“He’s mine,” I said slowly. “That’s Hercules. Owen is out in the yard somewhere.” I swallowed a mouthful of coffee, almost burning my tongue. “I was out walking, not long after I first arrived here. I stumbled upon Wisteria Hill and I realize I was trespassing, but the garden at the back was so beautiful. That’s where I found Owen and Hercules. They . . . followed me home.” I was babbling.
Hercules got up and walked over to stand in front of Everett, still looking intently at the older man.
“From Wisteria Hill,” Everett said.
“Yes,” I said. I cleared my throat. “Have I done something wrong by keeping them?”
That made Everett finally look at me. He shook his head. “No. No, you haven’t.” He glanced quickly back at Herc. “My mother had a cat. It disappeared when she died. I . . . We searched the house and the grounds for days, but . . .” He let the end of the sentence trail off and shook his head again. “I know it’s not possible—cats don’t live that long—but for a moment . . .” He pulled his hand down over his bearded chin and his gaze went back to Hercules. “Finn,” Everett said, more to himself than to me.
Herc’s ears twitched and he took a step forward. A shiver slid up the back of my neck.
“Here, Finn,” Everett called again, holding out his hand.
Hercules started toward him. I held my breath and it seemed I could hear my own heartbeat thudding double time in my ears.
The cat took another step toward Everett. And then another.
And then he reached under Everett’s chair and snagged something with his paw, completely ignoring the hand extended to him.
I started to breathe again. Leaning forward in my seat, I tried to see what Hercules was hiding. “What is that?” I asked the cat.
He jerked upright at the sound of my voice, almost bumping his head on the underside of the wooden chair. One white-tipped paw still covered whatever he had spotted.
“Let me see,” I said. We had a little stare-down contest.
I won.
Slowly Hercules raised his paw. It was a kitty cracker. It had probably fallen onto the floor when I was taking them off the baking sheet.
“Okay, you can have it,” I said, straightening. “Cat treat,” I said as an aside to Everett.
Hercules was already chewing the little cracker. He took a couple of passes at his face, more to get any stray crumbs than to really get clean, I suspected, and then crossed under the table and came to lean against my leg.
I smiled at Everett, who smiled back at me and picked up his cup. Whatever memories Hercules had stirred up had been put away again. “You have another cat?” he asked.
I nodded, reaching down to scratch the top of Hercules’ head. “Owen. He’s a tabby.”
“Owen?” Everett asked over the top of his mug.
“I was reading A Prayer for Owen Meany—John Irving—when the cats followed me home. Every time I put the book down Owen sat on it. It was either going to be Owen or Irving.” I shrugged. “And he didn’t look like an Irving.” I reached for my coffee.
“And Hercules? From Roman mythology?”
“Uh, yes.” That was sort of true. Herc was named after Hercules, son of Zeus, as portrayed by the delectable Kevin Sorbo. Or as Maggie sometimes called him, Mr. Six-Pack in a Loincloth. Mags didn’t have a proper appreciation for trashy television.
“You were going to tell me how the renovations are going,” Everett said.
Okay. We weren’t talking about the cats anymore.
I brought Everett up-to-date on what had been happening—the wiring problems, the computer room, plans for the yard sale—downplaying my almost being electrocuted and leaving out Owen and Gregor Easton’s encounter altogether.
“Were you hurt?” Everett asked, reaching across the table to pat my arm.
“I’m fine,” I said. “Luckily Roma Davidson was at the library.”
Everett raised an eyebrow and a hint of a smile played around his mouth.
I couldn’t quite help smiling myself. “Yes, I know she’s a vet, and I promise you I’m fine.”
Everett relaxed all the way into a smile and sat back in his chair again. “I have every confidence that Lawrence will fix the problem with the wiring. And I’m confident that Roma took good care of you, even though you’re not her typical patient.” His expression turned serious again. “When Lawrence sends you a bill, send it directly to the office. That shouldn’t have to come out of the renovation budget.”
“Thank you,” I said, feeling relieved I wasn’t going to have to squeeze the already stretched budget after all. “I will.”
Everett stood up. “Thank you for the coffee, Kathleen. I have to get back to the office. Is there anything else you need from me?”
For a moment I thought about telling him how Will Redfern kept giving me the runaround, how it seemed sometimes that he didn’t want the library job to get finished. But it seemed like such a childish thing to complain about.
“No,” I said. “I’ll call Lita if I need anything.”
I walked Everett out. He looked around, then crossed the grass to look at the roses, still blooming in the back corner of the yard. “You have a real green thumb, Kathleen,” he said. “These roses have never looked so beautiful.” He bent to smell one of the flowers, white petals edged in pink. “These bushes came from Wisteria Hill, you know. Harry Senior brought them down here. He said it was a sin to let them go wild out at the house.”
There was my opening. I opened my mouth to ask him why the estate had been abandoned, but before I could get the words out Everett straightened and looked over at Rebecca’s house.
“Have you met Rebecca?” he asked.
“The day I moved in,” I told him, smiling at the memory. Rebecca had shown up with a plate of cinnamon rolls—still warm—and a stainless-steel carafe of coffee.
I hadn’t realized that Rebecca and Everett knew each other, which seemed silly, considering Mayville Heights was a small place and they were both in their midsixties, give or take. Sometimes I still thought like a city dweller.
“How is she?” Everett asked. For a moment I thought he was going to walk over to the hedge. Did he and Rebecca have a past, or had I been reading too many books by the Brontë sisters?
“She’s fine,” I said. “She’s taking tai chi. She talked me into joining the class.”
“I can see her doing that,” he said, finally pulling his eyes back to me. He brushed his hand over his scalp. “Call the office if you need anything,” he said. “And don’t worry about this business with Easton. It’ll straighten itself out.” He patted my shoulder.
I watched Everett cross the yard to the street. I was just about to go back inside when Owen poked his head through the gap in the hedge. He meowed loudly when he saw me. Translation: Come and get me.
“C’mon,” I called to him.
He sat down and yowled again.
“You can walk,” I said. “I’m not coming to get you.” I stood there, arms folded, doing my best Gary-Cooperin-the-showdown-of- High-Noon impersonation, waiting to see what he’d do. After a minute Owen got up and started toward me, something hanging from his mouth. It was enough to get me to walk over and intercept him.
He looked up at me, all golden-eyed innocence, one end of what looked like a bit of fringe between his teeth.
“What is that?” I asked. I reached down and he obligingly let go. It was a twisted piece of fringe. “Owen, where did you get this?” I asked. It looked like the same fringe that was on the scarf Rebecca had left behind at tai chi Tuesday night.
“Owen,” I said sharply. “Did you take this from Rebecca’s scarf?”
The cat was suddenly intently interested in something crawling on the ground in front of him.
Great. I had one cat that could walk through walls and another that seemed to be turning into a kleptomaniac. I leaned down. “That was very bad.” I shook the twist of fringe in his face. “Why did you do that?”