Curiosity Thrilled the Cat

by Sofie Kelly

“Don’t you?” Violet asked.

  “It makes the most sense,” Roma said slowly. “From what I’d heard he was a man of large appetites. But if it was just a heart attack why are the police still investigating?”

  I didn’t say that Easton’s death hadn’t been a heart attack—or most likely not even an accident. I wanted to see where the conversation was going.

  “Because Gregor Easton was a celebrity of sorts. He died here, in Mayville Heights. To a lot of people that’s Nowhereville.” Violet poured a little more wine into her glass. “Why wouldn’t the police be extra thorough? As it is, there’s probably going to be some comments made about our ‘hick’ police department.” She looked at me. “Kathleen, you used to live in Boston. There is a big-city perception that a small town can be a little slow, isn’t there?”

  “With some people, yes,” I admitted.

  “What about you?” Rebecca said teasingly. “Did you think we were all a bunch of lumberjacks running around the woods in plaid flannel shirts?”

  She popped a bite of fish and stuffing in her mouth.

  “Not in the beginning, I didn’t,” I said. “Then my first week here Susan came to work one morning wearing a pair of fur-trimmed Sorels, a hat with earflaps and a red-and-black plaid jacket.”

  Violet and Rebecca both laughed. “I think Susan feels the cold,” Rebecca said. “She’s a tiny person.”

  “And plaid was in last winter,” Violet added.

  “So, Susan didn’t leave you with the impression we were all a bunch of hicks?” Rebecca asked, setting her knife and fork side by side on her plate.

  I took the last bite of fish and did the same. “No, she didn’t,” I said. “I’ve lived in a few small towns myself, so I’m aware of the stereotypes.”

  “I thought you grew up in Boston,” Violet said. She stood to clear our plates.

  “No,” I said. “I’ve lived all up and down the East Coast. My parents are actors.”

  “Theater?” Violet asked.

  “For the most part. My father has been in a number of commercials over the years. But most of the time they’ve been onstage.” I realized Violet had very skillfully turned the subject away from Gregor Easton and his death. Why? Was it just that she didn’t think that was suitable dinner conversation? Or did she have another reason? Beside me Roma sat silently playing with her fork.

  “And you didn’t want to act?” Rebecca asked, finishing the last of her wine.

  “No,” I said emphatically. “First of all, I didn’t inherit a drop of my parents’ talent. I can memorize lines, but I’m a big block of wood onstage.”

  “You couldn’t be that bad,” she said.

  “I could and I am. And sometimes I think acting held no interest for me because there was no lure to the exotic, the unknown.”

  “What do you mean?” Violet asked, turning from the sideboard with a blueberry tart in a clear glass pie plate.

  “I know how hard being an actor can be. I’ve seen the work, the rejection, the uncertainty. There’s nothing glamorous about it. Not to me.”

  Violet cut a slice of the tart and handed it to Rebecca.

  “What about the rest of your family?” Rebecca said, taking the plate. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

  “I have a younger brother and sister. Twins.” Violet passed plates to both Roma and me.

  “Do they act?”

  I shook my head. “No. Sara is a screenwriter and filmmaker. She’s made several short films. She’s working as a makeup artist, as well. There have been enough movies made in and around Boston to keep her working pretty steadily.” I took a forkful of pie—juicy blueberries, a light custard filling and flaky pastry. “Mmmm, Violet, this is delicious,” I said.

  “Thank you,” Violet said. “It’s Rebecca’s recipe.”

  I raised my fork to Rebecca across the table. “Then thank you, too,” I said.

  “It’s my mother’s recipe, actually,” she said. “Although I think you added a little nutmeg to the berries, didn’t you?” She looked at Violet, who was pouring coffee.

  “Yes, I did,” Violet said. She handed me a cup. “You were telling us about your family. What does your brother do?”

  “He’s a musician,” I said. “A drummer. He teaches jazz drumming and he’s in a band called The Flaming Gerbils.”

  That pulled Roma back into the conversation. She almost choked on her coffee. “The Flaming Gerbils?”

  “Uh-huh. Ethan has been in one band or another since he was a little kid. He put his first band together when he was in kindergarten. He called it Up Your Nose.”

  They all laughed.

  “What about you, Violet?” I asked. “Were you in a group when you were younger?”

  “Not unless you count rhythm band in grade two. I played a mean triangle.”

  “She did,” Rebecca said, solemnly. “Violet was a triangle virtuoso.”

  “I did play rehearsal piano for pretty much anybody and everybody when I was getting my first degree,” Violet said.

  “Where did you go to college?” I asked. Was it possible she’d known Gregor Easton at university?

  “Oberlin College. It’s in Ohio. What about you?”

  Easton had gone to the University of Cincinnati. “I went to Husson in Maine.” I smiled, remembering. “I may not have had any stereotypical ideas about Minnesota, but I definitely had them about Maine. I showed up with a suitcase full of sweaters, and they were in the middle of a late-summer heat wave.”

  Thank heavens Lise had been my roommate. I wondered when I’d hear from her again. If anyone could dig up information about Gregor Easton, it would be Lise.

  After we finished dessert Violet took me on a tour of the house. Every room was as beautiful as the living room and foyer. “Llŷn,” I said as we walked back into the living room. “That’s Welsh, isn’t it?”

  Violet nodded. “It is. It means ‘lake.’ My mother’s parents were from Wales.”

  Roma was looking at a large photograph that was hanging in the dining room. It was a street shot of the downtown by the lake, from, I guessed, at least fifty years ago. Violet joined her as Roma tried to pick out old landmarks. I sat beside Rebecca on the sofa.

  “Violet’s a wonderful cook,” I said to Rebecca.

  “She is. Even when we were girls she would take a recipe and change it just a little to give it her own unique touch.”

  “Have you been friends a long time?”

  “Forever. From the time we started school. Violet’s like my sister.” She settled back against the arm of the sofa and folded her hands in her lap. “I had two older brothers who teased me constantly. Violet was an only child. But she was fearless.”

  Rebecca shook her head, smiling at something she’d remembered. “We weren’t allowed down by the lake,” she said, lowering her voice so we wouldn’t be overheard. “But we used to sneak down all the time. My brother Stephen told on us. The next morning when he got up his shoes were filled with wet sand—the pair he wore for school and his good pair for church.” She laughed at the memory. “It was Violet, but to this day I don’t know how she did it.”

  I glanced toward the dining room. “It’s hard to picture Violet as a rebellious girl.”

  Rebecca rubbed a hand over the sofa cushion between us. “I know she comes across as very reserved. Some people think she’s cold, but she’s not. Life has just made her seem that way.” She looked around the room. “Violet grew up in this house. She was only twenty-five when her mother and father died within six months of each other. Ten years later she was a widow with two little boys. If she seems unfeeling, well, is it any wonder? But inside she’s warm and loyal. I’ve always been able to count on her. I’d do anything for her and she’d do anything for me.”

  “That’s what my mother calls sisters of the heart,” I said.

  Rebecca glanced over toward Violet again. “I like that,” she said. She turned back to me. “You come from a very colorful family, Kathleen. How did you en
d up in Mayville Heights?”

  Andrew’s face suddenly filled my memory—his big smile, his deep blue eyes, his blond hair that curled down over his collar when he was overdue for a haircut. Maybe it was what seemed like Rebecca’s genuine interest, or maybe it was two glasses of Ruby’s wine. Whatever it was, I answered honestly. “I ran away.”

  Rebecca’s eyes widened. “From what?”

  “From my life at the time. From my family—I love them, but they can use up all the air in the room.”

  Rebecca nodded her understanding.

  “And from the man I thought I was going to spend the rest of my life with.”

  I looked away for a moment. Violet and Roma had a photo album out now.

  Rebecca leaned over and squeezed my hand. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Do you mind my asking what happened?”

  I twisted my watchband around my arm instead of looking at her. “He married someone else.”

  “Then perhaps you’re better off without him.”

  “That’s what my friend Lise said. She also called him a no-good, scum-sucking elephant turd.”

  Rebecca was silent for a moment. “I think I’d like your friend Lise,” she said finally, a bit of a smile playing on her lips.

  “It’s a bit more complicated than that,” I said.

  “I’m listening,” Rebecca said.

  “Andrew—that’s his name—wanted me to take a leave of absence from my job and see the country. All of it. With him.”

  “I take it you didn’t want to.”

  “No, I didn’t.” I rubbed a finger over my thumbnail. “Rebecca, I lived in a lot of places growing up. Small towns, big cities, and everything in between. I’ve already seen a lot of the country. I want to stay in one place. I want to belong somewhere. The way you and Violet and Roma do.”

  I looked around Violet’s welcoming living room. “Violet grew up in this house. The two of you have been friends almost your entire lives. I don’t know how many different places I’ve lived, and my whole childhood is in one cardboard box in a storage unit in Boston.” I twisted my watch around my wrist. “I just want to belong somewhere.”

  “Your Andrew didn’t understand that.”

  I looked over my shoulder, through the front window to the darkened street. “No, he didn’t. He went on a two-week camping trip in Maine after I said no. He came back married.”

  “After two weeks?”

  I nodded and tried to clear the lump in my throat. “Married. I went to work the morning after he came back, saw Everett’s notice about the job here and applied.” I held out my hands. “And here I am.”

  Rebecca studied my face. “You miss him, though.”

  “Sometimes. But it’s over. Time only moves in one direction: forward. So no matter how much I might want to change things sometimes, I can’t.”

  Rebecca got a faraway look in her eyes. “There’s something special about first love,” she said. “But you’re right, it’s important to move forward. And your Andrew’s loss has been our gain.” She smiled at me. “I hope you’re starting to feel you belong here.”

  Before I could answer, Roma poked her head in from the dining room. “Rebecca,” she said. “What used to be on the corner opposite the market?”

  “Anderson’s,” Rebecca said at once. “They sold fabric. He was a tailor.”

  Roma tapped the side of her head. “Anderson’s. Of course. Thank you.” She turned back to the album Violet was still looking at.

  Rebecca looked at me. “Would you like to see what Mayville Heights looked like back in the good old days?”

  “I would,” I said. We walked over to join Violet and Roma. The framed black-and-white photograph was remarkably sharp and detailed. Rebecca walked me down the street in the old photo, pointing out each building and sharing stories about herself and Violet.

  “You know, the downtown really doesn’t look that much different,” I said. “I would have recognized the hotel and all those little stores.”

  “That’s because the buildings were built to last,” Rebecca said.

  “How about another cup of coffee?” Violet offered. “It’s decaf.”

  “All right,” Roma said. I nodded, as well. I probably drank too much coffee, but as vices went it wasn’t that bad.

  “How about another piece of blueberry tart?”

  “A sliver,” Roma said, holding up a thumb and forefinger about an inch apart.

  “Kathleen?” Violet looked at me.

  “Don’t make me eat alone,” Roma said. Something in her smile seemed forced.

  “A tiny, tiny piece,” I said.

  Rebecca took the album from Violet. “Why don’t you take that into the living room?” she said. “I’ll be right in.”

  “Could I help?” Rebecca asked.

  “Show Roma and Kathleen more of the old photographs. I can get the coffee.”

  We settled on the sofa on either side of Rebecca, who laid the album across her lap. “Look,” she said, pointing to a picture of a somber-faced girl in a dark dress with a white collar and cuffs. “That’s Violet, senior year of high school. You know the building that’s the River Arts Center now? That’s where we went to high school.”

  I leaned in closer to look. “She looks so serious.”

  “Look at this one,” Roma said, putting a finger on a snapshot on the adjacent page. It was Violet in some kind of party dress with a little purse and a very unfortunate bubble hairdo.

  “Interesting hair,” Roma said, struggling not to laugh.

  Rebecca did laugh, covering her mouth with one hand. “Oh, my,” she said. “I’d forgotten about that. That was the first time I did Vi’s hair.”

  “And it was almost the last,” Violet said, coming in with the coffee tray.

  I got up and took it from her, and set it on the coffee table.

  “It wasn’t that bad,” Rebecca said. “Maybe a little too poufy.”

  “She back-combed my entire head and used a full can of hairspray on it.”

  “Well, I didn’t want my handiwork to go flat.”

  “It was windy and raining the night of that party,” Violet said as she poured. “The wind almost pulled the screen door off its hinges, but my hair didn’t move.”

  “Then it was a good thing I used lots of spray.” Rebecca smiled sweetly.

  I had the feeling they’d had this conversation many times before.

  I took the album off Rebecca’s lap so she could reach her coffee. Roma had already started on her sliver of pie, which really wasn’t a sliver at all. I flipped through the photographs. Violet looked so young. In most of the pictures she was smiling, even laughing in a few, and I wondered what she’d been like as a girl. My favorite shot was one of Violet and another young woman, arms around each other’s shoulders, standing by the water, both of them with huge, happy smiles. “Rebecca, is this you?” I asked. She set down her cup and I turned the album toward her.

  “Heavens, yes, it is. That was just before Violet left for Oberlin.”

  “That’s the first picture I’ve seen of the two of you,” I said.

  She shrugged. “I don’t really like having my picture taken,” she said.

  “You look very pretty in this one,” I told her.

  “Thank you,” Rebecca said, sliding the album back onto her lap so I could pick up my pie. “That reminds me, do you have any pictures of your family? I’d love to see them sometime.”

  “I do,” I said. “Remind me and I’ll show you.”

  “Kathleen, how’s the work coming at the library?” Violet asked, settling in a chair with her coffee.

  “A little slower than I’d like,” I said. “Larry Taylor has the wiring almost done in the new computer room. The circulation desk is finished, and I’m hoping the police will let us back into the meeting-room space in a day or two.”

  “Why have the police been at the library?” Roma asked. “Gregor Easton died at the Stratton.”

  I took a sip of coffee, wondering h
ow much I should say. “Easton was at the library earlier in the evening and he may have come back again.”

  Roma started coughing. Rebecca reached around and patted her on the back.

  “Do you need a glass of water?” Violet asked.

  Roma held out a hand. She coughed a couple more times, then sucked in several breaths. “I’m all right,” she gasped. She swallowed a mouthful of coffee and then took a few more deep breaths. “A blueberry went down the wrong way.” She rolled her wrist over and checked her watch. “I really should get back to the clinic and check on the cat,” she said. “Thank you, Violet. Everything was delicious.”

  She got to her feet and looked at me. “Kathleen, if I’m not rushing you, we could walk partway together.” She didn’t say please out loud, but I could see it on her face.

  “You’re not,” I said. “I need to check on Owen and Hercules. Somebody”—I turned to look at Rebecca—“got Owen another catnip chicken. There are probably chicken parts all over my kitchen.”

  “Don’t look at me,” Rebecca said, keeping her head down over the album. “It was Ami.”

  Head bowed or not, I could see her smiling. I thanked Violet for dinner and for sharing her photographs. Roma and I said our good nights and headed out. The moon was almost full and the stars sparkled in a way they had never seemed to in the city.

  Roma waited until we were out of sight of the house before she spoke. “Kathleen, could I ask you something?” she said.

  “Of course,” I said. “What is it?”

  “You said Easton was at the library before he died.”

  “That’s right,” I said slowly, wondering where she was going.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Uh-huh. The police have evidence. Why do you ask?”

  We turned the corner and started up the hill. She let out a breath and stopped on the sidewalk. “Because I think Oren might be involved in Easton’s death.”

  17

  Wave Arms Like a Fan

  “What do you mean, you think Oren might be involved?”

  “The police talked to him this afternoon.”

  “The police talk to a lot of people,” I said.

  “This is the second time.”