A Midwinter's Tail

3

I knew it was stupid to go inside when I didn’t know what was in there, but Owen and Hercules were in the house. It sounded as though there was some kind of injured animal inside with them. I hesitated, and then I heard what I clearly knew was a yowl from Owen.

Fumbling with my keys, I got the porch door unlocked and dropped my purse and briefcase on the bench under the side window. I grabbed the broom that I’d used that morning to clear a dusting of snow off the steps. I had no idea what was in my kitchen or how it had gotten into my house, but whatever was terrorizing my cats was about to meet the business end of that broom.

I heard another yowl from Owen and I wrenched the kitchen door open and launched myself into the space, swinging the broom like a pirate’s cutlass.

Detective Marcus Gordon turned from the stove, waving the wooden spoon in his hand at me. The radio was playing softly in the background. Marcus was singing along to Aerosmith. Not at all softly. And not at all remotely on key, either.

“Hi,” I said, a little stunned.

Owen was perched on one of my kitchen chairs, bobbing his gray tabby head along to Steven Tyler. The cat seemed to be joining in on the chorus, or maybe he was singing harmony. I wasn’t exactly sure. He glanced over at me, still brandishing my broom like a sword, and there was what seemed to me to be a self-satisfied gleam in his golden eyes. I knew what that was about.

I looked at Marcus again. He was wearing jeans and a white T-shirt. The ends of his hair were damp, which meant he’d probably been in the shower just a short time ago. My shower maybe? I thought about that for a moment and then I had to force myself to pay attention to what was happening in my kitchen.

“What are you doing?” I asked. I could see that he was stirring something that smelled wonderful, but I had no idea why all six-feet-plus of handsome him was at my stove. Or why one of my new dish towels was clipped to the front of his T-shirt with a couple of clothespins.

Marcus smiled. “Making supper.” He gestured at the table. “I hope it’s okay.”

For the first time I noticed that the table was set for two—place mats, napkins and a fork and large spoon at each place. I’d given him my spare key so he could pick up the tablecloths I’d ironed the night before and deliver them to Maggie and Ruby at the Stratton this morning. There was no way I could lay them down in my truck and not get them wrinkled again.

“Of course it’s okay,” I said. I pointed to the dish towel. “I like your apron.”

He flushed. “I had a shower before I came over. I didn’t want to get sauce on my shirt.”

He seemed to notice the broom then for the first time. “Were you planning on cleaning the kitchen?” he asked.

“Um, no,” I said, realizing I didn’t really want to tell him I’d mistaken his singing for some animal attacking my cat. “I, uh, guess I don’t need this after all.” I leaned the broom against the wall by the door, then crossed the room and kissed him. I still felt a little bubble of happiness every time I did that. There had been a time I’d believed Marcus and I would never be a couple. There’d been a time I would have sworn that I didn’t want to be in a relationship with him. He’d made me crazy sometimes. He still made me crazy, but he also made me very, very happy.

I dipped my head over the pot. “You made spaghetti sauce,” I said. “It smells great.”

Owen meowed his agreement from his perch on the chair.

Marcus gave the sauce another stir. “Actually, I thawed spaghetti sauce,” he said. “Hannah made a big batch before she left.”

Hannah was Marcus’s younger sister. She was an actress and she’d been in town in September as part of the New Horizons Theatre Festival.

“Thawing is good, too,” I said.

Marcus leaned over to turn up the heat on a pot of simmering water. “I’m about to put the pasta on,” he said. “You should have time for a shower.”

“All right,” I said. “Are you sure there’s nothing I can do to help?”

He shook his head and a lock of his dark wavy hair fell onto his forehead. “Owen and I have it all under control.”

The little tabby meowed enthusiastically at the sound of his name.

There was a spot of something on Marcus’s chin. I licked my thumb, reached up and rubbed it away. For a moment I’d considered kissing it away, but I was pretty sure that would have led to a lot more kisses and I really did need to have a shower.

Reluctantly, I pulled my gaze away from his gorgeous blue eyes. Owen was watching me, his gray head tipped to one side. I stopped to give him a scratch under his chin.

“Cats do not eat spaghetti,” I whispered sternly.

He made a face and shook his head. I knew that meant he was planning on wheedling at least a taste out of Marcus.

There was no sign of Owen’s brother, Hercules, in the living room. Upstairs in my bedroom I noticed the closet door was open just a little.

“You can come out now,” I said, peeling off my sweater.

After a moment the closet door opened and a furry black-and-white face peered around the edge.

“I think they’ve stopped singing for now,” I said.

He scrunched up his face in an expression that looked a lot like a grimace. I bent down and scooped up the little tuxedo cat. He shifted in my arms, put a paw on my shoulder and looked at me with his green eyes. “Yes, I heard them,” I said. “I thought something had gotten in here and was torturing you two.”

He dipped his head for a moment as if he was trying to tell me that it was torture for him.

I sat down on the edge of the bed. “You know that was payback from Owen, don’t you?”

Hercules immediately turned and looked at the iPod dock on the table by the bed. The cat shared my love for Barry Manilow. Owen didn’t. Somewhere in his feline brain, singing Aerosmith along with Marcus—if you could call that noise singing—was his way of getting a little revenge for all the times he’d had to listen to Hercules and me do our version of “Copacabana.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m going to scrub the kitchen floor this weekend.”

Herc’s black-and-white face snapped up and it seemed to me that I could see a calculating gleam in his green eyes. I often did the floors to Ultimate Manilow.

I gave the cat a kiss on the top of his head and set him down on the floor. Then I grabbed my robe and headed for the shower. Five minutes later I was sitting on the edge of the bed again, rubbing my hair with a towel. Hercules was back in the closet. More than once I’d opened the door to find him just sitting on the floor, staring thoughtfully, it seemed to me, at the clothes hanging there.

“I’ve already chosen what I’m going to wear,” I said.

After a moment I heard a muffled meow from inside the closet, followed about thirty seconds later by what sounded like something falling over.

“I picked the shoes, too,” I added.

As I got up to get my comb, Hercules came out of the closet, a dust bunny stuck to his left ear. He swiped at it with a paw, shook his furry head and stalked away. Either he was insulted by my lack of interest in his kitty fashion skills or he’d caught a whiff of the spaghetti sauce.

I pulled on jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt and stuffed my bare feet into my slippers.

“Perfect timing,” Marcus said as I stepped into the kitchen. He was just about to drain the pasta, with two pairs of cat eyes, one gold and one green, watching his every move.

“What can I do?” I asked.

“Nothing. Just sit.” He inclined his head toward the table.

I pulled out my chair and sat down while he plated our spaghetti and spooned the sauce over the pasta. There was a small dish of grated Parmesan in front of my place. Marcus must have brought that with him, because I knew I didn’t have any. A warm feeling settled in my chest at the thought of him planning all this.

The sauce was delicious—rich with tomatoes, garlic and tiny meatballs no bigger than the end of my thumb.

“Hannah’s a wonderful cook,” I said, twirling another forkful of noodles.

Marcus nodded and licked a dab of sauce off the back of his fork. “I know. She’s been cooking since she was about six.” He smiled and his blue eyes lit up. “Whenever she screwed up a recipe, she’d toss whatever she’d made over the fence and the dogs next door would eat the evidence.”

I laughed and made a face at the same time. “I’m guessing that probably wasn’t so good for the dogs.”

“They both ended up at the veterinary clinic, the whole thing came out and my dad ended up paying the vet bills.” He speared a meatball with his fork. “Hannah was limited to her Easy-Bake Oven for a long time after that.”

Marcus didn’t talk a lot about his family. It had taken a long time for him to feel he could trust me and even more important, that I trusted him. That had been a bone of contention between us as we’d danced around a relationship. But not nearly as much as the fact that I seemed to get mixed up in every one of his cases.

In the two and a half months since the two of us had become a couple, I’d been slowly learning about his family. Most of the time, Marcus talked about Hannah, his younger sister, but I’d learned that his mother was a math professor and his father was a lawyer. It was more than I’d found out in the previous year and a half that I’d known him.

“How are rehearsals going?” I asked, thinking that if Hannah’s acting career suddenly went south, she could have a future as a chef.

Marcus gestured with his fork. “She said there are some changes that need to be made to the script, but I can tell by the way she talks about the play that she’s happy.”

Hannah was in rehearsals for a play called Walking Backwards, which was going to debut in Chicago and possibly move to New York after that.

Marcus held up one hand. “I almost forgot,” he said, pushing away from the table. He crossed over to the coat hooks by the back door and felt in the left pocket of his jacket.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw two furry faces eye his chair. I leaned sideways so I was in their line of vision. “I know what the two of you are thinking. Stop thinking it,” I said quietly.

Owen and Hercules both turned to look at me, blinking in wide-eyed kitty innocence. Marcus came back and handed me a small blue envelope.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“Open it and find out,” he said.

I stuck my little finger under the flap and tore the envelope open. Inside was a small, square card with a line drawing of a smiling little girl holding a bunch of balloons. It was from Hannah.

Inside she’d written, Marcus told me all about Reading Buddies and the fundraiser. Good luck tonight, Hannah. And there was a check.

I looked across the table at Marcus. “She sent it last week,” he said, “and asked me to wait to give it to you until tonight.”

I liked Hannah, and not just because she was Marcus’s sister. “I can’t believe she did this.” I held up the check.

He picked up his fork. “She’s really grateful about how you and your mother saved Hester’s Girls.”

Ben Saroyan was directing Walking Backwards. The play, which had had more than one incarnation, was based on a prize-winning article about Hester’s Girls, which worked with teenage alcoholics. The group had lost its prize money when it was discovered that the winning article hadn’t exactly been written by the young woman whose name was on the piece. Ben had given my mother her first directing job, and my parents—who were both actors—had put together a benefit for Hester’s Girls and raised enough money to keep the program going.

I’d flown back to Boston for a long weekend in November to help with the benefit, although the lion’s share of the work had been done by my mother.

Marcus gestured at the check. “Kathleen, that’s about to go in your sauce.”

I set the card on the table beside me and folded the check on top of it. “She didn’t have to do this,” I said. “I did very little, and my mother loves a chance to get onstage and do Kate to my dad’s Petruchio.”

He reached across the table for the pepper. “I know exactly how much work you did behind the scenes,” he said. “We can argue if you want to, but you can’t win this one. It’s not a lot of money, but she really wanted you to have it.”

He looked over at Owen and Hercules as he sprinkled cheese on his spaghetti. They were watching his every move. “Would it really hurt if I—”

I didn’t let him finish. “Yes, it would,” I interjected. “You know what Roma said about feeding them people food.”

He shot the cats a quick look and all three of them made sour faces.

“I see those cranky faces,” I said. “Roma’s just trying to keep you and you”—I pointed at the cats, who immediately changed to their faux-innocent “who, me?” faces—“from getting sick. And you”—I pointed at Marcus—“from getting a cup of coffee poured on your shoes because you made them sick.”

The three of them exchanged looks again. They looked more sneaky than sorry.

Owen and Hercules weren’t just a couple of house cats who thought they were people. They had abilities that no one but me knew about. For all I knew, they didn’t have the digestive system of a regular cat, but I didn’t want to take a chance on that and I didn’t want Roma—or anyone else—figuring out that the cats were a lot more than they seemed.

I pushed away from the table, went to the cupboard and got a few stinky crackers for each cat. Stinky crackers were made with sardines, and as long as the boys didn’t eat too many, they were okay with Roma.

“You’re spoiled,” I told them as I set a little pile in front of each cat. They didn’t pay the slightest bit of attention to what I’d said. I knew they understood the words; they’d just heard them so many times that I might just as well have kept quiet.

I put my hand on Marcus’s shoulder for a moment as I passed him. His blue eyes met mine, and my heart literally skipped a beat. Maggie had tried so hard to get the two of us together, and now I wondered why I’d resisted for so long.

We finished supper and cleared the table, stacking the dishes in the sink. I didn’t have a dishwasher—I liked to do them by hand; it was my best thinking time—and I didn’t have time to wash them.

“Did you bring your suit?” I asked Marcus.

He nodded. “It’s out in the car.”

“You can get dressed in the spare room,” I said. “I’ll be ready in ten minutes.”

His eyebrows went up.

I folded my arms across my chest and tipped my head to one side, studying him. “What? You don’t think I can be ready to go in ten minutes?”

He looked down at the cats, who were sitting by the refrigerator. Hercules was washing his face. Owen was eyeing the two of us.

“I have a feeling this is one of those times when I should just not say anything,” Marcus said to the gray tabby.

Owen meowed and ducked his head as though he was agreeing.

I looked at the clock on the wall above the refrigerator. “Ten minutes,” I repeated as the second hand swept up to the twelve. “Starting now.”

I headed for the stairs. I didn’t look back to see if he was watching me, or if he was already on his way to get his suit.

Ten minutes later I was standing in the middle of the living room waiting for Marcus to come downstairs, a little out of breath because I’d all but bolted down the steps in my high heels so I could be standing casually by the window. Sometimes Marcus still brought out my competitive side.

Hercules had followed me upstairs and watched with what seemed to me was a bemused expression as I hurried to brush my teeth, put on my makeup and twist my hair back into a loose knot, following the steps Rebecca had patiently taught me the previous weekend.

“So your brother is Team Marcus?” I’d said as I fastened my rose-gold locket around my neck. My parents had given it to me on the day they remarried.

“Merow.” Hercules had made a move that almost looked like a shrug.

Owen appeared at the top of the stairs then. He meowed loudly, as though he were announcing a celebrity or royalty, and then started down the steps. Marcus came behind him.

I was at a loss for words. I’d seen Marcus in a tie and sport coat before, but never really dressed up. Never like this.

His dark charcoal suit fit his broad shoulders perfectly. The collar of his snowy white shirt was a perfect contrast to his dark hair, and his tie matched his deep blue eyes. Even his black shoes gleamed.

For a moment I just stared.

“Wow!” I finally whispered.

“I know,” Marcus said, and I realized then that he hadn’t taken his eyes off me since he looked over and caught sight of me. “You are . . . wow.”

He walked over to me, still staring. “I didn’t think you could look any more beautiful,” he said. “I can’t believe how wrong I was.”

I felt my cheeks getting warm. “It’s the dress,” I said.

I was wearing a deep purple dress shot with flecks of silver and black. It had long, close-fitting sleeves and a skirt that flared from the waist to swing at my knees. The neckline was a deep V, a little more revealing than I usually wore, which was why I’d added my locket.

Maggie and Roma had talked me into the dress. They’d also chosen the sheer, seamed black hose and the sleek sling-backs that added another three inches to my five-foot-six height.

Marcus shook his head. “It’s not the dress,” he said.

I don’t know how long we would have stood there just looking at each other like lovers in some cheesy romantic movie, except Owen meowed, loudly and insistently.

I looked over to see him leaning around the doorway from the kitchen. He dipped his head and gave me his sad cat pose.

“Owen’s trying to guilt me into giving him a few more crackers because we’re going out and leaving him.”

“He’s probably lonely,” Marcus said. “You’ve been gone all day.”

Owen meowed again, sounding even more pitiful than the first time.

I started for the kitchen and as I passed him, Marcus reached out and trailed his hand down my arm. For a moment I seriously entertained the idea of staying home and kissing him for the next four hours.

But there were people counting on me. I really wanted to expand Reading Buddies, and I couldn’t do that without money to buy books for the little ones in the program. So I took a deep breath, exhaled and went into the kitchen.

Marcus stood in the doorway and watched me while I gave each cat three more crackers and got fresh water for both of them. I gave Owen a scratch under his chin and stroked the top of Herc’s head. “I’ll be late,” I whispered to them before I straightened up.

“You talk to Owen and Hercules like they’re people,” Marcus commented.

“So do you,” I said, smiling, as I crossed to the sink to wash my hands.

He gave me a sheepish look. “I know. They look at me like they understand what I’m saying, and the first thing I know, I’m having a one-sided conversation with them.”

It didn’t seem like a good time to tell Marcus that in my experience the boys understood way more of what was said to them than you’d expect, and no conversation with them was ever one-sided. The cats had an opinion on everything and they were pretty good at making their thoughts very clear. I tried not to say that out loud. I knew it made me sound like the crazy cat lady.

Owen was in front of Marcus. He made a snippy little “murp.”

“Oh, sorry,” Marcus said, moving so the cat could get past him.

“Are you sure the conversations are one-sided?” I said with a laugh.

I put on my coat and slipped the tiny jet-beaded evening bag Taylor King had loaned me over my shoulder. The teenager had shyly offered the purse after our last tai chi class.

“You know, if you’re going to protect yourself from some wild animal making noise in your kitchen, I think you need something bigger than that,” he said as we passed the broom, still leaning against the wall by the back door.

He knew! I should have guessed he’d figure out why I’d leapt into the kitchen swinging the broom like I was Johnny Depp doing Captain Jack Sparrow.

“Have you ever thought about getting a cat?” I asked, partly to hide my embarrassment as we walked out to Marcus’s SUV parked out on the street. It was clear and cold, the sky an inky canopy overhead.

He nodded as he unlocked my door for me. “I almost took Desmond.”

Desmond was Roma’s cat. Actually he was the clinic cat. He was sleek and black and he had the soul of a jungle cat.

It was because of Desmond that Roma had found out about the feral cat colony at Wisteria Hill, the old Henderson estate that was now Roma’s home.

“Why didn’t you?” I asked as I fastened my seat belt.

“I work a lot of long hours. I didn’t want to leave him alone for all that time.”

“I can’t picture Desmond anywhere but ruling Roma’s clinic,” I said.

“I saw him back Harry Taylor’s dog, Boris, right under a chair,” Marcus said as he pulled out onto Mountain Road.

“That’s because Boris is an old softie. He looks intimidating but he’s not.”

Marcus shot me a sideways look. “So you’re a dog person, too.”

“I like Boris,” I said, smoothing the woolen fabric of my coat down over my knees. “But don’t tell that to Owen next time you two talk.”

“I’ll try not to let that slip,” Marcus said, a smile pulling at his mouth.

We drove down the hill in silence while I ran over a mental list of last-minute things I needed to do when we reached the theater.

“You’ve thought of everything,” Marcus said quietly.

I looked over at him. He kept his eyes fixed on the road, but he reached over for a moment with his right hand and squeezed both of mine.

“This isn’t the first fundraiser I’ve organized,” I said as he turned on his blinker to pull into the main parking lot at the theater. “But it’s the first time I’ve been so nervous.”

“So what’s different this time?” he asked.

“The kids, I guess.” I shifted in my seat. “I know every one of them—the little ones who are learning to read and the older ones who’re the buddies. I’ve seen the moment when the letters on the page become a word and the word means something.” I stopped to clear my throat. “I have twenty-seven kids on the waiting list. I want this to work.”

Marcus shut off the SUV and looked at me. “It will,” he said. He inclined his head toward the theater door and gave me a smile. “Let’s go.”

The gala was a sellout. By my calculations, even after expenses, we’d already made a little money. What I was hoping for was that the evening would inspire people to make donations to the program. Reality was, I couldn’t go to Everett to fund everything.

Susan and Eric arrived about five minutes after Marcus and I did. Marcus went out to help carry in the desserts from Eric’s van while Susan wiped the snow off her unbelievably high heels.

“Wow!” I said as she took off her coat. She was wearing a formfitting sea green dress with strappy heels that had to be at least four inches high. Her hair was down, curling around her face. Eric couldn’t help smiling at his wife as he passed her while carrying a large covered tray.

“Wow back at you,” she said.

She looked over her shoulder toward the door. “And your detective. Yum!” Her eyes sparkled.

“Susan!” I exclaimed.

She tipped her head to one side and gave me a skeptical look. “Please,” she said, making a dismissive gesture with one hand. “You can’t tell me you didn’t notice that he cleans up really well.” She wiggled her eyebrows at me as Marcus came in carrying a large box of something that smelled like cinnamon.

I leaned over so my mouth was next to her ear. “Yes, he does, doesn’t he?” I whispered.

She laughed and clapped her hands together.

We stowed Susan’s coat in the coatroom and walked through the main auditorium doors together. She took a couple of steps and stopped. “Oh my word!” she said softly.

The stage really did look like a Parisian sidewalk café. I had no idea where Maggie and Ruby had found the wrought-iron chairs and small round tables. The potted trees, branches entwined with twinkling lights, had been rented from a nursery in Minneapolis. I hadn’t even known it was possible to rent trees, let alone do it in December.

The tiny fairy lights continued up the edge of the outside seats on both the right and the left aisles. Curved ramps on both sides led from the floor to the stage. Again, I had no idea how Maggie and Ruby had done it, but they looked like two tiny stone bridges.

“Good Caesar’s ghost,” Susan whispered softly as she stepped onto the stage and got a good look at the backdrop Ruby had painted. The huge canvas curtain covered the back of the stage from side to side and floor to ceiling. Ruby had re-created a Parisian street scene and Maggie had spent hours with the Stratton’s lighting tech, working out the lighting so the huge mural looked its most realistic. I knew what a perfectionist she could be, so I wasn’t surprised it had taken that long.

“What can I do?” Susan asked.

“Mingle. Answer questions if anyone has any,” I said. “Otherwise, just enjoy yourself.”

“That I can do,” she said with a smile. “I’d better go see if Eric needs anything.”

The next hour went by in a blur. Mary arrived looking very elegant in a rose-colored dress and heels that showed off the great legs she’d gotten from being the state kickboxing champion in her age group.

“Bridget is sending someone to interview you,” she said. Mary’s daughter was the publisher of the Mayville Heights Chronicle.

“Thank you,” I said, leaning down to give her a squeeze.

“Kathleen.”

Someone tapped me on the shoulder. It was Mia, our student volunteer. The seventeen-year-old looked ethereal in a cream-colored flapper-style vintage dress with a fringed hem, her grape Kool-Aid hair pulled back behind her ear on one side.

“Mia, you look beautiful,” I said.

“Thank you,” she said. She ducked her head for a moment as her face flushed a little. Then she looked at me again. “I, uh, wanted you to meet my dad.”

I held out my hand to the man standing beside her. “It’s good to meet you, Mr. Janes,” I said. “I’m Kathleen Paulson.”

“Call me Simon, please,” he said.

Simon Janes had a firm handshake and a direct gaze. He was close to six feet tall, rangy with hair buzzed close to his head and he didn’t look anywhere near old enough to be the father of a seventeen-year-old.

“Mia’s doing an excellent job,” I said, shifting my gaze to give the teenager a smile.

“Seriously?” he said. “Or are you just making polite conversation?”

Mia’s face flooded with color.

I had the urge to kick the guy in the shins. Not a good way to start the fundraiser, I reminded myself.

“Seriously,” I said, letting just a tiny edge of coolness come out in my voice. “She shows up on time, works hard and everyone from the four-year-olds to the senior citizens likes her.”

I shot Mia a quick, encouraging—I hoped—smile. “She shows initiative. It’s hard to find in adults. It’s even rarer in young people without any work experience.”

Simon Janes looked at his daughter. If he was chastised at all by my words, it didn’t show. “That’s good to know,” was all he said.

“Kathleen, what can I do?” Mia asked.

I gave her a full-on smile. “Talk to people. Have fun. And make sure you try some of Eric’s chocolate pudding cake.”

She smiled back at me. “Okay, I will,” she said.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of Brady Chapman standing in the wings of the stage. Maybe Maggie was with him. I turned to Mia’s father again. “Thank you for coming,” I said. “Please excuse me. I see someone I need to speak to.”

He gave a slight nod, and the accompanying smile seemed more amused than polite.

I started toward Brady. Burtis’s son was talking to someone and as I got closer I realized it wasn’t Maggie; it was his mother. And based on his body language, Brady was upset with her. As I’d backed away, I couldn’t help noticing Dayna seemed impatient, forehead furrowed and one hand restlessly playing with the catch on her purse. She reached out suddenly and touched her son’s arm. He brushed her hand away.

I crossed the stage toward Rebecca and Everett, who had just arrived, and thought how different Simon Janes was from his daughter. Maybe he didn’t just look young. Maybe he was young, which might explain why he’d come across as, well, a little rude.

“Your hair is perfect!” Rebecca exclaimed as I joined them, taking my hands in her own and giving them a little squeeze. “And your dress looks even prettier on you than it did on the hanger.”

She was wearing a black evening suit with a slim skirt and a fitted jacket that coordinated perfectly with Everett’s dark suit.

“And you look beautiful,” I said. I let go of her hands to shake hands with Everett.

Everett Henderson always made me think of actor Sean Connery. They had the same charm with just a tiny edge of ruthlessness.

“You’ve done an outstanding job,” he said, nodding as he looked around.

Eric was set up on one long wooden trestle table. I could smell the chocolate pudding cake keeping warm in a gleaming warming tray. Georgia Tepper from Sweet Thing was at another table with a selection of tiny perfect cupcakes, and Peggy Sue from Fern’s Diner was at a vintage sideboard with coffee, tea and espresso.

“Thank you,” I said to Everett, “but the credit should go to Maggie and Ruby.”

“I’ll make sure the right people get the credit,” Everett said.

I smiled at him. “Thank you.”

Abigail joined us then. She was wearing a simple black dress with a red–and-gold scarf draped at the neckline. But the biggest surprise was that she’d cut her hair.

“Abigail, your hair looks beautiful,” I exclaimed.

She beamed at me. “Thank you.”

Her auburn hair, shot with streaks of silver, had been partway down her back and usually she’d worn it in a long braid. Now it just brushed her shoulders with a fringe of long bangs swept to one side.

I noticed that Rebecca was smiling, too. “You did this,” I said.

She nodded. “Abigail said she wanted a little update. Do you really like it?”

“Yes, I do,” I said. Rebecca had helped me grow out my own hair after an ill-advised haircut I’d gotten just before I arrived in Mayville Heights. Unlike Maggie, I didn’t have the bone structure for that short a cut.

“Is there anything you can’t do?” I asked Rebecca.

Everett smiled and lightly touched her arm. “No, there isn’t,” he said. Pride was evident in his voice

“Kathleen, may I borrow you for a minute?” Abigail asked.

“I’ll talk to you a little later,” I told Everett and Rebecca.

Abigail had set up a small table next to the coffee station with more information about the Reading Buddies program. She also had a receipt book and several pens.

“Susan and I are going to take turns being here,” Abigail explained. “No hard sell, I promise.”

“That’s fine,” I said. “Thank you for doing this.”

“The program is a great idea,” she said, running a hand over the stack of children’s books she had piled on the table. “I love watching the kids coming in after they’ve learned to read and picking out books to borrow.”

I remembered the check from Hannah. I took it out of my purse. “Would you write a receipt for this and give it to Marcus, please?” I asked.

She smiled. “Of course. Now go mingle and be charming.”

I walked around welcoming people. It was fun to see everyone dressed up.

All three of the Taylors had shown up. Young Harry and his brother, Larry, looked like a couple of bankers in their unaccustomed suits. Their father, Harrison Taylor Senior, was striking in a black suit, set off by his white hair and beard.

“Kathleen, my dear, you look beautiful,” he said. His blue eyes twinkled and I thought, as I always did, how much he reminded me of Santa Claus.

“And the three of you look very handsome.”

“It’s good to put this monkey suit on and not be laid out at Gunnerson’s,” Harrison said.

“Good for us, too, Dad,” Harry Junior said dryly.

“Since we’re on the subject, don’t bury me in this suit,” Harrison said. “There’s a lot of wear left in it.”

Harry ran a hand over his chin. “I’ve got a tarp in the shed. How about that?”

“Fine with me,” the old man retorted.

“This is a party,” I interrupted. “Could we please talk about something other than people being laid out?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, somewhat contritely. I could still see the glint of mischief in his blue eyes.

I leaned over and kissed his cheek. “I’m glad you’re here,” I whispered.

“My pleasure,” he whispered back.

He turned to his younger son. “I see Peggy over there and I wouldn’t mind a cup of coffee.” He glanced at Harry Junior. “The good stuff,” he added.

Harry shook his head as he watched his father and brother make their way across the stage. “There’s no point in taking him to the doctor,” he said. “He flirts with her while he’s there, and then he comes home and does the exact opposite of what she told him.”

“I know he’s stubborn,” I said. “But that stubbornness has gotten him this far.”

“That it has,” Harry said, nodding. “Sometimes I think it’s the reason he’s still with us.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope. “Kathleen, this is for your reading program.”

“Thank you,” I said. “If you take that over to Abigail”—I pointed over to the table where she was standing, talking to Vincent Starr—“she’ll give you a receipt.”

He looked across the room. His father already had a cup of coffee and some kind of cream-filled tart balanced on his saucer. He was talking to Mary and even from this distance I knew he was flirting with her.

“Good thing the old man’s as tough as a barbecued shoe,” he said. He rolled his eyes and started for Abigail.

I turned around to take in the entire space for a moment and found Maggie standing behind me. The sparkle in her green eyes matched the sparkling clip in her short blond hair.

She grinned at me. “I knew that dress was perfect for you,” she said. “What did Marcus say when he saw you in it?”

I felt my cheeks get warm. “Um . . . wow.”

She laughed. “He’s right. And he’s looking very wow himself.”

“He is, isn’t he?” I agreed. I looked around and finally caught sight of Marcus standing by the front row of seats on the theater’s main floor, talking to Ella King and paramedic Ric Holm. As if he could feel my eyes on him, he turned and smiled at me.

I raised one hand for a moment and then turned back to Maggie. “You were right about him, about us.”

“I know,” she said.

“You know, you look very ‘wow’ yourself.”

She was wearing a slim, pale yellow calf-length dress that went beautifully with her fair skin and cropped blond hair.

“It’s fun to see everyone dressed up,” she said. “Have you seen Lita and Burtis?”

I shook my head.

“I almost didn’t recognize Burtis when I saw him in the parking lot. He was wearing this wonderful dark gray fedora. Very forties film noir.”

“I’m looking forward to seeing that.”

“Kathleen, is that one of your book experts talking to Mary?” Maggie asked, looking past me. “She looks familiar.”

I turned sideways to see who she was talking about.

“No,” I said, slowly. “That’s Dayna Chapman.”

Her eyes widened. “Brady’s mother? Burtis’s ex-wife?”

“Yes.”

She frowned at me. “What’s she doing here? Here at the party and here in Mayville Heights?”

“I don’t know,” I said, turning back to face her. “I had lunch with Roma and Rebecca and she walked into Eric’s. Rebecca said Dayna hasn’t been back in more than twenty years.”

Maggie nodded, her expression still serious. “I was just a kid, but I remember when she left. You can imagine all the speculation.” She gave me a wry smile. “I don’t know what Burtis said, or did, but all of a sudden.” She snapped her fingers. “The talk just stopped.”

I looked back over my shoulder again. Dayna Chapman was wearing a very simple, but elegant, dark red dress that hugged her tall, thin model’s figure. Her hair was pulled back in a severe twist that showed off her long neck.

“She seems very different from Burtis,” I said.

“That’s probably what did in their marriage.”

I thought about Lita: kind, warm and impossible to rattle, in my experience. The cool, unsmiling Dayna was very different.

I realized Maggie was watching my face, green eyes narrowed. “You don’t like her.”

“I don’t even know her,” I said, smoothing a hand back over my hair. “But . . . have you ever met someone who you just didn’t get a good feeling from?”

Maggie nodded. “We can feel another person’s energy, even if we’re not aware of it.” She gave me a small smile. “You’re a very positive person, Kath. I don’t think Dayna Chapman is.” She touched my arm. “There’s someone I need to find. And you probably need to circulate. I’ll look for you later.” She leaned over and gave me a hug and then she was gone.

I looked longingly in the direction of the cupcakes, but Vincent Starr had just walked in and I wanted to talk to him before the party got any busier.

“Thank you so much for coming, Vincent,” I said, walking over to him.

He took my hand in both of his. “Kathleen, this is extraordinary,” he said, looking around. He reminded me of an English prof I’d had in college. He had the same dark hair waved back from his face, although Vincent’s was touched with silver at the temples, and the same style of horned-rim glasses.

I smiled back at him. “Thank you. I can’t take any of the credit for the décor. It’s the work of my friends Maggie and Ruby.”

“They’re very talented artists,” he said.

“Yes, they are,” I agreed. I pointed to Maggie across the room talking to Harry Junior. “That’s Maggie,” I said. “I know she’d love to hear that you like her work.”

“I’ll be sure to tell her,” he said. He let go of my hand. “I’ll let you circulate and we’ll talk later.”

I turned around to discover that the reporter from the Chronicle had arrived for the interview. I spent about fifteen minutes with her and then I left her with Rebecca and Everett.

Abigail made her way through the crowd to me. “Susan is at the donation table,” she said. “Olivia would like to know if you want her to pass out the chocolates now or after Everett thanks everyone for coming and makes his pitch for money.”

I looked around. People were laughing and talking and the jazz quartet was playing. “Now, I think,” I said. “If we do it after, we may shift everyone’s focus away from the point of the party.” I rubbed my left wrist with the other hand. It was aching a little, a sure sign we were going to get snow tomorrow. “Does that sound too mercenary?” I asked.

Abigail made a face. “No. It sounds practical. Reading Buddies is a great program, but we can’t keep it going or help any more kids without money. Olivia’s chocolates are incredible, believe me. And I don’t have a problem with Decadence Chocolatier getting some free advertising from tonight.” She patted one hip. “But I want people to think, ‘Gee, I want to help those kids,’ not, ‘Gee, I want to buy a box of these chocolates.’” She held up both hands. “So sue me if that seems mercenary.”

I put one arm around her shoulders and gave her a squeeze. “How do you always know the right thing to say?” I said.

She leaned against me for a moment as she scanned the crowd, looking for Olivia, I was guessing. “It’s a gift,” she said with a grin.

She spotted Olivia then, lifted one hand and nodded. Olivia returned the nod and headed for the wings on the right side of the stage.

“Do you want to hear how much we’ve made so far?” Abigail asked, straightening up and smoothing the skirt of her dress.

I hesitated and then I shook my head. “No. Tomorrow will be fine.”

Abigail frowned at me. “Kathleen, have you had anything to eat or drink yet?”

“I haven’t had time,” I said with a shrug.

She raised her eyebrows at me. “Don’t. Move,” she said, stressing both words.

She was back in less than a minute with a cup of coffee and a tiny mint chocolate chip cupcake.

“As of this moment you’re my favorite person,” I said, taking the coffee cup from her hands.

Abigail gave a snort of disbelief. “I’m your favorite person only until a certain detective makes his way over here.”

“Only if he brings me more chocolate,” I said as I took a bite of the cupcake. I gave a little groan of pleasure and Abigail laughed.

Olivia, along with Taylor King and Harry Junior’s teenage daughter, Mariah, were circulating through the crowd, handing out the chocolate sampler boxes. Olivia had made all the chocolates at cost. Each box held three of her gourmet truffles.

Nic Sutton—who was a full-time artist and a part-time waiter—had crafted all the boxes by hand, again, donating his time. The tiny containers looked like little books with Reading Buddies written in gold script on the cover. I wasn’t sure if the samplers would turn out to be a good promo item or not. They seemed like a better idea than a brochure about the program that would probably have ended up in everyone’s recycling bin in the morning.

I caught sight of Nic moving across the stage. I raised a hand, trying to get his attention. I’d seen him earlier, tweaking the arrangement of chocolate boxes on one of the serving trays, but I hadn’t had time to speak to him. I wanted to tell him how beautiful the boxes looked, but he wasn’t looking in my direction. He was so intent on wherever he was headed that he bumped into Dayna Chapman. She pushed past him before he had a chance to apologize.

Marcus was still down on the floor, talking to Larry Taylor and police officer Derek Craig now. I caught sight of Maggie, Roma and Brady Chapman at a nearby table. Oren was deep in conversation with Vincent Starr, while Susan stood with her arms around Eric’s waist, smiling up at him.

Burtis and Lita were standing just a couple of tables away. Burtis was a big barrel-chested man and he looked even more imposing in his suit than he did in his everyday work clothes. Maggie was right. Something about the cut of the suit did make me think of a character out of an old gangster movie. The effect would be even more noticeable with the fedora, I was guessing.

Burtis was standing close to Lita, so close that anyone who saw them would know they were a couple. That included Dayna, who was only a couple of feet away. The woman gave off an odd vibe.

I watched Olivia offer the tray to Burtis. He handed a box to Lita and then turned and passed one to his ex-wife before he took one for himself. Burtis was making a point, I realized.

“As soon as Taylor’s finished on the main floor, I think we can start,” Abigail said.

“All right,” I said. Time to stop speculating about Burtis Chapman’s love life and focus on what I wanted to say about the Reading Buddies program.

Beside me, Abigail was scanning the crowd, trying to spot Everett, I guessed. Around us people were exclaiming over the little boxes, opening the “books” and trying the chocolate truffles inside.

Everett and Rebecca were sitting at the table next to Maggie and Roma. I touched Abigail’s arm to tell her. At the same moment I caught sight of Dayna Chapman putting a hand to her throat. Her face was the same ashen color as the sky before a December storm. She made a sound halfway between a wheeze and a rasp.

She couldn’t breathe, I realized. Her legs buckled as her eyes rolled back in her head.

“Abigail!” I shouted as I pushed forward, managing to catch Dayna before she hit the floor.

“Live,” she rasped at me.

“It’s okay. It’s okay,” I said. “You’re going to be all right.”

“P . . . p . . . package,” she managed to choke out.

“Oh, good Lord,” I heard Abigail gasp behind me.

We laid Dayna on the stage. She wasn’t breathing.

Abigail was already checking for a pulse. After a moment she shook her head.

“I’ll do mouth-to-mouth. You start chest compressions,” I said. I knew Abigail knew what to do. The library staff had taken a CPR refresher course in November.

Dayna’s lips were blue and there were raised red blotches on her neck. I swept a finger inside her mouth and started breathing for her, counting to keep the rhythm. Across from me, Abigail kept up with the chest compressions. Under her breath she was singing the Bee Gees song “Stayin’ Alive.” Our instructor had told us the song was the perfect pace for CPR and we’d laughingly and loudly sung the disco anthem as we’d practiced on our resuscitation dummies.

“Has anyone called nine one one?”

I recognized Ric Holm’s voice behind me.

“I did,” I heard Lita answer.

Ric knelt beside Abigail. He’d discarded his tie and his suit jacket and pushed back his sleeves. “What happened?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Abigail said. “The first time I noticed anything was when Kathleen went to catch her.”

“Okay,” Ric said. “I’m going to take over for you. You just move back out of the way in three, two, one.”

Abigail slid out of the way and Ric moved into place without losing the rhythm of the chest compressions.

“You’re doing great, Kathleen,” he said. “Ambulance should be here in just a couple of minutes.”

I managed to nod as I continued to breathe for Dayna and the seconds ticked away. Behind me I could hear Marcus taking charge, sending someone to watch for the ambulance and moving chairs and tables out of the way.

It probably was only a few minutes before I heard the wail of the ambulance and then sometime after that, someone touched my arm and said, “I have it, ma’am.” It seemed like a lot longer.

I got to my feet and Maggie’s arms went around my shoulders.

“You all right?” she whispered.

I nodded. I was too overwhelmed to say anything. I saw Burtis touch Ric’s arm. “She’s allergic to pistachios,” I heard him say, his face ashen. He reached out a hand to me then. “Thank you, Kathleen,” he said, his voice raspy with emotion.

I nodded.

Ric leaned over to the female paramedic. I remembered what Maggie had said to me earlier—that we could feel other people’s energy whether we realized it or not. There was no energy coming from Dayna Chapman—negative or positive. All the time I’d been doing mouth-to-mouth, there was no sense that she was still there.

The paramedics continued to work on her, but I realized it wasn’t going to make any difference.

Dayna Chapman was dead.