“He makes a good cup of coffee,” Glenn offered. “I’ve always been a bit afraid to ask him what he puts in it, though.” He looked around and sighed. “I don’t know how on earth Beth thinks we can get this place organized in a week.”
“I don’t know if it would help, but we take things on consignment at the shop.”
He ran a hand over his close-cropped hair. “How would you feel about my backing a truck up to the front door, putting about half the stuff in this house inside it and driving it down to your store?”
I shrugged. “Fine with me.”
Glenn laughed. “Be careful. I might just do it.”
I heard a thump behind us. I turned and looked at the door. There were no other sounds. “Not yet,” I said. I turned my attention back to Glenn. “I’m serious,” I said. “If we can help, let me know.” I smiled at him. “I’ll give you the friends-and-family discount.”
“That’s no way to run a business,” he said.
“Yeah, kind of the same as giving away bread.” I raised an eyebrow. Glenn just smiled and shook his head.
It wasn’t common knowledge, but I knew that Glenn had been the first to step up when the elementary school had begun their hot-lunch program. My grandmother had been one of the organizers. Glenn had offered to supply rolls for the program one day a week, and when Lily’s Bakery had closed he’d also stepped in to fill the gap.
Clayton came back with a big mug of coffee for each of us. Glenn was right. His uncle made a good cup of coffee. “I’ll be out at the woodpile if you need me,” the old man said.
Glenn took his coffee and sat down on the top stair, leaning his back against the wall. I sat down next to him. He took a sip of his coffee and glanced over at the closed bedroom door.
“Don’t worry. Elvis will catch whatever critter is in there,” I said.
“How did you end up with the cat?” Glenn asked. “You said he was wandering around the harbor front before you got him.”
“Sam,” I said, wrapping both hands around my mug. “The band was doing their Elvis Presley medley and he noticed there was a black cat just inside the front door. He swore the cat stayed there for the entire set.”
“Good taste,” Glenn said.
“The next morning Sam was out in the alley putting a bunch of cardboard boxes in the recycling bin, and there’s the same cat. Sam named him Elvis and fed him breakfast.” I took another sip of my coffee. “No one seemed to know who Elvis belonged to. He showed up at the pub every few days and Sam fed him, but no one ever came looking for him. I took a guitar down one morning to get Sam’s opinion. Elvis was there having breakfast.”
I smiled, remembering how I’d asked Sam, “Why Elvis?”
Sam had shrugged. “He doesn’t seem to like the Stones, so naming him Mick was kinda out of the question.”
“How did you go from having breakfast with a cat to owning a cat?” Glenn asked. He held up a hand. “Not that I’m judging.”
“Personally, I think it was a conspiracy,” I said. “The two of them walked me out and the next thing I knew Elvis was in my truck and Sam was giving me a sales pitch on why I needed a cat.”
He laughed. “Well, from my perspective it’s working out well.”
“Mine, too,” I said. “Now I’m not the person who walks around her house talking to herself. I’m the woman who talks to her cat.”
Glenn took a sip of his coffee and then held up a hand. “I forgot to ask you. How’s Rose? I heard she was in the hospital.”
I nodded. “She’s fine. She was out on Windspeare Point. Someone hit her over the head.”
“She was mugged?”
I hesitated. “Not exactly. Someone attacked her, but she wasn’t robbed.”
He squeezed one of his massive hands into a fist. “What the hell happened?”
I let out a breath. “Truth? I don’t know. We’ve been trying to figure it out. Before she was . . . attacked, Rose might have seen a body.”
“Hang on a minute. What do you mean ‘might have seen a body’?” He leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees.
“Long story,” I said, tracing the rim of my cup with a finger. “Short version: The person Rose saw might be dead or he might have taken off and left his wife holding the bag.” I took another sip of the coffee. “Do you know a guy named Jeff Cameron? He and his wife are new in town. They’ve been renting a cottage out on the point while they look for a house.”
Glenn nodded. “Yeah. Runner, right? Always wearing running shoes, never stands still.”
That pretty much described the man I’d met. “That’s him.”
“He’s been in for coffee.” A frown formed between his eyebrows. “It was his body Rose saw?”
“Looks like it. Whether he’s alive or dead is another question.”
“What do the police say? You’re friends with Michelle Andrews.”
I brushed my bangs back off my face. “Between us?”
He nodded. “Sure.”
“She thinks Rose imagined the whole thing, maybe had a stroke.”
“I bet that went over well,” Glenn said with a wry smile.
“Pretty much how you’d expect,” I said. “She’s healthier than most people half her age, and they checked her over thoroughly at the hospital. I just . . .” I shrugged. “I just don’t think she had a stroke. And I don’t think she imagined what she saw, either.”
“She’s not that kind of person.”
It was good to hear those words from someone who wasn’t so close to the situation.
“I take it no one’s been able to get hold of Cameron.”
I shook my head. “No, but if he did run off with another woman, you can see why he might not want to be reachable.”
“For what it’s worth, I saw him early yesterday morning and there was no woman with him.”
I stared at him. “You saw Jeff Cameron yesterday morning?” Rose had seen what she thought was Jeff’s body Wednesday night. If it was him Glenn had seen, it added credence to the theory that Jeff Cameron had faked his death.
“Uh-huh. I came out here early—I don’t know, maybe five thirty—and I saw him drive by. He’s kind of hard to miss in that bilious yellow Jeep.”
Before I could ask him any more questions I heard another thump followed by a muffled meow from the room behind us. I got to my feet.
Glenn followed suit. “I take it that’s the all-clear signal.”
“It should be,” I said.
Elvis was on the other side of the bedroom door holding something, large, furry and I hoped dead in his mouth. He had a look of satisfaction in his green eyes. He gave a muffled meow of thank-you when I opened the door and he started down the stairs carrying his prize.
“Can you get the back door?” I said to Glenn.
“Oh yeah, sure.” He followed Elvis down the stairs and opened the door to the backyard for him; then he came back up the stairs. I was still standing in the bedroom doorway. “That was not a squirrel,” he said.
“Didn’t exactly look like a field mouse, either.” I raised my eyebrows at him.
He made a face. “I should look around.”
“Good idea,” I said. The quilt on the bed was rumpled, hanging down much longer on one end. I pointed at it. “You might want to wash that.”
“I think we might want to wash everything in here,” he said.
The closet door was partly ajar. I didn’t remember it being like that when we’d let Elvis inside.
“Glenn, try the closet,” I said, pointing in that direction.
“If there’s something else in there, you’re going to rescue me, right?” he said over his shoulder.
There was a feather duster on the nightstand closest to me. I picked it up and held it in front of me like I was a knight holding up a sword about to go into battle. “I’ll save you. Go for it,” I said.
He looked back at me and laughed. Then he opened the closet door. There wasn’t anything inside as far as I could see, except more clothes. Glenn mumbled a swearword. “These are my grandfather’s suits.” He held up the sleeve of a gray wool pin-striped jacket. “Clayton would have to lose about a hundred pounds to fit into these. My grandfather was a beanpole.”