Hooked On A Feline

chapter 2

Harry, Johnny and the rest of the Outlaws had just come in. Nic walked over to them, looking around the room as he did so. He said something to Johnny, who nodded, and the group started in our direction. Ritchie had his arm around a tiny, dark-haired woman. His wife, I guessed. Paul was holding hands with his wife, Sonja, whom I knew from the library.

There were two smaller tables to our left. Nic pushed them together and quickly rearranged the chairs, grabbing a couple extra from a nearby table.

Mike was still wearing his fedora. He dropped it on the nearest chair. Roma was already on her feet. Mike grinned, raising one eyebrow at her. His face was flushed. She hugged him and then pulled back and slugged his left arm. “You are such a sneak,” she said. “I can’t believe you kept a secret like that.”

“Was it worth it?” Johnny asked.

Roma nodded. “Absolutely!”

“Your playing gave me goose bumps,” I said to Harry.

He smiled. “Thank you,” he said. He shifted from one foot to the other almost as though he was a bit uncomfortable hearing the praise.

Nic had come back with the coffeepot and was filling cups at the table.

“Do you think we could get breakfast sandwiches?” Johnny asked him.

Nic nodded. “Sure. Sourdough and fried tomatoes?”

“Sounds good,” Johnny said. “Thanks.”

Nic glanced at me and then dropped his gaze down to my mug for a moment. I nodded. He made his way over and topped up my cup and Brady’s. “It shouldn’t be too long,” he said to Johnny as he headed back toward the kitchen.

Johnny turned to me. “So?” he asked, holding up both hands. Johnny was what my mother would have called “one of the good ones.” It wasn’t common knowledge, but he was a big supporter of the elementary school’s brown-bag lunch program and Reading Buddies at the library.

“So ‘wow’ doesn’t seem anywhere near adequate,” I said.

He smiled. “Thank you. There was something magical about being up onstage with the guys again.” He rolled his eyes. “I know it probably sounds silly, talking like that.”

I shook my head. “Not to me. Both my parents are actors and I’ve seen firsthand that sometimes the whole really is more than the sum of its parts.”

Mike joined us then. “Hi, Kathleen. How’s your tooth?” he asked. He couldn’t seem to keep still. The fingers on his right hand were moving like they were still on the strings of his bass. He reminded me of my brother, Ethan.

“My tooth is fine and you were terrific,” I said.

“Thank you,” he said, giving me that little-boy grin.

“How did you manage to keep the reunion a secret?”

Johnny shifted from one foot to the other. Like Mike he still seemed to have that buzz of energy from the concert. “I still can’t believe that we did. Mostly it was just dumb luck. I figured someone would mess up and it would get out.”

“He means me,” Mike said. “Hey, Kathleen, you know those old World War Two posters you have down at the library?”

I nodded.

Roma’s husband, Eddie, had opened a hockey school in Mayville Heights. A cache of Second World War propaganda posters had been unearthed during renovations to the empty warehouse down by the river that was home to the school. Eddie had donated them to the library. I had an exhibit of the posters planned for November, and after that, they were going to be auctioned off with the proceeds going to our ongoing project to digitize all the old documents we had that were too fragile to be handled very often. The posters were in excellent shape and I was hoping they’d all sell.

Mike stuck out his lower lip and plucked at it several times with one finger like he was playing a guitar string. “ ‘Loose lips sink ships,’ ” he said, quoting one of the posters he’d seen in my office. Mike was working on researching his family tree and he’d spent a lot of time at the library recently, going though old records and documents. “Everyone thought I’d never be able to keep quiet. And you were all wrong.”

“I’m impressed by your secret-keeping skills,” I said.

Mike put one hand on his chest and gave a slight bow. “Thank you,” he said.

“Yeah, you did good,” Johnny said. He looked at me. There was a gleam in his blue eyes. I had the feeling Johnny just might have used Mike’s desire to prove everyone wrong to make sure their secret stayed secret.

Nic came from the kitchen then with a giant circular tray. I could smell Eric’s signature breakfast sandwich and I almost wished I had ordered one instead of the cobbler.

I sat down again and picked up my coffee. Eddie had shifted in his seat and was deep in conversation with Paul Whitewater, who had turned his own chair sideways, and Brady, who was standing by the end of our table, hands jammed in his pockets. They had to be talking about hockey, I realized, based on the way Eddie was moving his hands almost as though he were holding a stick.

After more than one setback, the Sweeney Center was finally finished. The former warehouse space had an ice surface and a conditioning room. Eddie would start working with his first class of summer hockey students on Monday. Roma had told me that he was also donating coaching time and space to both the boys’ and girls’ high school hockey teams. That didn’t surprise me. That was the type of person Eddie was.

Sonja Whitewater was sitting beside her husband. She leaned sideways into my line of vision and waved. I waved back; then I stood up again and made my way over to her, carrying my coffee.

“So did you enjoy the concert?” Sonja asked. She had ice-blue eyes and blond hair cut to her collarbone.

“I don’t know when I last had so much fun,” I said.

She grinned. “I’m glad. I’ve always been more nervous than Paul is when he performs.”

I nodded. “I know what you mean. My mom and dad are actors and Mom is always more anxious when Dad’s performing than she is when she’s the one onstage. And heaven help any critic who doesn’t like his work.”

Sonja laughed. “I think I’d like your mother. I’m exactly the same way. I’m glad you’re here. I’ve been wanting to thank you for the book recommendations last time I was in. They were all a big hit, especially the series about the talking hamster named Einstein.”

“It’s one of my favorites,” I said. “I’m glad you like it. And in case you’re interested, we have multiple copies of all the books in the series so far.”

“I can’t tell you how glad I am to hear that,” she said. “I would never complain about my kids reading but we go through books the way other families go through boxes of Cheerios.”

“Kids who like to read,” I said with a smile. “Music to my ears.”

Sonja’s phone buzzed then and she reached for it. “I’ll see you Monday,” she said.

Harry was seated on the other side of the two pushed-together tables from Sonja and Paul. Ritchie Gonzalez and his wife were on his left and there was an empty seat to his right. I made my way over to Harry. There was something I wanted to do.

“Harry, I owe you an apology,” I said when I reached him.

He frowned. “Why? What did you do?” He indicated the chair beside him and I sat down.

“I kept you at the library, going on about my ideas for the cold frames this afternoon, and you had the concert to get to.”

Harry was shaking his head before I finished speaking. “You don’t have to apologize for anything. As I remember it, it was me who asked you to come out and show me where you want to put those boxes.”

Harry had built several raised beds so the kids in our summer program at the library could grow their own vegetables. The project had turned out to be more successful than I’d hoped. We’d made salads with the first harvest of lettuce and radishes and not one child had complained about eating vegetables. A couple of days ago, we’d sent each child home with a small bag of tomatoes and yellow beans. I wanted to extend the growing season with cold frames so the Reading Buddies kids could have the same experience.

“Kathleen, you don’t know Ritchie and Elena, do you?” Harry asked.

I shook my head. “I don’t.”

He gestured at his friend. “Kathleen Paulson. Ritchie and Elena Gonzalez.”

I smiled. “It’s nice to meet you both.”

Elena had a mass of dark curls brushing her shoulders. She was wearing a black T-shirt with the words I’m with the band across the chest.

She looked familiar. I thought back to where I could possibly have met her before and then it hit me. “Are you a nurse?”

She smiled. “A nurse practitioner.”

“You helped treat my broken wrist at the clinic about four years ago. I knew you looked familiar,” I said.

“That’s right.” She tipped her head toward my arm. “May I?” she asked.

I nodded.

She reached over and gently fingered my left wrist. “It looks like you healed well,” she said.

“I did, although I now have a better accuracy rate predicting rain than the meteorologist on Channel 4.”

Ritchie smiled. “She never forgets a patient.”

Elena shrugged. “I just have that kind of memory. I’m really good at trivia games, too.”

“So am I,” I said. “You know, we’ve been talking about doing a trivia tournament this winter at the library.”

Ritchie looked at Harry. “You may have started something here.”

Elena’s dark eyes lit up. “We’ll talk later,” she said.

Ritchie leaned forward. “I think I saw you once in the library when I was meeting Mike. It’s a gorgeous old building by the way.”

“Thank you,” I said. “It took a lot of work from a lot of people, including Harry.”

Harry didn’t say anything. He just gave his head a little shake. He was the most self-effacing person I had ever met.

“Kathleen, someone mentioned that Ethan Paulson is your brother,” Ritchie said. Up close I could see some gray in his thick dark hair. “Is that right?”

“He is,” I said. “How do you know Ethan?”

Ritchie smiled. Without a smile he looked more than a little imposing. With one he looked like a big teddy bear. “I don’t really know him. I saw The Flaming Gerbils last winter in Red Wing and I got to talk to your brother between sets. Man, what a voice!”

I felt a rush of big-sister pride. I knew Ethan was enormously talented but it was always great to hear other people felt the same way.

“He would have loved tonight,” I said. “You were all incredible.”

“Thank you,” Ritchie said. “It was a once-in-a-lifetime experience, getting out there again, all five of us together.”

“Or maybe not.”

I turned. Mike was standing behind me.

“Give it a rest,” Ritchie said. He didn’t seem annoyed by Mike’s comment. I got the feeling he was mostly ignoring it.

Beside me Harry let out a breath. “Mike thinks we should all go out and do a few dates with Johnny,” he said to me by way of explanation.

“You can’t tell me you really don’t want to do this again!” Mike exclaimed. “They loved us. You were there, Kathleen. Tell him!”

“Harry doesn’t need me to tell him anything,” I said, getting to my feet. “But I do need to tell you about a couple of resources I thought of that might be useful to help you finish your family tree.” I tipped my head in the direction of the long counter at the other end of the diner and reached for my coffee. “I need a refill. Walk me over.”

Mike rolled his eyes. “I know what you’re doing,” he said.

“I thought you would,” I said. I smiled at Ritchie and Elena. “It was good to meet you.”

“You too, Kathleen,” Ritchie said. Elena nodded and smiled.

“So did you really come up with more ideas for me?” Mike asked as we made our way around the tables.

I nodded. “Actually the credit should go to Abigail. She remembered some documents that seem to be from some kind of accounting of people in this part of the state. We did a little digging and found them. They predate the first Minnesota Territorial Census of 1849 by a year. They might help you learn more about your great-great-grandfather’s family.”

“You’re serious?”

I nodded. “The paper is very fragile and you’ll need a magnifier and some patience to read the names.”

“I thought I was at a dead end. This could be exactly what I’ve been looking for.” Going on the road with Johnny seemed to be forgotten—at least for now. Mike gave me a saucy grin. “Kathleen, I would bow down and kiss your hand if your very large police-detective boyfriend weren’t just over there talking to my cousin.”

“How about you bring me coffee next time you come to the library instead?”

“Done!” he said. “And that will be Monday—probably afternoon if that’s okay? I took the week off.”

“It’s fine with me. Abigail will be there and so will I.”

Nic was behind the counter. He held out a hand and I gave him my mug. He refilled it and handed it back. “Thank you,” I said.

Mike and I headed back to the others. “Hey, I really owe you a big thank-you for all the help you’ve given me while I’ve been researching the family,” he said. “It turned out to be a much bigger project than I ever expected.”

“It’s part of my job,” I said. “And I’ve found the whole thing fascinating.” I took a sip of my coffee. “I had no idea your great-aunt, Leitha, went to college at sixteen, let alone learned to fly as part of the War Training Service. And she knew John Glenn.”

“Yeah, that surprised me as well. She rarely talked about that part of her life.” He pulled his fingers through his hair. “You know, Aunt Leitha is the reason I started researching the Finnamore family history.”

I shook my head. “I didn’t.”

“Before she died she was taking part in a long-term study into heart disease.”

“I did know that.”

Leitha Finnamore Anderson had outlived her brother, her two nieces and a great-nephew. With the exception of the great-nephew, all had died from cardiac issues. Leitha herself had been ninety-three when her car went off the road this past spring. She had died as a result of her injuries. Researchers wanted to know why Leitha—and people like her—lived so long and were physically and mentally in such good shape. Was it genetics? Was it lifestyle? Was it both? Or neither? And was there any connection with other traits such as eye color or height?

Mike made a face. “Like I said, there were things she never talked about, and once she was gone, I was sorry I didn’t push more. I felt this urgency to learn about the family while there were still people left to talk to.” He held up a finger as though something had just occurred to him. “That reminds me, Kathleen: At some point I’d like to have a family tree drawn out. Isn’t there a guy at the artists’ co-op who does that sort of thing?”

“You’re probably thinking about Ray Nightingale,” I said.

Ray was best known for his intricate pen-and-ink drawings, which each featured a tiny fedora-wearing duck named Bo somewhere in the design. Ray had also drawn several family trees for different people—in one case drawing a very detailed actual tree to showcase that family’s connections.

Mike snapped his fingers. “Nightingale. Right. That’s the guy I was thinking of.”

“I’m sorry. Ray isn’t in town anymore.” I held up one hand before he could speak. “But I know someone who should be able to help you.” I gestured at Maggie, who was deep in conversation with Johnny. “Do you know Maggie Adams?”

“The yoga teacher?”

“Uh-huh. And she’s also a very talented artist.”

Mike had already started to nod. “Wait a second. Did she make that mannequin thing of Eddie a few years back for Winterfest?”

I nodded. “Yes, she did.” The “mannequin thing of Eddie” had been responsible for Eddie and Roma ending up together.

“You think she could make what I’m looking for?”

“I do. But if she couldn’t, or if she doesn’t have time in her schedule, Maggie could put you in touch with another artist who could help you. She used to be the president of the artists’ co-op.”

“Fantastic,” Mike said. “Introduce me.”

We joined Maggie and Johnny and I made the introductions, explaining to Mags what Mike was looking for.

“Off the top of my head, I can come up with a couple of ways to go,” she said. “You could go very minimalist, with a clean, simple design, and focus on the fonts and the paper. Or you could take the completely opposite tack and do something very detailed. What were you thinking of?”

I knew that gleam in her eye. She was interested.

Mike shrugged. “I don’t know. Something more than just names on a piece of paper. Something that could be framed and hung on the wall.”

“You know that all you’re going to find in the family tree are brigands and reprobates,” a voice said behind us.

I turned to find Jonas Quinn—Mike’s cousin—and Jonas’s nephew, Lachlan, grinning at us. I knew Jonas from the library. He was an avid reader of military history and “hard” science fiction and lately books on genetics, which made sense since Mike was digging into the family history. He was about the same height as Marcus, which meant he was just over six feet, and he had dark eyes and wavy dark hair cut much shorter than Mike’s. Jonas was a college professor and Lachlan’s guardian.

I knew Lachlan because he’d come to the library with Mike more than once. He was seventeen and a nice kid. He had the same thick hair as Mike and Jonas did, except his was long, pulled back into a ponytail. “A tangle of curls,” I remembered Mary calling it.

“As you can probably tell, my cousin is not interested in our past,” Mike said dryly.

“That’s true.” Jonas nudged his black brow-line glasses up his nose. “I’m looking to the future, which is Lachlan.”

“Geez, no pressure,” the teen said. I saw the gleam in his green eyes and knew he wasn’t really feeling pressured.

“Lachlan wants to study music,” Mike said.

“What’s your dream school?” I asked.

Lachlan smiled. “Berklee,” he said. “But I know how hard it is to get in, so I’m applying to other places as well. I want to be an audio engineer and music producer.”

“He plays piano, guitar and bass,” Jonas said.

I knew that Lachlan’s father was Jonas Quinn’s younger brother. Jonas had taken on raising the boy when his parents died as the result of a car accident. I could hear the parental pride in his voice.

“He’s good,” Johnny added. “I’m running out of things to teach him.”

Lachlan ducked his head as a flush of color crept up his neck.

“I think you’d like Boston,” I said as a way of changing the subject. “There’s an incredible amount of music to see live. Whatever kind of music you like, someone somewhere in the city is playing it.”

“That’s where you grew up, right?” Lachlan asked.

I took a sip of my coffee. It had gotten cold. “For the most part. My family still lives there.”

Maggie leaned into my line of vision. “Kath, you should connect him with Ethan,” she said.

I nodded. “That’s a good idea.” I turned my attention to Lachlan again. “My younger brother, Ethan, is a musician. He could tell you all about the music scene in Boston, and a friend of his went to Berklee. Ethan teaches music and he has a band called The Flaming Gerbils.”

Lachlan frowned. “Wait a sec. The lead singer? That’s your brother? Ritchie played me a couple of their songs. They’re really good. Man, I’d love to talk to him.”

“Send me a text so I have your number and I’ll pass it on to Ethan tomorrow,” I said.

He pulled out his phone and I recited my number. He immediately sent me a text, then looked up smiling. “Seriously, thank you. There’s so much stuff I’d like to ask him.” The smile wavered. “You don’t think he’ll mind, do you?”

I laughed. “If Ethan’s not making music, he’s talking about music. He eats, sleeps and breathes it. He won’t have any problem answering anything you ask him.”

Maggie asked a question then about what other schools Lachlan was applying to. Watching him, I could see how much he resembled both Mike and Jonas. Like Mike he was very animated when he was talking, his hands flying everywhere, and he had the same way of tilting his head to the side while he was listening that Jonas did.

I pictured Ethan and Sarah, who didn’t look that much alike even though they were twins, but who did share the same intensity about so many things. Ethan and I both had dark hair, but my eyes, like Sarah’s, were brown and his were hazel. I felt a twinge of homesickness for my own family.

I could have stayed there talking all night. I saw Harry check his watch and Roma stifle a yawn.

Marcus came up behind me and put an arm around my shoulders. “Ready to go?” he asked.

I nodded. Across the room Johnny was at the counter getting the bill for his whole group, I realized. From the expression on Nic’s face, he’d also added a very nice tip.

We gathered our things and said good night to Nic. Outside on the sidewalk I gave Roma a hug. “Thank you for suggesting this,” I said, gesturing at the café behind us. “Best night ever.”

“Absolutely,” she said. She smiled, grabbed Eddie by the hand and they headed down the sidewalk.

Marcus was talking to Harry about something, their expressions serious. Maggie and Brady joined me. “Hey, thank you for suggesting me to Mike for his family tree,” she said.

“So you’re interested in designing it for him?” I asked.

She nodded. “I am. I got back into drawing when the bake-off was filming here and it’s something I’d like to keep doing.”

A failed attempt at resurrecting The Great Northern Baking Showdown had been filmed this past spring in Mayville Heights. Maggie had been hired to work with the show’s illustrator.

“I can’t wait to see what you come up with,” I said. I turned to Brady. “A little bird told me your dad bought an air hockey table.”

He gave his head a shake and smiled. “I’m guessing that bird’s name is Rebecca.”

“It is,” I said.

“Doesn’t surprise me,” he said. “Rebecca is how Dad found out about it in the first place. She was at the office, they started talking and the next time I go out to the house, there’s an air hockey table in the living room.”

Rebecca was Rebecca Henderson. She was married to Everett Henderson. The office Brady had referred to was Everett’s. Everett’s assistant, Lita, and Brady’s father, Burtis, were a couple. And to make things even more tangled, Rebecca and Everett were my backyard neighbors.

“I’ll have to come out sometime for a game,” I said.

“You know that’s why he got the darn thing, don’t you?” Brady said.

Brady had bought a pinball machine, which he kept out at his father’s house. I was pretty good at pinball—as well as rod hockey, foosball and, yes, air hockey, the result of a lot of time spent hanging around while I was a kid and my parents did summer stock all up and down the East Coast. When I mentioned my skill at pinball, Burtis had challenged me to prove it. I had. More than once.

I grinned. “Tell Burtis I’ll be happy to take his money anytime.” The last time we’d played pinball, Burtis had suggested a small wager on the outcome of the game. Double or nothing had netted the Reading Buddies snack fund fifty dollars.

Marcus joined me then. We said good night to Maggie and Brady and headed for the truck.

“I don’t think I’m ever going to forget tonight,” I said as I unlocked the passenger door for Marcus.

“Johnny’s going to do a couple of shows in Minneapolis next month,” Marcus said as he climbed into the truck. “Why don’t we try to catch one?”

“I’d like that.” I slid behind the wheel. “Mike is trying to get the others to commit to doing a few of Johnny’s shows with him.”

Marcus smiled and fastened his seat belt. “So maybe we’ll get to see Johnny and the Outlaws again.”

I held up one hand, my middle and index fingers crossed. “Let’s hope.”

Marcus and I enjoyed a quiet Sunday. We had pancakes with Owen and Hercules, which should have meant that Marcus and I had pancakes and the cats had cat food, but in reality meant that Marcus and I had pancakes and he snuck (forbidden) bites to them and I pretended not to notice.

I called Ethan, who said he’d be happy to talk to Lachlan and promised he’d text right after we hung up. Then he spent ten minutes bombarding me with questions about the concert.

We walked down to the market at the community center after lunch and all anyone could talk about was the concert and the surprise reunion of Johnny and the Outlaws. I spotted Harrison Taylor Senior, Harry’s father, with his lady friend, Peggy. He was carrying a canvas shopping bag in one hand. Peggy smiled when she caught sight of me and I left Marcus at the Jam Lady’s stall, trying to decide between strawberry-rhubarb jam and pear butter, and walked over to join them.

“Your son was amazing last night,” I said, giving the old man a hug. He had thick white hair, a white beard that he kept cropped shorter in the summertime and deep blue eyes.

“Yes, he was,” Harrison said, a huge smile splitting his face.

“Did you know?” I asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

“I knew something was up. All of a sudden the boy was never around.” Harrison gave a snort of laughter. “To tell the truth, I thought he was seeing someone and didn’t want me to know.”

Harrison had been pushing his son—who had been divorced for years—to, as he put it, get a mitt and get back in the game. If Harry had met someone, he probably would be pretty closemouthed about it.

“I had no idea Harry was that good,” I said. “I knew he’d been in a band but . . .” I shrugged.

“Harry’s not the kind of person to blow his own horn,” Peggy said with a smile.

Harrison set the shopping bag on the ground between his feet. “I remember when he got his first guitar and I’m kind of ashamed to say I told him it was a waste of money. He taught himself to play. Just sat there night after night in his room until the ends of his fingers cracked.” He gave his head a little shake. “It’s not a word of a lie. The dog wouldn’t come in the house for six months. But that son of mine is stubborn.”

“I wonder where that came from,” Peggy said, almost under her breath.

Harrison shot her a look. “There’s nothing wrong with my hearing, you know.”

She leaned against his arm and smiled. “I know.”

“Well, wherever his persistence came from, it paid off and I couldn’t be prouder,” the old man said. “I’ve been smiling since he started playin’ and I don’t think I’ll be stopping anytime soon.” His pride was evident in that smile and the sparkle in his blue eyes.

I spent a few more minutes catching up with Harrison and Peggy. Elizabeth, Harrison’s youngest child, was coming for a visit in August and they were already planning a family barbecue.

“You’re coming,” he said. It wasn’t a question. Harrison’s definition of family was a wide one.

“I wouldn’t miss it,” I promised, standing on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.

I rejoined Marcus to discover that he’d bought the jam and the pear butter and a jar of the Jam Lady’s marmalade, which was my favorite. We wandered around the market a while longer and then drove out to Marcus’s house. I curled up on the swing on his back deck. Micah, Marcus’s little ginger tabby, climbed up onto my lap, swatting me twice with her tail as she got settled. Marcus set up the ice cream maker for peach ice cream and grilled spicy sausage and corn on the barbecue. It had been pretty much the perfect weekend.

Monday morning I set out the census documents I’d told Mike about in our workroom so everything would be ready when he arrived in the afternoon. Considering their age and the fact that for a long time they’d been stuffed, forgotten, in an old filing cabinet in the library basement, the pages weren’t in awful shape. Like the rest of our old documents, they would eventually be scanned and added to our digital database.

I relocked the workroom door and went into the staff room for a cup of coffee, taking it back to my office, where I stood by the window looking out at the gazebo. It was another beautiful day. Marcus was bringing lunch later and I thought how nice it would be to eat outside. It was good to see things looking quiet out there. In the spring the gazebo had been targeted by a practical joker who had—among other things—left an inflatable pool full of Jell-O in it. Black raspberry to be specific. It had been several weeks since the last stunt and I was hoping our prankster had gotten bored and moved on. Both Mary and Harry were convinced this was just a temporary respite from Jell-O, stacks of hay bales and a full-sized Grim Reaper with a broom instead of a scythe.

“Get it? It’s the Grim Sweeper!” Susan, who had worked at the library long enough to have seen her share of stunts and pranks, had crowed with delight over that last one.

I was downstairs about an hour later, trying to fix a broken wheel on one of our book carts when Abigail called to me from the front desk.

“It’s Marcus,” she said, gesturing at the phone that I hadn’t even heard ring.

“Thanks,” I said as I got to my feet, brushing off the front of my flowered skirt. I walked over and picked up the receiver.

“Hi,” Marcus said. He blew out a breath. “I’m not going to be able to make lunch.” There was a flatness to his voice that told me he was in full police-detective mode.

“A case.”

“Yes.” He hesitated.

My stomach clutched. This was something bad.

“I’m sorry, Kathleen,” he finally said. “There’s no good way to say this. Mike Bishop is dead.”