarcastic.” A rosy flush spread across his cheeks.

“See? I missed that entirely,” I said, trying unsuccessfully not to smile as I got out of the SUV. That got me a smile in return that looked cute with his pink cheeks.

Marcus lifted the tailgate. He handed me a canvas bag with the cat food, dry because the wet froze a lot faster. He grabbed two jugs of water and slammed the hatch shut. Since December Roma had organized extra shifts to make sure the cats had fresh water.

We walked past the old house. It looked sadder and more neglected each time I came out. No one had lived in it for years. No Henderson since Everett’s mother. No one at all since the caretakers moved closer to their daughter a couple of years ago.

Everett didn’t talk about the estate, ever. It wasn’t that he changed the subject. He just didn’t talk about it. And because of that there were a lot of rumors about the old place. Some people said it was haunted; others said that the cats were very old and had some kind of magical powers. Roma felt they were most likely descendents of the kitchen cats from the estate.

But most people believed the cats were descended from Everett’s mother’s cat, Finn. It was commonly believed that Finn had otherworldly abilities. That last rumor worried me. People knew Owen and Hercules came from Wisteria Hill. After Roma told me that she didn’t think they had ever been feral, I started telling people that they had probably been abandoned. I didn’t want anyone getting the idea my cats might have superpowers.

At one point there had been a push to round up all the Wisteria Hill cats and find foster homes for them. Roma had strongly resisted that, making a point of educating people so they understood that a feral cat was never going to turn into a fluffy house cat, chasing a ball of yarn across the living room floor.

“Do you think it’s true?” Marcus asked as we went around to the side of the old carriage house, where the cat shelters and feeding stations were.

“Do I think what’s true?” I said, as he held the side door for me.

“Do you think there’s something different about these cats?”

I looked back at him and tried not to smirk. “You think they might have supernatural powers?” I waggled one hand from side to side at him. “Or maybe they’re shape-shifters?” I stood for a moment, letting my eyes adjust to the dim light.

Marcus closed the door carefully behind us. “No, I don’t mean all that nonsense,” he said. “But you have to admit, some of these animals have lived a very long time under”—he held out both hands—“some pretty adverse conditions.”

Marcus Gordon didn’t seem the type to buy in to the woo-woo theories about the old estate or the cats. “You think the cats have some kind of genetic mutation?” I asked. Now that I could see better, I started across the wooden floor to the feeding station.

“Maybe.”

My chest tightened. I didn’t want him—or anyone else—to get any ideas about Owen and Hercules.

I bent to brush some straw and dry leaves from around the shelf where the dishes would sit, so he couldn’t see my face. “So do you think they should be somewhere being studied instead of living here?”

“No, I don’t.”

I stood up and turned so I could see him now and read his expression. He pulled off his hat. His dark hair stood up at the crown of his head. It made him look like a kid, not like an annoying police officer.

He met my gaze directly. “I think the cats have the right to live where they feel safe. They aren’t bothering anyone and I don’t think anyone should bother them.”

“Wait a second. Has someone been out here again who shouldn’t be?” I asked, stuffing my mittens into my pocket so I could open the bag of cat food. “I know Roma made a couple of extra trips out here this week.”

“Yeah, I think so.” He took the clean water bowls I held out to him. “Monday the outside door wasn’t closed properly.”

“It could’ve just been someone being careless,” I said, even though I knew none of Roma’s volunteers would be careless with the cats’ safety.

“Harry saw tracks when he came out to plow.”

“What kind of tracks?”

“Snowmobile.” Marcus leaned around me, setting the water bowls in place. A couple of times during really bad weather, Harry had used his own snowmobile to come out and feed the cats, but other than that everyone else drove their trucks or SUVs.

“Were the cats okay?” I asked, as he filled the bowls with water.

“As far as anyone can tell. I don’t think whoever it was realized the shelters are back here.”

The cats’ homes—insulated shelters built by Roma’s volunteers—were in what she called the cathouse, a corner of the old building that had probably originally been used for storage.

I filled all the food dishes and Marcus and I retreated to the door, where we waited, crouched down on the dusty floor.

“Why would anyone want to be out here, anyway?” I whispered.

His shoulders rose under his jacket. “Who knows? Maybe it was just kids. The rumors are kind of dramatic, when you think about it. What kid wouldn’t want to own a cat that was a hundred years old and could turn in to a wolf?”

A flicker of movement caught my eye in the far corner of the carriage house. I put a hand on Marcus’s arm to warn him into silence. The cats came into view. The first one was a sturdy black-and-white cat not unlike Hercules, but with more white on his face. The others came behind him, cautiously, one by one.

They’d all come to know the volunteers and realize our presence meant food, and we all knew to stay quiet and still while they ate. Like Marcus, I eyed each cat in turn, looking for any signs of injury or illness.

“Where’s Lucy?” he whispered.

I looked around. He was right. There was no sign of Lucy, the matriarch of the feral-cat colony. She was usually the first one who appeared to check things out.

I scanned the space, squinting in the dim light. There was something—I hoped it was feline—over by one of the posts supporting the carriage-house roof.

I leaned forward on the balls of my feet, grabbing Marcus’s arm for balance. He really did smell good, like a fruit salad of orange, lemon and grapefruit. Lucy made her way slowly across the floor. The calico cat was carrying something in her mouth. Or, to be more accurate, she was half dragging something.

She paused. Her ears twitched. I didn’t hear anything, but something caught her attention. She looked back the way she’d come for a long moment. Then, seemingly satisfied, she turned back around.

And looked directly at us.

I froze, not even breathing for a moment, because I didn’t want to scare her.

The cat put a paw on whatever it was she’d captured so she could get a better grip on it with her teeth. Then she started toward us. Should we move, or would that startle her and the other cats? They were all eating, not even giving her as much as a glance as she passed them.

Lucy made her way closer. She still had a very small limp left over from last summer when she’d injured her leg. And whatever it was she was carrying was heavy, close to half her size.

It wasn’t a bird; I couldn’t see any feathers. I could see a long tail and . . . fur? I tightened my grip on Marcus’s arm.

Lucy continued to make her way across the floor. About six feet or so away from us she stopped, dropped her . . . catch on the wooden floor and looked at us. Then she gave the dead animal—I was pretty sure it was dead—a push with a paw.

It dawned on me that she was bringing us a gift. Owen and Hercules brought me things on occasion—a dragonfly, a dead bird, a very hairy caterpillar. Owen had once gifted Rebecca with a dead bat that was bigger than he was.

“Thank you, puss,” I said softly.

She tipped her head to one side and studied me for a second. Then she bent and nudged the gift a bit closer with her nose. With a flick of her tail she made her way over to the feeding station.

We stayed where we were, silent while Lucy ate. My legs were cramping from being crouched in the cold for so long. I kept one eye on the dead thing, just in case it wasn’t so dead after all.

One by one the cats finished eating and wandered away until only Lucy was at the feeding station. Like Owen, she liked to sniff and scrutinize every bit of food before she ate it. Finally she stretched, took a couple of steps away from the food and started washing her face.

I dug my knuckles into the knot in my right thigh. If I hadn’t been holding on to Marcus, I would have fallen over. I couldn’t help thinking that Lucy was doing this on purpose, knowing we’d have to wait, huddled on the floor by the door until she was finished. From time to time she’d look our way.

Finally she gave one last swipe of her face with her paw. She stretched again and slowly made her way across the floor of the carriage house, back to the shelters. She had the same graceful stride as a lion on a dusty African savannah, and a touch of the same menace.

We could finally get to our feet. I shifted my weight from one leg to the other to stretch out the kinks. Marcus walked over to Lucy’s gift. He peered at it and gave the dead thing a push with his toe.

“I think it’s just a field mouse,” I said. He looked at me, surprised. Had he thought I was going to go all girly on him and scream?

“My parents did a lot of summer theater and every theater had more than just actors in it,” I said.

“How nice.” He moved around the dead mouse to get the second water jug.

“One summer they did Shakespeare in the park, just at dusk. My mother thought she was sharing a changing area—a tent—with my father.” I started to laugh at the memory. “Turns out it was a raccoon, after the ingénue’s secret stash of peanut butter cups.”

“Oh, come on. You’re kidding.”

“No.” I couldn’t keep the laughter from bubbling over. “I don’t know who was more surprised, my mother or the poor raccoon. There was a prop sword someone had left behind in the tent. She went after the raccoon with it. He wasn’t going to leave those peanut butter cups without a fight.”

Marcus was laughing now, arms crossed over his chest. It was easy to like him when he was just being himself. “She chased him, at sword-point, out of the tent and across the grass, right in front of the staging area. And keep in mind she was wearing a lace-up corset and petticoats.” I was laughing so hard that I was shaking.

“So what happened?”

“She got the best review of the entire two-week festival. No one knew it wasn’t part of the play.”

We worked quickly to clean up the feeding station. I gathered the dishes and picked up a couple of pieces of dropped food. Marcus put out more fresh water. I looked around the carriage house one last time. Everything else seemed okay.

“Ready to head back?” Marcus asked.

I nodded and picked up the bag with the food and the dirty dishes. “What about that?” I asked when we came level with the dead rodent.

Marcus made a face. “I don’t think we should leave it here. I don’t want to attract any other animals.” He pulled his hat back on. “I have a shovel in the car. I can at least put it outside, away from the building.”

“Good idea,” I said.

We walked to the car. The sun was stretching up over the trees. I put the bag in the back. Marcus opened the front passenger’s door for me and took a small shovel from the rear.

“Be right back,” he said.

I got in the car and peeled off my hat and mittens. In the cup holder between the seats was a pump bottle of hand sanitizer. I used it to clean my hands. It left them smelling faintly of lemons.

Something was digging into my hip. I felt in my pocket. It was Roma’s roll of duct tape. I had to remember to give that back to her.

I unscrewed the thermos top. There was a second cup inside the top, like a nested Russian doll. I kept it out for Marcus.

After a few minutes he was back. He set the shovel in the back and closed the hatch. Then he got in the front seat. “Done,” he said, reaching for the hand cleaner. He looked at my cup. “Coffee?” he asked hopefully.

“Sorry,” I said. “Hot cocoa. Would you like some?”

“Almost as good. I’d love some, please.”

I poured him a cup and handed it carefully over to him.

He took a sip. “Mmmm, that’s good,” he said, his eyes half closed in pleasure at the warmth and taste. “Old family recipe?”

I laughed. “No.”

He gave me two eyebrows raised in surprise.

“My mother knows how to make only three things: lemonade, baking-powder biscuits and toast. All my dad can make is a martini.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. And the toast thing is iffy.”

“So how did you learn to cook?”

I shrugged. “How else? The library, and a very nice woman in South Carolina who owned a little theater right on the coast. She taught me the secret to the best chocolate cake.”

He smiled at me over the top of his cup. “Which is?”

I laughed. “I’m not telling you. It won’t be a secret anymore.”

“You at least have to make one sometime and let me taste it.”

“Deal,” I said.

He finished the cocoa and handed me the empty cup.

“Would you like some more?”

“No, thanks,” he said, fishing in his pocket for the car keys. “So, what’s the martini like?”

“Martini?” Then I realized what he meant. “Good, as far as I know. I’m not a martini connoisseur, but my friend Lise is and she likes them.”

He found the keys then and reached for his seat belt. Mine was already fastened. I finished my cocoa and put the thermos back together. Marcus started the SUV.

“Home, or is there somewhere I can drop you?”

“Home, please,” I said. “I don’t go to the library until lunchtime.”

He backed up the car so we could drive out. “Are you closing the library early because of Winterfest?” he asked.

I nodded. “Lita said everyone will be at the supper at the community center.”

“She’s right,” he said, as we eased our way down the rutted, frozen driveway. “The food is terrific, by the way.”

I grinned. “I believe you. I’ve had Mary’s apple pie.”

“I’m looking forward to having a slice or two myself tonight.”

This was my opening. “Will you be able to make it?” I asked. “Or will the case keep you too busy?”

“You mean Mrs. Shepherd’s death?” He slowed to a crawl as we lurched over a particularly large frost heave. “I should be able to make it.” He kept his eyes forward, but I noticed a tiny twitching muscle in his cheek.

Change of plans. Subtlety wasn’t going to work. “Was she hit by a car?” I asked. Based on what I’d seen, I was still convinced Agatha hadn’t died from natural causes.

“The autopsy isn’t until later this morning.”

That wasn’t a yes or no.

We were at the bottom of the driveway. Marcus stopped, the back end of the SUV slipping a little on the ice. “Why are you asking?” he said. “Is there something you didn’t tell me?”

“I told you everything that happened yesterday morning.” Just don’t ask me about the night before, I added silently.

We pulled onto the old highway. The sun was behind us, surprisingly warm on the back of my head. Marcus continued to watch the road. “Did you see anything any other time? The night before, for instance.”

How did he do that? It was as though he could read my thoughts. I pulled a ChapStick out of my pocket. My lips were suddenly dry and I needed to buy time.

I snapped the cap on the little tube and rolled it over my fingers and back again before I put it in my pocket. The movement caught his attention.

“How did you do that?”

“Excuse me?” I said.

“Flip that lip stuff over your fingers.”

I looked down at my hands. “Oh, that. It’s just the same as doing it with a quarter.”

He let out a breath. “And how do you know how to do it with quarter?”

I felt my cheeks getting warm. “Well, poker,” I said.

“Poker?”

“Uh-huh, a lot of poker games happen backstage. Crew, cast. I watched. I learned things.”

“So I see,” he said, making a left turn onto Mountain Road, slowing a little in the traffic.

I hadn’t answered his question. Maybe I was in the clear.

“So,” he said, checking the mirrors. “You were going to tell me if you saw anything Wednesday night.”

I exhaled slowly. I was making myself crazy trying to protect someone who didn’t need protecting. Harry Senior didn’t drive. What did it matter if he’d had an argument with Agatha?

“I don’t think this has anything to do with Agatha’s death,” I began, holding up my hand, because I knew he was going to interrupt. “And yes, I know you’ll be the judge of what’s important and what’s not.”

He closed his mouth on whatever words he’d been going to say. When he did speak it was only to say, “Go ahead.” His tone told me he was already shifting into detective mode again.

“Agatha came in to the café while Maggie, Roma, and I were there. We were waiting for Oren to open the community center for us.”

An image of the old woman in the out-of-fashion plaid wool coat flashed in my mind, followed by another image of that same coat, stained dark with blood.

“Eric had food for her. Right after that we all came out.”

Marcus said nothing, hoping that the silence would make me say more, I was guessing. I already knew what I was going to say. “Down the street a little I saw Agatha with Harrison Taylor.”

“What were they doing?”

“As far as I could tell, talking. I couldn’t hear what they were saying.”

“That’s it?”

“Uh-huh. I did walk Harry to Eric’s.”

He shot me a quick look. We were almost at my house. “Why did you do that?”

“Because the sidewalk was slippery. Because he isn’t a young man.”

“So, that’s it?” he said. “You saw Mr. Taylor talking to Mrs. Shepherd. You walked him to the restaurant.”

“That’s it,” I said, feeling a knot of annoyance beginning to twist in my stomach. “What? Do you think I ran after Agatha, lured her into the alley, and whacked her with my purse?”

“Did you?”

For a second I thought about whacking him with my mittens. I took a breath and let it out. “No. I didn’t.”

“I know,” he said. “The waitress saw you with Mr. Taylor. So did Peter Lundgren.”

“So I have an alibi.”

He smiled and turned into my driveway.

I swallowed my aggravation and picked up the thermos.

He shifted in his seat. “Thanks for the cocoa. And for helping me this morning.”

“You’re welcome,” I said a bit abruptly. It bothered me that he didn’t trust me, even though I knew it was part of his job not to trust anybody. “Have a good day,” I said as I slid out of the car.

Owen was in the kitchen, lying on his side in a square of sunlight, lazily washing his face. “Hey, fur ball,” I said as I hung up my old coat. “I forgot last night. Rebecca sent you a present.”

At the sound of her name Owen jumped to his feet and trotted over to stand expectantly at my mine. I pulled the paper bag from the pocket of my other jacket, reached inside and fished out a Fred the Funky Chicken. If it was possible for a cat’s face to light up with joy, Owen’s did.

I took the yellow toy out of the package, then I leaned down and handed it to him. I didn’t even bother with my usual “Rebecca spoils you” speech. Owen grabbed the chicken and disappeared around the corner of the doorway.

After a moment Hercules came in from the living room. He looked back in the direction Owen had gone with his catnip chicken, then looked quizzically at me.

“Rebecca,” I said.

Herc yawned. Catnip wasn’t his thing.

I held up the paper bag. “She sent you something, too,” I said. His head came up, eyes big and green. I held out the bag, swinging it from side to side. “Wanna see?” I teased.

Of course he did, but unlike Owen, Hercules wouldn’t want to seem too eager. He walked slowly over to me, glanced at the small, brown paper sack, and then looked around the kitchen like it didn’t matter if I showed him or not. I waited until he sat down in front of me before I pulled the sardine can from the bag.

“Merow,” he said. He knew what was in the can.

“What do you think?” I asked. “Maybe you should try one, just to make sure they haven’t gone bad or anything.” I set the sardines on the counter, found a plate, and pulled back the top of the oblong can.

The pungent smell of fish and oil hit me. “They smell like sardines,” I said. I used a fork to pull out two tiny fish and put them on the plate. I took it over to Hercules, who was studying his paw, pretending to be indifferent.

He sniffed the little fish and looked up at me. “Yeah, I think they smell okay,” I said.

He bent and licked a bit of oil on the plate. And then a bit more, and then he didn’t even try to act uninterested. He started eating with a sigh of happiness.

“Do they taste okay?” I asked. The only answer was the sound of him slurping. Better than a yes, I figured.

I was putting the rest of the sardines away when the phone rang. It was Maggie. “Can you still give me a hand this afternoon?” she asked.

“Sure,” I said. “What do you need?”

“Mostly another set of hands and eyes.”

“I could probably get away around three o’clock.” I looked out the living room window. The sky was still blue, the sun was still shining, my arm didn’t ache. There was no snow coming for a while.

“That would be great,” Maggie said. “I think Ruby is going to come, as well, and she’s in the store until two.”

I sank on to the footstool. “How is she really?”

“She’s better.”

“Marcus had said the autopsy was this morning. I know having some kind of memorial is important to Ruby,” I said.

“And Roma and a lot of other people,” Maggie added. “Any chance you can get any information from Marcus?”

“I don’t think so,” I said, brushing a clump of gray cat hair off the footstool. Proof that Owen was sleeping on the thing when I wasn’t home.

“I went to Wisteria Hill with him this morning and I didn’t find out anything.” I held up a warning finger even though she couldn’t see it. “And don’t start with me,” I cautioned. “I went to feed the cats. I don’t want to go out with him. I don’t even like him most of the time—”

“—and he doesn’t even have a library card,” she finished.

“Well, he doesn’t,” I muttered. Did I hear a laugh on the other end of the phone? “He thought I killed Gregor Easton.”

“You were never a serious suspect. You weren’t arrested.”

“He thought I was having an affair with Easton. The man was twice my age.”

“But you weren’t,” Maggie added, ever so reasonably.

“Why don’t you bug Roma about her love life?”

“You know, there’s a rumor going around that she’s seeing someone.” Maggie said.

“There’s always a rumor going around about something,” I said. “I heard the same story. The only male she sees on a regular basis is that old horse the Kings bought for their daughter.”

Maggie laughed.

“I’ll see you at three o’clock.”

“See you then,” she said, and hung up.

I went upstairs and checked my e-mail. There was one from my sister, Sara. She was working in northern Canada on a film. Sara was a documentary filmmaker, but she paid her bills working as a makeup artist on small, and now increasingly bigger, independent films. In In the attached photo she was squinting into the sun, most of her face obscured by the hood of her parka. I peered at the background. There was almost much snow there as there was in Mayville.

There was also an e-mail from my friend Lise, in Boston. I miss you, her e-mail ended. This time next year you’ll be home.

This time next year.

I’d been in Minnesota for almost a year now. That meant I had just over a year left on my contract. What if they wanted me to stay? Did I want to stay? When I left Boston it had been an impulsive decision.

Andrew had married someone else. Granted, there had been a large amount of alcohol involved, but as far as I was concerned, his being married, even if it was to somebody he’d known for just two weeks, meant I wasn’t going to be with him anymore.

And while I loved my mom and my dad, and Ethan, my brother, and Sara, they’d always been impetuous and unpredictable. Someone had had to be sensible and practical. Someone had had to make sure there was milk and toilet paper. Someone had had to know how to fill out the myriad of papers in the emergency room. And get supper, even if it was only peanut butter–and-banana sandwiches.

That someone had been me for as long as I could remember. Me, when it was just Mom and Dad and me. Me, when they got divorced and I alternated weeks between them. Me, when they got married again because they couldn’t leave each other alone, which is why Ethan and Sara were guests, so to speak, at the wedding.

Coming to Mayville had really been running away. I hadn’t expected to make friends. In Boston everyone just assumed that I’d be back when my two-year contract was over.

I tried to imagine not sitting in Eric’s with Maggie and Roma, not going to tai chi—I was so close to mastering the complete form—and not walking across the backyard to have iced tea with Rebecca in her gazebo.

And what about Owen and Hercules? Could I take them back to Boston? I tried to picture them in an apartment in the city. Owen, who fancied himself a hunter—the birds had never been safer—would hate it. And how would I get Hercules to stay inside?

I couldn’t leave my cats behind. They wouldn’t let anyone but me touch them. Well, other than Agatha, who was dead, and Old Harry, who was supposed to be, according to the gossip around town.

And how would I explain to anyone—Roma, Maggie, anyone—about the cats? Roma said they were special, but she meant because of the way they’d attached themselves to me.

As much as I missed watching my parents prepare for a production, or seeing what Ethan had done to his hair, or going to one of Lise’s dinner parties, I wasn’t sure I wanted to go back to Boston.

That was a surprise.

Something in the hallway caught my eye. Owen was just passing the bedroom door with the funky chicken’s decapitated head in his mouth and a blissful look on his face. I couldn’t be sure, but he didn’t seem to be walking in a straight line. Owen was a little catnip junkie, no matter what Roma said.

I looked at my watch. I had enough time to get the slow cooker started and get to the library early.

I got supper simmering, quickly cleaned up, and hustled back upstairs to get ready for work.

“I’m leaving,” I called, pulling on my coat. From somewhere in the house I heard a faint meow—Owen. Then in a moment Hercules appeared. “I’ll see you later,” I said. He gave me a soft “murp” and disappeared back into the living room.

I pulled on my boots and hat and grabbed my bag. I was locking the door when I realized I hadn’t packed a lunch. I looked at my watch. It would be faster to walk down to Eric’s Place and get a sandwich than to go back inside and make something. And yes, maybe I would get some of the latest talk about Agatha Shepherd’s death, too.

I was three houses down the hill when Harry Junior’s truck drove past me, slowed and stopped. He rolled down his window. “Hey, Kathleen, would you like a drive down the hill?” he called.

The sun was bright, but with the wind, it wasn’t very warm out. “Yes,” I said.

“Hop in, then,” he said. He rolled the window back up.

I waited for a minivan to pass in the other direction, then scooted across the street and climbed into Harry’s truck. It may have been well used, but Harry took care of the old Ford and the heat was blasting like I was sitting in front of a stoked woodstove.

“Thank you so much,” I said, reaching for the seat belt.

“You’re welcome.” He put the truck in gear, checking the mirrors before he pulled into the street.

I leaned back against the turquoise vinyl seat and let the heat soak through my coat. “I have to buy a car.”

“Is there a reason you haven’t?”

“Pretty much laziness,” I said with a laugh. “I sold my car in Boston, intending to buy one when I got here.” I held my hands up to the heating vent. “But it was easy to walk everywhere and, well, you know what they say about good intentions.”

Harry smiled. “That I do.”

“Are you going to the Winterfest supper tonight?” I asked.

“Absolutely,” he said. “The old man hasn’t missed a Winterfest supper in”—he paused for a second—“well, ever, except for when he was overseas. As long as he’s got a pulse he’s going to be there.”

“I hope that’s a long time,” I said.

“Me, too,” Harry said. He opened his mouth as though he was going to say something else, but he didn’t.

I waited without saying anything myself. Harry would get to whatever it was in his own time.

“Are you headed for the library?” he asked as we got to the bottom of the hill.

“I’m going over to Eric’s to get something for lunch,” I said. “But here is fine. Anywhere is fine.”

“I’m going to the bookstore.” Harry put on his turn signal. “It’s only one door down.”

“Okay,” I said. The truck was so cozy and warm that I was happy to stay in my seat for a few more blocks.

“Have you heard anything about Agatha Shepherd’s death?” Harry asked.

I looked at him, but he kept his gaze fixed on the road. His tone was almost too offhand. It occurred to me that maybe it wasn’t just chance that Harry had been driving by just as I was walking downtown. “I was at Wisteria Hill this morning with Detective Gordon,” I said. “He said the autopsy was this morning. That’s it.”

Harry sighed. “Kathleen, I’m worried about the old man.”

I could see the tightness in his face. “They were friends.”

“They were,” Harry said quietly. We were at a stop sign with no other cars behind us. He turned to me. “They stopped speaking a long time ago.”

I struggled for a moment. I didn’t want to break the old man’s confidence, but it was clear Harry knew something had happened to his father and Agatha’s friendship. “He said they had a falling-out,” I said finally.

Harry nodded. “He likes you,” he said, turning down toward the water.

“I like him.”

He pulled into an empty parking spot just a couple of spaces down from the café and put the truck in park, but stared out through the windshield for a moment before he said anything more. “Kathleen, he had some kind of argument with Agatha the other night, didn’t he?”

I undid my seat belt to delay answering his question for a moment. “They had a conversation about something. It was very short. Your father was upset, although he tried to hide it. How did you know?”

He held out his hand, turned it over and studied his palm before he answered. “He wasn’t himself, even before he heard about Agatha. And Detective Gordon came to talk to him last night.” He let out a breath.

“Dad wouldn’t tell me what the detective wanted, but he said something about saying things in anger that you can’t take back. I figured it had to be Agatha. It was pretty clear you two hadn’t argued about anything.”

I reached over and touched his arm. “Whatever they were discussing had nothing to do with her death.” I gestured to the café with my free hand. “She had a disagreement with Eric right before she saw your father. People argue, Harry. It doesn’t always mean anything.”

He pulled a hand across the bottom of his face. “He swiped one of my old trucks and drove himself down. Said he changed his mind and wanted to see what was happening at the auction. He scraped the front fender on something, I think when he was parking. At least he had enough sense to call me from Eric’s.”

I could suddenly hear my own heartbeat in my ears. Harry Senior was driving Wednesday night. “I didn’t know that,” I said slowly. “But it doesn’t mean he came looking for Agatha.”

“Dad has been having these episodes, times when he can’t remember where he was or what he was doing.” Harry swept his hand over his face again.

“The doctors don’t know if they’re small strokes, some kind of seizure disorder or even a brain tumor.” He shook his head. “Stubborn old coot refuses to go through more tests.”

He stared through the windshield. “Kathleen, he had one of those gaps the other night. He hasn’t admitted it, but I’ve gotten so I can pretty much tell when it happens.”

Harrison had been driving.

No. I wasn’t going there. Whatever had happened to Agatha, Harry Senior had had nothing to do with it. What had Harry just said? At least he’d had the good sense to call me from Eric’s. I’d walked the old man to the café, and Harry had picked him up there. Agatha had been fine when she’d walked away.

“Harry, Agatha was fine when your father left her,” I said. “I saw her head along the sidewalk. And I walked him to Eric’s, where you picked him up. I understand that you’re worried, but I don’t think you need to be.”

He looked relieved. “Thanks.”

I reached for the door handle with one hand and my bag with the other and got out of the truck, stepping up over the ridge of snow on the sidewalk. I raised my hand in good-bye, heading up the short stretch of sidewalk to the café.

Harry Senior had been driving the night Agatha died. But I’d walked him here and Harry had picked him up here. Had he stayed here? I closed my eyes for a second. In my mind I could see the blood soaking the plaid coat, and Agatha’s arm bent at an unnatural angle. I could see Marcus pulling the shard of glass from my pants cuff. Glass I was pretty sure came from a headlight.

The old man had scraped the fender of the truck on something, Harry had said. My heart started pounding in my chest again.

Something?

Or someone?