“Did you say something, Kathleen?” Rebecca said behind me. Both she and Maggie were looking at me.
I crossed my fingers that Owen was out of sight and then realized that was the problem. “I, uh, just that I have to go,” I stammered. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“You’ve done more than enough, Kathleen. Thank you.” She held out the plastic container. “Don’t forget your pie.”
“Never,” I said, taking the box with my free hand and hugging it against my chest. “If you need anything, if Ami isn’t around”—I pointed at my house—“you know where I am.”
She nodded.
“I’ll see you Sunday,” Maggie said over her shoulder, as she followed me down the steps. Rebecca gave a little wave of acknowledgment.
“What kind of pie?” Maggie asked, eyeing the container as we cut through the hedge.
I was busy scanning the yard for a small gray tabby or a small piece of paper that seemed to be self-propelled.
Nothing.
“What?” I said, then remembered what she’d asked. “Oh. Lemon meringue.”
“I like lemon meringue,” she said.
“Yeah, everyone does,” I said distractedly. Where was Owen? Maybe by the back door, and, I hoped, three-dimensional.
Maggie had been talking and I hadn’t been paying attention, I realized.
“So, you’ll help me?” she said, looking expectantly at me.
“Umm, yeah, of course I will.” I wondered what I’d just agreed to.
Maggie burst out laughing.
“What? What’s so funny?” I asked.
“I just told you that I’m giving up art to become an exotic dancer in Vegas, and you agreed to help me make a costume out of pigeon feathers.”
I felt my face redden.
“What’s with you this morning?”
What could I say? One of my cats is adding new meaning to the term “cat burglar,” Everett mistook my cat for his dead mother’s cat, and, oh, yeah, the police were still asking questions and trying to seduce Owen over to the dark side. Plus, I’d had way, way more caffeine than I should have. I decided just to share the last two things on that list.
Maggie stared at me, decidedly dumbfounded. “The police were here and you gave them breakfast? Again?”
I tried not to cringe. “It was just one police—Detective Gordon—and I didn’t give him breakfast, I gave him coffee.”
She folded her arms across her chest and continued to stare at me.
“And a muffin . . . okay, two muffins, but they were right there on the rack on the counter, and not offering any to him would have been rude.” I stopped to take a breath.
“The man thought you and Gregor Easton were playing musical mattress and you don’t want him to think you’re rude?” Mags shook her head.
I couldn’t help laughing. “Can I help it if I have nice manners?”
Grinning herself, Maggie shook her head at me. “You’re hopeless,” she said. Then her expression got more serious. “What did he want? Aside from a free breakfast.”
I pushed my bangs back off my face. “Well, it looks like I’m moving down on the suspect list.”
“I told you.” Maggie pointed a finger at me. “No one is seriously going to believe you killed someone.”
I saw movement over her shoulder. It was Owen, sitting on my blue Adirondack chair, watching us, still as a statue and just as solid, the piece of paper under one of his paws.
I felt my shoulders loosen a little and I nudged open the screen door. “It helped that both Roma and Rebecca could confirm where I was, at least part of the time. Harry, too.”
I remembered how Detective Gordon had turned down my offer to look through the house to see if I had a timer for my lights. “I have the feeling the police are focusing somewhere else now,” I added.
Maggie nodded with satisfaction. “About time.”
I paused in the doorway. “You want a cup of coffee?” I asked. “And a blueberry muffin?” I gave her the eyebrow. “I have cheese-and-sardine crackers,” I wheedled.
Maggie grimaced, then pasted on a decidedly fake smile. “As tempting as a good cheese-and-sardine cracker can be, I’m afraid I’ll have to pass. I’m working an extra shift in the store today. Rats!” She gave a huge, exaggerated sigh before smiling for real. “You going to the market in the morning?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Want to have breakfast at Eric’s?”
Breakfast at Eric’s. Homemade cinnamon bread. An omelet with cheese and mushrooms. Granola with gobs of raisins. And I knew a lot of the people involved with the music festival had been hanging out at Eric’s—the menu was eclectic, but very good. I didn’t know if any of them would be around early on a Saturday, but it was worth a shot, and I hadn’t had breakfast at Eric’s in ages. “Okay,” I said.
We settled on a time and Maggie left. I waited until she’d had enough time to make it to the street; then I backtracked to where Owen still sat on my chair like some furry lawn ornament. One paw was still holding down the piece of paper he’d taken from the recycling bin in Rebecca’s shed.
“What is with you?” I said. “First you chew a piece of fringe off Rebecca’s scarf and now you swipe something from her recycling bin.” I reached for the paper, but he kept his paw firmly on it. “If this is some kind of protest because I told Rebecca not to buy you any more catnip, it’s not going to work.” I pulled at the paper again. “Give it here.”
He looked at me, narrowing his golden eyes like he was actually thinking over my request. “If you ever want me to make you another batch of those crackers you’ll move your paw now.”
Owen didn’t even hesitate for effect. He lifted his paw and I picked up the page. It was a photocopy of a piece of sheet music. Written by Gregor Easton. For a moment I half expected to hear the music from
The Twilight Zone
. First Hercules found something that may have been connected to Easton’s murder, and now Owen. Could they actually be trying to . . . help me? I shook my head. That was crazy. On the other hand, a cat that could disappear kind of defied logic, too.
Owen was watching me. Feeling a little foolish, I looked around to make sure no one else was. “Okay, I’m going to . . . take a big leap and believe that you brought me this for a reason. Why?” I waved the piece of sheet music in front of his face. “Ami is over there all the time and she’s singing in the festival. Nice try, but this doesn’t mean anything.”
Owen made disgruntled muttering sounds low in his throat. I scooped him up with one arm and dropped onto the lawn chair, settling the cat on my lap. “C’mon,” I said, scratching under his chin. “You don’t actually think Ami had something to do with Easton’s death, do you?” I tried to picture Ami, who just last night I’d seen carry a spider out to Rebecca’s gazebo in her china gravy boat instead of squishing it, killing Gregor Easton. Killing anyone.
I looked at the piece of sheet music again. “You know what I don’t understand?” I said to the cat. “Why did someone want Easton dead? He was a stranger. He hadn’t been here long enough to make anyone angry enough to kill him.”
Owen’s response was to knead my stomach with his front paws—“Claws!” I reminded him as one foot snagged skin through my shirt.
“Do you think maybe Gregor Easton wasn’t a total stranger here?”
Owen gave a loud meow.
“You could be right,” I said. “Violet was a music teacher. Could she have known him?” It was hard to imagine elegant, confident Violet luring Easton to a clandestine rendezvous at the public library.
I shifted in the chair so I could stretch out my legs. “And then there’s Ruby. She’s in the festival choir.” I couldn’t picture her enticing Easton to a private meeting, either. Ruby was more likely to call someone out in public. At great volume
The paper had said Easton had done a graduate degree at University of Cincinnati College-Conservatory of Music. Hadn’t Everett told me that the University of Cincinnati was where he’d studied business? I couldn’t imagine Everett tied up in Easton’s death, either. I couldn’t imagine anyone I knew involved. But the truth was, someone I knew had used my name to get Gregor Easton to meet him or her. And wasn’t admitting it. Someone I knew was willing to let me be tied up in a murder. In the few months I’d been in town I thought I’d made friends. Now? Maybe I was still more of an outsider than I’d realized.
Owen was stretched out on my lap, eyes closed. I stroked his fur. I couldn’t take feeling this kind of suspicion about everyone I knew. I had to do something. The most logical place to start was with the dead man himself. Maybe if I knew more about Easton I’d be able to figure out whether he did have a connection to someone in Mayville Heights and whether that someone wanted him dead.
Owen suddenly opened his eyes, shook himself and jumped off my lap. He headed for the front yard.
I got up, as well, stuffing the note Owen had swiped into my pocket along with the bit of fringe he’d taken from Rebecca’s scarf.
I started for the house just as Harry came from the front yard, pushing a lawn mower. I detoured over to him. “Good morning,” I said.
Harry mowed the lawn at the library and at my house. I had no idea how old he was, but if I had to guess, I’d say late fifties. His face was lined from years of working in the sun, and the one time he’d taken off his Twins cap to mop his sweating forehead, I’d noticed he was mostly bald with just a little salt-and-pepper hair.
“Morning,” Harry said. “Do you mind if I get at the lawn early? It’s going to rain later.”
I shook my head. “No.”
The sky overhead was clear, bright blue with only a few puffy clouds like little bits of cotton batting that had been blown up into the sky by the wind. Still, if Harry said it was going to rain, it was going to rain. It didn’t matter what this morning’s forecast said. He judged the weather by the birds, the leaves, the smell of the wind and how his left leg—which had been broken twice—felt.
He was also very well-read. He’d borrowed Solzhenitsyn’s
The Gulag Archipelago
and renewed the book twice, which made me think he’d actually read it all.
Harry had the kind of face that somehow smiled even when he wasn’t actually grinning. I smiled at him now. “Thank you for telling the police you saw me Tuesday night.”
“I did see you,” he said.
I felt a little awkward. “I know,” I said, sliding my hands into my back pockets, “but you didn’t have to get involved.”
Harry pulled off his cap and ran a hand over his scalp before pulling the hat back on again. “Kathleen, I don’t know what happened to Mr. Easton, but I know whatever it was, you had nothing to do with it. You love books and you’ve spent months working on restoring the library building. There’s no way on God’s green earth you’re going to whack someone over the head and let him bleed all over your library.” He shook his head from side to side for emphasis. “And I told that to Detective Gordon,” he added.
Was that why the detective had seemed less suspicious? Did Harry’s words carry that much weight?
“Well . . . thank you.” I cleared my throat. “I met your brother yesterday.”
Harry nodded. “Said he’s doing some work for you.”
“Oren says he’s a good electrician.”
“He is. And if he gives you any trouble, let me know.” Harry bent over the mower. “He’s not so big that I can’t hang him off the roof by his ankles.” He grinned, which I hoped meant he was kidding, and pulled the starter cord on the mower.
I went inside, cleaned up the kitchen and made a turkey salad sandwich to take to work with me. The necklace Ruby had given me was lying on the table. I slipped it on over my head. I didn’t know if the crystal could keep negative energy away or not, but it couldn’t hurt.
Harry and the mower moved from the back to the far side of the house. I went out into the porch to look for Owen and Hercules.
There was no sign of the cats, but Santa Claus was in the backyard, sitting in my blue Adirondack chair.
12
Fair Lady Works at Shuttle
O
kay, it wasn’t really Santa in my Adirondack chair, but the elderly gentleman in my backyard definitely looked like Saint Nick, minus the belly that shook like a bowlful of jelly. He had thick white hair and a white beard that looked as soft as dandelion fluff.
I opened the door and walked across the grass to find out why Santa Claus’s doppelganger was sitting in my favorite chair. He struggled to get to his feet when he saw me approaching—Adirondack chairs are not always easy to get out of.
“Hello, my dear,” he said, offering his hand. His grip was strong and his blue eyes actually seemed to twinkle.
I didn’t think I’d ever seen the man before; still, there was something very familiar about him.
“You’re trying to decide if we’ve ever met,” he said.
Okay, not only did he look like Santa Claus, he seemed to be able to read minds like the Amazing Kreskin. The old man was still holding my right hand and now he covered it with his left. I could feel the warmth of both of his hands, sinking into mine.
“I’m Harrison Taylor,” the Kriss Kringle look-alike said. “But everyone calls me Old Harry.” He gestured at the chair behind him. “I hope you don’t mind me making myself at home.”
“Not at all.” I gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “I’m so glad to finally meet you.”
“I’m happy to meet you, as well,” he said. “I was feeling a little like someone’s big, old, smelly dog, left in the truck with the window cracked just a little. Plus, I’m a nosy old man and I wanted to see what you’ve done back here.” He patted my hand before letting go of it.
“So what do you think?” I asked.
He looked around and slowly nodded his approval. I felt a small, warm bubble of pride spread inside me. Young Harry kept the yard mowed and trimmed, but I’d cleaned out all the overgrown flower beds.
“Those roses are from the homestead,” Old Harry said, gesturing with a heavily veined hand.
“Yes, they are. So are the blackberry canes.”
“How was the rhubarb this year?”