Софи Келли - Cat Trick

Susan shook her head. “We have a ninth-grade English class coming for a tour at nine thirty. You have five minutes to eat as many muffins as you can, and then it’s time to get this show on the road.”

It turned out I could eat three of the tiny muffins in five minutes. Then Susan and I went downstairs to open the building for the day.

It was a busy morning. It seemed like half of Mayville Heights had run out of reading and viewing material, and the ninth-grade class had dozens of questions about the reference section. I was glad I’d asked Abigail to come in early. Things finally eased off about twelve thirty.

I found Abigail still in the reference section, reshelving some books. “You were great with that class,” I said. “Thank you.”

She smiled. “It was fun. They asked some great questions.”

I smiled back at her. “They were trying to stump you.”

“I know.” Her hair, red-gold shot with streaks of silver, was in its usual braid, and she flipped it over her shoulder. “That’s exactly the kind of thing I used to do when I was that age, so I can pretty much guess what the questions will be.”

“Susan told me you’re trying to teach her how to crochet.”

Abigail laughed. “You’ve heard the expression ‘all thumbs’?” she asked.

“I have,” I said, reaching down to line up the spines of three dictionaries on a lower shelf.

“If we could get to that point, I’d be happy.”

“She showed me the scarf,” I said.

Abigail shook her head. “I have no idea what the problem is. She’s working at it and I’m watching every stitch. I glance away for a second or two, and it goes from a scarf to something that looks like Medusa’s head.” She brushed lint off the front of her sweater. “That doesn’t mean I’m giving up, though.”

“I didn’t think you would,” I said. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a woman coming toward us.

Abigail caught sight of her and smiled. “I’m glad you’re here,” she said to me. “I want you to meet my friend Georgia.”

Georgia Tepper was about my height, with jet-black hair cut shorter than Maggie’s. She had long, strong fingers, I noticed as Abigail introduced us and we shook hands.

“Georgia is one of the vendors for the food tasting,” Abigail said.

“You’re Sweet Things,” I said, realizing I’d heard Maggie mention her name—and rave about the maple cream cupcakes she’d made for the reception after the final concert of the Wild Rose Summer Music Festival. I’d been in Boston and missed the festival.

Georgia smiled. “Yes, I am.”

Abigail nudged me with her shoulder. “And she’s doing some of the baking at Fern’s, too.” Fern’s was the fifties diner where I’d had breakfast with Burtis Chapman. “You’ll love her devil’s food cupcakes.” She knew about my penchant for anything chocolate. “With dark-chocolate frosting and bittersweet shavings,” she added with a sly grin.

“You’ll be my first stop,” I promised Georgia.

“Wait a minute,” Abigail said. “Does that mean the food tasting is still on?”

Georgia and I both nodded.

“That’s great,” Abigail said. Her gaze shifted to Georgia. “So you’re not dropping out?”

“No, I’m not,” she said. She flushed and gave me an embarrassed look. “I was thinking about not doing the tasting, but I’m a new business and this is a great opportunity for me.”

“And now that Mike Glazer is . . . well, gone, things should run a little more smoothly,” Abigail said. She shrugged her shoulders and looked from Georgia to me. “I mean no disrespect, but from what I heard, he was making everything—the food tasting and the art show—difficult.”

“I know,” I said, nodding slowly. “I heard that he was . . . challenging to work with.”

Georgia’s cheeks got pinker. “Mr. Glazer had some very strong ideas about how things should be done. He said that chocolate was so last year. He wanted me to make something trendy like peanut butter jalapeño cupcakes.”

Abigail made a face. “Peanut butter and jalapeño cupcakes. For that fiery sensation that sticks to the roof of your mouth? I don’t think so. Trendy isn’t what people are looking for when they come here.”

“What are people looking for when they come to Mayville Heights?” I asked.

“Clean air, gorgeous scenery and charming eccentrics like me,” she retorted. Her stomach growled before I could answer. “And good food,” she added, patting her middle.

“Go have lunch,” I said. “Everything’s under control here.” I smiled at Georgia. “I’m glad we met.”

“Me too,” she said. “I’ll see you at the tasting. I’ll save you a chocolate cupcake.”

I headed for the checkout desk, where Susan was answering the phone.

Mary was just coming in. “Hi,” she said, walking over to me. “You can go for lunch anytime.”

“Thanks,” I said. “How was your morning?”

She set her quilted bag on the counter. “Very good. Burtis made some adjustments to the tents, and we have more than half the stalls set up in the second one.” She laced her fingers together on top of the bag. “Go have some lunch, Kathleen,” she said. “Susan and I have things under control.”

Susan leaned over, resting her head against Mary’s arm, and they gave me the same kind of faux-innocent look that Owen and Hercules sometimes used. It didn’t fill me with any more confidence than I had when the cats did it.

“That’s what scares me just a little,” I said, holding up my right thumb and forefinger about an inch apart.

They both smirked at me.

“I’m going upstairs to get my purse and my sweater,” I said. “I’ll be at Maggie’s studio if you need me.” I started for the stairs. “Don’t do anything outlandish to my library while I’m gone,” I warned. I was only half joking.

“Would we do that?” Mary asked. I knew she was pretending to talk to Susan even though she’d raised her voice a little so I’d hear her.

“Yes,” I answered, not bothering to turn around.

“Well, not on purpose,” Susan called after me.

I let that one go.

The sun was shining and there were just a few fluffy clouds, looking like puffs of cotton, floating in the blue sky overhead. I walked over to River Arts, glad to have the time to stretch my legs. Maggie was waiting for me at the back door. “Hi,” she said. “Roma called. She can’t make it. She has to do emergency surgery on a golden retriever. But she did get the keys to Wisteria Hill.”

“That’s good,” I said. “I’m so glad the place isn’t going to be turned into a subdivision.”

Maggie nodded. “Me too. So how was your morning?”

“Busy,” I said. “I think half of Mayville Heights was looking for something to read.”

“Good,” she said as we headed up the stairs to her top-floor studio. “That means the user numbers will be up, and Everett and the board will be so impressed, they’ll offer you whatever you want to sign a new contract and stay.”

Maggie was waging an unapologetic campaign to convince me to stay in Mayville Heights. Truth be told, it made me feel good that she cared so much.

“How was your morning?” I asked.

“Also busy,” she said, glancing back over her shoulder at me. “You must have heard by now everything’s a go.”

“I did.”

“Liam had to change the date to a week from this coming Monday instead of Sunday, but otherwise we’re still on schedule.”

“So Liam saved the day.”

“He really did,” she said.

We came out into the top hallway and started down to Maggie’s studio.

“And will he be appropriately rewarded?” I asked.

Maggie rolled her eyes at me. “Maybe by the town council, but not by me. I told you, there’s nothing serious between us. We’re mostly just friends.”