by Sofie Kelly
“Sherlock Holmes.”
I nodded. “From the pen of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, yes.”
“So, what can we eliminate?” Abigail asked. “It’s not impossible that the chocolates were contaminated at the theater. I don’t think it’s very likely, but it’s not impossible.”
“And it’s not impossible that they came into contact with nuts in Olivia’s kitchen, no matter what she says,” I countered. “Maybe this is just the perfect storm of a series of accidents that wouldn’t have mattered except Dayna Chapman just happened to be severely allergic to pistachio nuts.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Abigail said. “If we’re eliminating the impossible, we can’t exactly eliminate that.”
I rubbed the space between my eyes, then glanced at my watch. “We’d better get downstairs. It’s almost time to open. People are going to be here soon.”
“I’ll go turn the lights on,” Abigail said, rinsing her mug and setting it in the sink. She looked back over her shoulder at me. “Things will work out, Kathleen. It was just a horrible accident. And we’ll find a way to get the money we need.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I said, handing her my own mug. “I’ll just get my keys and I’ll be right down.”
I headed for my office. Maybe the medical examiner’s investigator would be able to figure out why Dana had had the allergic reaction that killed her. Maybe I’d been involved in one too many of Marcus’s cases and now I was seeing something suspicious that wasn’t even there. Maybe the whole thing was just a set of sad coincidences—improbable, maybe, but not impossible.
I grabbed my keys from my desk drawer and headed for the stairs, trying to shake the thought that while it wasn’t impossible that last night had just been a mistake—a very tragic mistake—it wasn’t impossible that it hadn’t been, either.
* * *
Vincent Starr’s talk was a huge success. Quite a few people had come from Minneapolis for the lecture, but there were a lot more people from Mayville Heights than I’d expected. Ruby was in the front row along with Nic Sutton, Ella King and Georgia Tepper. Georgia had made her way over to me as soon as she came in through the front doors.
I walked over to intercept her. “I’m sorry about last night, Georgia,” I said. “You put in so much work and the cupcakes were delicious.”
She shrugged and gave me a half smile. “They were only cupcakes, Kathleen. And I wanted you to know that Eric and I packed up all the leftover food and dropped it off at the Boys and Girls Club. They have a big freezer and pretty much everything can be frozen. They can use it all. They do a hot lunch program over the Christmas break.”
“Thank you for doing that,” I said. “I feel a lot better knowing the food wasn’t wasted.”
She looked back over her shoulder to where Susan was standing, talking to a group of women by the checkout desk. “It wasn’t my idea,” she said. “It was Susan’s. I kind of had a feeling she wouldn’t tell you.”
“I’ll thank Susan for the idea. And thank you again for making it happen.”
I was surprised to see Lita and Brady sitting together at the end of a row as Abigail and I added another group of chairs at the back of the room. Even from a distance I could see the dark circles under Lita’s eyes that makeup hadn’t really been able to hide. Brady’s face was unreadable. I wondered what they were doing at the lecture. I didn’t know either one of them was interested in rare books. Lita liked romance novels and shared Maggie’s affection for Clint Eastwood’s movies. Brady read a lot of science fiction. It was Susan’s favorite genre too. Early in the week they’d had a spirited discussion about the merits of John Wyndham versus Ursula K. Le Guin.
Less than five minutes before Vincent got started, I turned around to see Olivia Ramsey slip into the last empty chair.
Abigail followed my gaze. “That’s a surprise,” she said softly.
“Yes, it is,” I agreed.
Vincent’s talk was on what he called the Golden Age of Children’s Literature: the late nineteenth and early twentieth century. When the lecture was over Olivia got up and made her way over to me. She was a little pale, but other than that she looked all right. Her blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she was wearing a heavy caramel-colored sweater.
“Kathleen, I wanted to say thank you,” she said. “They told me at the hospital that you found my autoinjector in my purse. If you hadn’t . . .” She shook her head and didn’t finish the sentence.
“I’m just glad you’re all right,” I said. “You are okay, aren’t you?”
She nodded, taking in a deep breath and letting it out. “Yes, I am. I’m allergic to cashew nuts. That can trigger a lesser reaction to something like pistachios, and that’s what the doctors think happened.” She pushed up the sleeve of her nubby sweater. There was a silver-colored medic alert bracelet on her right wrist. “I should be wearing this all the time. I will be wearing it all the time now. I thought it didn’t look very fashionable, which was stupid on my part.”
“I think that’s a very good idea,” I said.
She swallowed a couple of times. “I’m so sorry the other woman . . . didn’t make it. I don’t know what happened, but I swear there were no nuts in those chocolates.” She was carrying her quilted jacket over one arm and she played with the zipper pull. “I, uh, understand totally if you don’t want my help, but if you decide to do another fundraiser, I’d like to help.”
“Thank you,” I said, smiling so she’d know I meant what I was saying. “I don’t know what we’re going to do yet, but I appreciate all the work you did. And please take it easy. You just got out of the hospital.”
Olivia gave me a tentative smile in return. “I will. I can’t use my kitchen right now anyway. The police and some people from the state medical examiner’s office are there.”
My surprise must have shown on my face.
“I want everyone to know my chocolates weren’t the reason that woman died last night. It wasn’t my fault.” She looked over her shoulder. “I see someone I need to talk to. Again, if I can help with another fundraiser, call me.”
I nodded and watched her walk over to Georgia, who was part of a small group of people talking to Vincent Starr, and touch her on the shoulder.
The police and the medical examiner’s office were already checking out Olivia’s kitchen? I could see Marcus’s hand in that. Had Olivia been negligent in some way that could be considered a crime? I really hoped not.
Vincent answered questions for close to twenty minutes. He looked at the box of old readers from the community center and told us they were probably worth a couple of thousand dollars, which would help with their roof repairs. Then Abigail and I took him to lunch at Eric’s. Over bowls of Eric’s pea soup with ham and carrots, we talked about the morning’s lecture. Or rather Vincent talked and Abigail and I listened. He was enthusiastic over a couple of potential finds. It seemed that Ella King might have a first edition of Live and Let Die, by Ian Fleming.
“I haven’t seen a decent copy of that book in years,” Vincent said, gesturing with half a slice of Eric’s sourdough bread.
It turned out that Lita had a box of books from Wisteria Hill that Vincent was equally eager to check out. “I’m hoping there’s a copy of The Birds of America in that collection,” he said, beaming across the table at us.
I’d been worried that Dayna Chapman’s death would leave Vincent with a negative impression of Mayville Heights. Clearly that hadn’t happened. I was relieved and at the same time I felt a little sad. No one really seemed to be grieving for the woman. I remembered Brady, quietly saying he didn’t need to go to the hospital. It seemed that his mother had burned a lot of bridges.
I paid for lunch, although Vincent gallantly tried to pick up the tab.
“Thank you for inviting me to town, Kathleen,” he said as we stood outside on the sidewalk, buried in our heavy overcoats, our breath hanging in the frigid air.
He turned to Abigail. “And thank you
for all the work you did putting it all together.”
“You’re very welcome,” I said. “We appreciate your coming. We had a bigger turnout than even I expected.”
Vincent nodded. “There are several people here in town that clearly know something about rare books. I was impressed with the questions I was asked.” He patted the pocket of his heavy dark brown jacket. “I’ll be e-mailing more information to several people.” Then he smiled. “I’d love to return and do a workshop next time I’m in the area, Kathleen.”
I smiled back. “I’d like that as well,” I said.
We shook hands and Abigail and I pointed him in the direction of Henderson Holdings. Then we headed back to the library.
“This morning went better than I expected,” Abigail said, pulling her scarf a little tighter around her neck.
“I know,” I said, stuffing my hands in my pockets and wishing I’d worn my heavier gloves. “We had a great turnout. There were a lot of people who drove from Minneapolis, but there were a lot of people from here in town, too.”
She looked at me as we waited to cross at the corner. “I was surprised to see Brady,” she said. “Given that his mother . . .” She didn’t finish the sentence. Then before I could say anything, she shook her head. “Listen to me. I sound like the stereotypical small-town busybody.”
“You don’t and you aren’t,” I said as we turned toward the library. “You’re concerned about Brady. That’s not being a busybody, that’s just being a decent person.”
She kicked a chunk of snow down the sidewalk. “My father would never have won any father-of-the-year prizes. I told you how he reacted when I got married without his approval.”
I nodded.
“He was the kind of person for whom nothing was ever good enough, especially anything I did, it seemed.” She looked past me, out over the water. “I’d like to tell you that he changed as he got older, but he didn’t. He was a sour old man and I promised myself that I wasn’t going to be like that. I didn’t forgive anything he did, but I did spend time with him before he died. Not for him, Kathleen. For me, so I could know I wasn’t the same kind of person he was.”
“I understand that,” I said as we approached the library building.
“Brady’s relationship with his mother is none of my business,” Abigail said. “She left those boys and that’s a hard thing to forgive.” She sighed. “But Dayna’s dead now and there are no more chances for . . . anything. Swallowing all the feelings that go along with that isn’t a good thing.”
I thought about Mags, touching Brady’s hand and seconding Marcus’s suggestion that Brady go to the hospital. I was very glad she’d done that.
As we came level with the parking lot, I spied Burtis Chapman’s big black truck in the parking lot with Burtis behind the wheel.
“Abigail,” I said. “I see Burtis over there. I’m just going to go talk to him for a minute.”
She nodded. “I’ll see you inside,” she said, and headed for the stairs.
I made my way across the lot, making a mental note that I needed to get Harry Taylor to spread a little more sand around, and Burtis climbed out of the truck when he saw me coming. He was wearing a heavy navy jacket and a trapper hat with earflaps.
“Hello, Kathleen,” he said as he came around the front of the truck.
I smiled. “Hello, Burtis,” I said. “Were you by any chance waiting for me?”
“Yes, I was. I wanted to say I’m sorry your fundraiser got ruined last night.”
I pulled my hat a little farther down over my ears. The air was sharply cold and the snow I’d known was coming was just beginning.
“Thank you,” I said. “But it wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault.” I hesitated. “I’m sorry about your wife.”
“Dayna hasn’t been my wife in a long time, but I appreciate the thought.” He studied my face for a moment. “You know about me and Lita,” he said. “I know you saw us together, months ago.”
My face flooded with color as I realized Burtis must have seen my swan dive down onto the front seat of my truck the day I’d spotted him with Lita, standing this close in this same parking lot.
“I apologize,” I said, feeling like an awkward teenager. “I was just . . . surprised. I wasn’t spying. I didn’t want to embarrass the two of you.” I gestured with one hand. “So I decided it was better to embarrass myself.”
Burtis laughed. “Don’t worry about it, girl. I knew you wouldn’t be spreading my business all over town, although I wasn’t sure for a minute if you were just trying not to be seen or if maybe you were after a sandwich you’d spied on the floor.”
I laughed. “Could we pretend I was going after a sandwich?” I asked.
“Fine by me,” Burtis said with a smile. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a folded envelope, which he held out to me.
“What’s this?” I said, even though I pretty much knew.
“It’s for your reading program.”
I narrowed my eyes, studying his ruddy face. It didn’t look as though he’d shaved since the previous day, and I noticed lines pulling at the corners of his eyes and mouth. Discovering that his former wife was back in town and then having her die in such a public way had to have been difficult for Burtis.
“You already gave me a check for Reading Buddies when you bought your tickets.”
His expression hardened just a little. “And now I’m giving you another one.”
“Why?” I asked. I still hadn’t taken the envelope he was holding out.
“When someone offers you a check, you’re supposed to say thank you and take it,” Burtis said. There was just a bit of an edge to his voice. He dropped the folded envelope into my pocket.
“You’re the last person I would have expected to give me guilt money,” I said, meeting his dark eyes with the hint of a challenge in my own.
He gave a loud snort of derision. “Really? Do I look guilty to you?”
“Maybe guilty isn’t the right word,” I said. “But I do think you feel something—bad, angry frustrated, I don’t know—because of what happened last night.”
He continued to meet my gaze, never once looking away. “I think what happened last night was a damn shame—for my boys and for your fundraiser.” He fished his keys out of his jacket pocket. “I have to get down to the community center. Thorsten is waiting on me.”
I touched my own jacket pocket. “Thank you for this,” I said. I knew there really was no point in arguing about the money. He’d just do an end run around me and give the check to Lita.
“You should come by Fern’s for breakfast,” Burtis said. “I haven’t seen you there for at least a month. Weekend special this Saturday is the Big Breakfast. Best coffee in town. Don’t tell Eric Cullen I said that.” One eyebrow went up. “And the conversation can be pretty interestin’, too.”
“I might just do that,” I said.
“I’ll keep an eye out for you,” he said. He raised a hand in good-bye and walked back around the front of the big black truck. I trudged across the snowy parking lot toward the front steps of the library. I pulled the envelope out of my pocket and looked at the check inside. It was made out for more money than Burtis’s original donation.
I didn’t know if he really was motivated by guilt or something else. I just knew that first thing Saturday morning I was going to be perched on a stool at Fern’s Diner digging into the Big Breakfast and trying to dig up some answers about how Dayna Chapman had died.
6
There were two furry faces waiting for me when I got home and stepped into the kitchen. Two pairs of feline eyes, one green and one gold, looked up at me. I wasn’t so gullible that I thought the cats had actually missed me. I’d made fish cakes for supper earlier in the week and I’d cooked a little extra fish for them. I had no idea how they knew that. But they did. For all I knew, they both had X-ray vision that let them see inside the refrigerator. It wasn’t totally preposterous, given their other s
uperpowers.
I didn’t really know how else to describe the “abilities” Hercules and Owen had, which was part of the reason why I hadn’t told anyone—not even Marcus. What was I going to say to him? “Oh, by the way, Owen can make himself invisible, and Hercules can walk through walls?”
Cats can’t dematerialize and then rematerialize at will. They can’t walk through several inches of solid wall. Except mine could.
It defied logic and reason and I had no idea why or how they could do what they did. I just knew it wasn’t the kind of information I should share with anyone.
I put my briefcase and my outside things away and then knelt down on the kitchen floor. Hercules put a paw on my knee and almost seemed to smile at me.
“How was your day?” I asked, and reached over to stroke the sleek black fur on the top of his head.
He yawned. Nothing exciting.
“Okay, how was your day?” I said to Owen, reaching over to scratch behind his ear.
His response was to turn away from my hand, shoot a daggers look at his brother and then glare at the refrigerator before finally looking back at me. He meowed loudly.
It wasn’t his “I’m so hungry” meow.
“What happened?” I said.
Owen stalked over to the refrigerator, murping continuously just under his breath. I knew those disgruntled noises meant he was irked about something. He stopped in front of the refrigerator door, sat down and looked at me again. Clearly, I was supposed to know what was wrong.
I looked at Hercules. “What’s wrong with Owen?” I asked.
Hercules yawned again, stretched and joined his brother. He stuck one white-tipped paw underneath the fridge, fished around, and then pulled it back again.
I knew that meant that Owen had lost something under the refrigerator and I had a pretty good idea what that something was.
I got to my feet. “Move,” I ordered, making a shooing gesture with my right hand. Both cats backed up.
I grabbed the wooden spoon I used for mixing up cookie dough, got down on all fours and managed to retrieve the head of a yellow Fred the Funky Chicken stuck underneath the fridge, sending it skidding across the floor, stopping right in front of Owen.
