A Night's Tail

by Sofie Kelly

  I glanced over at him, head back against the seat, fingers tapping a rhythm on his leg that only he could hear, and I was hit with a wash of homesickness, like someone had just upended a bucket of water over my head. I missed them: Mom, Dad, Sara and Ethan, even though he was right here beside me.

  It wasn’t easy being so far away from Boston, from all of them. Not that my family were always in Boston. Ethan was on the road a lot with the band. Sara’s work as a makeup artist and filmmaker had her traveling more and more, and while Mom and Dad were teaching, they still went where the acting jobs were, which in my mother’s case meant Los Angles a couple of times a year for a recurring role on the daytime drama The Wild and Wonderful.

  On the other hand I had a life now in Minnesota, a life with Owen and Hercules, my cats, with Marcus and Maggie and a group of friends I’d miss just as much as I missed my family now, if I went back to Boston.

  “Hey, I never did ask,” Ethan began. “Did you know that dipwad in the bar?”

  I shook my head. “No, I don’t know him, at least not personally. He’s here in Mayville Heights to maybe start a business.”

  “You get some interesting people in bars,” Ethan said. “When we played in Chicago this woman got up on her chair, whipped off her shirt and started dancing. Then she yelled at me to come give her an autograph.”

  “I think that makes you a certified rock star,” I teased, “being asked to autograph a woman’s bra.”

  Ethan raised an eyebrow just the way I sometimes did, à la Mr. Spock from Star Trek. “I didn’t say she had a bra on under her shirt.”

  “Ewww,” I said with a shudder. “Now my delicate psyche is scarred.”

  Ethan shook with laughter. “She was wearing a tank top. And I signed the back of it!” He spent the rest of the drive home sharing all the weird things he’d been asked to autograph, including a bald guy’s head and the top of a toilet tank. I laughed so much I got hiccups and I forgot all about drunks in bars.

  chapter 2

  When I left for the library in the morning Ethan was at the table eating an omelet stuffed with ham and cheese, not even trying to disguise the fact that he was feeding bites to the two mooching furballs sitting at his feet.

  “C’mon, try to pretend you’re not sneaking them food,” I said as I put on my shoes. “The least you could do is try to give me plausible deniability when Roma asks what they’ve been eating.”

  To my amusement Hercules immediately moved around to the far side of Ethan’s chair so he was not so much in my direct line of sight. Ethan then made an elaborate show of “sneaking” a bite of ham to the cat, which was, of course, way more obvious than what he had been doing.

  I checked my messenger bag to make sure I had all the papers I needed.

  “So what’s your friend Roma’s problem with Owen and Hercules having a bit of egg once in a while?” Ethan asked.

  Owen immediately gave a loud and somewhat indignant meow.

  I rolled my eyes at the cat. “The problem is that it never stops at just a bit of egg once in a while. It starts there and all of a sudden it’s an entire slice of pizza.” Owen immediately licked his whiskers and Hercules leaned around the chair looking like he suddenly expected a fully loaded slice to materialize on a plate next to him on the floor.

  “So please don’t feed them any more people food,” I continued. Owen meowed again. “Because no matter how much he may try to convince you otherwise, Owen is a cat.”

  Ethan looked down at the little gray tabby. “Sorry, dude, the boss has spoken.”

  Owen narrowed his golden eyes and his ears twitched. “I know,” Ethan said, a conspiratorial edge to his voice. “She’s been on me about my diet my entire life.”

  Ethan got a kick out of how the cats responded when he talked to them. Part of that was that I talked to them all the time. They were used to having to hold up their end of a conversation even if it was just by tipping their furry heads to one side and making occasional sounds that seemed to indicate that they were listening. And part of it was that Owen and Hercules weren’t exactly ordinary cats. That was something I kept very much to myself.

  Aside from the fact that they had been feral when I found them and didn’t handle people other than me touching them very well, the boys had certain skills that regular cats didn’t have. Owen could become invisible at will. It had seemed so shocking the first time I’d realized what he could do, and now it was no big deal—for the most part. Hercules, on the other hand—or maybe that should be “paw”—could walk through walls. Any kind of walls, from brick to wood to solid steel. They were no kind of obstruction to the little tuxedo cat. When Hercules had walked directly through a heavy, solid door into a meeting room at the library I wasn’t sure if I was hallucinating or having some kind of breakdown.

  I also had the feeling that both Owen and Hercules understood a lot more of what was said to them than probably even I knew. Given their other talents, it didn’t seem that far-fetched. Luckily for me, my friends were all cat people. No one thought me talking to the boys was the slightest bit odd. Owen adored Maggie, who returned his affection by keeping him in yellow catnip chickens. Hercules had befriended both Rebecca and Everett, who were our backyard neighbors. And both cats had formed a bond with my friend Ruby, an artist and photographer who had taken a series of photographs of the two of them for what had turned out to be a very successful promotional calendar for the town. The one person they were somewhat iffy about was Roma. She was the town veterinarian, so not only was she always reprimanding anyone who fed them people food, she was also the person who administered their shots.

  “I’m leaving,” I said to the room in general. “Are we still on for lunch?”

  Ethan nodded over the top of his coffee cup.

  “Okay, I’ll see you at Eric’s.” I mock-glared at all three of them. “Try to stay out of trouble.” All of them gave me their best innocent looks. I was not fooled.

  Mountain Road, where my little white farmhouse was, curved in toward the center of town, so as I drove down the hill the roof of the library building came into view. The two-story brick building, which had originally been built in 1912, sat near the midpoint of a curve of shoreline and was protected from the water by a sturdy rock wall. The library featured an original stained-glass window at one end and a copper-roofed cupola, complete with the restored wrought-iron weather vane that had been attached to the roof when the library had been completed more than a century ago.

  The Mayville Heights Free Public Library, like many others of its vintage, was a Carnegie library, built with funds donated by Scottish-American industrialist Andrew Carnegie. Everett Henderson had funded the renovations to the building, his gift to the town for the library’s centennial, and had hired me to oversee everything as head librarian. In eighteen months I’d fallen in love with the town and the people, and when Everett and the library board had offered me a permanent job I’d said yes.

  Abigail Pierce was just walking along the sidewalk as I pulled into the parking lot at the library. She waited for me at the front steps and smiled as I reached her. “How was The Brick?” she asked.

  I studied her face for a moment then narrowed my gaze. “You knew,” I said. Mary and Abigail were friends as well as co-workers. What were the chances Mary hadn’t said what she was going to be doing last night? It was her day off, otherwise I knew she could easily have shown up with an oversized feather fan and an offer—again—to teach me how to dance.

  Abigail cocked her head to one side. Her copper-red hair was streaked with silver and she wore it in a sleek, chin-length bob that showed off her beautiful cheekbones and blue eyes. Not only did she work at the library, she was also a very talented children’s book author.

  “I’m sorry, Kathleen, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. “Was there a problem of some kind last night?”

  “Oh, no,” I said
as I started up the stairs. “The band was fantastic. Ethan and the guys did three songs as well.”

  Abigail’s lips twitched but she managed to keep a straight face. “What kind of music?” she asked. “Did they play anything you could dance to?” She put a little extra emphasis on the word “dance.”

  I stared at her without speaking and she couldn’t contain her laughter any longer. “I swear I didn’t know Mary was going to be dancing until after the library had closed and you were gone.” She put up one hand as if to quell any objection I might make.

  I opened the main doors, shut off the alarm and stepped into the library proper, marveling as I always did at the beauty of the restored building. A detailed mosaic floor was under our feet and all around the bright, open space was gorgeous wooden molding that had been meticulously refinished or carefully re-created to match the original.

  “Mary and Sandra,” I said, flipping on the lights.

  “Wait a minute. Sandra Godfrey?” Abigail was already halfway to the stairs. She stopped and looked back over her shoulder at me.

  I nodded. “I think there were peacock feathers involved.”

  “Sandra Godfrey dancing at amateur night at The Brick,” Abigail said. “Mary had to have had a hand in that.”

  “From the very brief glimpse I got, Mary had more than just a hand in what was happening on that stage,” I said.

  That made Abigail laugh again. “Great. Now how am I supposed to get the image of Sandra wearing peacock feathers and very little else out of my head the next time she comes in to borrow some books?”

  “You know, I admire their confidence, getting up and dancing like that,” I said as we headed upstairs to the staff room. “I couldn’t do that.”

  “That’s because you can’t dance,” Abigail said.

  She was right. I couldn’t dance, I had no natural rhythm and it didn’t matter how many containers you gave me—buckets or otherwise—I couldn’t carry a tune. “Everyone else in my family can sing and dance, you know. For a while when I was a teenager I thought I’d been left by gypsies.”

  “Gypsies who loved books and loved to organize things,” Abigail finished.

  I grinned at her. “Pretty much.”

  She pointed over her shoulder at her backpack. “I have muffins,” she said, waggling her eyebrows at me, “from Sweet Thing.”

  Sweet Thing, a small bakery run by Georgia Tepper, was best known for its cupcakes, but Georgia had recently started making muffins as well.

  “The way to my heart,” I said, putting both hands on the left side of my chest.

  Abigail laughed. “I thought coffee was the way to your heart.”

  I nodded. “It is. Oh, and pizza and Eric’s chocolate pudding cake.” I was still listing my favorite things to eat as we reached the staff room.

  Abigail made the coffee while I dropped my things in my office. Then we took a few minutes to go over our plans for the upcoming Money Week we had planned for mid-April. We were going to talk about taxes, budgets and debt. We had several speakers scheduled, including a woman who ran a popular frugal-living blog. There were workshops planned for adults and teens. A couple of teachers at the high school were bringing their classes to the talk about budgets. Before that, in a little less than three weeks, we were going to be home to the Mayville Heights quilt festival, along with the St. James Hotel.

  Abigail turned on our computers and started on the contents of the book drop. I went to my office to call Harrison Taylor. Harrison was in his early eighties and the first time I’d seen him—in a chair in my backyard—I’d thought I was looking at Santa Claus. He had thick white hair and a snowy beard. There was generally a twinkle in his eye as well.

  Harrison was a wellspring of information about Mayville Heights and the surrounding area. He’d done one well-received talk about the history of the town and due to popular demand—and the fact that he’d lost a wager about attendance at the first talk—he was going to do a second.

  “You set me up, Kathleen,” he said. I knew from the tone of his voice that he wasn’t really annoyed that I’d won our bet. Harrison was charming, well-spoken and an excellent public speaker. His talk had been standing-room only, just as I’d expected, which is why I’d made the wager in the first place. We’d been sitting in Fern’s Diner when I’d first made my proposition. It hadn’t been hard to talk him into saying yes.

  “You come and talk for about half an hour about the history of the town—time period to be determined—and then you answer questions. If my meeting room isn’t full I’ll treat you to the biggest steak Peggy has out back,” I’d said, tipping my head in the direction of the diner’s kitchen.

  “Like shooting fish in a barrel,” I told him now. “Would you like to hazard a guess about how many people are going to show up this time?”

  His laughter boomed through the phone. “Not likely. I may have been born at night, young lady, but it wasn’t last night.”

  * * *

  It was a busy morning at the library. The sunshine seemed to bring out more people than usual, that and the fact that several teachers at the high school had assigned papers due in the next two weeks. When we closed for the day at lunchtime I headed over to Eric’s Place to meet Ethan and Derek for lunch.

  I decided to leave my truck in the lot and walk over. The streets in Mayville Heights that ran from one end of town to the other all followed the curve of the shoreline, so it was a short walk to the café. The snow that had fallen earlier in the week was already melting and the sidewalks were dry and bare for the most part. Winter in Mayville Heights, Minnesota, came in three varieties: About to Snow, Snowing and Get Out the Shovel, and by March we were all grateful for a sunny day with the temperature above freezing.

  As I headed down the sidewalk toward the café I caught sight of Derek standing nose to nose with Lewis Wallace, the drunk from the night before. My stomach sank. I could see belligerence in the businessman’s stance. I remembered the arrogance I’d noted in his body language and demeanor the night before and realized I’d been unrealistic to think the problem had passed.

  I started walking faster but before I got to them Ethan stepped between the two men, pushing Derek back, one hand shoving hard against his chest. At the same time he said something to Wallace, pointing down the sidewalk with his other hand. Wallace made one last comment to the two of them that I couldn’t hear before he walked away, making a dismissive gesture with one hand. He got into a Big Bird–yellow Hummer wedged in at the curb and drove off.

  As I reached them Derek pushed Ethan’s arm away and took a couple of steps back, holding one hand in the air like a warning. His face was flushed and he raked a hand back through his hair the way Marcus did when something was bothering him.

  Ethan was trying to say something to his friend. Bad idea, I knew. I caught his arm and he turned, just seeming to realize that I was there. “Give him a minute,” I said. Derek had turned away from us and I knew the best thing to do was let him be while he got his anger under control.

  Anger flashed in Ethan’s hazel eyes. “I’m not six, Kathleen,” he snapped. He shook off my hand.

  I took a breath and let it out. “I know that. I just want to know what’s going on because I need to know if this is something Marcus should hear about.” I lowered my voice slightly. “He didn’t make an issue out of what happened last night, which let that guy off the hook, but don’t forget he’s not the only one who got to walk away.”

  Ethan folded one arm over the top of his head, his fingers digging into the bottom of his skull. “I’m sorry. We were just coming out of that bookstore. The dipwad from last night had right then parked his big-ass vehicle and gotten out. When he saw Derek he came across the sidewalk and got in his face almost like they knew each other or something. What a jerk!”

  “Yeah, he is,” Derek said behind us.

  I turned to look at him.
The angry flush had faded from his cheeks.

  “He’s a first-class jerk. Forget about him. I don’t want to waste one more bit of air on that guy. C’mon, I’m hungry. Let’s have lunch.” He looked at Ethan. “And I sort of have this idea for a song that’s been rolling around my head all morning.” His gaze shifted to me. “I’m good. I swear.”

  Ethan bumped me with his hip as we started for the door. “A word of warning. Derek is about to fall down a rabbit hole.”

  “I am not,” Derek retorted.

  Ethan just looked at his friend, a smile playing around his mouth.

  “Okay, so maybe I can get a little distracted when I’m working on a song.”

  “A little?” Ethan snorted.

  We stepped inside the café and Claire came around the counter with a smile. She carried three menus and, because she knew me well, the coffeepot.

  Ethan immediately stood up straighter and smiled. Talk about getting distracted.

  “Hi, Kathleen,” Claire said. Her red curls were pulled up in two pigtails and she was wearing her dark-framed glasses instead of contacts. “Would you like that table by the window?” She gestured at one of my favorite places to sit in the small restaurant. I could see all the way to the water out of the front window.

  “Please,” Ethan said. “I mean, if it’s not too much trouble. We can sit closer to the counter if that would be easier for you.” Like Mom, he was a bit of a flirt.

  “Claire, this is my brother, Ethan, and our friend Derek,” I said.

  She smiled at Ethan then turned to Derek. “You were in yesterday for lunch.”

  “You recommended that noodle bowl,” he said. “It was pretty good.”

  “That does sound good,” I said as we headed toward our table. I took the chair closest to the window. Ethan sat next to me and Derek took a seat across from us.

  Claire handed us menus, then reached for the heavy stoneware mug in front of me and poured a cup of coffee. “How about you two?” she asked, looking from Derek to Ethan.