Marcus continued to silently watch me. I could tell from the line of his jaw that he was clenching his teeth together.
Claire came over to us with the coffeepot. She poured a cup for me and topped up Marcus’s. “Your sandwich will be ready in a couple of minutes,” she said.
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” Marcus asked once Claire was back at the counter.
A good question, although I wasn’t sure he was going to like my answer. I folded my hands around my cup, lacing my fingers together. “Because I knew that no matter what you said to me, I was going to see what I could find out. I didn’t want to argue with you and I also didn’t want to ruin this”—I made a back-and-forth motion in the air—“whatever this is between us.”
I studied his face. “Can you accept the fact that I can’t just stand around making stinky cat crackers when people I care about need help?”
“I don’t want you to end up being the one who needs help,” he said. “So can you accept the fact that I’m never going to like you getting involved in a police investigation?”
I played with my knife, sending it spinning on the table like the pointer in a game of chance. “I’m trying,” I said.
He blew out a breath. “So am I.”
Claire appeared then with my sandwich. She topped up my cup, smiled and said, “Enjoy.”
“No secrets, Kathleen,” Marcus said, his voice and expression serious. “No investigating cabins in the woods with only a cat for backup. I’m not going to tell you not to do this, because I know you’re going to ignore me. Just don’t go off playing amateur detective by yourself. You find out something—anything—I want to know.”
I nodded. “Okay.” I picked up half my sandwich. It tasted even better than it smelled and it smelled wonderful. “You don’t seriously think Georgia Tepper killed Mike, do you?” I asked after a couple of big bites.
“You talked to her,” Marcus said. He didn’t seem surprised.
“She was at the library with Abigail.”
He shifted sideways so he could stretch out his long legs. “So you know Georgia Tepper—”
“—is really Paige Wyler. I do.” I pulled a bit of mushroom out of my sandwich and ate it. “I also know she lived in Chicago and the company her father-in-law works for is one of Legacy Tours’ clients.”
Marcus tented the fingers of his right hand over his coffee cup. “It is true, you know; people do tell you things,” he said.
“I also know Georgia was arrested and charged with assault and then the charges were dropped.”
“She threatened her former mother-in-law with a chef’s knife.”
“That I didn’t know,” I said. “But according to Georgia, the former mother-in-law was trying to kidnap Georgia’s little girl. You can’t fault her for protecting her child.”
Marcus shook his head. “That’s why the charges were dropped.” He picked up his cup and drained it. “But you have to admit there’s a similarity: a chef’s knife, a spatula.”
“There’s a big difference between a chef’s knife and a little spatula used for spreading frosting on cupcakes.” I frowned at him. “And Mike Glazer was asphyxiated.” I waved the hand that wasn’t holding the other half of my sandwich at him. “I know you didn’t say that, but I saw the body.”
He folded his arms. “No comment.” That was usually as good as a yes.
“If Georgia was responsible for Mike’s death, then why would she take that spatula and stick it in the ground? It makes no sense. It’s a red herring.”
“This isn’t an Agatha Christie novel, Kathleen,” he said.
“No,” I said. “But it’s the kind of thing that would turn up in one of her books.” I leaned my elbows on the table. “The knife wasn’t there the day Owen found the button from Alex Scott’s jacket. I know you think I can’t be sure of that, but I am. Which means that someone stuck it in the ground later. Why? There’s no reason for Georgia to do that.”
Marcus brushed crumbs off his tie. “There’s no reason for anyone to do that.”
I wiped my fingers on my napkin. “Yes, there is. It’s a diversion. A distraction. It puts the focus on Georgia instead of the real killer.”
“Alleged killer.”
“All right, alleged killer,” I said.
He looked at his watch. “I’m sorry, Kathleen. I have to go.” He got to his feet and grabbed his jacket from the back of his seat. “By the way, your chair’s almost finished,” he said.
“You mean you’ve actually been able to put those pieces back into something I’m going to be able to sit on?”
He nodded.
“I can’t wait to see it,” I said, smiling up at him. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
He shrugged and his deep blue eyes never left my face. “Maybe you’ll think of something.”
I immediately thought of his mouth kissing mine and wondered if he was thinking the same thing. “I, uh, I’ll try,” I managed to get out.
“I’ll talk to you soon,” he said and headed over to pay Claire.
I watched him go because . . . well, it was fun watching his long legs move. Then I ate the last bites of my sandwich and finished my coffee. I wiped my fingers again and headed up to the counter.
Claire gave me a knowing Cheshire cat grin. “Detective Gordon already got it,” she said. She held out a small take-out bag. “This too.”
It was a still-warm chocolate-chip cookie. I felt my cheeks redden as I waited for her to say something else, but she just kept smiling at me. I took a step backward and almost fell over a chair.
“I’m just going to go then,” I said, gesturing in the general direction of the door. And I did, before I started acting any more like a goofy teenager.
18
Sunday was warm and sunny, and even Hercules was happy to spend most of the day outside while I worked in the yard. I sat on one of the big Adirondack chairs to eat lunch. Hercules took the other, eyeing the big maple for any signs of Professor Moriarty, while Owen roamed between our yard and Rebecca’s. By midafternoon I’d cleaned out the last of the flower beds and made a pile of brush and weeds for Harry to take away for composting.
Owen was sprawled over the railing of Rebecca’s gazebo, on his stomach, legs hanging down on either side, dozing in the sunshine. Hercules was poking at the compost pile with one paw. My back was stiff from bending over and I needed a break.
I stretched out in the swing, knees bent, one arm tucked under my head. “Hey, leave that alone,” I called to Hercules.
He made his way across the grass and came to stand in front of the swing, green eyes narrowed questioningly. I patted my midsection. “C’mon up,” I said.
He jumped onto my stomach, setting the swing swaying gently. I reached out to steady him with my free hand. He leaned his head back and looked all around.
“The bird’s not here,” I said. “He’s hanging out somewhere with his little bird friends. I think you can relax.”