“She didn’t look like Burtis’s type,” Mary finished. She didn’t miss much.
“I shouldn’t make assumptions,” I said.
“You’re not. Burtis and Dayna were a classic case of opposites attracting.” She straightened her sweater so the reindeers were nose to bright red nose. “I wonder why she’s back here now, after all this time.”
“Maybe she missed her kids, or Mayville Heights.” I held up both hands. “Maybe after so many years she missed Burtis.”
Mary gave a snort of laughter. Then her expression grew serious. “You know, no one really knows why that marriage ended. Burtis wasn’t talking and no one was ever foolhardy enough to ask him.”
She took a small, square picture book from the pile at her elbow. A handful of Cheerios bounced onto the counter from between the pages.
“At least it’s not peanut butter and marshmallow fluff,” I said with a smile, and headed for the stairs.
I returned all the phone calls and sent a couple of texts. Everything was running smoothly. Vincent Starr was checked into a beautiful bed-and-breakfast within walking distance of the library and the Stratton Theatre. Abigail, who had found the edition of Alice in Wonderland that had originally brought us into contact with Vincent, was taking him to dinner before the gala at the Stratton.
Maggie and Ruby Blackthorne had done an incredible job of turning the Stratton Theatre into a Parisian bistro and managed to do it under budget. I’d walked over before lunch and I’d found myself at a loss for words at the sight of all their work. Mags and Ruby had donated all their time and managed to borrow most of the design elements.
The rest of the afternoon was busy. As Mary had predicted, nearly every student from Anne Stinson’s history class showed up after school and stood, bewildered, annoyed or a bit of both in front of the nonfiction section. The seniors’ reading club arrived en masse to register at the last minute for Ruby’s bookmaking workshop on Saturday, and Thorsten delivered three cartons of old first- and second-grade readers that he and Oren Kenyon had found in a cubbyhole at the community center. Vincent Starr had offered to look at the books to determine if they might be worth anything. The community center needed a new roof and I was hoping there might be something valuable about their old books.
We closed the building at four thirty because of the fundraiser. I double-checked the conference room before I left and made one more trip back up to the staff room to make sure we had everything we needed for morning.
Susan was waiting for me by the front door, bundled into her red, down-filled coat. “Everything’s done, Kathleen,” she said. “I put a few more chairs in the conference room and ran the vacuum around in there.”
“You are an angel,” I said as I hurried across the floor to her.
“Yes, I am,” she replied, grinning at me. “Now let’s get out of here. I have to get home and make myself even more beautiful than I already am.”
I set the alarm, locked the doors and we headed for the parking lot. It was cold, but it wasn’t snowing and the sky was clear overhead.
“It’s going to be a great night,” Susan said. She’d pulled the brim of her hat down and turned the collar of her coat up, so all I could see was her eyes, sparkling behind her black cat’s-eye glasses.
“I hope you’re right,” I said. “I’ll see you later.”
She made a sweeping gesture with her right hand. “Prepare to be dazzled.”
A bit of snow had blown onto my windshield. I brushed it off before I slid onto the driver’s seat of my truck. The truck was old and an ugly brown color, like the bottom of a mud puddle, but it ran well and it had a great heater. Harry Taylor Senior had loaned me the truck and then given it to me outright after he’d found his daughter, Elizabeth. I had retrieved some documents that had helped the old man in his search for her, and the truck was his way of saying thank you.
I drove up Mountain Road thinking I’d warm up the last of the chicken noodle soup I’d made on the weekend for supper. That would give me a bit of extra time to spend with the cats before I had to get ready for the gala. Owen and Hercules had been out of sorts the past couple of days. If I hadn’t known better, I would have said that they were miffed because they weren’t going to the gala. The boys, brothers I’d had since they followed me home, weren’t exactly your everyday, run-of-the-mill house cats. Sometimes I had to remind myself that they weren’t people, either, even though they seemed to think they were.
I parked in the driveway and headed around the house to the back porch, mentally going over everything I needed to do before I headed back down the hill to the Stratton.
My foot was on the bottom riser of the porch stairs when I heard it. Exactly what the noise was, I wasn’t sure. All I could tell was that there was some kind of god-awful sound coming from my kitchen.
3
I knew it was stupid to go inside when I didn’t know what was in there, but Owen and Hercules were in the house. It sounded as though there was some kind of injured animal inside with them. I hesitated, and then I heard what I clearly knew was a yowl from Owen.
Fumbling with my keys, I got the porch door unlocked and dropped my purse and briefcase on the bench under the side window. I grabbed the broom that I’d used that morning to clear a dusting of snow off the steps. I had no idea what was in my kitchen or how it had gotten into my house, but whatever was terrorizing my cats was about to meet the business end of that broom.
I heard another yowl from Owen and I wrenched the kitchen door open and launched myself into the space, swinging the broom like a pirate’s cutlass.
Detective Marcus Gordon turned from the stove, waving the wooden spoon in his hand at me. The radio was playing softly in the background. Marcus was singing along to Aerosmith. Not at all softly. And not at all remotely on key, either.
“Hi,” I said, a little stunned.
Owen was perched on one of my kitchen chairs, bobbing his gray tabby head along to Steven Tyler. The cat seemed to be joining in on the chorus, or maybe he was singing harmony. I wasn’t exactly sure. He glanced over at me, still brandishing my broom like a sword, and there was what seemed to me to be a self-satisfied gleam in his golden eyes. I knew what that was about.
I looked at Marcus again. He was wearing jeans and a white T-shirt. The ends of his hair were damp, which meant he’d probably been in the shower just a short time ago. My shower maybe? I thought about that for a moment and then I had to force myself to pay attention to what was happening in my kitchen.
“What are you doing?” I asked. I could see that he was stirring something that smelled wonderful, but I had no idea why all six-feet-plus of handsome him was at my stove. Or why one of my new dish towels was clipped to the front of his T-shirt with a couple of clothespins.
Marcus smiled. “Making supper.” He gestured at the table. “I hope it’s okay.”
For the first time I noticed that the table was set for two—place mats, napkins and a fork and large spoon at each place. I’d given him my spare key so he could pick up the tablecloths I’d ironed the night before and deliver them to Maggie and Ruby at the Stratton this morning. There was no way I could lay them down in my truck and not get them wrinkled again.
“Of course it’s okay,” I said. I pointed to the dish towel. “I like your apron.”
He flushed. “I had a shower before I came over. I didn’t want to get sauce on my shirt.”
He seemed to notice the broom then for the first time. “Were you planning on cleaning the kitchen?” he asked.
“Um, no,” I said, realizing I didn’t really want to tell him I’d mistaken his singing for some animal attacking my cat. “I, uh, guess I don’t need this after all.” I leaned the broom against the wall by the door, then crossed the room and kissed him. I still felt a little bubble of happiness every time I did that. There had been a time I’d believed Marcus and I would never be a couple. There’d been a time I would have sworn that I didn’t want to be in a relationship with him. He’d made me crazy sometimes. He still made me crazy, but he also made me very, very happy.