by Sofie Kelly
Both men nodded.
“Do you need some time with the menu?” she asked after she’d filled the guys’ cups.
“I don’t,” I said. “I think I’ll have the ramen bowl.”
“Me too,” Derek said. He’d only given the menu a quick glance.
“I’m game,” Ethan said. “Unless there’s something else you’d recommend.”
I fought the urge to roll my eyes.
“I think you’ll like the ramen bowl,” Claire said. She shot me a quick bemused glance. I was pretty sure she already had Ethan’s number.
“It won’t be long,” she added. She collected our menus and headed for the kitchen.
I added cream and sugar to my coffee and then focused my attention on Derek. I really did want to get to know him better. “Derek, do you mind telling me a little about how you write a song?” I asked. “Which comes first? The words or the music?”
“Well, that depends,” he said, propping his elbows on the table. “A lot of times a few words or a sentence come to me and the song starts from there. Other times it’s a few notes of music.”
“How long does it take?”
He shrugged. “Again, that depends. I’ve written songs in less than a day and there are some that took weeks.”
Ethan pointed a finger at Derek. “‘Begin Again,’” both men said at the same time.
“We wrote that song together,” Derek explained, seeing my confused expression. “We were stuck on one line—one line—for I don’t know, three weeks maybe. It drove me crazy.”
Ethan cleared his throat.
Derek turned his head. “Are you hacking up something or was that commentary?”
Ethan was turned sideways in his chair, one hand wrapped around his coffee mug. “Drove you crazy?” he said. “You drove everyone around you crazy.” He gestured with his free hand. “I’m not kidding, Kath. One of his neighbors called the police for a wellness check because she was worried that Derek was suffering from some kind of mental health crisis because he was wandering around the block talking to himself!”
Derek laughed, a bit shame-faced. “Okay, I admit that I can get a bit of tunnel vision when I’m stuck on a song.”
Ethan leaned his head in my direction, a conspiratorial tone to his voice. “Same woman who called the police for the wellness check? She made him a fanny pack with change for the T, some wet wipes and a baggie of granola in case he wandered too far away and got hungry.”
“Don’t knock it,” Derek said with a grin. “That was homemade granola that Mrs. Melanson made herself with a bunch of that dried fruit and chocolate chips. It was really good.”
Claire arrived then with our steaming ramen bowls. We ate, we laughed, we talked about song writing and the tour and life in general and I thought how happy I was to be spending time with my brother. I noticed Derek glance out the window a couple of times and I hoped that Lewis Wallace left town soon.
After lunch—which Ethan insisted on paying for—the guys decided to head to the co-op store. Maggie had mentioned some guitar straps that Ethan wanted to see.
“Would you give this to Maggie, please?” I asked, taking a small brown paper bag out of my bag.
“Sure,” Ethan said. “What is it?”
“It’s a peanut butter and banana muffin—her favorite—from Sweet Thing.”
He frowned. “Sweet Thing?”
“It’s a bakery. She’ll know,” I said. I’d swiped it from the box Abigail had brought in—with her permission.
I walked back to the library to get the truck because I had to go over to Fern’s Diner to drop off a large coffeemaker that Peggy had loaned me for Harrison Taylor’s talk about Mayville Heights’s history. The library’s coffeemaker had died, shooting water and coffee all over the staff room in one messy last hurrah.
Eight or nine years ago, Fern’s had been restored to its 1950s glory, or as Roma liked to describe it, “Just like the good old days only better.” The building was low and long, with windows on three sides, aglow with neon after dark. Inside there was the all-important jukebox, booths with red vinyl seats and a counter with gleaming chrome stools. The diner’s claim to fame was Meatloaf Tuesday: meatloaf, mashed potatoes, green beans in the summer, carrots the rest of the time, brown gravy and apple pie.
It was quiet at Fern’s. Larry Taylor was in the back corner at a table by himself, having a late lunch. Larry was Harrison’s younger son, an electrician who had done a lot of work at the library. He raised a hand in hello and I waved back at him.
“You didn’t have to rush to bring this back,” Peggy said. She was wearing polka-dot pedal pushers, a short-sleeved white shirt with Peggy Sue stitched over the left breast pocket and rhinestone-tipped, cat’s-eye-framed glasses. Her hair was in a bouffant updo with a red bow bobby-pinned at the front.
“Thanks for lending it to us on short notice,” I said, laying a hand on the top of the box that held the coffeemaker. “I ordered a new one and it should be here on Monday.”
Peggy took the box and set it behind the counter. “Well, if you need it again, just let me know.”
Peggy had been seeing Harrison Taylor for months now, or as he liked to describe it, “keeping company.” Since I regularly spent time with the old man, I’d gotten to know her better. Although Peggy was a lot younger than Harrison, she’d been good for him, getting him to keep doctors’ appointments and cut back on caffeine. Most of all, he was happy, which was all any of us cared about.
Behind me the door to the diner opened and Georgia Tepper came in, carrying a large cardboard box with the logo of her company, Sweet Thing, stamped on top. Her shoulders were hunched, body rigid, and she was clenching her teeth. When I saw who was behind her I understood why.
“No,” I said, under my breath. It was Lewis Wallace yet again. Why on earth was he turning up all over town?
He was hitting on Georgia, that much was obvious. He towered over her; in fact, he seemed to take up way too much space in the diner, and way too much air. “I’d love a little taste of something sweet,” he was saying.
My first impression of Wallace hadn’t been a good one and neither had the second and now the third. The man used his size to bully people and his lack of self-awareness was disturbing. He put a hand on Georgia’s shoulder and she stiffened, twisting her body out of his grasp as she moved sideways.
Wallace looked at the box she was holding. “Aww, don’t be like that, sweet thing,” he said as he reached over and trailed a finger down the arm of her jacket.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Larry stand up. At the same time Peggy and I both began to move toward Georgia. She stepped sideways again, closer to Lewis Wallace, coming down hard on his left foot in his not-appropriate-for-March-in-Minnesota Italian leather loafers with the chunky heel of her boot.
“Hey, watch it!” he exclaimed, grimacing and taking a step backward.
Georgia was trembling, almost imperceptibly, but her voice was steady when she said, “You should really watch where you put your . . . feet.”
“Is everything all right?” I said, walking over to her.
Georgia nodded. “Yes, it is.”
Wallace shook his head and said, “Jeez, a guy can’t even give a girl a compliment anymore.” He looked at Larry, who had just joined us. “Am I right?”
“No,” Larry said. “You’re not.” Larry was one of the most easy-going people I knew. He, too, was a big man. Unlike Wallace with his doughy build, Larry was all solid muscle, with blond hair and green eyes. I’d never thought of him as being the slightest bit intimidating. Until now.
Wallace looked at us for a long moment. “Aww, screw it,” he said. He turned and went back out the door.
I took the big box of cupcakes from Georgia and handed it to Peggy. “Are you okay?” I asked.
She nodded. “I am. Thank you.” She looked a
t Larry. “Thank you, too.”
“Georgia, do you know Larry?” I said.
The question got a tiny smile out of her. “I’ve seen you around town,” she said, directing that small smile at him.
He nodded. “I’ve had a couple . . . dozen of your cupcakes.” He patted his stomach.
Georgia glanced at the door. “That guy is creepy. He followed me across the parking lot and he wouldn’t stop hitting on me.”
Larry shrugged. “Yeah, well, he has that reputation.”
“So you know him?” Georgia asked.
“I know of him,” Larry said. “His name is Lewis Wallace.”
Peggy was nodding. “I thought that was him. He’s the one the development committee is talking to. They’re hoping he’ll set up his new business in one of the empty warehouses down by the waterfront, if he gets everything he wants.”
I remembered the information packet I’d brought home from the meeting Maggie and I had attended. “Wallace is a former athlete, isn’t he?” I said. “Football?”
Larry nodded. “He played college ball but he couldn’t cut it in the NFL. He wasn’t really big enough. So he went to Canada and played there for a few years. Offensive lineman.”
“Offensive human from what I saw,” Peggy said drily.
Georgia’s hand was still trembling. She stuffed it in the pocket of her jacket. Given her past experiences, including her connection to the death of businessman Mike Glazer, it was no wonder she was shaky.
It wasn’t the only reason confrontations made her uneasy. Georgia had changed her name when she’d come to Mayville Heights. Before that she had been Paige Wyler. Her in-laws hadn’t liked her from the moment she’d married their son. He’d died when their daughter, Emmy, was only six months old. His parents had tried to get custody of the baby. When that didn’t work they’d tried to kidnap her, which led to an assault charge being filed—against Georgia—for threatening her former mother-in-law with a chef’s knife.
Georgia had spent three years on the run with Emmy, always looking over her shoulder. Marcus had put her together with a good lawyer, who had gotten a permanent restraining order against the Wylers, and slowly Georgia had begun to relax, at least a little.
“Maybe a cup of tea would be good,” I said to Peggy.
“I’m going to get back to my lunch,” Larry said, gesturing over his shoulder in the general direction of his table. He smiled at Georgia. “Would you let me walk you to your car when you leave? Please? For my own peace of mind?”
She nodded. “Yes. Thank you.”
Larry went back to his table. I thought about how much he was like his father.
“I’m overreacting,” Georgia said, sitting down on one of the vinyl-covered stools at the counter and pulling off her mittens. “Those kinds of encounters make me anxious.”
“You’re not overreacting and I think you handled things very well,” I said, slipping onto the stool next to her. “I don’t think I would have thought of stepping on his foot like that.”
That got me a much bigger smile. “I saw that on The Bachelorette. Bianca stomped on Jarrod’s foot when he stuck his tongue in her mouth.” Color warmed the tops of her cheeks. “I watch it sometimes when I’m in the kitchen getting boxes ready for the cupcakes.”
I leaned toward her. “Hercules and I watch the show while we fold laundry. Well, I do the folding. It’s kind of tricky with paws.” That made her smile.
Peggy came back with a cup of tea for Georgia and one for me as well. She gestured at the box of cupcakes. “You didn’t have to bring these over today.”
“No, it’s okay,” Georgia said. “I wanted you to have enough while I’m gone.” She looked at me. “I’m going to Minneapolis for a few days to take a course. I’ll be leaving tomorrow morning. I’m hoping to move into making cakes for special occasions, so I need to up my decorating skills.” She turned her head toward the parking lot. “Maybe when I get back Mr. Wallace will be gone.”
Peggy glanced over at the door again. “Lewis Wallace is a crass pig of a man. I don’t think the town should be doing business with him and I intend to say so at the next town meeting.” She straightened her rhinestone-tipped cat’s-eye glasses. “The sooner that man is gone, the better.”
I added a silent “amen” to that.
chapter 3
Hercules was sitting on the front steps when I got home. He watched as I got out of the truck and locked the driver’s-side door.
“Let’s go,” I said, inclining my head in the direction of the backyard.
His response was to hold up one foot and shake it. I knew that was cat for “Carry me.”
Hercules despised getting his feet wet. In fact, his dislike of having wet paws had led to him briefly being the not-so-proud owner of a pair of boots courtesy of Maggie. To be specific, black-and-white boots that matched his black-and-white fur, in a paw-print design complete with a soft fleece lining and an anti-slip sole. Maggie’s heart had been in the right place but boots just weren’t the right fashion choice for Hercules and he’d happily surrendered them to a cat in need at Roma’s veterinarian clinic.
Harrison Taylor’s other son, Harry, aka Young Harry or Harry Junior, had cleared the driveway and the walkway to the back door after the last storm. There were a few patches of half-melted snow on the path. There were also dry, bare spots, too. Hercules gave a pathetic meow, his left front paw still hanging in the air.
I blew out a breath, shifted my messenger bag to my left shoulder and scooped up the cat. “You are so spoiled,” I told him. “Your character has been weakened.”
“Mrrr,” he said as he licked my chin. He didn’t seem the slightest bit troubled by the idea.
We headed around the house to the back door. I set Hercules down on the steps, which were bare and dry, so I could fish my keys out of my pocket. He looked across the backyard toward Rebecca’s house, narrowed his green eyes and began to make muttering noises. I knew what that was about.
“Everett will be back in a couple of days,” I said as I opened the door. “You can go back to mooching bacon then.”
My little house actually belonged to Everett Henderson. Living in it was a perk of taking the library job.
Back when I had first moved in, Everett and Rebecca weren’t married. They weren’t even seeing each other. They’d spent most of their lives loving each other but apart. The cats and I had played a very, very small role in getting them back together and for Everett that was a debt that could never be completely repaid.
After they were married Everett had moved into Rebecca’s house and sold Wisteria Hill, his family home, to Roma. His “friendship” with Hercules had started with the two of them reading the newspaper over coffee (and bacon) in the backyard gazebo through the spring and summer. It was helped by the fact that Hercules looked just like Everett’s late mother’s cat, Finn. And it seemed Hercules—like Everett—had some strong opinions on town government.
Things had progressed to breakfast in the house on Tuesdays and Fridays during the colder months when Everett was in town—which he hadn’t been for the past several days. I had no idea how the cat knew what day of the week it was, but he definitely did. For all I knew Hercules was looking at the calendar. Given everything else he was capable of, it wasn’t exactly impossible.
I followed him into the kitchen, happy that he’d stopped and waited for me to open the door. He stretched and headed for his water dish. There was no sign of Owen. Or of Ethan, for that matter. They were both equally capable of getting into trouble and I had about as much control over the cat as I did over my baby brother.
“I’m home,” I called. Usually that got me an answering meow at least, but there was nothing but silence. Had Owen gone out when Ethan left to meet me for lunch?
I kicked off my boots and was hanging up my jacket when I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. The ba
sement door, which had been open just a crack, swung open a little wider and Owen poked his head into the room. There were bits of catnip on his whiskers and a piece of yellow fluff dangling from one ear. And his eyes didn’t quite focus. I knew if I went down to the basement I’d find the remains of a Fred the Funky Chicken, yet another in a long line of yellow catnip chickens that Owen had decapitated.
Hercules looked at his brother, exhaled through his nose in a way that sounded like a small exclamation of disgust and exited through the kitchen door—literally this time—into the porch.
I crouched down next to Owen and brushed the flakes of catnip off of his whiskers and fur. “You have a monkey—no, scratch that—a chicken on your back,” I said to him as I collared the bit of yellow fluff. He put one paw on my knee, gave my chin an awkward butt with his head and then very noisily got a drink before weaving his way out of the room.
I changed my clothes, threw a load of laundry in the washer and cleaned up the catnip and bits of funky chicken from the stairs and basement floor because who was I kidding, there was no way Owen was going to do it. Then I went back upstairs, rooted around to see what was in the fridge and the cupboards and decided to make apple spice muffins. Once the muffins were in the oven, I pulled out the vacuum.
Finally, I sat down at the table with my laptop and a cup of hot chocolate. Hercules had retreated upstairs when I’d gone out into the porch with the vacuum cleaner. Now he poked his head around the living room door and meowed inquiringly at me.
“All done,” I said.
He padded over to the table and launched himself onto my lap.
“Remember the drunken man from last night that I told you about?” I asked. I talked to the cats a lot. Saying what I was thinking out loud helped me sort things out in my own mind; at least that’s what I told myself.
Hercules gave a murp of acknowledgment.
“His name is Lewis Wallace. I want to see what I can find out about him.” I raised an eyebrow at him. “Want to help me?”
