A Night's Tail

chapter 2

When I left for the library in the morning Ethan was at the table eating an omelet stuffed with ham and cheese, not even trying to disguise the fact that he was feeding bites to the two mooching furballs sitting at his feet.

“C’mon, try to pretend you’re not sneaking them food,” I said as I put on my shoes. “The least you could do is try to give me plausible deniability when Roma asks what they’ve been eating.”

To my amusement Hercules immediately moved around to the far side of Ethan’s chair so he was not so much in my direct line of sight. Ethan then made an elaborate show of “sneaking” a bite of ham to the cat, which was, of course, way more obvious than what he had been doing.

I checked my messenger bag to make sure I had all the papers I needed.

“So what’s your friend Roma’s problem with Owen and Hercules having a bit of egg once in a while?” Ethan asked.

Owen immediately gave a loud and somewhat indignant meow.

I rolled my eyes at the cat. “The problem is that it never stops at just a bit of egg once in a while. It starts there and all of a sudden it’s an entire slice of pizza.” Owen immediately licked his whiskers and Hercules leaned around the chair looking like he suddenly expected a fully loaded slice to materialize on a plate next to him on the floor.

“So please don’t feed them any more people food,” I continued. Owen meowed again. “Because no matter how much he may try to convince you otherwise, Owen is a cat.”

Ethan looked down at the little gray tabby. “Sorry, dude, the boss has spoken.”

Owen narrowed his golden eyes and his ears twitched. “I know,” Ethan said, a conspiratorial edge to his voice. “She’s been on me about my diet my entire life.”

Ethan got a kick out of how the cats responded when he talked to them. Part of that was that I talked to them all the time. They were used to having to hold up their end of a conversation even if it was just by tipping their furry heads to one side and making occasional sounds that seemed to indicate that they were listening. And part of it was that Owen and Hercules weren’t exactly ordinary cats. That was something I kept very much to myself.

Aside from the fact that they had been feral when I found them and didn’t handle people other than me touching them very well, the boys had certain skills that regular cats didn’t have. Owen could become invisible at will. It had seemed so shocking the first time I’d realized what he could do, and now it was no big deal—for the most part. Hercules, on the other hand—or maybe that should be “paw”—could walk through walls. Any kind of walls, from brick to wood to solid steel. They were no kind of obstruction to the little tuxedo cat. When Hercules had walked directly through a heavy, solid door into a meeting room at the library I wasn’t sure if I was hallucinating or having some kind of breakdown.

I also had the feeling that both Owen and Hercules understood a lot more of what was said to them than probably even I knew. Given their other talents, it didn’t seem that far-fetched. Luckily for me, my friends were all cat people. No one thought me talking to the boys was the slightest bit odd. Owen adored Maggie, who returned his affection by keeping him in yellow catnip chickens. Hercules had befriended both Rebecca and Everett, who were our backyard neighbors. And both cats had formed a bond with my friend Ruby, an artist and photographer who had taken a series of photographs of the two of them for what had turned out to be a very successful promotional calendar for the town. The one person they were somewhat iffy about was Roma. She was the town veterinarian, so not only was she always reprimanding anyone who fed them people food, she was also the person who administered their shots.

“I’m leaving,” I said to the room in general. “Are we still on for lunch?”

Ethan nodded over the top of his coffee cup.

“Okay, I’ll see you at Eric’s.” I mock-glared at all three of them. “Try to stay out of trouble.” All of them gave me their best innocent looks. I was not fooled.

Mountain Road, where my little white farmhouse was, curved in toward the center of town, so as I drove down the hill the roof of the library building came into view. The two-story brick building, which had originally been built in 1912, sat near the midpoint of a curve of shoreline and was protected from the water by a sturdy rock wall. The library featured an original stained-glass window at one end and a copper-roofed cupola, complete with the restored wrought-iron weather vane that had been attached to the roof when the library had been completed more than a century ago.

The Mayville Heights Free Public Library, like many others of its vintage, was a Carnegie library, built with funds donated by Scottish-American industrialist Andrew Carnegie. Everett Henderson had funded the renovations to the building, his gift to the town for the library’s centennial, and had hired me to oversee everything as head librarian. In eighteen months I’d fallen in love with the town and the people, and when Everett and the library board had offered me a permanent job I’d said yes.

Abigail Pierce was just walking along the sidewalk as I pulled into the parking lot at the library. She waited for me at the front steps and smiled as I reached her. “How was The Brick?” she asked.

I studied her face for a moment then narrowed my gaze. “You knew,” I said. Mary and Abigail were friends as well as co-workers. What were the chances Mary hadn’t said what she was going to be doing last night? It was her day off, otherwise I knew she could easily have shown up with an oversized feather fan and an offer—again—to teach me how to dance.

Abigail cocked her head to one side. Her copper-red hair was streaked with silver and she wore it in a sleek, chin-length bob that showed off her beautiful cheekbones and blue eyes. Not only did she work at the library, she was also a very talented children’s book author.

“I’m sorry, Kathleen, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. “Was there a problem of some kind last night?”

“Oh, no,” I said as I started up the stairs. “The band was fantastic. Ethan and the guys did three songs as well.”

Abigail’s lips twitched but she managed to keep a straight face. “What kind of music?” she asked. “Did they play anything you could dance to?” She put a little extra emphasis on the word “dance.”

I stared at her without speaking and she couldn’t contain her laughter any longer. “I swear I didn’t know Mary was going to be dancing until after the library had closed and you were gone.” She put up one hand as if to quell any objection I might make.

I opened the main doors, shut off the alarm and stepped into the library proper, marveling as I always did at the beauty of the restored building. A detailed mosaic floor was under our feet and all around the bright, open space was gorgeous wooden molding that had been meticulously refinished or carefully re-created to match the original.

“Mary and Sandra,” I said, flipping on the lights.

“Wait a minute. Sandra Godfrey?” Abigail was already halfway to the stairs. She stopped and looked back over her shoulder at me.

I nodded. “I think there were peacock feathers involved.”

“Sandra Godfrey dancing at amateur night at The Brick,” Abigail said. “Mary had to have had a hand in that.”

“From the very brief glimpse I got, Mary had more than just a hand in what was happening on that stage,” I said.

That made Abigail laugh again. “Great. Now how am I supposed to get the image of Sandra wearing peacock feathers and very little else out of my head the next time she comes in to borrow some books?”

“You know, I admire their confidence, getting up and dancing like that,” I said as we headed upstairs to the staff room. “I couldn’t do that.”

“That’s because you can’t dance,” Abigail said.

She was right. I couldn’t dance, I had no natural rhythm and it didn’t matter how many containers you gave me—buckets or otherwise—I couldn’t carry a tune. “Everyone else in my family can sing and dance, you know. For a while when I was a teenager I thought I’d been left by gypsies.”

“Gypsies who loved books and loved to organize things,” Abigail finished.

I grinned at her. “Pretty much.”

She pointed over her shoulder at her backpack. “I have muffins,” she said, waggling her eyebrows at me, “from Sweet Thing.”

Sweet Thing, a small bakery run by Georgia Tepper, was best known for its cupcakes, but Georgia had recently started making muffins as well.

“The way to my heart,” I said, putting both hands on the left side of my chest.

Abigail laughed. “I thought coffee was the way to your heart.”

I nodded. “It is. Oh, and pizza and Eric’s chocolate pudding cake.” I was still listing my favorite things to eat as we reached the staff room.

Abigail made the coffee while I dropped my things in my office. Then we took a few minutes to go over our plans for the upcoming Money Week we had planned for mid-April. We were going to talk about taxes, budgets and debt. We had several speakers scheduled, including a woman who ran a popular frugal-living blog. There were workshops planned for adults and teens. A couple of teachers at the high school were bringing their classes to the talk about budgets. Before that, in a little less than three weeks, we were going to be home to the Mayville Heights quilt festival, along with the St. James Hotel.

Abigail turned on our computers and started on the contents of the book drop. I went to my office to call Harrison Taylor. Harrison was in his early eighties and the first time I’d seen him—in a chair in my backyard—I’d thought I was looking at Santa Claus. He had thick white hair and a snowy beard. There was generally a twinkle in his eye as well.

Harrison was a wellspring of information about Mayville Heights and the surrounding area. He’d done one well-received talk about the history of the town and due to popular demand—and the fact that he’d lost a wager about attendance at the first talk—he was going to do a second.

“You set me up, Kathleen,” he said. I knew from the tone of his voice that he wasn’t really annoyed that I’d won our bet. Harrison was charming, well-spoken and an excellent public speaker. His talk had been standing-room only, just as I’d expected, which is why I’d made the wager in the first place. We’d been sitting in Fern’s Diner when I’d first made my proposition. It hadn’t been hard to talk him into saying yes.

“You come and talk for about half an hour about the history of the town—time period to be determined—and then you answer questions. If my meeting room isn’t full I’ll treat you to the biggest steak Peggy has out back,” I’d said, tipping my head in the direction of the diner’s kitchen.

“Like shooting fish in a barrel,” I told him now. “Would you like to hazard a guess about how many people are going to show up this time?”

His laughter boomed through the phone. “Not likely. I may have been born at night, young lady, but it wasn’t last night.”

It was a busy morning at the library. The sunshine seemed to bring out more people than usual, that and the fact that several teachers at the high school had assigned papers due in the next two weeks. When we closed for the day at lunchtime I headed over to Eric’s Place to meet Ethan and Derek for lunch.

I decided to leave my truck in the lot and walk over. The streets in Mayville Heights that ran from one end of town to the other all followed the curve of the shoreline, so it was a short walk to the café. The snow that had fallen earlier in the week was already melting and the sidewalks were dry and bare for the most part. Winter in Mayville Heights, Minnesota, came in three varieties: About to Snow, Snowing and Get Out the Shovel, and by March we were all grateful for a sunny day with the temperature above freezing.

As I headed down the sidewalk toward the café I caught sight of Derek standing nose to nose with Lewis Wallace, the drunk from the night before. My stomach sank. I could see belligerence in the businessman’s stance. I remembered the arrogance I’d noted in his body language and demeanor the night before and realized I’d been unrealistic to think the problem had passed.

I started walking faster but before I got to them Ethan stepped between the two men, pushing Derek back, one hand shoving hard against his chest. At the same time he said something to Wallace, pointing down the sidewalk with his other hand. Wallace made one last comment to the two of them that I couldn’t hear before he walked away, making a dismissive gesture with one hand. He got into a Big Bird–yellow Hummer wedged in at the curb and drove off.

As I reached them Derek pushed Ethan’s arm away and took a couple of steps back, holding one hand in the air like a warning. His face was flushed and he raked a hand back through his hair the way Marcus did when something was bothering him.

Ethan was trying to say something to his friend. Bad idea, I knew. I caught his arm and he turned, just seeming to realize that I was there. “Give him a minute,” I said. Derek had turned away from us and I knew the best thing to do was let him be while he got his anger under control.

Anger flashed in Ethan’s hazel eyes. “I’m not six, Kathleen,” he snapped. He shook off my hand.

I took a breath and let it out. “I know that. I just want to know what’s going on because I need to know if this is something Marcus should hear about.” I lowered my voice slightly. “He didn’t make an issue out of what happened last night, which let that guy off the hook, but don’t forget he’s not the only one who got to walk away.”

Ethan folded one arm over the top of his head, his fingers digging into the bottom of his skull. “I’m sorry. We were just coming out of that bookstore. The dipwad from last night had right then parked his big-ass vehicle and gotten out. When he saw Derek he came across the sidewalk and got in his face almost like they knew each other or something. What a jerk!”

“Yeah, he is,” Derek said behind us.

I turned to look at him. The angry flush had faded from his cheeks.

“He’s a first-class jerk. Forget about him. I don’t want to waste one more bit of air on that guy. C’mon, I’m hungry. Let’s have lunch.” He looked at Ethan. “And I sort of have this idea for a song that’s been rolling around my head all morning.” His gaze shifted to me. “I’m good. I swear.”

Ethan bumped me with his hip as we started for the door. “A word of warning. Derek is about to fall down a rabbit hole.”

“I am not,” Derek retorted.

Ethan just looked at his friend, a smile playing around his mouth.

“Okay, so maybe I can get a little distracted when I’m working on a song.”

“A little?” Ethan snorted.

We stepped inside the café and Claire came around the counter with a smile. She carried three menus and, because she knew me well, the coffeepot.

Ethan immediately stood up straighter and smiled. Talk about getting distracted.

“Hi, Kathleen,” Claire said. Her red curls were pulled up in two pigtails and she was wearing her dark-framed glasses instead of contacts. “Would you like that table by the window?” She gestured at one of my favorite places to sit in the small restaurant. I could see all the way to the water out of the front window.

“Please,” Ethan said. “I mean, if it’s not too much trouble. We can sit closer to the counter if that would be easier for you.” Like Mom, he was a bit of a flirt.

“Claire, this is my brother, Ethan, and our friend Derek,” I said.

She smiled at Ethan then turned to Derek. “You were in yesterday for lunch.”

“You recommended that noodle bowl,” he said. “It was pretty good.”

“That does sound good,” I said as we headed toward our table. I took the chair closest to the window. Ethan sat next to me and Derek took a seat across from us.

Claire handed us menus, then reached for the heavy stoneware mug in front of me and poured a cup of coffee. “How about you two?” she asked, looking from Derek to Ethan.

Both men nodded.

“Do you need some time with the menu?” she asked after she’d filled the guys’ cups.

“I don’t,” I said. “I think I’ll have the ramen bowl.”

“Me too,” Derek said. He’d only given the menu a quick glance.

“I’m game,” Ethan said. “Unless there’s something else you’d recommend.”

I fought the urge to roll my eyes.

“I think you’ll like the ramen bowl,” Claire said. She shot me a quick bemused glance. I was pretty sure she already had Ethan’s number.

“It won’t be long,” she added. She collected our menus and headed for the kitchen.

I added cream and sugar to my coffee and then focused my attention on Derek. I really did want to get to know him better. “Derek, do you mind telling me a little about how you write a song?” I asked. “Which comes first? The words or the music?”

“Well, that depends,” he said, propping his elbows on the table. “A lot of times a few words or a sentence come to me and the song starts from there. Other times it’s a few notes of music.”

“How long does it take?”

He shrugged. “Again, that depends. I’ve written songs in less than a day and there are some that took weeks.”

Ethan pointed a finger at Derek. “‘Begin Again,’” both men said at the same time.

“We wrote that song together,” Derek explained, seeing my confused expression. “We were stuck on one line—one line—for I don’t know, three weeks maybe. It drove me crazy.”

Ethan cleared his throat.

Derek turned his head. “Are you hacking up something or was that commentary?”

Ethan was turned sideways in his chair, one hand wrapped around his coffee mug. “Drove you crazy?” he said. “You drove everyone around you crazy.” He gestured with his free hand. “I’m not kidding, Kath. One of his neighbors called the police for a wellness check because she was worried that Derek was suffering from some kind of mental health crisis because he was wandering around the block talking to himself!”

Derek laughed, a bit shame-faced. “Okay, I admit that I can get a bit of tunnel vision when I’m stuck on a song.”

Ethan leaned his head in my direction, a conspiratorial tone to his voice. “Same woman who called the police for the wellness check? She made him a fanny pack with change for the T, some wet wipes and a baggie of granola in case he wandered too far away and got hungry.”

“Don’t knock it,” Derek said with a grin. “That was homemade granola that Mrs. Melanson made herself with a bunch of that dried fruit and chocolate chips. It was really good.”

Claire arrived then with our steaming ramen bowls. We ate, we laughed, we talked about song writing and the tour and life in general and I thought how happy I was to be spending time with my brother. I noticed Derek glance out the window a couple of times and I hoped that Lewis Wallace left town soon.

After lunch—which Ethan insisted on paying for—the guys decided to head to the co-op store. Maggie had mentioned some guitar straps that Ethan wanted to see.

“Would you give this to Maggie, please?” I asked, taking a small brown paper bag out of my bag.

“Sure,” Ethan said. “What is it?”

“It’s a peanut butter and banana muffin—her favorite—from Sweet Thing.”

He frowned. “Sweet Thing?”

“It’s a bakery. She’ll know,” I said. I’d swiped it from the box Abigail had brought in—with her permission.

I walked back to the library to get the truck because I had to go over to Fern’s Diner to drop off a large coffeemaker that Peggy had loaned me for Harrison Taylor’s talk about Mayville Heights’s history. The library’s coffeemaker had died, shooting water and coffee all over the staff room in one messy last hurrah.

Eight or nine years ago, Fern’s had been restored to its 1950s glory, or as Roma liked to describe it, “Just like the good old days only better.” The building was low and long, with windows on three sides, aglow with neon after dark. Inside there was the all-important jukebox, booths with red vinyl seats and a counter with gleaming chrome stools. The diner’s claim to fame was Meatloaf Tuesday: meatloaf, mashed potatoes, green beans in the summer, carrots the rest of the time, brown gravy and apple pie.

It was quiet at Fern’s. Larry Taylor was in the back corner at a table by himself, having a late lunch. Larry was Harrison’s younger son, an electrician who had done a lot of work at the library. He raised a hand in hello and I waved back at him.

“You didn’t have to rush to bring this back,” Peggy said. She was wearing polka-dot pedal pushers, a short-sleeved white shirt with Peggy Sue stitched over the left breast pocket and rhinestone-tipped, cat’s-eye-framed glasses. Her hair was in a bouffant updo with a red bow bobby-pinned at the front.

“Thanks for lending it to us on short notice,” I said, laying a hand on the top of the box that held the coffeemaker. “I ordered a new one and it should be here on Monday.”

Peggy took the box and set it behind the counter. “Well, if you need it again, just let me know.”

Peggy had been seeing Harrison Taylor for months now, or as he liked to describe it, “keeping company.” Since I regularly spent time with the old man, I’d gotten to know her better. Although Peggy was a lot younger than Harrison, she’d been good for him, getting him to keep doctors’ appointments and cut back on caffeine. Most of all, he was happy, which was all any of us cared about.

Behind me the door to the diner opened and Georgia Tepper came in, carrying a large cardboard box with the logo of her company, Sweet Thing, stamped on top. Her shoulders were hunched, body rigid, and she was clenching her teeth. When I saw who was behind her I understood why.

“No,” I said, under my breath. It was Lewis Wallace yet again. Why on earth was he turning up all over town?

He was hitting on Georgia, that much was obvious. He towered over her; in fact, he seemed to take up way too much space in the diner, and way too much air. “I’d love a little taste of something sweet,” he was saying.

My first impression of Wallace hadn’t been a good one and neither had the second and now the third. The man used his size to bully people and his lack of self-awareness was disturbing. He put a hand on Georgia’s shoulder and she stiffened, twisting her body out of his grasp as she moved sideways.

Wallace looked at the box she was holding. “Aww, don’t be like that, sweet thing,” he said as he reached over and trailed a finger down the arm of her jacket.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Larry stand up. At the same time Peggy and I both began to move toward Georgia. She stepped sideways again, closer to Lewis Wallace, coming down hard on his left foot in his not-appropriate-for-March-in-Minnesota Italian leather loafers with the chunky heel of her boot.

“Hey, watch it!” he exclaimed, grimacing and taking a step backward.

Georgia was trembling, almost imperceptibly, but her voice was steady when she said, “You should really watch where you put your . . . feet.”

“Is everything all right?” I said, walking over to her.

Georgia nodded. “Yes, it is.”

Wallace shook his head and said, “Jeez, a guy can’t even give a girl a compliment anymore.” He looked at Larry, who had just joined us. “Am I right?”

“No,” Larry said. “You’re not.” Larry was one of the most easy-going people I knew. He, too, was a big man. Unlike Wallace with his doughy build, Larry was all solid muscle, with blond hair and green eyes. I’d never thought of him as being the slightest bit intimidating. Until now.

Wallace looked at us for a long moment. “Aww, screw it,” he said. He turned and went back out the door.

I took the big box of cupcakes from Georgia and handed it to Peggy. “Are you okay?” I asked.

She nodded. “I am. Thank you.” She looked at Larry. “Thank you, too.”

“Georgia, do you know Larry?” I said.

The question got a tiny smile out of her. “I’ve seen you around town,” she said, directing that small smile at him.

He nodded. “I’ve had a couple . . . dozen of your cupcakes.” He patted his stomach.

Georgia glanced at the door. “That guy is creepy. He followed me across the parking lot and he wouldn’t stop hitting on me.”

Larry shrugged. “Yeah, well, he has that reputation.”

“So you know him?” Georgia asked.

“I know of him,” Larry said. “His name is Lewis Wallace.”

Peggy was nodding. “I thought that was him. He’s the one the development committee is talking to. They’re hoping he’ll set up his new business in one of the empty warehouses down by the waterfront, if he gets everything he wants.”

I remembered the information packet I’d brought home from the meeting Maggie and I had attended. “Wallace is a former athlete, isn’t he?” I said. “Football?”

Larry nodded. “He played college ball but he couldn’t cut it in the NFL. He wasn’t really big enough. So he went to Canada and played there for a few years. Offensive lineman.”

“Offensive human from what I saw,” Peggy said drily.

Georgia’s hand was still trembling. She stuffed it in the pocket of her jacket. Given her past experiences, including her connection to the death of businessman Mike Glazer, it was no wonder she was shaky.

It wasn’t the only reason confrontations made her uneasy. Georgia had changed her name when she’d come to Mayville Heights. Before that she had been Paige Wyler. Her in-laws hadn’t liked her from the moment she’d married their son. He’d died when their daughter, Emmy, was only six months old. His parents had tried to get custody of the baby. When that didn’t work they’d tried to kidnap her, which led to an assault charge being filed—against Georgia—for threatening her former mother-in-law with a chef’s knife.

Georgia had spent three years on the run with Emmy, always looking over her shoulder. Marcus had put her together with a good lawyer, who had gotten a permanent restraining order against the Wylers, and slowly Georgia had begun to relax, at least a little.

“Maybe a cup of tea would be good,” I said to Peggy.

“I’m going to get back to my lunch,” Larry said, gesturing over his shoulder in the general direction of his table. He smiled at Georgia. “Would you let me walk you to your car when you leave? Please? For my own peace of mind?”

She nodded. “Yes. Thank you.”

Larry went back to his table. I thought about how much he was like his father.

“I’m overreacting,” Georgia said, sitting down on one of the vinyl-covered stools at the counter and pulling off her mittens. “Those kinds of encounters make me anxious.”

“You’re not overreacting and I think you handled things very well,” I said, slipping onto the stool next to her. “I don’t think I would have thought of stepping on his foot like that.”

That got me a much bigger smile. “I saw that on The Bachelorette. Bianca stomped on Jarrod’s foot when he stuck his tongue in her mouth.” Color warmed the tops of her cheeks. “I watch it sometimes when I’m in the kitchen getting boxes ready for the cupcakes.”

I leaned toward her. “Hercules and I watch the show while we fold laundry. Well, I do the folding. It’s kind of tricky with paws.” That made her smile.

Peggy came back with a cup of tea for Georgia and one for me as well. She gestured at the box of cupcakes. “You didn’t have to bring these over today.”

“No, it’s okay,” Georgia said. “I wanted you to have enough while I’m gone.” She looked at me. “I’m going to Minneapolis for a few days to take a course. I’ll be leaving tomorrow morning. I’m hoping to move into making cakes for special occasions, so I need to up my decorating skills.” She turned her head toward the parking lot. “Maybe when I get back Mr. Wallace will be gone.”

Peggy glanced over at the door again. “Lewis Wallace is a crass pig of a man. I don’t think the town should be doing business with him and I intend to say so at the next town meeting.” She straightened her rhinestone-tipped cat’s-eye glasses. “The sooner that man is gone, the better.”

I added a silent “amen” to that.