Софи Келли: Final Catcall

“Thank you for my chair,” I said, watching a seagull floating on the surface dip his head below the water. “You did a beautiful job.”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw a small smile on his face. “You’re welcome. Thank you for the cupcakes. I was the most popular person in the building for a while.”

I’d sent a dozen chocolate peanut butter cupcakes over to the police station as a thank-you for the chair. And maybe as a small please-forgive-me.

“I like Hannah,” I said, tipping my head back to look up at him.

“Everyone does.”

“Why does she use Walker instead of Gordon?”

“Walker was our grandmother’s name. She and Hannah were close.” He hesitated. “I should have told you more about her.”

I looked away and then back at him before I spoke. “I wish you’d told me something. You said you had a sister, but I only know her name because she came into the library today. You mentioned your father, but I don’t know if he’s alive or dead. Or your mother.” I cleared my throat. “Last night you said I didn’t trust you, but now I realize I don’t know anything about you. Are you sure you trust me?”

I could feel his body tense.

He swiped a hand over the back of his neck. “My mother and father are both alive and well.”

I waited for him to say something about them. “My father’s a Supreme Court justice,” or “He grows organic soybeans on a commune in Oregon and my mother is a circus contortionist.” But he didn’t offer anything else.

My chest felt heavy, as though an elephant had decided to use it as a footstool. “Marcus, I’m sorry about last night,” I said. I held up my hand before he could say anything. “I’m sorry that what I did made you feel like I didn’t have faith in you, or trust you. I think you’re a very good police officer. And a good person.” I took a breath and let it out. “I like you. And I think you like me, but we seem to be at an impasse.”

For a long moment he just stared out over the water. I waited until he looked at me. “Can we be friends?” he asked.

I didn’t want to be friends with Marcus. I wanted to be . . . something else. I wasn’t exactly sure what the something else was, or maybe I just didn’t want to admit it to myself. But right now, maybe friends was all we could manage.

“I hope so,” I said. The sun was shining and what few clouds there were seemed to be floating in the sky, but all of a sudden I felt cold. “I need to get back to work,” I said. “I’ll . . . see you.”

I went back along the path and some small part of me hoped that he’d come after me or at least call my name, but he didn’t.

Susan returned from lunch at the food-tasting tents just before one thirty, smelling like caramel, with a dab of whipped cream on her nose and another on her ear.

“I don’t even want to know how you got whipped cream on your ear,” I said, as Abigail came through the front door, talking on her cell phone and carrying what looked like a canvas army satchel, bulging with papers.

“That would be Eric,” Susan said with a grin. She swiped at her ear and licked the bit of cream off her finger. “He was getting pudding cake ready to serve, but he got a little sidetracked.” She wiggled her eyebrows at me.

“Way, way more information than I needed,” I said, holding up my good hand.

That just made her laugh. Then she cocked her head to one side and peered at me over the top of her cat-eye glasses. “Speaking of information, I’m going to need way, way more about Andrew.” She did the eyebrow thing again and started for the stairs.

“Kathleen, I’m sorry I’m late,” Abigail said as she tucked her phone in her pocket. She set her bag on the circulation desk.

“You’re not late.” I glanced at the clock. “How are things going with the festival?”

She shook her head. “Kathleen, are you familiar with the play Yesterday’s Children ?”

“Uh-huh.”

“So you know some people think it’s . . . cursed, or jinxed?”

“I know,” I said. “The theater burned down on the day before the very first production. A lighting tech broke his leg and I think one of the actors was in a car accident.”

“ Yesterday’s Children was originally on the schedule for the festival.”

I nodded. “Doesn’t surprise me. Ben’s not that superstitious, as far as I know.”

Abigail shifted her bag on the counter, tucking a couple of loose papers inside. “There was some kind of problem with the rights and the play was dropped, but . . .” She let the end of the sentence trail off.

I gave her a wry smile. “Let me guess. People are saying the fire in Red Wing was because of the so-called jinx.”

“Exactly. Some of the actors are a little skittish. And it doesn’t help that this would have been the fourth year for the festival in Red Wing. Several of the tech people and a couple of the actors have done the festival before. People on the festival committee in Red Wing know them. I don’t know a single person involved and neither does anyone else here. It makes it that much harder for all of us.” She glanced quickly at her watch. “Has Ben Saroyan been in yet?”

I nodded. “I know Ben. He’s worked with my mother. You’ll find him easy to get along with. He seems to think the gazebo will work fine, and I think there are enough chairs here so you won’t have to bring any down from the Stratton. And I got the okay from Everett, by the way.”

“Thank you, Kathleen. You’re a godsend,” Abigail said. “I suppose Hugh wasn’t happy with the gazebo.”

“He doesn’t seem that enthusiastic about having performances outside.”

Her fingers played with the strap of the canvas satchel. “He’s still a control freak, I’ve discovered.”

“Is there anything else I can do?” I said.

She shook her head. “The biggest problem I have at the moment is that Young Harry took Elizabeth home to her other family. He won’t be back until next weekend.”

Elizabeth was the daughter of my friend Harry Taylor Senior. She was the result of a relationship he’d had when his wife was dying. They’d just found each other in the past few months.

“Why is that a problem? Oren’s around, isn’t he?” I glanced over at the wooden sunburst that Oren Kenyon had built, hanging above the library doors. It was a tribute to the library’s history as a Carnegie library.

Abigail put a hand on top of her bulging bag. “He is, but I also have a long list of things I need him to do. I don’t suppose you know how to build a small octagonal stage, do you?”

“Sorry. It’s not one of my skills.”

“It’s one of mine,” a voice behind me said. I hadn’t seen Andrew come in and walk over to us. He looked at Abigail. “Seriously, I can do it. I’m a building contractor.”

She gave him a long, appraising look. “An octagonal stage? Eight sides? You could build it?”

He shrugged. “A stage is easy. I could build an octagonal house if you wanted one.”

“By the end of the week?”

“The stage, sure; the house, probably not.” He looked at me and made a gesture toward Abigail with one hand. “Tell her.”

“I’ve never seen this man before in my life,” I said solemnly.

Andrew glared at me with mock annoyance. “Very funny, Kath.”

I grinned at him and turned to Abigail. “He could build pretty much any shape stage you wanted. He could build one in the shape of a nonagon if that’s what you wanted and do it almost as well as Harry.”

“Hang on.” Andrew held up one hand. “What the heck is a nonagon?”

“A nine-sided polygon,” Abigail and I said at the same time. We looked at each other and laughed.

Andrew rolled his eyes. “Great. I have Encyclopedia Brown times two.” He turned to Abigail. “So do I have the job?”