by Sofie Kelly
Finally, he pushed his chair back and stood up. “Are you finished?” he asked.
I nodded. “Yes.”
He led me down to the living room. A small cardboard box was sitting on the coffee table.
“Go ahead,” he urged. “Take a look.”
I lifted one flap of the carton and peeked inside. Then I turned my head to grin at him. “Where did you get these?” The box was about two-thirds filled with vintage Batman comic books from the early 1970s.
“One of the guys at the station found them in the attic of the house he just bought. He was going to toss them.”
I shook my head. “These are pop culture. These are art. I’m so glad you saved them.” I pointed to the comic on top of the pile. “That’s Wail of the Ghost Bride, and it looks to be in decent shape. Who knows what else is in there?”
“Why don’t you go through them and find out?”
“You don’t mind?”
He was sitting on the edge of the blue corduroy sofa, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. “Kathleen, they’re yours.”
For a moment I’m sure my mouth gaped like a fish that had jumped too high and to its surprise ended up on the shoreline instead of in the water again. “Mine?” I finally said.
“You’re the Batman fan,” he said.
I was. In fact, Owen and I had been watching episodes of the old TV show online. I’d discovered Batman comics—it was still hard for me to think of them as graphic novels—the summer I was twelve and my parents were performing in a partially converted theater in New Hampshire. Emphasis on “partially.”
One of the stagehands had found a pile of Batman comic books mixed in with a stash of old National Geographics and some girlie magazines. In its previous incarnations, the theater had been a dentist’s office and a funeral parlor, and sometimes I wondered just whose waiting room the magazines had come from.
“I can’t take these,” I said, putting one hand on the top of the box. “Some of these issues could be worth money.”
“I told Kevin that, but he didn’t care, probably because he was getting the barbecue.”
I waved a hand in his face. “Wait a second. What barbecue?”
“The barbecue I got from Eric,” he said. “It was one of the ones he used at the party to celebrate the library’s centennial. Remember?”
I sank down onto the opposite end of the couch from where Marcus was sitting. “No,” I said. I shook my head. “I mean, yes, I remember the party, but I didn’t know you ended up with a barbecue.”
Marcus nodded. “Uh-huh. Eric wanted a utility trailer that he could tow with his van, so we traded.”
“But there’s a barbecue out on your deck,” I said, gesturing in the direction of the backyard.
“I know.”
We were already way off track, but I couldn’t seem to stop myself from asking. “Why did you trade for a barbecue with Eric when you didn’t need a barbecue?”
He shrugged. “I didn’t need a utility trailer, either.”
I knew where this was going. “Because you already had one.”
“Right.”
Since I was already deeply confused, I decided to go for broke. “How did you end up with two utility trailers?”
“I had one that I’d built. The second one came from Burtis. It was smaller.”
I pushed a stray piece of hair off my face. “And Burtis got?”
“The blue bench that I got from you.”
The blue bench was something I’d trash picked and painted. And then discovered it was an inch too long for the space under the coat hooks in the kitchen.
Marcus gestured at the box. “So Batman is all yours.”
It was Let’s Make a Deal, Mayville Heights style.
I reached over and gave his arm a squeeze. “Thank you,” I said. “I can’t believe you did this. I can’t believe you even remembered that I’d told you I was a Batman fan.” I reached over and took the top comic out of the carton. “I haven’t read any of these vintage Batman in . . . in a long time. They take me back to my geeky girl days.”
He leaned back against the cushions and crossed his arms over his chest. “I can’t picture you as ever having been geeky,” he said
“You’ll just have to use your imagination,” I told him, pulling the comic books a little closer.
“I can do that,” he said.
I ducked my head over the open box. I wasn’t sure I was ready to hear exactly what he might be imagining.
I spent maybe another five or ten minutes exclaiming over the stack of comics, holding up issues and giving Marcus a summary of their story lines. Then he poured us each another cup of coffee, and we went out onto the deck in the fading light. He sat in a slat-back wooden chair and propped his feet up on the railing while I took the swing, kicking off my shoes so I could curl my feet underneath me.
“This is so beautiful,” I said, looking out over the backyard, rimmed with trees. The leaves were already turning, and even in the half-light of dusk I could still see colors from amber to scarlet. “How long have you been here?”
“Three years this winter,” he said. “I liked the place the moment I saw it.” He sank a little lower in his chair. “You know, it’s kind of because of Desmond that I’m here.”
“Roma’s Desmond?” I asked.
“Uh-huh.”
Desmond was another Wisteria Hill cat. Marcus had found the cat, injured, by the side of the road and taken him to Roma’s clinic. She’d ended up having to treat both of them. Desmond wasn’t exactly social.
Curious, Roma had done a little exploring at the old estate and found the feral cat colony. Marcus had been her first volunteer, although I wasn’t sure if he’d actually volunteered or if he’d been conscripted. Oddly, the cat seemed to like the clinic, so Roma had kept him. Desmond was long and lean with sleek black fur and there was something just a little intimidating about his presence. He was missing one eye and half an ear, which only made him seem more imposing.
I made a hurry-up motion with one hand. “Tell me,” I said.
“There isn’t that much to tell,” he said, setting his mug up on the railing. “I found Desmond. I took him to the clinic, and that’s when I met Roma for the first time. I knew she’d taken over the practice when Joe Ross retired. A couple of days later, I went back to see how Desmond was doing and we started talking. She told me that Joe had bought a sailboat and was planning to sail around the world so he was selling his house. I drove past on my way home and made him an offer in the morning.”
He reached over and patted one of the railing’s wooden spindles. “Most of the work has been outside so far. The yard was kind of overgrown. The end wall of the garage had a tilt that had to be fixed. And I built the deck.”
“You built this?”
He nodded. “With a lot of help from Harry Taylor.” He laughed. “Don’t worry. Harry put the swing together, so you’re safe.”
“I wasn’t worried,” I said, folding my hands around my cup. He could cook. He could build things. He smelled good. I took a sip of my coffee. I needed to think about something else.
“So what’s next?” I asked to distract myself from thinking about how great Marcus smelled.
“The attic,” he said at once. “There are boxes up there from whoever owned the house before Joe bought it. I have no idea what’s in them or who they might belong to.”
“A mystery,” I said. “I like those.”
“I’ve noticed that,” he said with a laugh.
We talked about his plans for the house for a while. I set my mug down on the wide deck boards and rubbed my left arm.
“Your wrist hurts,” Marcus said, dropping his feet and straightening up in the chair.
“A little bit,” I said. “I think we’re going to get some rain.” I’d broken my left wrist just over a year ago, and since then I’d become pretty good at predicting the weather based on how it felt.
I stretched and slid my feet back into my sh
oes. “I should get going. Owen could have Fred the Funky Chicken parts all over the kitchen by now.”
Marcus got the box of comic books and carried it out to the truck for me. “Thank you for those,” I said, tipping my head toward the carton on the passenger seat. “And for dinner. Will you come and have dinner with me—and the fur balls? Maybe next week?”
“I’d like that,” he said. “I’ll check my schedule and let you know.”
He smiled, and I thought about standing on my tiptoes, grabbing the collar of his shirt and pulling him down for a kiss. While I was thinking about it—and having a little internal debate with myself—he leaned down and kissed me.
His mouth was warm, his lips were soft and for a second—which was about how long the kiss lasted—I forgot how to breathe. Aside from kissing my dad on the cheek and Ethan on the top of his head—mostly because it bugged the heck out of him—I hadn’t kissed a man since Andrew. Andrew whom I’d thought I’d marry until we had a fight and he went on a two-week fishing trip and came back married to someone else.
I’d forgotten how much I liked kissing.
Marcus trailed one hand along my shoulder and then he took a step backward. “Good night, Kathleen,” he said.
“Good night, Marcus,” I said.
I got in the truck, started it and concentrated on backing slowly and carefully out of the driveway. Marcus raised a hand, and I did the same as I drove away. I didn’t think at all about backing him up against the door of the truck and kissing him until he was the one who couldn’t breathe.
No, I didn’t.
Hercules and Owen were sitting by the back door when I stepped into the kitchen, almost as though they’d been waiting for me to come home.
“Hello. How was your evening?” I said.
They exchanged glances and then looked at me, cocking their heads to the left at the same time, like the movement had been choreographed. They trailed me as I hung up my jacket and carried the box of comic books into the living room. I sat down in the big chair and set the comics on the footstool.
Herc narrowed his green eyes and studied the cardboard carton. I patted my lap. “Come up,” I said. “You know you want to.” He jumped up onto my lap and stepped carefully onto the end of the footstool. Then he stood on his back legs so he could poke his nose inside the box.
“Batman,” I said.
The furry black-and-white face surfaced, and it looked like he was frowning. “No,” I said. “Batman, not bat like the one who chased you across the backyard.” He made a small sound and his head disappeared back under the cardboard flap.
Owen had run out of patience by then. He didn’t wait for an invitation. He launched himself onto my lap, then leaned over and gave the carton a poke with one paw. Hercules meowed his annoyance, his head still inside.
“Stop that,” I said sternly to Owen.
He gave a snippy meow of his own; then he turned around, settled himself and stared at me.
“What do you want?” I asked. “A full rundown of my evening?”
“Rroww,” he rumbled.
“You’re worse than Maggie,” I said, running my fingers through my hair. “Okay, Marcus made stir-fried chicken with noodles. It was very good.”
Owen waited a moment, then pawed at my left leg. Cat for “And then what?”
“We had Eric’s chocolate pudding cake for dessert.”
He licked his lips, but his gaze didn’t move from my face.
I scratched behind his ears and he started to purr. I leaned a little closer. “And you were right. That was a button you dug up this morning.” He ducked his head for a moment, giving me a sideways glance with one eye. “Yes, I know, modesty prevents you from saying, ‘I told you so.’”
I yawned. “Then Marcus gave me that box of comic books.” I gave the cats a brief summary of all the deals that had led to Marcus ending up with the old Batman comics. Neither one seemed very interested.
“And that was pretty much it.” I linked my fingers together and stretched my arms out in front of me. “Oh, and he kissed me.”
Owen had just turned to take another look at what his brother was doing. He swung around and almost fell off my lap. Hercules jerked his head out of the box so quickly he banged it on the cardboard flap. Clearly they knew what the word “kissed” meant.
“Don’t get too excited,” I told them. “It was just one kiss.”
The cats exchanged a look then, and if I hadn’t known better, I would have almost thought they seemed pleased.
9
I was sweeping the porch stairs the next morning while Owen did his morning survey of our yard and Rebecca’s and Hercules perched on the top step and watched for the grackle. Harry Taylor—Young Harry—came around the side of the house. I smiled at him. “Hi, Harry,” I said.
“Good morning, Kathleen.” He smiled back at me. “Do you have a minute?”
“Sure,” I said, leaning the broom against the railing. “What is it?”
“I need a favor.”
I nodded. “Okay.”
“You might want to hear what it is first,” he said. His expression was serious, and it struck me that maybe the favor had something to do with his father, Harrison Taylor Senior.
Harry must have seen something in my expression, because he held up a hand. “Don’t worry. The old man’s fine. When I left, he was making bread with Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth was Harry’s half sister, the product of a relationship Harrison had had while his wife was dying. They’d met for the first time just a few months ago.
“But the favor does kind of have something to do with him,” Harry said. He swiped a hand over his chin.
I put a hand on my chest. “You know how I feel about your dad. Anything I can do for him, I will.”
“Okay. See if you can figure out what happened to Mike Glazer—who killed him—because it’s pretty clear someone did.”
“The police are investigating that, Harry,” I said.
He shoved his hands in the pockets of his blue windbreaker and shifted from one foot to the other. “The police were investigating Agatha Shepherd’s death, but if it hadn’t been for you, the old man never would have gotten those papers that helped us find Elizabeth.”
I shook my head. “That was mostly just being in the right place at the right time,” I said.
“More like the wrong place, Kathleen. You almost got blown to pieces.”
“But I didn’t,” I said. “Harry, I’m not a cop. And why do you care so much about what happened to Mike Glazer? And why would your father?”
“Elizabeth.” He exhaled slowly. “Have you met Wren Magnusson?”
“At the library.”
“Boris had a run-in with a porcupine a while back. Elizabeth came with me when I took him down to Roma.”
I winced and shot Hercules a warning look not to make any editorial comment. He didn’t like Harrison’s German shepherd any more than Owen did, even though the big dog was gentle and even-tempered. Herc glared back at me and then became very interested in one of his feet.
“Wren was at the clinic. The two of them hit it off. They’re both crazy about animals. Thing is, Wren used to be close to the Glazers.”
“I heard.”
“She’s upset. So’s Elizabeth, and that makes the old man upset. There’s talk that Glazer’s death wasn’t an accident. Paper said it’s under investigation.”
“There’s always talk going around town about something,” I said.
“Kathleen, people tell you things,” Harry said. “You’re the one who figured out how Tom Karlsson ended up buried out at Wisteria Hill. You figured out who killed him.” He put one foot up on the bottom step. “Look, I’m not asking you to sneak around behind Marcus Gordon’s back. I know there’s something starting between the two of you. Just ask a few questions and tell him what you find out, whatever the heck that ends up to be. That’s all I’m asking. Please.”
It was a very bad idea. I wasn’t a police officer
. I was a librarian with a couple of inquisitive cats that had questionable magical abilities. I’d told Marcus that I’d stay out of his investigation. I wasn’t sure he’d understand. And I really wanted to repeat that kiss from last night.
I knew I had to tell Harry no, but when I opened my mouth what came out was “Yes.”
The cats let the alarm clock wake me up on Monday morning. When I reached over to shut it off, there was Hercules, sitting by the door.
“I’m awake,” I told him, rolling over onto my back. I knew he was likely to stay there until I was actually out of the bed. “Where’s your brother?” I asked.
Herc looked over his shoulder toward the hallway. Owen was probably downstairs in the kitchen, not so patiently waiting for breakfast. I threw the blankets back and got up. I wasn’t going to find any insights staring at the ceiling.
I was right. Owen was in the kitchen, sitting right beside his dishes.
“I’m not late,” I told him as I put out food and water for both cats. “You’re up early.” He ignored me. Owen wasn’t really a morning person.
As I reached for the oatmeal in the refrigerator, it struck me that one of Eric’s breakfast sandwiches would taste pretty good. And if I was going to ask some questions about Mike Glazer’s death, the diner was a good place to start.
Claire was pouring coffee for a couple at a table by the window when I walked into the restaurant. “You can sit anywhere, Kathleen,” she said, smiling at me.
Eric was behind the counter, and I walked over to say hello. He had a cup of coffee poured before I even sat down on one of the shiny silver stools.
“Good morning,” he said, setting the heavy china mug in front of me. He was wearing his normally close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair a little longer and it suited him.
“Good morning and thank you,” I said, reaching for the cream and sugar.
Eric waited while I added both to my cup, stirred and took a long drink.
“Mmm, that’s good,” I said with a sigh of satisfaction.
“What can I get you?” he asked. “An omelet, maybe? I have some nice orange peppers.”