A Case Of Cat And Mouse

chapter 1

Dead?” Rebecca asked.

I sighed. “I’m sorry. Yes.”

“That’s what I was afraid of.” She looked glum, which was surprising because Rebecca was a very positive person in general, and the dead thing we were looking at was a glass bowl filled with an inactive sourdough starter.

“How long have you had it?” I asked. Rebecca had been baking since she was a girl, so her starter was likely years old.

Two splotches of pink appeared on her cheeks and she ducked her head. “Less than a month.”

“Oh,” I said. That was a surprise.

Her blue eyes met mine. “Kathleen, when it comes to starters, I have to confess that I’m the kiss of death.”

I smiled. “I find that hard to believe. You’re a very good cook. No one makes piecrust as flaky as yours.”

“Well, I do like to feed people,” she said.

I glanced over my shoulder at my two cats, Owen and Hercules, sitting by the chrome kitchen table, their gaze fixed on Rebecca. “And cats,” I teased.

Rebecca smiled. She kept Owen supplied with yellow catnip chickens and Hercules with tiny organic kitty crackers. They both adored her. “It seems feeding is the problem. According to Eric, I’ve been overfeeding my starter.”

Eric was Eric Cullen. He owned a diner downtown, near the waterfront.

“Where did this one come from?” I picked up the bowl and gave the contents a swirl. It was an odd, unappetizing shade of pink and it had a funky smell of decay that just confirmed what my eyes were telling me.

“Eric gave it to me,” Rebecca said. She took the dish out of my hands and poured it down the sink.

“Well, I’m sure he would be happy to get you started again,” I said.

Eric wasn’t just a great cook, he was also a very generous person, quick to offer his time and talents to his friends and to the community.

Color flooded Rebecca’s face a second time. “I really don’t feel I can ask him again. The third time may be the charm, as my mother used to say, but I think the fourth time would be just making a pest of myself.” She rinsed the bowl and set it on the counter. Then she dried her hands and turned to face me. “I don’t just need a bit of starter to get one of my own growing again. I need a lot. I need enough to bake with. I may have inherited my mother’s love of feeding people, but I didn’t get her way with a sourdough loaf. I need to practice my bread at least a couple more times. And I have to leave some free time because we’re filming promos this afternoon.”

Rebecca was one of the contestants on the revival of the television show The Great Northern Baking Showdown. Filming for the first season had begun here in town in April. Six episodes had been completed and there were just four more left to film. Mayville Heights had been chosen, among other reasons, because the show’s executive producer, Elias Braeden, who had bought the rights to the show, was from this part of Minnesota. And he knew it would be very affordable to film here. Rumor had it that a major network and at least one streaming service were interested in the show, but as far as I knew it hadn’t been sold to any outlet yet, so the filming budget was tight. Participants on the show came from Minnesota, Wisconsin and Illinois. Rebecca and artist Ray Nightingale were the only local contestants. They had won their places in a regional event.

No one had been surprised when Rebecca was among the top three in the area competition. Anyone who had ever had a slice of one of her blueberry pies or a bite of her pumpkin spice donuts—which was pretty much everyone in town—knew she was a talented baker.

Ray Nightingale also making it onto the show was much more unexpected. Ray was an artist who created elaborate ink drawings that were a cross between a mosaic and a Where’s Waldo? illustration. They featured a small rubber duck named Bo who always wore a fedora and black-framed sunglasses. No one had had any hint that Ray even knew the difference between shortbread and puff pastry or how to make a croquembouche. He and Rebecca had become fast friends once they’d won their places on the show.

“Well, what about Ray? He might have some starter,” I suggested.

Rebecca made a face. “I’m sure he’d want to help,” she said. “But he needs to practice just as much as I do. He’ll need every bit of his own starter.”

Rebecca’s goal was to finish in the top three once again. There would be a three-minute profile on each of the finalists at the beginning of the finale episode of the show. She was hoping to focus as much attention as she could on Mayville Heights during her segment.

Like a lot of small places, the town’s economy depended on tourists who enjoyed our quieter pace of life and the gorgeous scenery. In some ways the town hadn’t changed that much in the past hundred years or so. That was part of its charm. From the St. James Hotel you could still watch the boats and barges go by the way they had a century ago. You could still climb to the top of Wild Rose Bluff for a spectacular view of the water.

Aside from some shots of the Riverwalk, the Stratton Theatre and the gazebo at the back of the library that were used in the opening credits, Mayville Heights hadn’t been mentioned much at all in the show up to now. The spotlight was on the competition and the bakers.

Ray was easygoing and affable but he had admitted to me that he wanted to win the competition. Like Rebecca, he wanted the opportunity to bring some attention to everything Mayville Heights had to offer. I suspected in his case it was more about redemption than his love for the town. In the past Ray had helped fudge some artistic credentials for another artist and had come within a hairsbreadth of being kicked out of the local artists’ co-operative. To his credit, he had worked hard to get back in his fellow artists’ good graces—not just apologizing but working to promote both the artists’ co-op store and its website as well as volunteering his talents with the rescue group Cat People.

Rebecca was staring at a point somewhere over my left shoulder, probably trying to think of anyone she knew who could help her. Who did I know who made sourdough bread? I couldn’t think of a single person, although I had had sourdough pancakes just last weekend at my friends Eddie and Roma’s house.

“Eddie,” I said, holding out both hands as though the answer was obvious—which it suddenly was.

Rebecca gave her head a little shake and focused on me again. “Excuse me, what did you say?” she asked.

“Eddie,” I repeated. “He doesn’t make bread, at least as far as I know, but sourdough pumpkin pancakes are his specialty. Roma said when he was still playing hockey it was tradition for him to make them before every Saturday home game. And I’ve had them. They’re really good.” My stomach suddenly rumbled as if to give more credence to my words.

“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to ask,” Rebecca said, a smile starting to pull at the corners of her mouth.

Her phone was lying on the kitchen table and I gestured at it. “Call him,” I urged. “I’ll drive you out there. I don’t have to be at the library until twelve thirty and I already have all the information ready to drop off to Eugenie and Russell.

The Baking Showdown was being hosted by cookbook author Eugenie Bowles-Hamilton, along with musician Russell Perry. Two weeks ago I had been hired to replace the show’s researcher, who had broken both of his arms trying to vault over a sofa to win a bet. Football and a large amount of beer had been involved. I’d been told.

I’d gotten to know Eugenie when she’d come into the library a few days after she’d arrived in town, looking for more information about Minnesota than the show was supplying her with. She wanted to work in regional references whenever she could during the filming of each episode.

“I want more than just the usual drivel about which is the best choice for pastry: butter or lard,” she’d told me. I’d taken that as a criticism of the information she’d been getting from the show’s researcher. “I want Minnesota color and flavor.” The animation in her voice and her gesturing hands were a contrast to her cool and elegant appearance.

“Did you know the bundt pan was invented here?” I’d asked. “So was the pop-up toaster. And some people believe that airplane hijacker D. B. Cooper was a Minnesotan.”

Eugenie had smiled then. “That’s the kind of thing I’m looking for.”

I’d answered her questions, found her a couple of reference books and then dropped off another book and a magazine to her the next day. When the research job had become vacant Eugenie had lobbied hard for me to take it.

It was only part-time, providing background information that dovetailed with whatever each week’s focus was. So far I’d been able to juggle it with my work at the library. Like most librarians, I have good research skills. In any given day I might be asked what time the recycling center closes, how many wives Ben Cartwright had on Bonanza and what color puce actually is—four thirty, three and purplish brown, respectively.

However, I was fairly certain that Elias had offered me the job as much because of the show’s tight filming schedule and financial constraints as for my expertise and Eugenie’s support. Although there seemed to be a lot of people connected to the Baking Showdown, I knew that keeping costs down was important, given that the show had not been sold yet.

Rebecca’s smile grew wider as she considered my suggestion. “Having you drive would be a big help. I don’t think it would be a good idea for me to be behind the wheel and holding on to a bowl full of starter at the same time.”

At her feet Owen suddenly meowed loudly.

“Good point, Owen,” Rebecca said to the cat. “I should call Eddie first before I start making any plans. I’m getting a little ahead of myself, counting my chickens before they’re hatched, so to speak.” She reached for her phone while Owen looked around the room. As far as he was concerned there was only one type of chicken he cared about.

I leaned toward him. “Rebecca’s not talking about your kind of chicken,” I said softly.

“Mrrr,” he muttered, wrinkling his nose in annoyance. With a flick of his tail he headed for the living room. If we weren’t talking about a yellow catnip Fred the Funky Chicken, Owen didn’t seem to see the point of the conversation.

Hercules watched his brother go and then looked up at me. He almost seemed to shrug. The charm of catnip was lost on the little black-and-white tuxedo cat. I reached over and gave him a scratch on the top of his head before I straightened up.

Rebecca was just ending her phone call. I was pretty sure by the wide smile on her face that Eddie had agreed to help her.

“He said yes?” I asked.

She nodded. “I explained my predicament and Eddie said he would be happy to give me the lion’s share of his starter. We can drive out to Wisteria Hill right now, if that will work for you. He’s out there working on the new home for the cats.”

“I’m ready,” I said. “All I need is my shoes and my bag.” I picked my mug up off the table and drank the last mouthful of coffee. It was cold but I didn’t really mind.

“Are you sure I’m not taking you from anything important?” Rebecca asked. She brushed a bit of flour off the front of her long-sleeved pink T-shirt.

“I’m positive.” I set the cup in the sink and crossed the kitchen to get my shoes. The only plans I’d had before she’d shown up at my back door with a troubled expression and the rank-smelling bowl of starter was to scrub the kitchen floor, and that could wait for another day.

“You’re in charge,” I said to Hercules. He immediately sat up straighter as if he had understood my words. Given that Herc—and Owen—weren’t exactly ordinary cats, I was fairly certain he had.

Rebecca didn’t think it was the slightest bit odd that I talked to the boys pretty much as though they were people. She talked to Owen and Hercules all the time as well, and as she’d said more than once, with just the slightest edge of indignation in her voice, “Cats are people, too!” Now she leaned forward and smiled at Hercules. “There’s a little something special in your future,” she said in a low voice.

“No, there is not,” I said firmly, shaking my head for emphasis. “Hercules does not need a treat and neither does Owen. You spoil them.” We had had this conversation several times before. I had no illusions that anything I said would dissuade Rebecca, but I still felt I should make the argument.

“I didn’t say I was going to give him a treat,” she said. “This is just something to help with his recuperation.”

Apparently Hercules knew what the word “recuperation” meant. He immediately looked at his back right leg where a patch of black fur was beginning to regrow. He’d had to have stitches there after catching his leg on some old wire fencing buried in the bushes between my house and the one next door belonging to the Justasons. Mike Justason had immediately cleared out all the rusted wire and trimmed back the bushes. He had a dog that often nosed around in the same spot. Hercules was still giving the area a wide berth.

Neither Hercules nor Owen liked to be touched by anyone other than me, probably because they had been feral early in their lives. That made visits to the vet traumatic for everyone, but Roma had managed to sedate Hercules so she could clean and stitch his wound and give him a shot. She’d been watching him carefully for any signs of infection since then.

The cat had suffered through the indignity of wearing a cone for several days and was still trying to convince me to wait on him every chance he got.

“He’s already recuperated,” I said as I pulled on my dark gray hoodie. It was cooler than usual for late May. I fished the keys to my truck out of my right pocket. “I’m ready.”

Hercules followed us out into the sun porch and hopped up onto the bench by the side window. “We’ll be back soon,” I said.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Rebecca wink at him. I was pretty sure that like every other conversation I had had with Rebecca—or really anyone else—about treats for Owen and Hercules I was going to be roundly ignored.

We climbed into my truck and I headed up Mountain Road. Until recently, Wisteria Hill, where Roma and Eddie lived, had belonged to Rebecca’s husband, Everett Henderson. He’d sold it to Roma. Now Roma and Eddie were married and they were working on the property, turning it back into the much-loved home it had been when Everett was young. It was Everett who had brought me from Boston to Mayville Heights to oversee the renovations to the library for its centennial—his gift to the town. I had originally come to town on a two-year contract to supervise the project. I hadn’t expected to stay. I hadn’t expected that I would ever want to stay.

Back then I’d wanted to shake up my life for a number of reasons, not the least of which was the fact that my boyfriend, who had gone to Maine on a two-week fishing trip after we had had a major fight, had come back married. And not to me. (For the record: friendly diner, even friendlier waitress, lots of alcohol.)

I loved my wacky family—Mom and Dad, and Ethan and Sara. And I missed them like crazy. They were all artistic; impetuous and unpredictable. Mom and Dad were actors. Ethan was a musician. Sara was a makeup artist and filmmaker. The artistic temperament had somehow skipped me. I was organized, responsible, pragmatic. Someone had to run the washing machine. Someone had to keep us in Band-Aids, ice packs and aspirin.

I had been the practical person in the family as far back as I could remember. Coming to Mayville Heights, coming halfway across the country to Minnesota, had been the most impulsive thing I’d ever done. I hadn’t expected to make friends, to make a whole new life.

So many things had changed for me in the last four years. I’d made friends who felt like family, fallen in love with the incredibly handsome and equally stubborn Detective Marcus Gordon and I’d found Owen and Hercules—or, closer to the truth, they had found me.

“Do you remember the first time you saw Wisteria Hill?” Rebecca asked as though she had somehow known what I was thinking.

I shot her a quick sideways glance. “Yes, I do.” For a long time Everett had had complicated feelings about his family homestead. He didn’t want to live there, but he wouldn’t sell the property, either. It had been overgrown and neglected when I discovered the old farmhouse one late winter day just after I’d arrived in town.

“Hercules and Owen were just kittens then,” Rebecca said. “I have a photograph somewhere of them sitting on your back steps.”

I grinned. “They were so tiny the first time I saw them, but they were determined to come home with me. I had no idea I was going to end up with two opinionated, furry roommates.” I had actually carried the kittens back up the long driveway a couple of times when they’d followed me, but they would not be dissuaded.

I glanced at Rebecca again as the road curved uphill. “Do you ever regret Everett selling the property to Roma?” I asked.

Rebecca’s mother had kept house for the Hendersons as well as using her herbal remedies as a kind of unofficial nurse to most of the townspeople. Rebecca had basically grown up at Wisteria Hill and she and Everett had loved each other all their lives.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw her smile as she shook her head. “No, I don’t. I’ve seen what can happen when you live in the past. I have so many happy memories of the place as a child, picking blueberries in the back field and blackberries on Mulberry Hill, climbing trees, swimming in the stream. But I don’t want to go backward. I like where we are now.”

“So do I,” I said. Rebecca and I were backyard neighbors. She was the one who had first taken me to tai chi class and to Meatloaf Tuesday at Fern’s Diner.

“I’m happy that Roma and Eddie are building their life out at Wisteria Hill. That’s how it should be.”

When we got to the top of the long driveway we spotted Eddie up on a ladder in a clearing back away from the driveway, working on one of the small outbuildings on the property that had been moved up closer to the old carriage house. The farmhouse was to the right of the driveway. It was white with dark blue shutters and yellow doors. Roma had done a lot of work on the house even before she and Eddie had gotten married—which had taken place in their living room.

“One thing I most certainly do not miss is that bumpy old driveway,” Rebecca said.

I nodded in agreement. For a long time the driveway had been nothing more than two ruts cutting through an overgrown field. In the winter it was icy. In the spring it was more like a mud hole. I thought about all the times I had bounced my way to the top, on my way to feed the feral cat colony, fingers crossed that I’d make it safely up and then back down again.

I parked and we got out of the truck. Rebecca looked down the driveway. “I remember one time being in the backseat of Everett’s old Impala. About halfway up that hill we hit a pothole that must have been six inches deep. My head smacked the roof of the car and I said a rather unladylike word.”

I put my arm around her shoulders. “And exactly what were you doing in the backseat of Everett’s Impala?” I teased.

“A lady doesn’t kiss and tell,” she said with a sly smile. “But I do miss that old car sometimes. I wish Everett still owned it. It had a lovely backseat.” She bumped me with her hip. “I would have loaned it to Marcus. You two would probably be married by now.”

With that Rebecca walked over to greet Eddie. I just shook my head and followed her. Marcus and I had met because of one of his cases. For a while he’d actually considered me a person of interest. It wasn’t the best way to start a relationship, which didn’t stop what felt at times like the entire town from trying to play matchmaker.

As I got close to the old carriage house I was hit with the memory of Eddie’s daughter, Sydney, getting stuck up in the hayloft. When her soon-to-be-stepsister—Roma’s grown daughter, Olivia—had tried to reach Sydney she had gotten trapped on the shaky platform as well. I’d been able to use a little physics along with a lot of luck, a coil of rope and a rusted chain to get them both down.

Eddie followed my gaze as I joined him and Rebecca and I saw him swallow hard. “I’m so glad you were here that day,” he said.

My chest got tight for a moment. I nodded. “Me too.”

Rebecca gave my arm a squeeze. She tipped her head in the direction of the shed that Eddie was shingling. “When do you expect to be done?” she asked.

“A few more days,” he said. “Assuming the weather cooperates.”

Eddie was six foot four inches of muscled ex–hockey player. He still had all his own teeth and his nose had never been broken, unlike a lot of other players. He cooked, he could refinish furniture and renovate a house to put it all in. He was a romantic husband and with his sandy hair, brown eyes and wide smile he looked like he belonged on the cover of GQ as much as Sports Illustrated. I knew this small outbuilding he was fixing up as a new home for the cats would be done on time and done well.

Rebecca glanced over at the carriage house again. “Selfishly, I’m happy that you and Roma decided not to tear that building down.”

Eddie swiped a hand over his close-cropped hair. “It is structurally sound, at least as far as the framing and the roof trusses go.”

“So what are you going to do with the space?” I asked.

He grinned. “Let’s just say Roma and I haven’t reached a consensus yet.”

I laughed.

“Does Roma think the cats will accept the move into their new home?”

Eddie rubbed his stubbled chin. “I hope so. There are only five cats left now and Roma has been talking about moving Smokey down to the clinic full-time.”

“I didn’t know that,” I said.

“She’s just had the thought in the last couple of days. She said she was going to ask you what you thought.”

Smokey was the oldest cat in the feral cat family. He had gotten his name from his smoke-gray fur. Desmond, another Wisteria Hill cat who had lived at Roma’s animal clinic since Marcus discovered him and the previously unknown colony, had seemed to tolerate the old tomcat when Smokey had spent an extended visit there. It might work.

“Maybe,” I said.

Eddie smiled at Rebecca and at the same time tipped his head toward me. “If our cat whisperer here can convince Lucy to accept the new space, I think we’ll be okay. Where Lucy goes the others will follow.”

Since Lucy was feral, too, I could never get too close to her, let alone touch her. But I had some sort of connection with the little cat, the same way I did with Owen and Hercules and with Marcus’s ginger tabby, Micah, who had also come from Wisteria Hill. Lucy seemed to somehow know I had her best interests at heart. And I wasn’t going to forget that it had been Lucy’s insistent meowing that had brought Marcus into the carriage house just before the hayloft had collapsed.

I smiled. “I’ll do my best.”

“You know, she’s been coming out to watch me the past couple of days,” Eddie said.

“That’s a good sign,” Rebecca said.

I’d been so busy at the library and working on the show that I hadn’t seen much of Roma or Eddie, or anyone else for that matter, for the past couple of weeks. “When are they going to start working on the warehouse?” I asked.

One of the empty warehouses at the far end of the waterfront downtown was eventually going to be the home of Eddie’s hockey training center. The project had been stalled multiple times but now that Everett had gotten involved, things were finally going well.

Eddie grinned. It was impossible to miss his enthusiasm—or to not catch a little of it. “Three weeks. Assuming there are no last-minute problems.” He gestured toward the house. “But you didn’t come here to talk hockey. C’mon. My starter is in the fridge.”

We headed across the yard. Rebecca seemed so tiny walking next to Eddie. She was more than a foot shorter and with her layered silvery hair she reminded me of a tiny forest fairy.

“I want to hear all about the show,” Eddie said. “What’s it like cooking on the set?”

“Hot,” Rebecca said, raising her eyebrows for emphasis. “And steamy. Last week when we got those two unseasonably warm days I thought I was going to melt and run down a crack. Plus, the space is a lot smaller than it looks and sometimes it’s hard not to get in each other’s way.” She smiled then. “And it’s lots of fun. I never thought I would be on TV.”

Even though the show hadn’t aired yet, Rebecca had already developed a fan base online. That hadn’t surprised me at all.

“Do you all get along?” Eddie asked. “Or is it more cutthroat?”

“Cutthroat? Heavens no!” she said. “When I broke my rolling pin Ray loaned me his. And when Caroline upended a bowl of flour on Kassie we all helped clean it up.”

“The guys used to watch the original version of the Baking Showdown all the time,” Eddie said. I knew he was referring to his former teammates. “I’m glad Ruby’s friend revived the show. And by the way, Sydney wants your autograph the next time she sees you.”

“I’m honored,” Rebecca said.

Eddie looked at me. “What about you, Kathleen? How do you like working behind the scenes?”

“I like it,” I said. “It’s not that time-consuming. Basically, my job is to find interesting facts for Eugenie, and sometimes Russell, to use in conversation with the contestants. I’m trying to work in references to Mayville Heights any chance I get. I’ve had to research some pretty obscure things, so it doesn’t always work.”

The original Great Northern Baking Showdown had aired on network TV and ended twelve years ago. The premise was simple. A dozen amateur bakers competed for the top prize, fifty thousand dollars and a top-of-the-line double oven, six-burner gas range. In Elias’s remake the winner still received fifty thousand dollars, along with a chance to study at the Culinary Institute of America in New York.

Each of the ten episodes had a different theme: bread, pastry, dessert, etc. However, at any time the judges could add a complication, such as a mystery ingredient or a mandatory baking technique. They could also take away any tool, from the bakers’ stand mixers to the parchment paper they used to line cookie sheets. The competition wasn’t just a measure of the contestants’ baking skills. It was also a test of their flexibility in the kitchen.

At first I’d hesitated when I was approached by Elias Braeden himself to take the researcher job. I’d met him the previous winter. The man was an intriguing mix of bluntness and charm, qualities he had honed while working for my friend Ruby Blackthorne’s grandfather. Idris Blackthorne had been the town bootlegger and had run a very lucrative regular poker game, among other enterprises.

Elias’s interests included a casino. While I had no reason to think he was anything other than an honest businessman, he had worked for Idris, which meant he wasn’t someone to turn your back on. But Ruby was very close to Elias. He’d known her from the time she was five days old and he was one of the few people she’d been able to count on as a mixed-up kid. So when he’d asked me to step in to avoid a delay in production it was partly my loyalty to her and partly my loyalty to the town that had made me say yes.

“I think just having the production here overall is good for the town,” Rebecca said as we stepped into the side porch. “The production crew is staying here. So are the bakers. Maggie is helping the illustrator. You’re doing research. Eric is catering. Harry and Oren have worked on the sets. And I know they’ve had inquiries at the St. James and several of the bed-and-breakfasts from people interested in trying to get a glimpse of filming. Everything’s going perfectly!”

As soon as the words were out of Rebecca’s mouth I had the urge to knock on wood. I wasn’t generally a superstitious person but I had grown up around theater people and they were. “Knock on wood” was one of my actor mother’s superstitions, a way to avoid tempting fate.

I felt silly but I tapped softly on one of the kitchen chairs.

Just in case.