Wolf picked up the kitten under its arms. “Congratulations, Mrs. Winston, it’s a boy.”
A smile crept to my face and eased the tension I’d felt. “Please call me Sophie.”
Back on the table, the kitten promptly investigated Wolf’s mocha latte.
Wolf stopped him. “Have a little milk? I don’t think the mocha would be good for him.”
At the word “mocha,” the kitten turned his big eyes on Wolf.
I fetched a tiny bit of cream. While I was up, Wolf kept repeating the word “mocha.”
“Hey, look at this.”
Holding a saucer with a few drops of cream in my hand, I paused to watch.
Every time Wolf said “mocha” the kitten looked at him.
“He thinks his name is Mocha.” Wolf picked him up and placed him on the chair by the fireplace. He walked away from the kitten and called, “Mochie!”
The kitten’s head swiveled around.
“That’s silly.” It was cute but he probably responded that way to lots of words. “Ice cream!” I said as a test.
The kitten ignored me.
“Mochie!”
By golly, the little guy turned his head immediately.
Laughing, we settled at the table again. Mochie leaped onto the table and lapped cream while Wolf stroked him.
He didn’t look like a Wolf. He didn’t have that sly, hungry look like Kenner. Wolf struck me as being more like a Great Dane, calm and confident with friendly brown eyes. Maybe that made him more dangerous. Lurking behind the amiable facade was a detective noting my every move. It would be easy to relax, to enjoy his company—to fall into some sort of horrible trap that might make me seem guilty.
Wolf finished his slice of pie and settled back in the chair, too comfortably for my taste.
My hands had grown cold. Even the latte couldn’t keep me warm.
The front door opened and chatter filled the air. My family barged in and stopped in a cluster at the sight of us.
A tall, fair man with a bad comb-over was with them. Hannah’s fiancé, I presumed. I introduced everyone to Wolf. When I said he was a detective, I thought I noticed a slight twitch of apprehension on the fiancé’s face.
My mother took great pride in introducing him as Doctor Craig Beacham. He was unfailingly polite but when I shook his hand, a chill ran through me.
Wolf distracted me by saying good-bye. I thanked him again for delivering my groceries, bringing kitten food, and for naming Mochie, too. At the front door, speaking softly, he said, “You seem like a decent person, Sophie, so I’m going to give you a little advice.” He leaned toward me. “Cops don’t like being lied to. It makes us very angry.” He sucked in a deep breath and his eyes narrowed. “Isn’t there something you’d like to come clean about?”
My pulse quickened. He obviously thought I’d lied. “There’s nothing else to tell.”
He shuffled his feet uncomfortably and crossed his arms over his chest. The nice cop of the latte and kitten food disappeared. “Really.” He fixed me with an unfriendly glare. “Suppose you explain why the dead man had your name and photograph on the front seat of his truck?”
FOUR
From the Live with Natasha show:
Don’t skip the all-important step of brining your turkey. It needs to sit in salt water for four to eight hours. Wash thoroughly, then let it rest on a roasting rack, uncovered, in your refrigerator for twenty-four hours before you roast it.
“He had my picture?” I shivered as though a cold fall wind had blown.
Wolf watched me from the stoop, his brown eyes narrowed.
“But that doesn’t make any sense. Do you think he brought the kitten as a lure? Like people who want to kidnap children?”
Wolf’s eyebrows shot up.
I clutched the door frame. “Do you think someone hired him to hurt me?”
“Does someone want to hurt you?”
“No!” It came out too loud. “Not that I know of.”
Wolf gave up his bad-guy stance and patted my arm. “Relax. It’s probably nothing quite so sinister. Otis was a private detective. A little on the sleazy side, but I don’t think he ever operated as a hit man.”
“Hit man?” That was worse than I’d thought. “But what would a private investigator want with me? And why bring the kitten? And then get killed?”
“Precisely.” He turned and walked toward his car. Looking back, he said, “Thanks for the pie. I’ll be in touch.”
It was the polite thing to say, yet I felt an ominous undercurrent, like this wasn’t the end of my involvement with Wolf or Otis.
I closed the door behind me and leaned against it, wondering why Otis had been looking for me. Dr. Craig Beacham stood ten feet away. He quickly averted his eyes and disappeared into the kitchen. I could have sworn he’d been listening.
I trailed after him and found my parents making a fuss over Mochie. I kept my explanation about his presence brief, saying only that I’d found him in the grocery store parking lot. No point in worrying them about the murdered private investigator and his troubling interest in me.
To my immense relief, that evening Hannah and her fiancé walked down to King Street for a romantic dinner. I remained at home with my parents, listening to my mother talk at great length about wedding gowns and doctors. All the while, I went through the motions expected of me in a daze.
I measured flour and dumped it into the bread machine along with water, a knob of butter, salt, and yeast. Barely paying attention, I set the timer so we would have fresh bread for breakfast.
No wonder the police thought I had something to do with the murder. Would the videotapes of the parking lot help me? There wouldn’t be any audio. The police might assume that Otis said something threatening to me. Had he meant to? Had he brought the kitten as a diversion in case anyone saw him talking to me?
“Sophie!” Mom practically shouted into my ear. “Did you hear me? You need to brine the turkey tonight.”
I didn’t have the energy. “It’ll be just as good without brining.” The scandalized look on Mom’s face forced me to debate which would be worse—a lengthy argument about the benefits of brining or actually brining the turkey. I didn’t think I had the strength for an argument.
I rearranged the contents of the refrigerator and removed a shelf to accommodate the brining tub. Once the turkey rested safely in salted water, I used the stuffing competition as an excuse to go to bed early.
Lying in bed that night, I heard Hannah and her beau let themselves in and walk up to their third-floor bedroom. They whispered and carried on like teenagers, and I was glad that Hannah had found someone to share her life with.
I drifted off into an uneasy slumber with Mochie nestled by my feet. At four in the morning I sat bolt upright in bed. How had Otis known I would be at the grocery store? He parked there before I did so he couldn’t have followed me.
Finding the dead man had been bad enough, but knowing that he’d been looking for me scared me. Who would hire a private investigator to hunt me down? And why?