“So how did breakfast with Burtis go?” Marcus asked as we started around the side carriage house.
“Delicious,” I said. “I have to ask Peggy what’s in the fried potatoes besides onion and dill.”
“Bacon fat,” he said. “Lots of bacon fat.”
I bumped him with my hip. “How did you know I had breakfast with Burtis?”
He squared his shoulders. “Have you forgotten you’re dating an ace detective?”
I put a hand on his shoulder and came up on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “No, I have not,” I said.
Marcus laughed. “You’re not the only one who talks to Burtis, you know.”
“What did he tell you?” I asked.
Marcus shifted the empty water jugs to his other hand as we started for Roma’s side porch. “Probably no more than he told you: It’s not what a person has done that makes them intimidating, it’s what our mind thinks they’ve done.”
I nodded. “I realize it’s what Hitchcock said: ‘There is no terror in the bang, only in the anticipation of it.’”
He nodded.
“So is Elias Braeden a suspect?” I asked as I fished Roma’s key out of my pocket.
Marcus raked his free hand back through his hair. “As far as I’m concerned just about everyone is a suspect right now.”
We put everything back in the porch and I followed Marcus down the driveway and back into town. He waved as he drove past Mountain Road and I turned down the hill.
Harry was at the library when I pulled into the parking lot, shoveling leaf mulch into a wheelbarrow from a large bin on the back of his truck. I’d known there was a good chance he would be. He had told me he was bringing some mulch for the bed at the back of the library where the rain chain had been vandalized and water had washed away much of the soil and mulch already there.
“Hi, Kathleen,” he said. “I thought I’d get an early start at this.”
“That’s fine with me,” I said. “I’m going to put the coffee on. Why don’t you come in later and have a cup?”
He rubbed his gloved hands together. “Thanks. That sounds good.”
“It was good of your father to help Mia with her project,” I said. “With Leo dead she didn’t really have many people to ask.”
“The old man likes kids,” Harry said. “And Lord knows he’s got enough stories about this town.” As I’d noticed before, once I mentioned Leo’s name Harry seemed to tense; the muscles in his neck looked like thick ropes.
“I better get back at it,” he said. “And I will take you up on that coffee later.”
I nodded and headed for the front steps. Harry wasn’t quite avoiding me, but it was close.
• • •
Midmorning I was talking to the leader of the senior quilters about a Christmas exhibit of their quilts when Patricia suddenly stopped midsentence and touched my arm. “Kathleen, either Abigail has taken up semaphore or she’s trying to get your attention.”
I looked over at the front desk. Abigail held up a hand and then pointed at the phone. “Excuse me for a minute,” I said to Patricia. I walked over to the desk.
“It’s Harrison Taylor for you on line one,” Abigail said. “And I thought maybe you needed a break. Patricia can talk your ear off.”
“Thanks,” I said. “She’s not really that bad. She just likes to get every detail nailed down.”
“Nailed down, stapled, glued and cemented,” Abigail said with a grin.
I reached for the phone. “Good morning, Harrison,” I said.
“Good morning, Kathleen,” he replied. “How are things at the library?”
“They’re going well,” I said. “Your son came and repaired that washed-out flower bed at the back of the building and someone brought in four books that were due eight years ago.”
“Did you make him or her pay a fine?” Harrison asked.
“I thought about it,” I said, turning so I could lean back against the desk. “Then I realized one of the books may be a first edition of Clement Moore’s The Night Before Christmas with illustrations by William Wallace Denslow.”
“I take it that’s a good thing.”
“The book could be worth several thousand dollars to the right collector.”
“Then you have something to celebrate,” he said. “So how about coming for supper tomorrow night?”
I liked spending time with Harrison and maybe I’d get the chance to talk to Harry. “That sounds wonderful,” I said. We settled the details and I hung up.
The rest of the morning passed quickly. Abigail and I went over the plans for our Christmas programming and then I spent some time looking through the book suggestions people had left on our “What Would you Like to Read?” bulletin board display. Maggie came in after lunch to sort through the photos and decide which ones she was going to frame first.
“Are you going to have enough frames?” I asked.
She nodded. “In fact it looks like I may be able to get some of the mail and display that as well. Did you hear that Thorsten Hall got a Christmas card from an old girlfriend?”
“Very romantic,” I said.
Maggie laughed. “Not exactly. It was a religious card with a picture of a snow-covered church on the front. Inside it said, God Loves You and underneath she’d written, I still think you’re a jerk!”
“You’re making that up!”
She put one hand on her chest. “I swear I’m not.”
I thought about Meredith Janes’s letter to her former best friend. I wondered what it said.
• • •
Marcus had hockey practice while I was at tai chi but we met afterward for hot chocolate at Eric’s.
“Want to split a cinnamon roll?” he asked.
“They haven’t been out of the oven very long,” Claire said. “They’re still warm.” That was all I needed to persuade me.
“Okay,” I said.
Marcus smiled at Claire. “One cinnamon roll, two plates,” he said.
“I’ll be right back,” she said.
Eric’s cinnamon rolls were as good as Mary’s. That’s because he used her recipe. And so far I hadn’t been able to wheedle, whine or bribe it out of either of them.
Marcus must have guessed what I was thinking. “Do you think you’ll ever convince Mary to tell you what her secret ingredient is?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “And I’ve tried everything I can think of to make mine come out the same.”
“But yours are good,” he said. He’d tried just about every batch I’d made.
“I’ve gotten close.” I held up my thumb and index finger about a half an inch apart. “But there’s a little something missing.” I lined up the sugar bowl and cream pitcher on the table. “Mary says she’ll leave me the secret in her will.”
Marcus nodded solemnly. “Other words, she’s never going to tell you.”
I laughed. “Pretty much.” I leaned my elbows on the table and smiled at him. “What are you trying to sweeten me up for?” I asked. To his credit he didn’t try to pretend.
“We’re bringing Simon Janes in for questioning tomorrow. I didn’t want you to find out from . . . from anyone else.”
“He didn’t kill his father,” I said. I was beginning to sound like a broken record.
“I’m not saying he did.” He picked up a spoon from the table and flipped it end over end in his fingers. “Do you remember Schrödinger’s cat?” he asked.
I frowned, unsure of how we’d gotten from talking about whether or not Simon had killed his father to quantum mechanics. “I remember,” I said slowly. “It’s a thought experiment that Erwin Schrödinger came up with that’s really a criticism of the Copenhagen interpretation of quantum superpositions.”