A Midwinter's Tail

by Sofie Kelly

  I stopped and turned around.

  “I’m serious,” she said. “I’m good at decorating. I could come over this weekend and give you a hand.”

  As far as Christmas decorations went, my house looked as if it belonged to Ebenezer Scrooge. I nodded and pressed my palms together. “Yes. Thank you. I’ll make brownies.”

  Lita had a fresh pot of coffee made when I got to Henderson Holdings. The fact that everyone in town seemed to know that I liked a good cup of coffee—or a not so good one—made me feel even more certain that I’d made the right choice when I decided to stay despite the occasional pangs of homesickness.

  We went quickly through the budget estimates I’d put together. When we got to the bottom of the last page, I put my pen down and picked up my coffee. “Thanks for your help,” I said to Lita. “I’ll get the final copy to you by Monday.”

  “That’s fine,” she said. She seemed a little distracted. The bright red-and-silver scarf at her neck wasn’t bright enough to hide the fact that she looked as though she hadn’t gotten a lot of sleep.

  “How’s Burtis?” I asked.

  Lita gave me an approximation of a smile. “All right,” she said. “He told me the two of you had breakfast.” She straightened the papers in front of her and then she looked up at me. “Kathleen, I think the police suspect him.”

  “Why?” I asked. “Has something happened?”

  “They’ve questioned him twice.”

  “He was married to Dayna.”

  She gave me a tight smile. “I’ve lived here all my life, Kathleen. I know what people think about Burtis. And I know what they say behind his back.”

  “I think Burtis is stubborn,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “And I don’t think I’d want to play poker with him. But I know he didn’t have anything to do with Dayna’s death. I’m not the only one.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “Does he have a lawyer?”

  Lita nodded. “Brady got him one. Someone he went to law school with who’s practicing in Minneapolis.”

  Her expression changed, tightened just a little when she said Brady’s name.

  “Lita, is Brady all right?” I asked. “Dayna was his mother. It had to have been painful to lose her, even if they weren’t really close.”

  She played with the scarf at her neck. “I think it might have been better if they were a little closer,” she said.

  I looked uncertainly at her.

  “You saw her, at the café.”

  I nodded.

  “She’d just gotten into town, I guess. She asked me where Brady’s office was and I told her. I’m not so sure I should have. She went to see him.” Lita took a deep breath. “Brady was very angry. I think more for his brothers than himself.”

  I thought about what I’d seen at the fundraiser—Brady brushing his mother’s hand off his arm. “You think he regrets what he said.”

  She sighed. “Or maybe he doesn’t.”

  I thought about Brady as I walked back to the library. I didn’t know him that well, but I liked what I knew. And no matter what she said, Maggie certainly did. He was a lawyer, though. Was it possible that Brady knew anything about his mother’s connection to that pawnshop robbery?

  Abigail had the lights up on the tree when I got back. “Thank you,” I said. “We’ll start on the ornaments after lunch.”

  I covered the phones and the circulation desk while Susan had lunch. I ate the soup I’d gotten at Eric’s at my desk and spent some time online seeing what else I could find out about Dayna Chapman. The only thing that really caught my interest was the fact that her family was pretty much broke. Her father had died just six months ago and Dayna and her older sister, who lived in London, had inherited very little.

  It felt a little uncharitable to be thinking it, but I wondered if that was why she’d come back to Mayville Heights after having been away for so long. Maybe it had to do with money, especially since Dayna and Burtis were still married.

  Abigail and I worked at the tree on and off all afternoon. By the time it was time for me to leave, we had most of Ruby’s ornaments hanging on the tree.

  “It looks beautiful,” I said to Abigail as I leaned against the front desk and surveyed our work.

  She crossed her arms over her chest and looked at the big fir, nodding with satisfaction. “It’ll be even better when I get the snowflakes.”

  “What snowflakes?” I said.

  “The seniors from the morning reading group are going to crochet snowflakes for the tree. That’s okay, isn’t it?”

  “Of course,” I said. “But aren’t we going to need a lot of snowflakes to go all around that tree?”

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “You’d be surprised how fast some of them can crochet.”

  I brushed lint off the front of my sweater. “Wait a minute. Where are we going to get all the crochet thread?”

  “Remember when Abigail was trying to teach me how to knit?” Susan said behind me.

  I turned to look at her. A tiny snowman wired to something was poked into her topknot.

  “I remember,” I said slowly.

  “Well, that didn’t work so well,” she said. “So I thought maybe crocheting, because you only have to think about one needle instead of two.” She gestured with her hands.

  “And?” I prompted.

  “If I was supposed to knit myself a scarf or crochet a dress, then there wouldn’t be a Land’s End catalogue, would there?” she said with a shrug.

  Abigail was trying not to grin and not really succeeding.

  I smiled at Susan. “Since I pretty much used the same logic to justify one of Eric’s breakfast sandwiches instead of a bowl of oatmeal and fruit, I’m going to agree with you.”

  She held out both hands. “Which is why you now have more than enough crochet thread for the seniors to make snowflakes. Don’t you love it when a plan comes together?”

  I laughed. “Yes, I do.”

  It was snowing when I headed home. All the way up the hill I thought, for maybe the twenty-fourth time, how glad I was that Harrison had loaned and then given me the truck.

  I drove over to Roma’s clinic, picked up the cat cage and checked on Smokey. Roma’s friend and colleague David Thornton, who was covering for her, said that the infection in Smokey’s leg wasn’t responding well to the antibiotics. The old cat raised his head when he heard my voice and I talked to him for a while. After a few minutes he put his head down again and went back to sleep. I told David I’d be back in the morning to check on the big gray tom.

  Hercules was waiting for me inside the porch “Twice in the same week,” I said. “I’m flattered.” He jumped down from the bench, made his way to the back door and meowed loudly and insistently.

  “Give me a minute,” I said, juggling my keys, my purse and my briefcase.

  I got the door unlocked and as soon as I opened it Hercules was inside. He headed for the living room door, clearly a cat with a purpose. He stopped in the doorway, looked over his shoulder and meowed again.

  “Hang on,” I said. “I haven’t even taken my boots off.”

  He gave me a look of impatience. I half expected him to start tapping one paw on the floor.

  I set my purse and briefcase on the floor, hung up my jacket and stepped out of my boots. “Okay, what is it?”

  Hercules turned around again and headed for the stairs. Whatever he was so insistent about was on the second floor of the house.

  I followed the cat upstairs. He went directly to the bathroom, sat down beside the tub and meowed.

  “What? You want a bath?” I asked.

  He closed his jade green eyes for a moment and dropped his head in annoyance.

  I looked in the tub. Herc’s tiny purple mouse lay almost in the middle. There was a small patch of water just to the right of it. Given his intense revulsion for wet feet, I knew there was no way Hercules would jump in and get his mouse.

  I leaned over, picked it up and set it on
the floor in front of him. Gingerly he reached out one white-tipped paw and touched the little purple rodent.

  “It’s dry,” I said. Hercules, being Hercules, didn’t take my word for it. Very tentatively he touched his toy again.

  “You wouldn’t have to worry about that being wet if you hadn’t dropped it in the bathtub in the first place,” I pointed out.

  He shot me a daggers look, picked up the mouse in his mouth and stalked out of the bathroom, muttering under his breath all the way.

  I changed my clothes, brushed my hair and went down to the kitchen. No sign of Hercules or his brother. I stuck a bowl of pea soup with carrots and ham in the microwave and while it warmed I retrieved my laptop from my briefcase. I wanted to see what else I could find out about the pawnshop robbery that Dayna Chapman had witnessed. Was I right about Nic Sutton?

  I couldn’t find out much more than I already knew, so I stuck the name of the investigating detective—Leah Webster—in a search engine. There had to have been some kind of charges against the shooter.

  I was hoping I could find an article about the court case. Maybe there would be photos. Instead all I discovered was a brief article that told me the shooter—who was a juvenile at the time—had taken a plea deal. I tried looking up Nicolas Sutton Sr. Again, I couldn’t find any photographs.

  I set the computer aside for a minute and concentrated on my bowl of soup. I looked around the kitchen. Hercules was miffed, but it wasn’t like Owen not to be lurking by my chair to mooch a piece of ham. Then again . . .

  “Owen, I know you’re there,” I said. “I can hear you breathing.” I couldn’t, but he didn’t know that.

  I waited.

  Nothing.

  “Fine,” I said, focusing all my attention on my supper. “I can’t share with someone I can’t see.” I counted under my breath, “One . . . two . . .”

  He popped into sight on three. It wasn’t as disconcerting as it had been the first time I saw the cat disappear and then reappear again, but I still had the sensation of being Alice in Wonderland tumbling down the rabbit hole.

  I looked down at the floor. “Hello,” I said.

  “Murp,” he replied.

  I fished a bite of ham out of my soup with two fingers and set it on the floor so Owen could scrutinize it the way he did everything he ate. Then I pulled the laptop closer again and scrolled through more images. I had a few more minutes before I needed to leave for tai chi class.

  I tried everything connected to the pawnshop robbery that I could think of. I was about to give up when at the bottom of a screen full of photos, I discovered something that I realized just might be very helpful. It was a photo of Detective Leah Webster taken at a first responders appreciation night at a Minnesota Wild game.

  With her cousin.

  Eddie Sweeney.

  Marcus had said sometimes it was a small world. Suddenly, I was very glad he was right.

  17

  I shut the computer off and gave Owen the last two pieces of ham from the bottom of my dish. I rationalized it by telling myself how healthy Roma had said Owen was at his checkup the week before. Right before he bit her Kevlar glove.

  “Eddie’s related to the detective who investigated that pawnshop robbery,” I told the cat as I put my dishes in the sink. “That might be a way to find out if I’m right about Nic.”

  Owen made a little grunt, which probably had a lot more to do with the ham than what I’d come up with.

  “I’m leaving for class,” I said.

  I put on my boots and jacket, grabbed my heavy gloves and pulled on the striped hat Rebecca had knit for me. Then I grabbed my bag and went out to the truck.

  When I got to the stop sign at the bottom of the hill, I realized I had enough time to stop at Eric’s for a cup of hot chocolate. I hadn’t had any dessert, I reasoned, and the only thing Mags would have at tai chi was tea. And if I got the chance to talk to Nic Sutton while I was waiting for my hot chocolate, that would just be a happy coincidence.

  I headed for the restaurant, telling myself that if I could find a close parking spot, I’d take that as a sign to go in. There was an empty place directly in front of the café door. I smiled, thinking about Lise back in Boston, who would have said, “I don’t believe in signs, but if I did, this would be one.”

  I pulled into the empty spot, tucked my keys in the pocket of my jacket, and reached across the seat to the floor of the passenger side for my bag where I’d tucked my wallet. It had fallen off the seat as I drove down the hill. I stepped out of the truck, sliding my hand in my pocket for the keys so I could lock the door.

  They weren’t there.

  At the same moment Owen materialized on the driver’s seat, standing on his back legs with his paws on the door, just below the window. My keys were on the seat by his feet. They must have slipped out of my pocket.

  A split second too late I saw what was going to happen. I lunged for the truck door and Owen put one gray paw down on the lock.

  I smacked both hands against the side window. The cat jumped and glared at me. I slumped against the front fender of the truck. How could Owen have managed to sneak into the truck yet again without me noticing? Either he was getting sneakier or I wasn’t paying enough attention.

  I exhaled loudly and watched my frustration hang in the air in front of me. Then I turned and put my face close to the driver’s-side window.

  “Open the door,” I said, enunciating each word carefully.

  Owen blinked his golden eyes at me. Could he even hear what I’d just said? Could cats lip-read? I wondered.

  I took another deep breath, tapped on the window and then pointed to the door lock. “Put your paw right there,” I said.

  He yawned.

  I tapped on the window again. “Owen, right there, put your paw right there,” I said, a little more insistently than the last time.

  He sat down on the seat, sniffed my keys and then began methodically washing his face.

  He looked up at me once and I swear he was smiling.

  He’d done it on purpose. He’d locked me out of my own truck on purpose. I knew how ridiculous that was. I also knew I was right.

  “Open this door right now, you little fur ball!” I hissed.

  He went back to his careful face-washing routine.

  I leaned against the truck. Once again I had been bested by eight pounds of sneaky cat.

  I turned my head to glare at him through the windshield. He didn’t even twitch an ear.

  “I know you can hear me, Owen,” I said. “When we get home I’m going to gather up every sardine and every funky chicken and make a big bonfire in the front yard and—and—roast marshmallows out there.”

  I was lousy at making threats. Owen’s whiskers didn’t move and he didn’t so much as flick his tail at me.

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “I’m serious, mister,” I warned.

  I took out my phone. I tried Marcus, but the call went straight to voice mail. I sent a text to Maggie but didn’t get a response, probably because class was about to start.

  Rebecca was in class and so was Ruby. Roma was out of town.

  I was about to call Harry when Eric stuck his head out the front door of the café. “Kathleen, is everything all right?” he called.

  I walked around the front of the truck.

  “No,” I said. “I accidentally locked myself out of the truck and Owen is inside.” I looked back through the windshield. I couldn’t remember the last time he’d spent so much time washing his face. I held up my phone. “I’m going to try Harry.”

  “You won’t get him,” Eric said. “He stopped in for a coffee about ten minutes ago. He’s at a meeting about the community center roof. You know Thorsten. Everyone’s phone will be off.”

  I groaned and swallowed a word that my mother would have said a lady wouldn’t use.

  “I’m going to walk home and get my spare keys, then,” I said, brushing snow off my jacket. At least it wasn’t cold. “Could you keep an ey
e on the truck and Owen? He should be all right and I won’t be that long.”

  Eric smiled and gestured to me. “Come have a cup of coffee and I’ll text Susan. She might be able to come and run you up to get your keys.”

  I didn’t really want to walk up the hill in the snow.

  “Okay, thanks,” I said.

  I brushed the rest of the snow off me and followed Eric inside. I took a seat at the counter and he poured me a cup of coffee. “How did you get locked out?” he asked.

  I made a face. “Keys fell out of my pocket and Owen hit the lock.”

  “I don’t suppose you could coax him to hit it again and let you in?” he asked with a smile.

  I pulled off my hat. “Only if you could somehow make a sardine materialize on the button,” I said.

  Eric shook his head. “That I can’t do,” he said. “But I can go get my phone. It’s in my office. I’ll be right back.”

  Nic was just coming back from making a circuit with the coffeepot. He looked from Eric to me. “Are you locked out of your car?” he asked.

  “Truck,” I said. “Yes. And my cat’s inside.” I shrugged. “Long story.”

  He set the pot back on its burner. “Is it new?” he said.

  I shook my head.

  “I can probably jimmy the lock and get you in, then,” he offered.

  “Really?” Eric said. He sounded skeptical.

  “Yeah,” Nic said. He grinned. “And before you ask, no, I wasn’t a juvenile delinquent. My dad taught me. He had a pawnshop. He knew all kinds of stuff.”

  So I was right.

  “What do you think?” Eric said to me. “I can still text Susan.”

  “It’s worth trying.” I looked at Nic. “The truck’s old. You can’t hurt it.”

  “Give me a second,” he said. He took off his apron and pointed toward the kitchen. “Okay if I get a screwdriver from the toolbox in the storage room?” he asked Eric.

  “Sure,” Eric said. He looked at me. “I’ll get my phone anyway, just in case.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  He grabbed a couple of menus. A man and a woman—tourists, I was guessing—had just come in. Eric gestured at my coffee as he passed me. “That’s on the house.”