by Sofie Kelly
11
Marcus called about nine thirty. “Can you take a break in about half an hour?” he asked.
Mary and I were walking around the main floor of the building trying to decide on the best places for the new Christmas tree.
“I can,” I said. “Are you coming over?”
“I need to ask you a few more questions about Thursday night,” he said.
“I’ll make a new pot of coffee.”
“You two are adorable,” Mary said after I’d hung up.
I made a face at her.
Marcus showed up exactly at ten o’clock, carrying two white cardboard boxes that I knew had come from Eric’s. He was wearing his heavy dark blue hooded parka and there were a few snowflakes dusting his dark hair.
He handed me the smaller of the two and took the other one over to Mary at the circulation desk. “Happy National Pastry Day,” he said.
Mary beamed at him and took the box. “Thank you. Happy National Pastry Day to you, too,” she said.
I gestured at the second-floor stairs. “We’ll be in my office,” I said.
“What’s in the box you gave Mary?” I asked once we were upstairs.
“The same thing that’s in the box you’re holding.”
I used a fingernail to slit the tape on the edge, lifted the lid and breathed in the scent of cranberries and lemon. The box held two of Eric’s cranberry lemon scones. Since I was wearing heels I didn’t have to stand on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “Thank you,” I said. “And thank you on behalf of my staff.”
He smiled. “You’re both welcome.”
“You made up National Pastry Day, didn’t you?” I said.
He shrugged off his jacket and shook his head. “No, I didn’t. Ask Eric. He’s the one who told me it was National Pastry Day today.” He hung the parka on the back of the closest chair. “I can’t vouch for whether he made it up, though.”
I got coffee for both of us from the staff room and we settled in the two chairs in front of my desk. “So, what did you want to ask me?” I said. His wavy dark hair was a bit overdue for a cut and I thought about threading my fingers in it and pulling him over for a kiss. Pay attention, I told myself sternly.
Marcus leaned back in his chair and stretched out his long legs. My train of thought almost got derailed again.
“First of all, tell me again what Dayna said to you.”
I took a deep breath. “She said ‘live.’ I told her she was going to be okay. She said ‘package,’ which I think meant the box of chocolates. Then she stopped breathing.”
He nodded. “The fundraiser was almost completely sold out in advance?”
I reached for one of the two scones. “There were maybe a dozen or so tickets left and Abigail had taken those.”
“Did you know she’d sold them all?”
“No. Not until we got to the theater and I talked to her. On Thursday afternoon she picked up the chocolate boxes from Olivia, took them over to the Stratton and then went home to get ready, as far as I know. I’m guessing that Dayna happened to catch her at the theater. That was just luck.” Bad luck, I added silently
I broke the end off my scone, popped it in my mouth and made a little grunt of happiness. I had a second bite and hoped Marcus didn’t notice me licking the crumbs off my thumb.
He took a sip of his coffee. “Who decided when to hand the chocolates out to people?”
“I did,” I said. “Everett was going to welcome everyone and make his pitch for donations. Then I was going to talk a bit about Reading Buddies. I thought if everyone had a little gift in their hand, it might put people in a giving mood.”
He gave a slight nod. “So Taylor King and Mariah Taylor handed out the boxes.”
I nodded over my coffee cup. “Yes, along with Olivia herself.”
“Could you see Dayna?” He broke the end off his own scone and ate it.
“Uh-huh. She was just a table away from where I was standing, talking to Burtis and Lita.” In my mind I could see the stage at the Stratton, filled with people. I could hear the jazz quartet and people talking.
“Did you see Dayna actually take a box?” Marcus asked.
In my mind I could see Olivia offering the tray and Burtis handing one tiny chocolate box to Lita and then giving the other one to Dayna.
“Kathleen?” Marcus was looking at me, eyes narrowed in speculation.
I took a deep breath. “Olivia offered the tray, but Dayna didn’t take a box. Burtis handed one to her.”
He gave another slight nod. “Then what happened?” He wasn’t surprised.
“You already knew Burtis gave her the box.”
“Yes,” he said. He ate the last piece of his scone and followed it with a long drink of coffee.
“You talked to Burtis?”
He crumpled his napkin and dropped it in the garbage can. “I’ve talked to a lot of people—including Burtis.”
“They had an argument—a difference of opinion, something—at the party, not long before Dayna had the chocolate that killed her,” I said. I ate another bite of my scone and waited to see what Marcus would say.
What he said was “I know.”
I brushed crumbs off my dark skirt. “Burtis told you himself.” Before Marcus could say anything I held up one hand. “Can we just skip the part where you say, ‘I can’t tell you that,’ and then I say, ‘That’s the same as a yes’?”
That got me the hint of a smile. “Okay,” he said.
“Burtis didn’t kill his ex-wife.”
He set his cup on my desk. “Right now all we’re trying to do is put together what happened on Thursday night. No one is focusing on Burtis, or anyone else, for that matter. Just the facts.”
I shifted in my chair so I was facing him a little more directly. “Burtis wouldn’t kill anyone,” I said. “To me, that’s a fact.”
“You like him,” Marcus said.
I nodded. “Yes. He’s my friend. No different from Oren or Harry or Everett.”
I leaned on the arm of the chair. “Seriously, Marcus, if Burtis was going to kill someone, do you see him doing it with a chocolate? A two-by-four, maybe. Or a sledgehammer. But doctoring a chocolate? There’s too much subterfuge involved. It’s way too indirect. That’s not Burtis.”
“He has had a couple of brushes with the law in the past,” Marcus said, rubbing his thumb around the rim of his cup.
“I doubt either one of them had anything to do with someone’s death,” I said. “Anyway, what reason would he have had for killing Dayna? She’d been out of his life for more than twenty years.”
He raked a hand back through his hair and looked away, out my office window, just a bit too soon. I stopped myself from putting my hand on his leg.
“Marcus, what aren’t you saying?” I asked. “You know something about Burtis. More than just him arguing with Dayna and handing her that box of chocolates.”
In the past we would have argued and he would have gotten up and left. Instead, he got to his feet and I did the same.
“This stays between us,” he said, reaching out to brush a strand of hair back off my face. “It’ll hit the paper tomorrow because it seems like Bridget has all the same sources we do.”
“I won’t say anything,” I said.
Marcus folded his arms over his midsection and shrugged. “Burtis and Dayna Chapman were still legally married.”
12
Marcus had to get back to the police station. He kissed my cheek and I repeated my promise to keep what he’d just told me to myself. The fact that Burtis and Dayna had still been married when she died didn’t change my belief that Burtis had had nothing to do Dayna’s death, but I realized it might matter to other people.
Harry Junior came in just after one o’clock. “Thank you for putting the sand down,” I said, walking over to meet him by the main doors.
“You’re welcome,” he said, pulling off his heavy gloves. “I’m going to keep on that for a while. Thorsten has enough on his plate.
There’s a leak in the roof at the community center.”
“Again?” I exhaled loudly. “He just got the last one patched.” The community center roof was leakier than a wooden rowboat that had been left out all winter.
“Thanks for getting your book expert to look at those old readers,” Harry said. “We can use the money. I think there’s more patch up there than there is original roof. Thorsten has someone coming to take a look tomorrow.” He shook his head. “The whole building needs work. It’s older than I am.”
“Wow, that is old,” I said, completely deadpan.
One eyebrow went up. “Better be careful, Kathleen, or I might just recommend you to head up the committee to renovate the community center.”
“Do we have a committee to renovate the community center?” I asked.
Harry scratched his stubbled chin. “No. But I think we’re going to need one.” He gave his head a shake. “But that’s not why I stopped in. The old man sent me to invite you to dinner tonight. I’m sorry about the short notice.”
The only plans I had were dinner with Owen and Hercules and maybe a load or two of laundry after that. The short notice didn’t really matter.
“He’s been chewing on something all weekend,” Harry said, rolling his eyes. “I don’t have a clue about what’s on his mind. I’m pretty sure he wants to talk to you. He sure as hell isn’t interested in talking to me.”
“I’d love to come,” I said. “What can I bring?”
“Just yourself,” he said. “About six o’clock.”
“I’ll be there.” I smiled at him. “Are you joining us?”
Harry gave a snort of laughter. “Hard to tell, Kathleen. So far you’re the only one who’s been invited.”
I showed Harry where Mary and I had decided to put the second tree and told him about Ruby’s ornaments.
“I should be able to bring the tree first thing tomorrow,” he said.
“Okay, we’ll have the space ready,” I said.
The rest of the afternoon was quiet, even for a Monday, which gave Mary and me time to rearrange things and bring the big tree stand up from the library basement.
Clouds were moving in over the water as I drove up the hill and my left wrist was aching, both signs that we were going to get some snow. Hercules was waiting for me on the bench in the back porch when I got home.
“This is a nice surprise,” I said, leaning over to scoop him up. Not only did he dislike snow and rain, but he wasn’t that crazy about cold, either.
“I’m home,” I called when I stepped into the kitchen. I waited. No answering meow from Owen. “Either he didn’t hear me or he’s doing something he’s not supposed to be doing,” I said to Hercules as I set him down on the floor. I hung up my coat and set my hat and gloves by the heat. There was still no sign of Owen.
Herc stretched and followed me upstairs. I changed into jeans and a sweater and pulled my hair back into a ponytail.
“Merow?” he said, head cocked to one side as though he was asking a question.
“I’m going out for supper.”
He seemed to consider my words for a moment and then he turned and headed for the door. I knew what that meant.
“You can’t come with me,” I called after him. “I’m going out to the Taylors’.”
He stopped in his tracks and made a huffy sound in the back of his throat.
I walked over to him. “Do you really see yourself having dinner with Boris?” I asked.
He looked up at me with half-lidded eyes. “Murrr,” he grumbled.
“Yes, I know Boris is a dog,” I said. “But that’s not really his fault.”
Hercules didn’t look convinced.
“C’mon, let’s go down to the kitchen and you can test the new batch of stinky crackers.”
That seemed to cheer him up immensely and he headed for the stairs.
We found Owen in the kitchen, head almost on the floor as he peered under the refrigerator.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
He looked over his shoulder at me and gave a sharp meow.
“Don’t tell me there are chicken parts under the fridge again?” I said. I got down on my hands and knees so I could look for myself. Just under the edge of the refrigerator, I could see a brilliant yellow feather.
“Give me a minute,” I said, getting to my feet. I got my wooden mixing spoon, got back on the floor again and batted out a small yellow chicken on the first pass.
“Keep those things away from the refrigerator,” I warned. “One of these days one is going to get stuck under there, beyond the reach of this spoon, and I’m not moving this great big refrigerator to get it.”
Owen sniffed the catnip chicken suspiciously, then picked it up in his mouth. He looked at me, golden eyes narrowed, glared at his brother and stalked off to the living room.
Hercules watched him go and then shifted his attention to his bowl.
“Yes, I know I promised you stinky crackers,” I said. I got fresh water for both cats, gave Herc a stack of the sardine crackers and left a little pile in Owen’s dish.
“I won’t be late,” I said to Hercules. He was already into the crackers and all I got was a low murp, which might have been more about his enthusiasm for the crackers than an acknowledgment that he’d heard me—or even cared.
I laced up my low, heavy-treaded snow boots, pulled on my blue jacket with the hood and grabbed my purse, keys and gloves. I’d stopped and bought a couple of tallboys on the way home. As far as I knew, Harrison’s doctor allowed him to have the occasional drink. I wasn’t sure about Harry Junior, though. I could end up in the doghouse with him.
Harrison must have been watching for me, because he was waiting by the back door of his little house when I got out of the truck.
I stomped the snow off my boots, stepped inside and gave him a hug. “You look good,” I said, stepping back to check him out.
As always, to me he looked like Santa Claus. The first time I’d met Harrison was when I discovered him in my backyard with Owen and Hercules while his son was mowing the lawn. For a moment I’d thought St. Nick was holding court in my blue Adirondack chair. Actually, Harry Senior reminded me of my favorite incarnation of Santa Claus, Edmund Gwenn in Miracle on 34th Street. Harrison had the same fluffy beard and the same warm gleam in his eyes.
Those eyes were smiling at me now.
“And if I looked like a steaming pile of horse manure, would you tell me?” he asked.
I made a face and shook my head. “No, but I probably wouldn’t stand so close to you.”
He laughed. The old man might have been in his eighties, but his laugh was deep and strong.
I felt a wet nose nudge my hand. I turned to see Boris beside me, looking up with his chocolaty velvet eyes.
“Hello, boy,” I said, bending over to scratch behind his ears.
“Let me take your coat,” Harrison said. He touched the dog’s back. “Give Kathleen a minute to take off her things and catch her breath.”
Boris immediately sat down. I gave Harry my jacket and he hung it over a hook by the back door. I put my purse over the top, stepped out of my boots and handed over the brown paper bag holding the two tallboys.
“You didn’t have to bring anything,” he said.
I smiled. “I know.”
He unfolded the top of the bag and looked inside. Then he grinned at me. “Can’t say I’m sorry you did, though.”
“I’m not going to be in trouble with Harry, am I?” I asked as we stepped into the kitchen.
“That depends,” a voice said behind me.
I turned to see Harry Junior standing by the woodstove.
“What did you do?” he asked.
“Nothing that’s any of your business,” his father said.
“How many tallboys are in that bag?” Harry asked me.
“You don’t have to answer that, Kathleen,” Harrison said as he moved toward the refrigerator.
I held up two fingers.
&
nbsp; “Are you planning on sharing?” Harry asked his father.
“I might be,” he said, setting the two cans inside his refrigerator. He turned around. “Then again, I might not.”
I didn’t even bother trying to stifle a smile.
Harrison made a shooing motion with one hand. “Take a seat,” he said.
I sat down in the chair next to his, across from the fire burning and snapping in the woodstove. I couldn’t help reaching one hand out to the flames. My hands had been cold all afternoon.
“Nothing’s as warm as wood heat,” Harrison said, easing down into his own chair.
I stuck out my other hand toward the fire.
“Cold hands?” he asked.
I nodded. “A little. Mary’s making a pair of double-knit mittens for me. She says they’ll keep my fingers warm.”
Harrison nodded. “I have a pair of those. Hands are never cold when I wear them.”
“That’s because you wear them to church and you’re so busy flirting one of your hands could be cut off with a chain saw and you wouldn’t notice,” his son said dryly.
“Ignore him, Kathleen,” the old man said. “He’s just jealous because he doesn’t have a quarter of my appeal to the opposite sex.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” I heard Harry mutter.
Boris had come to sit beside me. He laid his chin on my knee and I began to scratch behind his ears. He gave an audible sigh and closed his eyes.
Harrison reached over and picked up an envelope that was on the small table beside his chair. I recognized the return address in a boxy black font in the upper left corner. It was from Henderson Holdings.
“Got this in the mail this morning,” he said.
It had to be the refund for the fundraiser tickets. “Good,” I said.
The old man gave me a look. “No, not good. Why in the name of all that’s holy is Lita giving people their money back? I bought those tickets to help kids learn to read so they can go out and make something of themselves. Where I come from, when you have a fundraiser you don’t give the money back. The end.”
Boris lifted his head, looked over at Harrison for a moment and then went back to leaning on my leg again.
