“What?” I said.
“Aren’t you going to tell me that really you think Liam had nothing to do with Glazer’s death?”
I shook my head and took another sip from my mug. “No.”
“No?”
“I don’t know who killed Mike,” I said, setting my cup back on the desk. “I like Liam, but I don’t know him that well.” I smiled sweetly at Marcus. “So I’m not going to waste a perfectly good argument.” I held out the plastic top to the mug he was holding. “Here.”
“What is it?” he said, taking it from me.
“The lid. It’s a travel mug. You can take the rest of your coffee with you.”
“Are you trying to get rid of me?” He couldn’t quite stop the beginnings of a smile from pulling at his mouth.
“No,” I said. “But in the last couple of minutes you’ve scratched your arm twice so you could check your watch.”
He stared at me for a minute. He rarely blushed, but there was a flush of pink on the tops of his cheekbones. “I only scratched it once,” he said finally. “The second time I was pushing my sleeve back.” The smile got loose completely then. “I do have to go, though.”
He leaned across the desk and broke the second cinnamon roll in half. Then he snapped the lid on the coffee mug, setting the bun half on top. Straightening up, he took a couple of steps closer to me. He was so close, I could feel the warmth coming off his body. “Thank you for the coffee, Kathleen,” he said.
My mouth was dry and I had to swallow before I answered. “You’re welcome,” I said. “Thank you for the cinnamon roll.”
We stood there for a long moment, looking at each other, just a little bit closer than we probably should have been standing, and maybe in another minute or so I really would have backed him against the desk and given him a good romance-novel kissing, but I didn’t get the chance because Mary cleared her throat in the doorway. Marcus immediately took a step backward and we both turned to look at her.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” she said.
She didn’t look sorry. She looked like a smug little elf. All she needed was a pair of curly-toed shoes.
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
“There’s a bit of a problem with a book delivery.”
“I didn’t order any books,” I said.
Mary nodded. “I know. That’s the problem. Delivery guy says he has six boxes of books for us.”
“I have to get back to work,” Marcus said.
I smiled at him. “Thank you.”
He raised his cup and eased by Mary, smiling at her as he passed. I grabbed my keys and locked my office door while Mary waited, the same smug elvish grin on her face.
“I really am sorry I interrupted you two,” she said as we started down the stairs. “I hope it wasn’t an important conversation.” She put a little stress on the word “important.”
“I’m ignoring you,” I said darkly, keeping my eyes forward.
She gave a snort of laughter. “That never works, Kathleen.” She scampered down the last four steps ahead of me. At the bottom, she looked back at me over her shoulder and gave me a saucy wink.
The day of the annual library book sale, at the beginning of the summer, Susan had shown up wearing her favorite Younger, Stronger, Faster T-shirt. Mary had taken off her sweater to show off her own shirt. It said, Old, Sneaky and Stubborn. At least three people had tried to buy it from her.
It took me a while to straighten out the mix-up with the book delivery. The last two boxes were going out the door as Elizabeth came in. She raised a hand when she caught sight of me and walked over to the circulation desk.
“Hi, Kathleen,” she said. “Is it possible to request a book for Harrison? I don’t have his library card.”
“What would he like?” I said.
“He’s already halfway through the book we picked up for him. I thought maybe I’d request the next one in the series for him.”
“I already did,” I said.
“Thank you,” she said, giving me a small smile. “I guess you know him pretty well.”
“He’s one of my best readers.”
She tucked her hands into the front kangaroo pocket of her red sweatshirt. “Thank you for letting us meet your cats the other night. Wren loved them.”
“You’re welcome,” I said. “Come back and visit anytime. They love people who make a fuss over them.”
Elizabeth’s expression grew serious. “And thank you for answering Wren’s questions about”—she stopped and stared at her feet for a moment—“about finding Mike Glazer.”
I hesitated; then I reached out and laid my hand on her arm. “I hope it helped.”
She nodded. “It did. It’s been really hard for her. Everyone says he was a jerk.” She shrugged. “Maybe he was. I don’t know. All I know is that Wren was really happy to be going to see him, and when she found out he was dead, she almost passed out from the shock.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I know the police are working on the case. Maybe they’ll come up with some answers that will at least put her mind at rest.”
She made a face. “It said in the paper that his death is still under investigation. Isn’t that just a polite way of saying they think someone killed him but they don’t want to actually admit that for some reason?”
I chose my words carefully. “I think they need to look at all the evidence before they say anything.”
“This not knowing is eating a hole in Wren,” Elizabeth said. “First her mother dies and now this. It’s not fair. I just wish somebody would figure out something.”
She looked so much like her father and had the same deep loyalty to the people she cared about as he had. And like Agatha, she seemed to inspire that in other people, too.
“Somebody will figure out something,” I told her.
What I didn’t say was maybe that somebody would turn out to be me.
12
There were no dismembered chicken parts strewn around the kitchen when I got home, although I did find what looked to me to be gray fur on the seat of the big chair in the living room. “Were you sleeping on my chair?” I asked Owen.
His whiskers twitched, as though he were thinking about my question. Then he gave a sharp, short meow.
I reached for the little clump of cat hair. “Okay, so you might not have been sleeping,” I said. “But I know you were up here.” I turned around and discovered I was talking to myself.
Hercules kept me company while I made supper, and Owen prowled the backyard, poking around the flower beds and chasing the odd bird. While I ate, I told them what I’d learned from Marcus about the Scott brothers. “How are we going to figure out who killed Mike Glazer?” I asked them.
Hercules meowed softly. I leaned sideways to see what he was looking at. I’d brought home two books and a DVD from the library. They were sitting on one of the kitchen chairs, which Hercules seemed to be staring at.
“You think a book on Scottish history would help?” I asked.