by Sofie Kelly
“Yeah,” she said, dropping a handful of forks into her bin. “I called Peggy and she rescued me. And she didn’t rat me out to Dad. And before you say I could have called him, Peggy already said that.”
I struggled to keep from smiling. “She’s right you know,” I said. “And you can always call me if you get into another situation like that.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
She smiled. “Thank you,” she said. She looked over at Marcus. “You want me to tell him all of this?”
“Just the part about the whipped cream and the dog.”
“Okay.” She dipped her head in the direction of the booth. “You’d better go. Your food is ready.”
* * *
On Sunday, Marcus and I decided to go to the flea market out on the highway. I had been making a halfhearted effort to find a couple of Adirondack chairs for his backyard.
“What about those benches instead?” he asked, pointing at a pair at a stall just up ahead.
“Maybe,” I said. “Or maybe benches and a pair of Adirondacks.”
He laughed. “You’re not going to give up on those chairs, are you?”
“The arms are perfect for holding a glass of lemonade or a cup of coffee.”
“Or a cat,” Marcus said with a grin.
I smiled back at him. “That too.”
We walked over to check out the benches and discovered that Burtis and Lita were doing the same thing. Burtis and Lita seemed like an unlikely couple on paper. He was rough-and-tumble and as a young man had worked for the town bootlegger. Lita had been Everett Henderson’s right hand for as long as anyone could remember. I had no idea how Burtis and Lita had gotten together—as far as I knew, no one did—but they were good for each other and the way they sometimes looked at each other made my heart happy.
“You thinking of buying those for your backyard?” Burtis said to me.
I tipped my head toward Marcus, who was already walking around one of the benches, checking it out. “Marcus’s yard,” I said.
The ends of the bench were cast iron and the back and the seat were made of wood. Both pieces looked to be in good shape. The only issue was the fact that all the wood on both pieces had been painted a vibrant fluorescent orange, the same shade as a highway safety sign.
“I’m thinking that with a little elbow grease and some paint they’d look pretty good in my backyard,” Brady’s father said. He was strong and solid with thick, muscular arms and a face lined and weathered from so much time spent outdoors. Burtis had lost most of his hair, just a few white tufts poked out from under his ubiquitous Twins ball cap.
Marcus tipped the bench forward with one hand so he could look at the underside of the seat. “Funny. I was thinking the same thing,” he said.
“You should show a little respect for your elders and let me have them,” Burtis said.
Marcus gave a snort of laughter as he set the bench down. “You’re far from old. Nice try, though.”
Burtis pointed a finger at him. “That sounds like something your father would say.”
“I take that as a compliment,” Marcus said.
Burtis smiled. “How is the old man?” he asked. Burtis and Marcus’s father, Elliot, had been friends from the time they were teenagers.
“He’s good. I talked to him a couple of nights ago. He says he’s coming for a visit in a couple of weeks.”
“Let me know if Elly May commits to a time,” Burtis said. “We haven’t been on a tear in a while.” He grinned.
Lita shook her head. “One of us had better have bail money,” she said to me.
I laughed. The last time Elliot Gordon had been in town, he and Burtis had taken a walk down memory lane with a few too many Jäger Bombs. The evening had ended with them serenading patrons in the lounge at the St. James Hotel with their version of “Sweet Home Alabama.” The crowd had actually seemed to enjoy the music. Management, not so much.
Burtis and Marcus were haggling about the benches now.
“I saw the two of you at the service,” Lita said. “Mike and I are . . . were cousins about four times removed.”
Lita was related in one way or another to pretty much everyone in Mayville Heights. Her mother’s family and her father’s family were among the first non–Native American settlers in the area. As Rebecca had once explained it to me, “Half the town is cousin to Lita on her father’s side and the other half is related through her mother.”
“So you’re connected to the Finnamores?” I asked.
She nodded. “If you go back far enough, some of the branches of our family trees intertwine.” She glanced over at the men still debating who should get the benches. “Does Marcus have any suspects yet?”
I shook my head. “He wouldn’t tell me if he did, but I don’t think so.”
“I hate the thought that someone broke into the house to rob it and then killed Mike. We like to think something like that would only happen in a big city, not in Mayville Heights, but past events show that’s not true.”
She gave me a knowing look, probably because I’d gotten tied up in more than one suspicious death since I’d arrived in town. I let it pass without comment.
“It’s almost like that family is cursed.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“It’s only been a few months since Leitha died.”
I remembered how Mike had explained that the older woman was his great-aunt the first time he’d come into the library to start digging into the family’s history.
“The Finnamores tend to die too soon,” she continued. “That’s why there’s so little of the family left now. Leitha hated that there were so few children. She was proud of being a Finnamore. The thought that the line could die out gave her a lot of grief.”
“She always introduced herself as Leitha Finnamore Anderson,” I said.
“She claimed the Finnamores could trace their ancestry back to the Mayflower.”
I nodded. “I’m not giving away any secrets because Mike was telling everyone. It appears from what he unearthed that that much is true, but instead of being on the ship for religious reasons, it seemed their ancestor was in fact just a hired hand who eventually ended up with a family in England and one here in the colonies.”
Lita gave a wry smile. “That would have burned Leitha’s biscuits if she’d known. That family line meant everything to her. She hated that Mike had been married and divorced twice and hadn’t had any children. He used to try to get a rise out of her by saying he didn’t have any kids that he knew of.”
That sounded like Mike. “And Jonas has no children, either,” I said.
“Well, Jonas is not a biological Finnamore,” Lita said. “He’s the child of Nathan St. James Quinn from his first marriage, although Mary-Margaret Finnamore Quinn was his mother in every way.”
“St. James like the hotel?”
Lita nodded. “Yes. Nathan’s family owned it for years until it was sold. The family built the hotel.” She glanced over at Marcus and Burtis, who still seemed to be debating who was going to end up with the benches.
“This is going to be a while,” Lita said. “There’s a guy at the end of this row selling donuts. I’m going to go get half a dozen. Do you want to come with me?”
“Absolutely,” I said.
The donuts were cinnamon spice, with and without sugar. I got half a dozen to take to work with me on Monday. When Lita and I got back, Marcus and Burtis were each buying one of the benches from the owner of the stall.
I smiled at Lita. “As Shakespeare would say, ‘All’s well that ends well.’ ”
* * *
We managed to get the bench onto the truck, off the truck and around into the backyard with a little physics (me) and a lot of muscle (Marcus). Those cast-iron ends were much heavier than I’d expected. Micah jum
ped up on the slatted seat, seemed to frown at the garish color and then, after she’d sniffed it and walked the length of the bench, meowed her approval.
* * *
I headed out to Harrison’s for supper a couple of hours later, taking along some tomatoes from my garden and some cheese-and-ham biscuits that Rebecca had given me the recipe for. The old man lived in a small house on his son’s property. He must have been watching for me because he and Boris, his dog, were standing at the door when I climbed out of the truck. Boris, with his chocolate velvet eyes, came over to meet me. I bent down to talk to him before walking over to join Harrison. I knew no matter how well I washed my hands when I got home, the cats would smell Boris on me and I’d be in the doghouse, so to speak. The dog actually belonged to Harry but spent a lot of time with Harrison. He was gentle and quiet and I didn’t like to think about what one of them would do without the other.
“I’m glad you made it,” Harrison said.
“I’m glad you invited me.” I gave him a hug and handed over the tomatoes and biscuits.
“Which are these?” he asked, eyeing the container of cherry tomatoes.
I’d been growing several varieties of heirloom tomatoes this year, letting Harrison try each one.
“These are sungold,” I said. “They have a lovely sweet flavor. There are way, way more of them than I expected. And the biscuits are ham and cheese.” I smiled. “Rebecca’s mother’s recipe.”
He smiled. “Thank you. This will be my lunch tomorrow. Or maybe my breakfast. A man can eat only so much oatmeal and flaxseeds.” I knew Peggy had been trying to get Harrison to eat healthier. He grumbled about it, but she’d had more success than his sons or Elizabeth.
We moved inside, Boris leading the way.
“We’re dining alfresco,” Harrison said.
“Does that mean I get to see the screened porch?” I asked. Harry and his younger brother, Larry, had been working on the addition to the house in their spare time.
The old man smiled and nodded. “You’re my first guest.”
I smiled back at him. “I’m honored.”
We moved through the house to the screened porch at the back. It was beautifully built—no surprise. The boys had their father’s talent for carpentry. A set of wide steps led down to a small stone patio and Harry was there at the grill. He raised a hand in hello and I waved back.
“When he heard you were coming out, he insisted on grilling and you know what my boy’s like when he makes up his mind,” Harrison said.
“I have a little experience with the Taylor family stubbornness.”
His blue eyes twinkled. “Are you suggesting he gets that from me?”
“Apples and trees, Harrison,” I said. “Apples and trees.”
There was a small table set for three. I knew Harry often ate with his dad when his kids were off with their friends or their mother, his ex-wife. I was glad he was joining us. I also knew there was a possibility I’d get tag-teamed by the two of them about Mike Bishop’s death.
Harrison pointed to a couple of wicker chairs with deep green seats and back cushions. “Have a seat,” he said. “Peggy picked those chairs, so I promise you they’re comfortable. She said the two I wanted to use out here were older than Moses.”
The chair was very comfortable. Maybe a couple of them would work in Marcus’s backyard. I made a mental note to ask Peggy about them. Boris came over, leaned against my leg and set his head in my lap.
Harrison frowned at the dog. “Just give him a push,” he said to me as he sat down in the other chair.
“He’s fine,” I said, reaching to scratch behind Boris’s left ear. “He can sit by me whenever he wants.” As if he’d understood my words, the dog turned to look at the old man as if to gloat.
“You’re spoiled,” he told the dog. Boris closed his eyes and gave a contented sigh.
“What’s been going on at the library?” Harrison asked.
He was going to wait until after we’d eaten to talk about Mike Bishop, I realized, assuming I was right about why I’d been invited for supper.
I told him about the Summer Reading Club, the plans for a Money Week in the fall and about the library participating in World Mental Health Day in October.
“Sounds like you’re keeping busy,” he said.
I grinned at him. “It keeps me out of trouble. Tell me more about Elizabeth. You said she’s coming next month?”
He nodded. “Before she goes back to college. It’s taken a while for her to find her niche, but she’s been making noise about medical school or biomedical engineering. I’m hoping one of those sticks. I have to say I’d love to have a doctor in the family.”
I could hear the pride in his voice. Elizabeth had been placed for adoption when she was born. Harrison and her biological mother had had a relationship when Harrison’s wife was in a nursing home, something he still carried some shame about. It had taken some time for the two of them to get to know each other, but he had answered every question she’d had without dodging the messy ones and that had gone a long way to helping them build a close relationship.
Harry came in from outside then.
“You did a wonderful job on this porch,” I said, gesturing with one hand.
“Thanks,” he said. He cleared his throat. “I saw you and Marcus at the service. I wanted to thank you both for coming. I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to talk to you there.”
“I liked Mike,” I said. “I wish I’d had the time to get to know him better. He’d come in to work on the family tree, and first thing I knew, he’d be in one of the meeting rooms charming the seniors.”
Harry laughed. “That sounds like him.”
“What can I do to help?” I asked.
Before Harry could answer, his father spoke up. “You’re a guest and you don’t have to work for your supper.”
Harry smiled. “Thank you for the offer, Kathleen, but I have everything under control. We’ll eat in about five minutes.”
As usual, the food was delicious: barbecued steak, chopped salad and sourdough bread. I recognized the bread as Rebecca’s honey-sunny recipe. Harry confirmed that I was right.
“Peggy made it,” he said.
“I’ll remember to thank her next time I see her,” I said.
During supper we talked about Harry’s garden—his cucumbers were doing better than mine—and the fact that the prankster who had been leaving things in the library’s gazebo seemed to have given up.
“Whoever it is will be back. You just watch,” Harry said.
“Mary certainly agrees with you,” I said. “I’m hoping that finding the camera that you and Larry put up might have made whoever has been pulling these stunts realize this whole thing really isn’t funny.”
Harry just shrugged. “We’ll see.”
For dessert there was orange-banana frozen yogurt that the old man had made in his son’s ice cream maker.
“This is so good,” I exclaimed. I fought the urge to use my finger to get the last creamy bit out of my bowl. The yogurt was the perfect combination of citrus and sweet.
“I still have a few tricks left up my sleeve,” Harrison said with a mischievous grin.
Harry rolled his eyes. “And that’s what worries me.”
Harrison still had the grin. “You need to blow a little of the carbon out of your spark plugs, if you get my drift.” He had a naughty-boy gleam in his blue eyes and I thought once again what a charmer he must have been when he was a young man. He was certainly charming enough now.
“And on that note.” Harry got to his feet. He gathered our bowls. “I have a couple of things to do.”
“Thank you for supper,” I said.
He smiled. “You’re welcome here anytime. It’s the least I can do since you keep my father in muffins and reading material.”
Boris was sitti
ng next to my chair. Harry patted his leg. “Let’s go,” he said to the dog.
“Leave him be,” Harrison said. “I’ll bring him over later.”
Harry gave his head a little shake. “All right,” he said. “Don’t feed him any of that frozen yogurt.” He headed into the house.
“Do you want to stay out here or move inside?” I asked Harrison.
“There’s a nice breeze coming in through those screens and no bugs,” he said. “Are you up for staying out here?”
“Absolutely,” I said.
We moved over into Peggy’s new chairs. I looked out over the back of Harry’s property. “This is a beautiful spot,” I said.
“That it is,” he agreed. He stroked his beard with his thumb and index finger.
I turned and looked at him, narrowing my eyes.
“I know that look,” he said. “You think I had an ulterior motive for inviting you out here.”
“Didn’t you?” I countered. “You want me to dig into Mike Bishop’s death.”
“I wouldn’t want to risk our friendship by asking you to do that and putting you in a bad spot with Detective Gordon.” He actually managed a little self-righteousness in his tone.
I got up and went over to hug him. “Because if I’m a true and loyal friend, I’ll do it without you asking me. Am I right?”
He laughed and I knew I was. The old man wasn’t just charming. He was crafty as well.
“Kathleen, what do you know about dowsing?” he asked.
I was surprised by the sudden change in the conversation. “Not a lot,” I said. “I know it’s been used to find groundwater among other things. The practice dates back centuries. Traditionally the dowser uses a forked branch from a tree or a bush—quite often willow or witch hazel—although some prefer using two metal rods. And dowsing is no more effective than just random chance.”
He nodded. “I know it shouldn’t work. I know there’s no science, but there are some things in life that science just can’t explain.”
