I put four multigrain rolls in a little breadbasket and set it on the table, too. “I know I don’t have to feed you, Detective,” I said, “but you do seem to keep showing up at breakfast time. And since we are sharing a meal again, could you please call me Kathleen?” I picked up the jam. The cover was tight on the mason jar.
He smiled. “I guess I’m just a morning person, Kathleen. I had a paper route when I was seven. What about you?”
I twisted the lid of the jar as hard as I could, trying not to make a face at the effort. “Me?” I said. “My parents are actors. A lot of the time they’d be going to bed when everyone else was getting up. I think being an early bird was an act of rebellion.”
I was beginning to think the lid had been welded on. I braced myself against the counter and twisted again, trying to smile and not grunt.
Detective Gordon cleared his throat. “Uh, Kathleen, would you find it sexist if I offered to open that for you?”
I could feel drops of sweat on my neck from the effort, and there was no way I could get the stupid top off the jar. I was almost out of breath. Wordlessly I handed the bottle to him and he uncapped it without any effort at all. How had he done that? My mouth probably hung open a little bit.
“I’m sure you loosened it,” he said, handing me the jar.
“No, I didn’t,” I said, laughing. I put the jam on the table between us and sat down. “So.” I reached for a roll. “Oren isn’t a suspect in Easton’s death.”
“He never was. There’s surveillance footage of him at the bank, as well as on several highway cameras.”
“What about me?” I asked as I buttered my bread and added a thick layer of jam.
He took a drink of his coffee before answering. “You weren’t a suspect. You were a person of interest.”
“You thought I was having an affair with Easton.”
He held up his thumb. “He had a note from you in his pocket.” He added the index finger. “You had ordered breakfast to be sent to his hotel room.” The middle finger popped up. “You showed up very early at the theater.” And finally the ring finger. “And you both spent the previous year in Boston, where you could have easily met Easton through your job or your parents.” There was something condescending in the smile he gave me as he picked up his mug.
I held up my own thumb, which had a dab of jam on the end. “I didn’t write the note to Easton.” I added my index finger. “I sent breakfast as an apology, not as an illicit invitation. And, by the way, it was never delivered.” I added my middle finger, which stuck out at a bit of a weird angle. “I was at the theater to find Oren, not Mr. Easton. And finally”—I stuck my ring finger in the air with the other three—“Boston is full of people, most of whom I don’t know.”
Instead of a condescending smile I gave him the raised eyebrow. Then I nudged the rolls in his direction and took a bite of my own. I couldn’t help making a little grunt of pleasure. The jam was sweet, with just enough tartness from the rhubarb. It was thick with fruit and good, good, good.
I wiped a drip of fruit off the side of my mouth and smiled across the table. “That’s delicious,” I said. “Thank you.”
He bit into his own bun. “Mmm, this is good,” he mumbled.
I stood up to get the coffeepot. “Detective, what happened to Gregor Easton? How did he die?” I filled both of our cups.
He licked a blob of jam from his finger. “Please call me Marcus.”
“Okay. How did he die, Marcus?”
“It was an epidural hematoma.”
“So a head injury?” I said, sitting down again.
“Yes. The blow to the side of Mr. Easton’s head caused bleeding in his brain.”
“That could take time.”
“It’s likely Mr. Easton didn’t know how serious the head injury was. And it didn’t help that he took aspirin, probably for the headache. It’s an anticoagulant.”
I added sugar to my coffee and stirred. “So he could have been walking around, talking, acting normally.”
“He probably seemed fine. For a while.”
I watched as he slathered butter and jam over the other half of his roll. “He would have been all right when he left the library. Or at least he likely thought he was.”
He nodded. “It’s possible.”
“Then you don’t know that someone killed him.” I smacked the table lightly with one hand. “You don’t know that someone even tried to kill him. It could have been an accident. Easton could have hit his head on something at the library. He could have fallen or bumped into something. The renovations have been going on for a long time. For that matter, he could have hit his head before he even got to the library.”
“I don’t think so,” the detective said, picking up his cup again. “Mr. Easton thought he was meeting you at the library.” He touched the side of his head. “I don’t think he was the type of man to show up with a head injury.”
“Maybe he thought it would get him a little sympathy.”
He raised his eyebrows at me. “I don’t think Mr. Easton was looking for sympathy from you.”
I had to admit he was probably right. “Even so,” I said, “you don’t know what happened at the library.”
He leaned back in his chair and folded one arm over his chest. “I know someone used your name to lure Mr. Easton to a meeting at the library. I know Mr. Easton was injured inside the library and a few hours later he was dead. I also know whoever that person was, he hasn’t come forward.” He gave a slight shrug. “I don’t see any other way to look at that evidence.” He grabbed his cup, drained it and then stood up. “Thank you for the coffee and breakfast. Again.”
I got to my feet. “Thank you for the jar of jam.” I walked him to the door.
He turned, one hand on the screen. “I almost forgot. We’re finished at the library. The space is yours again.” He gave me his professional-policeman smile. “Have a nice day, Kathleen.”
I went back into the kitchen. A gray, furry head was looking around one side of the living room door. A black one was peeking around the other. “You can come in. He’s gone,” I said.
Owen went for a drink while Hercules came to sit at my feet. “Murp,” he said, rubbing his face against my ankle.
I broke off a tiny corner of roll, buttered it and gave it to him. That made Owen come scooting over. I did the same for him. “You two eat too much people food,” I said. They both gave me their best
don’t be ridiculous
looks.
The phone rang then. I went into the living room to answer it.
“Hi, Katydid.” My mother’s voice came warmly through the phone and I felt the familiar pinch of loneliness that always accompanied her calls.
“Hi, Mom,” I said.
“How’s everything in Minnesota?” she asked.
“Good.”
Except for the murder I’m still tied up in, a contractor who doesn’t show up when he’s supposed to and a couple of klepto cats with magical powers.
“How’s Boston?”
“Rainy at the moment. I called to tell you your father booked a commercial.”
“Hey, good for Dad,” I said, moving the phone so I could sit down. “Is it for the bank? He said he was thinking of auditioning for that because they were planning a series of ads.”
“No. It’s not the bank, but the director is a former student. He asked John to audition.”
My parents’ former students tended to be a little eclectic, and why wasn’t she saying what the ad was for? “It’s for some kind of erectile-dysfunction product, isn’t it? Is Dad going to be sitting half naked in a bathtub on a mountaintop?”
My mother snorted. “Of course not. You know how easily he sunburns.”
“What is it, then? Enlarged prostate? Hemorrhoid cream? Spray hair in a can?” My father may have talked about auditioning for bank commercials, and he certainly had the trustworthy, dependable look, with his height, his silver hair and classic profile, but he always ended up in the more colorful projects.
“Very melodramatic, Kathleen,” my mother said, her voice slightly reprimanding. “He’s going to be a flea. That’s all.”
I held the receiver away from my ear for a moment and stared at it. “A flea?” I said, putting the phone back to my face.
“It’s for a commercial for a new flea-control product. The director wanted your father because he’s casting against type.”
“There’s a type for a flea?”
She ignored me. “He wanted a classically trained actor. He wanted John’s voice, his presence.”
“To play a flea?” I said, enunciating each word to make my point.
“A very, very well-paid flea, Katydid,” Mom said.
“Well, there is that,” I said with a laugh. “Is Dad there?”
“He went for bagels.”
“Tell him I said congratulations.”
“I will,” she said. “Any more news about Gregor Easton? It’s a sign his career was waning. His death didn’t even make it to the front page of the arts section.”
“There’s not really much news,” I said, stretching my legs onto the footstool. “It turns out he changed his name.”
“Really? Well, actors change their names all the time. Why not musicians? No one is going to pick Lula Mae Crumholtz for the next Bond girl. And Gregor Easton is going to sell more classical music than Buford Hornswaggle.” She paused. “Easton’s name wasn’t Buford Hornswaggle, was it?”
I laughed. “No, it wasn’t. He was born Douglas Gregory Williams. I think that would be a great name for a conductor.”
“Sweetie, maybe he was trying to get away from something. Maybe he had a family he was embarrassed about. Or maybe he just didn’t like his name. You went through that.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did. When you were seven.”
“That doesn’t count,” I said indignantly.
“Yes, it does. You put a lot of work into changing your name. You wrote up an official name change. Actually you wrote six of them. You melted a crayon to make a seal and almost set fire to the shower curtain. You delivered one document to your dad and me, one to your teacher and the rest to the neighbors.”
I closed my eyes and pressed a hand to my forehead. “Princess Aurelia Rosebud Nightingale,” I said with a sigh.
“You do remember.”
“I do. Joey Higgins refused to call me by my new name.”
“And you bloodied his nose.”
“I had to stay after school and write lines, which took a long time because all I knew how to do was print.”
Mom was laughing now. “You argued with the vice principal that writing lines was cruel and unusual punishment under the constitution, because the school hadn’t taught you how to write yet.”
“Hey, it got me out of detention half an hour early.”
“Poor Mr. Campbell let you go because he was afraid his head was going to explode,” she chortled.
I remembered Mr. Campbell, a tiny, wiry man with a rodentlike face and thinning hair who reminded me of a Stretch Armstrong toy—his sleeves and pant legs were always just a bit too short. I remembered how surprised and impressed I’d been years later when nebbishy Mr. Campbell ran into a burning building to save the teenage son of his old high school girlfriend.
“I have to go,” Mom said.
“Okay. Tell Dad I’ll call him tonight.”
“I will. Take care of yourself. I’ll hold a good thought for your music festival. Talk to you soon.” She blew a kiss through the phone and hung up.
I replaced the receiver and lay back with my head on the seat of the chair. My father was going to play a flea in a series of television commercials. An apparently highbrow flea. Was it too late to change my name back to Princess Aurelia Rosebud Nightingale?
21
Shoot the Tiger
I
decided to stop at Maggie’s studio on the way in to the library in the morning. I was feeling a bit uncertain about my meeting with Everett. He did have the option of ending my contract—after all, the renovations to the library weren’t going smoothly and I’d gotten tied up in a murder.
Maggie’s studio was on the top floor of the River Arts Center. Climbing the stairs always reminded me of high school, which made sense, given that the brick building once was a high school. Maggie was leaning over her worktable, in a white tank top and baggy blue cotton pants, chewing on a pencil.
“Maggie,” I said.
She looked up with the same guilty expression Owen got when I caught him doing something he shouldn’t be doing, like stealing things from Rebecca’s recycling bin, for instance.
“What happened to ‘no more chewing pencils’?” I asked, crossing the open studio space to stand on the other side of the table.
“This project is what happened to ‘no more chewing pencils.’”
Maggie chewed pencils the way a beaver chewed trees. At least she used to. It used to be that every pencil she had was pockmarked with teeth imprints from the point to the metal end that held the eraser. Even she admitted it was gross and more than a little unsanitary and not particularly good for her teeth. So she’d given up pencils cold turkey, experimenting with substitutes like gnawing on a carrot stick.
“How about some banana bread instead?” I asked, holding up a paper bag containing a couple of slices of the loaf I’d made the night before.
“You don’t have any caffeine on you, by any chance. Do you?” she asked with a sigh.
I brought my other hand from behind my back. “Not for you, but I do have a large chai from Eric’s.” I handed the cup across the table to her.
“How did you know I needed this?” She took a long drink through the sippy-cup lid.
I’d bought myself a large dark-roast coffee. I took a drink and set the cup on the table. “Because when I stopped at Eric’s he said you’d been in first thing. I figured you’d be ready for another cup by now.”
“You figured right. Thank you.” She unfolded the top of the paper bag and peered inside. “I love banana bread.” She broke off a bite. “So what was bugging you last night? You weren’t making banana bread just for the fun of it, were you?”
“No.”
“So?”
“So I have a meeting tonight with Everett about the library renovation.”