by Sofie Ryan
“Glenn is wrong,” I said, keeping my voice serious. “You’re not old.”
Clayton laughed. “Well, I walked into that one,” he said. “I appreciate this. I’ll see you in a bit.”
I explained to Mac and Charlotte where I was going. It was a beautiful day with just a few clouds overhead and I was happy to be out of the shop. Clayton was out in the yard when I arrived. I gave him a hug and he gave me a cup of coffee. The two of us settled pretty quickly on what I felt was a reasonable asking price for the china cabinet.
“What about your percentage?” Clayton asked.
I held up my mug and smiled. “I just take that out in coffee,” I said.
Clayton had a couple of his big Adirondack chairs still out in the backyard. We took our coffee outside to sit in the sunshine and wait for Beth’s friend.
She didn’t show up.
“I’m sorry,” Clayton said. “I’m an old fool for not getting her phone number. I brought you out here for nothing.”
“The coffee was good and the company was even better,” I said. “It wasn’t for nothing.”
He shook his head as he got to his feet. “I remember when a handshake deal meant something.” He smiled and smoothed a hand back over his bald head. “If Glenn was here, he’d remind me that was back when I still had hair, which sadly wasn’t yesterday.”
I finished my coffee, made Clayton promise that if he heard from the woman again he’d call his nephew or me and then I headed back to Second Chance. It was about five minutes past closing time when I pulled into the parking lot. Mac had pulled in ahead of me and was getting out of his truck.
“Hey, where were you?” I asked.
“Glenn called right after you left,” Mac said, walking over to join me. “Remember that old icebox he bought at that auction in Belfast?”
I nodded.
“Someone offered him a few dollars more than he paid for it and he decided to sell it. Problem was, he needed help to get the damn thing up the basement stairs.”
“So he needed your muscle.” I smiled.
“Something like that,” he said. “Anyway, the guy had supposedly gone to get the cash because Glenn didn’t want to take a check, but it must have been some sort of scam because he didn’t come back.”
I felt a prickling sensation up my spine as though a cool breeze had just blown down my neck. “So you didn’t see the person who wanted to buy the icebox?”
Mac shook his head. “No. And what happened at Clayton’s? Did he sell the china cabinet or is he going to keep it?”
I glanced over at the shop. “No,” I said slowly. “The woman didn’t show up.”
Mac looked at me. “Rose,” he said.
I rubbed the space between my eyebrows. “I know. This has her sticky little fingerprints all over it.”
He put a hand on my arm. “No. I mean Rose is at the back door. They all are.”
I looked across the lot. He was right. They were standing there: Rose, Mr. P., Charlotte, Avery, Liz and my grandmother as well, all smiling at us, lined up like the receiving line at a wedding. Or a funeral.
I closed my eyes for a moment and raked both hands through my hair. “What has she done? It has to be something massive because she went to a lot of trouble to get both of us out of the shop.”
Mac tipped his head in the direction of the building. “We could go find out or we could just stay out here. I’m pretty sure I have a granola bar in the glove compartment. I’ll share.” He smiled.
“As tempting as what is likely a six-month-old granola bar sounds, I need to know what Rose and her band of merry outlaws has been up to.” We started for the back door.
“Okay,” Mac said. “But my granola bar offer still stands if you change your mind at any time.”
I bumped him with my hip. “I’ll keep that as a Plan B.”
He smiled. “It’s probably not as bad as you think. They probably just painted the walls black or something like that.”
“Do you remember when they were filming that reality show down the street? You know what Rose is like. What if she signed us up for something like that?”
“I could see her doing that,” he said.
I winced. “On second thought, that granola bar in your glove compartment is starting to sound good.”
He laughed. “Whatever it is, we’ll work it out. It won’t be that bad.”
I pointed over my head. “From your mouth to the Big Guy’s ear.”
“What did you do?” I asked Rose when I reached her.
“Goodness, so suspicious,” she said, patting my arm. Then she smiled. “We just wanted to give the two of you a little break. You’ve both been working so hard.”
“What kind of break?”
“Honestly, Sarah, it’s just dinner. There’s chicken stew with dumplings keeping warm in the slow cooker upstairs and dessert is in the refrigerator.” She held out both hands. “That’s all.”
“Don’t even think about the dishes,” Charlotte said.
“Or the table or anything else,” Mr. P. added.
Avery was holding Elvis. “And don’t worry about the furball,” she said. “We’re having a sleepover.”
“Heaven help us,” Liz said.
Gram smiled at Mac and gave me a hug. “Remember what I told you,” she whispered. “There aren’t nearly as many chances to be happy as you might think. When one comes along, grab it with both hands.” She pulled back and gave me a mischievous grin. “Or at least whack it over the head with a book.”
They headed across the parking lot toward Liz’s car. I hadn’t even noticed Gram’s parked beside it.
“I love you,” I called after them.
“Yeah, yeah everybody does,” the six of them replied in unison, something else that had obviously been planned.
“So do you want to see what they’ve done?” Mac asked.
I ran a hand back through my hair. “Truthfully, that old granola bar of yours is starting to look pretty good.”
“Dumplings, Sarah. And dessert.” He raised an eyebrow.
I blew out a breath. “All right. Never let it be said that I turned down a dumpling. Let’s go take a look.”
Rose and her cohorts had closed the store early and transformed the space. A blue Oriental rug was spread on the floor in the middle of the shop. I had no idea where it had come from. A square table sat in the center, set for two with a crisp white tablecloth, matching napkins, and a centerpiece of pink pillar candles. The blinds that covered the front window were down and music was playing in the background. “I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing.” Aerosmith. Of course.
It was the last thing I had expected to walk into. Color flooded my face. “This is supposed to be a date,” I said, closing my eyes for a moment and shaking my head. “They set us up.”
Mac nodded. “I know.” He didn’t look nearly as uncomfortable as I felt; a little nervous, maybe but not mortified, which is what I was feeling.
“So what do we do?”
He gestured at the table. “We have dumplings and dessert. I would like to change the music if you don’t mind. I kind of feel like I’m at the prom.”
“I don’t mind,” I said. “No offense to Steven Tyler but it’s not as though this really is a date or anything.” Why had I said that?
Mac nodded. “That’s true.” His brown eyes never left my face.
I felt my cheeks getting warm again.
I took a step backward. “I should go up and get our food, then.” I made a gesture in the general direction of the stairs with one hand.
“That’s a good idea,” he said. He took a step toward me.
“I uh, I’m guessing the dishes are upstairs.” I backed up again.
“Makes sense.” He moved closer once more.
“So I’ll just . . . go do that,” I said
. I stepped backward and felt a chair behind me. There was nowhere else to go.
Mac reached over and caught my hand. “Before you do that . . .” he hesitated and then he leaned in and kissed me.
It felt for a moment as though we were the only two people in the world. And because we were the only two people in our small corner of the world, I slipped both of my arms around his neck and kissed him back.
Love Elvis the cat?
Then meet Hercules and Owen!
Read on for an excerpt of the first book in the Magical Cats series.
CURIOSITY THRILLED THE CAT
by Sofie Kelly. Available now!
The body was smack in the middle of my freshly scrubbed kitchen floor. Fred the Funky Chicken, minus his head.
“Owen!” I said, sharply.
Nothing.
“Owen, you little fur ball, I know you did this. Where are you?”
There was a muffled “meow” from the back door. I leaned around the cupboards. Owen was sprawled on his back in front of the screen door, a neon yellow feather sticking out of his mouth. He rolled over onto his side and looked at me with the same goofy expression I used to get from stoned students coming into the BU library.
I crouched down next to the gray-and-white tabby. “Owen, you killed Fred,” I said. “That’s the third chicken this week.”
The cat sat up slowly and stretched. He padded over to me and put one paw on my knee. Tipping his head to one side he looked up at me with his golden eyes. I sat back against the end of the cupboard. Owen climbed onto my lap and put his two front paws on my chest. The feather was still sticking out of his mouth.
I held out my right hand. “Give me Fred’s head,” I said. The cat looked at me unblinkingly. “C’mon, Owen. Spit it out.”
He turned his head sideways and dropped what was left of Fred the Funky Chicken’s head into my hand. It was a soggy lump of cotton with that lone yellow feather stuck on the end.
“You have a problem, Owen,” I told the cat. “You have a monkey on your back.” I dropped what was left of the toy’s head onto the floor and wiped my hand on my gray yoga pants. “Or maybe I should say you have a chicken on your back.”
The cat nuzzled my chin, then laid his head against my T-shirt, closed his eyes and started to purr.
I stroked the top of his head. “That’s what they all say,” I told him. “You’re addicted, you little fur ball, and Rebecca is your dealer.”
Owen just kept on purring and ignored me. Hercules came around the corner then. “Your brother is a catnip junkie,” I said to the little tuxedo cat.
Hercules climbed over my legs and sniffed the remains of Fred the Funky Chicken’s head. Then he looked at Owen, rumbling like a diesel engine as I scratched the side of his head. I swear there was disdain on Hercules’ furry face. Stick catnip in, on or near anything and Owen squirmed with joy. Hercules, on the other hand, was indifferent.
The stocky black-and-white cat climbed onto my lap, too. He put one white paw on my shoulder and swatted at my hair.
“Behind the ear?” I asked.
“Meow,” the cat said.
I took that as a yes, and tucked the strands back behind my ear. I was used to long hair, but I’d cut mine several months ago. I was still adjusting to the change in style. At least I hadn’t given in to the impulse to dye my dark brown hair blonde.
“Maybe I’ll ask Rebecca if she has any ideas for my hair,” I said. “She’s supposed to be back tonight.” At the sound of Rebecca’s name Owen lifted his head. He’d taken to Rebecca from the first moment he’d seen her, about two weeks after I’d brought the cats home.
Both Owen and Hercules had been feral kittens. I’d found them, or more truthfully they’d found me, about a month after I’d arrived in town. I had no idea how old they were. They were affectionate with me, but wouldn’t allow anyone else to come near them, let alone touch them. That hadn’t stopped Rebecca, my backyard neighbor, from trying. She’d been buying both cats little catnip toys for weeks now, but all she’d done was turn Owen into a chicken-decapitating catnip junkie. She was on vacation right now, but Owen had clearly managed to unearth a chicken from a secret stash somewhere.
I stroked the top of his head again. “Go back to sleep,” I said. “You’re going cold turkey . . . or maybe I should say cold chicken. I’m telling Rebecca no more catnip toys for you. You’re getting lazy.”
Owen put his head down again, while Hercules used his to butt my free hand. “You want some attention, too?” I asked. I scratched the spot, almost at the top of his head, where the white fur around his mouth and up the bridge of his nose gave way to black. His green eyes narrowed to slits and he began to purr, as well. The rumbling was kind of like being in the service bay of a Volkswagen dealership.
I glanced up at the clock. “Okay, you two. Let me up. It’s almost time for me to go and I have to take care of the dearly departed before I do.”
I’d sold my car when I’d moved to Minnesota from Boston, and because I could walk everywhere in Mayville Heights, I still hadn’t bought a new one. Since I had no car, I’d spent my first few weeks in town wandering around exploring, which is how I’d stumbled on Wisteria Hill, the abandoned Henderson estate. Everett Henderson had hired me at the library.
Owen and Hercules had peered out at me from a tumble of raspberry canes and then followed me around while I explored the overgrown English country garden behind the house. I’d seen several other full-grown cats, but they’d all disappeared as soon as I got anywhere close to them. When I left, Owen and Hercules followed me down the rutted gravel driveway. Twice I’d picked them up and carried them back to the empty house, but that didn’t deter them. I looked everywhere, but I couldn’t find their mother. They were so small and so determined to come with me that in the end I’d brought them home.
There were whispers around town about Wisteria Hill and the feral cats. But that didn’t mean there was anything unusual about my cats. Oh no, nothing unusual at all. It didn’t matter that I’d heard rumors about strange lights and ghosts. No one had lived at the estate for quite a while, but Everett refused to sell it or do anything with the property. I’d heard that he’d grown up at Wisteria Hill. Maybe that was why he didn’t want to change anything.
Speaking of not wanting change, Hercules was not eager to relinquish his prime spot on my lap. But after some gentle prodding, he shook himself and got off. Owen yawned a couple of times, stretched and took twice as long to move.
I got the broom and dustpan from the porch and swept up the remains of Fred the Funky Chicken. Owen and Hercules sat in front of the refrigerator and watched. Owen made a move toward the dustpan, like he was toying with the idea of grabbing the body and making a run for it.
I glared at him. “Don’t even think about it.”
He sat back down, making low, grumbling meows in his throat.
I flipped open the lid of the garbage can and held the pan over the top. “Fred was a good chicken,” I said solemnly. “He was a funky chicken and we’ll miss him.”
“Meow,” Owen yowled.
I flipped what was left of the catnip toy into the garbage. “Rest in peace, Fred,” I said as the lid closed.
I put the broom away, brushed the cat hair off my shirt and washed my hands. I looked in the bathroom mirror. Hercules was right. My hair did look better tucked behind my ear.
My messenger bag with a towel and canvas shoes for tai chi class was in the front closet. I set it by the door and went back through the house to make sure the cats had fresh water.
“I’m leaving,” I said. But both cats had disappeared and I didn’t get any answer.
I stopped to grab my keys and pick up my bag. Locking the door behind me, I headed out, down Mountain Road.
The sun was yellow-orange, low on the sky over Lake Pepin. It was a warm Minnesota evening, without the sti
cky humidity of Boston in late July. I shifted my bag from one shoulder to the other. I wasn’t going to think about Boston. Minnesota was home now—at least for the next eighteen months or so.
The street curved in toward the center of town as I headed down the hill, and the roof of the library building came into view below. It sat on the midpoint of a curve of shoreline, protected from the water by a rock wall. The brick building had a stained-glass window that dominated one end and a copper-roofed cupola, complete with its original wrought-iron weather vane.
The Mayville Heights Free Public Library was a Carnegie library, built in 1912 with money donated by the industrialist and philanthropist Andrew Carnegie. Now it was being restored and updated to celebrate its centenary. That was why I had been in town for the last several months. And why I’d be here for the next year and a half. I was supervising the restoration—which was almost finished—as well as updating the collections, computerizing the card catalogue and setting up free Internet access for the library patrons. I was slowly learning the reading history of everyone in town. It made me feel like I knew the people a little, as well.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Sofie Ryan is a writer and mixed-media artist who loves to repurpose things in her life and her art. She is the author of No Escape Claws, The Fast and the Furriest, and Telling Tails in the New York Times bestselling Second Chance Cat Mysteries. She also writes the New York Times bestselling Magical Cats Mysteries under the name Sofie Kelly.
CONNECT ONLINE
sofieryan.com
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