Cat Trick

1

For a second, I wasn’t sure that I was seeing what I seemed to be seeing, which was a small, round sesame water cracker topped with half a sardine in Louisiana hot sauce and a slice of black olive making its way across Marcus Gordon’s table seemingly under its own steam. I was tired. Was I just hallucinating? I pushed my bangs off my forehead, rubbed the space between my eyes with the heel of my hand and looked again. No, it was definitely moving, sliding across the speckled Formica tabletop like a slap shot from a hockey stick.

Or a swat from a cat’s paw. An invisible cat’s paw.

I leaned forward, snatching the cracker off the table as Marcus turned from the counter. It was too late to pretend I was just brushing away a few crumbs.

“I didn’t think you’d like those,” he said. There was a cute little furrow on the bridge of his nose, and a lock of dark wavy hair had fallen onto his forehead. I shook my head. This wasn’t a good time to get distracted by how Detective Marcus Gordon looked when he frowned . . . or smiled . . . or walked across a room. I’d stopped by so he could check out a chair I’d gotten from my neighbor Rebecca—Marcus was certain he could fix it—and accepted his offer of a glass of lemonade and what was looking like a rather unique take on crackers and cheese.

“They, uh, just looked so good I thought I’d try one,” I said. Okay, that wasn’t exactly the truth. I liked the sesame crackers and the black olives, but I wasn’t that crazy about the sardines in hot sauce. On the other hand, I couldn’t put the cracker back on the plate and let Marcus eat it after it had been batted all over the table by a small gray tabby cat, invisible or otherwise.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

I nodded, trying not to inhale the combination of fish, spices and olives. “Cheers,” I said, raising the cracker in a kind of toast. Then I stuffed the entire thing in my mouth, chewed rapidly and swallowed. And immediately began coughing.

Marcus started over to me, and I waved a hand to let him know I was all right. “I’m okay,” I rasped. “It was just . . . spicier than I expected.”

“Kinda sneaks up on you,” he agreed. There was a hint of a smile in his blue eyes. “Would you rather have cheese?” He’d been about to slice a block of mozzarella.

“Please,” I said, tucking a strand of hair that had come loose from my ponytail behind one ear. He turned back to the counter, and I reached for my glass of lemonade to rinse away some of the heat in my mouth. I glared in the general direction of where I figured my cat Owen was. I knew he was the culprit. He loved sardines. And he was the only cat I knew that could become, well, invisible. That cracker hadn’t hopped down from the plate and gone sliding across the table under its own steam.

I pulled the plate closer in case he got the idea to try for another treat. And since Marcus had his back turned, I leaned forward and felt around, hoping that even though I couldn’t see Owen, I could maybe get lucky and be able to grab him.

Not a chance. I couldn’t see the cat, but he could see me, and all he had to do was jump out of the way of my sweeping hand. That was the problem with having a cat who could disappear at will. He did, generally when he wanted to do the opposite of whatever it was I wanted him to do—like horn in on my visit with Marcus instead of staying home. And how the heck was I going to get Owen back to the house again? He’d obviously snuck into my truck and then hopped out when I’d gotten here. Could I trust him to follow me when I was ready to leave? I needed something to use as incentive.

I took another drink and palmed one of the sardine-topped crackers, hoping Marcus hadn’t counted exactly how many he’d put on the plate. Then I pushed my chair back and stood up, brushing a few stray cracker crumbs off my jeans. “I think I might have left my phone in the truck,” I said. “I’m just going to check. I’ll be right back.” I kept the hand holding the cracker down by my leg, hoping it would be enough to entice Owen. I knew he’d be tempted to just sit on the table and eat all the sardines from the plate. I was hoping he was smart enough not to try it.

“Owen,” I stage-whispered, as soon as I was outside and around the side of the house. I looked around but I couldn’t see him, of course. “You better be out here.”

I opened the driver’s door of the truck, set the cracker in the middle of the seat and waited. After a long moment, Owen appeared, gray head down, sniffing the food. I’m tall enough that when I leaned across the bench seat my face was inches from his. “You are in so much trouble,” I hissed. He looked up at me, all innocent golden eyes. “How would I have explained things if Marcus had seen that cracker moving across the table all by itself, like it had little wheels on the bottom?”

The cat looked intently at me and it almost seemed as though he shrugged. Then he nosed the olive ring off the top of the sardine, bent down and ate it. I waited for him to spit it back out or at least make a face. All he did was lick his whiskers.

“Don’t tell me you like olives, too,” I said. “You know what Roma will say.” Roma Davidson was one of my closest friends in Mayville Heights and also the town veterinarian.

Owen made a face and shook his furry tabby head at the sound of Roma’s name. She wasn’t one of his favorite people, although in the last several months it had seemed like he might be warming up to her. At least a little.

Roma had been very insistent that I was feeding Owen and his brother, Hercules, way too much people food. And I probably would have agreed that she was right if they’d really been just everyday house cats, which they clearly weren’t. Along with Owen’s invisibility, Hercules had the ability to walk through walls . . . and doors and pretty much any other solid object that got in his way.

Of course, Roma didn’t know about the cats’ unique skills. No one did. It wasn’t the kind of thing I could casually drop into a conversation without seeming more than a little . . . well . . . crazy.

Owen used his paw to nudge the chunk of sardine onto the seat. Then he sniffed it. He sniffed everything he ate. If I gave him four identical kitty treats, he’d sniff each one before it went in his mouth.

“You’re not going to like that,” I said, pointing at the bit of fish. “It’s Louisiana hot sauce. Hot. Sauce.” I emphasized the last two words. Owen being Owen, he immediately gobbled up the fish. I waited for him to yowl and spit it back out again.

He didn’t so much as gasp. His kitty eyes didn’t water. He licked the last of the hot sauce from the top of the cracker and then pushed it at me.

“Thank you, but I don’t think so,” I said. “I’m going to go back inside now, and you’re going to stay here.”

He blinked and vanished.

“Okay,” I said, straightening up. “I guess that means I’ll have to stop at Harry Taylor’s on the way home and give that bag of sardine crackers in the glove compartment to Boris. I can’t give them to you if I can’t see you, and I don’t want them to get stale.”

I knew Owen’s tail had to be twitching in annoyance, even if I couldn’t see it. Boris was Harry Taylor Junior’s dog, a big, gentle German shepherd and Owen’s mortal enemy—if a cat can have a mortal enemy. When all else failed, the threat of Boris getting the cats’ treats was usually enough to convince them to see things my way.

I waited for Owen to reappear. He didn’t. Was he trying to see if I was bluffing? Maybe I’d used Boris as a negotiating tool one time too many. Maybe I was giving the cat way too much credit. Maybe he hadn’t understood a word I’d said. I was on the fence about how well Owen, and his brother, Hercules, could follow a conversation. On the other hand . . . I leaned along the seat again, opened the glove compartment and pulled out a small, plastic Ziploc bag about half-full of my homemade sardine-and-cheese cat treats. “I’ll keep them with me so I don’t forget to stop at Harry’s,” I said.

That did it. Owen yowled his objections. Maybe he did understand what I was saying. Silently, I counted to three and he appeared on the seat again.

I held up the bag. “You can have the whole bag if you stay here.”

He glared at me, eyes narrowed.

“Your choice,” I said.

I had started to back out of the truck when Marcus spoke behind me. “Did you find it?” He was wearing his usual citrus-scented aftershave—much nicer than Owen’s sardine breath.

I shot the cat a look and made a small motion with one hand, both of which meant “Disappear, now.”

One thing all cats know—whether or not they have superpowers—is when they have the upper hand. Owen sat up straighter, looked around me and gave a pitiful meow.

“Kathleen, is that Owen?” Marcus asked.

I sucked in a deep breath, blew it out slowly and twisted to look at him over my shoulder. “I guess he hid in the truck,” I said. “He does that sometimes. I was just going to give him a few crackers, and then hopefully he’ll take a nap.” I turned back to look at the cat. He’d closed his eyes and hung his head. His shoulders were slumped. If they gave Academy Awards for cat acting, Owen would win. He looked pathetic.

“You can’t leave him out here,” Marcus said. “Bring him inside.”

I could see the gleam of one golden eye as Owen watched to see what I’d do. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I started.

“He can’t hurt anything in the house.”

I gave Marcus a half smile because I already knew I’d lost. I’d been bested by a small gray cat. And not for the first time.

Marcus put a hand on my back and leaned around me. “Do you want to come inside?” he asked.

Owen looked up all long-faced and meowed softly again.

“See?” Marcus said. “He doesn’t want to stay out here by himself.”

I reached over and picked up the little tabby, who immediately nuzzled my neck, a self-satisfied gleam in his eye.

I followed Marcus back around the side of the house. Watching his long legs move made up—a little—for the fact that I was now going to be sharing the rest of my visit with a devious, sardine-loving cat. “This is not over,” I hissed at Owen as we stepped into the kitchen.

“It’s okay,” Marcus said. “You can put him down. I’m serious. He can’t hurt anything in this house.”

“You have no idea what he could do if he set his mind to it,” I warned. I set the cat on the floor and whispered, “Behave yourself,” in his ear, not that I really thought the warning would do any good.

Owen made a show of looking around as though he hadn’t been in the room a few minutes earlier.

“You want some sardines?” Marcus asked the cat, who licked his whiskers again at the word “sardines.”

I sat back down at the table. Marcus gave me a small plate with more crackers and some sliced mozzarella.

Owen waited patiently while Marcus got a bowl of the little fish ready and set it on the floor. He was careful not to touch the cat. Owen and Hercules had been feral kittens when I’d found them over a year and a half ago at Wisteria Hill, the abandoned Henderson estate. I’d come to town to be the new head librarian at the Mayville Heights Free Public Library and supervise its renovation. The cats happily draped themselves all over me, but it was hands-off with almost everyone else. Just last winter Owen had had a run-in with a police officer who had tried to pick him up. It hadn’t gone well—for the officer. Luckily Marcus had been there to rescue the cat.

Owen did his suspicious sniffing routine; then he picked up a chunk of one sardine, set it on the floor and started eating.

“Does he do that with everything?” Marcus asked, dropping into the chair opposite me.

“Ever since he was a kitten,” I said. “You’re probably going to want to wash that floor. He’s not good at staying in one place.” I could hear Owen nudging the bowl closer to the table, closer to us. He might not have liked to be touched, but he did like people.

Marcus rolled back the sleeves of his blue shirt. “I should be able to get at that chair tomorrow,” he said, dipping his head toward the back door and reaching for a cracker at the same time.

The chair he was referring to actually looked more like a pile of firewood sitting on the floor. It was an old rocking chair—or would have been if it hadn’t been in so many pieces. It had come from Wisteria Hill. Businessman Everett Henderson had sold the place to Roma at the start of the summer. Everett’s fiancée—and my backyard neighbor—Rebecca, had been supervising clearing out the old house before the property officially became Roma’s in a few days. I’d gone over to help a couple of times and rescued the old rocker from the discard pile.

“I’m not in a hurry,” I said, picking a tiny clump of gray cat hair from the front of my tangerine-colored sweater. “I just hated to see it thrown away. The wood is beautiful. It’s a good chair, or it would be if it hadn’t come apart.”

When I’d put the pieces of the rocking chair in the back of my truck I’d thought it would be easy to reassemble. And it had been. Except the rocker leaned about thirty degrees to the left. Marcus had heard me venting my frustration to my friend Maggie, and he’d offered to put the chair together for me. With Maggie grinning and poking me in the ribs with a finger, it had been impossible to turn down his offer.

Marcus looked from the pile of wooden pieces to me, and his eyebrows went up. “If you say so,” he said, sounding like he wasn’t exactly convinced.

I gave him a sheepish smile. “I like things that have a story.”

He washed down another cracker with his lemonade. “This table probably has a story,” he said, rapping on the top with his fingers.

“Where did you get it?” I glanced down at Owen, who was under my side of the table, enthusiastically licking hot sauce off the tail end of a sardine.

“Burtis Chapman.”

I laughed. “If this table belonged to Burtis, it has more than one story.” Burtis Chapman had a number of small businesses on the go in Mayville Heights. Some of them were even legal.

Marcus laughed, too. He had a great laugh. Maggie, who was my closest friend in town, had been trying to get Marcus and me together for the past year. She loved that we were “dating”—her word, not mine. I wasn’t sure what we were doing. About a week after the library’s centennial celebration, Marcus had made me dinner and let me prowl through his extensive book collection. Then he’d been gone on a computer forensics course for most of the summer.

I put another piece of mozzarella on top of a cracker and took a bite. That got Owen’s attention. He shot me an inquiring look. “This is mine,” I said. He wrinkled his nose and bent over his bowl again. I turned back to Marcus. “Burtis and a couple of his sons were starting to put up the tents down on the Riverwalk when I left the library.”

“Are you going to the food tasting?” he asked, leaning sideways a little so he could see what Owen was doing.

I nodded. “I think so.” I was about to ask if he’d like to go with me when Marcus knocked a cheese-topped cracker onto the floor and made a face. Owen’s head came up again. The cat eyed the piece of cheese and then narrowed his gaze questioningly at Marcus.

“Okay if I let him have that?” Marcus asked. “It’s already on the floor.” He reached for my empty glass.

“Go ahead,” I said, propping my feet on the blue vinyl seat of the chrome chair at the end of the table. “Although you do need to work on your whoops-I-knocked-the-cheese-on-the-floor routine.”

He turned to look at me, lemonade pitcher in one hand. He looked guilty. Owen, waiting at my feet, was all wide-eyed innocence. He could give his coconspirator lessons. “Are you saying I dropped that cracker on purpose?”

“Are you saying you didn’t?” I countered, struggling to keep the corners of my lips from twitching.

“Where’s your evidence?”

The cat had scooted under the table while we were talking, grabbed the bit of mozzarella and retreated back to my side.

“Owen’s eating it, Detective,” I said.

Marcus held out both hands, palms up. “Sorry. Without the evidence you don’t have a case.”

I shook a warning finger at him. “If Roma gets after me about his cholesterol levels, I’m sending her to you.”

His smile got wider, and he refilled my glass, his fingers brushing mine for a moment as he handed it to me.

Owen finished eating, took a couple of passes at his face with a paw and looked around. I knew what he really wanted to do was nose all over Marcus’s house. I patted my legs. “C’mon up.” He started washing his tail instead. “Owen,” I said, a little more insistently.

“Kathleen, there’s nothing he can hurt in this house,” Marcus said, threading his fingers around his own glass. “Let him look around if he wants to.”

“He sheds,” I warned.

He ruffled his hair with one hand. “So do I.”

I couldn’t help laughing. “I’m serious.”

“Sadly, so am I,” he said with a grin. “Let him go.”

Owen’s golden eyes were fixed expectantly on me. “Stay out of trouble, and stay off the furniture,” I told him sternly, shaking a finger for emphasis, “and come when I call you.” I got a low murp for an answer, which might have meant he would. Or might have meant he wouldn’t.

Marcus and I sat at the table for maybe another half an hour, talking about our respective jobs and what was going on around town. It reminded me of the first time we’d sat across a table from each other. I’d discovered the body of conductor Gregor Easton at the Stratton Theater the summer before this past one. Marcus was the investigating officer on the case. We’d gotten off on the wrong foot when he raised the possibility that maybe I’d been at the theater to meet the conductor—who was older than my father—for a romantic rendezvous. I’d taken offense at what he’d been suggesting, and he’d taken offense at what he saw as me poking around in his case.

Gregor Easton’s murder wasn’t the first case of Marcus’s that we’d butted heads on, but in the past few months we’d been trying not to do that. It helped that there hadn’t been a major crime in Mayville Heights in a while.

I stretched my arms up over my head. I’d been stuck behind my desk at the library all day. “I should collect Owen and head home,” I said.

“Have supper with me,” Marcus said. Conversations with him sometimes veered off in unexpected directions. “We could go down to Eric’s Place—that is, if you don’t have plans.”

“I don’t,” I said. “But I have to take Owen home first, assuming he hasn’t decided he’s going to live with you now.” I got to my feet and called the cat. After a minute, he sauntered back into the kitchen. His fur was rumpled and there was a dust ball stuck to his tail. I picked him up and he licked the side of my face, clearly pleased with the way his visit had turned out.

“Thank Marcus for his hospitality,” I said. Owen meowed his appreciation.

Marcus nodded at the cat. “You’re welcome.” To me he said, “I’ll follow you.”

I grabbed my purse from the back of my chair and carried Owen out. I didn’t completely trust him to stay where I could see him, so to speak.

Once we were headed along the road toward home, I glanced over at him on the passenger seat. He was looking out the windshield.

“So did you have a good time?”

“Merow,” he said. His gaze flicked to me and then he went back to staring straight ahead.

“Think of this little visit like it was two visits,” I said darkly. “A first one and a last one.” I didn’t get so much as a whisker twitch for the rest of the ride.

I pulled into the driveway at home, and when I turned off the truck, Owen climbed onto my lap, put a paw on my shoulder and rubbed the side of his face against my cheek. “You’re in big trouble,” I warned, trying to sound mad but not really getting there. “Being cute is not going to save you.”

He licked my chin.

“That would be a whole lot more adorable if you didn’t have fish breath,” I told him.

I carried Owen inside and left him in the kitchen. Hercules was nowhere to be seen. I ran upstairs, undid my ponytail, and ran a brush through my hair. I was still growing out my hair—with help from Rebecca, who used to be a hairdresser. I had layers with side-swept bangs, but I could finally pull it back off my face when I wanted to.

Owen was sitting by the refrigerator when I came down. “Nice try,” I said. “You’ve already eaten. More than once.” I made sure I could see him as I closed and locked the door behind me.

Marcus was waiting in the driveway. I climbed into the passenger side of his SUV.

“Is Owen okay?” he asked as he backed onto the street.

“Are you kidding?” I said. “He had sardines in hot sauce, a hunk of mozzarella cheese, and he got to poke his furry little nose into who knows what at your house. It was just about the perfect cat outing.” I shifted sideways in my seat a little so I could watch him drive.

We started down Mountain Road, and Marcus glanced over at me. “So have you decided what you’re going to do?” he said.

I didn’t have to ask, “About what?” I knew he meant had I decided if I was going to accept the offer Everett Henderson had made to me on behalf of the library board and stay in Mayville Heights, or go back to Boston when my contract expired in about six months. I had until the end of the month to give the board my answer. I fiddled with the strap of my purse to buy a little time. “I’m not sure,” I said finally.

His eyes stayed focused on the road ahead.

“I didn’t think I’d miss my family so much.” I cleared my throat. “One of the reasons I came here was to get some breathing room.”

Marcus nodded without speaking.

“My mother and father, and Sara and Ethan, they sometimes tend to suck all the air out of the room.”

My parents were both actors. My sister, Sara, was an aspiring filmmaker. Her twin, Ethan, was a musician. They were all dramatic people. I’d always been the practical, responsible one in the family. Moving to Mayville Heights to supervise the refurbishment of the library had been the first impulsive thing I’d done in my life.

“When I went back to Boston to see everyone last month . . .” I let the end of the sentence trail away.

“It made the decision more complicated,” Marcus finished.

“It did.”

It had felt so good to be in the middle of my crazy, infuriating family again; to watch my mother and father rehearse, to see Ethan and his band play to an enthusiastic crowd in a little club in downtown Boston, and to play assistant to Sara as she worked out the details for a music video she was shooting for the group. But I couldn’t imagine saying good-bye to Maggie and Roma and Rebecca. And Marcus. I couldn’t see Owen and Hercules living in an apartment in Boston. But I couldn’t leave them behind, either.

Marcus came to a stop at the bottom of the hill and waited for a couple of cars to go by. “I’d miss you,” he said lightly, looking over at me as he made a right turn toward the diner.

“Really?” I said, giving him my Mr.-Spock-from-Star-Trek raised eyebrow.

He nodded. “Who would bring me coffee when I’m working on a case?”

“And who would you tell to stay out of your case?”

“That too,” he said, scanning the street for somewhere to park.

A red pickup pulled out of a spot in front of the bookstore, and Marcus expertly backed into the space. He turned to me as he pulled the key out of the ignition. “You should do what makes you happy,” he said. “But I really would miss you.”

I didn’t know what to say. Marcus was already getting out of the SUV, so I did the same.

Eric’s Place was about half-full, mostly of people I recognized, but a few tourists, too. Claire, my favorite waitress, showed us to a table by the window. Eric raised a hand in hello from behind the counter. His wife, Susan, worked at the library with me. They had twin boys, almost five, with genius level IQs. Susan’s stories about their latest schemes always made me laugh. She claimed they were either going to become criminal masterminds or the first president/vice president twins.

Claire’s eyes flicked over to Marcus as she handed me a menu, and she gave me a knowing smile. I knew that the two of us having dinner together would be all over town in no time. The Mayville Heights gossip grapevine could spread information faster than a fiber-optic Internet connection.

After we’d both ordered and Claire had headed back to the kitchen, I leaned sideways to look out the window.

“You won’t be able to see the tents from here, but we can walk down after we eat,” Marcus said.

I felt my cheeks get warm as I straightened in my chair. “I’m sorry,” I said, realizing I’d been caught out with my attention away from my dinner companion. “That was rude.”

He smiled. “No, it wasn’t. And I’d like to see what’s going on myself.”

I put my napkin in my lap. “I was talking to Maggie when Burtis arrived. He started unloading the truck, and it made me think of one of those little cars at the circus that some implausible number of clowns gets out of. There was so much stuff. It looked as though he were going to set up something big enough to hold a circus.”

“You think it’ll work?”

“You mean the tents or the food tasting?” I asked.

“The food tasting,” Marcus said, shifting in his chair so he could stretch out his jeans-clad legs. “I know Burtis will make the tents work. He’s very . . . resourceful.”

“That he is,” I said with a grin. Among other things, Burtis Chapman was allegedly the town bootlegger. Allegedly, because it wasn’t something he admitted to and he’d never been caught. “I don’t know about the whole food tasting thing. I like the idea, but it’s turned out to be a lot of work. And Maggie says Mike Glazer is”—I struggled for a moment to come up with the appropriate words—“challenging to work with.”

“Challenging?” Marcus raised his eyebrows.

“Actually, she called him a festering boil. I was paraphrasing.”

He was nodding like he agreed. “I probably wouldn’t have called Glazer a festering boil,” he said, “but from what I’ve heard, he has been challenging to work with.”

Mike Glazer was a partner in Legacy Tours, a company out of Chicago that put together small, exclusive travel packages for its upscale clients. Several businesspeople in Mayville Heights were trying to entice Legacy to base a package around the town; the foliage was gorgeous in Minnesota in the fall, we had a thriving artists’ community here—thanks to Maggie—and the food was terrific.

Mike had grown up in Mayville Heights, then moved away and eventually gone to law school. He hadn’t been back in years, according to Maggie. He was in town for a few days now, listening to the pitch for the tour. Part of that pitch was a food tasting and small art show.

I was about to ask Marcus what he’d heard about the man when Claire came back with our food. We’d both ordered the same thing—Mediterranean fish stew—something Eric had just added to the café’s menu. Claire set the steaming bowls in front of us and placed a basket of corn bread in the middle of the table. I breathed in the scent of tomatoes and onions and picked up my spoon.

I was down to the last spoonful of fragrant broth when Claire came back to the table. “Dessert?” she asked. “There’s chocolate pudding cake in the kitchen.”

“None for me,” I said, wondering if there was a polite way to get the last bits of corn bread and cheese from the bottom of my bowl.

“I’ll try some, please,” Marcus said.

Claire smiled at him. “I’ll be right back.”

When she set the heavy stoneware bowl in front of Marcus, the scent of warm chocolate reached across the table like a finger beckoning me to lean over for a taste. He picked up the spoon and held it out to me without saying a word, but a smile pulled at his mouth and the corners of his eyes.

I thought about just shaking my head. After all, it was his dessert, not mine. I thought about signaling to Claire for a dish of my own. I could see from the corner of my eye that she was watching us, even as she seemed to be giving directions to a tall man in jeans and a black and red jacket whom I remembered talking to earlier at the library. But I had a feeling from the smile that Marcus had been unable to stifle that sharing dessert had been his plan all along. So I smiled back at him and took the spoon. The man in the plaid jacket nodded at me as he passed us on his way out. “It’s delicious,” he said, gesturing at the bowl.

He was right. But I’d already known that.

“Who’s that?” Marcus asked, giving the man an appraising look as he went out the door. Some small part of him was always in police officer mode.

“A tourist, I think,” I said. “He came into the library this afternoon looking to use one of the public access computers and a printer. Then he asked me if I could recommend somewhere good for supper.” I reached across the table and scooped up a spoonful of cake and warm chocolate sauce.

“And you said Eric’s, of course.”

I nodded. My mouth was too full of chocolate bliss to answer.

“Thank you for sharing,” I said when we’d finished the pudding cake and our coffee refills.

“You’re welcome.” Marcus leaned one arm on the back of his chair. “Are you ready to walk up and take a look at the tents?”

I pushed back from the table. “Yes. I could use some exercise.”

He got to his feet. “I have this,” he said.

I opened my mouth to argue that I could pay for my dinner, but he was already halfway to the counter.

The sun was just going down and the sky over the river was streaked with red and gold when we stepped outside. I stopped on the sidewalk for a moment to take in the view.

“‘Red sky at night, sailor’s delight. Red sky in morning, sailors take warning,’” Marcus said softly behind me.

I turned to look at him.

“My father used to say that,” he said with a shrug. “Then he’d go into this long explanation about the light from the setting sun, dust particles and high-pressure systems.”

“He wasn’t wrong,” I said as we started walking.

“Yeah, I know. But when you’re ten and your friends are standing there, that kind of thing is embarrassing.”

I waved my hand dismissively at him. “No, no, no, no. Embarrassing is your father doing the balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet on the fire escape. In tights. In January. Embarrassing is all your friends dressing up as tap-dancing raisins for Halloween because your father played one in a cereal commercial and became some kind of cultural icon slash cult hero.”

“You’re joking,” Marcus said.

I sighed and shook my head. “No, sadly, I’m not.”

“A tap-dancing raisin?” He still looked a little disbelieving.

“A shriveled, tap-dancing raisin that had no rhythm.”

He nodded slowly. “You win. That definitely is more embarrassing.”

I bumped his arm with my shoulder. “Someday I’ll tell you about the time my mother picked me up at school after rehearsal for Gypsy.”

“I look forward to it,” he said, smiling down at me.

The street curved, following the shoreline, and ahead I could see that one of the tents was about three-quarters assembled. We crossed at the corner, and as we got closer to the boardwalk, I caught sight of Burtis Chapman and Mike Glazer.

Burtis was built like an offensive lineman, with wide shoulders and huge, muscled arms. His skin was weathered from working outdoors and his hair was snow-white in a Marine Corps brush cut. He was extremely well-read, I knew, but was happy to play the uneducated hick if it suited him.

Mike was about the same height, only leaner, with sandy blond hair cropped close and a couple days’ stubble. In his black wool commando sweater and gray trousers, he looked like a city boy.

“I just think we’d be better served with something from this century,” he was saying, pointing at the tent. He didn’t look happy. “And a lighter fabric—a polyester or nylon.”

I remembered Maggie rolling her eyes in exasperation as she’d described Mike as a festering boil on the backside of life. It was about as close to swearing as Mags got.

For all that Mike seemed to be arrogant and condescending, I knew he could be kind of personable as well. He’d spent some time in the library the previous morning, walking around looking at the large collage panels that told the history of the building.

“Could I help you?” I’d asked, walking over to the magazine section, where he’d stood.

He’d smiled and shaken his head. “Thanks, no. I was just taking a trip down memory lane. These photos are incredible.”

“Take your time,” I’d said. “There are more panels hanging in the computer room.”

He’d checked his watch and frowned. “I wish I could, but I have to get going.” He shrugged and looked around. He seemed a little sad. “Maybe Thomas Wolfe was right; you can’t go home again.”

“I prefer The Wonderful Wizard of Oz,” I’d said.

Mike had frowned, not getting the reference.

“There’s no place like home.”

He’d nodded his head with just a hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth. “I’ll try to remember that.”

Burtis was standing silently, holding a sledgehammer in both of his large hands. His expression was unreadable, until I got close enough to see his eyes. There was a hint of menace in them. If the rumors I’d heard about Burtis were even partly true, I knew he wasn’t a man to get on the bad side of.

“Well?” Mike said impatiently.

“My turn to talk now, is it?” Burtis said, looking at the younger man as though he were something Burtis had just scraped off his shoe. “First of all, boy, both these tents here are just a couple of years old. That canvas is water-repellent, mildew-resistant and flame-retardant. My tents don’t sag when they’re wet and they don’t blow over. When my boys put a tent up, it stays up.” There was a challenge in his body language and his tone.

Mike Glazer shook his head and made a dismissive gesture with one hand. “Forget it. I’ll talk to Liam.”

He walked away, heading for a group of people standing over by the retaining wall between the river and the boardwalk. Burtis caught sight of us. He nodded to Marcus and smiled at me. Whatever anger had been there just the moment before was gone.

“Hello, Kathleen,” he said. “When are you comin’ to have breakfast with me again? I don’t have to wait for you to fall over another body, do I?”

We’d had a lot of rain early in the spring, and all that water had caused an embankment to let go out at Wisteria Hill while I was standing on top of it. The collapse had uncovered remains that had turned out to be those of Roma’s long-lost father. Burtis had known the man. They’d both worked for Idris Blackthorne, who had been the town bootlegger back in the day. I’d had breakfast with Burtis early one morning, looking for any kind of information that would answer the questions Roma had about what had happened to her father.

“No, you don’t,” I said. I could feel Marcus’s eyes watching me. “But does it have to be at six o’clock in the morning?”

“Now, don’t be telling me you need your beauty sleep.” Burtis grinned. “Because nobody’s gonna believe that.” He turned and, with one hand, swung the heavy sledgehammer up into the back of the one-ton truck parked at the curb. Then he looked at me again. “C’mon over to Fern’s some morning. I’ll tell you all about the good old days. Peggy makes some damn fine blueberry pancakes.” His eyes darted over to Marcus for a moment. “Now, if you’ll both excuse me, I got work to do.” He headed for the half-finished tent.

For a moment neither Marcus nor I said anything. Then he cleared his throat. “You’ll notice I’m not asking you why you were having breakfast with Burtis Chapman,” he said.

“I appreciate that,” I said. Before I could say anything else, Mary Lowe came around the side of the half-finished tent. Mary worked at the library when she wasn’t baking the best apple pie I’d ever tasted or practicing her kickboxing. She was state champion in her age and weight class.

Her gray hair was disheveled and she looked exasperated, but she smiled as she drew level with us. “Hello, Kathleen, Marcus,” she said. She made a sweeping gesture with one hand. “Welcome to the circus.”

I knew she didn’t mean the tent.

“Problems?” Marcus asked.

“Nothing that can’t be fixed,” she said, her gaze flicking over to where Mike Glazer was standing by the river wall. “Oh, and I’m probably going to drop-kick that boy’s backside between those two light poles before we’re done here,” she said. “Just so you know.”