“You hit him with a pan?” Marcus asked when I explained how I’d hit Will with the cinnamon rolls.
“No, I hit him with the actual rolls,” I said.
He rubbed a hand down the side of his face. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s kind of hard to believe you could knock someone out with overcooked bread.”
“Well, I did,” I said, stiffly.
Just then Harry came out of the kitchen. “Excuse me,” he said to Marcus. “Do you need anything more from me?”
He shook his head. “No. You can leave.”
Harry looked at me. “Kathleen, is there anything else I can do for you?”
For the first time all evening I wasn’t sure what to say. I swallowed a couple of times. “I don’t know how to thank you, Harry,” I finally managed.
He ducked his head, clearly embarrassed. “I’m glad I was close,” he said. “If there’s anything you need, you know how to find me.” He gave me a smile and was gone.
I finished explaining what had happened.
Hercules got a fist-pump salute when Maggie heard how he’d gotten Harry’s attention.
“Tell me about these accidents at the library,” Marcus said.
“You know about the problem with the outlet,” I said. I explained about the roll of plastic falling from the staging, how I’d almost been badly burned with the radiator, and I told him about the mice in my office. I couldn’t help yawning by the time I got to the last details. I was cold and tired, and the last of the adrenaline rush was gone.
“That’s enough for tonight,” he said.
I held up a hand to stop him. “There’s something else you should know,” I said. “Will saw Easton at the library the night he died. I think Easton saw Will doing something to the wiring. I think he might have . . . shut Easton up.”
“What?” Maggie exclaimed.
“Will told you that?” I couldn’t read the expression on Marcus’s face.
“He did,” I said.
“Okay. I’ll check it out. I’ll be in touch tomorrow.” He opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something more, but didn’t.
“Thank you for coming so quickly,” I said, handing back his jacket.
“That’s my job.” He hesitated in the doorway. “You shouldn’t have any more problems tonight, but if you do”—he pulled a card out of his pocket, wrote something on the back and took one step back into the porch to hand it to me—“that’s my cell number. If you need anything, please use it.” He lifted a hand in good-bye and was gone.
“He likes you,” Maggie said.
“Of course he does,” I said, giving her the eyebrow, because that was all the sarcasm I could muster.
“Do you think Will killed Easton?” Roma asked.
“It’s starting to look that way.”
Maggie shook her head. “Because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time? I wouldn’t have guessed that.” She reached for Rebecca’s sweater. “Are you still cold?” she asked.
“That’s not dry,” I said.“And remember it’s Rebecca’s.”
“What are you doing with Rebecca’s sweater?” she asked.
“She forgot it yesterday when I took her to pick up Ami. I washed it because Owen chewed on the sleeve. In his defense, it smelled like catnip.”
“Catnip?”
“I think it was in her poultice.”
Maggie shrugged. “I suppose it could have been. It’s just usually used for cuts and that kind of thing, at least as far as I know.”
She held out a hand. “I’m staying all night,” she said.
I didn’t argue. I didn’t want to be by myself and I knew Mags would fuss over me, which, truth be told, I could use a little of. Maggie looked at the cats. “Okay, hop down, guys. We’re moving into the living room.”
I got to my feet and the ice pack slid off my back onto the bench. Roma rescued it. “I have to clean up the kitchen first,” I said.
“Of course you don’t,” Roma said.
I ended up on the sofa in the living room. Roma cleaned up the kitchen while Maggie made me hot chocolate and peanut butter toast. I didn’t care how warm it was outside. It made me feel better to wrap my hands around the warm mug. She even made peanut butter toast for the cats, cutting it up into tiny bites and serving it on a plate, one for each cat.
“I can’t keep this ice pack on my shoulder,” I told Maggie as it slid down my back for the third time.
She pulled the lavender scarf from around her neck. “Lean forward,” she said. She draped the scarf across my body like Miss America’s sash, slid the cold pack in place and tied the ends of fabric at my collarbone. “How’s that?”
I moved gingerly from side to side, but the scarf and the ice pack stayed put.
“Better. Thank you.” The beaded ends of the material tickled my chin. I pressed them down out of the way. The fabric was incredibly soft. “Did Ami make this for you?” I asked.
“She did. I told her how much I liked the one she made for Rebecca and the next day she came back with this one for me.” She smoothed down one stray bead. “Now, stay put while I make you some more cocoa.”
She headed back to the kitchen, trailed by Owen and Hercules, sniffing around for more toast for themselves.
I leaned back against the cushions and thought about Will Redfern. I could almost feel sorry for him. Then I remembered Gregor Easton’s body slumped over the piano at the Stratton. I remembered that drywall knife Will had in his pocket and how he’d planned to dump the cats out at Wisteria Hill, and the feeling pretty much passed.
Maggie spent the rest of the evening catering to the cats and me. “If they hack up something I’m getting you the mop,” I warned her when I caught her sneaking each of them more peanut butter.
She just laughed. She’d called Everett, postponing our meeting, so we spent the evening watching silly sitcoms on TV. A couple of times I noticed a police car cruise by the house. Marcus Gordon’s doing, I guessed. Sometimes he made it hard to dislike him.
I soaked for a long time in the bathtub and figured I’d be unconscious once my head hit the pillow, but I couldn’t sleep. My shoulder ached. My wrist hurt and my mind wouldn’t slow down, let alone shut off. Finally I eased out of bed, settled more or less comfortably in a chair by the window and opened my laptop.
And there it was. The e-mail from Phoebe Michaels with the photo of Gregor Easton’s seminar class from Oberlin, on the grass outside a lecture hall. Phoebe had listed all the names in her e-mail, working clockwise around the circle.
I found the face right away. And another that surprised me. I had to check the names twice.
Maggie’s scarf was over the arm of the chair. I ran my hand over the soft fabric, putting together the pieces of what I knew. Tab A into slot A. I knew the how. I was pretty sure I knew the why. And I knew the who. I knew who had killed Gregor Easton. And it wasn’t Will Redfern.
24
Cross Hands
In the morning I called Susan and asked if she could open the library and take my morning shift. She already knew about my encounter with Will.
“You’re really okay?” she asked.
“I really am.”
“Good,” she said. “Take your time coming in.”
It was harder to convince Maggie to go home.
“I’m all right,” I said, thinking how many times I’d said that in the last week. “Mags, Will is in jail for assault. There’s a police car driving by every time I look out the window, and I have Owen and Hercules.” I hugged her with my good arm. “And if it’ll make you feel better I’ll make more cinnamon rolls.”
She left after we agreed she’d bring food from Eric’s and we’d have supper before the special episode of Gotta Dance.
I sat at the table with my coffee, both cats at my feet. I told them what I’d figured out. They listened or at least pretended to. I thought maybe saying it out loud might make my reasoning fall apart. But it all still made sense.