“Roma, you’re a genius,” Maggie said, pushing buttons on the phone.
The cold was seeping up through the heavy soles and fuzzy linings of my boots, and the long underwear I was wearing underneath my jeans.
“Oren,” Maggie said. “It’s Maggie.” Quickly she explained the problem. Then she listened, nodding even though Oren couldn’t see her. “Thank you so much,” she said. “We’ll see you then.” She snapped the phone shut. “Oren will be here in about a half hour. Do you guys mind waiting?”
Roma shook her head.
“Why don’t we go down to Eric’s and have hot chocolate while we wait?” I said.
“Excellent idea,” Roma said, her voice partly muffled because her face was pressed against Eddie’s side. “But what are we going to do with Eddie?”
“Stick him back in the SUV,” I said.
Maggie held the passenger’s door open and we managed to get Eddie back in the front seat without dumping him in the snow. We piled into the car, and Roma backed out of the parking spot.
“I know it probably looks like I’m being a little obsessive,” Maggie said.
I raised an eyebrow in my best Mr. Spock impersonation.
“I just don’t want anything to happen to Eddie. He’s the biggest piece ever I’ve done.”
Roma looked both ways and pulled out of the lot. “Hey, I don’t want anything to happen to Eddie, either. He’s the only man in my life right now.”
I laughed.
“Oh, sure, Kathleen. Go ahead and laugh. You have two guys in your life.”
“I do?” I said. Then I realized she was talking about my cats. “You mean Owen and Hercules? They shed, they don’t pay any attention to anything I say to them and their breath smells like sardines.”
“And that would be different from a real man how?” Roma asked.
Maggie and I both laughed.
Eric’s Place was just up ahead. It was one of the best places to eat in town and was run, perhaps unsurprisingly, by Eric Cullen. His wife, Susan, worked for me at the library.
“Look for somewhere to park,” Roma said.
I scanned the street, wondering why there were so many cars on a Wednesday night in February.
Maggie must have read my mind. “Wait a sec. There’s an auction going on tonight over at Fischer’s Warehouse, isn’t there? The stuff from Cormac Henry’s place.”
I remembered reading about that in the paper. “That’s where Mary is,” I said.
“Probably Thorsten, too,” Roma added.
“There,” Maggie suddenly squealed, pointing across the street. Amazingly, there was an empty parking spot in front of Eric’s.
Roma scanned the pavement in front of us. “You didn’t see this,” she muttered. She made a tight U-turn in the mouth of the alley two buildings down from the café, then drove ahead and backed smoothly into the empty space in front of the restaurant. “There,” she said to Maggie. “You can keep an eye on Eddie and he won’t miss all the fun.”
We piled on to the sidewalk and went into the restaurant. It was almost empty. Peter Lundgren was at a table by the end wall, his head bent over a book, probably something to do with World War II history; that was where his reading interests lay. I also knew he liked heavy-metal music, which wasn’t what I would have expected of a lawyer.
Claire, my favorite waitress, smiled at us. “Sit anywhere,” she called, making a sweeping gesture with one hand.
I caught sight of Eric behind the counter.
“Why don’t we take a table by the window so we can keep an eye on Eddie?” Roma said.
“Good idea,” I said. “I’ll be right back. I just need to speak to Eric for a second.”
“Hi, Kathleen,” Eric said with a smile. He was wearing a long apron with splotches of chocolate all over it. That had to be good.
“Hi,” I said. “I just wanted to say thank you for the apple cake this morning.” Eric liked to experiment with new recipes for the café. Sometimes Susan brought his efforts to work.
“Oh, you’re welcome.” He pushed back the sleeves of his dark green sweater. “Did you think there was too much cinnamon?”
I shook my head. “No. But if you feel you need to experiment a little more . . .”
“You’ll all force yourselves to be my taste testers.”
I put my hand over my heart. “We’ll make the sacrifice,” I said solemnly.
He laughed, and I headed back to Roma and Maggie, pulling off my old coat. It was warm, but it was an ugly shade of brown. I’d bought it to wear out to Wisteria Hill when it was my turn to help feed the cat colony that lived at the abandoned house. Since I’d paid only five dollars for the jacket at Goodwill, I didn’t really care that it wasn’t very fashionable. I was pretty sure the cats didn’t, either.
Claire came over with an insulated carafe. “Hot chocolate?” she asked, holding it up.
“Please,” Roma said, pulling off her gloves and rubbing her hands together.
Maggie and I both nodded.
Claire poured three mugs of cocoa. “Marshmallows or cinnamon?”
“Marshmallows!” Maggie and I said in unison.
“Eric made chocolate pudding cake,” Claire said with a sly smile. Her red curls were caught in two pigtails and she looked like a mischievous little girl.
Roma was bent over, fixing her boot. “Yes,” she said, holding up one hand and waving it.
“That sounds good,” Maggie said.
“It does,” I agreed.
“It’ll just be a couple of minutes,” Claire promised, heading back to the counter.
Roma straightened and picked up her mug. “Here’s to chocolate and duct tape.”
“Excuse me?” I said.
“Chocolate and duct tape,” she repeated. “Between the two of them you can solve just about any problem.” She stuck out her left leg, pointing to her boot. “See?” There was a piece of gray duct tape stuck to the heel on the inside edge. “I caught that on a spike this afternoon. Couple of pieces of tape and it’s fine for now.”
I laughed. “Don’t tell me you carry a roll of duct tape in your bag.”
“I do. And a bag of M&M’s.” She held out her right hand, palm up. “Duct tape.” She did the same with her other hand. “M&M’s. If I can’t fix whatever’s wrong with those two things, I’m going home and getting back into bed.”
Claire was coming toward us, carrying a large oval tray. I could smell the warm chocolate. She set a dish of marshmallows in the middle of the table, then slid a bowl of pudding cake in front of each of us.
It tasted even better than it smelled, and it smelled wonderful. “Can I get you anything else?” she asked. All she got for an answer was three grunts. She smiled. “I’ll check back in a few minutes.”
We ate in silence except for the occasional sigh of pleasure. Maggie set down her spoon first and licked a drop of chocolate sauce from the side of her thumb. “That was so, so good,” she said. She pulled a small black notebook from her pocket. “What’s the rest of your week look like?” she asked Roma. “I need to take some more pictures of the cats.”
Roma wiped her hand with her napkin. “What works for you?” she asked. They leaned across the table, comparing schedules.
Maggie had done a collage of photos of the feral cat colony at Wisteria Hill, where I’d found Owen and Hercules. It hung in the waiting room of Roma’s veterinary clinic. Now an animal-rescue organization had commissioned Maggie to create a poster for their spay-neuter program. She was going to take pictures of three new strays that had been left on the doorstep of the clinic last week.
There was a rush of cold wind in my face as the door to the café opened. A tiny, elderly woman stepped inside. Something about her seemed familiar. She hesitated in the doorway, blinking in the light. Was she looking around for someone? I wasn’t sure. I touched Roma’s arm. “Roma, who’s that?” I asked.
She looked up, smiling at the sight of the old woman. “That’s Agatha,” she said, her smile widening as the other woman noticed her. Agatha didn’t exactly smile back, but her expression softened a little. And she ducked her head in recognition. Then her eyes shifted to me and she nodded.