by Sofie Kelly
I wanted to remind him of all the reasons it wasn’t a good idea. Instead all I said was “No promises.”
He nodded. “That’s more than enough.”
We said good night and I got in the truck. I hadn’t made any promises or actually agreed to anything. Harry might have said that was more than enough, but I wasn’t so sure it was.
chapter 6
I had a restless night. I woke up before my alarm went off, even before Owen had the chance to poke me with a paw. I got to the library early and spent a couple of minutes walking around outside, checking the gazebo at the back—no hay bales or swimming pools—and the vegetables and flowers that the summer camp kids were growing in Harry’s raised beds. Harry had already begun clearing a space next to the far end of the building for the cold frames. It was just another example of how kind and conscientious he was. I’d meant every word I’d said to him: I did think of him as a friend. Even though I wasn’t sure what I could uncover about Mike’s death, I knew I had to try.
I spent some time on my laptop at lunchtime but I didn’t learn much more about Mike. He had been the top-rated endodontist in the state on Rate My Dentist. I didn’t see how his killer could have been a disgruntled patient.
It was a quiet day, maybe because it wasn’t raining, and I got the chance to work on my presentation for the library board about the new library computers. They had approved the idea in theory. Now that we had started fund-raising it was time for more details.
As I drove up the hill at the end of the day, I decided I would go talk to Rebecca to see what she could tell me about Mike Bishop and his family. She had grown up in Mayville Heights and she often knew where the bodies were buried, so to speak.
Before I had supper, I pulled some radishes from my little backyard garden and gathered a few more sungold tomatoes to take over to Rebecca after I’d eaten. Hercules sat at one corner of the raised bed watching me—and keeping his feet dry—while Owen walked around the edge, lifting one paw a couple of times as if telling me which tomatoes to pick. I wasn’t really sure what I was hoping to learn from Rebecca. Mike’s life seemed like an open book. Most of us had at least one person in our lives who wasn’t really a fan, but no one had a bad word to say about Mike. He didn’t seem like the kind of person to have any skeletons in his closet, but if they were there, Rebecca would probably know about them.
“I’m not sure there’s anything I can do to figure this out,” I said to the boys as I chopped three of the tomatoes for my own supper. “Harry said people tell me things, things that they don’t tell Marcus, but I’m not sure it matters this time.”
“Mrr,” Hercules said.
I wasn’t sure if he was agreeing, disagreeing or wondering when we were going to eat.
Marcus had said very little about the investigation but I didn’t think he had any suspects at this point. “What if Mike was just the victim of a random crime? What if someone broke in intending to steal whatever they could find and things just went wrong?”
Hercules seemed to consider the idea for a moment.
“Harrison and Harry think I can do something, but maybe I can’t. I know that most victims of violent crime know their attacker, but sometimes things are just random.”
I was talking out loud mainly just to work things out for myself. I didn’t expect either cat to offer any theories on Mike Bishop’s death, so I wasn’t surprised to look over my shoulder and see that Owen didn’t seem to be paying attention at all. He was peering under the refrigerator at something.
“What are you doing?” I said.
One ear twitched but that was the only indication I got that he was listening. He swiped one paw under the fridge and sent a small refrigerator magnet skittering across the floor to stop by my feet. I bent down to pick it up.
It was one that Maggie had given to me. I hadn’t been able to find it for a while and I had suspected it might have ended up in the stash of things Owen kept hidden—more or less—in the basement. Owen loved Maggie and had swiped her scarf and one of her mittens among other things in the past.
The magnet was a photo of Einstein with the quote: “God does not play dice with the universe.” In other words there is a pattern to things, a plan. Owen cocked his head to one side and looked at me with an almost smug look on his furry face.
“ ‘Not only does God play dice but he sometimes confuses us by throwing them where they cannot be seen,’ ” I said. “Stephen Hawking.”
I raised one eyebrow at Owen in my best Mr. Spock–from–Star Trek fashion and returned his smug expression. Then two things occurred to me. One, I was being smug over besting a cat. And two, both Einstein and Hawking were talking about quantum mechanics, not murder.
* * *
After supper I walked across the backyard to Rebecca’s. I found her cutting lettuce from her own small garden with a tiny pair of kitchen shears. She smiled when she caught sight of me. “Kathleen, your timing is perfect,” she said. “The lettuce is taking over. Please tell me you’ll take some.”
“I’ll definitely take some. Mine hasn’t grown nearly as well as yours.” I held up the brown paper bag I was carrying. “I brought tomatoes and radishes.”
“Splendid,” Rebecca said. “Everett will eat tomatoes at every meal and I have very few radishes. I think the racoons are having them for a midnight snack.”
I watched as she finished filling her colander with lettuce. Then she gestured at the gazebo. “Do you have time to sit in the shade for a bit?” she asked.
“I do,” I said.
Rebecca put the lettuce on the small table in the middle of the space and we each took a chair. She folded her hands in her lap. She was tiny with bright blue eyes and silver-gray hair cropped into a short cut that showed off her cheekbones and long neck.
“Where would you like me to start?” she asked. “You are looking for information about Michael’s family, aren’t you?”
There was no point in pretending I didn’t understand what she was referring to. “How did you know?” I asked.
“You and Harrison are very close. I knew he’d ask you to see what you could find out about Michael’s death.” She frowned. “I’m not wrong, am I?”
I shook my head. “No, you’re not.”
“So tell me, what would you like to know?”
“The thing is, I’m not really sure,” I said. “Did Mike have any enemies? Was there anyone who would have had any reason to want him dead?”
“Your Marcus asked me the same questions,” Rebecca said, “and the answers are no and no. Michael was a good man. He was generous with his time, with his skills and with his money.”
“Some of that was Finnamore family money?”
Rebecca nodded. “The Finnamore family started Black Dog Boots more than a hundred years ago and they also made money in the timber industry. And before you think either of those businesses could be the cause of Michael’s death, you should know that the Finnamores only own a tiny share of either business now. Michael’s mother, Elizabeth Finnamore Bishop, inherited her father’s share of both companies and, as an only child, all of his money. There’s also a separate trust that provides for Finnamore descendants—it pays for college. Elizabeth started a charitable foundation with the money she inherited. It supports several educational organizations—education was one of Elizabeth’s favorite causes—as well as a number of school food programs all over the state. I know that Michael continued his mother’s work and expanded the school food project. He also started a project to provide basic dental care to children who wouldn’t otherwise get it. I don’t think anyone is going to commit murder over feeding hungry children or fixing their teeth.”
Neither did I.
She nudged her glasses up her nose. “I’m guessing all of that will go to Lachlan now.”
“Not Eloise or Jonas?” I asked.
“Eloise lives in California. I don’t see how she could run the foundation from out there.”
“And Jonas isn’t a bi
ological Finnamore.”
“Yes.” She picked a dried rose petal off the front of her shirt. “Jonas is probably the trustee for now, but the Finnamore money always stays in the family.” She made a face when she said the word “family.” “The older generation—Leitha’s generation—cared way too much about the bloodline as far as I’m concerned.”
“What about Mike?” I asked. “He was digging into the family tree. Do you think he cared about the bloodline?”
“Goodness no!” Rebecca said, gesturing with one hand. “I once heard him tell Leitha it was all a bunch of foolishness. He said the sainted Finnamores weren’t any better than anyone else.”
“What about Jonas?” I asked. “Do you think his not being a Finnamore matters to him?”
“I’m not sure. I think in some ways he might be relieved not to be. He inherited some land from his father and some investments from Mary-Margaret and he’s done well for himself. He’s smart and hardworking. Leitha used that family money like a whip to get people to do what she wanted them to. She couldn’t do that with Jonas and he was always pretty good at keeping Lachlan out of that.” She smiled. “I can see both of their mothers’ influence in Michael and in Jonas.”
“You knew both women.” I pulled one foot up underneath me.
“I knew Mary-Margaret better,” Rebecca said. “I used to cut her hair and she adored both of her boys, Jonas and Colin, Lachlan’s father. When Jonas had mumps as a teenager and ran a very high fever, Mary-Margaret wouldn’t leave his side at the hospital and Elizabeth had a doctor removed from treating the boy when the doctor tried to send Mary-Margaret home because Jonas wasn’t her ‘real’ son.”
“I think I would have liked both of them.”
Rebecca smiled again. “You would have. Mary-Margaret was the quieter of the two. Michael is . . . was very much like his mother.”
I tried to picture the rough family tree Mike had sketched out as he found new family members. I wasn’t sure if any of his family history had anything to do with his murder but it was a place to start, something to at least eliminate. “So Leitha was Elizabeth and Mary-Margaret’s aunt,” I said.
Rebecca nodded. “That’s right. Leitha and John were brother and sister.” She tapped one finger on the table as though she was plotting out the family connections. “Leitha had one child, Eloise. Her brother, John, had two daughters, Elizabeth and Mary-Margaret, which made Leitha great-aunt to Michael—and Jonas as far as I’m concerned. Did you meet Eloise when she was here for her mother’s service?”
“I did,” I said. “She came into the library to see all the work that had been done.”
“She was estranged from her mother, you know.”
I shook my head. “I didn’t know that, but I’m not really surprised. Leitha had a strong personality.” And equally strong opinions I’d learned the first time we’d met. She told me with no beating around the bush that she believed the money spent on renovating the library had been nothing more than “foolish sentimentality.” She thought the building should have been torn down and replaced with a new, modern structure.
The Mayville Heights Free Public Library was a Carnegie library and much of the town’s history was tied up with it. Not to mention it was an excellent example of the architecture of its time. All of which I had nicely explained to Leitha. None of which had changed her mind.
“The woman had some very old-fashioned ideas,” Rebecca said, pursing her lips with disapproval. “Eloise has two daughters. They’re both adopted.”
“You think that estrangement had something to do with them not being biological Finnamores?”
Rebecca sighed. “I hope not, but knowing Leitha, it wasn’t impossible. She was missing out on so much not being in those girls’ lives. Look how blessed I am by having Ami.”
Ami was Everett’s granddaughter. Rebecca had been part of her life since she was a little girl. Even when Everett and Rebecca weren’t part of each other’s lives, she and Ami had stayed close.
“There’s no blood tie between us, but I couldn’t love Ami any more if there was. What binds people is love, not strands of DNA.” She reached out one hand and gently waved a butterfly away from the lettuce. “You know, some people think the Finnamores are cursed.”
I shifted in my chair. The foot I’d been sitting on was going to sleep. “Do you?”
Rebecca shook her head. “No. I don’t believe in silly things like that. The rain falls equally on sinner and saint and there were both in that family, just like in any other family, no matter what Leitha would have liked the rest of us to believe.”
“Do you know how the family came to start Black Dog Boots?” I asked. I had found very little about the history of the company when I’d been prowling around on their website at lunchtime.
“Leitha’s grandfather started Black Dog. He started out as a lumberjack, but he saved every penny and eventually had his own crew of men. Black Dog began because he couldn’t find durable work boots. Except for a minor share, the business was sold years ago, so if you’re thinking Michael was killed by a disgruntled employee”—she held up both hands—“I think you’re looking in the wrong direction.”
“Do you think there could be any connection between Mike’s death and the band?” I felt like I was just pulling random ideas out of the air now.
“I don’t see how,” Rebecca said. “Everyone was thrilled that they had gotten together again. In fact, I wouldn’t have been surprised to see them do more shows together. No one thought that was a bad idea, but Harry or Johnny could tell you more about that.”
I couldn’t think of anything else to ask her, especially since I had already taken more of her time than I’d intended. We talked about our respective vegetable patches for a moment and then I thanked Rebecca for the lettuce and the information and headed home.
Owen had moved from walking around the vegetable bed to sitting on the arm of one of the Adirondack chairs. I joined him. He sniffed the lettuce out of curiosity but made a face. Salad didn’t interest him, other than the croutons if there were any, although he had been known to lick the ranch dressing off a bit of cucumber that accidentally landed on the floor.
The cat glanced over toward Rebecca’s yard and then gave me a curious look.
“Nothing useful,” I said, assuming he wanted to know what I’d learned from Rebecca when maybe he was just wondering if she had any yellow catnip chickens. “I did learn that Mike’s great-grandfather was a lumberjack but I don’t see how that’s going to help me.”
Marcus came around the side of the house then. He was carrying one of Burtis’s potato baskets.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hi, yourself,” he said. He held up the basket. “New potatoes for you from Burtis via Brady.”
I smiled. Burtis grew some of the best potatoes I’d ever eaten. “Please thank both of them and thank you for bringing them over.”
“You’re very welcome,” Marcus said. He leaned down to kiss me, set the basket on the grass and lowered himself into the other chair.
Owen jumped down from his perch on the arm of my chair and walked over to peer at the potatoes. Before I could stop him, he jumped into the basket.
“Get out of there,” I said.
He looked at me, not even blinking.
“Get out,” I repeated.
His response was to disappear.
I blew out a breath in frustration, lifting my bangs off my face. “I know you’re there, Owen,” I said.
Marcus laughed.
“Don’t laugh,” I said. “It just encourages him.”
“Did you know that researchers in Montreal have been looking at ways to change a light’s frequency to make it pass through an object, which then makes the object seem to be invisible?”
We could both see a potato moving in the basket.
“Clearly those researchers weren’t working with any cats,” I said.
Marcus stretched out his long legs and raked a hand through his hair. He was frust
rated.
“The Bishop case?” I asked.
He nodded. “I have no suspects and almost no evidence. Mike Bishop died of a head injury, but no one in the area heard or saw anything and the man was universally well-liked.”
“According to Rebecca, some people think the Finnamore family is cursed.” The potato was still moving, pushed I knew by a furry gray-and-white paw.
“You think Rebecca really believes that?” Marcus asked.
I pulled both feet up onto the seat of my chair and wrapped my arms around my legs. “No. And for the record, neither do I. As Rebecca put it, ‘The rain falls equally on sinner and saint and there were both in that family.’ The quote comes from the Bible, in case you were wondering.”
“I don’t believe in things like jinxes or curses,” he said.
I gave a snort of laughter. “This from the man who wouldn’t wash his hockey jersey during the playoffs last year.”
He was already shaking his head. “That’s different. When I don’t wash my jersey, I’m connecting with the collective mindset of hockey fans all over the country. Our shared energy supports the team.”
“More like a shared delusion, but who am I to argue?” I said. I rested my chin on one knee.
“Something else I don’t believe in?” Marcus said. “Coincidences. The deaths of two people in the same family in just three months doesn’t feel right to me.”
“It happens,” I said.
I’d always felt a little sad about Leitha Anderson’s death. She had come to the library for a talk about the history of the area given by Mary. Previous lectures in the series had included two talks by Harrison and one by Everett. Mary and Leitha had had a very loud and very public argument after Mary’s talk. On the drive home, Leitha had suffered a heart attack, gone off the road and died before paramedics arrived.
“Mike was murdered. Leitha was old and her death was an accident,” I said.
Marcus looked away for a moment; then his eyes met mine again. “What if it wasn’t?”
