Roma frowned. “Do you know her?”
“Not exactly,” I said. “I saw her a couple of times yesterday. When I was shoveling she, uh, she stopped to talk to Hercules. You know what a wuss he is about getting his feet wet.”
What I didn’t say was that Agatha had picked up my little black-and-white cat and carried him over to me. Hercules and Owen, like the rest of the cats from Wisteria Hill, were likely feral. I’d found them as kittens, and they typically wouldn’t let anyone other than me touch them.
Agatha was slowly making her way over to where Peter Lundgren was leaning on the counter, talking to Eric. I couldn’t tell how old she was. She was hunched over with what I guessed was osteoporosis, her face lined with a web of fine wrinkles. She wore what looked to me like an early 1960s vintage red-and-black-plaid mohair coat. It seemed just a bit too big, or maybe the woman wearing it had gotten smaller with time.
Peter straightened and walked over to Agatha, offering his arm to her. She took it, shifting a black canvas bag to her other hand, and he helped her the rest of the way. They clearly knew each other.
“Why have I never seen her before?” I said.
“Agatha had a minor stroke this time last year and fell and broke her hip,” Roma said. “She’s been in a rehab center in Minneapolis.” She glanced over at the counter, where Eric was handing Agatha a brown paper bag and take-out cup. Peter was on his way back to his table. “I didn’t think she was coming home and then yesterday I saw her with Ruby.”
Like Maggie, Ruby was also an artist. She painted huge abstracts and taught art. And she was the best student in our tai chi class.
The second time I’d seen Agatha she’d been talking to Ruby, as well. They’d been in the parking lot of the library and Agatha had seemed upset with Ruby, the way she seemed to be right now with Eric. He was gesturing at an envelope the old woman was holding. She’d had it the day I’d seen her with Ruby, as well. It looked like the kind of envelope my sixth-grade report card had been in.
Even at a distance I could see Agatha’s expression, her lips pulled into a thin, angry line. Eric’s face was flushed. He shook his head.
Agatha turned, her shoulders rigid under the out-of-date coat. She made her way back to the door, cup in one hand, bag in the other, the envelope held tightly against her chest with her forearm. It was an old report-card envelope, I realized as she passed us.
“She was a teacher,” I said.
“Principal, actually,” Maggie replied. She checked her watch. “We should get going.” She looked around for Claire.
“You know, Agatha kept more than one kid from becoming a juvenile delinquent,” Roma said, pushing back her chair and standing up.
Maggie nodded. “Ruby,” she said. “And Eric.” Claire came over and Maggie took all three checks from her, then held up her hand. “I’m getting this.”
“There’s two of us,” I said to Roma.
She narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. “I think we could take her.”
“I want to do this,” Maggie said. “Don’t argue with me.”
Roma and I exchanged glances. “Okay,” I said.
Maggie headed for the cash register. “And there’s no way that you two could take me,” she said over her shoulder.
Through the window I could see Agatha moving slowly down the sidewalk. Roma followed my gaze as she zipped her coat. “Me,” she said softly, with a slightly embarrassed shrug.
It took me a moment to get what she meant. “You were a juvenile delinquent?” Roma as a wild child didn’t fit with the compassionate veterinarian I’d become friends with since I’d moved to Minnesota.
“Maybe not exactly a delinquent,” she said, pulling on her gloves. “But I was hanging out with a bad bunch of kids—sneaking out of the house, smoking, drinking—and I was only fourteen.”
“That doesn’t sound like you,” Maggie said. She’d come back in time to hear the tail end of the conversation.
“That’s because of Agatha,” Roma said. “She noticed my interest in animals. Also caught me cutting school.” She laughed at the memory. “Part of my punishment was cleaning cages three days a week after school at the animal shelter. For an entire month.”
We headed for the door. I waved good-bye to Eric, who nodded in return. I turned back to Roma. “I take it the punishment really wasn’t much of a punishment.”
“I loved it,” she said. “Not that I let on. When the month was up the shelter director offered me a part-time job, Saturdays and after school. I didn’t find out for years that was Agatha’s doing, too. Walking dogs, cleaning cages—I didn’t have time to get into trouble anymore.”
Maggie flipped up her hood and pushed the door open with her hip. It was achingly cold outside. “Agatha entered a painting of Ruby’s in a statewide contest,” she said. “She won tuition to a summer art camp.”
Roma moved behind the SUV, squeezing between it and the bumper of the half-ton parked behind us. “I know she encouraged Eric’s interest in cooking,” she said. “He was about fifteen and he did all the food for some big teachers’ breakfast.”
Raised voices, sharp in the icy air, came up the sidewalk toward us. Roma stopped and craned her neck to see. Maggie leaned back and looked down the street, her hand on the car’s door handle. I took a step backward for a better view.
What I saw was Agatha, her tiny, birdlike frame in the too-big plaid coat, still clutching the envelope to her chest. It took a few more seconds to recognize the man towering above her, despite the fact that he was leaning on a cane.
“Is that Harry Taylor?” Maggie asked.
“Uh-huh,” I said.
Harry and Agatha’s voices, not so much the words as the tone, hung in the frigid air. I didn’t need to make out the words to know they were arguing. The old man reached a hand toward the envelope Agatha was holding. She shook her head vigorously, turned and began to make her way slowly along the sidewalk. Harry stayed where he was, leaning heavily on his cane.
I hesitated, looking down the street to where he stood alone on the sidewalk. I didn’t want to interfere, but he wasn’t well. Old Harry—Harrison—was always with one of his sons, usually Harry Junior—Young Harry—but I didn’t see him or the truck anywhere.
“Harry Taylor is as tough as a boiled owl,” Roma said, noticing my hesitation.
I let out a breath. She was right. But it was so cold. What was the old man doing out by himself on a night that was so cold? And why had he been fighting with Agatha?
2
“Go,” I said, pulling the hood of my parka tighter against my neck.
“We can wait,” Maggie said.
I shook my head. “No, it’s okay. Go. Don’t keep Oren waiting. I just want to make sure Harry’s all right.”
Roma nodded and patted her coat pocket. “Call my cell if you need anything or you want me to come back and get you.”
“Thanks,” I said. I hunched into my jacket and headed down to where the old man was standing. It was a clear night, the moon a thin sliver in the inky blue-black sky. Harry turned as I got to him, the expression on his face not surprise, but more like What took you so long?, and I had the feeling that he’d known I was up the street and would walk down to him.
“Hello,” I said, pushing back my hood.
“You want to exchange pleasantries or go right to the part where you ask me what I’m doing out here when it’s cold enough to freeze the brass off a bald monkey?” he asked.
“It is cold,” I agreed. “What are you doing out here?”
“Without my keepers?”
“Without a ride.”