Софи Келли - Final Catcall

Owen nudged my hand with his head because I’d stopped scratching behind his left ear.

“She said ‘still.’”

He looked at me blankly.

“Abigail said Hugh was ‘still a control freak.’ Still . But how could she know that? How on earth could she know something like that?”

Owen looked at me. Thoughtfully, it seemed to me.

“They knew each other,” I said slowly, as pieces clicked together in a way I didn’t like. A knot tightened in my stomach. “Abigail and Hugh knew each other. So why did she say she didn’t know anyone involved with the festival?”

The cat didn’t have an answer to that question, either.

“It has to be a coincidence,” I told the small gray cat. “I know Abigail. She didn’t have anything to do with Hugh’s death.” The knot twisted in my stomach.

Up to now I would have said that Abigail wouldn’t lie, either. But it looked as if she had. Why? Why would she have lied about knowing Hugh? It didn’t make any sense.

Owen sat up, yawned, and then looked pointedly at the refrigerator again. I knew he wasn’t hinting for a treat.

“No, I’m not calling Marcus,” I said.

A look passed between the boys and then Hercules meowed softly. Why?

“Because Marcus is a good police officer. If— if there was some kind of connection between Abigail and Hugh Davis, he’ll find it.” I got up and carried my dishes over to the sink. “I’m staying out of this—I’m staying out of all of Marcus’s cases.”

I looked over my shoulder to find two furry faces cocked to one side and two sets of unblinking eyes staring at me. “I’m serious,” I said, feeling a little silly explaining myself to a couple of cat skeptics.

Neither cat moved. How could they go so long without blinking? No wonder they won every staring contest I was foolish enough to get involved in with them.

“Will you two please look somewhere else?” I said. After a moment, Hercules dropped his head and studied the speckled pattern on the kitchen floor. Owen yawned again and stretched his neck up to stare at the ceiling.

“Thank you,” I said, turning back to the sink and putting the plug in the drain so I could wash the dishes by hand—the other way, aside from talking to the cats, that I worked things out in my head.

I knew the two of them didn’t believe I would really stay out of Marcus’s case. But I would, I told myself as the sink filled with hot water and bubbles. I ignored the little voice in the back of my head that was asking who was I trying to convince. Owen and Hercules?

Or myself?

7

Abigail came into the library just after we opened in the morning. There were dark circles, like smudges of charcoal, under her eyes, and her usually smiling face was serious. Ben was with her.

“Kathleen, do you have a couple of minutes?” she asked.

“Of course,” I said. I gave Ben a small smile. “Hi.”

“You know about Hugh Davis, don’t you?” Abigail said, pushing the strap of her messenger bag up on her shoulder.

I nodded. “Yes, I do.”

Three women came in the front door and made a beeline for the cookbook section. They were followed by a teenage girl, her platinum and black hair sticking up all over her head, carrying a pile of books stacked so high she could rest her chin on top—and did—yawning as she carried them to the desk.

“Come up to my office. It’s a little quieter there,” I said, gesturing toward the stairs.

Ben and Abigail took the two chairs in front of my desk, while I leaned back against it. “I’m sorry about Hugh,” I said. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Yes,” Ben said. He was sitting on the edge of his seat, elbows propped on his knees. “Call Thea and ask her to come fill in for Hugh.”

“Please,” Abigail added.

I ran one hand along the edge of the dark wood of the desk. “Like I told you, Mom’s in Los Angeles, doing Wild and Wonderful .”

Ben leaned forward. “We got lucky. I talked to a friend out there. The show’s going to be dark for the next ten days—some kind of renovations to the studio. She’ll come if you ask her.”

He was right. I just wasn’t sure if I wanted to ask.

I loved my family. When I’d gone home to visit during the summer I’d realized just how much I missed them. All four of them—Mom, Dad, Sara, and Ethan—were exuberant and melodramatic and sometimes it felt as though they sucked all the air out of the room. Mayville Heights was the first place I’d ever lived where I was Kathleen first, not Ethan’s big sister or Thea’s daughter.

My mother was a force of nature. No one ever forgot her. I had a mental picture of her holding court at Eric’s, teaching a stunt-fighting class on the Riverwalk or, heaven forbid, getting onstage with Mary for amateur night at the Brick, strutting her stuff in a feathered corset to Bon Jovi or Beyoncé. She was capable of doing all that and then some.

On the other hand, she was a good director and an even better actor, and if she came, the festival could continue.

And I missed her.

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Abigail looked tired, the expression in her eyes almost pleading. Whatever relationship she’d had before the festival with Hugh Davis was none of my business. I’d learned how to size people up from my mother. And I knew Abigail. She hadn’t had anything to do with Hugh’s death. Mayville Heights was my home now. I wanted the New Horizons festival to be successful as much as anyone else in town did.

“Yes,” I said. “I’ll ask her.”

Abigail closed her eyes for a second and I saw some of the tension ease in her shoulders.

Ben’s face relaxed into a smile. His eyes darted to the phone. “Why don’t you call her right now?” he said.

I laughed. “It’s quarter after seven in Los Angeles, Ben.”

My dad insisted Mom had been a raccoon in a past life. She liked shiny things and roaming around at night. She didn’t like mornings. When she had to be up early, she did it with more of her usual dramatic flare.

Ben leaned back in the chair. “She’s probably had a lot earlier wake-up call for the past couple of weeks.”

“And it’s Saturday. I promise I’ll call her after lunch, but unless you want to hear ‘menj el à máj’ growled at you, you won’t call her now.”

“Menj el what?” Ben said.

“Menj el à máj,” I said. “It loosely translates to ‘go away or I’ll eat your liver.’ It’s Hungarian. I think.”

“Your mother speaks Hungarian?” Abigail asked, reaching for her bag.

“Let’s just say my mom knows a lot of ‘colorful’ expressions in a lot of different languages.”

“I think I’m going to like her,” she said, pulling a dark green folder out of the canvas satchel.

I nodded. “Yes, you are.”

I really wanted her to come, I realized. My mother wasn’t the conventional bake-cookies/remind-you-to-wear-clean-underwear kind of mom. The only things she could make with any degree of success were baking powder biscuits, lemonade and toast. And the toast was iffy. And the only advice she’d ever given me pertaining to underwear was to tell me not to get my knickers in a knot over something. But she loved Ethan and Sara and me with the fierceness of a mama grizzly bear, and I could use a little of that right now.

Abigail handed me the green folder and stood up. “That’s the tentative schedule for the next week. As soon as she says yes, I’ll arrange the plane tickets and everything else.”

“I’ll call you as soon as I talk to her,” I said.

She threw her arms around me, whispering, “I owe you” in my ear.

Ben got to his feet, patted his pockets and pulled out a pen. He took the green folder from me and scrawled a phone number across its front. “That’s my cell. Tell Thea she can call me when it’s good for her.” He squeezed my arm. “And thank you.”