A Night's Tail

chapter 3

Hercules was sitting on the front steps when I got home. He watched as I got out of the truck and locked the driver’s-side door.

“Let’s go,” I said, inclining my head in the direction of the backyard.

His response was to hold up one foot and shake it. I knew that was cat for “Carry me.”

Hercules despised getting his feet wet. In fact, his dislike of having wet paws had led to him briefly being the not-so-proud owner of a pair of boots courtesy of Maggie. To be specific, black-and-white boots that matched his black-and-white fur, in a paw-print design complete with a soft fleece lining and an anti-slip sole. Maggie’s heart had been in the right place but boots just weren’t the right fashion choice for Hercules and he’d happily surrendered them to a cat in need at Roma’s veterinarian clinic.

Harrison Taylor’s other son, Harry, aka Young Harry or Harry Junior, had cleared the driveway and the walkway to the back door after the last storm. There were a few patches of half-melted snow on the path. There were also dry, bare spots, too. Hercules gave a pathetic meow, his left front paw still hanging in the air.

I blew out a breath, shifted my messenger bag to my left shoulder and scooped up the cat. “You are so spoiled,” I told him. “Your character has been weakened.”

“Mrrr,” he said as he licked my chin. He didn’t seem the slightest bit troubled by the idea.

We headed around the house to the back door. I set Hercules down on the steps, which were bare and dry, so I could fish my keys out of my pocket. He looked across the backyard toward Rebecca’s house, narrowed his green eyes and began to make muttering noises. I knew what that was about.

“Everett will be back in a couple of days,” I said as I opened the door. “You can go back to mooching bacon then.”

My little house actually belonged to Everett Henderson. Living in it was a perk of taking the library job.

Back when I had first moved in, Everett and Rebecca weren’t married. They weren’t even seeing each other. They’d spent most of their lives loving each other but apart. The cats and I had played a very, very small role in getting them back together and for Everett that was a debt that could never be completely repaid.

After they were married Everett had moved into Rebecca’s house and sold Wisteria Hill, his family home, to Roma. His “friendship” with Hercules had started with the two of them reading the newspaper over coffee (and bacon) in the backyard gazebo through the spring and summer. It was helped by the fact that Hercules looked just like Everett’s late mother’s cat, Finn. And it seemed Hercules—like Everett—had some strong opinions on town government.

Things had progressed to breakfast in the house on Tuesdays and Fridays during the colder months when Everett was in town—which he hadn’t been for the past several days. I had no idea how the cat knew what day of the week it was, but he definitely did. For all I knew Hercules was looking at the calendar. Given everything else he was capable of, it wasn’t exactly impossible.

I followed him into the kitchen, happy that he’d stopped and waited for me to open the door. He stretched and headed for his water dish. There was no sign of Owen. Or of Ethan, for that matter. They were both equally capable of getting into trouble and I had about as much control over the cat as I did over my baby brother.

“I’m home,” I called. Usually that got me an answering meow at least, but there was nothing but silence. Had Owen gone out when Ethan left to meet me for lunch?

I kicked off my boots and was hanging up my jacket when I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. The basement door, which had been open just a crack, swung open a little wider and Owen poked his head into the room. There were bits of catnip on his whiskers and a piece of yellow fluff dangling from one ear. And his eyes didn’t quite focus. I knew if I went down to the basement I’d find the remains of a Fred the Funky Chicken, yet another in a long line of yellow catnip chickens that Owen had decapitated.

Hercules looked at his brother, exhaled through his nose in a way that sounded like a small exclamation of disgust and exited through the kitchen door—literally this time—into the porch.

I crouched down next to Owen and brushed the flakes of catnip off of his whiskers and fur. “You have a monkey—no, scratch that—a chicken on your back,” I said to him as I collared the bit of yellow fluff. He put one paw on my knee, gave my chin an awkward butt with his head and then very noisily got a drink before weaving his way out of the room.

I changed my clothes, threw a load of laundry in the washer and cleaned up the catnip and bits of funky chicken from the stairs and basement floor because who was I kidding, there was no way Owen was going to do it. Then I went back upstairs, rooted around to see what was in the fridge and the cupboards and decided to make apple spice muffins. Once the muffins were in the oven, I pulled out the vacuum.

Finally, I sat down at the table with my laptop and a cup of hot chocolate. Hercules had retreated upstairs when I’d gone out into the porch with the vacuum cleaner. Now he poked his head around the living room door and meowed inquiringly at me.

“All done,” I said.

He padded over to the table and launched himself onto my lap.

“Remember the drunken man from last night that I told you about?” I asked. I talked to the cats a lot. Saying what I was thinking out loud helped me sort things out in my own mind; at least that’s what I told myself.

Hercules gave a murp of acknowledgment.

“His name is Lewis Wallace. I want to see what I can find out about him.” I raised an eyebrow at him. “Want to help me?”

“Merow!” he said. Hercules was almost always enthusiastic about helping me look things up online. He’d squint at the screen as though he were reading an article or examining a photograph. More than one stray swipe of his paw at the keyboard had somehow taken me to exactly the piece of information I needed.

It turned out there was a lot of information to be found online about the former football star. Wallace had played in the Canadian Football League for six years with three different teams. The offensive lineman’s behavior had been offensive off the field, as well, at times. There had been multiple complaints from the cheerleaders for two of those teams about Wallace making inappropriate comments and getting handsie with them. He had also been fined several times for breaking curfew and for showing up late on two occasions for training camp when he was with the Montreal Alouettes, both of which he blamed on his chronic insomnia, which often left him wandering around in the middle of the night at whatever hotel the team was staying.

Given Wallace’s checkered past and how easy it had been to find that information, I was surprised that the development committee was considering going into business with the man. Maybe this at least partly explained why coming to a final decision was taking so long.

It turned out that the supplement business wasn’t the only deal Lewis Wallace had in the works. He and two partners were also in negotiations to lease a failed marina they co-owned on the Ohio River to a group that wanted to base a riverboat casino out of the space. Wallace had owned the property since his playing days in Canada.

Hercules sat on my lap and seemed to read each new screen that came up. When I reached for my cup he put a paw to the keyboard, then turned and looked expectantly at me. We seemed to have landed on a fan forum. I read a few posts and very quickly realized that Lewis Wallace had been a very polarizing player as far as the Canadian fans were concerned. Some had praised his play and excused his off-the-field exploits as nothing more than a young man letting off a little steam. The expression “boys will be boys” was used more than once. Others had been critical because Wallace wasn’t always willing to sign autographs, and several posters felt he was just lazy. Wallace had never seemed to work out in the off-season and his diet had been crappy because of his rabid sweet tooth.

I stretched and got up to switch the laundry from the washer to the dryer. When I came back upstairs Hercules was standing on his back legs, one white-tipped paw resting on the edge of the table while he studied the computer screen. I picked him up again, sat down and waited while he got settled.

There was an article from an Ottawa newspaper’s website on the screen. It appeared to be about Lewis Wallace’s life since retirement.

“How did you get here?” I asked the cat. He looked pointedly at the touch pad and then at me. Being a cat, he didn’t say, “Well, duh,” but it was implied.

After he retired Wallace had been involved in an online memorabilia business that went under, leaving disgruntled customers behind. There were accusations from clients that not all the items that had been on the company website were legit—several pieces turned out to be fakes and some others had been obtained through some sketchy means.

“Lewis Wallace doesn’t sound like someone who’s very responsible,” I said.

“Mrr,” Hercules agreed without moving his gaze from the laptop.

There was a link to another newspaper article at the end of the one about Wallace’s business dealings. I clicked on it. From a quick skim of the second piece I learned that the former football player had lost both of his parents within six months of each other when he was just nineteen.

I shifted Herc on my lap, leaning back so I could stroke the soft black fur on the top of his head. I thought about myself at nineteen. I had been so eager to get away from home and so lost and homesick once I actually had.

“That might explain why he acts a lot like a bratty teenager,” I said. I wasn’t condoning kicking a dog or harassing women but I wondered what kind of person I would have turned out to be without my mom and dad.

Hercules cocked his head to one side and wrinkled his nose. He didn’t seem quite as convinced.

I shut down the computer and set Hercules on the floor. The dryer was about to buzz. At the meeting I’d gone to we’d learned that Lewis Wallace had bought a small organic supplement business. He was looking to expand, to set up a home base for the company as well as a distribution center. Mayville Heights was one of the possible sites.

“I remember Thorsten saying that we had a bit of an advantage because many of Wallace’s suppliers are in this area, but that Wallace was looking for some pretty significant tax breaks from the town,” I said to Hercules as he followed me down to the dryer. “The thing that sticks in my mind was that the presentation was a little short on hard numbers and firm timelines. And I don’t remember anyone mentioning that failed memorabilia business.” Had Lewis Wallace’s obnoxious behavior contributed to its failure? I wondered.

Ethan was back in time for supper. Milo and Derek were with him. I fed them chicken tortilla soup. Ethan made corn bread and the guys did the dishes.

“When are you going to join the twenty-first century and get a dishwasher?” Ethan teased as he put the bowls away in the cupboard.

“As long as you’re here I have one,” I countered.

We hadn’t had a dishwasher when Ethan and Sara were little and they had taken turns drying and putting things away while I washed each night. Cleaning glasses, plates, bowls, cutlery and pots and pans for five people should have turned me off of doing dishes for life, but I’d had some of my best conversations with my brother and sister during those times. For me there was nothing tedious about washing dishes by hand, just lots of great memories. If nothing else, it was a good time for thinking while my hands were busy.

“Hey, Kathleen, how did the furry dudes get their names?” Milo asked, dipping his head in the cats’ direction. He was the one up to his elbows in soapsuds.

Ethan turned to look at me. “Yeah, good question. How did you pick their names?”

Both cats turned to look at us as though they knew they were the topic of conversation.

“I was reading A Prayer for Owen Meany,” I said, “and every time I went to pick up the book Owen was sitting on it. So I named him Owen.”

“What about Hercules?” Milo said.

“He was named after the Roman god, the son of Zeus.”

“So they got book names,” Ethan said.

I nodded. That was true, for the most part. I didn’t add that Hercules was actually named for the particular incarnation of the Roman god on the cheesy nineties’ TV show Hercules: The Legendary Journeys. I knew I’d never hear the end of it if Ethan had that piece of information.

Once the kitchen had been cleaned, Ethan and Milo decided to drive over to Red Wing to check out a club. “My turn to be the dee-dee,” Milo said.

“What’s a dee-dee?” I asked.

“Designated driver,” Ethan said over his shoulder. He turned and grinned at me. “Don’t worry, big sister. We won’t do anything irresponsible.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” I said, getting to my feet. I leaned in close to Milo. “I have bail money if you need it,” I stage-whispered.

They all laughed, all except Derek, who was sitting at the table seemingly lost in thought, humming quietly to himself.

“Dude, are you coming with us?” Ethan asked.

Derek didn’t respond. I wasn’t sure if he hadn’t heard Ethan or didn’t realize the question had been directed at him.

Ethan leaned over and waved a hand in front of his friend’s face. Derek started and looked at Ethan, giving his head a shake. “Umm, scrambled,” he said.

I could tell by the confused look in his eyes that he had no idea what he’d just been asked.

“I wasn’t asking about breakfast,” Ethan said. He and Milo were struggling not to laugh. And failing for the most part.

I caught Milo’s eye. “Forty-two,” I said.

He thought for a moment and then comprehension flashed across his face. He smiled, nodding. “Well, of course,” he said, holding out both hands.

Now it was Ethan’s turn to look confused. “Hey, some of us have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said.

“The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy,” Milo said.

Ethan shrugged. “Sorry, I don’t get it.”

“Me neither,” Derek said.

“In the book, ‘forty-two’ is the answer to the ultimate question about life, the universe, everything,” I said.

“The only problem is no one knows what the question is,” Milo finished.

Ethan still looked lost. I got up, put my arms around his shoulders and gave him a sideways hug. “Read the book,” I said.

He stuck his tongue out at me, but I knew he would find the book.

“So you coming or what?” Ethan said to Derek.

Derek swiped a hand over his stubbled chin. “I don’t think so,” he said. “I really need to do a little more work on this song.”

Ethan and Milo exchanged a look. “Better find Derek’s fanny pack,” Milo said. He was leaning against the counter, surreptitiously—he seemed to think—dropping sardine crackers down to Owen and Hercules, who also seemed to think I didn’t know what was going on. Milo had also absentmindedly eaten two of the crackers himself. I was waiting to share that particular piece of information with him.

Milo looked at me. “Hey, Kathleen, if later on tonight you see Derek wandering along the street, make sure you steer him back to the place we’re staying or he could end up in, oh, I don’t know”—he looked around the kitchen as though he was trying to orient himself—“say, Michigan.”

“Driving here we almost did end up in Michigan,” Derek retorted. “Thanks to you and your cheapo GPS.” He smirked. “Turn left in two, two, two, two, two miles,” he mimicked a stilted robotic voice.

“There’s nothing wrong with your writing style, Derek,” I said, folding my hands on Ethan’s shoulder and resting my head on them. “It’s better than someone’s technique, which is to sit around unshaven in his tighty-whities, eating Cheetos and burping.”

Ethan twisted out of my grasp. “I do not sit around in my underwear burping when I’m writing a song,” he said, his voice indignant.

I held up my phone. “I beg to differ and I have the video to prove it.”

“There’s no way you have that video because Sara would never have given it to you.”

I gave an elaborately casual shrug. “I don’t mind showing you.”

Ethan’s mouth moved like he was tasting his words before he spoke them. “Fine,” he said. He held up a finger. “Once, once I might have been working on a song first thing in the morning before I had a chance to put on a pair of pants. One time, and certain people”—he glared at me—“never let you forget it.”

Milo made a face. “Man, I don’t care what your process is, but I could have gone for the rest of my life not knowing that you wear tighty-whities.”

The guys laughed and Ethan slung an arm around my shoulders. “You better sleep with one eye open, big sister, because I am going to get you for this.” He was grinning, too, so I knew he wasn’t angry with me. I also knew that didn’t mean he wouldn’t try to get even. On the other hand, if anyone else even hinted at coming after me for any reason, real or imagined, my little brother was my fiercest defender.

For a moment my chest tightened, as though I’d pulled on a too-tight sweater. I’d missed this, Ethan and his friends, cooking, eating and teasing one another. Ethan razzing me about Bigfoot sightings on the phone wasn’t the same thing.

As if he could read my mind, he leaned over and dropped a kiss on the top of my head. “I’m glad I’m here,” he said in a quiet voice.

I nodded. “Me too.”

Milo had run out of crackers, so both Owen and Hercules had disappeared. I was guessing Hercules had gone upstairs to prowl around in my closet while Owen was likely in the basement rooting in his catnip chicken stash.

“So what’s your plan for the morning?” I asked Ethan. He and Derek were teaching a one-day songwriting workshop at the St. James Hotel on Sunday.

“Can I get a ride down with you? Milo wants the van. He’s going to some flea market place Maggie told him about.” He smiled.

“Sure,” I said. “My meeting’s at nine.”

“Why so early and why on a Sunday?” He held up a hand. “Not that it’s too early for me. Derek and I need to get stuff set up.”

“There’s a quilt festival coming up. It’s mostly centered at the library but there will be a big product show and tea at the hotel. Things need to be moved back and forth. I have to go over the schedule and coordinate with Melanie, the hotel manager, and tomorrow morning is the only time we could make work for both of our schedules.”

“Yeah, Derek talked to her when he was getting this workshop set up. The whole thing was pretty much his idea.”

I glanced over at Derek, who was showing Milo something on his phone. “Well, since it’s keeping you around longer, I’m glad,” I said.

“You know, when Jake said he was going back to school I was afraid we were going to be screwed,” Ethan said, sliding the leather cord bracelet he wore up his arm. “But he was actually the one who suggested we at least hear Derek play. One time was all it took. Lucky for us he was looking to make some extra money. You heard him say his kid is headed to college in the fall.”

I nodded.

“Don’t get me wrong, Derek can rub people the wrong way sometimes and, yeah, there are lots of days I wish Jake was still with us, but I’ve learned a ton in the past couple of months. My guitar playing is better. So’s my songwriting.”

“I’m glad it worked out,” I said, “and I’m sure the two of you will be a big hit tomorrow.”

Ethan grinned. “You might be a little biased, but thanks for the vote of confidence.”

Marcus arrived just as the guys were leaving.

“Do I have time for a shower?” I heard Milo say.

“You don’t need to wash your hair,” Ethan replied. “It looks fine and it smells like a piña colada. You’re good.”

I didn’t hear Milo’s response.

Marcus set a small brown paper shopping bag on the table. Both cats appeared in the kitchen, sitting side by side next to the table, green eyes and golden eyes fixed on the paper bag. “What makes you think there’s something in that bag for you?” I asked.

Owen shot me a look.

“I had this coupon for fifty cents off a can of sardines,” Marcus began, fishing in the bag.

“And you didn’t want it to go to waste,” I finished.

“Something like that.” He at least had the good grace to look a bit embarrassed.

We’d been a couple for a year and a half now but I was still learning things about him. For instance, I’d recently discovered he liked samurai movies. Tonight we were going to watch one of his favorites: 13 Assassins. It seemed fair. He’d sat through one of my favorite movies, Santa Claus Conquers the Martians, at Christmastime. Marcus had promised popcorn with the movie. I knew that was a bribe.

I sat at the table while Marcus made the popcorn at the stove. After they had made quick work of their respective sardine halves the boys joined me, Hercules on my lap because he’d be closer to the popcorn when Marcus eventually set it on the table and Owen at my feet, which was his preferred spot in case any buttery kernels landed on the floor, which had been known to happen. Sometimes actually by accident.

Marcus was on a popcorn kick and had been since Christmas, when his sister, Hannah, had sent him some organic popcorn from a little company in Illinois. Now instead of making popcorn in the microwave he made it on the stove, dousing it with melted butter and sea salt, both of which he bought at the weekend farmer’s market.

“Hannah had no idea she was creating a popcorn snob when she sent you that original bag,” I said as the aroma of melting butter filled the kitchen. Hercules’s whiskers twitched as I stroked his fur.

Marcus put one hand on his chest in faux indignation. “I’m not a snob, I’m an aficionado,” he said. Right on cue Owen meowed his agreement.

“You have an opinion on everything, don’t you?” I said to the cat.

He licked his whiskers. He definitely had an opinion on anything with melted butter.

I leaned back in the chair, one hand on Hercules, who sighed softly. He knew there was pretty much no chance either of them was getting any popcorn; still, he liked licking butter and salt off my fingers, so for him this whole process was taking way too long.

“Did you know that the US is the world’s largest producer of popcorn?” I asked.

“No, I did not.” Marcus tipped his head toward the covered pot he was shaking over the burner. I wasn’t sure what he was listening for. Then again, I was happy with a bag of popcorn made in the microwave.

“It comes in two shapes, you know,” I continued. “Snowflake and mushroom. Because snowflake-shaped popcorn is bigger, movie theaters typically sell that shape.”

He was smiling at me, I realized.

“Am I talking too much?”

He stretched sideways to kiss the top of my head. “No, you’re not,” he said. He straightened up and turned his attention back to the stove. “Remember Lewis Wallace, the drunk from last night? Turns out he’s had some dealings with the police.”

“The memorabilia business,” I said. “How did you find out?”

“Guy from the prosecutor’s office was at the bar. He recognized Wallace. How did you find out?”

I gave him a brief rundown of my two encounters with Lewis Wallace and my subsequent research online. “I don’t know if any of this is relevant to Wallace bringing his business to town,” I said. “It’s not as though the information was hard to find. And let’s be realistic. The town can’t make some kind of character test a requirement for anyone who might set up business here.”

Hercules nudged my hand because I had stopped scratching between his ears.

“Still, I was thinking maybe I should talk to Lita. Or do you think the whole story about what happened last night is pretty much around town by now?”

Marcus frowned at the popcorn, which was now in a large bowl. He added a sprinkle more salt. “I’d be surprised if the story weren’t all around town by this point,” he said. He gave the bowl a shake and nodded, seemingly satisfied. “You’re right that we can’t set some kind of moral code that people have to meet just to be in business, because I’m pretty sure that would be a small pool, but on the other hand it doesn’t benefit the town to make a deal with someone that no one else will want to work with.” He gave me a wry smile. “Roma is on that development committee, remember? I’m going out to Wisteria Hill tomorrow to help Eddie get some stuff down out of the attic. I’ll tell her what happened—last night and today—and see what she thinks.”

Roma and I had met when Hercules and Owen followed me home from Wisteria Hill, two little balls of fur that didn’t seem to have a mother. That was back when Everett Henderson still owned the place. Later, Roma recruited me to join her team of volunteers that helped take care of the feral cat colony that lived in the old carriage house on the property. “Coincidentally” she’d paired me with Marcus.

Roma had married former NHL star Eddie Sweeney this past summer. They were still in the happily-ever-after honeymoon phase and I’d been surprised when she’d agreed to get involved with the new business committee the town had put together. But since I knew she’d be the calm voice of reason I was selfishly happy she’d said yes.

I got to my feet, gave Marcus a kiss and swiped a handful of popcorn from the bowl. “That works for me,” I said.

I was awakened in the morning by a poke from a furry paw. I opened one eye to find a furry black-and-white face looming over mine. I groaned. Hercules looked from me to my old clock radio and back again. I threw an arm over my eyes. “Yes, I know I wanted to get up early but not this early,” I told him. Despite the fact that the time change meant it was six thirty, to me it still felt like half past five.

I lay there for a moment and I could feel the cat still lurking. “You win,” I said, sitting up. Hercules dropped to all four feet and headed to the door. He paused in the doorway and gave a loud murp. Hercules liked to get the last word.

I got dressed and went down to the kitchen to make the coffee and feed Owen and Hercules their breakfast. I was leaning against the counter, both hands wrapped around my coffee mug, when Ethan wandered in, bare-chested, wearing just a pair of blue plaid-flannel pajama pants, his dark hair standing on end just the way it had when he was a little boy.

“How about a T-shirt?” I said, grabbing a mug from the counter and offering it to him. “No one wants to see that first thing in the morning.”

He reached for the coffeepot, poured a cup and then grinned at me. He rubbed a hand over his belly. “I haven’t had any complaints so far.”

I made a face at him. “Way, way more information than I need to have.”

Ethan just continued to smirk as he added cream and sugar to his mug.

I scrambled three eggs with some spinach and we ate them with the muffins I’d made the day before. Ethan told me about the band they’d gone to hear and I told him about the samurai movie. It seemed the movie had been a lot better than the music.

We headed down to the hotel about quarter to nine.

“So this is Old Main Street?” Ethan said when we turned the corner at the bottom of the hill.

I nodded. “Which is not the same as Main Street.”

“How the heck did that happen?”

“Would you believe I’m not sure?” I said. I’d gotten confused more than once, trying to find my way around town when I’d first moved to Mayville Heights from Boston, mostly due to the way some of the streets and buildings were named—and sometimes renamed. For instance, Old Main Street followed the shoreline from the Stratton Theatre, past the library and the St. James Hotel all the way to the marina. Main Street continued from the marina to the edge of town, where it joined the highway. Having two Main Streets made giving directions to visitors a little complicated, compounded by the fact that the St. James Hotel had reverted to its original name after a decade of being just the James Hotel.

It struck me that maybe the question about the streets was something Harrison could answer in his next talk.

“How far does that walking trail go?” Ethan asked, gesturing at the Riverwalk.

For me, one of the best parts of the downtown was the Riverwalk, which ran along the waterfront with all the tall black walnut and elm trees that lined the shore. “The trail begins up by the old warehouses at the point,” I said. “Then runs past the downtown shops and businesses, all the way out beyond the marina.”

If Lewis Wallace made a deal with the city, one of those warehouses would be home to his company.

Derek was waiting out front of the St. James with his guitar. He looked tired, with sooty dark circles under his eyes and lines pulling at the corners of them. There was a tiny bit of stubble on his chin that he’d missed shaving.

“How’s the song coming?” I asked.

“Umm, slowly,” he said.

“You want me to take a look at what you have so far?” Ethan asked.

Derek shook his head. “Give me a little more time to chew on it.”

Ethan shrugged. “No problem.”

Melanie Davis was waiting for us at the front desk. Melanie and I had originally met when I’d had to collect an intoxicated Burtis Chapman—Brady’s dad—and Marcus’s father, Elliot Gordon, from the hotel bar, where, lubricated with a fair amount of alcohol, they had been entertaining the customers with their vocal skills. When she joined the library board I was glad to get to know her in less embarrassing circumstances.

“Melanie, this is my brother, Ethan,” I said, “and you already know Derek Hanson.”

She smiled. “Ethan, it’s good to meet you, and Derek, it’s good to meet you in person.” Melanie was about my height, curvy with smooth brown skin, dark eyes and gorgeous corkscrew curls to her shoulders.

“It’s good to meet you, too,” Ethan said.

Derek simply nodded.

Melanie turned to me. “Kathleen, do you mind me showing Derek and Ethan their meeting room first and then we can go to my office?”

“That’s fine with me,” I said.

She led us across the lobby and down a hallway to the left. Derek had his guitar. Ethan carried his own guitar and a messenger bag I knew was full of papers. We stopped at a door at the end of the hall. I knew the room had big windows that overlooked the garden in the back of the hotel and would fill the space with light. It would be a great place for the workshop.

Melanie pulled out a set of keys. “These are the original doors.” She raised an eyebrow. “They add ‘character,’ so there’s a key as well as a code. Once we check the setup of the room I’ll input a temporary code the two of you can use for the day to secure the room at lunchtime if you want to leave for a while.”

“Thank you,” Ethan said.

“I should warn you that there are no security cameras in this part of the hotel. They’re coming once the renovation work makes it to this floor.”

“You’re upgrading the entire building,” I said.

She nodded. “Right now, they’re working on the floor above us. I actually have a temporary office on this main floor.” She pointed north down another corridor. “My office and several others are getting a face-lift. All the executive offices will be together and we’re getting two renovated washrooms. And eventually all of these old doors will be replaced with a keycard system.”

“You’ll lose a little character,” I said.

“The downside of updates,” she said. She gestured at the meeting room door. “The tables and chairs are set up the way we talked about and there’s a big whiteboard,” Melanie continued. “We can also get you a couple of smaller portable ones if you think you’ll need them.”

“Umm, no, one should be fine,” Ethan said.

“One of the kitchen staff will bring hot water and coffee about fifteen minutes before you start,” Melanie continued as she put the key in the lock. “They’ll bring more hot water and fresh coffee before you begin your afternoon session.” She glanced over her shoulder at us. “In my experience people like to get a cup of coffee or tea before they get started.” She swung the paneled door open and then froze in the open doorway, her breath catching in her throat. I took a couple of steps closer to see what was wrong with the meeting room.

The problem wasn’t the room. The problem was Lewis Wallace slumped at one of the tables. Even from where I was standing it was pretty clear he was dead.