Marcus laughed. “Well, here’s what I remember: a steel box, a cat, a vial of poison. The cat could be dead or it could be alive. Until you open the box you don’t know which.”
“Yes.”
“Until someone is charged with Leo Janes’s murder Simon could be guilty and he could be innocent and this idea of Schrödinger’s murder investigation made a lot more sense in my head.”
I reached across the table and gave his hand a squeeze. “I get it,” I said. “You’re just doing your job. I can live with that.”
• • •
I thought about what Marcus had said as I drove out to the Taylors’ after work Wednesday night. Harry might know something that could help solve Leo Janes’s murder or he might not. Until I opened the box, until I came right out and asked him, there was no way to know. I wondered how the Austrian physicist would have felt about his thought experiment becoming part of pop culture.
Harry opened the door when I knocked and the rich smell of onions, garlic and tomatoes welcomed me as I stepped inside. “It smells wonderful in here,” I said as he took my coat.
“Italian beef stew. I hope you like it.”
I smiled at him. “I already do. Anything that smells that good has to taste at least as wonderful.”
Boris padded over to meet me. “Hi, boy,” I said. I handed the paper bag I was carrying to Harry. “Half a dozen of those organic dog biscuits Roma’s friend makes and Maggie sent you a bottle of blueberry syrup.”
“That’s a bribe,” Harrison said. I went over to give him a hug, trailed by the dog.
“Why is Maggie bribing you?” I asked.
“You know that mail they found stuffed behind that wall at the post office?”
I nodded.
“There was a Christmas card addressed to me. She wants me to let her use it for some exhibit she’s putting together for you.”
“And you don’t want to?” I asked, taking the chair opposite him. Boris leaned against my knee and I scratched the thick fur on the top of his head. He gave a contented sigh.
“I don’t mind one bit, but if she wants to send me a bottle of her blueberry syrup to soften me up, who am I to say no?”
We talked about the mail and the photos that had been hidden behind that wall at the post office for the past twenty years. “Do you think someone put them there on purpose?” I asked Harrison. “Or do you think they ended up there somehow by accident?”
“Neither and both,” he said.
“You do know that doesn’t make sense?” Harry said.
“Sure it does,” Harrison said. “Do you remember Campbell Larsen?”
Harry nodded. “He was the postmaster.”
“Named after his mother, not the soup,” the old man said. “Father’s side was Danish. That’s where the Larsen came from. Mother’s side was Scottish.”
“What does Campbell Larsen have to do with that stuff they found at the post office?” Harry asked. He was still standing in the kitchen doorway.
“He had some kind of dementia. He ended up in a nursing home.”
His son was nodding. “I remember that.”
“Well, he did some danged odd things before anyone figured out what was wrong with him. I think he put that stuff back there and in his mind he probably had a good reason for it.”
“That’s as good an explanation as any,” Harry said. He glanced over his shoulder. “We should be ready to eat in about ten minutes.”
Harrison got to his feet. He pointed a gnarled finger at me. “Before you ask, no, there isn’t a thing you can do. Sit there and talk to Boris.”
I smiled. “Yes, sir.” I turned all my attention to the dog, who seemed happy to get it.
“You’re driving?” Harrison said.
I nodded. “I am.”
“Well, I’m not,” the old man said, heading for the fridge and, I was guessing, a bottle of Thorsten Hall’s wine.
Harry served his Italian beef stew with slices of crusty multi-grain bread. I took one bite of the thick, spicy creation and closed my eyes with happiness. “Any chance I could get the recipe?”
“Sure,” Harry said. “There’s not that much to it. Onions, garlic, tomatoes, carrots, potatoes, celery, beef and my secret ingredient, half a bottle of Thorsten’s red wine.”
“He made the bread, too,” Harrison said, using a chunk to soak up some of the spicy liquid in his bowl.
“Bread machine made the bread,” Harry said.
“It’s good,” I said. I could taste molasses and I thought seven-grain cereal.
“He’s a good cook,” the old man offered. “Baffles me why he can’t get a woman.”
“Don’t start,” Harry warned.
His father paused his spoon in midair. “When did I stop? I’ve been telling you for years that you need a woman.”
Harry glanced at me and I saw a smile pulling at his mouth. They’d had this conversation dozens of times before. “Doesn’t seem to be working for you,” he said.
“That’s because you’re bull-moose stubborn.”
“Dad, did you ever hear the expression ‘People who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones’?” Harry asked.
“Is that your way of saying you think I’m stubborn?”
“Yes,” Harry said.
The old man shook his head. “Every bit of your stubbornness comes from your mother, may she rest in peace.”
I was losing the struggle not to laugh. A bit of carrot went down the wrong way and I started to cough. I reached for my water glass.
“You all right?” Harry asked.
I nodded.
“Okay, no more talking about who has all the stubborn genes in this family,” he said. “I don’t want Kathleen to choke to death.”
“Fine with me,” Harrison said. He turned to me. “Anyone figure out who killed Leo yet?”
“Marcus is working on it,” I said.
“I hope he’s getting some help,” he said.
I shot him a look but didn’t say anything.
“How many enemies could Leo have had in town? He hasn’t lived here in close to twenty years.”
“It doesn’t mean someone couldn’t still have a problem with him,” I said.
I watched Harry out of the corner of my eye. His head was bent over his food but he was clenching his jaw. Maybe it was none of my business, but I needed to know what Harry’s beef had been with Leo Janes. I leaned forward and looked directly at him. “Like you, for instance.”
His head came up and his eyes met mine and I saw a flash of anger in his gaze.
Harrison was shaking his head. He swore and then immediately looked at me and apologized. “I told you to let that go,” he said.
“Let what go?” I asked.
Harry pushed his bowl away. “Kathleen, no offense, but it’s not really any of your business.”
I set my spoon down. “You had an argument with Leo at my library, so you pretty much made it my business.” I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Harry, I don’t for a moment think you had anything at all to do with Leo’s death, but that doesn’t mean that whatever had the two of you so angry didn’t.”
His shoulders were rigid and I found myself hoping I hadn’t permanently ruined our relationship. “It doesn’t,” he said.
“Then why keep it a secret?”
“You know damn well I’m going to tell her if you don’t,” Harrison snapped.
Harry held out both hands. “Be my guest.”
The old man looked across the table at me. “You know Ruby’s grandfather, Idris Blackthorne, used to run a poker game out in that shack he had in the woods by Wisteria Hill?”
I nodded.
“I played a few times, probably a few times more than I should have,” Harrison said. “I got in over my head one night.” He made a face. “I thought I had a good hand, a sure thing, and those kind of things rarely are. I lost my watch. To Leo.” He shook his head at the memory. “Few years later when I had a bit of money I tried to buy it back from him.”
“He wouldn’t sell it to you.”
“No, he wouldn’t, and if I’m being fair I was a bit of an asshole so I can’t really blame him.”