Elvis had gotten his name, via Sam, because the latter claimed the cat had once sat just inside the door of The Black Bear while Sam and the guys did a set of the King’s music, leaving only when they segued into their Rolling Stones set. The next morning he was back in the narrow alley beside the shop, watching Sam as he took a pile of cardboard boxes to the recycling bin. “Hey, Elvis. Want some breakfast?” Sam had asked after tossing the last box in the bin. The cat had walked up to him and meowed a loud yes. I was a little skeptical about the story, but Elvis the cat clearly had an affection for the other Elvis’s music.
“Okay,” I said with a smile. “Just don’t judge the guitar by the guitar player.”
I did a quick check on the strings to make sure they were in tune. Then I exhaled slowly and played the first few notes of Boston’s “Amanda.” I sang along softly, more out of habit. When I got to the end, the customer applauded—and so did the rest of the shop. I had no idea anyone else was listening. I felt my face getting warm.
Mac caught my eye from behind the cash register. “Nice,” he mouthed.
I raised a hand in acknowledgment of the applause. “Thank you,” I said. I turned back to my customer.
“I’ll take it,” he said. “And if that’s rusty, you must be wow when you’re practiced.”
In the end we sold three guitars, all the quilts we had—both the antique ones and the ones Jess had made from recycled fabric—about half of our vintage postcards and most of Avery’s new collection of candles—tea lights made from miniature silver trophies she’d found at the curb on garbage day, to which she’d added beeswax votives.
Mac helped me restock and reorganize at the end of the day. The tour director had told him a bus of skiers would be coming through tomorrow, and she’d suggest to their tour leader that they stop at Second Chance.
“We should put a We Heart Canadians sign on the door,” Rose said, brushing lint off the front of her apron.
“You certainly do,” I said. “I saw you flirting with that older man with the . . . interesting hair.” The man in question had been wearing an ill-fitting curly hairpiece that was the color of Elvis’s fur.
“I wasn’t flirting,” she retorted, giving me her stern teacher look. “I was being charming.”
I held up a hand. “I’m sorry. I stand corrected.”
“But that hair was unfortunate.” She sighed and shook her head. “I did work it into the conversation that I believe hair is not necessarily a sign of virility in a man.” She gave me a sly smile. “But you know what they say about men with big feet—don’t you, dear?”
Behind me Mac made a strangled sound like a dead car battery failing to turn over.
“What do they say about men with big feet?” I asked, knowing I was going to regret the question.
“They wear big shoes.” She laughed, then patted my arm and headed for the back room.
After work I took Elvis home and changed into my running clothes. The cat climbed up on the chair I kept for him by the window, looked outside at the wind blowing the snow around and then turned to look over his shoulder at me. It might have been my imagination, but it almost looked as though he gave a little shiver.
“I’m going to the track,” I said.
He yawned.
“Why is it no one ever wants to go running with me?” I asked.
He yawned again.
My favorite shoes were at the back of the closet by the front door. The laces of the left shoe seemed to be caught up on something, and I knelt down to unsnag it.
“I could have gotten a dog, you know,” I said. “Maybe a great big German shepherd. German shepherds like to run.”
A furry black face seemed to materialize in front of me. Elvis stared at me unblinkingly, his way of expressing how ridiculous replacing him with a dog would be.
“Okay,” I said. “So I’m not really going to replace you with a dog.”
Satisfied, he turned around and headed for the bedroom.
“But I could,” I called over my shoulder.
“Merow,” he answered without looking back.
I ran three miles, faster than my usual pace, using my frustration to drive my legs. About two laps from finishing, I looked up to see Nick standing by the doors, holding two cardboard takeout cups. He smiled as I ran by and lifted one of the cups in a mock toast to me. I really hoped they held hot chocolate and that one of them was for me. I held up two fingers to signify two more laps and he nodded.
I was ready to slow down. I should have slowed down, but something about Nick standing there watching made me keep up the pace until the very last step.
“I’m tired just watching you,” he said, walking over to me as I stretched by the railing.
“You’re welcome to join me anytime,” I said, raising an eyebrow in invitation. “I could train you.”
“You could kill me,” he said, handing me one of the takeout cups, which was hot chocolate with marshmallows half-melted on top. I wasn’t crazy about whipped cream on my cocoa, but I loved marshmallows.
“Wait a minute,” I said after taking a sip. “This is from McNamara’s.” I eyed him suspiciously. “What do you want?” Glenn used steamed milk, sugar, cocoa and melted chocolate in his hot chocolate. It tasted rich and decadent and not at all like something made with hot water and powder from a paper packet.
Nick gave me that little-boy look that he’d been using to get out of trouble since he actually was a little boy. “Hey, I just wanted to do something nice for you. You’re so suspicious.”
“Well, thank you,” I said. I took another sip of the hot chocolate. It was good—chocolaty and not too sweet. “But you’re so transparent, your head may as well be a giant round fishbowl. What’s up? Spill.”
“Please keep this under your hat,” he said, his expression suddenly serious.
I nodded, wondering what I was swearing myself to silence over.
“Liz called the bakery the night Lily died.”
“Damn!” I whispered. I turned away for a moment and then looked back at Nick. “I take it she didn’t tell you or Michelle when you talked to her.”
“No, she didn’t,” he said. “You know I don’t think that Liz had anything to do with Lily’s death, but . . .” He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.
I shook my head and wrapped my hands around the cup to warm them. “This kind of thing makes her look bad.”
Nick nodded.
“I’ll talk to her,” I said, although I wasn’t sure how exactly I was going to urge Liz to tell the police something I wasn’t even supposed to know about.
“The Angels are on the case,” I said, mostly to change the subject. I watched his face over the top of my cup. “I couldn’t come up with any way to dissuade them.”
He gave me a wry smile. “I know. Mom called me. I know you tried.” He shook his head. “She also told me that if I gave you a hard time about it, she’d use a certain photo of me in a”—he gestured with his free hand—“sort of loaded diaper as her Christmas card next year.”
I crossed an arm over my midsection and tipped my head to one side to study him. “Your mother plays hardball,” I said.
“Yes, she does,” he said with a smile.
“So that’s why you brought me this.” I held up my cup and then took another sip from it. “It’s a bribe.”
“Guilty as charged,” he said with a shrug.
I wrinkled my nose at him. “I really need to see that photo of you before I can promise anything.”
“How about having supper with me instead? That would get me some more brownie points.”
His cell phone buzzed then. He handed me his cup and fished in his pocket, pulling it out and studying the screen. “Hang on a second,” he said, taking a few steps away from me.
I sipped my hot chocolate and waited. The call took less than a minute. Nick walked back to me, putting his cell back in his pocket. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I have to go. Rain check on supper?”