by Sofie Kelly
“So Owen and Hercules would go for Meatloaf Tuesday?” I asked.
Ruby grinned and waggled a finger at me. “Now, see, you’re kidding but I think that could work.”
I bumped her with my hip. “I can promise they’d happily do it, but I’m not so sure it’s something the health department would go for.”
She nodded. “I’ll check it out. Maybe we could shoot after hours.”
Maggie smiled at me. “Would you like some iced tea?” she asked. “I have that orange-spice blend you like mixed with lemonade.”
I wasn’t a big fan of tea but Maggie’s iced tea/lemonade concoction was delicious.
“Please,” I said.
Ruby spotted Taylor King in the doorway. “Later,” she said to us. Ruby was giving the teen drawing lessons.
Maggie handed me a glass of the iced tea. I took a drink. “Mmmm, that’s good,” I said. “Not too sweet, not too tart. Just right.”
“I’m glad you like it, Goldilocks,” Maggie said with a smile.
I took another drink. “Did you know that a lot of people think Goldilocks and the Three Bears is one of Grimms’ fairy tales, but it was actually published by a British author, Robert Southey?”
“I did not know that,” she said. She smiled. “But I love that you did.” She took a sip from her tea and then pointed a finger at me. “I think I found a dress to wear for Roma’s shower. I’ll send you a picture of it later.”
I nodded. “I can’t wait to see it.”
I was looking forward to the party celebrating Roma’s upcoming wedding. Both Roma’s mom and Eddie’s daughter would be there along with all her friends. The only person missing would be Olivia. When I’d e-mailed Roma’s daughter about the shower, she’d sent me a terse e-mail in return saying she wouldn’t be arriving in Mayville Heights until after the party. I knew it would mean a lot to Roma to have Olivia there, but I didn’t want to pressure her. Not every employer was accommodating about time off.
Maggie moved into the middle of the room and clapped her hands. “Circle, everyone,” she called.
My T-shirt was damp with sweat by the end of class, and I was happy to head home for a glass of my own lemonade and a molasses oatmeal cookie from the batch I’d taken out of the freezer before I left. I opened my e-mail and found the photos Ruby had sent before class. I was about to look through them when Owen sprang onto my lap.
“Hello,” I said. “I take it you’d like to see the photographs Ruby took yesterday.”
He stared pointedly at the screen. That was a yes.
Before I could open the attachments, Hercules meowed loudly from the floor by my feet. “Move over,” I said to Owen.
He looked over his shoulder at me, whiskers twitching in annoyance.
“Your brother wants to see them, too,” I said. I shifted Owen sideways. He made a couple of huffy noises but he moved. Then I patted my leg. “C’mon up,” I said to Hercules.
“Merow?” he said. I couldn’t miss the inquiry in the sound.
“No, I’m not picking you up,” I said. “You’re perfectly capable of jumping up.”
He cocked his head to one side, a gesture both cats used when they wanted to seem cute and adorable.
“That’s not working.” I drummed my fingers on the table.
He made a sound like a sigh and jumped lightly onto my leg.
It took a couple of minutes for both cats to get settled. There was a lot of jockeying for position and several glares back and forth.
“Are you two done?” I asked finally. Sometimes they reminded me of a couple of preschoolers trying to share one cookie.
Hercules murped softly and Owen put a paw on the edge of the laptop.
I opened the images Ruby had sent.
She was right. The photos were wonderful. My favorite one was of both cats looking out over the water with the marina in the distance on the left and the sun low on the horizon ahead of them.
I had to smile at the way both Owen and Hercules studied the computer screen, turning their head from one side to the other and exchanging looks.
I tagged all of our favorites and sent everything back to Ruby. Owen jumped down to the floor and headed toward the living room. Hercules moved over and looked expectantly from the computer to me.
“Want to see what we can find out about Miranda?” I asked him.
Hercules immediately turned all of his attention to the computer screen.
There was very little online about Miranda Moore. She had no social media presence. No Facebook, Twitter or Instagram accounts. I did find her and Emme’s high school yearbook. There was a candid shot of the two girls that looked like it was taken at a hockey game. They were wearing knit hats and striped scarves, and they looked even more like sisters.
I rubbed a knot out of my left shoulder. “Well, that was pretty much a dead end,” I said. “Do you want to take a look at Emme’s website?” If there was a connection between Miranda’s murder and Emme, it wouldn’t hurt to know more about the cabaret singer.
His response was to tap a paw on the keyboard, which somehow got us to my favorite search engine. Emme’s website hadn’t been updated recently—neither had her Facebook page—and I didn’t learn anything there that I didn’t already know. But with a little help from Hercules—who just couldn’t seem to keep his paws off the keyboard—we ended up on a fan website with lots of information about her music and dozens and dozens of photos, many of which had clearly been poached from other sources, professional and otherwise. Buried in the photo gallery’s archives were several images of Emme with who I guessed was her ex-boyfriend, Derrick Clifton. The time frame was right and he fit the general description Ruby had given me.
“She looks happy,” I said to Hercules.
He murped in agreement.
It wasn’t hard to find the Facebook page of the club that had posted the photos of Emme and Derrick that Ruby had told me about. In those images Emme looked uncomfortable somehow, her body stiff in her bright green jacket, not like she did in those first photos I’d found of her and Derrick. All I could really make out was the back of her head, her left cheek and the small beauty mark above her lip. There were no clear images of her face. In one of the shots Emme was holding a drink. In another she was kissing Derrick. Derrick definitely looked drunk. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but something in those photographs was a little off.
In those first three photographs Emme had truly looked happy, more so than she did in any of the other shots when she wasn’t singing. That made me want to know more about the mysterious Derrick Clifton.
I stretched one arm up over my head and yawned. “We’ll start in the morning,” I said to Hercules as I set him on the floor. “Right now, I’m having a bath.”
* * *
I overslept Friday morning, and for a change there were no paws poking my hair or my eye and no cat-food breath in my face. Since I didn’t have to go into work until lunchtime I pulled on jeans and a T-shirt and made my way, yawning, down to the kitchen to make coffee and give the boys their breakfast.
Owen and Hercules were sitting by the refrigerator door. I could tell from the way their tails were flicking across the floor that they were annoyed at the delay. “Just give me a second to start the coffee,” I said. I reached behind me for the glass carafe, and somehow as I turned around it slipped from my hand and hit the leg of the chrome table before hitting the floor—where it cracked into three pieces.
Both cats took a step backward, eyes glued to my face. They knew what I was like without coffee. I closed my eyes, one hand pressed on the top of my head, and said a word that polite librarians didn’t generally utter.
I opened my eyes and pointed at Owen and Hercules, both still watching me with curiosity. “Stay there until I get this cleaned up,” I said. I sighed in frustration. It’s only a coffeepot, I told myself. It didn�
�t help.
I picked up the pieces of the broken carafe and used the vacuum to get any bits of glass and plastic. Then I cleaned the floor with a damp mop just in case there were any tiny fragments of glass left behind. I didn’t want to miss anything the cats might step on.
When I’d pulled out the vacuum, they had both retreated to the living room doorway, where they continued to watch me.
Once I was satisfied that the floor was clean I got breakfast for Owen and Hercules and dropped into a chair to consider my options. I knew I could head across the backyard and mooch a cup of coffee from Rebecca. Or I could make a cup of tea, which I knew wasn’t what I wanted.
I watched Owen take each bite of food from his dish by the refrigerator and set it on the floor. He’d eye it suspiciously and then sniff carefully before eating. I wasn’t that different from him. I was picky about breakfast. Breakfast in my mind needed coffee. Or maybe that was me who needed it. I caught sight of the note I’d stuck on the fridge door the night before: Ask Ruby about Fern’s, a reminder to check in in a few days to find out if the health department would let her take photos of the boys inside the diner. I thought about the big breakfasts Fern’s served and the huge mugs of hot, strong coffee. It occurred to me that a big cup of coffee and one of the big breakfasts at Fern’s might be just what I needed.
I called Marcus but got his voice mail. Then I remembered that he was out running with Eddie and the high school hockey team as part of their summer training. “Next time,” I said out loud.
Hercules looked up, gave me a blank look and went back to his breakfast.
I went upstairs, brushed my teeth, put on some makeup and pulled my hair up. By the time I was ready to go, both cats had disappeared. Owen was probably checking on his stash of catnip chickens, and Hercules, I knew, could be anywhere inside or out.
* * *
Fern’s was a 1950s-style diner that had actually been operating back in the fifties. A number of years ago it had been restored to all its glory, or as Roma liked to put it, “Just like the good old days, only better.” She was a big fan of Meatloaf Tuesdays and the diner’s yellow layer cake with chocolate frosting.
The building itself was low and long, glowing with neon after dark. There were windows on three sides and black-and-white checkerboard tiles on the floor. The diner had the requisite jukebox complete with 45s, booths with padded red vinyl seats and a long counter with gleaming chrome stools.
I stepped through the door, half hoping to see Burtis Chapman sitting at the counter even as I knew it was a bit too late for him. He had more than one business in town, and most of them were one hundred percent legal.
There was no sign of Burtis, but Harrison Taylor Senior was sitting at a booth on the far wall. He smiled when he spotted me and waved me over.
“What are you doing in my neck of the woods?” he asked as I leaned down to give him a hug.
“I dropped my coffeepot,” I said, making a face.
“Before or after your second cup?” My love for coffee rivaled the old man’s.
“Before the first cup.”
Harrison frowned. “That’s serious business,” he said. He leaned back to look around me, caught the eye of Peggy Sue at the counter and smiled as he pointed at me. “You got time to join me?” he asked.
“I’d love to,” I said, sliding onto the seat across from him.
Peggy, who was the morning-shift waitress and also Harrison’s lady friend, headed toward us with a big mug and the coffeepot. “Hi, Kathleen. How are things at the library?” she asked as she set the cup in front of me.
“Busy,” I said. “The music festival has brought in a lot of tourists.”
“She’s down a quart,” Harrison said, gesturing at the pot.
“Well we can’t have that,” Peggy said, filling the mug almost to the top with just enough room for cream and sugar.
“Thank you,” I said. Just the smell of the coffee was turning my morning around.
“Just coffee or the big breakfast?” Peggy raised an eyebrow.
I reached for the cream pitcher, a black-and-white china cow. “Big breakfast, please.”
Peggy smiled. “How about raisin toast this time?”
I nodded as I added sugar to my cup. “That sounds delicious,” I said.
“It’ll just be a few minutes.” She turned the smile on Harrison. “And I’ll bring you another cup of decaf at the same time,” she said. “I just put on a new pot.”
Harrison eyed me. “Not a word,” he said.
I put one hand on my chest. “I wasn’t going to say anything other than it’s good to see you, Peggy.”
Peggy waggled a finger at the old man. “Try to behave yourself,” she said before heading for the kitchen.
Harrison’s children—especially his daughter, Elizabeth—had been trying to get him to switch to decaf coffee for the last year. They were convinced all the caffeine he drank wasn’t good for him, although he seemed well after a brief health scare about a year previous. I had no idea how Peggy had been able to get Harrison to cut back, and I wasn’t going to ask.
I took a sip of my own coffee, which was hot and strong, exactly the way I liked it. Harrison smiled at me across the table. “So tell me how Ruby’s photo project is going,” he said.
“It’s going well,” I said. “Ruby’s photographs are generating a lot of talk online—not just here in Mayville Heights. And there’s a lot of interest in the upcoming calendar. I’m just hoping that will translate into more visitors for the town.”
He nodded, fingering his snowy Santa Claus beard. “So do I. Talk is cheap.”
I pulled out my phone. “Would you like to see some of the photos?”
“I would,” he said with a smile.
I scrolled through the dozen images I’d downloaded to my phone. Harrison studied each one, pointing out how Ruby had managed to highlight different aspects of Mayville Heights in each one—the water, the Riverwalk, the architectural detail of the old school that was now home to Riverarts—while still focusing on the cats.
“Ruby is a damn talented photographer and you have a couple of fine-looking cats,” Harrison said when we got to the end of the images.
“They seem to like it,” I said, putting my phone away and reaching for my coffee. “Sometimes I swear both of them know exactly what’s going on and it’s like they’re posing for Ruby.”
“Your boys are Wisteria Hill cats,” he said with an offhand shrug, as though that explained everything. And maybe it did.
Peggy came back then with my breakfast and a fresh pot of decaf for Harrison. I couldn’t miss the way they smiled at each other, and it made me smile, too.
We talked about the projects I had planned for the fall at the library, and I told Harrison about the great turnout we’d had for Michel’s presentation at the library.
“I’ve been thinking about doing a series of talks about the history of Mayville Heights,” I said. “Based on the questions we get at the front desk I think there’s enough interest—from tourists and from people who live here.” I set down my fork and raised an eyebrow at him. “What do you say?”
“About what?” he asked.
“About coming to the library some afternoon and talking about the town?”
He gave a snort of derision. “I’m damn sure no one wants to listen to me ramble on and on about things that happened long before they were born.”
Harrison was a great storyteller, and he knew more about the town and its history than just about anyone, with the exception, maybe, of Burtis Chapman and Mary Lowe—both of whom I also planned to ask to get involved in what I was calling “The History Project,” at least for now.
“Care to place a small wager on that?” I asked.
“What do you have in mind?” he asked. The twinkle in his blue eyes told me he was hooked.
“You come and talk for about half an hour about the history of the town—time period to be determined—and then you answer questions. If my meeting room isn’t full, I’ll treat you to the biggest steak Peggy has out back.” I tipped my head in the direction of the diner’s kitchen.
“Which room?”
I speared a chunk of potato and ate it. “The big one,” I said.
“You’re confident,” he retorted.
“As someone I know likes to say, it’s not bragging if you can do it.”
Harrison laughed at his own words being used against him. “You need to start hanging out with a better class of people,” he said.
“I like the class I’m hanging out with just fine,” I said. “So do we have a deal?”
“And what do you get, Kathleen, if somehow I don’t manage to win this wager?”
I raised an eyebrow and favored him with my best Cheshire-cat smile. “You come back and do a second talk.”
He laughed. “Well, with terms like that how can I refuse?” He extended his hand across the table.
We shook hands and Harrison picked up his coffee cup again. I mopped the last bit of scrambled egg and fried tomato off my plate with my toast. I realized the old man was studying me over the top of the heavy stoneware mug. “Little bird says you were with Ruby when she found that body down by the Riverwalk,” he said.
“Strictly speaking, it was Hercules,” I said, gesturing with my fork. “Ruby was taking photographs and he kept looking over toward the bank. Finally, she walked over there to see what had caught his attention.” I stopped, swallowing hard as the image of Miranda Moore’s body curled up in the tangle of bushes flashed into my mind.
“You figured anything out yet?”
I narrowed my gaze at him.
“Now, don’t tell me you aren’t at least asking a few questions,” Harrison said. He looked over at the counter, smiled at Peggy and held up his cup. “We both know you seem to have a knack for getting pulled into this kind of thing.”
A man had just come into the diner. Instead of looking around for a seat he headed for the counter. Take-out order, I decided. Peggy was already on her way over with the coffeepot. She handed the man a menu and I heard her say she’d be right back.
