A Midwinter's Tail

by Sofie Kelly

  “Is it just my imagination or is Lita pretty much related to everyone in Mayville Heights?”

  Roma laughed as she set down her mug. “It’s not your imagination.”

  Rebecca leaned back in her chair, nodding in agreement. “Her mother’s family and her father’s family were the first non–Native American settlers here. Only the Blackthornes have been here longer. Half the town is cousin to Lita on her father’s side and the other half is related through her mother. I think the only people she’s not related to are the Chapmans, and that’s just because Chapman men tend to marry women from somewhere else and bring them back here.” She laughed. “Which is a good thing or we’d all be our own grandparents.”

  “What about you?” I said. Across the room Eric had just come out of the kitchen carrying a large stainless steel thermos.

  “We’re cousins about half a dozen times removed through our mothers,” Rebecca said. “On the Hale side of the family.”

  Roma glanced at her watch. “You know that Oren and I are second cousins.”

  I nodded.

  “Well, we’re cousins with Lita somehow on the Villier side of the family, her father’s ancestors.” She reached for her scarf on the back of her chair. “As much as I’d like to sit here, I should get back to the clinic.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the door to the café swing open and a well-dressed woman step inside. I knew immediately that she was, as my friend Harry Taylor would put it, from away. She was wearing beautiful high-heeled, black leather boots. They seemed molded to her long legs—no room for a pile lining for warmth—and the very high heels weren’t practical for navigating snowbanks. I’d learned that the hard way my first winter in town.

  I looked down at my warm, lace-up footwear. My boots might not have been trendsetters, but my feet were warm and dry.

  I glanced at the woman again. She had the collar of her elegant coat turned up against the side of her face, and her shoulders were hunched as though she was cold.

  Rebecca turned her head, probably to see what I was looking at. She put one hand, palm down, on the table and some of the color seemed to drain from her face.

  “Oh my word,” she said softly. “It can’t be.”

  I put my hand on the older woman’s arm. “Is something wrong?”

  She let out a breath. “I’m not sure.”

  Roma shot me a worried glance. “Rebecca, do you know that woman?” she asked.

  Rebecca nodded. “I do,” she said. “That’s Dayna Chapman, Burtis Chapman’s wife.”

  2

  “Dayna Chapman?” I repeated. “Burtis Chapman’s wife?”

  “Yes,” Rebecca said, her gaze locked on the woman making her way toward the counter and Lita. “Ex-wife.”

  Two frown lines appeared between Roma’s eyes. “Rebecca, are you all right?” she asked.

  Rebecca shook her head and turned back toward us. “I’m sorry,” she said, reaching up to give Roma’s hand a squeeze. “Seeing Dayna was a little like seeing a ghost for a moment. She hasn’t been back here in more than twenty years.”

  “I wonder what brought her back now,” Roma said as she shrugged on her jacket.

  “I was thinking the same thing.” Rebecca’s eyes darted over to the counter again where Lita, still holding the thermos Eric had brought from the kitchen, was now talking to Burtis’s ex-wife.

  The normally unflappable Lita was uncomfortable with the conversation, I realized. I could tell from the rigid way she held herself, shoulders stiff under her heavy jacket, back as straight as a metal signpost.

  “I’d better get going,” Roma said, pulling on her gloves. “I’ll see you tonight. I think it’ll be fun.”

  “I hope so,” I said. “If you talk to Eddie please thank him again for me.”

  “I will.” She smiled at Rebecca. “Thank you for the coffee break,” she said, and then she headed for the door.

  I reached for my own coat, noticing that Rebecca had darted another glance in Dayna and Lita’s direction. “You know, don’t you?” I said.

  Rebecca focused all her attention on me. Her blue eyes searched my face. I waited for her to ask, “Know what?” After a moment she smiled and said, “How long have you known?”

  “Since the fall.”

  “Lita is a good person,” Rebecca said, pulling on her hat, a soft rose cloche. “This last year is the happiest I’ve seen her in a long time.”

  Burtis and Lita had been a couple for the last year? How had they managed to keep that quiet?

  “I like Lita,” I said, patting my pockets for my gloves. “And I like Burtis.”

  It was true. The library renovations, which had originally brought me to town, would have been a lot more frustrating without Lita to answer all of my questions. And I considered Burtis a friend. We’d gotten to know each other after I discovered the body of Roma’s biological father, Tom Karlsson, out at Wisteria Hill, the old Henderson family homestead.

  “I can’t help wondering what she’s doing here now,” Rebecca said, reaching for her purse and the check.

  “Maybe she’s here for the fundraiser or Vincent Starr’s lecture tomorrow,” I said.

  “It’s possible,” she said, but the tone of her voice said she didn’t really think so.

  I leaned over and gave her a hug. “Thank you for this.”

  “You are so welcome,” she said with a smile. “Thank you for offering to help me find a wedding dress.”

  “When is Ami coming?” I asked, putting the strap of my own bag over my shoulder.

  “The day before the wedding, as soon as her exams are finished.”

  Everett’s granddaughter was studying music at the Chicago College of Performing Arts. She was Rebecca’s maid of honor.

  “I’m looking forward to meeting your brother,” I said. Rebecca’s older brother, Stephen, was going to walk her down the aisle. Their other brother had died several years ago. “What’s he like?”

  Rebecca laughed. “Our mother always said that Stephen and I were as different as chalk and cheese, but I think you’ll like him. He used to spend a lot of time at the library. He loves books.”

  “Now I have two reasons to like him.”

  “What’s the other reason?” she asked, cocking her head to one side, the gleam in her eye telling me she already knew the answer to her own question.

  “He has excellent taste in sisters,” I said.

  She nodded. “I’ve been telling him that for years.”

  I grinned at her.

  “I’m glad Stephen is coming to the wedding,” Rebecca said, “but I really don’t need to be ‘given away.’ For heaven’s sake, it’s not like I’m an old chest of drawers that someone found in the attic.” She sighed. “But the tradition is important to Everett.”

  “When my mother and father got married—the second time—I walked her down the aisle,” I said.

  My parents had been married, divorced and then remarried after figuring out that living without each other was worse than living with each other.

  “The minister asked, ‘Who brings this woman to be married?’ and I said I did.”

  “I like the sound of that,” Rebecca said.

  I didn’t add that at one point a couple of my parents’ friends had floated the idea that I put my hand on my mother’s hugely pregnant abdomen at the front of the church and answer the minister’s question with “her children do,” since the twins, my brother, Ethan, and sister, Sara, couldn’t speak for themselves.

  Mom and Dad knew that I was already cringing with embarrassment over the incontrovertible evidence that they’d been “seeing” each other, unbeknownst to everyone including me, and let the suggestion sink without comment.

  “I know you wish Matthew could be here,” I said.

  Matthew Nixon was Rebecca’s only child, but he was a geologist looking for oil deposits in northern Canada. Rebecca nodded, brushing a strand of hair off her face. “I do,” she said. “But it’s just too far and gettin
g out of Izok Lake isn’t easy this time of year.”

  She leaned over and patted my cheek. “But I have Ami and you and Roma and all of my friends. And did I tell you that darling Ruby is going to make a video of the ceremony so I can send it to Matthew?”

  “That’s a great idea,” I said. Ruby Blackthorne was a good friend and a talented artist. I glanced at my watch as I pulled the sleeve of my jacket down over my heavy woolen gloves.

  “I’ll see you tonight,” Rebecca said, her grin giving me a glimpse of the young girl she once was. “Roma’s right. It’s going to be fun.”

  “I hope so,” I said. “I’ll see you later.” I raised a hand in good-bye to Eric, who was still at the counter, and headed out.

  It was cold outside. The air was sharp and dry, but it wasn’t snowing and there wasn’t a cloud in the deep blue sky arcing overhead. I walked quickly back to the library, my breath making me look like a train engine chugging along the sidewalk.

  Mary Lowe was at the front desk when I walked in. Since it was December she was wearing one of her many Christmas sweaters. This one was white and a deep forest green with a couple of reindeer heads grinning at me, one on either side of the quarter-size green buttons. There was a little bulb at the end of each reindeer’s nose that glowed red thanks to a battery pack in one of the sweater’s pockets. The sweater made me smile every time Mary wore it. She smiled now and handed me a stack of messages. I sorted through them. Nothing was urgent.

  “How was your coffee break?” she asked.

  “Delicious,” I said. “I think Eric has perfected his sticky buns.”

  “That sounds good,” she said, reaching back to set four picture books on one of the book carts. “Abigail is shelving and Susan is setting up for tomorrow in the conference room.”

  “If you can handle things here for a little longer, I’ll put my coat in my office and give her a hand.”

  “Go ahead,” Mary said. “It won’t get busy until school lets out and all the kids in Anne Stinson’s history class show up because they finally figured out that she wasn’t joking when she said they have to use ‘real’ books to write their term paper.” She laughed. “The same thing happened last year.”

  “Mia will be here to help,” I said. “She was in that class last year.” Mia was our co-op student from the high school.

  Mary held up a hand. “I almost forgot. Burtis brought over one of his big coffeemakers and four dozen coffee cups for tomorrow. He said if you need more cups to give him a call.”

  One of Burtis Chapman’s businesses was large tent rentals. He could also supply booths if you were having some kind of trade show, or dishes for a wedding reception. He was loaning us the coffeepot and cups Mary had mentioned. I wondered if he knew his ex-wife was in town.

  Mary narrowed her gaze at me. “What is it?” she asked.

  I gave my head a shake. “Nothing.”

  “That’s not your ‘nothing’ face,” she said. “Don’t worry about tonight, Kathleen, or tomorrow, for that matter. You’ve thought of everything.”

  “It’s not that,” I said, loosening the scarf at my throat. “I was actually thinking about Burtis. When we were at Eric’s, his ex-wife came in.”

  “Dayna Chapman just walked into Eric’s?”

  I nodded.

  Her eyebrows rose and her mouth pulled to one side. “Well, that’s a surprise.”

  “Rebecca said she hasn’t been back in twenty years.”

  Mary nodded. “It’s been all of that.” She gave me a wry smile. “You know, there was a lot of loose talk when Dayna left.”

  I pulled off my scarf and stuffed it in my jacket pocket. “What do you mean?” I asked.

  She patted her gray curls, fixed firmly in place with the heavy-duty hair spray she favored. “One day she was here. The next she was just gone. You know how people are.”

  “People actually though Burtis might have done something to his wife?”

  “He does have a reputation.”

  The phone rang then. I gestured in the direction of the conference room with the message slips Mary had given me. “I’m just going to take a quick look.”

  Mary nodded and reached for the receiver.

  The coffeemaker was set up on a long table in front of the windows. Burtis had arranged the cups and saucers in neat rows. He’d also brought spoons and a large, insulated stainless steel carafe that we could use for hot water for tea.

  Burtis Chapman was built like an oversize hockey goalie. I’d heard all the stories and rumors about his being the area bootlegger and running some high-stakes and very illegal poker games. And I’d found him intimidating before I got to know the man. But now that I did know Burtis, I also knew he was an ethical man. It was just that those ethics were part of his own personal code, which sometimes put him at odds with the rest of the world. I was surprised that anyone who really knew the man would ever have thought he’d have done anything to his ex-wife.

  I walked back over to the desk. Mary had started checking in a stack of picture books.

  “Mary, did you know Dayna Chapman?” I asked.

  “Not well,” she said, turning to put another book on the half-full cart behind her. “Nobody really did. She wasn’t in town that long.” Her eyes narrowed. “Why do you ask?”

  I shrugged. “I only got a quick look at the woman, but—”

  “She didn’t look like Burtis’s type,” Mary finished. She didn’t miss much.

  “I shouldn’t make assumptions,” I said.

  “You’re not. Burtis and Dayna were a classic case of opposites attracting.” She straightened her sweater so the reindeers were nose to bright red nose. “I wonder why she’s back here now, after all this time.”

  “Maybe she missed her kids, or Mayville Heights.” I held up both hands. “Maybe after so many years she missed Burtis.”

  Mary gave a snort of laughter. Then her expression grew serious. “You know, no one really knows why that marriage ended. Burtis wasn’t talking and no one was ever foolhardy enough to ask him.”

  She took a small, square picture book from the pile at her elbow. A handful of Cheerios bounced onto the counter from between the pages.

  “At least it’s not peanut butter and marshmallow fluff,” I said with a smile, and headed for the stairs.

  I returned all the phone calls and sent a couple of texts. Everything was running smoothly. Vincent Starr was checked into a beautiful bed-and-breakfast within walking distance of the library and the Stratton Theatre. Abigail, who had found the edition of Alice in Wonderland that had originally brought us into contact with Vincent, was taking him to dinner before the gala at the Stratton.

  Maggie and Ruby Blackthorne had done an incredible job of turning the Stratton Theatre into a Parisian bistro and managed to do it under budget. I’d walked over before lunch and I’d found myself at a loss for words at the sight of all their work. Mags and Ruby had donated all their time and managed to borrow most of the design elements.

  The rest of the afternoon was busy. As Mary had predicted, nearly every student from Anne Stinson’s history class showed up after school and stood, bewildered, annoyed or a bit of both in front of the nonfiction section. The seniors’ reading club arrived en masse to register at the last minute for Ruby’s bookmaking workshop on Saturday, and Thorsten delivered three cartons of old first- and second-grade readers that he and Oren Kenyon had found in a cubbyhole at the community center. Vincent Starr had offered to look at the books to determine if they might be worth anything. The community center needed a new roof and I was hoping there might be something valuable about their old books.

  We closed the building at four thirty because of the fundraiser. I double-checked the conference room before I left and made one more trip back up to the staff room to make sure we had everything we needed for morning.

  Susan was waiting for me by the front door, bundled into her red, down-filled coat. “Everything’s done, Kathleen,” she said. “I put a few more chairs in t
he conference room and ran the vacuum around in there.”

  “You are an angel,” I said as I hurried across the floor to her.

  “Yes, I am,” she replied, grinning at me. “Now let’s get out of here. I have to get home and make myself even more beautiful than I already am.”

  I set the alarm, locked the doors and we headed for the parking lot. It was cold, but it wasn’t snowing and the sky was clear overhead.

  “It’s going to be a great night,” Susan said. She’d pulled the brim of her hat down and turned the collar of her coat up, so all I could see was her eyes, sparkling behind her black cat’s-eye glasses.

  “I hope you’re right,” I said. “I’ll see you later.”

  She made a sweeping gesture with her right hand. “Prepare to be dazzled.”

  A bit of snow had blown onto my windshield. I brushed it off before I slid onto the driver’s seat of my truck. The truck was old and an ugly brown color, like the bottom of a mud puddle, but it ran well and it had a great heater. Harry Taylor Senior had loaned me the truck and then given it to me outright after he’d found his daughter, Elizabeth. I had retrieved some documents that had helped the old man in his search for her, and the truck was his way of saying thank you.

  I drove up Mountain Road thinking I’d warm up the last of the chicken noodle soup I’d made on the weekend for supper. That would give me a bit of extra time to spend with the cats before I had to get ready for the gala. Owen and Hercules had been out of sorts the past couple of days. If I hadn’t known better, I would have said that they were miffed because they weren’t going to the gala. The boys, brothers I’d had since they followed me home, weren’t exactly your everyday, run-of-the-mill house cats. Sometimes I had to remind myself that they weren’t people, either, even though they seemed to think they were.

  I parked in the driveway and headed around the house to the back porch, mentally going over everything I needed to do before I headed back down the hill to the Stratton.