by Sofie Kelly
A lump of guilt knotted in my chest. “I’m sorry,” I said. I knew better than anyone what Mom could be like when she wanted details on some part of our lives. I’d been getting that kind of third degree for longer than Ethan had. No wonder he didn’t tell me that he had a bit of a crush on Maggie, or anything else for that matter.
“Look, I get that you want to take care of me,” he said. “But I swear I can take care of myself. I shave. I pay taxes. I eat my vegetables—most of the time.” A hint of a smile flashed across his face.
“I know that,” I said, fighting the urge to reach over and smooth down a particularly wayward clump of his hair. “You’re smart. You’re talented. You’re funny.”
He made a “keep going” gesture with one hand. “You don’t have to stop.”
I smiled at him. “I really am sorry.”
He nodded. “I get that, Kath.” He leaned back against the refrigerator. “You get that I had nothing to do with that man’s death, right?”
“Of course I do,” I said.
“Milo wanted to wash his hair before we went out that night. You know how obsessive he is about it. The guy brought three bottles of conditioner with him. So I dropped him and Derek off at the place where they’re staying and told them I’d be back. I went and picked up the muffins and I left them in the meeting room. That’s it. I didn’t see Wallace.”
I held up one hand. “Hang on a second. How did you get into the room? That door should have been locked.”
He shrugged and gave me a sly smile. “I’m cute.”
I sighed. “You charmed some woman into letting you into that meeting room, didn’t you?”
“Front desk clerk. I just wanted to leave the muffins there. I knew if I brought them home you’d ask me a whole bunch of questions.” He narrowed his gaze at me. “And I don’t want her to get in trouble or fired for that, by the way.”
“You bought them for Maggie, didn’t you?” I said.
“Yes, I bought them for Maggie,” he said. He at least had the good grace to blush. “Now do I get the speech that she’s your friend and she’s too old for me?”
I shook my head. “Nope.”
He narrowed his gaze at me. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“But I had a whole thing about how wrong you are,” he said.
“You don’t need it,” I said. “Like you said, you’re a grown man, not a little kid. I promise I’ll try harder not to cramp your style, as they say.”
Ethan rolled his eyes. “Nobody says that, Kath.”
I kissed his cheek. “Love you,” I said. I picked up my computer and headed for the stairs.
“Love you, too,” he called after me.
Hercules was in my bedroom. The closet door was partway open and he was nudging one of my black flats across the floor. He made a face and his tail whipped across the floor when I bent down and picked up the shoe. It was the third time I’d caught him doing the same thing.
“Why do you keep taking my shoe out of the closet?” I asked. He looked from the black flat to me, his green gaze steady and unblinking. I wasn’t sure if he had some nefarious purpose for trying to swipe my footwear or he was making a statement about my fashion choices. Given how vocal he could be when I was getting dressed, I kind of suspected the latter.
I put the shoe back in the closet, then bent down and picked up the little tuxedo cat. “Ethan came clean to Marcus,” I told him. “It was just me that he didn’t tell about buying those muffins.” I didn’t add that was because I was a bossy, interfering big sister. Hercules licked my chin, which might have been a gesture of comfort or might have been because I had a bit of lo mein sauce on my face.
I knew Marcus didn’t suspect Ethan. He didn’t know Lewis Wallace, and other than the incident when he and Derek ran into the man on the sidewalk outside Eric’s Place, Ethan had never spoken to him. No one would seriously think of him as a suspect. But he was my baby brother and I was a little—or from his perspective, more than a little—overprotective.
“We have to figure out who killed Lewis Wallace,” I said.
“Mrr,” Hercules agreed. He put one white-tipped paw on my hand. He was in.
chapter 9
When Rebecca let me into her kitchen the next morning I discovered that Hercules was already there, sitting on a chair next to Everett at the table, a couple of organic fish crackers on a napkin in front of him.
“Rebecca, why is my cat at your breakfast table?” I asked.
“It’s Friday,” she said, picking up a heavy brown stoneware mug from the counter and making her way over to the coffeepot.
“I’m aware of what day it is,” I said.
“Hercules has breakfast with Everett on Tuesdays and Fridays. Where else would he be sitting, dear? On the floor?”
There was something about Rebecca, maybe it was her innate kindness, that made people care about her, that made them—me included—just a little protective, at which, for the most part, Rebecca just smiled. On the other hand, underneath that gray hair and angelic smile there was a steel-hard stubborn streak.
Hercules having a place at her table sounded so perfectly logical that I knew better than to argue with her. I saw a hint of a smile on Everett’s face but he just picked up his own coffee cup and didn’t say a word.
Rebecca set the steaming mug in front of me. “Thank you,” I said, reaching for the blue cut-glass sugar bowl.
“Have you had breakfast?” she asked.
I nodded. “I have. Coffee is fine.”
“Well if you change your mind I have fruit and yogurt and cinnamon raisin bread.” She smiled. “I wanted to tell you that I heard about that unpleasant incident at The Brick last week and while I don’t generally condone violence, I don’t care for bullies, especially people who mistreat animals and don’t show respect for our veterans. I would have reacted just the way your friend did. I hope there haven’t been any repercussions for him.”
I shook my head. “There haven’t. And for the record, Derek is a good guy. He doesn’t go around getting into altercations in bars.” At least I hoped he didn’t.
“Is Derek the young man with the beard that I’ve seen at Eric’s a couple of times?”
I took a sip of my coffee. “He is.”
“He’s quite good-looking,” Rebecca said. “He has lovely dark eyes.”
I choked on my coffee. “Rebecca!” I sputtered.
“I can see,” she said. She gave Everett a loving look across the table and then turned her attention to me. “I’m married,” she added matter-of-factly, “not dead, my dear.” She took the chair opposite me then and folded her hands primly in her lap. “I also heard what happened at the hotel. I’m sorry you had to find Mr. Lewis.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“Marcus is on the case,” Everett said. He didn’t frame the words as a question, which told me he already knew Marcus was investigating.
I nodded. “He is.”
Rebecca reached over and patted my arm. “You said last night there was something you wanted to talk to us about. What is it?”
I gave my head a little shake to chase away the cobwebs. “Lewis Wallace, actually,” I said. “Specifically, what can you tell me about the business he was considering opening here in town?”
“Not that much,” Everett said, folding his newspaper and setting it beside him on the table. He was tall and lean with a close-cropped white beard and intense dark eyes. He reminded me of actor Sean Connery. “I haven’t been very involved in the decision making for this particular project—mostly just a case of bad timing for me.”
“I’ve been to all of the meetings,” Rebecca added, “but I don’t feel I know that much and that’s the problem. I didn’t like the fact that from my perspective, Mr. Wallace seemed to be stalling on providing more concrete details for his business�
�which suppliers would he be working with, what were his projected sales, what part of the country was he marketing to, did he have a distribution system in place? The basics really.”
Once again I was impressed with Rebecca’s business acumen. I shouldn’t have been. Rebecca was very savvy about life and people in general and business in particular. She had been a hairdresser and she knew all about running a small business in a time when there hadn’t been so many women doing it.
Everett nodded. “I had the same concerns as Rebecca. And I wanted to know more about Wallace’s previous failed business. Why did it go under? What did he learn from the experience?” He set his coffee cup on the table. “Mind you, I’m not saying that that failure was necessarily a bad thing. Some people take a while to find the right fit for their skills.”
“According to the Small Business Association, half of all businesses fail in the first five years,” I said.
“That’s right,” he said. “That can be due to anything from not researching the market to not having a good business plan to not listening to customer feedback. I wanted to know if Mr. Wallace was aware of his weaknesses.”
“Have we told you anything that helps?” Rebecca asked.
“I’m not sure,” I admitted, tracing the rim of my coffee cup with one finger. “I’m trying to get a sense of what kind of businessman Lewis Wallace was. He’s pretty much an enigma.”
“You know that he was selling memorabilia? That was the business that failed.”
I nodded. “I know there were some disgruntled customers and some accusations about the legitimacy of some of the things he was selling.”
“It was more than that,” Rebecca said. “There was a police investigation. And a couple of people sued.”
“What happened?” I hadn’t found any of this information in my cursory research online.
“The investigation didn’t lead to any charges and the lawsuits were settled out of court, very recently as a matter of fact.”
“That doesn’t mean people still weren’t angry,” I said. Some people can hold a grudge for a long time.
“You’re wondering if Mr. Wallace died because of a business deal gone wrong.” Rebecca got up off her chair and got the coffeepot. She topped up her husband’s cup and gestured at mine.
“Please,” I said. I added more cream and sugar to my cup then leaned back in my seat, hands wrapped around the mug. I was stalling to come up with a diplomatic answer to Rebecca’s question. “From my limited experience with the man and from what I’ve read about him, he seemed to be the kind of person to whom people reacted strongly.”
“In other words, he could be a jerk,” she said flatly.
I sighed. “Yes.”
“How is the investigation going into Mr. Wallace’s death? Has Marcus learned anything?”
“I’m not giving away any secrets by saying it’s going very slowly,” I said, once again choosing my words with care.
“Well I’m sure things are a bit more challenging because the medical examiner didn’t immediately rule the death a homicide.”
“Umm, how did you know that?” I asked.
Rebecca gave me what I thought of as her sweet-little-old-lady smile. “I have my sources.”
Her source was likely Mary’s daughter, Bridget, who was the publisher of the town paper. I had no idea who Bridget’s source was. Neither did Marcus, which caused him a fair amount of frustration.
“Lewis Wallace’s death could have been an accident.” I tapped the side of my cup with one finger. “It’s a bad idea to jump to conclusions.”
“But it wasn’t an accident,” Everett said.
“There are a lot of unanswered questions,” Rebecca added. “I think it a good thing that someone is looking for answers.” She smiled again.
I smiled back at her. “Thank you both for answering them. And thank you for the coffee.” I looked at Hercules. “Okay, Fuzzy Face. Let’s go.”
He made a face and gave an indignant meow.
“If you walk home by yourself you’ll end up with wet feet,” I reminded him.
He immediately looked at Rebecca.
“Oh, that’s not a problem,” she said. “I’ll bring Hercules home later in the wagon.”
“I’m sorry, the wagon? What wagon?” I had somehow lost the thread of the conversation.
“Oh my goodness, did I not show it to you?”
“No,” I said, shaking my head.
“I can’t believe I forgot,” Rebecca said. “Maggie found me an old wooden Radio Flyer wagon at a flea market about a month ago. She cleaned it up and painted it for me. Red, of course. I’m going to use it to move my plants when I’m working in my garden. I can bring Hercules home in it. There isn’t that much snow left in the backyard.” She held up both hands as though everything was settled.
“I can’t let you do that.”
Everett raised an eyebrow. “Bad idea,” he said softly.
Rebecca was studying me through narrowed eyes. “I don’t understand,” she said. “You can’t let me?” Equal emphasis on the “can’t” and the “let” in the sentence. “Kathleen, are you trying to say you don’t trust me to bring Hercules home safely?”
“No,” I said, feeling my face redden. I hadn’t meant to offend her.
“You don’t think I’m too feeble to pull a wagon with a little cat in it across the yard, then, do you?”
Crap on toast! I had offended Rebecca.
“No, no . . . I just . . . There’s snow out there.”
She gave a snort. “There’s barely a dusting. I don’t see a problem.” She waited, head cocked to one side.
I wasn’t quite sure what to say. I took a deep breath and slowly let it out. “I appreciate your offer to make sure Hercules gets home,” I said carefully. “Thank you.”
Rebecca smiled. “You’re very welcome.” She reached over and set a piece of bacon in front of Hercules. “I almost forgot. I have a pie for you,” she said. “I’ll go get it. It’s in the pantry.”
The cat gave me a smug look that told me he knew who’d won and bent his head over his bacon. Rebecca went to get the pie. I looked at Everett. “I was played, wasn’t I?”
“Like a ninety-nine-cent kazoo,” he said with a smile.
* * *
As I headed home through the backyard I saw Owen waiting for me on the railing of the back stoop. He had come out with me when I’d headed over to see Rebecca and Everett. He liked to do a morning survey of the yard. I had no idea what he was looking for but it was part of his daily routine. His nose twitched at the pie.
“It’s people food,” I told him as I unlocked the porch door.
He made a sound like a sigh.
I kicked off my shoes, hung up my jacket and set the pie on the counter, covering it with a clean dishtowel for the moment. I got another cup of coffee and decided it was probably a bit too early for pie. It was blueberry. I’d checked.
I took a seat at the table. “Based on what Rebecca told me, Lewis Wallace definitely made some enemies with his last business. Maybe one of them tracked him down here,” I said. “Two people sued him and he was investigated by the police. He had to have left some unhappy customers in his wake.”
Owen seemed to be more interested in working out a stubborn knot in the fur on his tail than hearing about what I’d learned. “I just feel if I knew a little more about the man I could maybe figure out whether his death was personal or business.”
I tried to think of some way other than haunting the Internet to find more about Lewis Wallace the man. I couldn’t come up with anything. I looked up from my coffee to find Owen sitting in the wooden basket from Burtis Chapman that had been filled with potatoes from his root cellar. I’d left the basket under the coat hooks to remind me to return it. “Owen, get out of there,” I said.
The cat didn’t
budge an inch. He just continued to sit in the basket and wash his face. I set my cup down, went over and scooped him out. “Burtis puts food in that basket,” I scolded. “You can’t sit in it. We already had this conversation.”
Owen squirmed to get down. I set him on the floor. He headed for the living room, where I knew he’d likely climb on the footstool—another place he wasn’t supposed to sit. I went back to my coffee.
I thought about Burtis, who had showed up a couple of days before Ethan and the guys had arrived with the basket filled with potatoes that had spent the winter cool and dry in his root cellar. He’d stood in the porch and he had seemed to fill the space. “I hear you’re going to have some extra mouths to feed,” he’d said.
A basket of potatoes might have seemed like an odd gift, but not to me. Russet potatoes from Burtis Chapman’s huge garden had a wonderful flavor and made delicious fries and hash browns. I would also have happily eaten them in a big bowl mashed with butter and a little salt and pepper.
Burtis Chapman was an intensely loyal man to his friends—including Marcus’s father, Elliot Gordon, whom he’d known since they were boys. But he’d worked for Idris Blackthorne—Ruby’s grandfather—as a young man. Idris had been the area bootlegger, among other things, and he’d had a reputation for coming down hard and fast on anyone who crossed him. There were some people in town who saw Burtis the same way.
I knew Burtis was a big football fan, a Vikings fan in particular, knowledgeable about stats and trades and who was injured in any given week. I wasn’t sure if he followed college football or the Canadian league, but if he didn’t there was at least a chance he’d know someone who did.
I looked in the direction of the living room. Was that why Owen had climbed into the potato basket? Was it his way of making me think of Burtis? I shook my head. No. That was a bit too much of a stretch. I was seeing connections where there weren’t any, I told myself. Still, I couldn’t quite shake the feeling that maybe I was right.
