by Sofie Kelly
Hercules got up and walked over to stand in front of Everett, still looking intently at the older man.
“From Wisteria Hill,” Everett said.
“Yes,” I said. I cleared my throat. “Have I done something wrong by keeping them?”
That made Everett finally look at me. He shook his head. “No. No, you haven’t.” He glanced quickly back at Herc. “My mother had a cat. It disappeared when she died. I . . . We searched the house and the grounds for days, but . . .” He let the end of the sentence trail off and shook his head again. “I know it’s not possible—cats don’t live that long—but for a moment . . .” He pulled his hand down over his bearded chin and his gaze went back to Hercules. “Finn,” Everett said, more to himself than to me.
Herc’s ears twitched and he took a step forward. A shiver slid up the back of my neck.
“Here, Finn,” Everett called again, holding out his hand.
Hercules started toward him. I held my breath and it seemed I could hear my own heartbeat thudding double time in my ears.
The cat took another step toward Everett. And then another.
And then he reached under Everett’s chair and snagged something with his paw, completely ignoring the hand extended to him.
I started to breathe again. Leaning forward in my seat, I tried to see what Hercules was hiding. “What is that?” I asked the cat.
He jerked upright at the sound of my voice, almost bumping his head on the underside of the wooden chair. One white-tipped paw still covered whatever he had spotted.
“Let me see,” I said. We had a little stare-down contest.
I won.
Slowly Hercules raised his paw. It was a kitty cracker. It had probably fallen onto the floor when I was taking them off the baking sheet.
“Okay, you can have it,” I said, straightening. “Cat treat,” I said as an aside to Everett.
Hercules was already chewing the little cracker. He took a couple of passes at his face, more to get any stray crumbs than to really get clean, I suspected, and then crossed under the table and came to lean against my leg.
I smiled at Everett, who smiled back at me and picked up his cup. Whatever memories Hercules had stirred up had been put away again. “You have another cat?” he asked.
I nodded, reaching down to scratch the top of Hercules’ head. “Owen. He’s a tabby.”
“Owen?” Everett asked over the top of his mug.
“I was reading A Prayer for Owen Meany—John Irving—when the cats followed me home. Every time I put the book down Owen sat on it. It was either going to be Owen or Irving.” I shrugged. “And he didn’t look like an Irving.” I reached for my coffee.
“And Hercules? From Roman mythology?”
“Uh, yes.” That was sort of true. Herc was named after Hercules, son of Zeus, as portrayed by the delectable Kevin Sorbo. Or as Maggie sometimes called him, Mr. Six-Pack in a Loincloth. Mags didn’t have a proper appreciation for trashy television.
“You were going to tell me how the renovations are going,” Everett said.
Okay. We weren’t talking about the cats anymore.
I brought Everett up-to-date on what had been happening—the wiring problems, the computer room, plans for the yard sale—downplaying my almost being electrocuted and leaving out Owen and Gregor Easton’s encounter altogether.
“Were you hurt?” Everett asked, reaching across the table to pat my arm.
“I’m fine,” I said. “Luckily Roma Davidson was at the library.”
Everett raised an eyebrow and a hint of a smile played around his mouth.
I couldn’t quite help smiling myself. “Yes, I know she’s a vet, and I promise you I’m fine.”
Everett relaxed all the way into a smile and sat back in his chair again. “I have every confidence that Lawrence will fix the problem with the wiring. And I’m confident that Roma took good care of you, even though you’re not her typical patient.” His expression turned serious again. “When Lawrence sends you a bill, send it directly to the office. That shouldn’t have to come out of the renovation budget.”
“Thank you,” I said, feeling relieved I wasn’t going to have to squeeze the already stretched budget after all. “I will.”
Everett stood up. “Thank you for the coffee, Kathleen. I have to get back to the office. Is there anything else you need from me?”
For a moment I thought about telling him how Will Redfern kept giving me the runaround, how it seemed sometimes that he didn’t want the library job to get finished. But it seemed like such a childish thing to complain about.
“No,” I said. “I’ll call Lita if I need anything.”
I walked Everett out. He looked around, then crossed the grass to look at the roses, still blooming in the back corner of the yard. “You have a real green thumb, Kathleen,” he said. “These roses have never looked so beautiful.” He bent to smell one of the flowers, white petals edged in pink. “These bushes came from Wisteria Hill, you know. Harry Senior brought them down here. He said it was a sin to let them go wild out at the house.”
There was my opening. I opened my mouth to ask him why the estate had been abandoned, but before I could get the words out Everett straightened and looked over at Rebecca’s house.
“Have you met Rebecca?” he asked.
“The day I moved in,” I told him, smiling at the memory. Rebecca had shown up with a plate of cinnamon rolls—still warm—and a stainless-steel carafe of coffee.
I hadn’t realized that Rebecca and Everett knew each other, which seemed silly, considering Mayville Heights was a small place and they were both in their midsixties, give or take. Sometimes I still thought like a city dweller.
“How is she?” Everett asked. For a moment I thought he was going to walk over to the hedge. Did he and Rebecca have a past, or had I been reading too many books by the Brontë sisters?
“She’s fine,” I said. “She’s taking tai chi. She talked me into joining the class.”
“I can see her doing that,” he said, finally pulling his eyes back to me. He brushed his hand over his scalp. “Call the office if you need anything,” he said. “And don’t worry about this business with Easton. It’ll straighten itself out.” He patted my shoulder.
I watched Everett cross the yard to the street. I was just about to go back inside when Owen poked his head through the gap in the hedge. He meowed loudly when he saw me. Translation: Come and get me.
“C’mon,” I called to him.
He sat down and yowled again.
“You can walk,” I said. “I’m not coming to get you.” I stood there, arms folded, doing my best Gary-Cooperin-the-showdown-of- High-Noon impersonation, waiting to see what he’d do. After a minute Owen got up and started toward me, something hanging from his mouth. It was enough to get me to walk over and intercept him.
He looked up at me, all golden-eyed innocence, one end of what looked like a bit of fringe between his teeth.
“What is that?” I asked. I reached down and he obligingly let go. It was a twisted piece of fringe. “Owen, where did you get this?” I asked. It looked like the same fringe that was on the scarf Rebecca had left behind at tai chi Tuesday night.
“Owen,” I said sharply. “Did you take this from Rebecca’s scarf?”
The cat was suddenly intently interested in something crawling on the ground in front of him.
Great. I had one cat that could walk through walls and another that seemed to be turning into a kleptomaniac. I leaned down. “That was very bad.” I shook the twist of fringe in his face. “Why did you do that?”
Owen lifted his head, looked around my legs, then sat down and started carefully washing his face.
“Ms. Paulson,” a voice said behind me. Detective Gordon.
I closed my eyes for a second, pulled in a deep breath and slowly blew it out. Then I turned around, pasting a pleasant, innocent expression on my face.
The detective headed toward us.
“We are not finished
,” I hissed to Owen, bending to tug at my shoe as a cover so the police officer couldn’t catch me talking to a cat.
Without really thinking about it, I tucked the piece of fringe into the back pocket of my pants.
“Good morning, Detective,” I said.
He looked at Owen, who continued washing his face. I didn’t think I’d ever seen the cat be quite so meticulous about his face washing in, well, ever.
“Is that your cat?” the detective asked.
“Yes, that’s Owen,” I said.
“Hello, puss.” He held out his hand for Owen to sniff. Owen ignored it and continued his elaborate face-washing routine.
The detective gave a slight shrug and straightened. “Ms. Paulson, I have a couple more questions, if you don’t mind.”
I wondered what he’d do if I said I did mind. Instead I said only, “Go ahead.”
“Tuesday morning, how did you get into the theater?”
“Through the side door.”
“Did you touch the alarm panel?”
“I didn’t know there was an alarm panel.” Why wasn’t he writing this down? Was his memory that good, or was he more interested in my reaction to the questions than my answers? Owen finally finished washing his face.
“Did you turn on any lights?” Detective Gordon asked, pushing his rolled shirtsleeves back a bit more. His forearms were deeply tanned.
I shook my head. “No.”
“Do you remember which lights were on?”
I closed my eyes for a second and let the image of the Stratton fill my head. “There was one light by the side door and several of the stage lights were on. That’s how I noticed that little silver musical note.”
“Is that it?”
In my mind I looked out over the audience seating. “No,” I said slowly. “There was a light—not very bright—at the back of the theater.”
I held up both hands to put the image in perspective. “This side,” I said, wiggling my left fingers. I opened my eyes. “The light was on the left as you look toward the back of the audience.”
He nodded. Did that mean I’d given the right answer?
Owen was still leaning against my leg. I bent down and picked him up. Detective Gordon held out his hand again. Owen shifted in my arms, and his attention focused on something just over my right shoulder. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Owen doesn’t like to be touched by anyone other than me. He was feral. Both cats were, actually.”
“From the old Henderson estate?”
I nodded.
“How did you get them to come with you?”
I scratched under Owen’s chin. He rubbed his head against my neck, but I could still feel his body, under his fur, tensed in case he had to defend my honor by—I don’t know—jumping on Detective Gordon’s head, maybe?
“Actually, they followed me,” I said. “They were so small, and I couldn’t find their mother.” Owen licked my chin then. It tickled and I laughed.
“They followed you?” The detective seemed . . . surprised. “I’ve never seen any of the cats out there come anywhere close to a person—not even Dr. Davidson.”
It was my turn to look surprised. “You’ve been out to Wisteria Hill?”
He stared at his feet, his face suddenly tinged with pink. “A few of us have been helping Dr. Davidson.”
He’d been helping Roma. Damn! That made it harder to dislike the man.
Owen started squirming, so I set him on the grass. He headed for the house.
“Detective Gordon, would you like a cup of coffee?” I asked. He was helping Roma. It seemed wrong to hold a grudge. “I made muffins. Blueberry.”
He smiled. “I would love a cup of coffee,” he said. “And I wouldn’t say no to a blueberry muffin.”
We crossed the yard to the back door, where Owen was waiting. He followed us into the kitchen. The detective leaned against the counter while I poured coffee. The cat sat by the refrigerator, eyeing the remaining cat treats still on the wire cooling rack. I handed Detective Gordon a plate and dipped my head in the direction of the muffins. “Help yourself,” I said.
I set the mugs on the table and turned to find him about to pop a sardine-flavored kitty treat into his mouth. I burst out laughing.
He looked at me in surprise, cat cracker halfway to his mouth.
“I meant help yourself to a muffin,” I managed to choke out between laughing fits. “But if you prefer sardine-and-cheese cat snacks, that’s okay, too.”
He dropped the cracker as though it had suddenly ignited.
Owen was across the floor in a flash. He snatched the cat snack and retreated back to the fridge, where he set it on the floor.
“Sorry,” the detective mumbled. “They smelled so good.”
“Yeah, there’s nothing like the smell of sardines in the morning.” I snickered. I reached behind him, set two muffins on the empty plate and put it on the table by his cup.
Owen had already eaten the cracker and licked all the crumbs from the floor. He watched Detective Gordon pull the paper off one of the muffins and break it in half.
Since the detective had taken a break from asking questions, I decided I might as well ask a few of my own. “Detective, did Mr. Easton somehow get into the storage area at my library?”
To his credit, he didn’t even look surprised by the question. “It looks that way,” he said, before taking a mouthful of coffee.
“Was that his blood on the floor?”
“I’m not sure yet. There may be more than one sample.”
I drank from my own cup. “But you found something else that tells you he was there, more than the cuff link.” His mouth was full of muffin now so he just nodded.
I flashed back to the night before as I’d tried to rub my fingerprints off the door like some crazed criminal. “You found his fingerprints,” I said.
“Very good,” he said, brushing crumbs from his mouth.
I needed more coffee. I got up, refilled my mug and leaned across the table to top up the detective’s. “Thanks,” he said.
I sat back down, glancing over at Owen, who had moved a few steps closer to us.
“Do you know yet how he died? Did he have a heart attack?”
He shook his head. “It wasn’t a heart attack.”
I gripped my cup tightly with both hands. “That gash on his head. Someone hit him.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t say it was natural causes, either. And you wouldn’t still be asking questions if you thought it was.”
He nodded. “True.” He started carefully peeling the paper cup off the second muffin. “Okay, I can tell you Mr. Easton’s death is suspicious.”
I’d kind of already figured that out. “Are you going to arrest me?” I asked.
That question didn’t seem to surprise the detective, either. “No,” he said.
“Why not?”
“Excuse me?” He’d been watching Owen out of the corner of his eye.
“Why aren’t you going to arrest me?” I really did want to know. I wasn’t asking just to needle him—well, not for the most part.
“Harry Taylor saw you walking up here at about eight thirty. Mrs. Nixon said your lights went on just as Entertainment Tonight was ending. And Dr. Davidson saw them go off about eleven thirty, as she was leaving Mrs. Nixon’s house.” He ticked off each person on the fingers of his left hand.
I remembered waving to Young Harry, who had passed me as I walked up the road, but I wouldn’t have been able to say if Rebecca’s lights had been on or if Roma’s car had been in her driveway. It was a good thing that they were more observant than I was.
“So if I’d been meeting Mr. Easton at eleven thirty—the time on the note—then I would have been late,” I said.
“You would.” He smiled at me. He was unflappable, which, childishly, made me want to try to get a rise out of him.
“I could have had the lights on a timer,” I said, raising one eyebrow at him. (I love doing that. It�
�s very Mr. Spock.)
He drained the last of his coffee and stood up. “Yes, you could have.”
His attitude had changed. Was it because of all the people who had vouched for me, or did he have another—a better—suspect? I got to my feet, as well. “Would you like to look around the house to see if I have a timer?” I asked.
“It’s not necessary,” he said. “Thank you for the coffee and the muffin.”
“You’re welcome,” I said.
He paused in the doorway to the porch, bent down and set a tiny pile of cat treats on the floor about a foot and a half in front of Owen.
Owen had whipped his head around before all the little crackers had made it onto the floor.
“Hey, puss,” Detective Gordon said softly before he straightened up.
Owen eyed the detective. He eyed the small heap of treats. (And how had Detective Gordon managed to palm them without me noticing?) His nose twitched. His whiskers quivered. He lifted a paw.
Detective Gordon caught my eye and gave me a small, smug smile.
Owen started washing his face.
I smiled back—magnanimously, not at all smugly. “Really, it’s not you,” I said with a slight shrug. “The cats won’t get close to anyone except me.”
The detective acted as if I hadn’t spoken. He kept his eyes on Owen. “C’mon,” he said again softly.
The cat paused, one paw behind his ear. And then he set it down. And took a step forward. And another.
When he got close enough he reached out with one paw and pulled the crackers toward him, taking a couple of steps backward, his kitty gaze never leaving the detective’s face. Finally he bent and ate one treat from the top of the pile, actually sighing with pleasure.
Detective Gordon looked at me then, giving me a small smirk—a small, restrained smirk, but a smirk nonetheless. “Have a nice day, Ms. Paulson,” he said. And he was gone.
The sound of crunching filled the kitchen. “Nice to know you’re on my side, Owen,” I said. He burped without bothering to look up.
Note: Sarcasm is wasted on a cat.