Everett never talked about the abandoned estate. He had to know what was going on, but he didn’t say a word about it, and, strangely, neither did anyone else.
“The cats are doing well. Harry’s managed to keep the driveway clear and they all seem to be healthy.”
Mary gave me a sheepish smile. “Detective Gordon also said to remind you to wear your snow pants.”
“Snow pants, parka, wool hat, scarf, insulated mittens, and Sorels. And two pair of socks and long underwear,” I recited, ticking them off on my fingers.
She nodded approvingly. “This is not your first rodeo.”
“Or my first trip to Wisteria Hill in the winter,” I said. Even though I wasn’t born and raised in Minnesota, I did know how to dress for winter, though apparently Marcus Gordon didn’t think I did.
Mary’s expression grew serious. “Kathleen, have you seen Ruby? I heard she found Agatha.”
“She was at class,” I said, picking clumps of snow off my mittens. “She’s all right for the most part. Sad.”
She shook her head. “Doesn’t seem fair that Agatha would just get home and then . . .” She didn’t finish the sentence.
A shiver slid up the back of my neck, like a finger slowly creeping across my skin. Agatha’s death had left me unsettled, and I didn’t even know her.
“And there are already rumors going,” Mary continued, making a neat stack of the book-request printouts by her left elbow. She liked to get things organized almost as much as she liked kickboxing.
“What kind of rumors?”
She made a face and smoothed her gray hair with one hand. “Most common one is that Agatha had a secret fortune.”
“I doubt it,” I said. “You don’t generally get rich being a teacher.” I flashed to Eric giving Agatha the bag of take-out food and cup of coffee. “How do these rumors get started?”
“Probably people with too much time on their hands,” Mary said tartly. “My grandma always told us kids, ‘If you don’t have anything to do, go get the pail and scrub brush and I’ll find you something to do.’ ”
“A drop-dead practical woman, from the sound of it,” I said.
“Very,” Mary said. “She couldn’t abide gossip.” The smile turned to a grin. “But since Gran is gone, tell me if there’s any truth to what I heard about Roma.”
“What did you hear about Roma?”
Mary looked around and leaned toward me. “I heard from more than one person that she’s seeing someone.”
“Someone? You mean a man?”
“No, I mean a grizzly bear,” she shot back with exasperation. “Yes, a man.”
“Nope.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
Mary looked disappointed.
I tugged my hat down over my ears and pulled on my mittens again. “Since you don’t need me, I’m heading home. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Good night,” Mary said. The phone rang then and she reached for it.
I put the strap of my bag over my shoulder and headed out. Peter Lundgren was just coming across the parking lot, a couple of library books under his arm. I’d always found him a little imposing when we’d talked in the library. He was a large man who seemed to fill whatever space he was in. But I remembered how carefully he’d walked Agatha over to the counter at Eric’s, and I smiled at him as we both got to the bottom of the steps. He nodded and started to move past me. I reached over and touched his arm.
“Excuse me, Peter,” I said. “Could you tell me if there are any plans yet for a service for Agatha Shepherd?”
He brushed a few flakes of snow off the top of his sandy hair. He wore it long, almost to his shoulders, a kind of rebel-lawyer look. “I can tell you that there will be some sort of memorial service once her son is back in the country. David wants to plan that himself.”
I nodded.
“There should be something in the paper next week.”
“Thank you,” I said. He was already halfway up the stairs, so I wasn’t sure he’d even heard me.
It was snowing lightly, tiny flakes reflected in the pinkish glow of the streetlights like little stars. I started up Mountain Road. The street looked more like a stage set, a picture-perfect town in a picture-perfect scene. Perfect always made me a little antsy.
I couldn’t help it. Because of my parents’ acting, I’d spent a lot of time in theaters big and not so big. I knew about subterfuge and illusion. I knew things are rarely as they appear on the surface. Other kids had parents that taught them how to ride a bike, manage money or do long division. Not mine.
What I got from my mother and father was the ability to separate fakery from reality, to spot the truth in a sea of fallacy. And that was why I felt so unsettled. No matter what everyone thought and no matter what Marcus Gordon wasn’t saying, Agatha Shepherd hadn’t died from natural causes.
Something bad had happened.
I just knew it.
8
I was dressed and ready with my thermos of hot chocolate when Marcus pulled into my driveway in the morning. It was a clear morning, sharp and biting cold, and the sun seemed far away in the cloudless sky. Hercules sat on the bench, looking out the porch window.
I picked up the stainless-steel thermos sitting on the bench beside him and gave him a quick scratch just above his nose. “Stay out of trouble,” I told him. “I won’t be long.”
He turned back to the window. He liked winter as long as he was only looking at it. It was almost as cold in the porch as it was outside, but I knew Hercules had his own way to get in the house again when he got cold.
I locked the door and headed around the house to the driveway. Marcus was just getting out of his SUV. He wore a blue parka with the hood thrown back, black snow pants, and lace-up boots. His cheeks were red from the cold. Okay, so Maggie was right. He was cute. His blue eyes flicked over my old brown quilted coat and insulated pants, and for a second I had the ridiculously childish urge to strike a model’s pose, hands on my hips and feet apart, with a vaguely haughty look on my face. But I didn’t. I kept the fantasy to myself and smiled at him instead.
“Good morning.”
He smiled back. “Good morning.”
I walked around the front of the car and got in the passenger’s side. As I fastened my seat belt, I took the opportunity to quickly check out the SUV. It was clean. Not no-cardboard-coffee-cups-on-the-floor-or-junk-on-the-backseat clean. It was how-the-heck-can-he-be-so-clean-in-the-middle-of-winter? clean. The only thing on the backseat was an old gray blanket. The dashboard in front of me was shining—no smudges, no dust, no fingerprints. There was no mug of half-finished coffee in the cup holder.
I clicked my seat belt into place and then set the thermos at my feet. The floor mats looked like they’d just come from the dealer. Okay, so it seemed as though Marcus Gordon was a bit of a clean freak, at least with respect to his personal vehicle. Being a fairly tidy person myself, I couldn’t exactly see that as a flaw. I wasn’t going to tell Maggie about this. She’d see the clean-car thing as another karmic sign that Marcus and I were soul mates.
He backed out of the driveway and started up the hill. The overnight snow had been plowed and there was sand on the road. As we drove past the road to Oren’s place, I made a mental note to talk to him about which pieces of his father’s artwork I wanted to display in the library for the centennial celebrations. I still had to figure out how to get the massive metal sculptures from his workshop to the library. I was hoping Harry Taylor would have some ideas on that.
“You’re somewhere else,” Marcus said.
I turned from the window to look at him. “Excuse me?”
“You were thinking about something else,” he said, shooting me a quick glance.