When the coffee was made I poured a cup and padded, barefoot, out to the porch, with the cats trailing behind me. The stretch of blue sky above the roofline of Rebecca’s house was getting bigger. I slid my feet into a pair of rubber clogs and went out into the yard.
Rebecca waved from her back step. I set my mug on the landing by the screen door and headed across the grass toward the gap in the lilac hedge. Owen moved ahead of me, stalking like some sleek jungle cat on the prowl—probably hoping Rebecca had a treat for him.
I glanced back over my shoulder. Hercules was coming, too, stopping every few steps to shake the damp from his feet. Herc was a bit of a fussbudget, a cat version of Goldilocks. He didn’t like anything to be too hot, too cold, or wet at all.
He gave me his
I am such a poor pathetic kitty
look.
“It’s a little rain on the grass, you wuss,” I said. “I’m not carrying you.” He shook his right front paw and gave me the look again. “I have a blister on my foot from walking up the hill in those canvas flats, and you don’t hear me complaining,” I said. Herc just stood there, paw in the air. He didn’t move, didn’t blink. I waited another twenty seconds or so to save face before going back to pick him up.
Ahead of us, Owen had climbed onto the railing of Rebecca’s gazebo, pointedly ignoring Rebecca, who was calling to him and holding out her hand. I set Hercules on the gazebo steps and walked over to Rebecca. Like me, she was wearing rubber clogs. She had a gardening glove on one hand and she was holding a bouquet of lavender mums.
Should I tell her about finding Gregor Easton’s body?
I wondered. No. I didn’t want to be one of those people who couldn’t wait to spread bad news, and it wasn’t as though Rebecca would have known Easton.
“Good morning, Kathleen,” she said. “How are the cats?”
“Hi, Rebecca,” I said. “The cats are fine.”
“Do you think Owen would like another catnip chicken?”
“If he has any more catnip he’s going to end up with the munchies and an overwhelming urge to rent
2001: A Space Odyssey
.”
Rebecca looked puzzled.
“He’s addicted to catnip. He’s decapitated four chickens and hidden pieces all over the house. He’s a kitty junkie.”
“Maybe he’s stressed,” Rebecca said. “Maybe it just helps him relax a little.”
I looked over at the gazebo. Hercules sat on the railing like an ancient Egyptian cat statue guarding the tomb of the pharaoh. Owen, on the other hand, was stretched out on his belly on the same railing, eyes closed, legs hanging down on either side.
“Thank you for caring about the cats,” I said. “But Owen doesn’t need any more catnip.”
“All right,” Rebecca said, but I saw her glance over at the cats and I knew she’d try to sneak Owen another fix, and who knew what to Hercules.
“Your flowers are beautiful,” I said, to change the subject.
“Would you like them?” Rebecca asked. “I already have two vases in the house.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course.” She handed me the flowers, and as she did her sleeve slipped back and I saw that her right wrist was bandaged. “Rebecca, is your arthritis acting up again?” I asked. Rebecca used herbal poultices for her arthritis. Her wrists were often wrapped with unbleached cotton strips to hold the poultice in place.
She nodded and smoothed the pale blue sleeve down over the bandage and kept her hand there. “Yes,” she said. She looked a little uncomfortable. “I suppose I sound like an old lady, but I’d rather use something natural than take a lot of drugs.”
“You don’t sound like an old lady,” I said. “There’s a lot of interest these days in natural medicine. At the library where I worked in Boston we had an entire section on alternative medicine—dozens of books on using plants to treat and heal everything from a scrape to serious illnesses. The books were out a lot.”
“Do you miss Boston?” Rebecca asked.
“Sometimes.” I ran my fingers over the rosy-purple flower petals. “My parents are actors, so I’ve lived all over the place. But Boston is where I lived the longest, so it feels like home.”
“Your parents act?” Rebecca said. “Theater?”
I nodded. “And my dad has done various commercials over the years. Other than that they’ve been onstage.”
“Would I have seen your father in anything?” she asked.
Should I tell her he was the middle-aged man shaking it like James Brown in a commercial for medication to treat erectile dysfunction? Or that he was also the golfer telling his friends he could play eighteen holes again, thanks to his disposable undergarments?
“Do you remember the ad for the cereal Flakies—oat bran flakes and plump raisins?” I said, finally. “The leading competitor had the shriveled-up raisins.”
“I do remember that,” Rebecca said, pulling off her glove. “In fact, I’ve eaten the cereal. The announcer had a wonderful deep voice. Was that your father?”
I felt my cheeks getting red. “No, he was one of the shriveled-up raisins.”
Rebecca struggled to keep from smiling, but couldn’t help it. “The raisins were good, too,” she said.
Just then we heard footsteps coming up Rebecca’s gravel driveway. “That’s probably Ami, back from the store,” Rebecca said. “Have you met her? She’s interning at the theater and she’s also one of the lead voices in the festival choir. I’ve known her since she was a little girl.” She smiled. “She has an apartment near the Stratton, but you’ll see her here quite a bit. I’m teaching her to cook before she leaves for college.”
“She’s been in the library a few times,” I said, as Ami Lester came around the side of the house.
She had a canvas bag slung over one shoulder. A loaf of bread wrapped in brown paper and the dark green leaves of a head of romaine poked out of the top of the bag. Her red-blond hair was pulled into a high ponytail and she wore a gray T-shirt with a bust of Mozart silkscreened on the front. Mozart was wearing headphones, and I think his eyes were crossed.
Ami’s eyes were troubled and her face was pale. She stopped beside us and Rebecca touched her shoulder. “Is everything all right, dear?”
Ami swallowed a couple of times. “I, uh . . . I can’t believe it, but Mr. Easton is dead.”
Rebecca’s mouth moved, but at first no sound came out. She dropped the glove she’d been holding. “Dead?” she finally whispered. Her color was worse than Ami’s. I took her arm. “Here. Sit,” I said, easing her down on to the top step.
“I’m sorry,” Ami said. “I didn’t mean to upset you.” She looked at me. “You’re the librarian, aren’t you?”
“Yes. I’m Kathleen.” I pointed at my house. “I just live right there.”
Rebecca reached for Ami’s hand. “You didn’t upset me, dear. You just caught me by surprise,” she said. “It’s not as though I knew Mr. Easton. I just knew of his reputation.” She rubbed her wrist. “Are you sure he’s . . . dead?” Her voice wavered a little.
Ami swung the bag off her shoulder and set it on top of her feet. “Uh-huh. Someone found his—him—early this morning at the theater.”
“I, uh, did,” I said.
They both stared at me.
“You found him—at the Stratton? At the theater?” Rebecca asked weakly. She let go of Ami’s hand. “Oh, Kathleen, I’m so sorry. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” I said, giving her hand a gentle squeeze.
“What were you doing at the Stratton?” she asked.
“I was looking for Oren.” I picked up the dropped glove and handed it to her.
“But why was he at the theater so early?” Ami said. “We never had early practice, because he said he only worked at a civilized hour.”
“Do the police know what happened?” Rebecca asked.
“I don’t think so,” I said.
“He was old,” Ami said. “I bet he had a heart attack.”
I remembered the injury to Easton’s head. I wasn’t so sure it was a heart attack that had killed him. I felt a brush of fur against my leg. Owen. He sat beside me and looked intently at Rebecca.
“Did you come to check on me?” Rebecca asked him.
Owen meowed softly.
“He’s beautiful,” Ami said. She leaned forward and held out her hand to Owen, who ignored her. He took a few steps closer to Rebecca and meowed softly again.
“I’m fine, Owen,” Rebecca said. “At my age I should be a little more accustomed to people dying.” She stood up and managed a smile for Ami. “Let’s make brunch.” She looked at me. “Kathleen, would you like to join us?”
“Thank you,” I said. “But I have a pile of paperwork I need to start on.” I turned to Ami. “It was nice to see you again.”
“You, too,” she said.
Rebecca took a couple of steps toward me, reached up and laid a hand on my cheek. “My dear, I’m so sorry that you had to be involved in that man’s death.” She was still very pale.
“It’s all right,” I told her. “Take care of your arthritis, and call me if you need anything. And thank you for the flowers.”
“You’re welcome,” she said.
I started across the yard to the house. Hercules had disappeared from his perch on the gazebo railing. Behind me Owen meowed. I stopped and turned back to him, tucking Rebecca’s flowers under my arm. He looked at me and then at Rebecca’s house.
“She’s fine,” I said. Owen took a step toward Rebecca’s and stopped. “She’s fine,” I said again. “Ami is with her.”
He started back across the grass toward the small white house. I followed, scooped him up and started for home again.
Owen squirmed until he was turned around and could look over my shoulder. I opened the porch door, set the cat down inside and grabbed my cup from the railing. There was a fat, green-and-black-shelled bug doing the backstroke in my coffee. I picked it up and dropped it down into the grass. Three cups of coffee today, and I’d barely had one sip.
In the kitchen I put the flowers in water, got another cup of coffee, then almost dumped it on my bare feet when Hercules came up behind me and licked my ankle.
“Don’t sneak up on me like that,” I said. He rubbed his face against my leg in apology. “How did you get in? Did I not close the screen door?” I padded out to the porch again. Herc followed. The screen door was closed. Somehow he’d come in behind Owen and me and I hadn’t noticed.
I was trying really hard to distract myself, to not think about Gregor Easton’s body slumped at the piano at the Stratton. Or about the detective’s questions. He didn’t really think I’d done something to the conductor, did he?
In Rebecca’s backyard Ami was spreading a yellowflowered tablecloth on the table in the gazebo. Rebecca came out the back door, carrying a tray. Ami scurried to take it from her. I watched the two of them set the table, and I felt a sudden ache of homesickness settle in the middle of my chest like a lumpy blob of cold potatoes.
I went back into the kitchen and sat at the table with my coffee. Boston suddenly seemed a long way from Minnesota. My mother and father were doing Shakespeare in the Park again this summer. This year it was
A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
My mother was directing, with my father in the role of Nick Bottom.
On any given day, if they weren’t rehearsing or performing, they were reading a play to each other. So they might be completely in sync, grinning at each other like a couple of love-struck teenagers, or they might be going through “artistic differences” where they’d only speak to each other through other people. I wasn’t sure which version of their marriage was worse.
My parents had married each other twice. My younger brother and sister, Ethan and Sara—twins—were the result of their reconciliation. I was fifteen and mortified by the undeniable proof that my mother and father, whom I thought weren’t even speaking to each other, were instead having sex, and unprotected sex at that.
They were crazy . . . and I missed them. They drove me crazy . . . and I missed them. I felt the ache in my chest press up into my throat. I had eighteen more months in the contract I’d signed with Everett. Eighteen more months in Minnesota.
Hercules went to the living room door, stopped and looked back at me, then disappeared. After a minute, when I didn’t follow him, he came back to the door, stared at me and went back into the living room. “What?” I said. I set my cup down and went into the next room to see what the cat was up to.
He was sitting next to the cabinet that held the CD player and CDs. He swatted the door with a paw.
“Okay, I get it,” I said, reaching inside for a CD. “But it’s going to make Owen crazy.”
I picked up Herc as the first notes of “Copacabana” came through the speakers. About a week after I’d adopted the cats I’d discovered Hercules shared my love for Barry Manilow. When I’d put on a Manilow CD he would sit blissfully in front of the CD player, eyes closed to slits, bobbing his head to the music. Owen, on the other hand . . .
At that moment there was a loud yowl of cat outrage as a gray streak flashed by us and dove into the closet by the front door.
Herc and I looked at each other. I shrugged. Mr. Barry Manilow is not everyone’s taste.
Herc and I followed “Copacabana” with our kickline version of “Can’t Smile Without You.” By the time that song was over I felt a little better. I kissed the top of Hercules’ furry black head and set him on the floor, turned down the CD player and went to make lunch.
I worked all afternoon at the kitchen table. By suppertime I had made up the staff schedule through the end of September, ordered the books I wanted for the children’s section, and arranged to have several crates of reference material brought back to the library from one of Everett Henderson’s warehouses, where they’d been stored during the messiest part of the renovation. Plus, there was a pan of double-chocolate brownies cooling on the counter for when Maggie arrived to watch
Gotta Dance
.
She tapped on my back door at quarter to eight. “I heard what happened,” she said, kicking off her shoes. “Are you okay?”
I nodded. “I’m fine.”