Райан Софи

Келли Софи

Two Tall Tails

Two Tall Tails

Sofie Kelly & Sofie Ryan

INTERMIX

NEW YORK

INTERMIX

Published by Berkley

An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

Copyright © 2016 by Sofie Kelly

Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

INTERMIX and the “IM” design are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

ISBN: 9781101989425

First Edition: September 2016

Cover design by Sandra Chiu

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Contents

Title Page

Copyright

The Cat Burglar

No More Pussyfooting Around

About the Author

The Cat Burglar

A Magical Cats Story

Sofie Kelly

In the uncanny sort of timing I’ve discovered Minnesota rain sometimes has, the sky seemed to open just as I started across Rebecca’s backyard toward my own. I pulled up the hood of my yellow slicker, folded both arms over the front of the raincoat and ran for my back door, my happy face–covered rubber boots clomping across the wet grass and sending water spraying up onto my jeans. It seemed as though all the rain we hadn’t gotten in April we were now going to get in May.

Inside the porch I shook myself a bit like a damp dog, then eased down the zipper of my jacket. Hercules poked his black and white face out from underneath and looked at me, green eyes narrowed, a sour expression on his face.

I set him down on the porch floor and the little tuxedo cat held up one white-tipped front paw and shook it, followed by the other.

I slipped off my jacket and hung it to drip on a hook by the back door. “There’s no way your feet are wet,” I said, stepping out of my boots. “In case you didn’t notice, your feet didn’t actually touch the grass.”

Hercules turned his back on me and started for the kitchen, making disgruntled grumbling noises in the back of his throat. The fact that the door was closed made no difference to him. He simply walked through it. The bottom panel almost seemed to shimmer for a moment and then the cat was on the other side with no more than the same soft sound a soap bubble makes when it pops.

The first time I’d seen Hercules walk through a completely solid door, I’d thought I was losing my mind. Now it was just part of his personality, like his intense aversion to wet feet, his indifference to catnip and his love for both sardine cat crackers and Barry Manilow’s music.

I had no idea where this unbelievable ability had come from—Herc’s gray tabby brother, Owen, couldn’t walk through walls. Owen’s superpower was the ability to disappear at will, and since he was a cat, it was almost always at the most inconvenient time for me. From the beginning I’d realized that if I told anyone about the cats’ “skills,” at best it would be my head getting examined and, at worst, theirs, so I kept their secret. A few times I’d had to come up with an explanation of how Hercules had gotten into a room or Owen onto the front seat of my truck, but since cats have a reputation for slightly sneaky behavior, it was pretty easy to cover.

I followed Hercules into the kitchen. He was sitting on the floor, staring at the cupboard where I kept the sardine crackers.

“Nice, try,” I said, bending down to scratch the top of his head. “But A, I know you already had bacon with Everett, and B, you didn’t get wet.” I leaned my face close to his as I said the last part and he licked my chin. “You’re welcome,” I said.

Rebecca Nixon, now Rebecca Henderson, had been my backyard neighbor as long as I’d lived in this house, one of the perks that came with taking the job as head librarian here in Mayville Heights. After she and Everett had gotten married, they decided to live in Rebecca’s little house and soon Hercules was having breakfast with Everett a couple of times a week. Everett insisted Hercules was interested in what happened on the town council, and for all I knew, maybe the little cat was.

My cell phone rang then. I straightened up and grabbed it from the kitchen table. It was Maggie. “Hey Mags,” I said.

Maggie Adams was one of my closest friends in Mayville Heights. We’d met when Rebecca invited me to try her tai chi class. Maggie was the instructor. We’d bonded over our love for the cheesy reality show Gotta Dance.

“Hi,” Maggie said. “I was wondering what your day’s like. Do you have time for lunch? I made pizza last night.”

I loved Maggie’s homemade pizza with its chewy crust and thick, spicy tomato sauce.

“I always have time for your pizza.” I leaned back against the counter. At my feet Hercules was making a show of washing his left front paw. “What time?”

“How about twelve thirty?” Maggie gave a little grunt of exertion that told me she was probably stretching at the end of her morning workout. “I’ll be over at the studio.”

“I’ll see you then,” I said. Owen had appeared in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room. He gave a loud meow. Owen adored Maggie. “Owen sends his love,” I added.

“Back at him,” Maggie said. I could hear her smile in her voice. “I’ll see you later.”

I ended the call, set the phone back on the table and walked over to Owen. The little gray tabby looked up at me with his odd, golden eyes. I reached down to stroke his fur. “Love from Maggie,” I said. His eyes narrowed to slits and he began to purr.

Owen followed me around while I finished getting ready for work. He made a face when I got my blue sweater from the closet.

“The red one?’ I asked.

“Mrrr,” he said approvingly.

When I was ready to leave, I gave each cat a stack of five sardine crackers and some fresh water. Owen eyed his pile with suspicion the way he always did, then nudged the top cracker to the floor and sniffed it carefully.

Hercules was already eating his treat, crunching happily. He looked at me, almost seeming to smile. I crouched down beside him. “You’re spoiled,” I said. “Your character has been weakened.”

He tipped his head and blinked his green eyes at me, almost as if he were saying, And whose fault is that?

I rubbed the top of his nose, where white fur gave way to the black on the top of his head. “Have a good day,” I said.

I stood up, grabbed my bag and my umbrella and headed for the porch. “Have a good day, Owen,” I said over my shoulder.

He gave a muffled murp around a mouthful of cracker which may have been “You too,” or might have been “Whatever.”

It was barely raining at lunchtime when I got to the Riverarts building, where Maggie had her art studio, but the sky was still dark out over the water. For me, one of the best parts of living in Mayville Heights was the riverfront with the elm and black walnut trees that lined the shore, and the trail that wound its way past the downtown businesses, all the way out to the marina. You could walk along the shoreline and see the boats and barges go by on the water the way they had more than a hundred years ago.

I parked on a side street a block above the art center and hurried down the hill, clutching a container with four cinnamon rolls close to my chest in case it started to pour again. The town was basically laid out like a grid. For the most part, the streets that ran up and down the hill carried on all the way to Wild Rose Bluff at the top. The bluff was the source of most of the stone in the foundations of the beautiful old buildings along the waterfront.

Mags was waiting by the back door of the old high school. “Hi,” she said.

I knew right away something was off. The smile she gave me seemed just a little forced. The long blue ombré scarf around her neck was lopsided, one end hanging much lower than the other. And her short blond curls were standing on end as though she’d run her hands through them more than once.

“Is everything all right?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. Then she shook her head and swiped one hand over the back of her neck. “No, it isn’t. Ruby’s going to join us. Is it all right if I wait until she gets here to explain?”

“Of course,” I said. I wiped my feet on the mat.

Maggie took a slow, deep breath and blew it out softly. Then she smiled at me, a much warmer smile than the first one she’d given me, and we started up the stairs. “So how was your morning?” she asked. “Weren’t the books for Reading Buddies supposed to be here today?”

“They were delivered just before we opened. Abigail and I spent the morning sorting everything.”

Reading Buddies was a program that paired kindergarteners and first graders with fourth and fifth grade students to help improve the little ones’ reading skills. It was one of the first programs I’d put in place when I’d arrived at the library. We’d just received a grant to buy enough books so that every child would have one to keep—both the beginning readers and their would-be teachers.

“Did you know Mary could do calligraphy?” I asked.

Maggie shook her head. “I didn’t, but she can do so many other things it doesn’t exactly surprise me.”

Mary was Mary Lowe, who worked for me at the library. She looked like a greeting card version of a grandmother—with fluffy white hair, kind eyes and a collection of seasonal cardigans. She was also the long-running state kickboxing champion for her age and often took the stage on amateur night at a local club that featured exotic dancing.

I’d learned that Mary could do calligraphy just that morning when she’d offered to add each child’s name inside their book. At this point I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn she could solve complex calculus problems and ride a unicycle.

I could smell the pizza as soon as we got to the top of the stairs on the third floor. “What kind of pizza did you make?” I asked as I followed my nose—and Maggie—down the hall to her studio. “Not that it makes any difference. I’m just curious.”

“Chicken and roasted red pepper.” She fished her keys out of the pocket of her jeans and unlocked the door, crossing the room to check the toaster oven where the pizza was heating. I set the cinnamon rolls on the counter near the sink and shrugged off my raincoat, draping it over one of the stools around the center workspace in the bright studio. The fact that Maggie hadn’t immediately asked what was in the container was just one more indication of how preoccupied she was.

I looked around the room for a clue about what Maggie was working on. Since she’d said she wanted to wait for Ruby before she explained what was troubling her, I found myself wondering if it could be work related. An oversized pad of newsprint was attached to her easel with binder clips. I walked over to get a better look at the rough pencil sketch on the paper. It looked like a map of Mayville Heights and the surrounding area.

Maggie was primarily a collage artist these days, and she often used her own photos in her pieces. But she’d also done some large installation pieces, including a locker room scene for the town’s Winterfest celebration a couple of years before to show off the sports history in this part of the state. It had featured a life-sized version of former NHL star Eddie Sweeney, aka Crazy Eddie. The full-sized faux Eddie had led to our friend Roma meeting the full-sized, real Eddie and romance had followed.

“What are you working on, Mags?” I asked. I could make out the water and the Riverwalk in her drawing.

Maggie set down the jug of apple cider she was pouring for us and joined me by the easel. “I’m roughing out an idea for a collage map of the hiking trails in this area. It’s for the new Tourism Coalition.”

“That’s the Riverwalk, isn’t it?” I pointed to the bottom of the paper.

She nodded. “Uh-huh. And that’s the road that runs behind Wisteria Hill.”

Wisteria Hill was the former Henderson family homestead. Roma owned the property now.

Maggie pointed to the top section of the sketch. “And that’s Turtle Lake.”

“I like it,” I said.

She smiled, the first truly warm smile since I’d arrived. “Thanks. The main problem is coming up with something that has enough visual interest to be a large poster—the kind of thing that can be hung in tourist information centers, town halls, places like the library—but not so detailed that it’s useless when it gets reproduced brochure size to hand out to tourists.”

I glanced over at Maggie’s laptop on the counter. “Have you taken any photos yet?”

“Some,” she said. “And I have some older ones from Ruby that belonged to her grandfather that I really want to use. Those I need to scan.”

Behind us the toaster oven beeped and Maggie went to get our pizza. She was just putting it on the plates, three pieces of deep blue Fiestaware, when Ruby arrived. She was wearing gray leggings, a green and white long-sleeved T-shirt and a jean jacket with faux zebra collar and cuffs—her own creation, I was guessing. Her hair, with vibrant electric blue streaks, was pulled into a tight knot on the top of her head, which showed off her long neck. “Hi, Kathleen,” she said, smiling at me. The smile seemed a little forced.

Like Maggie, Ruby was a full-time artist. Her pop art paintings, done in bold acrylics as vivid as her hair, were finding fans outside of the Midwest and there was talk of a show in Chicago in the fall.

The three of us sat at the worktable with our pizza and cider. Ruby looked over at Maggie. “You didn’t tell her yet?”

Maggie shook her head. “No, I waited for you.”

“What’s going on?” I said.

Ruby made a face. “Some stuff was stolen from the store,” she said flatly.

The store was the artists’ co-op store. It was downtown on Main Street, across from the Riverwalk, and the location made it a popular spot with tourists. Maggie and Ruby worked there, as did all the other artists who were part of the co-op. Ruby was the current president of the board that ran the co-op and the shop.

I frowned at her now. “What was taken?” During the time that I’d lived in Mayville Heights, there had never been a theft at the artists’ store as far as I knew.

Maggie sighed and set down her fork. “Some woven placemats and two linen stitch scarves, the ones Ella made. They’ve been popular with tourists.”

“Do the police have any leads?”

Maggie and Ruby exchanged a look.

“You did call the police, didn’t you?” I asked, my eyes darting between them.

Maggie raked a hand through her hair. “No, we didn’t. And we don’t want to. “

“It’s complicated,” Ruby added.

My appetite suddenly disappeared, and it felt as though my stomach were trying to tie itself into a knot. I could only think of one reason for Maggie and Ruby to be so reluctant to call the police—they had to believe they knew who the thief was. I looked at Maggie without speaking. She played with her fork for a moment before her green eyes met mine.

“Based on when the thefts took place and who was in the store, we’ve narrowed it down to three . . . suspects. I’m just having trouble believing it could be any of them.”

Ruby slid the stack of bracelets she was wearing up and down her arm. “Look, Kathleen, we don’t want anyone to get in trouble. That’s why we need your help.”

I knew them, I realized. I knew the three potential thieves. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. “Who are your suspects?” I asked.

“Nic,” Ruby said.

I frowned at her. “Nic Sutton?”

She nodded.

Nicolas Sutton was a found metal and paper artist who also worked part-time at Eric’s Place, my favorite restaurant in town. He’d previously lived in Minneapolis but had come to Mayville Heights for a new start after the death of his father, who had owned a pawn shop in the city.

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “Nic wouldn’t do something like that. Look at everything he’s done to help with fund-raising for Reading Buddies. And he volunteers at the animal shelter.”

Ruby shrugged.

“Why would he steal from the store, given how welcoming you’ve all been? It doesn’t make sense.” I picked up my glass and set it down again. “Who else?”

I could see from the expression on Ruby’s face that she was reluctant to answer my question even though she’d asked for my help. Her shoulders were tense, and the expression in her eyes was guarded. “Susan,” she finally said.

“That’s impossible,” I said flatly. Susan and I worked together at the library. She was hardworking, funny and kind. I knew her well enough to know she wouldn’t steal from the co-op or from anyone else. I shook my head again, feeling my jaw tighten.

Ruby held out both hands in a gesture of resignation but said nothing.

“That’s two,” I said. “Who’s the third suspect because Susan is not a thief and neither is Nic for that matter.” I folded my arms over my midsection and turned to Maggie because Ruby still wasn’t speaking. “You don’t need my help, Mags, because that third person, whoever they are, is your thief. So who is it?”

Maggie swallowed and said softly, “It’s Rebecca.” One arm hugged her body.

I closed my eyes briefly. “This doesn’t make sense,” I said. “I don’t know what sort of evidence you have, but it’s wrong. There has to be some other explanation. Rebecca would not steal from the store any more than Susan or Nic would.”

“The things that were taken, they were taken on two different occasions,” Maggie said. “Rebecca, Susan and Nic were the only people who were in the shop both times.” She glanced at Ruby.

I shifted in my seat to look at her as well.

“We’ve checked the purchase receipts, I’ve talked to everyone else who was working on those days, we’ve gone over hours of footage from the security camera on the street.” Ruby held up one, two, then three fingers as she recited what had been done.

“You said there has to be some other explanation and I agree with you.” Maggie leaned forward, propping her forearms on the table. “That’s why we need your help.”

“I’m not the police.”

Ruby played with a strand of blue hair that had slipped out of her topknot. “Kathleen, it wasn’t the police who figured out who killed Agatha Shepherd and cleared my name. It was you.”

“And it was you who gave Roma some closure by putting together all the pieces with respect to what happened to her father,” Maggie added. “People tell you things, things they don’t or won’t tell the police. And somehow you put them all together a lot like the way I make a collage, only what you end up with is the truth. So please say that you’ll help us.”

I didn’t know whether or not I could figure out what happened but I knew there had to be some kind of alternate, logical explanation for the items missing from the co-op store. “All right,” I said. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Ruby gave me a tight smile. Maggie reached across the table, grabbed one of my hands and gave it a squeeze.

Even cold, Maggie’s pizza was still pretty good. After we’d eaten, I pushed back my plate and checked my watch. “Since I’m heading back to the library and since Susan is working, I may as well get started with her,” I said.

“I hope we’re not putting you in a difficult spot,” Ruby said, slipping off her stool.

“You’re not,” I said. “I want to help if I can.”

“Do you need anything else from us?” she asked.

“I know you said that Susan—and Nic and Rebecca—were the only people who were at the shop both times things went missing.”

Ruby nodded. “That’s right.”

“You must have more than that.”

“We do,” Maggie said.

I turned to face her.

“I was working in the store the day of the first theft,” she said. “Ray Nightingale was working as well. It was really busy because two busloads of tourists who were on a winery tour had stopped here in town for lunch.” Maggie reached for our plates and stacked them one on top of the other, setting the forks on top. “I was at the cash register and Ray was showing one of his own pieces to a couple of the tourists when Susan came in.”

Ray Nightingale had a degree in graphic arts, and he did a lot of commercial work for different businesses. He also created large, incredibly detailed, acrylic ink drawings that reminded me a little of the Where’s Waldo? series of books. Somewhere in each of Ray’s drawings was a tiny rubber duck, no more than an inch or so long, wearing a pair of sunglasses and a snap-brim fedora. For me, much of the charm of the artwork was looking for the little duck, whose name was Bo.

“Susan had been at the diner for lunch, I think,” Maggie continued. “She walked a group of the tourists over who wanted to look around the shop before they got back on the road.” She picked up the plates and moved over to the small sink that she used to wash her brushes.

“So what happened?” I asked as she rinsed the plates.

“Susan kept going back to look at the linen stitch scarves. There were four of them at the time.” Maggie glanced up at me. “You’ve seen Ella’s work. They’re beautiful.”

I nodded. Ella King had an eye for color. I’d bought one of her scarves as a gift for my friend Lise in Boston. Even though it was hand knit, it looked like something that had been woven. “So Susan liked Ella’s work. No offense, Mags, but I don’t see how you went from that to her stealing something.” I gathered the glasses and took them over to the sink.

“She went back to those scarves at least half a dozen times that I saw. She handled them a lot and she—” Maggie stopped and turned to face me, holding one dripping plate in her hand. “She was acting furtive, looking around all the time as if she was trying to see if anyone was watching her. And yes, I know how out of character that sounds, but that’s what happened.”

“I believe you,” I said.

Maggie set the wet plate in the sink. “At the end of the day we discovered there was a scarf missing.”

“You had a store full of tourists. Are you sure one of them wasn’t the thief?”

“That’s what we thought,” Ruby said. “We’ve never had a shoplifter before, but it happens. A couple of days later I was working, Susan came in again and I noticed the same thing with her and the scarves as Maggie had seen. At the end of that day we discovered two placemats and another scarf were gone. It was very quiet. No busloads of tourists.”

I glanced at Maggie, who nodded.

“If Susan wanted a scarf, she could buy one,” I said.

Ruby shrugged. “As a former semi–juvenile delinquent, I can tell you that swiping things isn’t always about not being able to pay for them.”

Maggie had finished rinsing the plates. She took the glasses I was still holding.

“So why did Nic and Rebecca make your suspect list, aside from the fact that they were at the shop both times the thefts happened? It has to be more than just the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Well, Nic was just plain acting weird,” Ruby said.

Maggie nodded in agreement.

“Weird how?”

“He worked with me,” Ruby said, leaning against the worktable. “And his shift was after Ray’s so he overlapped a little with Maggie. He kept going over to the shelf where the scarves and the placemats were displayed, and he was looking over his shoulder as though he thought he was being watched. He seemed really nervous.”

I turned to Maggie again. “What about Rebecca?”

“Rebecca was just like Nic and Susan. She wasn’t acting like herself.” Maggie made a face. “I know that I said this about Susan, but Rebecca was acting furtive as well, glancing about a lot, standing by the display, and fishing around in her bag.”

I didn’t know what to say. The description didn’t sound like Rebecca, but then again what Maggie and Ruby had described about the other two didn’t sound like Susan or Nic, either.

I glanced at my watch again. “I need to head back,” I said. I gave Maggie a hug. “Thank you for lunch. I promise I’ll call you as soon as I talk to Susan.”

Maggie tipped her head in the direction of the cinnamon rolls. “Thank you for those, and for . . . everything.”

I nodded. “Anytime.”

“I’ll walk down with you,” Ruby said, reaching for her jean jacket. She turned to Maggie. “Thanks for the pizza. I have a couple of things to do but I’ll call you later.”

Ruby and I headed down the hall. “You’re coming with me,” I said once we were on our way down the stairs out of Maggie’s earshot. I didn’t frame the words as a question.

“Look, Kathleen, it’s not that I don’t trust you,” Ruby said, stopping one step above the turn landing. “It’s just that . . . I’m head of the co-op board now. It was my decision not to call the police and I’m okay with that. But I still need answers.”

“I understand,” I said. “If the same thing had happened at the library, I’d feel the same way.”

It had stopped raining, I discovered when we stepped out into the parking lot. “Are you taking your car or do you want to ride with me?” I asked. I gestured toward the nearby side street. “I’m just parked over there.”

“I’ll come with you, if that’s all right,” Ruby said. “I’m going to the store after and I can walk there from the library.”

“It’s fine with me,” I said. “There’s lots of room in the truck.”

I looked toward the water. The dark clouds were already thinning, and I could see bits of blue sky breaking through. The rain was over. My left wrist, which was a pretty good predictor of wet weather since I’d broken it, didn’t ache anymore.

“I forgot to tell you that I have a meeting at the hotel tomorrow,” Ruby said as we started up the hill to the truck. “I’m hoping they’ll be interested in putting together a room package for tourists who are coming for the workshops.”

“That’s a great idea,” I said.

The library and the artists’ co-op were teaming up to offer a weekend workshop called “The Art of the Doodle” in September. The library was hosting a talk on the popular art form along with an exhibit of doodle art and books. The co-op was offering hands-on workshops at both the store and the library. Even though we hadn’t made an official announcement since we were still firming up details, word of mouth was getting around and I was surprised by how much interest there already was.

“Eric is interested in offering a breakfast special for the participants. He should have some options put together for me next week.”

“That would be great.” Ruby smiled. “Those are the kind of small extras that I’m hoping will sway people who might be on the fence into coming.”

We’d reached the truck, and as I unlocked the passenger door, she patted the front fender. “I can’t believe this thing is still working.”

At one time Ruby had driven the identical mate to my truck. Mine had been a gift from Harrison Taylor for helping him find his daughter. Before that I’d walked everywhere since I’d sold my car when I left Boston for Minnesota. I’d spent my first few weeks in town wandering around exploring, which is how I’d stumbled on Wisteria Hill, where I’d found Owen and Hercules. Or more accurately, where they’d found me.

Ruby raised an eyebrow. “How long are you going to keep driving it?”

“Probably until it falls apart,” I said, sliding on to the driver’s seat. “It’s a good dependable truck and it has a lot of sentimental value.” I ducked my head for a moment. “And would you think I’m crazy if I say Owen and Hercules really like it?”

She shook her head. “That seems like a perfectly valid reason to me.”

I headed down the hill, thinking that since the lunch rush was over, I should be able to make a left turn on to Main Street. The streets that ran from one end of town to the other all followed the curve of the shoreline so it was almost a straight line back to the library.

The brick building sat on the midpoint of a curve of shoreline, protected from the water by a rock wall. It had a stained glass window that dominated one end and a copper-roofed cupola complete with the original wrought iron weather vane.

The Mayville Heights Free Public Library was a Carnegie library that had been built in 1912 with money donated by philanthropist Andrew Carnegie. It had been restored and updated to celebrate the library’s centenary. I’d come to town to supervise the renovations and taken the head librarian job permanently when they were finished.

Abigail Pierce was at the circulation desk when we got inside, rimless reading glasses perched on the end of her nose as she went through a list of book requests. Along with working at the library, Abigail had a second career as a children’s book author.

“Any messages?” I asked.

She shook her head. “None.” Then she eyed Ruby’s hair. “I like that color,” she said.

Ruby smiled. “Anytime you’d like to try it, let me know.”

“Seriously?” Abigail said.

“Absolutely.” Ruby wiggled her eyebrows. “I think a green or navy streak in the front would look good on you.”

Abigail smiled back at her. “I may just take you up on that.”

“Is Susan upstairs?” I asked.

Abigail shook her head. “She’s over in nonfiction shelving books.”

“I just need to talk to her for a minute and I’ll be back to relieve you.”

“Take your time,” she said. “I’m just going to sit here and try to imagine myself with the Incredible Hulk’s hair.”

“Better his hair than his skin,” I said.

Ruby and I found Susan in the 590s sitting on the floor, rearranging a shelf of books, a shrimp cocktail fork and what looked to be a paper-wrapped straw stuck in her updo. I wondered where the straw came from. It hadn’t been poked in her hair when I’d left the library to head for Riverarts.

She smiled at me over her black cat’s eye glasses. “Hey, Kathleen,” she said. “This shelf let go again. I think it was the clips so I got some new ones from the workroom.”

“Thanks,” I said.

It had to be a mistake, I thought. I couldn’t come up with any rational explanation for Susan stealing a couple of scarves and some placemats from the co-op store. It was just too out of character.

Susan reached up and pulled the straw out of her hair. “Weirdest bookmark yet.”

“Where did you find it?” I asked.

“In a book about hyenas,” she said, indicating the stack of books beside her on the floor.

“Someone used a straw for a bookmark?” Ruby said. “Seriously?”

“That doesn’t even make my top ten list of strangest things I’ve seen people use to mark their place in a book,” I said with a grin.

Ruby tipped her head to one side and regarded me with a skeptical look. “No, no, no. You can’t say that and then not give me the details.”

I laughed. “Okay. There’s the usual stuff, napkins, squares of toilet paper, ribbons, paper clips, et cetera. I guess the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen used as a bookmark was a snakeskin.”

“You’re making that up,” Ruby said.

I shook my head. “I swear I’m not.”

“She isn’t,” Susan said, waving the straw for emphasis. “I remember the snakeskin. It was between the pages of a book on vegetarian cooking.”

Ruby laughed. “Okay, now I know you’re messing with me.”

I put my hand over my heart. “I’m not. Librarian’s honor.”

Susan got to her feet and poked the straw back in her hair. “What’s up?” she asked.

“Susan, were you at the co-op store on Tuesday?” I tried to keep my tone light and nonaccusatory.

She nodded. “Uh-huh. That was the day those two buses of tourists stopped in town for lunch.” She pushed her glasses up her nose. “I walked a bunch of them over to the store, and then since I had a bit of time before I had to be back here, I stayed to look around for a few minutes.”

“What did you look at?” Ruby asked.

Susan reached over and straightened a couple of books on the shelf closest to her. “What’s going on?” she said.

“Do you remember what you were looking at?” I said. “It’s important.” From the corner of my eye I saw Ruby looking at me, but I kept my focus on Susan.

She looked puzzled, two frown lines pulling her eyebrows together. “Sure, I remember. I was checking out those scarves that Ella made, the multicolor knitted ones that look like they were done on some kind of loom. They’re beautiful.”

She stopped and the color rose in her cheeks. “Wait a second. Did you think I was trying to steal one of them?” She looked at Ruby, eyes wide, a mix of surprise and embarrassment on her face. Before Ruby could answer, Susan had turned to me. “That’s it, isn’t it, Kathleen? I was in the store three or four times in less than a week looking at those scarves.”

“Why?” I said.

Susan didn’t answer. She’d already turned back to Ruby again. “Ruby, I’m sorry,” she said, twisting the hem of her lime green cardigan in her fingers. “I didn’t think how it would look to someone else. I swear I didn’t take anything.”

“Why were you so interested in those scarves?” I asked gently. “You’re not really a scarf person. Why did you keep going back to look at them?”

“Kathleen, do you remember when Abigail tried to teach me to crochet?” she said.

Ruby’s eyes narrowed, and I gave an almost imperceptible head shake, hoping she’d take that as a cue to stay quiet.

“I remember,” I said.

Susan had tried to teach herself how to crochet, and when her efforts had quickly gone downhill, Abigail had stepped in to teach her. That hadn’t worked so well, either. Everything Susan had tried to make had ended in a tangled ball of yarn, a lot of frustration and a few words that weren’t usually in a librarian’s vocabulary.

Susan shifted from one foot to the other. “I’m trying to learn to knit,” she offered, her cheeks turning pink.

“Oh,” I said. “Ummm, how’s it going?”

She rolled her eyes. “How do you think it’s going, Kathleen? I was a disaster with one crochet needle. It’s twice as bad trying to knit with two.”

“Crochet hook,” Ruby said.

We both looked at her.

“You crochet with a hook, not needles.”

“See?” Susan exclaimed, holding out both hands. “I don’t even know what the stuff is called.”

“So why do you want to learn to knit?” I said.

She gave me a wry smile. “For Eric. Did you know he makes my breakfast every morning?”

I shook my head. “I didn’t.” Eric Cullen, who owned and ran Eric’s Place, was a great cook and an all-round good human being. His breakfast sandwiches were one of my favorite ways to start the day.

“He makes all our bread and granola and salad dressing.”

“You think he’d adopt me?” Ruby asked.

Susan laughed. “I want to make something special for him. Something with my own two hands.” She looked at me. “You’re right that I’m not a scarf person but Eric is. I wanted to knit one for him but the truth is I suck at knitting. I kept going back to look at Ella’s scarves because I was trying to figure out what I was doing wrong. But that’s all.” She shook her head. “And for the record. I still don’t know.”

“I can teach you,” Ruby said.

Susan sighed. “I appreciate the offer but I can’t do it. It doesn’t matter if it’s crocheting or knitting. Whatever I start ends up in a mess.” She inclined her head in the direction of the checkout desk. “Just ask Abigail.”

“I can teach you,” Ruby said again. “All you need is big needles and bulky yarn and you can make a scarf. I promise.”

Susan looked skeptical.

“I didn’t know you could knit,” I said.

Ruby grinned. “Hey, just because I’m a pierced, rainbow-haired artist doesn’t mean I don’t have traditional skills, too. I can knit, sew and make my own ketchup. My grandmother taught me.” The eyebrows went up again. “My grandfather taught me a few things, too, but I don’t usually talk about those.”

Ruby’s grandfather, Idris Blackthorne, had been the town bootlegger. I could only imagine what skills he’d taught his favorite grandchild. “Probably a road best not traveled,” I said lightly.

“Are you working tomorrow morning?” Ruby said to Susan. “We could go to the yarn store. What color were you thinking of?”

Susan made a face. “I’m not certain but I did think gray would go with his eyes.”

I put a hand on Ruby’s arm. “I’m going to go give Abigail a break,” I said. “Everything’s okay here?”

Ruby nodded. “It is. Thank you.”

“I’ll keep going,” I said quietly.

Ruby nodded again and turned back to Susan. As I headed for the circulation desk, she was pulling out her phone to show Susan a scarf that might work for Eric.

The thief wasn’t Susan. But the knot in my stomach hadn’t completely untied itself. I still had two more people to talk to.

Owen and Hercules were waiting in the kitchen when I got home. Over a bowl of chicken stew with dumplings for me and a little plain shredded chicken breast for them, I explained about the missing items at the artists’ store.

I talked to the cats all the time. They were good listeners, especially if chicken or sardine crackers were involved. They didn’t interrupt for the most part unless it was to try to mooch (unsuccessfully) part of a dumpling, and there were times when they wordlessly seemed to take part in the conversation. I didn’t generally share that last part with people.

When I was down to the last couple of bites of my dumpling, I leaned back in my chair and curled one leg underneath me. Owen was peering at his dish as though he was trying to figure out whether there could be one last morsel of chicken hidden behind it. Hercules had started his face-washing routine, spending more time that usual on the left side of his furry black and white mug.

“I need to talk to Rebecca,” I said, ticking things off on my fingers. “And I have no idea how to bring up the thefts at the store.”

Owen gave up nosing around his bowl and walked over to sit in front of the back door. He looked back over his shoulder at me and then meowed loudly.

Meanwhile, Hercules took one last pass at his face before moving across the kitchen to sit by the cupboards and stare at the one where I kept the tea.

“You two are not at all subtle,” I said.

They exchanged a look and Owen meowed again.

“Okay, I’m going,” I said. I scooped up the last bit of dumpling, then got up and headed for the living room and the telephone. I sat on the footstool and pulled the phone down beside me. As I was punching in Rebecca’s number, I looked over to see Hercules watching me, head poked around the living room doorway.

Rebecca agreed to come for tea in the morning to hear all about the new books for the Reading Buddies program. She had served on the library board for years and had a soft spot for the literacy project.

Hercules followed me around while I threw in a load of laundry and did the dishes. I told him about the rest of my day and he made little murping noises that at least made it seem as though he was interested.

Later I curled up in the big chair in the bedroom and called Marcus. This was the longest we’d been apart since we’d become a couple, and I missed him like crazy. Owen stretched out across my lap while Hercules sprawled on his back on the floor, moving his paws in the air as though he were doing a halfhearted yoga routine.

If Marcus had been in town, I would have pushed Maggie to talk to him about the thefts. Not only was he a detective with the Mayville Heights Police Department, but he also knew Susan, Rebecca and Nic. The two of us had met when I’d gotten caught up in one of his cases and it had taken a long time for us to work through our differences. Marcus was the kind of person who looked at the facts and I tended to pay more attention to feelings. It had taken a case involving his sister, Hannah, for each of us to be able to see things from the other’s perspective.

But Marcus was out of town at a hockey skills clinic. There wasn’t anything he could do so I didn’t say anything. If I couldn’t figure out who had taken the missing items from the co-op store, I would nudge Mags to get him involved when he got back. So I talked about Reading Buddies and how good Maggie’s pizza had been, and when I hung up, Owen’s narrowed golden eyes were fixed on my face.

“Don’t give me that look,” I said, scratching behind his left ear. “I didn’t tell Marcus because there’s nothing he can do.”

Owen continued to stare at me. I leaned forward and stared pointedly back at him. “Was there anything you did today that maybe you’d just as soon not share with me?” I said. To my amusement, Owen suddenly became very engrossed in his feet.

Rebecca arrived for tea about nine thirty the next morning. She was tiny, barely five foot three in her sock feet, with blue eyes and silver hair in a pixie cut that showed off her gorgeous cheekbones. Abigail was working for me in return for a shift I’d taken for her the week before so I didn’t have to be at the library until noon.

Copies of the new books we’d received were on the table. After she’d hugged me and talked to Owen and Hercules, Rebecca sat at the table to look at the books while I made the tea.

“Wonderful choices,” she said. She held up one of the picture books. “I especially like this one with the dancing cows.”

I smiled. “We all agreed on that one. Even Susan’s twins gave it a resounding yes.”

Rebecca smiled back at me. “It’s always good to get the approval of your target audience.”

I set a cup of tea in front of her. “Thank you, dear,” she said. She took a sip and nodded her approval. “I’m glad you called me. I wanted to talk to you about Reading Buddies. Everett and I would like to throw an end-of-school party for the children next month. I’m sorry, I know it’s short notice.”

“I don’t know what to say,” I said, smiling across the table at her.

I’d put a plate of cut-up fruit on the table because I knew Rebecca had been instructed by her doctor to restrain her sweet tooth a little. “Well, that’s easy,” she said, reaching for some apple slices. “You say ‘yes.’”

“Okay. Yes.” I gave her arm a squeeze and she beamed at me.

I was touched by the generous offer, which I suspected had originated with Rebecca. Everett was just as kindhearted as his wife, but Rebecca had an extra soft spot when it came to anything involving kids.

She leaned down for a moment to speak to Hercules, and I realized I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t ask her about the missing items from the co-op store because I was certain she’d had nothing to do with the thefts. It made no sense. Looking at Rebecca smiling down at Hercules, I found it hard to imagine her looking furtive while she browsed in the shop and stuffed a couple of placemats in her tote bag. There had to be some other explanation for what had happened.

“Do you think Eddie would agree to come to the party?” Rebecca asked. “He’s so good with children.”

“I think he probably would,” I said, getting up to refill my cup. Now that he didn’t have all of Rebecca’s attention, Hercules had started nosing around the canvas bag next to her chair.

“Leave that alone,” I said quietly to him.

Hercules immediately sat down, the picture of innocence, but when I turned back to the counter, from the corner of my eye I saw him nudge the bag with his nose once more. I swung around again. “Cut that out!” I said sharply.

“Oh, he can’t hurt anything,” Rebecca said.

“You spoil him and Owen,” I said, frowning in mock annoyance at her.

Since my attention was diverted, Hercules decided it would be a good time to give the tote a poke with his paw. That was enough for me. I moved to pick him up just as the bag slid down the chair leg and toppled over. A small plastic baggie fell out. Hercules swatted it with a paw and it skidded across the floor, stopping at my feet.

“Very, very bad,” I said to the cat, who didn’t look the slightest bit repentant. I bent down to pick up the baggie. Inside were five chocolate-dipped chocolate chip cookies that I recognized as coming from Fern’s Diner. I straightened up and looked inquiringly at Rebecca.

She didn’t quite meet my gaze.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

There were two spots of color high on her cheekbones. “I don’t suppose you would believe that I doesn’t know how those cookies got in my bag?” she said. The look on her face reminded me of Owen the last time he’d decapitated a Fred the Funky Chicken and scattered bits of dried catnip all over the living room.

I pointed a finger at Hercules. “There will be consequences.”

He made a soft murp and seemed to shrug, almost as though he were trying to say he didn’t really think so.

I sat down again, setting the cookies on the table, and reached over to catch Rebecca’s hands in mine. “What’s going on?” I asked again.

Rebecca pursed her lips and met my gaze this time. “I’m a weak old woman.”

I shook my head. “You are not old and you most definitely are not weak. You’re one of the strongest women—one of the strongest people I know.”

That got me a small smile. “Do you remember me telling you that my doctor wants me to cut back on the sweets a little? And by the way, my mother had a sweet tooth and she ate cookies until the day she died and she was just fine.” Her chin jutted out just a little. I’d seen that defiant pose before.

I waited without speaking. Rebecca cleared her throat. “I guess that isn’t really relevant,” she said after a minute. “I’m, uh . . . I’m having a hard time following his instructions.”

“You’ve been buying cookies at Fern’s.” I tapped the baggie with a finger.

She nodded. “I can’t make cookies at home. Everett has a nose like a bloodhound. I’ve been getting half a dozen at a time and . . . having them when I’m not home so he doesn’t find out. He’d be so disappointed in me.”

“You can’t really believe that,” I said, giving her hands another squeeze and then sitting back in my chair. “That man is bear poop crazy about you. You could go downtown right now and rob the Wells Fargo Bank and Everett would say it was their fault for having all that money inside.”

“Bear poop crazy?” Rebecca said, a smile pulling at her lips.

“Harrison Taylor’s description, not mine,” I said. “But the words are accurate.”

Her expression grew serious again. “I’m disappointed in myself, Kathleen.”

“I get it,” I said. “I really do. I’ve never met a brownie I didn’t like.”

“Merow,” Hercules said, adding his two cents to the discussion.

I smiled. “And Hercules would not want to have to give up sardine crackers. He’s always trying to find a way to sneak a couple more as it is.” And as simple as that, I knew what had happened.

“You haven’t been eating cookies at home, so where have you been eating them?” I asked.

Rebecca blushed again. “I’ve ducked into the co-op store several times as well as the library. I’m sorry. I promise I didn’t touch any books with my sticky fingers.”

Internally, I breathed a sigh of relief.

I got up and put my arms around her shoulders. “How about this weekend we try a couple of cookie recipes with less fat and sugar than what you’ve been sneaking, cookies even your doctor would approve of. I have a couple of new cookbooks at the library.”

“You are a darling, darling girl,” Rebecca said, leaning her cheek against my arm.

I saw her eye the bag of cookies on the table. I reached over and pushed the plate of fruit closer. “It would probably be better if someone else finished those cookies.”

Right on cue, Hercules meowed loudly. Rebecca laughed as I looked down at the cat and said, “Not you.”

After Rebecca left, I changed for work, packed the last of the chicken and dumplings for lunch—along with Rebecca’s cookies—and headed over to Riverarts to tell Maggie what I’d concluded about Rebecca’s furtive behavior in the shop.

“I’m sorry,” Maggie said. I’d found her in front of her easel, working on the sketch she’d shown me the day before.

I looked at her, confused. “For what?”

“For getting you mixed up in this. For thinking, even for a moment, Rebecca would have taken anything. Or Susan for that matter.” There was paint on the tip of her index finger and she scraped at it with her thumbnail. “I’m not so sure that Nic could be the thief, either.”

“Maybe there’s another explanation.”

Maggie nodded. “I like Nic. Maybe it was just a tourist.” She picked at the paint on her finger again. “I don’t like this, thinking the worst of people.”

I tucked a stray strand of hair behind one ear. “I think I’ve told you before that my mother has an expression that involves”—I made a hurry-up gesture with one hand—“getting on with things or getting off the pot.” My mother, Thea Paulson, was an actress and director, with a group of intensely devoted fans thanks to her appearances on the soap, The Wild and The Wonderful. She could be a little dramatic at times, but she was usually right.

Maggie laughed. “You have told me that before and I get it.”

“So why don’t we get off the pot and go see if Nic is in his studio so we can put an end to this?”

“Good idea,” she said.

The door to Nic’s art studio was open and he was working by the window, cutting some kind of street map out of heavy paper with an Exacto knife. He turned and smiled at us when Maggie knocked. “Hi, what’s up?” he asked.

“Did you steal from the store?” Maggie asked before I had time to even move beyond the threshold of the door.

Nic’s eyes widened and his mouth came open a little. He swallowed and set his knife down with a tight, precise motion. “What did I do that makes you have to ask that question, and for the record, the answer is no,” he said.

“You were working at the store a couple of days ago,” I said, “and you were acting a little . . . odd.”

His expression changed then. “Yeah, I was.” He looked at Maggie. “I didn’t want you to know. Until I was sure.”

“Know what?” she said.

Nic smoothed a hand over his closely shaven head. “I’m still not positive, but I think there might be mice in the store.”

Maggie took a step backward and folded her arms over her midsection like she was wrapping herself in a hug. She was afraid of small, furry creatures—mice, rats, moles, voles, even gerbils and hamsters.

I put a hand on her shoulder. “What makes you think so?” I said.

“You know the display shelves where we have the scarves and the placemats?”

I nodded.

“I was straightening things up and I noticed the end of one of the scarves looked a little bit chewed. And I saw some bits of dried leaves on the same shelf with the placemats.” He cleared his throat. “My dad had a problem with mice in his pawn shop and we saw the same thing. I wanted to be sure, though, before I said anything. If word got around that we had mice in the store . . .” He held up both hands. “I didn’t want to say something that would cause the tourists to stop coming, especially if it turned out I was wrong.”

“But you don’t think you’re wrong,” I said.

Nic shook his head. “Probably not. Sorry.”

Maggie was holding on so tightly to the sleeve of her T-shirt with one hand, I was surprised she hadn’t actually ripped a hole in it. “I’m the one who should be sorry,” she began. “I’m sorry for thinking you had . . . I’m sorry for jumping to conclusions.”

Nic held up a hand. “No. I should have told Ruby what I suspected right away.”

I gave Maggie’s shoulder a squeeze. “This is fixable,” I said. “I have to go to work in a few minutes, but I’ll go home at the end of the day and get a certain furball who will take care of any mice foolish enough to venture into the shop.”

“Okay,” she said slowly. “Unless you wanted to just get a shovel.” She pressed her lips together but it didn’t stop a grin from spreading across her face.

I narrowed my eyes at her. “So not funny,” I said.

Nic’s eyes darted between us. “Am I missing something?” he asked.

Maggie’s shoulders were shaking with suppressed laughter.

“A couple of springs ago there was some major flooding in the downtown,” I said stiffly. “There was a rat in the basement of the store.”

Nic made a face. “What happened?”

Maggie looked at me. “Oh, let me tell him. Please.” Her green eyes were sparkling with mirth.

I wrinkled my nose at her. “Go ahead,” I said, “but the next time you find a rodent using your basement as a swimming pool, you’re on your own.”

She grinned at me. “No, I’m not.”

“Somebody tell me,” Nic urged.

Maggie turned sideways so she could see both me and Nic. “Like Kathleen said, there was a lot of flooding in the downtown two springs ago, and there was about four feet of water in the basement at the shop—it was before we got the pump. Kathleen was with me when I went to check things out.”

“And you found a rat?”

Mags nodded. “Floating in the water.” She shuddered.

“What did you do?” he asked.

“I didn’t do anything,” Maggie said. “Kathleen scooped the rat out of the water with a snow shovel.”

Nic looked at me. “That was nice,” he said. He still looked confused.

“Oh, it was.” Maggie’s gaze darted to me for a moment. “Until she used the shovel like a lacrosse stick and flung the rat at Ruby.”

“That was an accident,” I said, trying not to sound huffy.

“We think Kathleen was some kind of Scottish Highlander in a past life,” Maggie teased. “She was probably very good at the caber toss.” She gave me a sweet and totally fake smile.

Nic held up a hand and looked at me. “Okay. Why did you throw a dead rat at Ruby?”

“Like I said, it was an accident.” I shot a daggers look at Maggie, who was having way too much fun telling the story. “I tossed the rat outside. I didn’t even see Ruby.”

I hadn’t. The rat had gone whizzing past Ruby’s head, just inches from hitting her, much to my embarrassment. She’d been a very good sport about the whole thing. In retrospect, I shouldn’t have flung it out on the sidewalk in the first place, but I was trying to get the thing out of the shop, away from Maggie.

Maggie was shaking with laughter now. She gestured at Nic with one hand. “And that’s not the best part. The rat wasn’t dead.”

Nic frowned. “What?”

“It wasn’t exactly dead,” I said.

“So it was what, just partly dead?”

That made Maggie laugh harder.

“It was—I don’t know—unconscious, stunned.” I pressed a hand to my forehead. I was laughing now, too, because the whole scenario had been just like something out of a Monty Python movie. The rat had zipped by Ruby’s head, landed on the sidewalk with an audible splat and then gotten up, shaken itself and scurried away.

Nic turned to Maggie. “Yeah, you definitely wanna get the cat,” he said, deadpan.

Once Maggie got control of herself, she apologized again to Nic.

“Let me know what happens,” he said. “If the cat doesn’t catch anything, I can set some traps—the humane kind.” He grinned at me. “Because I don’t even know where the snow shovel is.”

Maggie and I walked back up to her studio. She bumped me with her hip. “Are you mad at me because I told that story to Nic?”

“Yes,” I said.

“No you’re not,” she retorted. “Because that’s one of the things that made Marcus fall for you.”

I stopped and stared at her. “What?”

“He didn’t tell you?”

I shook my head. “No. He told you?”

She smiled. “Uh-huh. He said he saw how kind you were.”

“Because I flung what I thought was a dead animal at Ruby?”

Maggie’s grinned. “Because you were worried that Ruby might have been hurt and you were worried about the rat, too.” She nudged me again. “I’m glad you didn’t go back to Boston.”

I bumped her back. “Me too.”

“So what do we do now?” she said as we started up the steps again.

“First we deal with the furry intruders,” I said, “then we’ll find the thief.”

I headed straight up the hill at the end of the day. Owen was waiting by the kitchen door, almost as though he knew I was coming for him, which of course he didn’t.

“Okay, Fuzz Face,” I said, bending down to pick him up. “Maggie needs you to do rodent patrol at the store.”

“Merow,” he said loudly. Translation: “Let’s do it.”

As we drove down to the shop, I explained about the possible mice incursion at the co-op store. Owen listened intently, and when I finished talking, he licked his whiskers. I was pretty sure he knew exactly what was expected of him.

Maggie was waiting at the store, and Owen looked adoringly at her when she thanked him for coming to her rescue. She unlocked the door and we went inside. I saw her hesitate and look around.

I set Owen down. “Go for it,” I whispered.

He immediately began to nose around. Beside me Maggie sucked in a breath as Owen began to sniff around the shelving unit that still held some of the woven placemats. Then he suddenly headed purposefully for the back door, meowing loudly a couple of times.

“I think we’re supposed to go after him,” she said.

“Do you want to wait here?” I asked. “I can go.”

She shook her head. “No, but if Owen catches anything, I will be in the back of your truck—or standing on the roof of the cab.”

“Got it,” I said, putting my arm around her shoulders and giving her what I hoped was a reassuring squeeze.

Owen was sitting in front of the back door that led to the alley. He gave another insistent meow when we joined him.

Maggie opened the door. “Where are we going?” she asked as though she expected him to answer.

Owen led us down the narrow alley to a green metal Dumpster pushed up against the wall of the building, a pile of wooden pallets stacked beside it. He stopped, looked up at me and made a low murping sound.

I peered around the side of the metal bin. “Mags,” I said softly. In the cramped space between the garbage container and the pallets, a mama cat had made a home for three tiny kittens from a couple of scarves and some placemats.

“I think we’ve found your ‘cat burglar,’” I said.

Maggie crouched down and began to talk quietly to the mother cat. I pulled out my phone to call Roma, who was a vet and would know what to do about moving the mother and her babies. I glanced down at Owen, who looked up at me with a decidedly self-satisfied expression on his furry face, and I had the niggling feeling that somehow he’d figured this whole thing out long before we had.

No More Pussyfooting Around

A Second Chance Cat Story

Sofie Ryan

“Good things are coming your way, Sarah,” Tom Harris said as we watched my cat, Elvis, make his way across Tom’s yard and into mine.

“Aren’t black cats supposed to be bad luck?” I asked.

I smiled at Tom because I’m not really superstitious, although I’d certainly heard about a variety of superstitions and omens from my grandmothers’ friends over the years: everything from spitting on a new bat before using it for the first time—which struck me as being really unsanitary—to standing at a crossroads and reciting a little rhyme to get rid of a sty (trust me, that one doesn’t work).

“Where I come from, a black cat arriving at your house brings prosperity with it.” Tom smiled back at me, and his soft Scottish burr seemed just a little more pronounced. He’d been in Maine for more than fifty years, but he’d never completely lost his accent.

I squinted at Elvis, heading purposefully from Tom’s property, skirting the trees and the rock wall at the back. My 1860s Victorian was only a few blocks from North Harbor’s waterfront. The neighborhood, with its big trees and old houses, had felt like home from the first time I’d turned onto the street. The house had been turned into three apartments about thirty years ago, and it had been let go over time, but my dad had agreed with my assessment that it had good bones and after a lot of work it had turned into the home I’d hoped it would be.

Beside me, Rose Jackson nudged me with her elbow. “I don’t think that’s prosperity that Elvis has in his mouth,” she said. “It looks more like a field mouse or a vole to me.”

Rose was one of my grandmother’s friends. Barely five feet tall with short white hair and kind gray eyes, she also lived in one of the apartments in the house and worked for me at my repurpose shop, Second Chance. In theory, living so close together shouldn’t have worked, but it did. We gave each other lots of space—in truth, Rose had way more of a social life than I did. And she was even having some success in teaching me how to cook, something no one else had been able to do.

Tom took a step forward and craned his neck to get a better look at the cat. He was a small, round man, no taller than five eight or so, with thick iron gray hair and small black frame glasses.

“I think you’re right,” he said. “And while I generally like to take a ‘live and let live’ approach to other creatures, if that happens to be the vole that made several meals of my hyacinth bulbs, I can’t say I’m sorry.”

Rose nudged me again. “Stop scratching,” she said softly, a warning edge in her voice.

She’d seen me trying to wedge a finger under the splint on my left arm. I’d dropped a cardboard box full of old elementary school readers on that arm, injuring a tendon in the palm of my hand a couple of weeks earlier. I had to wear the plastic and neoprene splint for another two weeks and it was driving me crazy. It itched. A lot. Rose had already caught me trying to jam my toothbrush underneath the splint to get some relief. She’d confiscated the toothbrush and I’d gotten a stern speech about mouth germs, skin infections and the four stitches at the base of my thumb. Then she’d given me a bowl of warm rhubarb crisp as a distraction from the itching.

I made a face at her now and she made one right back at me before gently squeezing my arm.

I tucked a strand of hair that had slipped free from my ponytail behind my ear and looked over at Tom’s yard, trying to shift my attention away from the sensation that ants were marching in formation up my wrist. Tom’s lawn was probably the most perfectly manicured one in North Harbor, Maine. Maybe even in the entire state. No weeds dared poke their heads up in the two planters that flanked the front door and ran the length of the house on either side. Tom had replaced the bulbs that had been eaten by the voles with little clay pots of daffodils and paper whites and today had started replacing those with white and pink geraniums.

The grass around his small, gray-shingled story-and-a-half house was mowed to a length of precisely an inch and three-quarters, which Tom deemed the correct height for that particular type of grass. The only incongruity was the small strip of lawn that separated his driveway from the yard of his neighbor, Angie Bates. There the grass had been sheared so short in places there was nothing but bare earth.

Tom followed my gaze. “How can that miscreant be Angie’s family?” he asked.

I didn’t think he really wanted an answer to the question. “He’ll be leaving soon, and Angie will be home,” I said.

The old man gave a snort of derision, and the color rose in his face. “I’m not convinced that ne’er-do-well is even employed. He’s extremely evasive. Even Angie wasn’t clear on what he does for a living, assuming he does anything.” He looked toward the small white Cape Cod–style house on the other side of the choppy strip of grass.

Angie—Angelica Bates—was an anthropologist who taught part-time in the Environmental Education Department at Unity College. The “he” Tom was speaking so derisively about was her nephew, Jason. Angie had no children. She was a bit of a free spirit with a wild mass of long blond curls streaked with gray and her dark-framed glasses always slipping down her nose. When she wasn’t teaching, she was off somewhere in the world on a dig site. I’d taken two classes from Angie in college and was happy to find a familiar face on the street when I’d finally moved in. Every few months we’d get together and she’d regale me with stories about her travels.

Jason was the son of Angie’s older brother. “It’s taking him a bit of time to find himself,” she’d confided recently to Rose and me over tea and biscotti. I’d nodded and said nothing, looking pointedly at Rose as a hint to do the same. Rose had reached for her cup and kept her opinions to herself, although later when Angie had gone home, she’d tartly commented that it might be a little easier for Jason to find his missing “self” if he got out of bed before noon.

“Angie will be out of the hospital in a few days,” Rose said then, laying a hand on Tom’s arm for a moment. “Then things will get back to normal.”

“I don’t think things are going to get back to normal until that young man is gone,” he grumbled. Two furrows had formed between his bushy white eyebrows.

Jason Bates came out of the house then. Like his aunt, he was tall and lean, but that was where the similarities ended. Where Angie was fair, Jason was dark: deep-set dark eyes, spiked dark hair, navy shirt, black jeans. I noticed his eyes flick in our direction but he gave no other sign that he’d seen us. He jumped in Angie’s blue Mini Cooper, backed out of the driveway and sped out of the court.

I glanced toward the backyard again. Elvis had put down the burden he had been carrying in his mouth and was looking back toward Tom’s house, head tipped to one side, almost as if he, too, had questions about Jason Bates. He turned to look at me for a moment, then picked up whatever he’d caught in Tom’s yard and disappeared over the rock wall.

Rose and I walked with Tom back to his house. Standing at the bottom of the driveway, I could see what a mess Jason had made when he’d mowed the strip of lawn between the two houses. The ground had been gouged in a couple of places, and in others the grass was more than a couple of inches high. “Don’t worry,” I said. “It’s grass. It’ll grow.”

Tom didn’t seem the slightest bit comforted by my words. I remembered feeling much the same way when my mother had said those same words—“It’ll grow”—after I’d tried to cut my bangs with a pair of kitchen scissors when I was thirteen.

The old man had been mowing the small piece of lawn between his house and Angie’s for years, even though technically it was her property. Angie had always thanked Tom for what she called the courtesy. I suspected the courtesy was more Angie’s. Tom was finicky about his house and his property, and since the strip of grass was next to his driveway, I had a feeling he felt a bit of ownership, even if the lawn didn’t actually belong to him.

A couple of days previous, Tom had gotten out his push mower, clippers and broom to begin his lawn-mowing routine. He always started with the section of grass between the two houses, working from left to right across the front of the house and then repeating the process in the back. I’d been hanging quilts on the backyard clothesline. It was a slow, awkward process one-handed. I’d just gotten the second quilt in place when I heard raised voices and the sound of Tom’s little corgi Matilda’s agitated barking. I rounded the side of my house in time to see Jason shake his fist at the old man and then shove the lawn mower out into the street before storming back into Angie’s house.

I had hurried over to Tom. He was trembling, his face pale. The front door to his house was open, and I could see Matilda on her hind legs, paws on the screen, barking furiously. She was as protective of the old man as if she were a German shepherd or a Great Dane.

“What’s wrong?” I’d asked, putting a hand on Tom’s shoulder.

He’d turned to look at me and I noticed both of the old man’s hands were squeezed into fists, the skin stretched tightly over his swollen, arthritic knuckles. “That . . . that punk accused me of being a thief!”

“I don’t understand,” I said. “What does he think you took?” It had to be some sort of misunderstanding. Tom was honest to a fault. I didn’t think he’d so much as crossed against the light even once in his entire life.

The old man had gestured to the area of lawn where he’d been about to begin mowing. “He said my cutting the grass was an attempt at a land grab. He called it encroaching on Angie’s property.” He suddenly seemed aware that Matilda was still barking. He’d looked toward the front door and held out a hand, palm facing the ground. “Matilda, sit. Sit,” he’d called.

The little corgi stopped barking and sat down, but kept her nose pressed against the screen door.

Tom shifted his attention back to me again. “I’m not trying to steal any of Angie’s property,” he’d said. “I would never do something like that. I was just trying to be a good neighbor.”

“I know that,” I’d said, “and so does Angie.”

I’d glanced over at the professor’s house and found myself wishing, selfishly, that Jason Bates would go home. I knew, if anything, he’d probably be staying longer this visit. The day after Jason had arrived, Angie had caught her foot on a loose edge of carpet at the top of the stairs and fallen, dislocating her shoulder and breaking her collarbone. The broken clavicle had required surgery. She should have been home by now, but she’d developed an infection after the operation—a bug the doctors thought she’d brought home from her last dig in the Honduran rain forest—and was still in the hospital.

I was standing with my arms folded across my chest and my shoulders hunched, I realized, muscles tight from the memory of Tom’s altercation with Jason Bates. I took a breath and let it out, feeling some of the tension let go.

Tom was still eyeing the mangled section of grass. I touched his arm. “I’m going to see Angie as soon as they’ll let anyone who isn’t family visit,” I said. “Once she’s home, things will settle down.”

“I think you have a higher opinion of human nature than I do,” the old man said. “I hope you’re right.”

Rose and I headed back to the house. She went inside to get her sweater and pack one of the tote bags she carried to work. Her bags reminded me of those little clown cars in the circus—the amount of things she could stuff inside seemed to defy the laws of physics sometimes.

I took a seat on the veranda in one of the two wicker chairs that my best friend, Jess, and I had found at a flea market. Jess, with her with her eye for space and orientation, had insisted both would fit in my SUV and she had, in fact, managed to wedge them both into the back of the vehicle. I’d cleaned the chairs and painted them a sea foam green. Jess, who was a talented seamstress, had made seat cushions from some navy canvas.

I slid down in the chair and propped my feet on the veranda railing, pulling the elastic from my dark hair and letting it fall loose to my shoulders. Jess was away in Vermont teaching a weeklong sewing workshop. I missed her. I remembered how she’d helped Tom fix the trellis on the side of his garden shed the previous fall, while Matilda, who generally disliked strangers, had followed her around the yard with a look of adoration on her furry face.

“I like Tom, he reminds me of Pops,” Jess had said, referring to her late grandfather.

I tried to imagine what would have happened if Jason had tried to bully the old man when Jess had been around. I couldn’t help smiling. It wouldn’t have gone well . . . for Jason.

Rose invited Elvis and me for supper that evening. Cooking wasn’t my strong suit at the best of times; one-handed was beyond my limited skills. We moved out on to the veranda for dessert: Rose’s berry cobbler for the two of us, and a chopped sardine for Elvis. He licked his whiskers and seemed to smile at her as she set the bowl on the railing in front of him.

I had just eaten the last spoonful of berries when Katie Burns came around the side of the house. She lived across the street from Tom with her husband, Matt, and their four-year-old, Molly.

“I just wanted to bring this back,” she said, holding out a blue bubble glass plate to Rose. “And say thank you again.”

“You’re welcome, my dear.” Rose took the plate and set it on the floor next to her chair. It had held two dozen peanut butter chocolate chip cookies that Rose had made when the pregnant Katie had confided that she was craving peanut butter cups but they gave her heartburn. “Did they help with the cravings?”

Katie smiled and put a hand on her belly. “Yes. Thank you.” Her blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail, her bangs pushed to one side. With her glowing, creamy skin and bright eyes, she looked like an advertisement for having a baby. “Have either of you seen a pink and purple striped foam ball about this big?” she asked, holding her rounded hands about three inches apart.

I shook my head.

“No,” Rose said.

Elvis cocked his head to one side and crinkled his nose, which I decided to interpret as him not having seen the ball, either.

“My mom got it for Molly, and now it’s disappeared,” Katie said.

“We’ll check the yard,” Rose said. “And I know sometimes Molly plays with Matilda in Tom’s backyard. “The ball could have ended up over here.”

Elvis immediately jumped down from his perch and started down the veranda steps. When he reached the grass, he stopped, looked over his shoulder at Rose and meowed loudly.

Rose got to her feet. “And as Elvis has just pointed out, there’s no time like the present.” She followed the cat across the yard. “Let’s check the flowerbeds first,” I heard her say.

Katie watched them and grinned. “Sometimes I’d almost swear your cat knows what we’re saying.”

“Rose says he’s smarter than some people she knows.”

Katie’s grin got a little wider and she nodded. “You know, I believe that.”

I didn’t add that the cat also seemed to be able to tell when someone was lying. Of course, being a cat, he only demonstrated that skill when he felt like it.

We watched Rose and her furry sidekick make their way to the far end of the yard. She was checking out the wild rosebushes while he walked along the top of the rock wall sniffing the ground almost as though he were trying to sniff out a clue.

Katie rested a hand on her baby bump. “I’ve always wondered, why did you name Elvis, Elvis?”

“That wasn’t me,” I said, getting to my feet and moving off the veranda to join her. “Sam named him.” Sam was Sam Newman, owner of The Black Bear Pub and my late father’s best friend. “He claims the cat is a fan of the King.”

“Hey, me too,” Katie said.

Katie told me all about Molly’s upcoming role as a daisy in the Spring Fling concert at the four-year-old’s preschool while Rose and Elvis checked the yard. There was no sign of Molly’s ball.

“Thanks for looking,” Katie said.

Elvis bobbed his head and made a soft murp sound, almost as though he was saying, “You’re welcome.”

The next morning right after he’d had his breakfast, Elvis went to the door, meowed insistently and looked over his shoulder at me. Translation: “I want to go out.”

I let him into the hall and he moved purposefully toward the back door, almost as though he was going back out to look for Molly’s ball again. I shook my head. Elvis was a very smart cat, but not that smart. I opened the back door for him. “We’re leaving in a little while,” I said.

A soft “Mrrr” was the only answer I got.

A half an hour later I was back at the door. Elvis was sitting on one of the wicker chairs. When he lifted his head, I realized there were two burdocks stuck in the fur just below his left ear. The cat had come home once before with the prickly things stuck to his tail. It had taken an hour, an entire can of sardines and a lot of grumbling on both our parts to get them out.

I sighed softly. We were going to be late getting to the shop.

Elvis shook his head as though he was trying to shake the burdocks away. Then he lifted a paw and swatted at one of them.

“No, no, don’t do that,” I said. “Stay there.” I held up a hand, feeling a little foolish because, well, I was talking to a cat.

However, Elvis seemed to understand. He dropped his paw and made a sound a lot like a sigh.

I went back to the apartment and got two sardines from the can in the refrigerator, along with the wide-toothed comb I used on Elvis when something got knotted in his fur, the gardening gloves my brother Liam had given me as a joke and a little peanut butter, just in case.

The cat hadn’t move from the chair on the veranda. I crouched down next to him and set the plate holding the little fish on the seat cushion.

Elvis craned his neck to check out the plate of fish, whiskers twitching.

“How did you get those things in your fur?” I asked, reaching out to stroke the top of his head.

“Mrr,” the cat said, looking—it seemed to me—just a little sheepish.

“Poking your nose in somewhere it shouldn’t have been?” I raised an eyebrow and he ducked his head almost as though he was embarrassed. He really was a beautiful animal. The long scar that cut diagonally across his nose gave him a kind of rakish, devil-may-care look that made just about every visitor to the shop want to stop and stroke his sleek black fur and fuss over him a little.

Elvis turned his attention again to the plate with the sardines. I reached for the gardening gloves and pulled one of them on to protect my right hand. The left one was healing and I was slowly getting strength and range of motion back, but I didn’t dare take the splint off. I was going to have to do this one-handed.

“You have one of those sardines and I’m going to try to work those burdocks out of your fur,” I said.

Elvis bent his head over the little fish and I studied the burdock closest to his ear. It was snagged firmly in his black fur. I felt the ridge of another old wound under my fingers, and wondered, once again, who or what the small cat had tangled with before he’d come to live with me and what the other guy looked like.

Holding the burdock—which was rather like holding on to a tiny cactus ball—between two gloved fingers, I worked carefully to get the fur out of it. As if he understood what I was doing, Elvis stopped eating, head hovering over the plate when I came to an especially stubborn spot.

The second burr was harder to remove, snagged even deeper in the cat’s thick black coat. I reached for the peanut butter and smeared a little in Elvis’s fur. Bit by bit I managed to work the spiky seedpod loose, and then used the wide-toothed comb to make sure all the tiny bits of the burdock were out. Elvis sat upright, patient and still as if this was something he’d had done before, and when I was finally satisfied, he almost seemed to smile at me before giving the area a good wash with his paw.

I got to my feet, stretched and decided to make a quick circuit around the yard to see if I could spot the burdock plant Elvis had tangled with. The cat climbed up on the railing, looking as though he were supervising as I searched.

I found no sign of the prickly plant. I knew there were burdocks growing behind both Tom and Angie’s property. I glanced in that direction in time to see Jason Bates come out of Angie’s house. Tom was in his yard, clipping the dead blossoms off his potted geraniums. Jason walked across the grass to the older man and pointed at the copper birdbath on the grass next to the side of Tom’s garage. In the pan sat a gleaming silver gazing ball, a gift from Angie after the squirrels had chased away the birds and begun using the birdbath as their personal hot tub.

I couldn’t make out what Jason was saying but I could hear his tone: belligerent and angry. Tom leaned heavily on his cane and shook his head. Jason gestured in the direction of the birdbath again. The older man continued to stubbornly shake his head.

Jason strode back across the grass and paced off a distance from Angie’s garage to the copper lawn ornament. He stood beside it and said something to Tom. Then he shook his fist at Matilda. The corgi barked loudly at him, pulling at her leash. Tom bent and picked her up. Jason swung around, bumping the birdbath. The silver gazing ball hit the ground, shattering into jagged pieces.

Tom’s body went rigid. He said something to Jason that I couldn’t catch. I did hear Jason’s reply, though. “Screw you, old man,” he shouted. He grabbed the birdbath with one hand and flung it out into the street, then he turned and stalked into the house.

I closed my eyes for a moment and exhaled softly before heading next door. I didn’t like the way things were changing on the street, although I had no idea what to do.

Matilda had stopped barking. Tom was stroking her fur, talking softly to her. His hand was shaking.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

“I’m fine,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. The little dog nuzzled his chin. “But the next time I see that young man, he won’t be.”

Katie joined us then, one hand holding on to Molly’s little hand, the other on her rounded belly. There were tight lines around her blue eyes. “What was that all about?” she asked.

I glanced at the pieces of the broken gazing ball in the driveway. It was hard to miss the symbolism. It felt as though our neighborhood was splintering into pieces.

“The birdbath.” Tom gestured toward the street but didn’t turn to look in that direction. “He said it was encroaching on Angie’s property. I told him it wasn’t, and it isn’t any of his business even if it were. That house belongs to her, not him.”

I shook my head. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Jason’s a . . . challenging person.”

Katie looked over at Angie’s neat little house. “I can’t . . . if he’s going to be living here all the time, I don’t know if we can stay here.” She glanced down at Molly, who was talking to Matilda.

I didn’t know what to say. I reached over and gave Katie’s arm what I hoped was a comforting squeeze. How had things gotten so bad so quickly?

Tom looked down at Molly. “Sweetie, could you take Matilda for a walk around the backyard, please?” he said. “She needs to stretch her legs.”

The little girl’s eyes lit up and she looked at her mother. Katie nodded.

Tom set the corgi on the ground and handed Molly the leash. She took it in both of her hands. He patted the dog’s head and slipped her a treat. “Good girl,” he said.

Molly headed for the backyard, the smile on her face showing how proud she was to be doing such an important job. Once she’d disappeared around the side of the house, Tom looked at Katie. “Tell Sarah what you told me,” he said, his gaze flicking across the driveway for a moment. “About the carpet.”

Katie chewed the edge of her bottom lip and cleared her throat. “Angie had new carpeting put in her spare bedroom a couple of weeks ago.”

I nodded. I remembered seeing the carpet installer’s van in Angie’s driveway one morning when I was leaving for the shop.

The young mother leaned sideways and waved at Molly as she came past the end of the house, walking in a wide circle in the backyard, both hands still clutching Matilda’s leash. “I asked her about it because we’ve been thinking about putting carpet in the baby’s room.” She put her other hand protectively over her abdomen. “She took me upstairs to show me what the carpet looked like, and when we were coming back down, she told me that they even fixed the place on the stairs where the runner was loose.”

Once again Tom’s gaze moved to the house next door before coming back to Katie. “It doesn’t make sense that Angie fell on a loose edge just after it was repaired,” he said.

“The carpet on the stairs was fine the day I was there,” Katie added.

Tom and Katie were suggesting that Jason was behind Angie’s fall. Was it possible?

“People don’t always do a good job when they fix something,” I said, feeling a little odd to be defending Jason.

“And other people can undo good jobs,” Tom said, the set of his jaw telling me that he had already made up his mind.

The sun had gone behind a cloud, and I suddenly felt a chill. I folded my arms over my chest. “I don’t like Jason,” I said, choosing my words carefully, “but do you really think he would go that far? For what reason?”

“Money,” Tom said. He smoothed a hand over his hair. “Angie asked me to recommend a lawyer when she redid her will. Jason and another niece are Angie’s only relatives, and she told me that they would split her estate when she’s gone. He can’t seem to keep a job. If something happens to Angie, he won’t have to.”

“It just seems so . . . extreme,” I said.

I looked at Katie, who was twisting her wedding ring around her finger. “I don’t know what to think,” she said, narrowing her blue eyes. “But I know what I saw and there was nothing wrong with the carpet on the stairs.”

“That young man is bone lazy,” Tom said. “He acts like an honest day’s work is beneath him, and he has a nasty streak—we’ve all seen it.”

Katie nodded.

The old man’s lips were pulled into a tight, pale line. “He bumped my birdbath on purpose. He wanted to break the gazing ball.” His eyes shifted over to the jagged pieces littering the driveway. “He wanted me to see that my friendship with Angie doesn’t matter.”

“But it does matter,” I said. “When Angie comes—”

He shook his head. “No. Don’t tell me that once Angie comes home, everything will be fine.” He pointed at the house. His Scottish burr was getting more pronounced. “He’s not going anywhere, Sarah. If we don’t stick up for ourselves, that pillock is going to bully us all into hiding inside with the curtains drawn.”

I exhaled softly. “Please, Tom, promise me you won’t do something you’ll regret.”

He almost smiled. “I promise you that anything I do, I won’t regret.”

There wasn’t anything else to say. I helped Tom pick up the pieces of the shattered gazing ball. Thankfully it seemed to have broken into large pieces for the most part. I put them in the garbage can, swallowing down the sour taste at the back of my throat as I remembered the day Angie had given it to the old man. Katie swept the driveway with Tom’s push broom, and I used a leaf rake to get the last few small broken bits of glass out of the grass. I had a spiteful urge to leave the few pieces that weren’t on Tom’s property right where they were, but I pushed the feeling away and cleaned up everything. I didn’t want Matilda, or Molly or Elvis, to get cut.

“Let me take that,” I said to Tom, gesturing at the copper birdbath. “I think I know someone who might be able to fix it.” Cleveland, one of the trash pickers I regularly bought from for the store, had repaired a metal railing for me. I had a feeling he’d be able to get the dent out of the birdbath.

He smiled, but the warmth didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Thank you,” he said.

Tom retrieved Matilda from Molly and headed off to the post office with the little corgi. I walked back across the street with Katie, Molly skipping happily ahead of us.

Katie looked over her shoulder at Angie’s house. “I don’t like to think that Tom is right about . . . what he’s thinking, but I don’t like Jason.”

“It’s hard to believe he’s related to Angie,” I said. I remembered the set of nesting dolls—a brightly painted family of woodland animals—that the professor had brought back from her last trip for Molly.

“I think he took Molly’s ball,” Katie said. “You know, the one I was looking for the other day. That afternoon it had gotten away from us and rolled over into Angie’s driveway. When I went to get it, Jason didn’t say anything but he gave me that look—you know what I mean.”

I nodded. Jason’s scowl seemed to be the only expression he had.

“When I went out after supper to bring in the toys, the ball was gone. I know it had been in our front yard, but I couldn’t find it anywhere.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. I knew it wasn’t really about the ball. It was about someone being nasty enough to swipe a child’s toy.

Katie played with her wide gold wedding ring again. “What kind of person takes a child’s toy? Or throws a birdbath into the street? I don’t want to raise my children around people like that.”

“Angie’s getting better and she’ll be home in a few days. Things will get back to normal,” I said, hoping I wasn’t making empty promises.

Katie smiled then. “Molly is making a card for her. Lots of purple and lots of glitter.”

I smiled back at her, glad that the conversation had taken a lighter turn. “I’m going to see Angie as soon as she’s allowed to have visitors. I can take it to her if you’d like.”

Molly had reached the front yard ahead of us. She was kicking a pink soccer ball across the grass.

“Backyard, sweetie bug,” Katie called just as the child’s foot connected with the ball, sending it tumbling across the street into my yard. It came to a stop at the edge of the driveway, where Elvis had been sitting watching the goings-on at Tom’s house. Now the black cat dipped his head and butted the ball, rolling it across the pavement toward Katie and me. I bent down and caught it. Molly came racing over, blond pigtails bouncing, and I handed her the ball.

“What do we say?” Katie prompted.

“Thank you,” Molly said.

“You’re welcome,” I replied, smiling down at her.

“Backyard,” Katie reminded her daughter. Molly nodded and ran toward the house. Katie turned to look at the cat, who was still sitting at the bottom of the driveway. “I’ve always been more of a dog person,” she said. “But Elvis is turning me into a cat person.” She glanced in the direction of Angie’s house. “I like him better than some people.” She smiled.

I smiled back at her. I didn’t say anything, but the truth was, I liked Elvis better than certain people, too.

I repeated my promise to take Molly’s card when I went to visit Angie, and I headed home. Elvis followed me up the driveway. He waited by the door while I got my purse and a bag of vintage Good Housekeeping magazines. Rose had left very early to help get ready for a bake sale at the library.

Elvis settled himself on the passenger side of the SUV and turned to look over his shoulder. “Thank you for getting Molly’s ball,” I said, reaching over to stroke his fur. I was certain whoever the cat had lived with before me had driven around a lot with him. Elvis was a bit of a backseat driver, looking attentively at the road through the windshield and making grumbling noises if I tried to stretch a yellow light.

I backed out of the driveway and started for the shop. “I’m afraid Tom is going to do something stupid,” I said as we reached the stop sign at the corner.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Elvis glance away from the street ahead of us and look over at me, green eyes narrowed as though he somehow understood that I was worried. “Mrr,” he said.

I’d considered calling my friend, Michelle Andrews, who was a detective with the North Harbor Police, but I didn’t really know what she could do. Jason wasn’t breaking any laws. He was just a jerk.

I’d even thought about asking Nick to stop by. Nick Elliot and I had been friends since we were kids. He was a big man and he could be intimidating if you didn’t know what a teddy bear he really was. But Nick was away on a two-week course for his job as an investigator with the medical examiner’s office.

“I don’t like the way things are changing,” I said with a sigh. “Liz would say I’m an old fuddy-duddy.” Liz French was another of my grandmother’s friends. She was part Terminator, part Fairy Godmother, in elegant and impossibly high heels.

“Mrr,” the cat said again, crinkling his nose so it looked like he was disagreeing with me.

I laughed. “Oh, so you don’t agree? Are you just trying to charm me so you can have another sardine?”

“Merow!” Elvis exclaimed loudly.

“You’re not exactly subtle,” I said as we started up the hill.

I pulled into the parking lot at Second Chance and climbed out of the SUV. “Remind me to call Cleveland about Tom’s birdbath,” I said to Elvis.

“Mrrr,” he replied.

I leaned over and scratched the top of his head. He nuzzled my splint with the side of his furry face.

“Even with sardine breath, I really like you better than some people,” I said.

He gave me a wide-eyed stare as if to say, “Why wouldn’t you?”

That afternoon I called the hospital and found out that Angie was finally well enough to have visitors. After supper I went over to get Molly’s card. The little girl had copied the words “Feel Better” in purple marker on the front and drawn purple flowers on the rest of the page. Inside was a drawing of a smiling face with yellow pigtails and “Molly” carefully printed below it.

“That’s you,” I said, pointing at the face.

The four-year-old beamed at me. “That’s so she won’t feel lonesome.”

“No one could feel lonesome with a smile like that to look at,” I said.

Molly flung her arms around my legs, hugging them tightly. “And this is a hug for her.”

“I’ll give it to her,” I promised.

I got to the hospital about three the next afternoon. Angie’s room was on the second floor of Northeastern Medical Center. “Left, left and straight through the double doors.” I repeated the directions I’d been given at the patient information desk silently to myself as I got off the elevator.

Angie was sitting on the edge of her bed in pajamas and a rumpled hospital robe, her left arm in a sling when I tapped on her door. Her face lit up when she saw me.

“Oh, Sarah, it’s so good to see a familiar face,” she said. “I was just sitting here trying to figure out if I could tie the sheets together and rappel down to the parking lot.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t come sooner,” I said. “Tom and Katie say hello and Molly made you this.” I handed over the card.

Katie had slipped it into a large brown envelope. Angie pulled out the folded sheet of construction paper and smiled. “She made this all by herself?”

I nodded. “That’s a self-portrait inside so you won’t feel lonesome.”

Angie looked at Molly’s drawing. “It looks like her,” she said. “Do you think Katie and Matt would let me give her art lessons for her birthday?”

“Maybe you could start with some art supplies,” I suggested.

I set a china cup and saucer down on the tray table next to the professor’s bed. It held a small green and white Haworthia plant. We sold the tiny arrangements at Second Chance, and they seemed more like Angie’s style than an arranged bouquet of flowers.

“Sarah, that’s beautiful,” Angie said, turning the saucer in a slow circle on the table.

“I’m glad you like it,” I said. “Oh, and I almost forgot.” I leaned over, careful to avoid Angie’s injured arm and gave her a sideways hug. “That’s from Molly, too.”

“Better than any medicine,” she declared. Her hair was pulled back in a loose braid and I could see the edge of a bandage peeking out of the neck of her pajamas.

“How does your shoulder feel?” I asked.

“Pretty good, actually,” Angie said. She gestured at my splinted left hand. “How’s therapy going?”

“Not as fast as I’d like,” I said. “But it’s been suggested that I’m a little impatient.” I looked around the small room. “Would you like to go for a walk?”

Angie nodded. “Please. Or I really might start tearing up the sheets.”

We headed down the hallway together and Angie explained the surgery that had repaired her broken clavicle. A nurse in lavender teddy bear scrubs passed us, smiling at Angie.

She caught the woman’s arm. “Could I go outside to the garden?” she asked.

“I’ll stay with her,” I offered.

“All right,” the nurse said. “But don’t overdo it.”

“I won’t,” Angie said. “Thank you.”

The garden was a small outside terrace at the end of the hall, with benches and raised planters. Angie turned her face up to the afternoon sun and sighed happily. “It feels so good to be outside.”

I steered her over to a bench, mindful of the nurse’s admonition not to overdo.

“I’m so glad you came,” Angie said, pulling the wrinkled blue robe a little tighter around her. “You’re my first visitor since the surgery.”

Jason hadn’t been to see his aunt, I realized, even though family had been permitted to visit Angie from the beginning.

“Tell me what I’ve been missing,” she urged.

I told her about Elvis having dispatched the vole that liked to eat Tom’s flower bulbs and how I’d used peanut butter to get the burdocks out of his fur. I didn’t say anything about Jason’s interactions with Tom and Katie. There was nothing the professor could do, and I didn’t want her to worry.

“I hope I can come home in a couple of days,” Angie said, shifting on the bench. I noticed her wince and guessed that the shoulder was a bit more painful than she was letting on. “Jason is between jobs at the moment so he’s offered to stay and help me for a while.”

My heart sank. I hoped my face didn’t give my feelings away. “Are you going to have the carpet taken off the stairs?” I asked.

Angie nodded. “Jason is going to do that for me. I don’t have a lot of faith in that installer. He was supposed to have fixed that loose edge but I think he just made things worse. Not only was that section still loose but Jason said there was a small nail that hadn’t been hammered in all the way.”

Katie had said that the carpeting on the stairs had looked fine to her. Could she have been mistaken or . . .

“Jason thinks I should sue,” Angie was saying. “But I have to take some of the blame.”

I frowned. “What makes you say that?”

The professor gave me a wry smile. “I was so sleepy that night I could barely keep my eyes open. Jason and I were having tea and I almost dozed off there at the table. I was on my way up to bed when I caught my foot on that loose piece of carpet. Maybe if I hadn’t let myself get so overtired, I might not have lost my balance.”

“It’s good that Jason was there,” I said. Even though the sun was warm on my head and shoulders, I gave an involuntary shiver.

Angie nodded, her hand going to her injured shoulder. “I know Jason can be”—she shrugged—“well, a bit of a jerk sometimes. He’s just like my brother James. But I don’t want to think what could have happened if he hadn’t been around to call 911.” She ducked her head and studied her hands for a moment. “I feel a bit guilty.”

“What about?”

Angie looked up at me then. “I had been planning on amending my will and leaving less of my estate to Jason because he’d never really seemed that interested in staying in touch. But then he stepped up after the accident and he offered to stay for a while to help out. So I decided to leave things the way they were.” She shrugged. “I guess you can’t always tell what people are capable of.”

I had a sinking feeling I knew exactly what Jason Bates was capable of.

When I got home, I half expected to find Elvis sitting on the veranda railing, but there was no sign of the cat. Liz had offered to bring Rose and Elvis home, and I realized he was probably in Rose’s apartment.

She was feeding me again and I hated to show up empty handed so I went to the front of the house to cut the last of the narcissus, arranging the stems in a mason jar of water and tying a length of wide green paper ribbon in a bow around the neck. I was about to head for Rose’s apartment when I heard shouting from outside.

I went out into the hallway. Rose was standing in her doorway, a yellow-flowered apron tied at her waist. Elvis was at her feet. “What’s going on?” she asked.

I shook my head. “I don’t know.” I opened the front door.

We heard a shout. “Help! Somebody help!”

“That’s Tom,” Rose said.

I bolted across the grass, through the gap in the hedge, into the Tom’s backyard. He was crouched on the lawn, leaning over Matilda. The little corgi seemed to be having a seizure.

My chest tightened. “What happened?” I said, bending down next to the old man.

He looked up at me, his face ashen. “I don’t know. I was just throwing the ball for her. She was bringing it back to me when she suddenly stopped. She took another step and then she just fell over and started shaking.”

I put a hand on his back. “I’m going to get the car and we’ll take her to the vet.”

Rose was behind me. “What happened?” she whispered.

I gave my head a little shake. “I don’t know.”

Rose dipped her head in the direction of my SUV. “Go,” she said. “I’ll stay here.”

I ran back to the house, grabbed my purse and keys and hurried back out to the SUV. I pulled into Tom’s driveway and grabbed the blanket I kept on the backseat. “Here,” I said to Rose. “Wrap her in this.”

Rose swaddled Matilda in the blanket and I helped Tom get to his feet. The corgi’s eyes were open and she wasn’t seizing anymore but she seemed lethargic and disoriented.

Rose was still holding the little dog. Tom put one hand on the blanket and they moved toward the car.

“Matilda may be little but she has a big heart,” Rose told the old man.

Elvis had followed us over to Tom’s yard. He made his way to the knobby red ball Matilda had been chasing and craned his neck to sniff at it. Then he made a face and turned to look at me.

“I’m sorry. I have to go,” I said.

Elvis gave the ball a nudge in my direction, meowed loudly and looked at me again. There was something about that ball he wanted me to see. I hesitated and then pulled a nylon shopping bag from my purse, picked up the ball carefully between my thumb and index finger and dropped it in the bag. That seemed to satisfy the cat.

Rose was just reaching around Tom to fasten his seatbelt. Matilda was on his lap, wrapped in the blanket. I pulled a key off my key ring and held it out to Rose. It was Tom’s spare that I kept in case of an emergency, which this definitely was. “Would you lock up Tom’s house, please?”

Rose took the key, turning it over in her fingers. Of course, dear,” she said. “I hope Matilda will be all right.” She pressed her lips together.

I nodded. “Me too.” I slid behind the wheel, started the car and backed out of the driveway. Beside me Tom was talking softly to the little dog. As we drove by Angie’s house, I noticed Jason watching from the living room window.

When we got to the animal hospital, Tom and Matilda were taken to an examining room right away. I dropped into a chair and took several slow, deeps breaths. Rose was right. Matilda might have been a little dog but she did have a huge heart.

I’d been sitting there for maybe five minutes, watching the door, hoping Tom or someone would come out and tell me what was going on, when Dr. Davenport came in from outside. She was dressed in jeans and a chambray shirt, which probably meant that this was her farm visit day. She smiled when she caught sight of me.

“Sarah, hi. What are you doing here?” she asked. Abby Davenport had been Elvis’s veterinarian from the day Sam conned me into taking the cat. I got to my feet and gave Abby a hug. “My neighbor’s dog, a corgi, had what I think was a seizure. I drove them over.”

Abby gave me a reassuring smile. “Ben’s working today. Your neighbor’s dog is in good hands. I promise.”

I reached for my purse on the chair behind me. I didn’t stop to decide whether or not what I was about to do was a good idea or not. “Abby, I may just be way too suspicious, but I think it’s possible someone may have put something toxic on Matilda’s ball. She was playing with it right before she got sick.” I pulled the nylon shopping bag out of my purse and held it out.

“This is it?” the vet asked.

I nodded.

Abby opened the bag. The sharp chemical odor on the knobby plastic ball was impossible to miss.

The veterinarian’s eyes narrowed. “May I take this?” she asked.

I nodded. “Yes.”

“I’ll see what I can find out.” Abby gave me a reassuring smile and headed for her office.

Tom came out to the waiting room about twenty minutes later. Relief had smoothed out the lines on his face. “She’s going to be okay,” he said.

I smiled at him, the good news making my legs feel wobbly for a moment.

“Dr. Kessler thinks she ate or drank something that made her sick, but he can’t say what at the moment.” Tom ran a mottled hand through his hair. “Matilda has to stay the night but she should be able to come home tomorrow.” He smiled at me. “I don’t know what we would have done if you hadn’t been there.”

“I’m so glad everything is all right,” I said, giving him a hug. The metallic chemical scent from the red ball had seemed to linger in the back of my throat, and along with it was the feeling that things weren’t going to stay all right for long.

Tom was quiet on the drive home. “It’s my fault,” he finally said.

I knew he meant what had happened to Matilda. “You said the vet didn’t know what made her sick.” I glanced over at him in the passenger seat. His expression was grave, and he was picking at one of the buttons on his yellow golf shirt. “I don’t think you did anything.”

“I let her have some of my Chinese takeout for lunch—duck with orange sauce. All that fat and MSG can’t have been good for her.”

“Don’t blame yourself for something that might not be your fault,” I said gently. I thought again about the ball I’d given to Abby Davenport. There would be lots of time to tell Tom about it once we knew if there was anything to tell.

Rose was sweeping the front steps when we got home, a make-work job, I suspected, so she could keep an eye on the street. We pulled into Tom’s driveway and Rose walked over to join us. “How’s Matilda?” she asked, concern evident in the lines around her mouth and eyes.

“She’s going to be fine,” I said, taking back the spare key that Rose held out to me. “They’re keeping her overnight just to be safe, but Tom can bring her home tomorrow.”

A smile spread across Rose’s face, and the tension in her body seemed to sink down into the ground as her body relaxed. “Oh, I’m so glad to hear that.”

“Thank you for locking up for me,” Tom said, giving her a tired smile.

“That’s was nothing,” she said. “I have bread pudding in the oven.” She glanced back at the house. “I’ll bring some over in about half an hour.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” Tom said, “but I confess I’m glad you did.” He turned to me and caught my good hand in both of his own. “Thank you so much, Sarah.”

“Anytime,” I said. Tom headed for his front door, and Rose and I started toward our place.

Rose looked back over her shoulder in the direction of Angie’s house. Her body tensed again, her shoulders hunching forward. “He did something,” she said, lowering her voice.

I knew she meant Jason. “Why do you say that?” I asked.

She folded an arm over her midsection. “He came outside right after you left. When he saw me standing at the bottom of Tom’s driveway, he walked over to me. I don’t think he realized that I already knew what was going on.” She took a breath and let it out slowly. “He said Matilda ate something and was dead.” She glanced back again before returning her eyes to meet mine again. “Why on earth would he say that unless he knew something—unless he’d done something? I think we should investigate.”

My stomach clenched. We meant The Angels, aka Charlotte’s Angels, the detective agency Rose, Liz, their friend Charlotte and Rose’s gentleman friend, Mr. P., had started after their friend Maddie Hamilton had been accused of murder. We also included me, because no matter how hard I tried to stay out of their cases, somehow I always managed to get pulled in.

“Jason has a mean streak,” I said. “But what you’re suggesting goes beyond that. The vet did some tests. I think we need to wait to see what they show before . . .” I pressed my lips together for a moment. I wanted to turn and look at Angie’s house, but some instinct told me that Jason was at the window watching us so I didn’t. “. . . before we do anything.”

Rose exhaled slowly. “All right,” she agreed.

“And it’s probably a good idea to stay away from Jason for now.”

She nodded. “I had the same thought,” she said. We’d reached the driveway. “I should go check that bread pudding.” She smiled at me. “You didn’t have any supper, dear. I put the lasagna in the fridge. It will only take a few minutes to warm that up.”

I leaned against her, resting my cheek on the top of her head. “I love you,” I said.

Rose reached up and patted my hair. “I love you, too, sweetie.”

I straightened up, and as I followed Rose up the steps to the front door, I finally glanced in the direction of Angie’s house. Jason was standing in his aunt’s driveway. I watched him look around, and when his gaze reached me, there was something smug in his expression that made my stomach hurt all over again.

I had an appointment with the hand therapist the next day. Katie offered to take Tom to pick up Matilda.

“What would I do without the two of you?” the old man said.

Katie smiled at him. “What would we do without you?”

“Did you find Molly’s ball?” Rose asked. “I checked all the flowerbeds and the front yard, but I didn’t see it.”

“Did Molly lose another ball?” Tom said.

Katie nodded. “The one with the pink and purple stripes. Now that we can’t find it, it’s suddenly become her favorite. Four-year-olds can be very stubborn.”

Tom patted her arm. “So can eighty-four-year-olds, my dear,” he said.

We all arrived back in the court at the same time. I couldn’t help smiling as Tom got out of Katie’s car and set Matilda down on the grass. The little corgi seemed like her old self. I walked over to say hello.

Molly was crouched in the grass talking to the dog.

“Say good-bye to Matilda,” Katie told her. Molly put her arms around the corgi and gave her a hug. “Gently,” her mother reminded the little girl.

“Thank you,” Tom said.

Katie smiled. “Anytime.”

I bent down to stroke the top of Matilda’s head. The little dog nuzzled my wrist. “What did the vet say?” I asked as I straightened up.

“He’s still waiting for the results of the blood tests,” Tom said, looking down at his furry companion. “But he thinks she may have eaten something toxic.” He shook his head. “I shouldn’t have given her any of that duck.”

“You don’t know it was that,” I said. It was difficult not to look over at Angie’s small white house.

My cell phone rang as I was unlocking my apartment door. It was Abby Davenport.

“Was I right about the ball?” I asked, hoping that I wasn’t, while at the same time some gut instinct told me I was.

“You were,” the vet said. “The ball was coated with an insecticide.”

I leaned against the kitchen counter. Elvis watched me from his perch at the top of his cat tower. “I was hoping I was wrong,” I said.

“It’s good that you got her here when you did,” Abby continued.

“Tom’s not the one who exposed her to the insecticide,” I blurted out. It suddenly seemed very important that the veterinarian knew that. I didn’t want Tom to be blamed for something I knew he would never do.

“I believe you,” she said. “I talked to Ben Kessler. He told me how upset Mr. Harris was.” She cleared her throat. “In theory, it could have been spilled on the dog’s ball by accident.”

“But you don’t think that’s what happened.”

“It’s a bit of a stretch.”

“Tom doesn’t use anything like that in his yard because of Matilda and because there’s a four year-old across the street.”

Abby sighed and I imagined her in her blue scrubs sitting on the edge of her desk. “We still don’t have all of the dog’s blood work back, but depending on what it shows, I may have to call the police.”

“I understand,” I said.

Abby said she’d be in touch and we said good-bye. I looked at the phone. Now I was second-guessing my decision not to involve Michelle. Unfortunately, she’d gone to visit her mother for a couple of days.

I worked late that evening, sanding a china cabinet that I was certain was in good shape under all the layers of paint on it. I got home to find a police car in the court. Tom and Jason were at the bottom of Angie’s driveway with a uniformed police officer. Tom was talking to the officer, gesturing with one hand. Jason stood there with his hands in his pockets, feet apart. There was something cocky about his stance.

When Tom noticed me, he beckoned me over. I squared my shoulders and made my way toward the men.

“Officer Sullivan, this is my neighbor, Sarah Grayson,” Tom said. He held himself stiffly and I noticed he avoided looking at Jason. Instead he fixed his gaze on me. “Sarah, will you please tell the officer about Matilda’s seizure and the ball you took to the vet.”

My surprise must have shown on my face because Tom added, “Dr. Kessler called me.”

I turned to the police officer. He looked to be just this side of forty, stocky with hair cropped close to his scalp and kind brown eyes. “Matilda is Tom’s corgi. She had a seizure yesterday. I drove them to the animal hospital. I grabbed the ball she had been playing with and took it with me. I, uh, I thought it had a funny smell.”

I could feel Jason’s eyes on me, and this time I shifted my gaze and met his full on. If he thought he could intimidate me, he was wasting his time. His expression was appropriately serious, but it seemed to me that there was a hint of a smug smile around his dark eyes.

“What did you do with the ball, Ms. Grayson?” Officer Sullivan asked.

“I gave it to one of the veterinarians at the clinic, Abby Davenport. It turned out that there was insecticide on the ball.”

“Which he put there,” Tom said.

His voice was calm and steady, which made me nervous.

“I didn’t touch your dog’s ball,” Jason said. “I’m sorry the thing was sick, but I had nothing to do with that.”

He was good. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have believed him.

“There’s a bottle of insecticide over in the garage,” Tom said, inclining his head in the direction of Angie’s house. “Molly’s ball is there, too.”

“Who’s Molly?” Officer Sullivan asked, frowning.

“The little girl across the street,” I said.

“Look,” Jason said, holding out both hands. “The truth is I have no idea what’s in the garage because this is my aunt’s house. I’m just here for a few days to help her once she gets out of the hospital.”

“Mr. Harris, how do you know what’s in your neighbor’s garage?” the policeman asked Tom.

“Because I looked. Because he tried to kill my dog.” He gestured at Jason. “Because he tried to kill Angie. He’s after her money.”

I caught Tom’s arm. He’d said too much.

Jason turned to the police officer. “Like I said, this is my aunt’s house. I don’t want to make trouble, but I don’t feel right about people being on her property without permission.” He turned and pointed to the strip of lawn between the two driveways. Several four-by-four cedar posts were stacked on the grass. “I’m about to start on a fence to give my aunt a little more privacy.”

I tightened my grip on Tom’s arm but the older man didn’t speak. He just continued to glare at Jason and shake his head.

“Mr. Harris, I understand you’re upset about your dog,” Officer Sullivan said. “I get that. I have two dogs myself. They get sick and it’s almost like your kid getting sick.”

He’d fallen for Jason’s act.

“My two, they get into everything. I have to lock up the trash cans because otherwise they’re rooting around in the garbage.”

“Matilda doesn’t eat garbage,” Tom said through clenched teeth.

“Good for her,” the officer said. “But my point is you don’t know what your dog could’ve eaten that made her sick. You’ll probably never know. But you can’t go trespassing on someone else’s property.” He indicated Jason. “Mr. Bates here is a reasonable man so we’re just going to forget about everything—this time. But I want your promise that you’ll stay off his property.”

Tom nodded slowly. His eyes never left Jason’s face. “I promise you, Officer, I will stay off Mr. Bates’s property.”

I noticed his choice of words. Mr. Bates’s property. The policeman didn’t seem to catch the distinction.

He turned to Jason. “Thank you for your patience, Mr. Bates,” he said.

Jason smiled. “No problem,” he said with a shrug.

The officer wished us a good evening and got back in his cruiser. Jason started back to the house and then turned and looked over his shoulder at us. Once again there was a cocky smile on his face.

“I’d like to wipe that smirk of that little piker’s face,” Tom said. He was still clenching his teeth and his shoulders were rigid.

“Please don’t do anything he can use against you,” I said.

Tom finally turned his attention to me. “Why didn’t you tell me about the ball?”

I let go of his arm. “I’m sorry. I should have. I was waiting to be sure that what was on the ball was what had made Matilda sick.”

“It was him, Sarah,” he said. “I know it was.”

I nodded. There was no use pretending I hadn’t been thinking the same thing. “Wait for the results of the blood tests.”

“He’s going to get rid of that bottle.”

“If you get arrested for trespassing, no one is going to believe you,” I pointed out. “They’re going to dismiss you as a crazy old man. Please just stay off Angie’s property until I can figure out what to do.”

Tom’s mouth moved but he stayed silent.

“Please,” I begged.

Finally the old man nodded.

I made my way back to my own house. Mr. P.—Alfred Peterson, Rose’s gentleman friend—was at the front door wearing Rose’s flowered apron over his brown trousers and long-sleeved navy golf shirt.

“I was coming to get you and I saw the police car go by,” he said, smoothing down the few tufts of gray hair he had left with one hand. “Is everything all right?”

I sighed. “For now.”

He patted my arm. “Rosie told me what’s been going on. Young Mr. Bates doesn’t sound like a stellar member of society.”

I rolled my eyes. “That’s because he isn’t.”

“Come have supper,” Mr. P. urged. “I made shepherd’s pie.”

“Is that what smells so good?” I asked. Elvis had already disappeared into Rose’s apartment.

“Not to be immodest, but it is one of my best recipes,” Mr. P. said with a smile.

I followed him into the apartment.

Rose was setting the table. Elvis was sitting in the doorway to the living room washing his face. “Is Tom all right?” she asked.

I nodded. Rose gestured at a chair and I took a seat while Mr. P. bustled around getting me a cup of tea. Everything Rose and her cronies did was done with copious cups of tea. I brought the two of them up to date on the police officer’s visit.

“We have to do something.” Rose set the salt and pepper shakers on the table with a bang.

“Angie should be home in a day or two,” I said.

“I’m not convinced that’s going to make any difference.” I knew that determined glint in Rose’s gaze meant trouble.

Mr. P. set a cup of tea on the table in front of me. “Thank you,” I said.

He smiled. “You’re welcome, my dear.”

I took a sip from the cup and then turned my attention to Mr. P. “You said Rose has told you what’s been going on. What do you think?”

“I think that blood is thicker than water, Sarah,” he said. “Angelica Bates is a very nice person, but that young man is family, and if she has to take sides, I think that’s the one she’ll take. Wouldn’t you?”

I glanced at Rose over by the sink. She and Alfred and the rest of their merry band were family as far as I was concerned, and when push came to shove, I always took their side.

“We’ll come up with something,” Mr. P. said, his voice warm and reassuring. “We always do.”

Rose had moved to peek into the oven. “Alf, I think this is ready,” she said. She reached for the oven mitts. One of them slipped off the counter and skidded across the floor.

Before I could get up, Elvis had moved across the floor and picked up the quilted mitt in his mouth. He made his way over to Rose.

“Thank you, Elvis,” she said, bending down to take the oven mitt from him. Then she looked at Mr. P. and smiled.

I turned to him as well, narrowing my gaze. “Did you have anything to do with that?” I asked.

“Elvis is a very smart cat,” he said, raising an eyebrow.

“Merow,” the subject of the conversation added.

“You taught him to pick things up,” I said.

Mr. P. nodded. “It took very little effort on my part. He’s extremely intelligent.”

I looked over at the cat, who looked rather pleased with himself, it seemed to me.

“Being a cat, he only does it when he feels like it, of course.”

“Of course,” I echoed.

Mr. P. got to his feet. “Are we ready to eat, Rosie?” he said.

Rose had been staring at the cat, a pensive expression on her face. She started and shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I was wool-gathering. Yes, we’re ready to eat.”

Mr. P.’s shepherd’s pie, made with a sweet potato topping and a spicy ground beef base, was delicious. As much as I enjoyed the company, I couldn’t help yawning as I sat with a cup of tea and a dish of Rose’s leftover bread pudding.

She came up behind me and put her arms around my neck. “Go home, darling girl,” she said. “It’s been a long day.”

“I’ll just load the dishwasher before I go,” I said.

“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Mr. P. said. He got to his feet and hiked the waistband of his pants up a little higher than it already was. “That’s my job.”

I knew better than to argue. Rose sent me home with a dish of fruit salad and another of the pudding. I was putting the food in the fridge when my phone rang. It was Nick.

“Hi,” he said when I answered. “I’m just checking in to see how your wrist feels.”

“Let me guess,” I said, dropping onto the couch. “You talked to your mom and she thought I looked tired.”

Nick laughed. “Busted.”

“I’m fine,” I said. “Between your mother, Liz and Rose, it’s not like I’m doing anything.”

“Good,” he said. “I think Mom still has that hammock in her garage. When I get back, I’m going to hang it in your backyard and you can go out there and just do nothing.”

“Because I’m so good at that,” I teased.

“Does Tom Harris still have that little dog?” Nick asked. “She could pull a wagon and bring you coffee and muffins from McNamara’s.”

I thought about the small corgi seizing on Tom’s lawn.

The silence went on a bit too long. “Did I say something wrong?” Nick said.

“No.” I leaned against the sofa pillows. “It’s just that Matilda—that’s the dog’s name—had a seizure a couple of days ago. She ingested some kind of insecticide.”

He exhaled loudly. “I’m sorry. People don’t seem to remember how dangerous that stuff can be.”

“No, they don’t,” I agreed. “But the good news is Matilda is okay.”

There wasn’t anything Nick could do. I had to figure out some way to deal with Jason Bates myself. Right now, I just wanted to think about something else.

“So how’s the class going?”

“Good, “Nick said. “We’ve done a couple of mock crime scenes. I got to play a guy with an ax stuck in his head.”

“Are there photos?” I asked. “Because it’s not too early to plan my Christmas card.”

“Very funny,” he said dryly.

We talked for a few more minutes and then said good night.

Leftover bread pudding and coffee would make a fine breakfast, I decided the next morning. The sun was shining, and I pulled on a T-shirt and leggings and took my mug and bowl out onto the veranda.

Jason was out bright and early working on the fence. It struck me that he was trying to goad Tom into doing something.

And just after ten thirty, it worked.

Tom came out of the house and made his way over to the younger man, putting himself between Jason and the hole he was digging in the strip of lawn. I took a deep breath and began to make my way to them. If the police were called again, Tom could end up being arrested.

“I know you took it,” I heard Tom say.

“Why the hell would I want some old watch?” Jason asked, wiping a dirty hand on the front of his jeans.

“You want it for the same reason you’re here pretending to care about Angie,” Tom retorted. “Money. You think I don’t know it was you? You were too lazy to take off your shoes so you tracked dirt and sawdust into my kitchen.”

“What’s going on?” I asked as I reached the two men.

“He took my watch,” Tom said. “My father’s railway watch. I went to the store this morning, and I guess I forgot to lock the back door. When I got back, I noticed some dirt and bits of sawdust on the kitchen floor. The watch was in my dresser upstairs. It was gone.” He turned back to Jason. “Give it back to me, or I’ll make you wish you had.”

“You’re crazy, old man,” Jason said.

Tom swung at him, but Jason had the advantage of youth. He sidestepped the punch, raised his arm and knocked Tom into the driveway.

I stepped in front of Jason. “Stop it!” I said, anger sharpening my voice. My heart was pounding in my chest. I bent down to Tom, keeping my eyes locked on Jason’s face.

“He swung at me first,” Jason snapped, pulling his cell phone from his pocket. “I’m allowed to defend myself.” He punched 911 into the phone and gave Tom a mean-spirited smile. “You’re going to jail, old man.”

Rose must have heard the commotion. She joined us, a look of determination on her face that any of her former students would have realized meant trouble was ahead.

Tom had dirt on the knees of his pants and he’d scraped the skin on his left hand. We helped him to his feet. “You useless diddy,” he shouted at the younger man.

I held on to Tom with both hands. “Don’t,” I said softly.

Jason gave us an arrogant smile. “Want to take me on, old man?” he asked. He turned his head to one side so the curve of his jaw was facing them. “C’mon, give it your best shot.” He made a come-here gesture with one hand.

Rose reached out and slapped Jason’s hand away. His eyes widened in surprise.

“Are you going to knock me down?” she asked. “That might be a little harder to explain to the police.”

Jason muttered something I didn’t catch under his breath, but I could already hear the police siren getting closer. I was betting he wouldn’t try anything now.

When the cruiser pulled up, it was the same police officer as the previous day. I saw the arrogant smile return to Jason Bates’s face when he realized that.

Tom repeated his accusation. Once again Jason was pleasant and agreeable, explaining how Tom had taken a swing at him. “Hey, you’re welcome to take a look around my aunt’s house,” he said. “I don’t have the watch.”

I wanted to swat the smirk off his face.

“Look in the garage,” Tom said to the officer. “That’s where he hid Molly’s ball. It’s probably where he’s hiding my watch.”

Rose had been studying the policeman’s face; now she smiled sweetly up at him. “How are you, Charles?” she asked.

“I’m fine, Mrs. Jackson,” the burly young man replied, returning her smile.

Rose turned to me. “Charles was one of my best students.”

The officer shifted from one foot to the other, a little uncomfortable at the praise, it seemed to me. “I don’t know about that, Mrs. Jackson,” he said.

“Nonsense.” Rose waved away his words with one hand. “You were a silver medalist in the State Math and Science Challenge.”

“And you were a great teacher.”

Rose beamed at him. “Charles, could you take a look in the garage?” Her gaze flicked to Jason for a moment. “Maybe that would calm everyone down.” She held up her cell phone. “I have Angie Bates’s number. I’m sure if we called her, she’d say yes.”

Jason looked at the policeman. “I’m not hiding anything in the garage.” There was an edge of exasperation to his voice. He threw up his hands. “Look, if it will put an end to this, yeah, go take a look.” His eyes darted to Tom. “You’re not going to find anything.”

“Let’s go then,” Officer Sullivan said.

We followed him across the grass to Angie’s garage. Jason went to pull up the door, but the policeman stopped him. “I’ll do that, Mr. Bates,” he said.

Jason shrugged. “Go ahead.” He took a step back and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Search the entire garage. Like I said, you won’t find anything.”

The officer rolled up the garage door and took a couple of steps inside. The space was tidy by anyone’s standards, with rakes and shovels hung from hooks along the left wall and floor-to-ceiling shelves across the back. He made his way to the back, giving the shelves a quick once-over.

My heart was beating so hard, I glanced down at my white T-shirt almost expecting to see it move with each thump. Rose put her hand on my arm. She didn’t seem worried at all.

The officer stopped. Something had caught his attention. “Mrs. Jackson, do you know what color the child’s missing ball was?” he asked over his shoulder.

“Pink and purple,” Rose said. “With stripes.”

He lifted a rake down from its hook, moved back to the shelves and used it to swipe at an object I couldn’t see. I heard something hit the concrete floor and then Molly’s favorite ball rolled toward us. I bent to pick it up and couldn’t resist turning to look at Jason.

“He put it there,” Jason immediately said, moving toward Tom.

“Mr. Bates, please stay where you are.” Officer Sullivan’s voice had taken on a less friendly tone. He looked around the garage, spotted the stepladder and took it to the back of the space. Since he hadn’t told Tom or Rose or me to stay where we were, I moved a few steps closer so I could see what the policeman was doing with the ladder.

He was trying to reach something stuffed on the top shelf in the corner. He managed to grab whatever it was, climbed back down and walked back to us. He was holding a small cloth bag in his hand. He undid the drawstring and pulled out a gold pocket watch.

“That’s my watch,” Tom said. “Look inside. It’s inscribed with my father’s name: Reginald Thomas Harris.”

The officer looked inside the watch. Then he looked at Jason.

“This is a setup,” Jason declared hotly. “He put it there.” He pointed at Tom.

The policeman looked at the old man leaning on his cane.

Jason followed his gaze. “Then she did,” he said, pointing at me. “Or the woman across the street.”

Tom gave a snort of derision. “Don’t be ridiculous. Sarah couldn’t climb up there. She’s been wearing that splint for the last two weeks.”

I held out my left arm so the officer could see the bulky brace.

“And if by the woman across the street, you mean Katie Burns, she’s seven months pregnant,” Rose said. “She couldn’t get up to that shelf any more than I could.”

There was something else in the little fabric bag. Officer Sullivan shook a small pill bottle into his hand. It was an over-the-counter sleep aid.

“Those are sleeping pills,” Tom said.

We all turned to look at Jason.

“This is a freakin’ setup!” He looked at the officer. “What the hell is wrong with you?” He pointed at Tom, jabbing the air with his finger. “He did this and she helped him.”

“Angie told me she felt sleepy before she fell down the stairs,” I said slowly.

Jason was becoming more agitated. He raked a hand back through his hair. I wasn’t the only one who had noticed his behavior.

“Mr. Bates, I’d like you to come down to the station with me,” Officer Sullivan said. I noticed he didn’t say “please.”

Katie had been watching from her yard. When the police cruiser drove away, she came over to join us. Tom explained what happened and she hugged him. I gave her the striped ball I’d been holding on to since it had rolled across the garage floor.

“I don’t understand,” she said. “Why did he let the police look in the garage when that’s where he was hiding everything?”

“Arrogance,” Tom replied.

“It’s been more than one person’s downfall,” Rose added.

Rose decided we needed a cake to celebrate and went home to start making one. Tom took Matilda and Molly to the park after he and I set a time to visit Amelia at the hospital that afternoon.

“Between the three of us, we can help her when she gets home,” Tom said.

•   •   •

I found Elvis perched on the veranda railing, eyeing the backyard like a king surveying his domain, when I got home at suppertime. I got the last sardine from the refrigerator for him and a piece of Rose’s celebratory cake—golden cake with strawberry filling and coconut frosting—for myself and joined him on the veranda. The cat eyed my plate, narrowing his green eyes as though he disapproved.

“Hey, I don’t criticize your dinner choices,” I said, gesturing at the half a sardine still on his plate.

I heard a noise behind me and turned to see Rose standing in the doorway. “Hello, dear,” she said. “I thought that might be you. Would you like a cup of tea?”

I licked a bit of strawberry filling from the back of my fork. “Please,” I said.

“I’ll be right there.” She disappeared inside but was back in a minute with a cup of tea for me and one for herself. She handed me the cup and then took the chair beside me.

“This cake is incredible,” I said, gesturing with my fork.

Rose smiled at me over her tea. “I’ll teach you how to make it.”

Rose had been teaching me how to cook for months. After a lot of false starts and disasters, I was finally beginning to master some things. “Okay,” I said, nodding slowly. I wasn’t sure I was ready to tackle something so elaborate, but it occurred to me that eating my mistakes could be fun.

Before I started thinking about making cakes, there was something I needed to clear up. “Rose, how did those things end up in Angie’s garage?” I asked. “That was really stupid, even for Jason.”

“Well, it was crystal clear to the police that Tom couldn’t have planted that watch on such a high shelf,” she said, “and neither could Katie or you. Or me. Who else could it have been other than Jason?”

“Elvis could climb up there,” I said slowly. “He picked up your oven mitt.”

Rose reached over and patted my cheek with one hand. “You have a very vivid imagination, my darling girl,” she said.

I looked at the cat again. He licked a bit of fish oil from his plate and then licked his whiskers. I shook my head. No. Elvis was a very smart cat, but thinking he’d been coached to put Tom’s watch and that bottle of pills up on the shelf in Angie’s garage . . . it was a ridiculously far-fetched idea, I realized.

“I almost forgot,” Rose said. “Charles called. Jason finally admitted to drugging Angie with sleeping medication in exchange for not being charged for the thefts. He claims he never meant for her to get hurt. He just wanted her to fall asleep so he could swipe some of her jewelry.” She eyed my plate. “Is that your supper?”

“Not . . . exactly,” I said.

“How about some chicken fried rice and an eggroll?” She reached over and confiscated my plate and napkin. Then she got to her feet and started for the back door, not waiting for an answer. Elvis jumped down and headed off with her.

As Rose reached for the doorknob, the crumpled paper napkin slid off the plate onto the wide deck boards. Elvis immediately turned, picked it up in his mouth and padded back to her. Rose leaned down and Elvis dropped the napkin in her hand.

“Thank you,” she said, stroking his fur before straightening up.

I watched them disappear through the screen door, Rose talking to the cat, Elvis making little murps as though he was taking part in the conversation, and in the back of my mind the thought began to slowly spin that maybe my idea wasn’t so far-fetched after all.

Sofie Kelly is a New York Times bestselling author and mixed-media artist who lives on the East Coast with her husband and daughter. She writes the New York Times bestselling Magical Cats Mysteries (Faux Paw, A Midwinter’s Tail) and, as Sofie Ryan, writes the New York Times bestselling Second Chance Cat Mysteries (A Whisker of Trouble, Buy a Whisker).

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Райан Софи, et al Two Tall Tails