I shook my head. “Maybe it does,” I said. I crossed to the window again and looked down on the reading garden. “I should take this bead to the police or call Detective Gordon,” I said to Hercules. I dropped onto my swivel chair again. “Of course, I can’t do that, because how can I explain
why
it might be important without explaining
how
I have it.”
I slumped against the back of the chair. Hercules came to sit front of me. I patted my leg. “C’mon up,” I said.
He leaped into my lap. I stroked the top of his head and he began to purr. Slowly I rolled my head from one shoulder to the other, to try to loosen the knots in my neck. The cat continued to purr in my lap, warm and comforting.
Warm.
Solid.
He wasn’t some superhero from the X-Men comics who could teleport or manipulate DNA. He couldn’t shoot lightning bolts from his fingers. Hercules was a cat. A small, furry, black-and-white cat. That I’d seen walk through an inch-and-a-half-thick wooden door. That defied the laws of physics. It couldn’t have happened.
Except it had.
What could I do? I couldn’t go to the police. I couldn’t tell the truth—not that I was even sure what the truth was. But how could I lie? Was there some option in between the two? I was tired. If there was a third option, I couldn’t think of it right now.
“Let’s go home,” I said to Hercules.
I stood up and set him on the desk. He made disgruntled
murp
sounds but he climbed willingly into the bag.
I glanced out the window again. It was getting dark. I swung the cat bag over my shoulder, grabbed the rest of my things and left the office.
“We’ll figure this out when we get home,” I said as I locked the gate and the main doors. “Some chocolate for me, some tuna for you and we’ll work it out.”
“Work what out?” a voice said behind me.
Maggie was standing at the top of the steps. How could I have forgotten that she was meeting me so we could watch the
Gotta Dance
reunion special?
I turned, brushing my hair back behind one ear. “Umm . . . ah . . . I just meant everything that’s happened since I found Gregor Easton’s body.”
We walked down the stairs together and out along the path to the sidewalk.
“Are you all right?” Maggie asked.
I blew a wayward strand of hair off my cheek, remembering that I hadn’t had a chance to tell Maggie about the piece of paper the police had found on Easton’s body. For a while I’d almost forgotten about it. “I can’t believe I didn’t tell you before, but the police found a note in Easton’s pocket, supposedly from me, asking him to meet me here at the library.”
Maggie stopped so abruptly I almost banged into her. “How could he have a note from you? That doesn’t make any sense.”
“I know.” The shoulder strap of the bag was digging into the side of my neck. I shifted it a little. “I didn’t write it. It’s not my handwriting. But whoever wrote it signed my name.”
She shook her head dismissively. “Of course you didn’t write it,” she said. “But somebody obviously wanted him to think you did.”
We started walking again. “Why?” I said.
“Because that somebody knew Easton wouldn’t show up for him . . . or her.”
“But they thought he’d show up for me?”
Maggie shot me a wry sideways glance. “Kath, you’re not exactly ugly, you know.”
“I’m not exactly Easton’s type, either. From what I’ve heard he liked women young enough to be his granddaughters.”
We crossed the street and started up Mountain Road, and I switched Hercules to my other shoulder.
“After what happened with Owen in the library Easton probably thought you were looking to make amends.”
I squirmed at the image. Then comprehension set in. I stopped walking and turned to face Maggie. “But that would mean whoever sent the note knew what had happened.”
She nodded. “So who knew?”
“You. Susan. Mary.” I held up my hand and ticked the names off on my fingers. “That’s it. Oh, and Eric—Susan’s husband—because I’d asked her to call him and have breakfast delivered to Easton as an apology.”
Maggie stretched one arm behind her head as we started up the hill again. “Anyone else?” she asked.
“Just the cats,” I said. “And I don’t think they told anyone, but I have no idea who Susan or Mary or Eric—”
“—or even Easton himself might have told,” Maggie finished. “Did you see the paper? Do you know what it said?”
“I saw it,” I said. I pulled the image of Detective Gordon holding up the plastic bag with the note inside into my head. “It was written on a piece of paper from one of the library notepads. Remember? The ones that say ‘Mabel’ instead of ‘Mayville.’ There were two boxes in the workroom. There’s a silhouette of an open book in the left corner and it says ‘Mabel Heights Free Public Library’ across the bottom.” I rubbed the back of my neck again. “The note itself said, ‘Meet me at the library at eleven thirty. Kathleen.’”
Maggie made a skeptical noise and touched my arm. “He sure had an overinflated idea of his appeal if he thought you were interested in a rendezvous among the stacks at eleven thirty at night.”
“The man didn’t lack confidence, Mags,” I said.
She smiled and her hand, still on my arm, was warm. “Tomorrow I’ll ask around and see what I can find out about Easton and what he’d been doing since he got here. No one’s going to believe you killed the man.”
Hercules meowed his agreement from my hip. Maggie held up both hands. “See? Even Furry Face knows that.” She checked her watch, then patted the canvas bag she was carrying. “It’s five minutes to showtime, and I have a bag of organic cheese puffs and another bottle of Ruby’s homemade wine.”
I opened the porch door and followed Maggie inside, tucking my keys in my pocket. My fingers touched the little sea-green glass bead. Okay, so I couldn’t take it to the police. I could do some digging of my own. Because I was definitely going to figure out what was going on.
Someone had used my name to get Gregor Easton to meet him or her. And maybe kill him.
Not someone passing through town. Not some stranger.
Someone here in Mayville Heights. Someone I knew.
10
Play Guitar
I
woke up early, and when I couldn’t get back to sleep I cooked. By eight o’clock a batch of blueberry- poppy seed muffins was cooling on the counter next to a double recipe of Hercules and Owen’s favorite kitty treats. There was a cat glued to each of my legs as I made coffee and scrambled an egg.
I poured a cup of coffee and put it, my breakfast and a big handful of cat nibbles on a tray. Then I snagged the newspaper from the front door and carried everything out to the backyard, followed, of course, by the cats.
I settled on my favorite Adirondack chair and spread my napkin on the grass. Half the cat crackers went on one side; half on the other.
Hercules sniffed the food carefully even though he’d been dogging me since the cookie sheets had come out of the oven. He must have liked what his nose told him because he began to eat, eyes half closed in enjoyment. Owen, as usual, was moving his stash, two or three pieces at a time, onto the grass.
“That’s going to get soggy,” I told him.
He shot me an annoyed glare and continued to deposit his food in little piles on the lawn.
I read the paper as I ate. There were very few details about the investigation into Gregor Easton’s death, beyond a statement from Detective Gordon saying that the police were still investigating. The major story was what was going to happen to the music festival. The paper, via its editorial, took the position that without a well-known musician to act as music director, the festival should be canceled. The opinions in the letters to the editor section ran the gamut from continuing without a guest musician to bringing in the latest
American Idol
winner, to hiring Luciano Pavarotti, who was, unfortunately, dead.
Both cats finished eating. Owen set off across the lawn, probably heading for Rebecca’s gazebo and a nap. Herc walked around the yard, doing his daily survey of things. I watched him for a moment, wondering if last night could somehow have been just a stress-fueled hallucination. Logically, I knew cats couldn’t walk through solid doors or walls. Neither could dogs, monkeys, snakes, or people—although I’d seen some cockroaches come pretty close.
It wasn’t like I hadn’t heard rumors about the cats from Wisteria Hill, but there were no tales about paranormal abilities. Stories about the Wisteria cats ranged from innocuous (they all had six toes; mine didn’t) to bizarre (the cats were more than a hundred years old). I’d never heard anyone suggest the cats had the ability to disappear at will. Not that I’d been able to find out much about them or the crumbling house. Most people changed the subject when I brought it up. Maybe I’d be able to find out more when I went out there with Roma.
Herc had finished his check of the yard and worked his way back to me. He gave the napkin, still spread on the grass, a cursory sniff and then jumped up onto my lap. I scratched the top of his head and he started to purr. The reality was, I couldn’t ever say anything to anyone about what I’d seen him do. Because if I did and someone actually believed me, it was only going to end with my cats in a lab somewhere with wire mesh on the windows and electrodes stuck to their little shaved heads.
“I’d rather be the crazy cat lady,” I told Hercules.
He purred even louder. I took that to mean living with a crazy cat lady was okay by him. Suddenly he lifted his head. His ears moved and he looked toward the side of the house.
I leaned sideways in the chair, but I couldn’t see anyone. That didn’t mean no one was there. I set the cat on the grass and stood up just as Everett Henderson came around the side of the house. “How do you do that?” I whispered to Hercules.
Everett Henderson looked a lot like Sean Connery—balding, close-cropped white beard, intense dark eyes, and a lived-in face—enough that when he spoke I always expected to hear Connery’s Scottish accent. Everett was tall and lean, and when he walked into a room focus shifted automatically to him. If he said he was going to do something, it got done. I had no idea how he’d made his money, but, based on how much he was spending on the library, he seemed to have a lot of it.
“Hello, Kathleen,” he said. “I’m sorry to bother you on your morning off.”
“You’re no bother,” I assured him. “I was just having coffee and reading the paper. Would you like a cup?”
“It’s not decaf, is it?”
I made a cross with one index finger over the other. “Bite your tongue,” I said.
His smile widened. “In that case, yes, I would,” he said.
I gestured toward the back door. “Come into the kitchen,” I said.
Everett followed me into the house. Both cats had disappeared for the moment. I poured Everett a cup of coffee and got a new cup for myself. We sat at the kitchen table.
“Would you like a muffin?” I asked. “They’re blueberry-poppy seed.”
He shook his head. “I’m allergic to poppy seeds.”
“I’ve heard of peanut and shellfish allergies, but never poppy seeds,” I said.
“It’s in the family.” Everett picked up his mug and took a drink. “Mmmm, you make good coffee.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“So, I heard you found Gregor Easton’s body,” he said. Everett was not the kind of person to dance around things, I’d learned in the few months I’d known him.
“I did.”
“Did you kill him?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think you had,” he said. “I hope I haven’t offended you by asking.”
“You haven’t.” I smiled to show I meant it. “And since we’re being frank, I didn’t have an affair with Mr. Easton, either.”
Everett laughed as he put his cup on the table. “Kathleen, you hardly seem the type to be sneaking around, engaging in hanky-panky with a man old enough to be, well, me.”
“You’re not an old man, Everett,” I said.
“Yes, I am,” he said, brown eyes twinkling. “But I do appreciate your flattery.” Then his face turned serious. “Detective Gordon came to see me.”
I should have realized the detective would do that.
“I gave him your references,” he said. “And I told him I checked you out thoroughly and interviewed you myself before you were hired. And I told him I have complete faith in you.”
“I”—my voice stuck in my throat—“I . . . thank you.”
Everett drained his cup and set it on the table again. “Now, tell me how things are at the library.”
I stood up to get us both refills as Hercules came into the kitchen from the porch. For a second I wondered if I’d left the screen door open. Then I remembered doors weren’t exactly a barrier for Hercules. The cat stopped about halfway across the kitchen floor, his attention focused on our visitor.
Everett stared back at the cat. He looked stunned. “Where did that cat come from?” he managed to choke out. He didn’t even look at me—he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off the little tuxedo cat who seemed equally interested in the man.
“He’s mine,” I said slowly. “That’s Hercules. Owen is out in the yard somewhere.” I swallowed a mouthful of coffee, almost burning my tongue. “I was out walking, not long after I first arrived here. I stumbled upon Wisteria Hill and I realize I was trespassing, but the garden at the back was so beautiful. That’s where I found Owen and Hercules. They . . . followed me home.” I was babbling.
Hercules got up and walked over to stand in front of Everett, still looking intently at the older man.
“From Wisteria Hill,” Everett said.
“Yes,” I said. I cleared my throat. “Have I done something wrong by keeping them?”
That made Everett finally look at me. He shook his head. “No. No, you haven’t.” He glanced quickly back at Herc. “My mother had a cat. It disappeared when she died. I . . . We searched the house and the grounds for days, but . . .” He let the end of the sentence trail off and shook his head again. “I know it’s not possible—cats don’t live that long—but for a moment . . .” He pulled his hand down over his bearded chin and his gaze went back to Hercules. “Finn,” Everett said, more to himself than to me.