“Ruby knows what Agatha was carrying around with her.” Owen had finished eating and started to clean himself up. “And Eric is mixed up in this in some way, too. Why won’t anyone tell me what’s in the damn thing? What’s the big secret?”
It didn’t make any sense. What were Harrison Taylor, Eric and Ruby all willing to risk being implicated in a crime for? Had Agatha done something illegal? Had someone else? It wasn’t money. I was fairly certain of that. Harry wouldn’t keep his mouth shut, promise or no promise, over money. For him it was personal, emotional. Probably for Eric and Ruby, too. The one thing they had in common was they all loved Agatha.
I was going to have to talk to Eric again. I kept trying to push the thought that he’d been drinking out of my mind. But it wouldn’t quite go. Justin said Eric had been destructive when he drank and sometimes he blacked out.
I look down at Owen and gave voice to the thought that had been twisting in my head and in my stomach since I’d left Maggie’s studio. “Eric did not get drunk, have a blackout and run over Agatha. Did he?”
Hearing the words made me see how preposterous the idea was. Owen didn’t even dignify the question with so much as a twitch. I didn’t have any real proof that Eric had been drinking, let alone that he had been drunk. And if he had fallen off the wagon and had a blackout I didn’t believe that meant he’d turned into someone else. Even if there’d been some kind of accident, I refused to believe Eric could drink enough to turn into the kind of person who would just leave someone to die.
“I’ll talk to Eric again after I talk to Harry,” I said to Owen as I reached for the bowl on the floor. “If Harry tells me what all the secret keeping has been about maybe I’ll be able to find out what’s happening with Eric.”
I began filling the sink with hot water. “And maybe somewhere in all of this we’ll find a way to help Ruby.” Owen finished washing his tail and went to get a drink.
“I’m going out to the Taylors to talk to Harry in a little while,” I said. “I forgot to tell you.” Owen’s head snapped up. I could read his little kitty mind. “Forget it,” I said. He ignored me, walked over to the door where the messenger bag sat by the heating vent and stuck one paw side.
“No,” I said. “You can’t go with me.” After what had happened this morning I wasn’t chancing taking a cat with me to Harry’s.
He leaned his head over the top of the bag and peered inside.
“Owen, have you forgotten about Boris?” I asked. His paw came out a lot faster than it had gone in. Boris was Harry Junior’s German shepherd. Boris was a pussycat, pun intended, but I couldn’t convince the cat of that. The only menacing thing about Boris was his bark, but Owen wasn’t taking any chances.
Harry pulled into the driveway at exactly seven o’clock. “Your father knows I’m coming?” I asked as I got in the truck.
He nodded. “I wouldn’t ambush the old man.”
“I didn’t really think you would.”
“He knows about Ruby being arrested. He wants to talk,” Harry said as he backed out onto the road and started up the hill. “I think there’s stuff he’s been wanting to get off his chest for a long time.” He glanced over at me. “And he likes you.”
“As I said before, I like him, too.”
“There’s no way he’s going to talk to me. He still sees me as a kid. Dad keeps his cards pretty close to his vest, but for some reason he trusts you.” He blew out a breath as he realized how that sounded. “I’m sorry,” he started. “I didn’t mean—”
“It’s okay,” I said, lifting a mittened hand to stop him. “I know what you meant.”
“I think the fact that you didn’t grow up here makes a difference,” Harry continued. “You don’t have any judgments about anyone, or any ideas about who they ought to be or how they ought to live.”
It was the first time being from away was seen as an advantage. I liked Harry’s way of looking at things.
The Taylors lived close to Oren, two roads above the Kenyon family homestead. Young Harry and his kids—a boy and a girl, both teenagers—lived in the main house. I knew Harry and his wife were divorced and she lived out of state, but the town talk was silent on that subject.
The old man lived in a small house, more like a cottage or a guesthouse, behind and to the left of the main house, in a cleared area surrounded by trees, with Harry Junior’s shop nearby.
“Your dad still lives alone?” I asked as the truck followed the curve of the neatly plowed driveway.
“Oh, yeah,” Harry said. “There’s a woman who comes in every weekday to clean up and do some cooking. Paula Stevens—she’s a cousin somehow to Lita. You know, Everett’s secretary.”
I nodded. It seemed like half of Mayville was related to Lita somehow.
“Old man doesn’t like it,” Harry went on, “but sometimes he lets me win one.”
We pulled into a wide, clear area between the little house and the shop and we both got out of the truck. It was a bitingly cold night. The tiny house looked warm and welcoming. An amber light shone in the outside fixture, and a spiral of smoke came from the chimney.
We walked toward the back door. “Dad’s been very quiet and thoughtful the past couple of days,” Harry said. “Whatever this all is, I think he wants to get it out.” He rapped on the back door, then turned the knob and stepped back so I could go in.
Harry Senior was sitting on a chair by the corner woodstove in the kitchen. He smiled at me.
“Don’t get up,” I said, but he was already pushing himself to his feet.
“I wouldn’t be much of a gentleman if I didn’t get up and take your coat,” he said.
I slipped out of my jacket and gave it to him. His son gave me a quick smile, which his father caught. He dipped his head toward the younger man. “See, Kathleen? My son has already figured out to humor the old man.”
Boris padded over for a scratch behind the ears. When I bent to undo my boots, he nudged my hand with his head, much the way the cats did when they felt they weren’t getting enough attention.
“Dog’s spoiled,” Harry said, reaching down to pat him on the head.
“Would you like some coffee?” his father offered. “Will it keep you up?”
“I’ll chance it,” I said. “Thank you.”
“Let me get that, Dad,” Harry said, taking off his boots.
The old man shot him a look.
“Or not,” his son said, holding out both hands in surrender.
“Coffee cake,” I said, holding up a foil-wrapped package.
Harrison smiled at me. “I was hoping I’d get to try some of your cooking.” He pointed to one of the cupboards. “Plates are in there. Knives are in the top drawer.”
Harry Junior had put his boots back on without doing up the laces. “I’ll be outside, cleaning up the driveway,” he said.
“You don’t have to leave,” the older man said without looking up from the coffee he was pouring.
“It’s okay, Dad.”
I cut several slices of cake and put them on a blue bubble-glass plate. Harrison had poured three mugs of coffee. He set them on a wooden tray along with spoons, napkins, cream and sugar. I added the cake plate.
“Would you set that on the table over there, please, Kathleen?” he asked, gesturing at the low wooden trunk in front of the woodstove.
“Of course,” I said. I picked up the tray as the old man made his way over to his son, still standing by the door.
Harrison clapped a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Sit down and have a piece of cake.”
The old man’s seat was clearly the chair closest to the fire. There was a plum-colored corduroy pillow against the cushions for his back and a couple of books and a newspaper on the floor. He liked Scottish history and political biographies, I knew. I took the chair next to him. Boris came and lay down with his head against my leg.
“Over here, boy,” Harrison said to the dog, patting the side of his chair. “Give Kathleen some space.” The dog lifted his head, gave the old man a mildly interested look and lay back down.