A Night's Tail

chapter 7

The next few days were uneventful. On Tuesday, Ethan, Derek and Milo went to see the luthier in Red Wing. I knew that a luthier was someone who repaired and built guitars, but Milo explained, over a bowl of oatmeal and applesauce, that they did a lot more than that.

“They don’t just work on guitars, they work on all sorts of stringed wooden instruments—guitars, violins, violas, cellos, double basses,” he said. “And they build instruments, too.”

The three of them came back from Red Wing enthused about the woman and her workshop. They had left Milo’s old guitar with her and she had promised it would be ready by the time they had to leave.

Maggie had invited the guys to join our tai chi class. Derek had turned down the offer to do more work on his song. Ethan, of course, had accepted. To my surprise Milo had decided to join us, too.

The three of us squeezed into my truck and drove down the hill.

“How long have you been doing tai chi?” Milo asked.

“About three years,” I said. “Rebecca invited me to try a class and I liked it. I’ve been going ever since. My balance is better. I’m more aware of how my body moves. When we do the form at the end of the class it’s very much like meditating.”

“The form?” Ethan said.

I nodded. “Maggie teaches Wu style tai chi chuan. There are one hundred and eight movements. Those movements make up the form. You’ll see once we get started.”

I stopped to let two people and a shaggy sheep dog cross the street.

“You said Maggie teaches Wu style,” Milo said. “So does that mean there are other styles?”

“There are five major styles,” I said. “Chen, Yang, Wu Hao, Wu and Sun. Chen style dates all the way back to the sixteenth century. There are other hybrids and offshoots now, but those are the main ones.”

“So you’ve learned all one hundred and whatever of the movements?” Ethan said.

I nodded. “Uh-huh.” I remembered when that had seemed impossible.

“Then why do you keep going?”

“Because there’re always parts of the form that can be improved.” I thought of my nemesis, Cloud Hands. “Because I like the people. Because there are new things to learn.” I smiled. “Because it’s fun. You’ll see.”

I found a parking spot close to the studio and the guys followed me up the stairs to the studio. We hung up our jackets and I sat down to change my shoes. Something about the door seemed to have caught Milo’s attention.

“Is there something wrong with that door?” I asked.

“Not the door, the lockset,” he said. The door was original to the old building, I knew, and had round brass doorknobs that I assumed were also original.

Maggie had seen the three of us and walked over. “Hi,” she said. “Is there a problem?”

“You know this door isn’t very secure, right?” Milo said.

Her green eyes narrowed. “No, what’s wrong with it?”

Milo held up a finger. “Watch this.” He closed the door and set the lock. Then he took out his wallet and pulled out a card. It was thin enough to slide between the door and the frame. I watched him maneuver it for a moment and the door swung open. He grinned and held up the plastic rectangle. “And you thought this was just a library card.”

“How did you do that?” Maggie asked.

Milo closed and locked the door again and handed his library card to Maggie. With his coaching she got the door open. It took her a little more time than it had taken him. But not much.

I had noticed similar setups in other older buildings in town, including at one time, the library. I reminded myself to thank Harry Junior for insisting on replacing all of the old locksets at the library.

“How did you know this?” I asked.

“He’s a Dateline fanatic,” Ethan said. “We watch it quite a lot between sets when we’re playing somewhere.”

“You’d be surprised what you can learn from that show,” Milo added.

Ethan looked at Maggie. “We can put a deadbolt on that door for you. I mean, if you want one.”

Maggie nodded. “I do.”

The three of them headed for the tea table, talking about what would be the best choice for the old door.

After class we headed down to Eric’s for chocolate pudding cake. Maggie shared the story of the time we’d found what we thought was a dead rat floating in the co-op store’s flooded basement and how I’d fished it out and tossed what I thought was a rodent corpse into the street and instead launched a very alive rat at Ruby. Ethan laughed so hard coffee came out his nose.

Melanie Davis and I managed to squeeze in a quick meeting Wednesday afternoon to go over the last few details we had to coordinate for the quilt show.

Her office was small and cramped and didn’t even have a window. There was a desk, a locked credenza for files, a couple of chairs and a small lamp. A woven scarlet-and-gray blanket was draped over the arm of one of the chairs. There was a calendar on the wall along with a beautiful photo of the Riverwalk that I recognized as Ruby’s work and a tiny plaque with the words “Valor, Truth, Honor.”

“Sorry for the cramped surroundings,” Melanie said. “This is just a temporary space for me.” She pointed over her head. “The offices and two washrooms upstairs are being renovated, so for now, I’m here.”

I found the room a little claustrophobic and wondered if maybe Melanie did, too, and that was why her door wasn’t just wide open, it was being held that way by a wooden wedge.

“This room was originally the bottom of a ventilation shaft,” she said.

I looked around. “That explains why there are no windows.”

She pointed to the ornate brass grill covering a large opening on the wall. It was the most striking feature in the room. “It’s not original, it’s a replica, but the heating and air-conditioning vents will all have grates like that in the new offices. It’s a way to keep a little history of the building.”

Melanie indicated the open door. “All the stone and concrete in here interfere with my cell phone. I have to keep the door open to get any signal. Sometimes I’m hanging over the front of the desk with the phone, trying to make a call.” She shook her head. “And Murphy’s Law in action I guess, the phone company is running new lines in this part of the building so some days I have a landline and some I don’t. In other words, if you need to get in touch with me, I suggest carrier pigeon.”

“I was thinking I could tie a note to Owen’s leg and send him over,” I said.

Melanie smiled. “That would work, too.” She glanced at her cell phone. “Seriously, if you can’t get me on my cell you can leave a message at the front desk.”

“I will,” I said. I looked around the small room. “What will happen to this space?”

“It’ll most likely be used for storage,” Melanie said. She gestured at the opening in the wall. “And that will be bricked off.”

I felt an involuntary shiver like a cold finger trailing up my spine. I didn’t do well in small spaces.

It didn’t take long for us to go over the last few details for the quilt show. I was glad to be able to cross that off of my to-do list.

“Thanks for fitting me into your schedule, Kathleen,” Melanie said as she walked me back out to the front desk from her office after we finished. She was wearing a deep green blouse and a slim chocolate skirt and she looked like an early promise of spring. “Patricia’s called me three times in the last two days.”

“She’s a very detail-oriented person,” I said.

Melanie smiled. “And you’re very diplomatic.”

We passed the hallway that led to the meeting room where we’d found Lewis Wallace’s body.

“We got both rooms back yesterday,” Melanie said. “I admit I felt a little . . . unsettled walking into that meeting room.”

“That’s understandable,” I said.

“It wasn’t technically my first dead body,” she continued. “I worked in a hotel in Vermont and we had a guest pass away in his sleep, but in that case he was a hundred and two and it just didn’t seem as . . .” She paused. “It was sad, of course, but not as much of a shock as finding the body of someone you”—she cleared her throat—“someone you used to know, someone you didn’t expect to see dead.”

I nodded. “I know what you mean.” We passed a waiter pushing a wheeled food cart. He smiled at both of us. “Did Lewis Wallace have any family?” I asked.

Melanie shook her head. “He was an only child and his parents died when he was just in college.” She bent down to pick up a crumpled gum wrapper from the carpet. “I remember hearing something about a brief marriage when he was playing football in Canada but I don’t know if that was even true. He supposedly made a bunch of money up there.”

We stepped out into the lobby. “Is what happened still affecting business here?” I asked.

Melanie shook her head. “Umm, no. After those first few early checkouts and cancellations things went back to normal. I guess people have short memories.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” I said. “If there’s anything else you need, please let me know.”

She thanked me again and I headed back to the library.

Ruby had convinced all three guys to come talk to the Reading Buddies kids about music and songwriting after school on Wednesday. We set up a couple of big whiteboards and to my surprise they actually managed to write an entire song with the kids’ help. Hearing the guitar music ring through the library—which Ethan said had very good acoustics—when I stepped back inside the building after my meeting made me feel a little homesick remembering all the times over the years that I’d heard Ethan playing at home.

Thursday morning I had a meeting with Patricia Queen and Oren Kenyon to finalize all the details for the displays planned for the library during the quilt show. Oren Kenyon was a jack-of-all-trades. He’d worked on the library renovation and the repairs to the Stratton Theatre. If you could explain what you wanted to Oren he could build it. He was also a very talented musician.

Our meeting was scheduled for ten thirty and Patricia walked into the building at exactly twenty-five minutes after. Oren had already arrived and was standing in the computer area looking up at the ceiling at the system of fine wires and pulleys we had used in the past to display everything from artwork to old photographs to flying ghosts at Halloween.

Patricia had drawn a sketch of the main floor of the library as well as a detailed floor plan to scale. There were quilts to display—new and vintage—as well as books and magazines on the subject and a collection of photos of the group taken over the years. A tiny color-coded key on the side of her floor plan showed where everything should go. She handed the drawing to Oren and he studied it for a moment, nodding slowly as a hint of a smile spread across his face. “This is excellent, Patricia,” he said. He looked at me. “Kathleen, what do you think?”

I pointed at one tiny blue square. “Will this”—I squinted at the key—“quilt be too close to the heating vent?”

Patricia’s head came up and her eyes darted from side to side. “That’s one of our vintage quilts,” she said. “It’s over a hundred years old.” She reminded me of a groundhog coming out of its burrow, looking around trying to decide if we were getting six more weeks of winter.

“I’ll show you the vent Kathleen is talking about,” Oren said. He gestured in the direction of the magazines section and gave me a small smile as he passed in front of me. It occurred to me that if anyone was diplomatic, it was Oren.

Much like his son, Oren’s father, Karl, had been good with his hands. But what he had really wanted to be was an artist. He had created some incredible sculptures. The moment I’d seen them in Oren’s workshop I’d known they deserved to be seen and appreciated. I’d convinced Oren to let me display some of his father’s pieces here at the library. That had been the beginning of several shows and Karl Kenyon had finally gotten the acclaim he should have gotten when he was alive. It had cemented the friendship between Oren and me.

Moving that one quilt turned out to be the only change that was needed to Patricia’s plan. She seemed happy with Oren’s suggestions for suspending the quilts from the ceiling so they could be seen but not handled. “There are just too many grubby little hands in here in the run of a day,” she said. “No offense, Kathleen,” she added.

“None taken,” I said. I felt sure Patricia would have been appalled to see what some of those grubby little hands did to our library books.

“Thank you,” I said to Oren after Patricia left. “We wouldn’t be able to do this without your help. If we couldn’t hang the quilts they wouldn’t be safe from little hands and big ones, too.”

Oren ducked his head. “You’re welcome. I’m happy I can help.”

“Is there anything you need?” I asked.

He looked up at me. “Would you mind if I checked the hooks in the computer area? I noticed one that doesn’t look quite right.”

I smiled. “Go ahead.”

Oren headed to the loading dock to get the tall stepladder.

I picked up my notepad and the folder of papers Patricia had given me and turned around just as Georgia Tepper walked into the building. So she was back in town from her workshop. I wondered if Marcus knew.

Georgia looked around, smiling when she spotted me.

I walked over to join her. “Hi,” I said. “How was the workshop?”

Her smile got even bigger. “It was wonderful. I think I’m still on a sugar high.”

She was holding her cell phone in one hand. I gestured at it. “Any pictures to share?”

Her gaze slipped away from mine for a moment. I’d noticed she sometimes tended to downplay her skills. “Yes,” she finally said.

I waited while she scrolled through her photos. Then she held out the phone to me.

“Oh, Georgia, that’s beautiful!” I exclaimed. The cake pictured on the screen was a four-tiered creation with alternating black and white layers decorated with a curving cascade of flowers from pale violet to dark purple down the front. “It’s almost too pretty to eat.”

She smiled again. “Thank you for saying that.”

“I can’t resist asking; what kind of cake? Chocolate and vanilla?”

“Close,” she said. “The dark layers are dark chocolate and the light layers are hazelnut.”

“That’s even better,” I said. “You’re really talented.” I looked at the screen a second time “Those flowers, they look so real.”

“They’re not hard to make,” she said, swiping her index finger across the phone screen to show me a closer image of the delicate blooms. “I could teach you, I mean, if you’re interested.”

I nodded. “Yes. I’m absolutely interested. As soon as the quilt show is over I’ll have some free time.”

“We’ll set up a time then.” She tucked her phone in the pocket of her jacket. “The quilt show is actually the reason I’m here. Patricia Queen sent me an e-mail—well, several e-mails— while I was out of town.”

“She wants the show to be perfect,” I said. I knew some people found Patricia’s dogged attention to detail annoying, but I admired her work ethic.

“I understand that,” Georgia said. “I can be pretty single-minded myself when I’m baking. It turns out Patricia wants one of my gift baskets as a thank-you gift for Melanie Davis but she couldn’t give me any ideas about what to put in it. I don’t want to deliver a basket of, say, banana muffins, if what Melanie would really enjoy is chocolate cupcakes.”

“Chocolate cupcakes, definitely,” I said at once. I knew that Melanie loved chocolate. She’d asked for the recipe after she tried one of my brownies. And I was positive that she wouldn’t feel like banana muffins—or any other kind of muffin—at the moment.

Georgia scrolled through her phone once again and showed me some of the cupcake possibilities. I’d tried all of them, I realized.

“They all look so delicious,” I said, “and I know how good they taste, but I think Melanie would like the mix of double chocolate, mint chocolate chip and mocha fudge.” Just looking at a picture of those cupcakes made me hungry, and right on cue my stomach growled. Loudly.

I put a hand on my midsection. “Sorry,” I said, feeling my cheeks get red with embarrassment.

Georgia laughed. “Don’t apologize. I take that as praise.” She tucked her phone in her pocket again. “By the way, was your brother happy with his muffins?”

His muffins?

I gave her a blank look. “I’m sorry, what muffins are we talking about?”

“The peanut butter banana ones I made for the workshop he was teaching on Sunday.”

“Ethan ordered peanut butter banana muffins from you? For the songwriting workshop at the hotel?” I knew I was parroting her words but I couldn’t help it. I was trying to have them make sense because they didn’t at the moment.

Georgia frowned. “Kathleen, was there something wrong with them?” she asked.

“No, no,” I said. “It’s just that the workshop was canceled. You probably didn’t hear because you left early on Sunday morning.”

“Yes,” she said, still looking very confused.

How was I going to explain this? “A guest at the hotel . . . died.”

She put a hand to her chest. “That’s horrible!” she whispered.

I exhaled softly. “There’s something else you should know. That guest was, uh, Lewis Wallace.”

Georgia stared wide-eyed at me. “Oh my word. You mean the man from Fern’s who . . . who . . .” She didn’t finish the sentence.

“Yes,” I said.

“What happened?”

I hesitated for a moment. I couldn’t bring myself to say he was murdered and I didn’t think Marcus would want me to say anything at this point, anyway. “The police are still investigating but it looks as though he died from an allergic reaction.” I hoped she wouldn’t make the connection, but she did.

The color drained from her face. “An allergic reaction? What? To the peanut butter? Do you mean— Did I kill the man?”

“No!” I said, vehemently shaking my head. “You had nothing to do with Lewis Wallace’s death. Absolutely nothing.” I reached out and gave her arm a squeeze. “Talk to Marcus, Georgia. He’ll tell you the same thing. Please.”

She nodded. “I . . . I think I’ll do that.” She patted the pocket that held her phone. “I’m sorry. I need to get going. Thanks for your help, Kathleen.”

“If I can do anything else—anything—please call me or stop in.”

“I will,” she said. She raised a hand in good-bye and headed out.

I folded my arms over my chest and blew out a breath. My stomach felt as though a troupe of circus acrobats were doing a tumbling routine in there.

Ethan ordered those muffins.

Ethan.

Why hadn’t he said so?