Cat Trick

9

I was sweeping the porch stairs the next morning while Owen did his morning survey of our yard and Rebecca’s and Hercules perched on the top step and watched for the grackle. Harry Taylor—Young Harry—came around the side of the house. I smiled at him. “Hi, Harry,” I said.

“Good morning, Kathleen.” He smiled back at me. “Do you have a minute?”

“Sure,” I said, leaning the broom against the railing. “What is it?”

“I need a favor.”

I nodded. “Okay.”

“You might want to hear what it is first,” he said. His expression was serious, and it struck me that maybe the favor had something to do with his father, Harrison Taylor Senior.

Harry must have seen something in my expression, because he held up a hand. “Don’t worry. The old man’s fine. When I left, he was making bread with Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth was Harry’s half sister, the product of a relationship Harrison had had while his wife was dying. They’d met for the first time just a few months ago.

“But the favor does kind of have something to do with him,” Harry said. He swiped a hand over his chin.

I put a hand on my chest. “You know how I feel about your dad. Anything I can do for him, I will.”

“Okay. See if you can figure out what happened to Mike Glazer—who killed him—because it’s pretty clear someone did.”

“The police are investigating that, Harry,” I said.

He shoved his hands in the pockets of his blue windbreaker and shifted from one foot to the other. “The police were investigating Agatha Shepherd’s death, but if it hadn’t been for you, the old man never would have gotten those papers that helped us find Elizabeth.”

I shook my head. “That was mostly just being in the right place at the right time,” I said.

“More like the wrong place, Kathleen. You almost got blown to pieces.”

“But I didn’t,” I said. “Harry, I’m not a cop. And why do you care so much about what happened to Mike Glazer? And why would your father?”

“Elizabeth.” He exhaled slowly. “Have you met Wren Magnusson?”

“At the library.”

“Boris had a run-in with a porcupine a while back. Elizabeth came with me when I took him down to Roma.”

I winced and shot Hercules a warning look not to make any editorial comment. He didn’t like Harrison’s German shepherd any more than Owen did, even though the big dog was gentle and even-tempered. Herc glared back at me and then became very interested in one of his feet.

“Wren was at the clinic. The two of them hit it off. They’re both crazy about animals. Thing is, Wren used to be close to the Glazers.”

“I heard.”

“She’s upset. So’s Elizabeth, and that makes the old man upset. There’s talk that Glazer’s death wasn’t an accident. Paper said it’s under investigation.”

“There’s always talk going around town about something,” I said.

“Kathleen, people tell you things,” Harry said. “You’re the one who figured out how Tom Karlsson ended up buried out at Wisteria Hill. You figured out who killed him.” He put one foot up on the bottom step. “Look, I’m not asking you to sneak around behind Marcus Gordon’s back. I know there’s something starting between the two of you. Just ask a few questions and tell him what you find out, whatever the heck that ends up to be. That’s all I’m asking. Please.”

It was a very bad idea. I wasn’t a police officer. I was a librarian with a couple of inquisitive cats that had questionable magical abilities. I’d told Marcus that I’d stay out of his investigation. I wasn’t sure he’d understand. And I really wanted to repeat that kiss from last night.

I knew I had to tell Harry no, but when I opened my mouth what came out was “Yes.”

The cats let the alarm clock wake me up on Monday morning. When I reached over to shut it off, there was Hercules, sitting by the door.

“I’m awake,” I told him, rolling over onto my back. I knew he was likely to stay there until I was actually out of the bed. “Where’s your brother?” I asked.

Herc looked over his shoulder toward the hallway. Owen was probably downstairs in the kitchen, not so patiently waiting for breakfast. I threw the blankets back and got up. I wasn’t going to find any insights staring at the ceiling.

I was right. Owen was in the kitchen, sitting right beside his dishes.

“I’m not late,” I told him as I put out food and water for both cats. “You’re up early.” He ignored me. Owen wasn’t really a morning person.

As I reached for the oatmeal in the refrigerator, it struck me that one of Eric’s breakfast sandwiches would taste pretty good. And if I was going to ask some questions about Mike Glazer’s death, the diner was a good place to start.

Claire was pouring coffee for a couple at a table by the window when I walked into the restaurant. “You can sit anywhere, Kathleen,” she said, smiling at me.

Eric was behind the counter, and I walked over to say hello. He had a cup of coffee poured before I even sat down on one of the shiny silver stools.

“Good morning,” he said, setting the heavy china mug in front of me. He was wearing his normally close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair a little longer and it suited him.

“Good morning and thank you,” I said, reaching for the cream and sugar.

Eric waited while I added both to my cup, stirred and took a long drink.

“Mmm, that’s good,” I said with a sigh of satisfaction.

“What can I get you?” he asked. “An omelet, maybe? I have some nice orange peppers.”

I propped my elbows on the counter. “I was thinking about one of your breakfast sandwiches.”

“Good choice,” Claire said as she passed behind Eric with her half-empty coffeepot.

He smiled and headed back to the kitchen. “It’ll just be a couple of minutes.”

I was wondering how to bring up the subject of Mike Glazer’s death as Claire set a napkin-wrapped bundle of utensils by my right elbow. She gave me a thoughtful look and then said, “Kathleen, is it true that you found Mr. Glazer’s body?” Her face flushed. “That was a tacky question, wasn’t it?”

“It’s okay,” I said. “And yes, I did find his body.” I didn’t bother adding the part about my cat finding it first.

“The guy was obnoxious, but”—she gave a little shudder—“no one deserves to die all alone like that.”

I nodded, remembering how the body was slumped in the plastic chair in the dim light of the tent. “It seems like he rubbed some people the wrong way,” I said, reaching for my coffee.

“More like everybody.” She shot a quick glance past me to make sure the other customers weren’t trying to get her attention. “He wasn’t in here five minutes and he was telling Eric how he needed to change the menu and update the decor.”

I looked around. “What’s wrong with the decor?”

Claire gave a snort of laughter. “He thought we should go for a Parisian bistro look.”

“In Minnesota?”

She reached for the coffeepot and topped up my cup. “If people want a Parisian café, they’ll go to Paris. Tourists who come here are looking for a small-town restaurant with comfort food they recognize.”

Eric came out of the kitchen then. “You must be talking about Mike Glazer,” he said, as he slid a heavy plate in front of me. I could smell bacon, tomatoes and maybe a little thyme. The thick-cut sourdough bread had been pan-toasted—crisp and golden on the outside and soaked with tomatoes and spices on the inside.

I took a large bite and sighed with happiness. How could Mike have found fault with this?

Claire grinned at me and headed for the table by the window with the pot.

“I take it Claire was telling you about Glazer’s suggestions,” Eric said.

“Parisian bistro?” I said, raising my eyebrows.

He crossed his arms over his chest. “He also thought we should get rid of all the ‘old-fashioned’ stuff on the menu, like the chocolate pudding cake.”

“Did he have any idea how popular that is?”

Eric shrugged. “Wasn’t interested. I made that recipe three times a day during the music festival last month. It was almost eighty degrees outside and the tourists were still ordering it.” He gave me a sideways smile. “By the way, how was last night’s batch?”

“Good,” I said.

His smile widened, and I knew I’d just been hooked in a fishing expedition. “Susan was positive it was you Marcus Gordon was trying to impress. As my grandmother used to say, are you and the detective keeping company?”

“No comment,” I said, bending my head over my plate. “And tell your wife she’s going to be dusting every single shelf in the library today.”

Eric laughed and gestured to my half-empty plate. “Would you like anything else?”

I shook my head. “No, thank you.” I took another bite of the sandwich while Eric started a new pot of coffee.

“Are you still going to do the food tasting?” I asked.

“We are,” he said. He turned to look at me over one shoulder. “If Liam and his group can pull this together, it could be good for the town. And I know it sounds awful, but it’ll be a lot less of a hassle without Glazer.”

I reached for my cup. “Do you think it was just the small-town boy trying to show off his big-city polish?”

“It’s possible. Not such a good idea, if you ask me, considering he might have been leaving the big city.”

“What do you mean?”

Eric stopped to wash his hands and then came back over to the counter. “Friend of mine has a restaurant in Chicago. I called him when we knew this pitch to Legacy was a go. He said there was some talk going around that Glazer’s partners wanted him out of the company. Nothing specific, mostly just talk.”

Before I could ask if he knew why, Claire came back with an order for the three men—town workers—who had just come in.

Eric headed for the kitchen. “Have a good day, Kathleen,” he said. “And remember, Susan’s bringing lunch. Let me know what you think of the soup.”

Claire took my empty plate and I pulled out my wallet to pay for breakfast.

“Kathleen, are you going to be seeing Maggie anytime soon?” she asked.

“Tomorrow night at tai chi class,” I said. “Why?”

“Her boyfriend left his travel mug here last week. I thought he’d be back in, but I haven’t seen him. Or Maggie.”

“You mean Liam?”

She nodded, reached under the counter and brought up a sleek, shiny stainless-steel mug with a comma-shaped handle and rubber grip strips. “He probably forgot where he left it. He was pretty angry after everything. He didn’t even finish his meal.”

I frowned. “What do you mean, ‘after everything’?”

“He was here, at that table.” She pointed to the front window. “Next thing I know, he’s outside on the sidewalk having some kind of heated conversation with Mike Glazer. He was right in the guy’s face. When he came back inside, he just tossed some money on the table, grabbed his jacket and left.” She shrugged. “I think he just forgot that he’d asked me to fill his mug, and I couldn’t catch him. We’re usually not that busy on a Wednesday, but we were that night.”

“You’re probably right,” I said. “I can give it to Maggie.”

Claire smiled. “Hang on a sec and I’ll get you a bag.” She moved over to the cash register, where the take-out bags were stacked on a shelf. “Do you want a take-out cup to go?” she asked, gesturing at the coffee with her elbow.

“Umm . . . yes, thank you.”

She put the travel mug in a bag, got me a large cup of coffee to go and brought both over to me. I paid for breakfast, wished Claire a good day and headed out.

I’d left the truck at the library, but I didn’t mind the walk. The sun was shining for now, although my wrist still insisted it was going to rain later.

I let myself into the building and relocked the door, leaving the alarm off. After flipping on the downstairs lights, I headed up to my office. It was still early. I put my things on the desk and hung up my jacket. Then I tucked Liam’s mug in my briefcase so I’d remember to give it to Maggie.

As I picked up my cup again, I thought about what Claire had said about Liam’s argument with Mike Glazer. Mike had clearly pushed Liam’s buttons somehow if Liam had left without finishing his meal or getting his coffee. He worked part-time tending bar at Harry’s Hat, so he was used to dealing with people who were behaving badly; he didn’t lose his cool that easily. I couldn’t catch him, Claire had said. Then I remembered the rest of the sentence: We’re usually not that busy on a Wednesday, but we were that night.

I leaned back against the edge of the desk. Wednesday night was the night Mike Glazer had been killed. And he’d had an argument with Liam.

No. That didn’t mean Liam had killed him. It wasn’t a cause-and-effect thing. Liam wasn’t the only person who’d had words with Mike. He wasn’t the only person who didn’t like the man. Mary had threatened to drop-kick Mike between a couple of lampposts and I didn’t think she’d killed him.

Plus Liam was the one who’d come up with the idea of pitching a tour built around Mayville Heights to Legacy Tours in the first place. Why would he kill Mike? It didn’t make any sense. For all Liam knew, if Mike was dead, that would be the end of any deal with Legacy.

I looked at my watch. Mary and Abigail would be arriving anytime now and so would our new co-op student and her teacher. I took one last long drink from my cup and headed downstairs.

Harry Taylor—Junior, not Senior—came into the library just after eleven o’clock with Elizabeth.

“I have a couple of books your dad requested,” I said, walking over to meet them by the circulation desk. I smiled at Elizabeth. “Hi.”

She smiled back and Harry nodded. “Mary called. That’s what we came to get.” He took a library card out of his shirt pocket and handed it over to Abigail, who was working checkout; then he turned back to me. “There’re a couple of things I wanted to ask you.”

“Go ahead,” I said.

“Do you mind if I start cleaning out those flower beds at the front tomorrow and getting them ready to get the bulbs in?”

“That’s fine with me,” I said. “Do what works best for you, but don’t forget it’s story time tomorrow. You might end up with some little helpers.”

Harry smiled. “I don’t mind.” He glanced at Elizabeth. “The other thing is, I was wondering if Elizabeth and one of her friends could come meet your cats sometime. They’re thinking about helping out at Wisteria Hill.”

I was guessing the “friend” was Wren Magnusson and this was Harry’s way of giving me a chance to talk to her.

“Absolutely.” I turned to Elizabeth. “Owen and Hercules came from Wisteria Hill. The only thing you have to remember is that they don’t like to be touched by pretty much anyone but me. But they do like company.”

“Did one of them really go and get Harry when someone broke into your house?” She shot her big brother a skeptical look.

I nodded, my hand automatically going to rub my left wrist. That encounter just over a year ago was when it had been broken. “Hercules,” I said. “Harry was mowing the lawn at my backyard neighbor’s house. Hercules got in front of the lawn mower and made so much noise, Harry came to see what was going on.”

“I figured either something had happened to Kathleen, or Timmy was stuck in the well and the cat fancied himself to be Lassie,” Harry said dryly. Abigail handed him the two books and he thanked her.

Elizabeth smiled and made a face at her brother before shifting her gaze back to me. “Is after supper tonight too soon?”

“No, it’s not,” I said. We settled on a time and I gave her directions. “Tell your dad the other book he wanted should be here next week,” I told Harry.

“I will,” he said. His eyes darted sideways to Elizabeth for a moment. “Thank you.”

I spent most of the morning teaching our new student intern—whose name was Mia—how the computerized card catalogue worked. Like most teenagers, she had good computer skills and she picked it up easily. She was well spoken and well read, conservatively dressed in a black skirt and long-sleeved white blouse. After working with her for a couple of hours, I felt Mia was going to fit in just fine, although her neon blue hair was probably going to get more than a second glance. I sent her to shelve books with Mary and walked over to the circulation desk.

“What time is Susan bringing lunch?” Abigail asked.

I glanced up at the clock. It was almost eleven thirty. “About an hour,” I said.

She swept her braided hair over one shoulder. “I don’t suppose there are any muffins in the lunchroom, are there? I’m hungry now.”

I shook my head. “Sorry. To paraphrase Dr. Seuss, the only crumbs in our lunchroom are crumbs that are even too small for a mouse.” Then I remembered that description pretty much described my kitchen and I’d invited Elizabeth and Wren over. I made a face. “Crap on toast!”

“It’s okay,” Abigail said. “I’m not going to pass out from hunger in the next hour.”

“I’m glad,” I said. “But I just realized that I invited Harry’s sister and her friend over tonight, and there isn’t so much as a brownie crumb in my kitchen.”

Abigail smiled. “I could call Georgia and see what she has for cupcakes. I don’t mind holding the fort here so you could run over there. She’s just over on Washington Street.”

That sounded a lot better than having to make coffee cake the moment I stepped through the door. “Please,” I said.

She reached for the phone. “And if you decided to reward my brilliance with a double-chocolate cupcake, I would be filled with gratitude.”

I smiled and shook my head. “You’re full of something.”

Good fortune was on my side. Georgia had just finished frosting a batch of cupcakes and I could have half a dozen. And Washington Street was close enough that I could walk. “I shouldn’t be much more than half an hour,” I told Abigail. “Mia is helping Mary.”

“Take your time,” she said. “I wouldn’t want you to smush the icing or anything. You know, for your guests.”

I waved at her and headed out the door.

Washington Street was a couple of streets above Main, two blocks east of the library. Georgia was working out of a blue-shingled two-story house that, like most of the other buildings on the street, had a business on the main level and apartments on the second floor. Abigail had told me to go to the back, and as I stepped onto the small verandah, I could see Georgia through the screen door, filling a pastry bag with what looked like chocolate frosting.

She looked up when I knocked on the doorframe and beckoned me inside. The kitchen smelled of a delicious mix of chocolate, vanilla and caramel.

“Mmm, it smells good in here,” I said.

Georgia made a swirl of dark chocolate on the top of a dark-chocolate cupcake and set the pastry bag on the counter. “That’s probably my cupcakes and Liv’s caramels,” she said with a smile.

“You share this space with Olivia Ramsey,” I said. “I thought the address sounded familiar.”

She nodded, icing sugar dusting her dark curls. “Actually, there are three of us: Decadence—that’s Olivia— me, and Earl of Sandwich. I’ve been here only a month.”

Olivia Ramsey was a chocolatier who specialized in handmade truffles and caramels. Decadence’s reputation was beginning to spread outside the state. Earl of Sandwich ran two lunch wagons that serviced pretty much all the construction sites in the area. And yes, the owner’s name really was Earl.

I looked around the kitchen. The walls were painted a pale creamy yellow, like whipped butter. The appliances were all gleaming stainless steel. At the far end of the space, I could see two brick ovens built into the wall.

Georgia followed my gaze. “They still work,” she said. “This was a pizza place at one time, I guess.” She gestured at two wire racks to her left on the long butcher-block table. “What would you like? The ones with the green frosting are Chocolate Mint Madness and the others are Devilishly Decadent Chocolate.”

“Could I have half a dozen of each?” I asked.

“Absolutely,” Georgia said. She brushed off her hands and reached for a couple of flattened boxes from a nearby shelf.

“Are you ready for the food tasting?” I asked.

“I think so,” she said, glancing up from the box she was folding into shape. “I’m doing six different cupcakes. And Liam rearranged things so now I’m next to Molly’s Coffee, which should be good for both of us.”

“I hope everything works out,” I said.

Georgia set the finished carton aside and started bending the other one into shape. “I think it will . . . now.”

“Mike Glazer made things difficult.”

She nodded, keeping her head bent over the half-formed box. “Nothing seemed to satisfy him. He was on Liam about every little thing. Then he started in on Mr. Chapman about the style of the tents and if looks could kill—�� She realized then what she’d said. “I’m sorry. That was insensitive.” There were two blotches of red high on the cheekbones of her otherwise pale face. She wiped her hands on her long white apron.

I gave her a small smile. “It’s okay,” I said. “I think Mike had alienated pretty much everyone who was involved with the tour project.”

Georgia finished the box and reached for the cupcakes. “He stuck his nose into things that were none of his business, and now he’s dead.” She exhaled slowly and looked at me. “He just shouldn’t have done that.” I was a bit taken aback by the intensity in her voice.

Georgia finished boxing the cupcakes, and I paid her and put them in the canvas shopping bag I’d brought with me. She walked me to the door.

“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll look for you at the food tasting. I hope it goes well.”

She wiped her hands again on the front of her apron and gave me a small smile. “I think it will, now,” she said.

Walking back to the library, I thought again how sad it was that Wren Magnusson was the only person who seemed to feel any grief about Mike Glazer’s death. Georgia certainly didn’t seem sorry, although to be fair, she’d barely known the man. I thought about the tension in her voice when she’d commented that Mike had been sticking his nose into things that were none of his business and the way that she’d kept wiping her hands nervously on her apron. What had happened had clearly left her feeling unsettled.

Back at the library, I stashed the cupcakes in my office and took over from Abigail at the front desk. Susan came in at twelve thirty, carrying a large crock of soup—the lunch Eric had reminded me about. He was testing a new recipe and we were going to be his guinea pigs. She smiled sweetly as she passed me on her way to the stairs. A small feather duster with Kool-Aid-orange feathers was stuck through her topknot. Obviously Eric had repeated my threat about dusting all the shelves.

“So not funny,” I called after her. She didn’t even turn around, but I saw her shoulders shake with laughter.

The soup—chicken with spinach dumplings—was delicious, no surprise. So were Georgia’s cupcakes. I spent the afternoon doing paperwork and working on the list of new books I wanted to order.

It was raining when I left the library, fat drops that splattered on the windshield of the truck. As I hurried around the side of the house, I could see Hercules’s black-and-white face peering through the porch window. I shook my umbrella before I stepped inside the porch; then I picked him up off the bench under the window. He didn’t even object to the dampness of my jacket. Instead he peered at my face and then looked over at the door to the kitchen. Something was up.

“What did your brother do?” I asked. Herc looked back over my arm as though there were something incredibly fascinating all of a sudden on the floor behind us. “It can’t be that bad.” I stuck the key in the lock. He rested his chin on my shoulder and made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a sigh of resignation.

It was that bad. It looked liked catnip-loving zombies had attacked. There were bits from at least two—or maybe three—of Owen’s Fred the Funky Chickens spread all over the kitchen. Yesterday I thought I’d found—and gotten rid of—all the chicken parts he had hidden around the house. Obviously I was wrong.

Tiny bits of Big Bird–yellow fabric littered the floor, and there were flecks of dried catnip everywhere, as though an overzealous chef had been flinging herbs wildly into the air. A yellow feather was floating in Owen’s water dish. The end of his tail was in Herc’s bowl. Owen himself was on his back, gnawing on what I was guessing was part of a chicken head, held in his two front paws, while his hind feet circled lazily through the air as though he were aimlessly pedaling a bicycle.

Hercules made a sour face as I set him on the floor. He didn’t like mess and he didn’t like catnip, either. He headed out of the room, working his way around the mess, stopping twice to lift up a paw and shake it.

I set down my briefcase and the cardboard boxes of cupcakes, crossed my arms over my chest and glared at Owen, who hadn’t seemed to register that I was actually home. “Owen, what the heck do you think you’re doing?” I said.

He looked over at me, his eyes not really focusing. He shook his head, rolled over and got to his feet, the chicken head hanging out of his mouth. He looked like a drunken sailor after a raucous night of shore leave.

“Bring that over here,” I said.

He squinted up at the ceiling as though I hadn’t spoken.

I walked over to him, bent down and held out my hand. “Let’s have it, Fuzzy Wuzzy.”

He made a growly noise and bit down even harder on the bright yellow fabric.

I leaned sideways, looked past him and said, “Whoa, big mouse!”

Owen’s furry head whipped around so fast, he had to take a step so he didn’t fall over. The dismembered chicken head dropped out of his teeth, and I scooped it up before it hit the kitchen floor.

He yowled his anger, but it was too late. I took a couple of steps sideways and the late Fred’s head was resting in the garbage can. I turned around and crouched down so I was at the cat’s level. His eyes were almost slits and his mouth was pinched into a sour pucker. He looked liked a sulky child, and he wouldn’t meet my gaze.

“You are in so much trouble,” I told him. “Why did you do this?” He kept his focus on the cupboards. “Is this because I threw away the two chicken heads I found under the sofa yesterday?” I didn’t say I’d also tossed a whole chicken that was in my winter boots and a body minus a head that had been behind a box in the bedroom closet.

Owen made a huffy noise out through his nose. I sighed and shifted sideways so I was in front of him again. “Okay, I’m sorry I did that without telling you, but those things were covered in cat spit and they’d already been overpowered by the dust bunnies. And they smelled.”

One ear twitched, but it was the only sign he was listening. “You could have made your point without spreading catnip and chicken bits all over the kitchen.” I reached over to stroke the fur on the top of his head with one finger. “I’m going to get the vacuum and clean this up,” I said. “Then we’re going to have supper and maybe, maybe you can have a taste of that new kitty kibble I bought.”

He rubbed his head against my hand without looking at me; then he headed for the living room, walking slowly and deliberately because he still had a little catnip buzz going.

I sat back on my heels and looked around. Owen had flung catnip chicken bits all over the kitchen, so why was I the one doing the vacuuming and coaxing him back into a good mood? In my next life, I was going to be the cat, I decided as I got to my feet.

Thirty minutes later, the kitchen was more or less cleaned up and I was at the table with a plate of spaghetti. Hercules was next to my chair, watching me eat and probably hoping I’d drop a meatball, while Owen was sprawled under the other chair, making a halfhearted effort to wash his face. I’d already told them what I’d learned at the café. Owen’s ears had perked up when I’d shared Claire’s story about Liam arguing with Mike Glazer out on the street in front of the diner, but I suspected that was mostly because I’d also mentioned Maggie’s name.

I leaned sideways in my chair and looked down at both of them. “We have company coming after supper.”

Owen immediately sat up, looked around and started washing his face in earnest. Hercules looked at his brother and then he looked at me. In Owen’s kitty mind, the word “company” meant one person: Maggie.

“Yes, I know what he’s thinking and he’s wrong,” I said quietly to Herc. “Should we tell him, or wait until he gets cleaned up?”

He stared at his feet, whiskers twitching, almost as though he were considering my question. I waited, giving him time to think—just in case he really was; then he meowed softly.

“Okay,” I said. I tapped my fingers on the edge of the table to get Owen’s attention. He looked over at me, one paw raised in the air. “Not Maggie,” I said, shaking my head. He took one more pass at his face, dropped his paw and stretched back out on the floor with a sigh.

Hercules head-butted my leg and meowed, his way of asking, “So who is it?”

I reached down and scratched the top of his head. “Harrison Taylor’s daughter, Elizabeth, and her friend will be here in a little while. They want to meet the two of you.”

Hercules made a satisfied rumble in his throat, tilting his head so I’d scratch behind his ear. Owen, meanwhile, made a show of stretching, sitting up and starting on his face again as though that had been his intention all along.

I picked up my fork and speared a meatball. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Herc start to wash his own face.

* * *

I’d just finished the dishes when I heard a knock on the porch door. The boys were sitting side by side next to the end of the table. Faces washed and paws spotless, they were the poster children for cat adoption. “Very nice,” I said approvingly as I went to answer the door.

Elizabeth smiled when she saw me. “Hi, Kathleen,” she said. “This is my friend Wren. I think you met at the library.”

“Yes, we did.” I smiled. “Hi, Wren. Come in, please. The cats are in the kitchen.”

Wren Magnusson gave me a small smile. She looked tired. There were dark smudges under her eyes, and I noticed that she kept running her thumb back and forth along the side of her index finger.

“Thank you for letting us come and see them,” Elizabeth said, stepping into the porch. “I hope Harry didn’t put you on the spot.”

“He didn’t,” I said. “It’s not a big deal. Harry’s come through for me more than once. And your father is one of my favorite people.”

She shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other, her expression still serious. “Harrison said that he never would have found me if it hadn’t been for you.”

I ducked my head, suddenly feeling a little embarrassed. “All I did was find a few papers.”

She pressed her lips together before speaking. “He said it was a lot more than that. He said that you helped the police figure out who killed my birth mother.” She stumbled a little over the word “mother.” “And you were almost caught in an explosion.” She swallowed. “I, uh, don’t know how to thank you.”

I hesitated and then lightly touched her shoulder. “You just did,” I said. “And I have all the thanks I’m ever going to need just seeing how happy finding you has made Harrison.”

She nodded.

We stepped into the kitchen. Owen and Hercules hadn’t moved. They looked curiously at the two young women. Wren immediately looked at me. “Liz said we can’t pet them, but is it okay if I get a little closer?”

“Go ahead,” I said.

Both cats were watching her intently.

Wren stopped about three feet away from them and dropped down to her knees.

“That’s Owen,” I said, pointing. He turned his face toward me for a moment and then gave all his attention to Wren again. I gestured at Herc. “And that’s Hercules.” He bobbed his head in acknowledgment.

Wren smiled at them. “Hi, guys,” she said.

Owen craned his neck and sniffed. He seemed to like what his nose told him because he took a step forward.

Wren turned to look at me. “He’s so cute,” she said.

He knew the word “cute.” He dipped his head for a moment, trying to give the appearance of being modest, too.

Hercules raised a paw in a bid to get Wren’s attention. “I see you,” she said. “You’re just as handsome as your brother.” He murped his agreement.

“You found both of them at Wisteria Hill?” Elizabeth asked as Wren continued to talk to both cats, leaning forward with her arms propped on her thighs.

“I think it’s more like they found me.”

I told her the story of how I’d gone exploring out at the old estate a few weeks after I’d arrived in Mayville Heights—had it really been a year and a half ago?—and Owen and Hercules, just tiny kittens then, had persisted in following me until I’d scooped them up and brought them home.

“And there’s seven more cats still out there?” Elizabeth asked. Hercules took a couple of steps sideways and looked at her, green eyes wide with curiosity. She crouched next to Wren and extended her hand. He sniffed it and then sat down again.

“That’s right,” I said, leaning back against the kitchen counter. “I guess you could call Lucy the alpha cat of the group. Where she goes, the rest of the family pretty much follows.”

Wren shifted so she could look at me. “What happens in the wintertime? How do they stay warm?”

I explained about the shelters Rebecca and Roma’s other volunteers had made and how Harry used straw bales for insulation in one corner of the carriage house.

Wren frowned, two lines forming between her eyebrows. “Why doesn’t someone just adopt them? I’d take one. I’d take two.”

“They aren’t like an average house cat,” I said. “They aren’t even like these two. They’re not going to bond with you. They’re not going to curl up at your feet and start purring.” I pointed at Owen. “He likes you. Most people don’t get that close to him, but I promise if you try to pet him, he will scratch you.”

“It just seems . . . cruel,” Wren said, “you know, to leave them outside to fend for themselves.”

This wasn’t the first time I’d heard that reasoning. “They don’t have to fend for themselves. Volunteers go out every day with fresh food and water. If the weather is too bad for a four-wheel drive to get up the driveway, Harry uses his snowmobile. The carriage house and the shelters keep them dry and warm. And now Roma’s going to be living out there.” I braced my hands against the counter on either side of me. “Wisteria Hill is the cats’ home. What would be cruel would be forcing them to live somewhere else, to be what we think they should be instead of who they are.”

Elizabeth looked up at me with a wry smile. “That’s what Harrison said.”

I nodded. “He’s pretty smart.”

I reached behind me for a bag of sardine cat treats, took out a couple for each cat and handed them to Wren. “Owen’s stinky crackers,” I said, “but Hercules likes them, too.”

Wren handed two of the crackers to Elizabeth, and then she held one of the two she had left out to Owen. His whiskers twitched and he looked from Wren to me; then he pawed the ground with one foot.

“He wants me to set it down, doesn’t he?” she said.

“Yes,” I said. “Don’t worry. It won’t hurt anything.”

She set the cracker down on the floor. Owen hesitated, but not for long. He picked up the cracker, took three steps backward and set it down again. Then he dropped his head and carefully sniffed it. I wondered sometimes what he thought his keen nose was going to discover.

By this time Hercules’s patience was almost worn out. One paw moved through the air as though he were reaching for the crackers Elizabeth had in her hand. She held one out to him, her fingers just touching the corner edge, and to my surprise, after hesitating for a minute, he took it from her.

“He almost never does that,” I said. “I think you’ve made a friend.”

She offered the other treat, and this one he took without any hesitation at all. Elizabeth smiled, clearly pleased.

“How about a mint-chocolate-chip cupcake?” I asked. “And I have tea or hot chocolate.”

Wren looked at Elizabeth. “Do we have time?”

She nodded.

“Hot chocolate, please,” Wren said to me. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

“It’s not,” I said.

“Me too,” Elizabeth said, brushing her hands on her jeans and getting to her feet. “Could I help?”

I pointed to the bubble-glass plate sitting on the counter. “You could put the cupcakes on the table.”

Wren sat on the floor, talking to Owen and Hercules until the hot chocolate was ready; then she stood up and joined us at the table. I showed them a couple of pictures I’d taken of Lucy walking in the long grass behind the carriage house. Both Wren and Elizabeth had a lot more questions about the cats, and I tried to answer them all as honestly as I could.

Hercules came to lean against my leg, and I reached down to stroke his fur. I noticed he was watching Wren. Owen sat halfway between my chair and Wren’s, watching her too, but not with the same goofy adoration that he gave to Maggie. If he’d been a person instead of a cat, I would have said that he seemed concerned. Wren had an air of sadness about her, and given that both cats seemed to be able to sense someone’s mood, maybe he was concerned.

After a few minutes, Wren grew silent. She was rubbing her thumb against her finger again. A couple of times she caught the edge of her lower lip between her teeth.

“Wren, is there something you wanted to ask me?” I said. Twice it had looked like she was going to speak but then she hadn’t.

She traced the rim of her cup with a finger. “Yeah,” she said, “but it’s not about the cats.”

“That’s okay,” I said, folding my hands around my own cup. “What is it?”

She took a deep breath as though she were trying to work up her nerve. She seemed very fragile. “Is it true that you found Mike Glazer’s . . . that you found him?”

I nodded slowly. “Yes. It is.”

Elizabeth reached over and gave her friend’s arm a brief squeeze.

“Did he . . . did it look like he . . . suffered? I hate thinking he just lay there alone for hours.” Wren lifted her head to look at me, and I could see the grief in her pale blue eyes.

I took a moment before I answered. I wanted to say something that might make her feel a little better, but I didn’t want to make up a story, either. “From what I saw, I don’t think so,” I finally said. “I didn’t see anything that made me think he’d had a fight with someone. There were no signs of a struggle. No overturned furniture. He was just there. There wasn’t any blood.”

She swallowed a couple of times, gave Owen—who was still watching her—a small smile and then looked at me again. “Just so you know, I, uh, I’m not trying to be some kind of a ghoul. When I was little, I was really close to Mike and his family.”

“I know about Mike’s brother,” I said.

“I hadn’t seen Mike in a long time . . . years,” she said. She picked up the cupcake on her plate, broke it in half and set it back down again without taking a bite. “I was so happy when I found out he was involved in this tour thing. I thought about going to see the whole family a bunch of times, but I didn’t exactly know how to find them and I didn’t want to make anybody feel bad.”

She shrugged. “It probably sounds dumb, but us both being here at the same time just kind of seemed like a sign.”

“It’s not dumb,” Elizabeth said. She might not have been raised by the Taylors, but like her father and her half siblings, Elizabeth seemed to be fiercely loyal to the people she cared about.

“No, it’s not,” I agreed.

Wren took a sip from her hot chocolate. “I know that people are saying he was a jerk, but he really wasn’t.” She twisted a lock of hair around her finger. “I was going to see him that night, you know. I’d already missed seeing him once. But I had car trouble . . .”

She swallowed again and stared at the ceiling for a moment. “I was going to see if we could have lunch and catch up.”

“I’m sorry that didn’t happen,” I said. Both cats were sitting next to Wren’s chair now. It was impossible not to be touched by the pain she was feeling.

“Things didn’t exactly turn out the way I thought they would,” she said.

Elizabeth cleared her throat. “We should get going,” she said, touching her friend’s shoulder.

Wren nodded. She leaned over and smiled at Owen and Hercules. “It was nice to meet you,” she said. Owen meowed and Herc lifted one paw.

“They feel the same way,” I said. “You’re welcome to come and visit anytime.”

Wren smiled, the first real smile I’d seen that hadn’t been directed at a cat. “Thank you,” she said, getting to her feet. “I might do that.”

“Thanks, Kathleen,” Elizabeth said. She looked down at the boys and waggled her fingers good-bye at them.

“You’re welcome,” I said. “If you’d like to go out with me sometime to feed the cats, just let me know.”

“I will,” she said.

The cats and I walked them to the back door and said good night. Owen climbed up on the bench to look out the window. I carried Hercules back into the kitchen and dropped into my chair. Wren was so wounded, she reminded me of the tiny birds that shared her name.

Herc studied my face. “We have to figure out what happened, don’t we?” I said. He meowed his agreement and laid his head on my chest. I stroked his soft black fur. “Yeah.” I sighed. “I was afraid you were going to say that.”