Софи Келли - A Night's Tail

Larry nodded. “He played college ball but he couldn’t cut it in the NFL. He wasn’t really big enough. So he went to Canada and played there for a few years. Offensive lineman.”

“Offensive hu man from what I saw,” Peggy said drily.

Georgia’s hand was still trembling. She stuffed it in the pocket of her jacket. Given her past experiences, including her connection to the death of businessman Mike Glazer, it was no wonder she was shaky.

It wasn’t the only reason confrontations made her uneasy. Georgia had changed her name when she’d come to Mayville Heights. Before that she had been Paige Wyler. Her in-laws hadn’t liked her from the moment she’d married their son. He’d died when their daughter, Emmy, was only six months old. His parents had tried to get custody of the baby. When that didn’t work they’d tried to kidnap her, which led to an assault charge being filed—against Georgia—for threatening her former mother-in-law with a chef’s knife.

Georgia had spent three years on the run with Emmy, always looking over her shoulder. Marcus had put her together with a good lawyer, who had gotten a permanent restraining order against the Wylers, and slowly Georgia had begun to relax, at least a little.

“Maybe a cup of tea would be good,” I said to Peggy.

“I’m going to get back to my lunch,” Larry said, gesturing over his shoulder in the general direction of his table. He smiled at Georgia. “Would you let me walk you to your car when you leave? Please? For my own peace of mind?”

She nodded. “Yes. Thank you.”

Larry went back to his table. I thought about how much he was like his father.

“I’m overreacting,” Georgia said, sitting down on one of the vinyl-covered stools at the counter and pulling off her mittens. “Those kinds of encounters make me anxious.”

“You’re not overreacting and I think you handled things very well,” I said, slipping onto the stool next to her. “I don’t think I would have thought of stepping on his foot like that.”

That got me a much bigger smile. “I saw that on The Bachelorette . Bianca stomped on Jarrod’s foot when he stuck his tongue in her mouth.” Color warmed the tops of her cheeks. “I watch it sometimes when I’m in the kitchen getting boxes ready for the cupcakes.”

I leaned toward her. “Hercules and I watch the show while we fold laundry. Well, I do the folding. It’s kind of tricky with paws.” That made her smile.

Peggy came back with a cup of tea for Georgia and one for me as well. She gestured at the box of cupcakes. “You didn’t have to bring these over today.”

“No, it’s okay,” Georgia said. “I wanted you to have enough while I’m gone.” She looked at me. “I’m going to Minneapolis for a few days to take a course. I’ll be leaving tomorrow morning. I’m hoping to move into making cakes for special occasions, so I need to up my decorating skills.” She turned her head toward the parking lot. “Maybe when I get back Mr. Wallace will be gone.”

Peggy glanced over at the door again. “Lewis Wallace is a crass pig of a man. I don’t think the town should be doing business with him and I intend to say so at the next town meeting.” She straightened her rhinestone-tipped cat’s-eye glasses. “The sooner that man is gone, the better.”

I added a silent “amen” to that.

chapter 3

Hercules was sitting on the front steps when I got home. He watched as I got out of the truck and locked the driver’s-side door.

“Let’s go,” I said, inclining my head in the direction of the backyard.

His response was to hold up one foot and shake it. I knew that was cat for “Carry me . ”

Hercules despised getting his feet wet. In fact, his dislike of having wet paws had led to him briefly being the not-so-proud owner of a pair of boots courtesy of Maggie. To be specific, black-and-white boots that matched his black-and-white fur, in a paw-print design complete with a soft fleece lining and an anti-slip sole. Maggie’s heart had been in the right place but boots just weren’t the right fashion choice for Hercules and he’d happily surrendered them to a cat in need at Roma’s veterinarian clinic.

Harrison Taylor’s other son, Harry, aka Young Harry or Harry Junior, had cleared the driveway and the walkway to the back door after the last storm. There were a few patches of half-melted snow on the path. There were also dry, bare spots, too. Hercules gave a pathetic meow, his left front paw still hanging in the air.

I blew out a breath, shifted my messenger bag to my left shoulder and scooped up the cat. “You are so spoiled,” I told him. “Your character has been weakened.”

“Mrrr,” he said as he licked my chin. He didn’t seem the slightest bit troubled by the idea.

We headed around the house to the back door. I set Hercules down on the steps, which were bare and dry, so I could fish my keys out of my pocket. He looked across the backyard toward Rebecca’s house, narrowed his green eyes and began to make muttering noises. I knew what that was about.

“Everett will be back in a couple of days,” I said as I opened the door. “You can go back to mooching bacon then.”

My little house actually belonged to Everett Henderson. Living in it was a perk of taking the library job.

Back when I had first moved in, Everett and Rebecca weren’t married. They weren’t even seeing each other. They’d spent most of their lives loving each other but apart. The cats and I had played a very, very small role in getting them back together and for Everett that was a debt that could never be completely repaid.

After they were married Everett had moved into Rebecca’s house and sold Wisteria Hill, his family home, to Roma. His “friendship” with Hercules had started with the two of them reading the newspaper over coffee (and bacon) in the backyard gazebo through the spring and summer. It was helped by the fact that Hercules looked just like Everett’s late mother’s cat, Finn. And it seemed Hercules—like Everett—had some strong opinions on town government.

Things had progressed to breakfast in the house on Tuesdays and Fridays during the colder months when Everett was in town—which he hadn’t been for the past several days. I had no idea how the cat knew what day of the week it was, but he definitely did. For all I knew Hercules was looking at the calendar. Given everything else he was capable of, it wasn’t exactly impossible.

I followed him into the kitchen, happy that he’d stopped and waited for me to open the door. He stretched and headed for his water dish. There was no sign of Owen. Or of Ethan, for that matter. They were both equally capable of getting into trouble and I had about as much control over the cat as I did over my baby brother.

“I’m home,” I called. Usually that got me an answering meow at least, but there was nothing but silence. Had Owen gone out when Ethan left to meet me for lunch?

I kicked off my boots and was hanging up my jacket when I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. The basement door, which had been open just a crack, swung open a little wider and Owen poked his head into the room. There were bits of catnip on his whiskers and a piece of yellow fluff dangling from one ear. And his eyes didn’t quite focus. I knew if I went down to the basement I’d find the remains of a Fred the Funky Chicken, yet another in a long line of yellow catnip chickens that Owen had decapitated.

Hercules looked at his brother, exhaled through his nose in a way that sounded like a small exclamation of disgust and exited through the kitchen door—literally this time—into the porch.

I crouched down next to Owen and brushed the flakes of catnip off of his whiskers and fur. “You have a monkey—no, scratch that—a chicken on your back,” I said to him as I collared the bit of yellow fluff. He put one paw on my knee, gave my chin an awkward butt with his head and then very noisily got a drink before weaving his way out of the room.