Curiosity Thrilled the Cat

16

Needle at Sea Bottom

There was a bottle of wine on the counter and Barry Manilow was on the CD player, and my bangs were miraculously staying off my face. All was well, at least for the moment, in my small corner of the universe.

Not so much for Owen. He was hiding under the bed and had been from the moment the first notes of “I Write the Songs” floated up the stairs. Hercules walked to the end of the bed, dipping his head so he could look under the frame.

“Forget it,” I said. “You know how he is. He won’t come out until I take the CD off.” I bent down and picked up Herc, dancing him in a circle while I sang along with the music. A slightly muffled howl came from under the bed.

I danced Hercules over to the closet and set him down. “So, what am I going to wear?” I asked him.

He sneezed at my first choice and yawned at my second. My third choice, a white top and blue skirt, got two paws up. Well, actually, he just looked the outfit up and down and walked away, which either meant “Great choice” or “You’re hopelessly fashion challenged—I give up.”

Violet’s house was downtown, close to the market and the artists’ co-op. It was a big two-story colonial with a beautiful yard and a converted carriage house in the back. White and pink impatiens bloomed on either side of the walkway to the front door. The lawn looked like a green carpet. It had to be Harry who took care of Violet’s yard. No one else would be so meticulous, except maybe Violet herself. And I couldn’t quite picture her trimming the edge of the grass by the walk with a Weedwacker slung over one shoulder.

Rebecca opened the door. “Kathleen, come in,” she said. “Violet’s in the kitchen.”

I stepped into a foyer that was as well cared for as the outside of the house. I guessed the hardwood floors and wide trim were original, but someone had restored and refinished them at some point. Overhead a lavish brass and crystal chandelier shone down on us. “Wow!” I whispered to Rebecca.

She patted my arm and grinned like a little girl. “Isn’t it spectacular?” she said.

“It’s beautiful.” Everything seemed so right, from the framed painting of sunflowers to the small antique table next to the curving staircase that led to the second floor.

“Wait until you see the piano,” Rebecca said conspiratorially, dipping her head close to mine. She led me into a large room to the right of the foyer. A massive grand piano sat by the window.

“How did they get that in here?” I asked.

Rebecca frowned. “I don’t know. It’s been here since Violet was a girl.”

A fireplace dominated the wall beyond the piano. There were two sofas covered in a deep sky blue fabric, and several comfortable-looking chairs.

“Hello, Kathleen,” Violet said behind me.

I turned. “Hello, Violet,” I said. “Your house is beautiful.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I haven’t forgotten I promised you a tour.”

“I’m looking forward to that.”

Violet wore a green flowered apron over a yellow blouse and tan skirt. She didn’t look like she’d been anywhere near a kitchen.

Was the woman ever rushed? Did she ever get rumpled or messy like the rest of us?

“How did things go at Wisteria Hill?” Rebecca asked.

“Very well,” I said. “Roma thought one of the cats might have a broken leg. We managed to catch her.”

“Good.”

“Please sit down,” Violet said, gesturing to one of the sofas.

We sat, Rebecca and me on the sofa and Violet in one of the chairs.

“So, was the cat’s leg broken?” Violet asked.

“Roma wasn’t sure,” I said.

“I’m glad she came home,” Rebecca said. “I don’t like to think about what might have happened to those cats without her.”

“They would have frozen to death or been trapped the first winter,” Violet said.

I looked at her. “Trapped?”

She nodded. “More than one person was nosing around out at the old house and had the run put to them by the cats. Next thing you know, there’s a lot of loose talk about trapping the cats and euthanizing them for their own good.”

Rebecca shuddered. “How can killing another living creature be good for it?” she said softly.

The doorbell rang. “Excuse me,” Violet said, getting up.

I turned to Rebecca. “Roma told me that you helped make the winter shelters for the cats.”

She folded the edge of her sleeve back over the top of the bandage on her arm. “I couldn’t stand the thought of those poor animals out there with no way to stay warm.” She glanced around. Violet was at the door, letting Roma in. Rebecca leaned toward me across the sofa. “I’ll tell you a secret. Vi bought the plastic bins we used. She didn’t want anyone to know. She’s really a big softy.”

I put my finger to my lips. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

Roma and Violet came in from the foyer. “Hi,” Roma said, lifting a hand in greeting. She took a deep breath. “Violet, something smells wonderful.”

Violet smiled. “Which means I probably should go check on dinner. Have a seat, Roma. I’ll be right back,” she added over her shoulder as she disappeared toward the back of the house.

Roma dropped into the chair where Violet had been sitting. She looked troubled.

“How’s Lucy?” I asked. “The cat,” I added, as an aside to Rebecca.

“The leg’s broken. She needs surgery.”

I sighed.

“David Thornton—he’s a small-animal vet—is coming from Lake Forrest tomorrow to help me set it. He has some experience with a new technique that uses a mesh made from pig bladder. Lucy should be all right.”

“Let me know if you need any help when it’s time to take her back,” I said.

“I will.” She turned to Rebecca. “Kathleen seems to have a rapport with animals. Lucy panicked in the cage, but Kathleen talked to her and she settled down.”

“Kathleen has a rapport with everyone,” Rebecca said with a smile.

Violet appeared in the doorway. “How about a glass of wine? Is anyone driving?”

“I walked,” Roma said. “So I’ll have a glass. Thank you.”

“Ami’s going to pick me up,” Rebecca said. “I’ll have a little, as well, please.”

Violet looked at me.

“I walked, too,” I said. I held up my thumb and index finger about an inch and a half apart. “Just half a glass for me, please.”

“I’ll be right back,” Violet said.

I turned to Rebecca. “Any news about the festival? Did Ami say if they’ve made any decisions?”

“They’re not going to cancel, are they?” Roma asked.

Rebecca shifted sideways so she could see both of us. “If the committee can’t find a replacement conductor they’ll have to cancel the festival.” She sighed. “In fact, they may have to cancel even if someone is willing to step in.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because without a director slash conductor there’s no one to continue rehearsals.”

“Actually, there is.” We all turned toward Violet.

She smiled as she crossed the gleaming oak floor. “The festival board has asked me to continue rehearsals for now.” She was carrying a wooden tray with four wineglasses on it. She offered one to Rebecca, who picked up a glass and gave Violet a warm smile.

“Violet, that’s wonderful news. Ami didn’t tell me.”

“She didn’t know,” Violet said, turning to me with the tray. “I only got the call about an hour ago.”

“I’m glad you’re going to take over,” I said, taking a glass. “I’ve heard so much about the festival. I’d hate to see it canceled.”

Violet handed a wineglass to Roma and took the last one for herself. Roma sipped her wine. “Oh, that’s nice,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “Violet, why can’t you just take over as the festival director?”

Violet took a sip from her glass and then set it on a round glass coaster on the coffee table. “Because no one knows who I am,” she said.

“That’s ridiculous,” Rebecca said. “Everyone in Mayville Heights knows who you are. You’ve lectured at the University of Michigan and the Cleveland Institute of Music.”

Roma glanced over at the piano behind us. “I’ve heard you play,” she said. “You’re very talented.”

Violet held up a hand. “Thank you,” she said. “I’ve had a wonderful career—lots of opportunities—but I have no name recognition.”

“And that’s what the festival needs to draw people in. That’s what sells tickets, as much as the music,” I said.

Violet nodded. “Exactly.”

“But the festival should be about the music, not about personalities,” Roma said. “Not about whether the conductor went skinny-dipping at the Playboy Mansion.”

“Gregor Easton went skinny-dipping at the Playboy Mansion?” I said.

“No, Zinia Young did,” Roma said drily.

“And how did you know?” Violet asked.

Roma turned the same shade of pink as Rebecca’s blouse. “I might have seen something about it on Access Hollywood,” she mumbled.

“Access Hollywood?” Rebecca tried and failed to keep a straight face.

“Now, don’t tell me you’ve never picked up a supermarket tabloid, Rebecca,” Roma said.

“Only for the articles,” Rebecca replied, deadpan.

Roma laughed and took another drink.

I finally took a sip from my own glass. The wine was light and slightly sweet. Its warmth slid down into my stomach and spread out like a sunburst. I took another sip and turned to Violet. “This is Ruby’s wine, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is,” she said, picking up her glass again.

“It’s very good.” I tilted my glass so the clear liquid swirled around the inside. “But it does sneak up on you.”

Violet held up her own glass and studied the contents. “So I’ve noticed,” she said. She got to her feet. “Excuse me again, everyone,” she said. “We should be ready to eat very soon.”

“Kathleen, did you say Ruby made the wine?” Roma asked.

“Uh-huh.” I set my glass on a coaster on the coffee table.

Roma nodded thoughtfully. “Makes sense. I went to school with Ruby’s mother, Callie. Her father, Ruby’s grandfather, was the bootlegger around here.”

“You mean he made—”

“No, no,” Roma interjected. “He didn’t make it. He sold it. Resold it, actually.”

“He did usually have three or four swish barrels on the go,” Rebecca said. “So technically he was making it, too.”

I held up a hand. “What’s a swish barrel?”

Rebecca pushed her glasses up off the end of her nose. “It’s an oak barrel used to age whiskey and other spirits. People would buy the used barrels, put water in them and eventually the alcohol would leach into the water and you’d have a barrel of, well, swish. You know, both Oren’s father and grandfather made barrels for the Union Distillery.”

“Oren used to work summers with the old man, didn’t he?” Roma said.

Rebecca nodded. “Yes, he did. But Oren’s not just a carpenter; he’s an artist, too. He gets that from his father.”

“What happened to those sculptures?” Roma asked, shifting in her chair.

“I hope they’re still out at the homestead. Maybe Oren has them in the barn.”

I looked from one to the other, trying to figure out what they were talking about.

Rebecca noticed my confusion. “Oh, I’m sorry, Kathleen,” she said. “We’re talking about people and things you don’t know anything about.” She adjusted the pillow at her back. “Let me see if I can explain.”

I picked up my glass again and leaned back against the arm of the sofa.

“Oren’s father, Karl, was a carpenter and a house painter. He worked for Harrison Taylor—Old Harry—as well as making barrels for Union. You know the stairs that go up to the top of Wild Rose Bluff? Karl worked on those. But in his spare time he made these incredible metal sculptures. They were massive things. Sadly, very few people got to see them.”

She must have seen the surprise on my face. “In those days young men from Mayville Heights, Minnesota, did not become artists, no matter how talented they were. And he was.”

I thought of the sun Oren had made for the library entrance. “Rebecca, you haven’t been in the library lately,” I said. “You haven’t seen the sun Oren carved for just inside the doors.”

“Oren made the sun?” Roma asked. She was picking at the nail of her left ring finger. I wondered if she was more worried about the injured cat than she’d let on.

I nodded.

“I had no idea. It’s absolutely beautiful.”

“He also made the new wrought-iron railing for the steps.”

“All that skill, that talent, it’s in his blood,” Rebecca said. “Karl Senior and Anna’s father was a blacksmith.”

“Anna?” I said. “Everett’s mother?”

“Yes.” Rebecca nodded. “Everett’s mother and Oren’s grandfather were brother and sister.”

At that point Violet appeared in the doorway. “Dinner’s ready,” she said. “Please bring your glasses.”

The dining room overlooked the backyard. I’d been expecting a formal room, but it was actually very relaxed and welcoming. The table was set with a cream tablecloth and matching cream napkins with blue flowers, and flanked by six black leather Parsons chairs. Very comfortable chairs, I discovered when I sat down. Violet was at the head of the table, with Rebecca to her left and Roma and me to the right.

Dinner was sole with spiced vegetable stuffing, rice pilaf, tiny carrots and salad with mustard vinaigrette. Violet was an excellent cook. As she refilled our wineglasses I wondered how she’d ended up with a bottle of Ruby’s wine. They both loved music, but I didn’t know they were friends. Roma had apparently been thinking the same thing.

“Violet, why do you have a bottle of Ruby’s homemade wine?” she asked.

Violet set down her fork. “That’s right. I didn’t tell you,” she said. “Ruby’s going to move into the apartment over the carriage house.” She turned to me. “You probably noticed the carriage house at the end of the driveway.”

“I did,” I said.

“There’s an apartment on the second level. I haven’t had a tenant there for a long time, but I decided having a little more life around here would be a good idea.”

“When is she moving in?” Roma asked.

“End of the month. Unless the festival is canceled, in which case she may move in a bit sooner.”

Roma speared a carrot with her fork. “What do you think happened to Gregor Easton?” she asked. It seemed like a casual question; then I noticed how tightly she was clutching her fork.

“I think he was a debauched old goat who had most likely been engaged in something he shouldn’t have been doing with someone far too young for him,” Violet said.

“You think he had a heart attack or a stroke, then?”

“Don’t you?” Violet asked.

“It makes the most sense,” Roma said slowly. “From what I’d heard he was a man of large appetites. But if it was just a heart attack why are the police still investigating?”

I didn’t say that Easton’s death hadn’t been a heart attack—or most likely not even an accident. I wanted to see where the conversation was going.

“Because Gregor Easton was a celebrity of sorts. He died here, in Mayville Heights. To a lot of people that’s Nowhereville.” Violet poured a little more wine into her glass. “Why wouldn’t the police be extra thorough? As it is, there’s probably going to be some comments made about our ‘hick’ police department.” She looked at me. “Kathleen, you used to live in Boston. There is a big-city perception that a small town can be a little slow, isn’t there?”

“With some people, yes,” I admitted.

“What about you?” Rebecca said teasingly. “Did you think we were all a bunch of lumberjacks running around the woods in plaid flannel shirts?”

She popped a bite of fish and stuffing in her mouth.

“Not in the beginning, I didn’t,” I said. “Then my first week here Susan came to work one morning wearing a pair of fur-trimmed Sorels, a hat with earflaps and a red-and-black plaid jacket.”

Violet and Rebecca both laughed. “I think Susan feels the cold,” Rebecca said. “She’s a tiny person.”

“And plaid was in last winter,” Violet added.

“So, Susan didn’t leave you with the impression we were all a bunch of hicks?” Rebecca asked, setting her knife and fork side by side on her plate.

I took the last bite of fish and did the same. “No, she didn’t,” I said. “I’ve lived in a few small towns myself, so I’m aware of the stereotypes.”

“I thought you grew up in Boston,” Violet said. She stood to clear our plates.

“No,” I said. “I’ve lived all up and down the East Coast. My parents are actors.”

“Theater?” Violet asked.

“For the most part. My father has been in a number of commercials over the years. But most of the time they’ve been onstage.” I realized Violet had very skillfully turned the subject away from Gregor Easton and his death. Why? Was it just that she didn’t think that was suitable dinner conversation? Or did she have another reason? Beside me Roma sat silently playing with her fork.

“And you didn’t want to act?” Rebecca asked, finishing the last of her wine.

“No,” I said emphatically. “First of all, I didn’t inherit a drop of my parents’ talent. I can memorize lines, but I’m a big block of wood onstage.”

“You couldn’t be that bad,” she said.

“I could and I am. And sometimes I think acting held no interest for me because there was no lure to the exotic, the unknown.”

“What do you mean?” Violet asked, turning from the sideboard with a blueberry tart in a clear glass pie plate.

“I know how hard being an actor can be. I’ve seen the work, the rejection, the uncertainty. There’s nothing glamorous about it. Not to me.”

Violet cut a slice of the tart and handed it to Rebecca.

“What about the rest of your family?” Rebecca said, taking the plate. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

“I have a younger brother and sister. Twins.” Violet passed plates to both Roma and me.

“Do they act?”

I shook my head. “No. Sara is a screenwriter and filmmaker. She’s made several short films. She’s working as a makeup artist, as well. There have been enough movies made in and around Boston to keep her working pretty steadily.” I took a forkful of pie—juicy blueberries, a light custard filling and flaky pastry. “Mmmm, Violet, this is delicious,” I said.

“Thank you,” Violet said. “It’s Rebecca’s recipe.”

I raised my fork to Rebecca across the table. “Then thank you, too,” I said.

“It’s my mother’s recipe, actually,” she said. “Although I think you added a little nutmeg to the berries, didn’t you?” She looked at Violet, who was pouring coffee.

“Yes, I did,” Violet said. She handed me a cup. “You were telling us about your family. What does your brother do?”

“He’s a musician,” I said. “A drummer. He teaches jazz drumming and he’s in a band called The Flaming Gerbils.”

That pulled Roma back into the conversation. She almost choked on her coffee. “The Flaming Gerbils?”

“Uh-huh. Ethan has been in one band or another since he was a little kid. He put his first band together when he was in kindergarten. He called it Up Your Nose.”

They all laughed.

“What about you, Violet?” I asked. “Were you in a group when you were younger?”

“Not unless you count rhythm band in grade two. I played a mean triangle.”

“She did,” Rebecca said, solemnly. “Violet was a triangle virtuoso.”

“I did play rehearsal piano for pretty much anybody and everybody when I was getting my first degree,” Violet said.

“Where did you go to college?” I asked. Was it possible she’d known Gregor Easton at university?

“Oberlin College. It’s in Ohio. What about you?”

Easton had gone to the University of Cincinnati. “I went to Husson in Maine.” I smiled, remembering. “I may not have had any stereotypical ideas about Minnesota, but I definitely had them about Maine. I showed up with a suitcase full of sweaters, and they were in the middle of a late-summer heat wave.”

Thank heavens Lise had been my roommate. I wondered when I’d hear from her again. If anyone could dig up information about Gregor Easton, it would be Lise.

After we finished dessert Violet took me on a tour of the house. Every room was as beautiful as the living room and foyer. “Llŷn,” I said as we walked back into the living room. “That’s Welsh, isn’t it?”

Violet nodded. “It is. It means ‘lake.’ My mother’s parents were from Wales.”

Roma was looking at a large photograph that was hanging in the dining room. It was a street shot of the downtown by the lake, from, I guessed, at least fifty years ago. Violet joined her as Roma tried to pick out old landmarks. I sat beside Rebecca on the sofa.

“Violet’s a wonderful cook,” I said to Rebecca.

“She is. Even when we were girls she would take a recipe and change it just a little to give it her own unique touch.”

“Have you been friends a long time?”

“Forever. From the time we started school. Violet’s like my sister.” She settled back against the arm of the sofa and folded her hands in her lap. “I had two older brothers who teased me constantly. Violet was an only child. But she was fearless.”

Rebecca shook her head, smiling at something she’d remembered. “We weren’t allowed down by the lake,” she said, lowering her voice so we wouldn’t be overheard. “But we used to sneak down all the time. My brother Stephen told on us. The next morning when he got up his shoes were filled with wet sand—the pair he wore for school and his good pair for church.” She laughed at the memory. “It was Violet, but to this day I don’t know how she did it.”

I glanced toward the dining room. “It’s hard to picture Violet as a rebellious girl.”

Rebecca rubbed a hand over the sofa cushion between us. “I know she comes across as very reserved. Some people think she’s cold, but she’s not. Life has just made her seem that way.” She looked around the room. “Violet grew up in this house. She was only twenty-five when her mother and father died within six months of each other. Ten years later she was a widow with two little boys. If she seems unfeeling, well, is it any wonder? But inside she’s warm and loyal. I’ve always been able to count on her. I’d do anything for her and she’d do anything for me.”

“That’s what my mother calls sisters of the heart,” I said.

Rebecca glanced over toward Violet again. “I like that,” she said. She turned back to me. “You come from a very colorful family, Kathleen. How did you end up in Mayville Heights?”

Andrew’s face suddenly filled my memory—his big smile, his deep blue eyes, his blond hair that curled down over his collar when he was overdue for a haircut. Maybe it was what seemed like Rebecca’s genuine interest, or maybe it was two glasses of Ruby’s wine. Whatever it was, I answered honestly. “I ran away.”

Rebecca’s eyes widened. “From what?”

“From my life at the time. From my family—I love them, but they can use up all the air in the room.”

Rebecca nodded her understanding.

“And from the man I thought I was going to spend the rest of my life with.”

I looked away for a moment. Violet and Roma had a photo album out now.

Rebecca leaned over and squeezed my hand. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Do you mind my asking what happened?”

I twisted my watchband around my arm instead of looking at her. “He married someone else.”

“Then perhaps you’re better off without him.”

“That’s what my friend Lise said. She also called him a no-good, scum-sucking elephant turd.”

Rebecca was silent for a moment. “I think I’d like your friend Lise,” she said finally, a bit of a smile playing on her lips.

“It’s a bit more complicated than that,” I said.

“I’m listening,” Rebecca said.

“Andrew—that’s his name—wanted me to take a leave of absence from my job and see the country. All of it. With him.”

“I take it you didn’t want to.”

“No, I didn’t.” I rubbed a finger over my thumbnail. “Rebecca, I lived in a lot of places growing up. Small towns, big cities, and everything in between. I’ve already seen a lot of the country. I want to stay in one place. I want to belong somewhere. The way you and Violet and Roma do.”

I looked around Violet’s welcoming living room. “Violet grew up in this house. The two of you have been friends almost your entire lives. I don’t know how many different places I’ve lived, and my whole childhood is in one cardboard box in a storage unit in Boston.” I twisted my watch around my wrist. “I just want to belong somewhere.”

“Your Andrew didn’t understand that.”

I looked over my shoulder, through the front window to the darkened street. “No, he didn’t. He went on a two-week camping trip in Maine after I said no. He came back married.”

“After two weeks?”

I nodded and tried to clear the lump in my throat. “Married. I went to work the morning after he came back, saw Everett’s notice about the job here and applied.” I held out my hands. “And here I am.”

Rebecca studied my face. “You miss him, though.”

“Sometimes. But it’s over. Time only moves in one direction: forward. So no matter how much I might want to change things sometimes, I can’t.”

Rebecca got a faraway look in her eyes. “There’s something special about first love,” she said. “But you’re right, it’s important to move forward. And your Andrew’s loss has been our gain.” She smiled at me. “I hope you’re starting to feel you belong here.”

Before I could answer, Roma poked her head in from the dining room. “Rebecca,” she said. “What used to be on the corner opposite the market?”

“Anderson’s,” Rebecca said at once. “They sold fabric. He was a tailor.”

Roma tapped the side of her head. “Anderson’s. Of course. Thank you.” She turned back to the album Violet was still looking at.

Rebecca looked at me. “Would you like to see what Mayville Heights looked like back in the good old days?”

“I would,” I said. We walked over to join Violet and Roma. The framed black-and-white photograph was remarkably sharp and detailed. Rebecca walked me down the street in the old photo, pointing out each building and sharing stories about herself and Violet.

“You know, the downtown really doesn’t look that much different,” I said. “I would have recognized the hotel and all those little stores.”

“That’s because the buildings were built to last,” Rebecca said.

“How about another cup of coffee?” Violet offered. “It’s decaf.”

“All right,” Roma said. I nodded, as well. I probably drank too much coffee, but as vices went it wasn’t that bad.

“How about another piece of blueberry tart?”

“A sliver,” Roma said, holding up a thumb and forefinger about an inch apart.

“Kathleen?” Violet looked at me.

“Don’t make me eat alone,” Roma said. Something in her smile seemed forced.

“A tiny, tiny piece,” I said.

Rebecca took the album from Violet. “Why don’t you take that into the living room?” she said. “I’ll be right in.”

“Could I help?” Rebecca asked.

“Show Roma and Kathleen more of the old photographs. I can get the coffee.”

We settled on the sofa on either side of Rebecca, who laid the album across her lap. “Look,” she said, pointing to a picture of a somber-faced girl in a dark dress with a white collar and cuffs. “That’s Violet, senior year of high school. You know the building that’s the River Arts Center now? That’s where we went to high school.”

I leaned in closer to look. “She looks so serious.”

“Look at this one,” Roma said, putting a finger on a snapshot on the adjacent page. It was Violet in some kind of party dress with a little purse and a very unfortunate bubble hairdo.

“Interesting hair,” Roma said, struggling not to laugh.

Rebecca did laugh, covering her mouth with one hand. “Oh, my,” she said. “I’d forgotten about that. That was the first time I did Vi’s hair.”

“And it was almost the last,” Violet said, coming in with the coffee tray.

I got up and took it from her, and set it on the coffee table.

“It wasn’t that bad,” Rebecca said. “Maybe a little too poufy.”

“She back-combed my entire head and used a full can of hairspray on it.”

“Well, I didn’t want my handiwork to go flat.”

“It was windy and raining the night of that party,” Violet said as she poured. “The wind almost pulled the screen door off its hinges, but my hair didn’t move.”

“Then it was a good thing I used lots of spray.” Rebecca smiled sweetly.

I had the feeling they’d had this conversation many times before.

I took the album off Rebecca’s lap so she could reach her coffee. Roma had already started on her sliver of pie, which really wasn’t a sliver at all. I flipped through the photographs. Violet looked so young. In most of the pictures she was smiling, even laughing in a few, and I wondered what she’d been like as a girl. My favorite shot was one of Violet and another young woman, arms around each other’s shoulders, standing by the water, both of them with huge, happy smiles. “Rebecca, is this you?” I asked. She set down her cup and I turned the album toward her.

“Heavens, yes, it is. That was just before Violet left for Oberlin.”

“That’s the first picture I’ve seen of the two of you,” I said.

She shrugged. “I don’t really like having my picture taken,” she said.

“You look very pretty in this one,” I told her.

“Thank you,” Rebecca said, sliding the album back onto her lap so I could pick up my pie. “That reminds me, do you have any pictures of your family? I’d love to see them sometime.”

“I do,” I said. “Remind me and I’ll show you.”

“Kathleen, how’s the work coming at the library?” Violet asked, settling in a chair with her coffee.

“A little slower than I’d like,” I said. “Larry Taylor has the wiring almost done in the new computer room. The circulation desk is finished, and I’m hoping the police will let us back into the meeting-room space in a day or two.”

“Why have the police been at the library?” Roma asked. “Gregor Easton died at the Stratton.”

I took a sip of coffee, wondering how much I should say. “Easton was at the library earlier in the evening and he may have come back again.”

Roma started coughing. Rebecca reached around and patted her on the back.

“Do you need a glass of water?” Violet asked.

Roma held out a hand. She coughed a couple more times, then sucked in several breaths. “I’m all right,” she gasped. She swallowed a mouthful of coffee and then took a few more deep breaths. “A blueberry went down the wrong way.” She rolled her wrist over and checked her watch. “I really should get back to the clinic and check on the cat,” she said. “Thank you, Violet. Everything was delicious.”

She got to her feet and looked at me. “Kathleen, if I’m not rushing you, we could walk partway together.” She didn’t say please out loud, but I could see it on her face.

“You’re not,” I said. “I need to check on Owen and Hercules. Somebody”—I turned to look at Rebecca—“got Owen another catnip chicken. There are probably chicken parts all over my kitchen.”

“Don’t look at me,” Rebecca said, keeping her head down over the album. “It was Ami.”

Head bowed or not, I could see her smiling. I thanked Violet for dinner and for sharing her photographs. Roma and I said our good nights and headed out. The moon was almost full and the stars sparkled in a way they had never seemed to in the city.

Roma waited until we were out of sight of the house before she spoke. “Kathleen, could I ask you something?” she said.

“Of course,” I said. “What is it?”

“You said Easton was at the library before he died.”

“That’s right,” I said slowly, wondering where she was going.

“You’re sure?”

“Uh-huh. The police have evidence. Why do you ask?”

We turned the corner and started up the hill. She let out a breath and stopped on the sidewalk. “Because I think Oren might be involved in Easton’s death.”