by Sofie Kelly
He pressed his lips together before he spoke. “I thought he was going to throw you over the side of the gully,” he said, a rough edge to his voice.
“He was. But I had a plan.”
He looked at me for a long moment. Then he started to laugh, wrapping both arms tightly around me. “I love you,” he said.
I felt my throat get tight at the thought that I might never have heard those words again. “I love you, too,” I whispered.
Marcus had to head back to Wisteria Hill and he had no intention of leaving me alone even though I protested that I had Owen and Hercules. Turned out, he’d already called Rebecca. She arrived at the door with one of her poultices for the tub, some poached salmon for the boys and a basket of still warm blueberry muffins.
Marcus kissed me twice, told Rebecca to call if I needed anything and instructed Owen and Hercules to watch me. Then he left.
“Oh, sweet girl, I am so glad you’re all right,” Rebecca said, and I saw the gleam of unshed tears in her eyes. She took my hands in hers and turned them over to examine the scraped-raw skin. I saw her wince. She eyed my forehead. “Does that hurt?” she asked.
I shook my head. “Not very much. They gave me some pills at the hospital.”
She reached up and brushed my hair back off of my face. Something about that simple gesture made me start to tremble.
“Jonas killed Leitha,” I said in a voice that trembled, too. “He killed Mike. Mike.”
“But he didn’t kill you,” she said.
I started to cry and she folded me into her arms and I cried for everyone who was lost and everyone who was still here.
* * *
I woke up looking worse than I felt. I discovered Marcus in the kitchen making coffee with two furry helpers with suspiciously fishy breath. All three of them were insistent that I needed to stay home.
I didn’t put up much of an argument. Marcus went out to feed the cats at my insistence. Maggie arrived with a cream for my bruises—Rebecca had been teaching Maggie the things Rebecca herself had learned from her own mother for quite some time now. Owen was overjoyed to see her. She praised both cats for their resourcefulness and bravery.
“I think you’re part cat yourself,” she said, hugging me as though she thought I might break. “You’ve used up at least three or four of your nine lives.”
I couldn’t stop thinking about Lachlan. Marcus had told me that he was with Johnny and Ritchie and Elena Gonzalez. The band had closed ranks around him. Eloise had defied her doctor’s orders about flying and would be arriving in the late afternoon. After supper Marcus and I were going to share the details of the story that weren’t public knowledge with them all, including the truth about Lachlan’s parentage. I was trying not to think about how painful that conversation was going to be, but secrets were why all of this had happened. Secrets were why Mike and Leitha—and Jonas—were dead.
I was sitting in the backyard in the sunshine just before lunch, with my leg propped up on an overturned laundry basket, while Maggie and Owen picked tomatoes, when Harrison and Harry came around the side of the house.
I started to get up but the old man raised a hand. “Don’t even think about moving,” he said.
I smiled up at him. “What are you doing here?” I asked.
“I wanted to see for myself that you’re all right.”
“I’m fine, I promise.”
For a long moment Harrison didn’t say anything. He took in the bandage on my leg, the stitches on my forehead and the various scrapes and bruises that were visible. Then he shook his head. “I’m so damn sorry for getting you involved in all of this,” he said.
I was shaking my head before he had all the words out. “No, no, no. Nothing that happened is your fault. Mike was my friend, too.” I put one hand on my chest. I thought about Jonas dragging me toward the edge of the gully. Those could have been the last moments of my life. They had been the last moments of Jonas’s life. I took a breath. “What I did was my choice. What Jonas did was his.”
* * *
One month and three days later, I was backstage at the Stratton Theatre, which was sold out for the Stars and Garters burlesque revival.
“They sound like a rowdy bunch,” Maggie said as we peeked out at the crowd. She grinned. “This is going to be fun.”
True to her promise to Roma, she was taking part in the show. She wore fishnets, high heels and a very short, barely there frilly white dress, and she was carrying a shepherd’s hook.
“Every guy out there is going to lose their mind over you,” I said. “The Little Bo-Peep in my book of Mother Goose stories did not look like this.”
Mary was acting as mistress of ceremonies. She passed us all in black satin, carrying a huge feathered headdress like they’d wear in a show in Vegas. “It’s not too late to be onstage, Kathleen,” she said over her shoulder.
“I already did my part,” I called after her.
Roma peeked out at the crowd, then grabbed my arm. “Are you sure this is a good idea?” she asked. We were about fifteen minutes from the curtain going up.
I laughed. “As my mother likes to say, ‘If you have to dance with a bear, put on your high heels and tango.’ ”
“I take it that means yes?” Roma said.
I hugged her. “Times three!”
There were hoots and good-natured catcalls and waves of applause for each act. It was clear the show was a hit. I headed down to the dressing room to check on what Mary called our showstopper.
I’d taken two steps into the room when Brady grabbed my arm. “My shirt is missing half the buttons,” he said.
“Your shirt is fine,” I said. “Just put it on.”
I clapped my hands. “You have five minutes, everyone.”
“Kathleen, I can’t go out in public in this outfit,” Harry said in a low voice. His shirt was just like the one Brady had been complaining about and like Brady he didn’t have it on.
“Of course you can.” I pulled at the sleeve of his white T-shirt. “And you need to take this shirt off.”
He pointed at himself with one finger. “Nobody wants to see this without a shirt on.”
“People paid good money to see that. All of that,” I said. “Don’t make me take that T-shirt off of you, Harry Taylor.” I gave him my best stern-librarian look. “Mary taught me a few moves. I can do it.”
He took a step backward.
I held up four fingers. “Four minutes,” I said.
A hand touched my shoulder. I turned around to see Marcus standing there. At least he had his shirt on.
“You so owe me for this,” he said.
Silver lamé and sequins had never looked so good. “I can live with that.” I told him. And then I winked.
To me, Zorro belonged to Mike and Mike alone. The show needed something that would celebrate the spirit of the man, but not be a pale imitation of his act. And then I remembered what Mike had called out to the crowd at the concert—C’mon, people, you should be dancin’!—and I knew what to do.
Ella King had made the guys’ outfits with help from Rebecca, and the two of them had used every sequin within a five-mile radius of Mayville Heights. Rebecca had jokingly asked Ella if she could make an extra outfit for Everett—at least I was telling myself she was joking.
Finally Mary walked onstage to introduce the last act. “At our first show our star act was the dashing Zorro and we all miss him very much.” She unveiled a large photo of Mike dancing in his costume. “Mike Bishop’s absence has left a huge hole in this show and in our lives. Anyone who spent even five minutes with the man knew how much he loved music. So we honor his memory and celebrate his life with Mike’s own words: ‘You should be dancin’!’ ”
The throbbing disco percussion of the Bee Gees’ hit began to pound in the background.
The guys came out in their s
ilver disco outfits: tight flared pants, boots with heels, chunky silver neck chains and sequinned shirts open to the navel because there weren’t any buttons above that. Sandra Godfrey had spent two hours with them working on a routine. She’d walked into the library afterward, laid her head on the circulation desk and said, “They’re all hopeless. They have no rhythm, no sense of timing. You know that saying ‘You’ve gotta dance like nobody’s watching’? Well, the whole town will be watching and they can’t dance!”
She was right, but it didn’t matter. All five of them were stiff and awkward at first, but Johnny was the consummate performer. He started to swivel his hips Elvis style, and before I knew it, he was doing a hip bump with Eddie.
Marcus, Brady and Harry were doing their version of disco; at least I thought that was what it was. One hand was on their hips as their other arm pointed sideways à la John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever. That was followed by an arm roll and a repeat on the other side. They were even more or less in sync.
I realized that Brady was repeating something over and over. Maybe Sandra had taught them more than she’d thought. I watched his lips. Maybe she hadn’t. Brady was a football fan like his dad. He was saying, “False start, defense, false start, offense.” The movements all lined up. And it didn’t matter that they were more NFL referees than disco stars because the audience loved them.
Sandra moaned and leaned against me. “Someone is going to put this on the Internet and John Travolta is going to sue me,” she said.
I would have answered her but I was laughing too hard. And if a couple of tears got mixed in, that was okay, too. Mike would have loved this, I was certain. Once again, I was watching a show where the crowd went wild and I fervently hoped that wherever or whatever Mike Bishop was in the universe, he, too, was dancing.
acknowledgments
It takes a multitude of people working diligently behind the scenes at the publisher to make my books the best they can be and then help readers find them. Thank you, everyone. Special thanks to my talented editor, Jessica Wade, who always finds all the holes I’ve left in the story. Her skills make every book better. Thank you as well to assistant editor, Miranda Hill, who keeps us all on track.
My agent, Kim Lionetti, is everything a writer could want—advocate, cheerleader and wisewoman. Thanks, Kim!
A big thank-you goes to the real Dr. Michael Bishop, endodontist extraordinaire, and his staff who have always taken excellent care of this very anxious patient. Dr. B. never played the stand-up bass in a church band, wore his hair in a mullet or danced in a burlesque show—at least as far as I know. He is, however, a very good sport.
And last but never least, thank you to Patrick and Lauren who always have my back and my heart.
about the author
Sofie Kelly is a New York Times bestselling author and mixed-media artist who writes the Magical Cats Mysteries and, as Sofie Ryan, writes the Second Chance Cat Mysteries.
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