Structurally, the house was sound. The old stone foundation didn’t leak, and there was no rot in the floor joists. The ceilings were high, and the wide wooden floors just needed to be refinished. The rooms were filled with light, and if there were any ghosts, well, they must have been friendly ones, because there was nothing foreboding about the place.
I stood in the middle of the living room floor and turned in a slow circle. “I love this house,” I said to Roma, smiling because her grin seemed to be contagious. “If you don’t jump up and down and squeal, I might.”
“How about we eat first?” she said. She led the way back into the kitchen, where she’d left a small cooler on the round wooden table in front of the window overlooking the backyard.
“Let me guess,” I said. “Rebecca gave you the table and chairs.”
Roma nodded, opening the lid of the cooler. “She said Old Harry made them for Everett’s mother—he turned the legs on a hand lathe—and the table belonged here. Eddie said he’ll refinish it for me.”
“Is there anything he can’t do?” I teased.
Her cheeks turned pink. “No,” she said with a smile, setting salad and a corn bread muffin in front of me. “He’s just about perfect. Well, except for the spiders.” She handed me a napkin roll of utensils and took a thermos and a couple of cups out of the cooler.
“Spiders?” I said. “What does he do? Raise them as a hobby?” I took a bite of my salad. It was good: turkey, apple and dried cranberries mixed with lettuce and carrots and tossed with a citrus dressing.
Roma gave a snort of laughter. “No. I’m pretty sure he has a bit of a phobia about them.”
“Why?” I asked, breaking my muffin in half.
Roma hooked her chair with a foot and pulled it closer so she could sit down. “Because I caught him stomping on something in one of the upstairs bedrooms. He said he was trying to push a nail back into one of the floorboards.”
“Maybe he was,” I offered. “Or maybe he’s auditioning for the road company of Riverdance and didn’t want to spoil the surprise.”
She shot me a skeptical look and picked up her fork. “Of course. That sounds so much like Eddie.”
The thought of Eddie Sweeney—all six foot four inches of muscled hockey player—being afraid of a little spider made me smile. He was so perfect in every other way; he cooked, apparently he could refinish furniture, he was a star hockey player for the Minnesota Wild and a romantic boyfriend, plus he looked like he should be on the cover of GQ, not Sports Illustrated.
“Have you talked to Marcus?” Roma asked.
“We’re taking it really slowly,” I said. “We’ve had dinner a couple of times, but that’s all.” Except for a kiss that had made me forget, momentarily, the thirteen times table, my own name and how to breathe. But I didn’t say that out loud.
“Good to know,” she said. “But I meant, have you talked to him about Mike Glazer?”
“I think he’s waiting for something official on the cause of death,” I said.
She frowned, chewing on her bottom lip.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Nothing,” she said. “Probably.” She reached for the thermos and poured iced tea for both of us.
“Tell me.”
“I feel like an old busybody.”
“You’re not an old busybody,” I said. Roma knew more about what was going on around town than most people did. Half the town was in and out of her clinic with their pets and she still made house calls, but she kept what she heard and saw to herself. “C’mon. What is it?”
She exhaled slowly. “Okay. Last Wednesday night, I was late getting out of the clinic, and Eddie’s at training camp, so I decided to have supper at Eric’s. I parked the truck and I walked down to the corner first to mail a letter. When I turned around, Mike Glazer was outside the restaurant and he was arguing with Liam, Maggie’s boyfriend or whatever he is.”
“I know,” I said.
Her eyes narrowed. “What do you mean ‘you know’?”
“Claire was working that night. Liam was so distracted by whatever happened out on the sidewalk that he left his coffee mug behind. She gave it to me to give to Maggie.”
“Did Claire hear what they were saying?” Roma asked.
I shook my head. “I don’t think so.”
“Well, I did. They were pretty loud, and I felt awkward about just walking up to them, so I stepped into the alley.” She ran a finger up and down the side of her glass. “I wish I hadn’t, because even from there I heard Liam tell Mike to leave town—except he didn’t put it quite that nicely. He told Mike to forget about the food tasting and the art show—everything—it was all over.”
“You think he was serious?” I asked.
“Very.” Roma traced a scratch on the tabletop with two fingers. “He said if he saw Mike on the street, he might just forget what the brakes on his truck were for.”
“And the next morning . . .”
“Mike Glazer was dead.”
“Roma, you need to tell this to Marcus,” I said.
She brushed a strand of dark hair off her cheek and sighed. “I know. I was trying to convince myself that what Liam said didn’t mean anything. People say things like that all the time when they’re angry.”
“I know that,” I said. “And I’m not saying that I think Liam had anything to do with Mike Glazer’s death. It’s Marcus’s job to figure that out.”
“You’re right,” Roma said, picking up her fork again. “I’ll call him after lunch.” She leaned an elbow on the table and propped her chin on her hand. “Let’s talk about something else. So, you’ve had two dinners with Marcus.” Her eyebrows went up on “two.” “Just exactly how slowly are you two taking it?”
“Very, very slowly,” I said, making a face at her. “I don’t know what’s going to happen.”
“What would you like to happen?” This time she wiggled her eyebrows at me.
“I would like to eat my lunch,” I said, feeling my face get red.
She laughed, and I knew that when she and Maggie found out Marcus had kissed me, they were going to giggle like a couple of sixth graders.
We finished lunch—there was rice pudding with peaches for dessert—and then Roma walked me around the yard and told me about her plans for the outside of the old house. As we came around the side of the carriage house, she stopped suddenly and put a hand on my arm. “See that?” she asked, pointing to the old lilac hedge. The long grass moved, and I saw what looked like a flash of ginger fur.
“Is that another cat?” I asked.
She nodded. “I don’t know if it’s feral or someone abandoned it, but this is the third time I’ve seen it.” She started walking again. “It’s a little marmalade tabby, about half-grown. I’ve been calling it Micah.”
“For the biblical prophet?” I asked.
“More for the mineral. It was the way the cat’s fur seemed to glisten in the sun.” She gave a half shrug and looked a little embarrassed. “Eddie likes to collect rocks.”