A Tale Оf Two Kitties

chapter 11

Harrison got to his feet.

“What are you doing?” his son asked.

“What do you think I’m doing? I’m calling Lisa to find out what Leo wanted to talk to her about.” A cordless phone handset was sitting on the nearby buffet. He picked it up and brought it back to the table.

Harry stared at his father. “How do you know her phone number?”

“What? I’m not allowed to check on my daughter-in-law?”

“We’re not married anymore, Dad.”

The old man nodded his head. “I know that. You two aren’t married. That has nothing to do with me.” By then he had punched in a phone number and lifted the handset to his ear. A warm smile spread across his face when Harry’s ex-wife answered. “Hello, my girl, how are you?” Whatever her response was made him laugh. “Well, I think I’m in damn fine shape for the shape I’m in,” he said. He listened for a moment. “You’re right,” he said. “I didn’t just call to check in. My son says he asked if he could give your number to Leo Janes.”

I watched as the smile slipped off his face, replaced by a frown that pulled his bushy eyebrows together. “Well, that’s a surprise.”

There was a pause.

“I appreciate that,” Harrison said then. “It was good of you to say you’d talk to him. You have a good night. I’ll be talking to you soon.” He ended the call and set the phone on the table.

“Leo didn’t call before he died, did he?” I said. That seemed obvious from Harrison’s side of the conversation and the way his expression had changed.

He shook his head. “I can’t believe you went to so damn much trouble just to try to get that watch back,” he said to his son. “The fact that you did means a hell of a lot to me and I’m sorry I let you think I forgot your mother.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t get the watch before I gave him Lisa’s phone number,” Harry said.

Harrison shrugged. “Water under the bridge, son.” He looked across the table at me. “Eat up, Kathleen. I made gingerbread.”

“More like Peggy made gingerbread and you watched her,” his son commented. The glint of a smile was back in his eyes.

“Never you mind,” Harrison countered. “I can cook. I have all sorts of talents.” He grinned and wiggled his eyebrows at me.

I laughed and dropped my head over my bowl. I wasn’t crazy enough to get pulled into that conversation.

Harry got to his feet and picked up his bowl. “Your talents are not dinnertime conversation,” he said. His father just laughed.

The gingerbread, topped with a small dollop of vanilla whipped cream, was delicious. After we’d eaten Harrison showed me the Christmas card he’d received that had been in the pile of found mail. A jolly Santa was on the front and a slightly naughty limerick was written inside in sharp angular writing. The card was signed, Cyrus.

“Cyrus was your older brother,” I said.

Harrison nodded. “He was eight when I was born. The last thing he wanted was a baby brother. When I was about six months old the Edwards, who lived up the road a stretch, took in a dog somebody had just abandoned on our road. It had three puppies. Cyrus tried to trade me for one of the pups.” He smiled at the memory. “When Mrs. Edwards turned him down he offered the contents of his piggy bank as well. He always said he figured if he’d had another twenty-five cents worth of pennies in that thing they probably could have made a deal.”

I laughed. “But you ended up being really close.”

He stroked his beard and stared at something just beyond my right shoulder that only he could see. “We did. Cy was bossy as all get-out but he always had my back.” His focus came back to me. “What about you, Kathleen? Do you boss around that younger brother and sister of yours?”

“Every chance I get,” I said with a grin.

There was a knock on the door then. “Pops, are you here?” a voice called.

Mariah. She came into the room and stopped short when she caught sight of me. “Oh. Uh. Hi,” she said. She looked at her grandfather. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you had company.”

“It’s okay,” I said. “I was just about to head out anyway.”

“How did you make out at the library?” Harrison asked his granddaughter. “Did you find any of those people we talked about in the old yearbooks?”

Mariah shrugged. “Some. I need to go back and look some more.”

Harry came to the doorway. “There’s gingerbread in the kitchen,” he said to his daughter. “You can go get a piece.”

“Okay. Thanks, Dad,” she said.

“If you want some of the really old yearbooks, let me know,” I said. “And I’ll dig them out for you.”

“Um, yeah, maybe,” she said. “Thanks.” She escaped to the kitchen.

Harrison had gotten to his feet and I wrapped my arms around him in a hug. “Thank you for dinner. And I’m sorry I stirred up something that was none of my business.”

“You don’t have to be sorry, girl,” he said. “We cleared the air a little. No way that’s bad.”

“I’ll walk Kathleen out and I’ll be right back,” Harry said. He narrowed his gaze at his father. “And you don’t need another piece of that gingerbread.”

“I didn’t say I was going after another piece. I’m just going to the kitchen to keep my granddaughter company,” the old man said. Then he winked at me.

Harry and I headed out, across the gravel driveway to my truck. “I was wrong to put you on the spot about Leo,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

“Mia’s a good kid. You’re trying to figure out who killed her grandfather. I can’t fault you for that,” Harry said. “Besides, I was acting like the hind end of a horse, as the old man would say. I think we’re good.”

We said good-bye and when I got to the bottom of the driveway I stopped and checked my phone. There was a text from Susan saying they had closed early because a squirrel on a power pole knocked out power to the library. I thought it was odd Mariah hadn’t mentioned that, but it probably hadn’t seemed like a big deal to her.

• • •

Maggie and I were standing in the computer area the next afternoon trying to decide exactly where and how we were going to display the framed photos from the post office, when Simon walked into the building. He looked in my direction.

“I think he wants to talk to you,” Maggie said. She pulled a tape measure out of her pocket. “Go ahead. I need to check a couple of things.”

“I’ll only be a minute.” I walked over to Simon. “Hi,” I said.

He smiled. “Hi. I’m sorry to interrupt. I just wanted to ask if I can take you up on your offer to come with me when I talk to Celia Hunter?”

“Of course,” I said.

“We’re meeting at five thirty at the bar at the St. James. Will that work for you?”

I nodded. Owen and Hercules would be all right if I was a bit late getting home. “I’ll meet you there.”

“Thanks. Just put this on my tab.”

He headed for the door and I rejoined Maggie.

She was measuring the width of the wall in front of her. “I think this is going to work,” she said. “I’m going to do a sketch and try to figure out the layout.” Maggie was meticulous bordering on obsessive when it came to displaying her work. I knew whatever she came up with for the display would show off the photos at their best.

“Before I forget, I’m going to miss class tonight,” I said.

“Are you trying to get out of Push Hands?” she teased.

I shook my head. “No. I have to help Simon with something. Getting out of Push Hands is just a bonus.”

Mags laughed. “We’ll miss you.” She made a tiny notation on the drawing of the wall she’d just made. “You’d make a great mom,” she said.

I frowned at her. “How did you get from Push Hands to I’d make a great mom?”

“You’re trying to figure out who killed Simon’s father because you care about Mia. You’ve gotten really close with her.”

I nodded. “I have. Leo and her father were all she had. Now all she has is Simon. My parents may have been a little out there but I always had them and Sara and Ethan. I can’t imagine life without them.”

Maggie folded the piece of paper. “That’s because you’ve always had them. You’d miss your mother telling you to follow your heart but stand up straight while you’re doing it. You’d miss your dad as the dancing raisin no matter how embarrassing it was.”

Maggie’s father had died when she was four. She almost never talked about him. She smiled. “It’s good that Mia has you to talk to.”

“You wouldn’t believe the things she knows,” I said. “It’s like her head is a giant encyclopedia.”

Maggie rolled her eyes. “Uh-huh. And I wouldn’t have any experience with someone like that.”

I got to the hotel just before five thirty. Simon was waiting for me just inside the lobby. Melanie Davis was at the front desk and lifted a hand in hello. We’d originally met just a few weeks after she’d taken the manager’s job, when I’d had to collect an intoxicated Burtis and Marcus’s father from the bar, where they were entertaining the customers with their vocal skills.

It was quiet in the bar. Simon chose a table near the windows. He ordered club soda with lime and I had the same. We’d been seated about five minutes when Celia Hunter arrived. She wore a long two-tone charcoal-and-dove-gray cardigan with a matching charcoal sweater underneath and black trousers. She seemed to hesitate for a moment but then she crossed the room to join us.

Simon got to his feet. “Mrs. Hunter, I’m Simon Janes,” he said. “You already know Kathleen.”

Celia took the hand he offered. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She turned to me and dipped her head in acknowledgement. “Hello, Kathleen,” she said. “I wasn’t expecting to see you.”

“I asked her to join us,” Simon said smoothly, holding a chair for the older woman. He had lovely manners. “I thought you’d feel more comfortable since we’re strangers.” He smiled.

“Well . . . thank you,” Celia said. She took the seat and set a black leather purse on the table. Simon sat down as well. I’d brought Celia’s scarf with me and I handed it across the table to her. “Thank you,” she said. “I intended to get to the library yesterday but the day got away from me.”

She set the scarf next to her purse and turned to Simon. “As I told you on the phone, I don’t want to cause you any more grief, but this is probably one of the last letters your mother wrote and . . . and I thought you might like to see it.”

Simon’s face was unreadable. “I appreciate that,” he said.

Celia opened her purse and pulled out a pale pink envelope. The paper had faded and the side folds were almost worn through. Even hidden behind the wall for so many years, time had taken its toll. The top of the envelope had been slit with a letter opener. Simon pulled out two sheets of folded paper and unfolded them. Silently he read what was written and then handed the two pages to me without a word.

I handled the paper carefully. It was dry and a little brittle, especially the right edge of the second page. I could see how the pages hadn’t been folded evenly. The right edge of the second page hadn’t lined up behind the first and because of the slit in the side of the envelope the edge was more faded and brittle than the rest of the paper.

Dear Celia,

I hope you don’t throw this letter away as soon as you see it’s from me. You probably hate me for what I’ve done, but you couldn’t hate me more than I hate myself. Victor and Leo may look the same but they’re very different men. I thought Victor was exciting, and he seemed to know what I was thinking in a way Leo didn’t, as if he could see into my heart somehow.

I love him. I will see you soon.

Love, Merry

My chest hurt. Nowhere in the letter was there a mention of Simon. I wasn’t so sure this had been a good idea.

I handed the letter back to Simon, who returned it to the envelope and handed that across the table to Celia. “Thank you,” he said.

The older woman pressed her lips together for a moment. She seemed to be struggling with some kind of emotion—sadness, perhaps—coupled with a bit of loyalty to an old friend. “She loved you very much,” she said. “Please don’t doubt that.”

“Have a safe trip home,” Simon said.

She had been dismissed and realized it. She got to her feet, nodded at both of us and made her way to the exit.

Simon turned to me. “Pizza?” he asked. A waiter was already making his way toward us.

“Excuse me?” I said.

“You couldn’t have had time to have dinner before you got here. You must be hungry.” He was all business. “So how about pizza?”

“Umm, all right. Yes,” I said.

Simon gave our order to the waiter. Once the young man was on his way to the kitchen Simon turned his attention to me. “I know you’re worried that . . .” He paused. “I’m all right, Kathleen. That letter didn’t change my opinion of Victor or my mother. It changes nothing.”

“Are you going to keep investigating?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. “I didn’t kill my father. And I’m going to find out who did.”