Everett nodded. “I had the same concerns as Rebecca. And I wanted to know more about Wallace’s previous failed business. Why did it go under? What did he learn from the experience?” He set his coffee cup on the table. “Mind you, I’m not saying that that failure was necessarily a bad thing. Some people take a while to find the right fit for their skills.”
“According to the Small Business Association, half of all businesses fail in the first five years,” I said.
“That’s right,” he said. “That can be due to anything from not researching the market to not having a good business plan to not listening to customer feedback. I wanted to know if Mr. Wallace was aware of his weaknesses.”
“Have we told you anything that helps?” Rebecca asked.
“I’m not sure,” I admitted, tracing the rim of my coffee cup with one finger. “I’m trying to get a sense of what kind of businessman Lewis Wallace was. He’s pretty much an enigma.”
“You know that he was selling memorabilia? That was the business that failed.”
I nodded. “I know there were some disgruntled customers and some accusations about the legitimacy of some of the things he was selling.”
“It was more than that,” Rebecca said. “There was a police investigation. And a couple of people sued.”
“What happened?” I hadn’t found any of this information in my cursory research online.
“The investigation didn’t lead to any charges and the lawsuits were settled out of court, very recently as a matter of fact.”
“That doesn’t mean people still weren’t angry,” I said. Some people can hold a grudge for a long time.
“You’re wondering if Mr. Wallace died because of a business deal gone wrong.” Rebecca got up off her chair and got the coffeepot. She topped up her husband’s cup and gestured at mine.
“Please,” I said. I added more cream and sugar to my cup then leaned back in my seat, hands wrapped around the mug. I was stalling to come up with a diplomatic answer to Rebecca’s question. “From my limited experience with the man and from what I’ve read about him, he seemed to be the kind of person to whom people reacted strongly.”
“In other words, he could be a jerk,” she said flatly.
I sighed. “Yes.”
“How is the investigation going into Mr. Wallace’s death? Has Marcus learned anything?”
“I’m not giving away any secrets by saying it’s going very slowly,” I said, once again choosing my words with care.
“Well I’m sure things are a bit more challenging because the medical examiner didn’t immediately rule the death a homicide.”
“Umm, how did you know that?” I asked.
Rebecca gave me what I thought of as her sweet-little-old-lady smile. “I have my sources.”
Her source was likely Mary’s daughter, Bridget, who was the publisher of the town paper. I had no idea who Bridget’s source was. Neither did Marcus, which caused him a fair amount of frustration.
“Lewis Wallace’s death could have been an accident.” I tapped the side of my cup with one finger. “It’s a bad idea to jump to conclusions.”
“But it wasn’t an accident,” Everett said.
“There are a lot of unanswered questions,” Rebecca added. “I think it a good thing that someone is looking for answers.” She smiled again.
I smiled back at her. “Thank you both for answering them. And thank you for the coffee.” I looked at Hercules. “Okay, Fuzzy Face. Let’s go.”
He made a face and gave an indignant meow.
“If you walk home by yourself you’ll end up with wet feet,” I reminded him.
He immediately looked at Rebecca.
“Oh, that’s not a problem,” she said. “I’ll bring Hercules home later in the wagon.”
“I’m sorry, the wagon? What wagon?” I had somehow lost the thread of the conversation.
“Oh my goodness, did I not show it to you?”
“No,” I said, shaking my head.
“I can’t believe I forgot,” Rebecca said. “Maggie found me an old wooden Radio Flyer wagon at a flea market about a month ago. She cleaned it up and painted it for me. Red, of course. I’m going to use it to move my plants when I’m working in my garden. I can bring Hercules home in it. There isn’t that much snow left in the backyard.” She held up both hands as though everything was settled.
“I can’t let you do that.”
Everett raised an eyebrow. “Bad idea,” he said softly.
Rebecca was studying me through narrowed eyes. “I don’t understand,” she said. “You can’t let me?” Equal emphasis on the “can’t” and the “let” in the sentence. “Kathleen, are you trying to say you don’t trust me to bring Hercules home safely?”
“No,” I said, feeling my face redden. I hadn’t meant to offend her.
“You don’t think I’m too feeble to pull a wagon with a little cat in it across the yard, then, do you?”
Crap on toast! I had offended Rebecca.
“No, no . . . I just . . . There’s snow out there.”
She gave a snort. “There’s barely a dusting. I don’t see a problem.” She waited, head cocked to one side.
I wasn’t quite sure what to say. I took a deep breath and slowly let it out. “I appreciate your offer to make sure Hercules gets home,” I said carefully. “Thank you.”
Rebecca smiled. “You’re very welcome.” She reached over and set a piece of bacon in front of Hercules. “I almost forgot. I have a pie for you,” she said. “I’ll go get it. It’s in the pantry.”
The cat gave me a smug look that told me he knew who’d won and bent his head over his bacon. Rebecca went to get the pie. I looked at Everett. “I was played, wasn’t I?”
“Like a ninety-nine-cent kazoo,” he said with a smile.
As I headed home through the backyard I saw Owen waiting for me on the railing of the back stoop. He had come out with me when I’d headed over to see Rebecca and Everett. He liked to do a morning survey of the yard. I had no idea what he was looking for but it was part of his daily routine. His nose twitched at the pie.
“It’s people food,” I told him as I unlocked the porch door.
He made a sound like a sigh.
I kicked off my shoes, hung up my jacket and set the pie on the counter, covering it with a clean dishtowel for the moment. I got another cup of coffee and decided it was probably a bit too early for pie. It was blueberry. I’d checked.
I took a seat at the table. “Based on what Rebecca told me, Lewis Wallace definitely made some enemies with his last business. Maybe one of them tracked him down here,” I said. “Two people sued him and he was investigated by the police. He had to have left some unhappy customers in his wake.”
Owen seemed to be more interested in working out a stubborn knot in the fur on his tail than hearing about what I’d learned. “I just feel if I knew a little more about the man I could maybe figure out whether his death was personal or business.”
I tried to think of some way other than haunting the Internet to find more about Lewis Wallace the man. I couldn’t come up with anything. I looked up from my coffee to find Owen sitting in the wooden basket from Burtis Chapman that had been filled with potatoes from his root cellar. I’d left the basket under the coat hooks to remind me to return it. “Owen, get out of there,” I said.
The cat didn’t budge an inch. He just continued to sit in the basket and wash his face. I set my cup down, went over and scooped him out. “Burtis puts food in that basket,” I scolded. “You can’t sit in it. We already had this conversation.”
Owen squirmed to get down. I set him on the floor. He headed for the living room, where I knew he’d likely climb on the footstool—another place he wasn’t supposed to sit. I went back to my coffee.