Susan moved past me to snap on the lights. “So how was your night?” Her knowing tone told me she already had the answer to the question.
I shook my head at her as I relocked the main door. “I know that you know I had dinner with Marcus Gordon last night.”
The smile turned into a grin. “Eric told me,” she said. She clasped her hands behind her back and pushed her glasses up her nose. “So, did he sweep you into those strong, manly arms for a good-night kiss? And when are you going to see him again?”
“Number one, none of your business. And number two, I’ve already seen Marcus this morning—and not because last night stretched into this morning.”
It took a moment, but then Susan’s face grew serious as she made the connection. She’d obviously already heard what had happened to Mike. “Don’t tell me you found Mike Glazer’s body.”
I shifted my leather briefcase from one hand to the other. “Technically, it was Hercules who found the body,” I said.
“Hercules?” Susan’s eyes darted from side to side in confusion. “What was your cat doing down on the Riverwalk?”
“We were at the studio building. Ruby wants to do another cat painting. Remember the one Maggie sold this summer?”
She nodded.
“We were a few minutes early. I didn’t have the zipper closed all the way on the carrier . . .” I gestured with my free hand.
“And the cat’s out of the bag.”
I nodded. “Pretty much.”
“Do you think Hercules sensed . . . something?”
“Maybe,” I said. “Cats have a much better sense of smell than we do.” I didn’t add that both Hercules and Owen had an uncanny ability for poking their furry noses into things they shouldn’t. Marcus would probably say the same thing about me.
“I guess this is the end of the pitch to Legacy Tours,” Susan said as we headed for the stairs to the second floor.
“Probably,” I agreed.
“Well, not to speak ill of the dead, but from what I heard, Mike Glazer was pretty much impossible to please, so I don’t think the idea had much of a chance anyway. I’m sorry to hear he’s dead, though.”
Behind us, someone tapped on the front door. “That’ll be Mary,” I said.
“I’ll go,” Susan said. She hurried over to the entrance and let the older woman in.
“Hi, Kathleen,” Mary said, hustling into the library as though she were being pushed by a sudden gust of wind. “I’m sorry I’m running late.” She was a little out of breath, and I noticed that her jacket was buttoned wrong.
“How did swimming lessons go?” she asked Susan. The boys had gone for their first swim class in the pool at the St. James Hotel.
“Wet,” Susan said with a grimace. “Very, very wet. On the other hand, we haven’t been banned from the hotel property, so I take that as a positive sign.”
“I really didn’t mean to be late,” Mary said, turning to me.
“You’re not late,” I said. “We don’t open for another five minutes.”
“Oh, good.” She patted her gray curls, which looked as though they’d been lacquered into place with about half a can of extra-strength hair spray. “I swear this whole tour thing is turning out to be way more trouble than it’s worth. Heaven help me for saying it, but there are moments I think Burtis is right; someone ought to smack a little sense into that Glazer boy.”
Susan and I exchanged awkward glances.
Mary saw the look that passed between us. “What?” she asked, blue eyes narrowing. “Something’s up. What is it?”
I exhaled slowly. “Mary,” I began, “Mike is . . . dead.”
“Lord love a duck,” she said softly.
4
I told Mary about discovering the body in the tent. She sighed and shook her head. “He hasn’t been home in years, and now this happens—as if that family hasn’t already been through enough.”
“What do you mean?” I asked as we headed up to the second-floor staff room.
Mary gave me a half smile. “That’s right. You weren’t here when it happened.” Her forehead furrowed in thought. “Let me see. It must be close to ten years ago now. The Glazers lost a son—Michael’s older brother, Gavin—in a car accident.”
“That’s horrible,” I said.
“It gets worse,” Mary said. “His parents were away for the weekend. Gavin hit a guardrail and rolled his car down an embankment. He died in the hospital, and they didn’t make it back in time to say good-bye.”
Susan nodded in silent confirmation.
“That’s why Mike has no family here anymore.” I fished the keys to my office out of my pocket.
Mary slipped her bag down off her shoulder. “He left for Chicago maybe a month or so after the accident. His mother and father eventually moved as well, just to get a little space from their memories, I think.” She shook her head. “No one deserves this.”
I touched her arm. “If you’d like to take the day, Susan and I can handle things here and I can call Abigail to come in.”
Mary gave me a small smile. “Thank you, Kathleen. That’s very thoughtful, but I’m fine.”
Susan patted her canvas tote. “I have a piece of lemon-blueberry coffee cake. Want to split it?”
“Oh, that does sound good,” Mary said. She might have claimed she was fine, but there were tight lines around her eyes and mouth.
“It is,” Susan said, pushing her glasses up onto the bridge of her nose with one hand and linking her other arm through Mary’s. “But I keep telling Eric that I’m not sure so he’ll keep trying the recipe.”
They started down the hall to the staff room. I unlocked my office door, put my things away and then went back downstairs to officially open the building for the day.
It was about ten thirty and I was at the checkout desk, looking at a picture book that Susan had discovered in the book drop with every page covered in glitter glue, when Wren Magnusson came in. She looked around, almost as though she wasn’t sure if she was in the right place, and then she walked over to us.
I didn’t know Wren very well. She’d been away at university, living with her older brother in Minneapolis. Her mother had died suddenly about six months ago, and Wren had taken the fall term off to sort through the things in her mother’s house and spend some time back in Mayville Heights.
Wren was tiny, with white-blond hair and fair skin that seemed even paler this morning. She was twisting her left thumb tightly with her other hand, although she didn’t seem to really be aware of it.
“Excuse me?” she asked in her soft voice. “Is Mary Lowe here?”
“She is,” I said. “I’ll get her for you.”
“Thank you,” she said.
Mary was shelving books at the far end of the nonfiction section. While her hands were working, her thoughts were clearly somewhere else, and she jumped when I came around the end of the metal shelving unit and spoke her name.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Don’t apologize,” Mary said. “I was woolgathering when I should have been paying more attention to what I’m doing.”
“Wren Magnusson is at the checkout desk, looking for you.”