by Kelly, Sofie
“There’s always a rumor going around about something,” I said. “I heard the same story. The only male she sees on a regular basis is that old horse the Kings bought for their daughter.”
Maggie laughed.
“I’ll see you at three o’clock.”
“See you then,” she said, and hung up.
I went upstairs and checked my e-mail. There was one from my sister, Sara. She was working in northern Canada on a film. Sara was a documentary filmmaker, but she paid her bills working as a makeup artist on small, and now increasingly bigger, independent films. In In the attached photo she was squinting into the sun, most of her face obscured by the hood of her parka. I peered at the background. There was almost much snow there as there was in Mayville.
There was also an e-mail from my friend Lise, in Boston. I miss you, her e-mail ended. This time next year you’ll be home.
This time next year.
I’d been in Minnesota for almost a year now. That meant I had just over a year left on my contract. What if they wanted me to stay? Did I want to stay? When I left Boston it had been an impulsive decision.
Andrew had married someone else. Granted, there had been a large amount of alcohol involved, but as far as I was concerned, his being married, even if it was to somebody he’d known for just two weeks, meant I wasn’t going to be with him anymore.
And while I loved my mom and my dad, and Ethan, my brother, and Sara, they’d always been impetuous and unpredictable. Someone had had to be sensible and practical. Someone had had to make sure there was milk and toilet paper. Someone had had to know how to fill out the myriad of papers in the emergency room. And get supper, even if it was only peanut butter–and-banana sandwiches.
That someone had been me for as long as I could remember. Me, when it was just Mom and Dad and me. Me, when they got divorced and I alternated weeks between them. Me, when they got married again because they couldn’t leave each other alone, which is why Ethan and Sara were guests, so to speak, at the wedding.
Coming to Mayville had really been running away. I hadn’t expected to make friends. In Boston everyone just assumed that I’d be back when my two-year contract was over.
I tried to imagine not sitting in Eric’s with Maggie and Roma, not going to tai chi—I was so close to mastering the complete form—and not walking across the backyard to have iced tea with Rebecca in her gazebo.
And what about Owen and Hercules? Could I take them back to Boston? I tried to picture them in an apartment in the city. Owen, who fancied himself a hunter—the birds had never been safer—would hate it. And how would I get Hercules to stay inside?
I couldn’t leave my cats behind. They wouldn’t let anyone but me touch them. Well, other than Agatha, who was dead, and Old Harry, who was supposed to be, according to the gossip around town.
And how would I explain to anyone—Roma, Maggie, anyone—about the cats? Roma said they were special, but she meant because of the way they’d attached themselves to me.
As much as I missed watching my parents prepare for a production, or seeing what Ethan had done to his hair, or going to one of Lise’s dinner parties, I wasn’t sure I wanted to go back to Boston.
That was a surprise.
Something in the hallway caught my eye. Owen was just passing the bedroom door with the funky chicken’s decapitated head in his mouth and a blissful look on his face. I couldn’t be sure, but he didn’t seem to be walking in a straight line. Owen was a little catnip junkie, no matter what Roma said.
I looked at my watch. I had enough time to get the slow cooker started and get to the library early.
I got supper simmering, quickly cleaned up, and hustled back upstairs to get ready for work.
“I’m leaving,” I called, pulling on my coat. From somewhere in the house I heard a faint meow—Owen. Then in a moment Hercules appeared. “I’ll see you later,” I said. He gave me a soft “murp” and disappeared back into the living room.
I pulled on my boots and hat and grabbed my bag. I was locking the door when I realized I hadn’t packed a lunch. I looked at my watch. It would be faster to walk down to Eric’s Place and get a sandwich than to go back inside and make something. And yes, maybe I would get some of the latest talk about Agatha Shepherd’s death, too.
I was three houses down the hill when Harry Junior’s truck drove past me, slowed and stopped. He rolled down his window. “Hey, Kathleen, would you like a drive down the hill?” he called.
The sun was bright, but with the wind, it wasn’t very warm out. “Yes,” I said.
“Hop in, then,” he said. He rolled the window back up.
I waited for a minivan to pass in the other direction, then scooted across the street and climbed into Harry’s truck. It may have been well used, but Harry took care of the old Ford and the heat was blasting like I was sitting in front of a stoked woodstove.
“Thank you so much,” I said, reaching for the seat belt.
“You’re welcome.” He put the truck in gear, checking the mirrors before he pulled into the street.
I leaned back against the turquoise vinyl seat and let the heat soak through my coat. “I have to buy a car.”
“Is there a reason you haven’t?”
“Pretty much laziness,” I said with a laugh. “I sold my car in Boston, intending to buy one when I got here.” I held my hands up to the heating vent. “But it was easy to walk everywhere and, well, you know what they say about good intentions.”
Harry smiled. “That I do.”
“Are you going to the Winterfest supper tonight?” I asked.
“Absolutely,” he said. “The old man hasn’t missed a Winterfest supper in”—he paused for a second—“well, ever, except for when he was overseas. As long as he’s got a pulse he’s going to be there.”
“I hope that’s a long time,” I said.
“Me, too,” Harry said. He opened his mouth as though he was going to say something else, but he didn’t.
I waited without saying anything myself. Harry would get to whatever it was in his own time.
“Are you headed for the library?” he asked as we got to the bottom of the hill.
“I’m going over to Eric’s to get something for lunch,” I said. “But here is fine. Anywhere is fine.”
“I’m going to the bookstore.” Harry put on his turn signal. “It’s only one door down.”
“Okay,” I said. The truck was so cozy and warm that I was happy to stay in my seat for a few more blocks.
“Have you heard anything about Agatha Shepherd’s death?” Harry asked.
I looked at him, but he kept his gaze fixed on the road. His tone was almost too offhand. It occurred to me that maybe it wasn’t just chance that Harry had been driving by just as I was walking downtown. “I was at Wisteria Hill this morning with Detective Gordon,” I said. “He said the autopsy was this morning. That’s it.”
Harry sighed. “Kathleen, I’m worried about the old man.”
I could see the tightness in his face. “They were friends.”
“They were,” Harry said quietly. We were at a stop sign with no other cars behind us. He turned to me. “They stopped speaking a long time ago.”
I struggled for a moment. I didn’t want to break the old man’s confidence, but it was clear Harry knew something had happened to his father and Agatha’s friendship. “He said they had a falling-out,” I said finally.
Harry nodded. “He likes you,” he said, turning down toward the water.
“I like him.”
He pulled into an empty parking spot just a couple of spaces down from the café and put the truck in park, but stared out through the windshield for a moment before he said anything more. “Kathleen, he had some kind of argument with Agatha the other night, didn’t he?”
I undid my seat belt to delay answering his question for a moment. “They had a conversation about something. It was very short. Your father was upset, although he tried to hide it. How did you know?”
“Dad wouldn’t tell me what the detective wanted, but he said something about saying things in anger that you can’t take back. I figured it had to be Agatha. It was pretty clear you two hadn’t argued about anything.”
I reached over and touched his arm. “Whatever they were discussing had nothing to do with her death.” I gestured to the café with my free hand. “She had a disagreement with Eric right before she saw your father. People argue, Harry. It doesn’t always mean anything.”
He pulled a hand across the bottom of his face. “He swiped one of my old trucks and drove himself down. Said he changed his mind and wanted to see what was happening at the auction. He scraped the front fender on something, I think when he was parking. At least he had enough sense to call me from Eric’s.”
I could suddenly hear my own heartbeat in my ears. Harry Senior was driving Wednesday night. “I didn’t know that,” I said slowly. “But it doesn’t mean he came looking for Agatha.”
“Dad has been having these episodes, times when he can’t remember where he was or what he was doing.” Harry swept his hand over his face again.
“The doctors don’t know if they’re small strokes, some kind of seizure disorder or even a brain tumor.” He shook his head. “Stubborn old coot refuses to go through more tests.”
He stared through the windshield. “Kathleen, he had one of those gaps the other night. He hasn’t admitted it, but I’ve gotten so I can pretty much tell when it happens.”
Harrison had been driving.
No. I wasn’t going there. Whatever had happened to Agatha, Harry Senior had had nothing to do with it. What had Harry just said? At least he’d had the good sense to call me from Eric’s. I’d walked the old man to the café, and Harry had picked him up there. Agatha had been fine when she’d walked away.
“Harry, Agatha was fine when your father left her,” I said. “I saw her head along the sidewalk. And I walked him to Eric’s, where you picked him up. I understand that you’re worried, but I don’t think you need to be.”
He looked relieved. “Thanks.”
I reached for the door handle with one hand and my bag with the other and got out of the truck, stepping up over the ridge of snow on the sidewalk. I raised my hand in good-bye, heading up the short stretch of sidewalk to the café.
Harry Senior had been driving the night Agatha died. But I’d walked him here and Harry had picked him up here. Had he stayed here? I closed my eyes for a second. In my mind I could see the blood soaking the plaid coat, and Agatha’s arm bent at an unnatural angle. I could see Marcus pulling the shard of glass from my pants cuff. Glass I was pretty sure came from a headlight.
The old man had scraped the fender of the truck on something, Harry had said. My heart started pounding in my chest again.
Something?
Or someone?
9
Claire was behind the counter inside the restaurant. It was too early for the lunch crowd.
“Hi, Kathleen,” she said. “What can I get you?”
“Sandwich, I think,” I said.
“For here or to go?”
I was tempted to stay and eat, but I needed to get some things done if I was going to get away and help Maggie later. “To go,” I said, pulling off my mittens.
She thought for a second. “All right. How about turkey and Swiss with spicy mustard and baby lettuce?”
“That sounds good.”
“Sourdough bread?” she asked.
I took a deep breath. The smell of fresh bread made my mouth water. “Yes.”
Claire put in the order and turned back to me. “What about a cookie?”
I patted the front of my parka. “If I keep eating your cookies more than just this coat is going to be padded.”
“It’s a new recipe,” she said, her tone wheedling. “Whoopie pie. Soft chocolate cookies, creamy, fluffy filling.”
“Stop, stop, stop!” I held up both hands, palms out.
She waited, eyebrows raised expectantly.
“One cookie,” I said, and held up a finger for emphasis. “One.”
Claire headed for the kitchen, a big grin on her face.
“Where’s Eric today?” I asked when she came back with my lunch packed to go in a brown paper bag.
“He’s still having problems with that tooth,” she said, taking the money and counting change from the till.
I grimaced in sympathy as she handed back my change. “I hope he feels better soon.”
“Me, too,” Claire said. “Double shifts are killing me. I’m getting too old for this.”
I smiled, pulling on my mittens again and picking up my food. Claire was maybe twenty-two.
She leaned across the counter and gave me a conspiratorial smile. “Is it true about Dr. Davidson?”
“Is what true?”
“I heard she’s seeing a younger guy, a hockey player. Eddie Sweeney.”
Eddie Sweeney? I couldn’t help laughing. “Sorry. This time the rumors are wrong.”
Claire looked disappointed.
I walked over to the library, noting that the sidewalks had all been sanded and plowed again. Susan was at the front desk. She turned as I walked in. “You’re early,” she said
“I need to get away for about a half hour or so later on,” I said, unwinding my scarf. “So I thought I’d get an early start. Quiet morning?”
She tucked a loose piece of hair behind her ear. Her topknot was kind of sideways. That wasn’t like Susan. She wasn’t wearing any lipstick, either, and there were crumbs on the front of her chocolate brown sweater. She looked frazzled and distracted.
“Actually it was fairly busy until about twenty minutes or so ago. Even with Winterfest, I guess people are looking for a good book to curl up with in this weather.” Her eyes kept darting to the phone, and she tried but failed to stifle a yawn.
“Is everything all right?” I asked undoing the button at the neck of my jacket.
“I’m just a bit tired,” she said, but again her eyes slid off me to the phone. “Eric and the boys all have colds, so I’m not getting a lot of sleep. But, hey”—she gave an elaborate shrug—“what can you expect in this weather?”
Her eyes just couldn’t stay on my face. In the almost year I’d known her I’d learned that Susan was a terrible liar and I knew she was lying now. Whatever was happening between her and Eric, she was going to have to work it out in her own way.
“Susan, if you need anything, you only have to ask,” I said quietly.
Her cheeks reddened. “I, uh, thanks,” she mumbled. She gestured to a stack of books behind her. “I should get back to work.”
“I’ll be in my office,” I said, and headed for the stairs.
Upstairs, I hung up my coat and changed into my shoes. Then I went down the hall for a cup of coffee. Roma was on my case because she thought I drank too much coffee. I couldn’t wait to tell her the story that had been spawned from driving around with the Eddie dummy in the front of her SUV. She might not have a love life, but she did have a heck of a rumored love life.
I spent some time in my office, working on the book order and finishing up plans for the spring programs at the library. I worked at the front desk while Mary and Susan had their lunch breaks. Then I took some time to go over the library usage hours.
Library visits were up; so were the numbers of books checked out. I was hoping Everett Henderson and the rest of the library board would be pleased. After all the turmoil associated with the refurbishment of the old building, it made me glad to see that the town was using it.
About two forty-five, I went to the desk. Mary was checking out a man with a stack of books at least ten volumes high.
“Mary, I’m going over to the community center for a while,” I said. “I won’t be any more than an hour
, probably less, and I have my cell.”
“Okay,” she said. “You’re coming to the supper tonight?”
“Absolutely.” I zipped my jacket. “I love your pie.”
“That’s because I bake it with love,” she said, trying to look like a sweet, gentle grandma, but not quite getting there with the devilish twinkle in her eye.
“Later,” I said, and headed out.
Maggie was on a ladder when I got to the center, taking down a string of lights I hadn’t noticed fastened to the ceiling. I dropped my coat and mittens on a chair and hurried over to help her.
“Hi. What can I do?”
She frowned at the ceiling. “Hi. How about grabbing the end of the lights before they bang against the side of the ladder and break?”
I caught the end of the cord, holding it away from the ladder while Maggie finished unhooking the string. That was when I noticed the helium-filled pig. It was floating over the tables, wearing a Minnesota Wild hockey jersey and holding a sign that said BITE ME.
“Interesting choice with the pig,” I said.
“Thanks,” Maggie said. “Could you hand me those bulbs, please?”
I draped the lights over a nearby chair and grabbed the package of bulbs she pointed to. I got one out of the box and handed it to her. She screwed it in place, then looked at the adjacent fixture, twisting her mouth to one side in thought. I held up my arm, offering another bulb without speaking.
“Yeah,” she muttered to no one in particular. She twisted the second light into place and nodded with satisfaction. We ended up replacing six bulbs before Maggie was completely happy.
“Thanks,” she said, scrambling down the ladder. “I just want to see how this looks.” She walked over to the door and flipped the light switch.
There was a faint pinkish yellow cast to the light on the locker-room scene. Maggie came back and stood, studying it, with her arms crossed. “What do you think?”
“It looks kind of like those old fluorescent lights. I’m guessing that’s the effect you wanted.”
She nodded. “Yeah, I wanted it to look like a locker room. She frowned suddenly. “Do Eddie’s legs look right to you?”
