I remembered the brownies again. They’d made it to Oren’s and back pretty much intact. “Here,” I said, handing him the foil-wrapped package. “And thank you for the ride home.”
I got out of the car, holding Hercules against my body with one arm.
Detective Gordon leaned across the seat again. “Thank you for the brownies,” he said.
I watched him back out, then walked around the house and let myself into the porch. As soon as I was inside I opened the messenger bag. Hercules was curled comfortably in the bottom. “We’re home,” I said.
He opened one eye.
“C’mon, I have some of those stinky crackers left.” That got him out of the bag. “Don’t think this means you’re off the hook for what you did at Oren’s,” I said, shaking a finger at him.
I flipped on the kitchen light and Owen blinked at us from beside the sink. I laughed. “You heard me, didn’t you?” I said, leaning down to pet him. “You heard me say ‘stinky crackers.’”
He made a soft “murp” in the back of his throat.
I got a glass of milk and gave each cat a small pile of cheese-and-sardine crackers. Then I sat at the table and pulled out the piece of paper Hercules had found. The fact that Owen and Hercules seemed to be trying to help me figure out what had happened to Gregor Easton made no sense. No sense. On the other hand, neither did their other abilities. I decided, for now at least, to forget about logic and reason and just roll with what was happening.
I smoothed the piece of paper out flat on the table. Now that I could clearly see the markings and numbers I hoped they’d make some kind of sense.
They didn’t. And, realistically, what were the chances that Hercules would find the one clue that would help me make sense of how Oren was connected to Gregor Easton? Just because I talked to the cats like they understood what I was saying didn’t mean they did. They were cats. Smart cats with some unbelievable skills, but cats nonetheless. At the moment one had cracker crumbs on his face and the other had a dust ball at the end of his tail.
Nothing made any sense. I was tired and frustrated and the only thing I wanted to do was sink into a tub full of bubbles and then into cool, crisp sheets.
So I did.
I woke up a bit later than usual on Sunday morning, after a night filled with bizarre dreams. In one of them Oren was playing the piano for an audience of cats.
I was in the kitchen in pajama bottoms and a T-shirt, cutting up fruit, when Rebecca tapped on the back door. She looked tired and pale without her usual deep-rose lipstick.
“Kathleen, I’m sorry. Did I wake you?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “I was just about to make crepes. Is everything all right?”
“No,” she said. “Well, yes.” She rubbed the side of her face with her fingers. “I’m sorry. I’m not making a lot of sense. Ami is in the hospital. She’s all right, but she’s all alone. I hate to bother you, but would you be able to drive me there?” She held up her bandaged arm. “I can’t drive—not safely—with this arm.”
“Of course I’ll drive you,” I said. “You said Ami’s all right, but what happened to her?” I asked.
“She had some kind of allergic reaction. Her throat swelled and she couldn’t breathe. She was at Eric’s with some of the others from the festival. There was a doctor, a tourist, having dessert with his wife. What are the chances a doctor would . . .” She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them again and gave a soft sigh. “But he was,” she said in a stronger voice. “And Ami’s all right.”
“That’s all that matters,” I said.
“You’re right,” Rebecca said. “What matters is Ami is all right.”
“Just give me a minute to pull some clothes on.” I led her into the kitchen and pulled out a chair. “Have a seat. I’ll only be a minute.”
I grabbed the bowl of fruit from the counter, set a plate on top as a temporary cover and put the dish in the refrigerator. I touched Rebecca on the shoulder as I passed behind her. “Be right back,” I said. “There’s coffee, if you’d like a cup.”
She covered my hand with her own for a moment. “Thank you,” she said softly.
I gave her shoulder a squeeze and headed for the stairs. I pulled on shorts and a T-shirt, combed my hair and used a clip to keep my bangs back. Then I grabbed my purse and went back downstairs.
Rebecca was talking to someone. Owen. I couldn’t make out what she was saying, but she was leaning forward in her chair, speaking quietly. Owen sat in front of her, head tipped to the side, listening intently.
“I’m ready,” I said. “I’ll be back soon,” I told Owen.
The cats had already been fed and there was fresh water in their dishes. I switched off the coffeemaker, locked the door behind us and walked through the backyard with Rebecca to her little blue Toyota. She handed me the keys. I opened the passenger’s door for her, then went around and unlocked the driver’s side. It took me a moment to adjust the seat and mirrors.
“We’re going to Riverview?” I asked Rebecca.
“Yes. Do you know where that is?”
“I do,” I said. I backed out and headed down Hill Street, trying to figure out the most direct route to the hospital. On a Sunday morning in Mayville Heights there wasn’t much traffic, so it really didn’t matter which way I drove.
As we neared the hospital I braked to let a squirrel in the middle of the street bolt the rest of the way across, and gave Rebecca a smile.
She managed a smile back. She had been quiet, tense, the whole way. Finally she spoke. “I know I’m not Ami’s grandmother, but I couldn’t love her more if I were.”
The squirrel made one last dash for the curb.
“How did you and Ami get to be so close?” I asked.
“I cut her hair.” Out of the corner of my eye I saw her smile at the memory. “She was a little hellion. Her parents had died in a car accident when she was four. Her grandmother had died long before she was born, so Ami was being raised by her grandfather and a series of nannies.”
“She was a little spoiled,” I ventured.
Rebecca laughed at that. “She had hair like Mowgli from the Jungle Book and she was saucy and rude. I told her I’d cut her hair when she learned some manners.”
“And did she?”
“She went home and cut her own hair with a pair of kitchen shears she swiped from the pantry.”
I grinned. “Not good.”
“No, it wasn’t. The nanny brought her back to get me to repair the damage. She was just as rude and just as stubborn as she had been the first visit. But I liked the child. She reminded me of someone . . . someone I used to know.” She cleared her throat. “I told her if she was going to cut her own hair she should at least learn how to do it properly. Saturday morning she was sitting by the door of the shop when I arrived to open up. A few weeks later she ran away from home. I found her wrapped up in a sheet she’d pulled off someone’s clothesline, asleep on a lawn chair.”
I pulled into the hospital driveway and found a parking spot to the right of the entrance.
“Thank you so much, Kathleen,” Rebecca said.
“I’m coming in with you.”
“You don’t need to do that.”
“Don’t make me get out my kitchen shears to make a point,” I said with mock sternness. “Do you want that on your conscience?”
Rebecca smiled. “All right, you win.”
We found Ami sitting up in bed. Her hair was lank, her skin was pale and she looked about twelve years old. She bit her lip and swallowed hard when she caught sight of Rebecca.
Rebecca wrapped her arms around Ami and kissed the top of her head. “Are you all right?” she asked. She leaned back out of the hug, pushed the hair back off Ami’s face and studied it.
Ami nodded. “I couldn’t . . . breathe,” she said.
I noticed a couple of long scrapes on her throat, as though she’d clawed at it.