Софи Келли - A Midwinter's Tail

“Maybe you’re right,” Abigail said. “If we’re eliminating the impossible, we can’t exactly eliminate that.”

I rubbed the space between my eyes, then glanced at my watch. “We’d better get downstairs. It’s almost time to open. People are going to be here soon.”

“I’ll go turn the lights on,” Abigail said, rinsing her mug and setting it in the sink. She looked back over her shoulder at me. “Things will work out, Kathleen. It was just a horrible accident. And we’ll find a way to get the money we need.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I said, handing her my own mug. “I’ll just get my keys and I’ll be right down.”

I headed for my office. Maybe the medical examiner’s investigator would be able to figure out why Dana had had the allergic reaction that killed her. Maybe I’d been involved in one too many of Marcus’s cases and now I was seeing something suspicious that wasn’t even there. Maybe the whole thing was just a set of sad coincidences—improbable, maybe, but not impossible.

I grabbed my keys from my desk drawer and headed for the stairs, trying to shake the thought that while it wasn’t impossible that last night had just been a mistake—a very tragic mistake—it wasn’t impossible that it hadn’t been, either.

* * *

Vincent Starr’s talk was a huge success. Quite a few people had come from Minneapolis for the lecture, but there were a lot more people from Mayville Heights than I’d expected. Ruby was in the front row along with Nic Sutton, Ella King and Georgia Tepper. Georgia had made her way over to me as soon as she came in through the front doors.

I walked over to intercept her. “I’m sorry about last night, Georgia,” I said. “You put in so much work and the cupcakes were delicious.”

She shrugged and gave me a half smile. “They were only cupcakes, Kathleen. And I wanted you to know that Eric and I packed up all the leftover food and dropped it off at the Boys and Girls Club. They have a big freezer and pretty much everything can be frozen. They can use it all. They do a hot lunch program over the Christmas break.”

“Thank you for doing that,” I said. “I feel a lot better knowing the food wasn’t wasted.”

She looked back over her shoulder to where Susan was standing, talking to a group of women by the checkout desk. “It wasn’t my idea,” she said. “It was Susan’s. I kind of had a feeling she wouldn’t tell you.”

“I’ll thank Susan for the idea. And thank you again for making it happen.”

I was surprised to see Lita and Brady sitting together at the end of a row as Abigail and I added another group of chairs at the back of the room. Even from a distance I could see the dark circles under Lita’s eyes that makeup hadn’t really been able to hide. Brady’s face was unreadable. I wondered what they were doing at the lecture. I didn’t know either one of them was interested in rare books. Lita liked romance novels and shared Maggie’s affection for Clint Eastwood’s movies. Brady read a lot of science fiction. It was Susan’s favorite genre too. Early in the week they’d had a spirited discussion about the merits of John Wyndham versus Ursula K. Le Guin.

Less than five minutes before Vincent got started, I turned around to see Olivia Ramsey slip into the last empty chair.

Abigail followed my gaze. “That’s a surprise,” she said softly.

“Yes, it is,” I agreed.

Vincent’s talk was on what he called the Golden Age of Children’s Literature: the late nineteenth and early twentieth century. When the lecture was over Olivia got up and made her way over to me. She was a little pale, but other than that she looked all right. Her blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she was wearing a heavy caramel-colored sweater.

“Kathleen, I wanted to say thank you,” she said. “They told me at the hospital that you found my autoinjector in my purse. If you hadn’t . . .” She shook her head and didn’t finish the sentence.

“I’m just glad you’re all right,” I said. “You are okay, aren’t you?”

She nodded, taking in a deep breath and letting it out. “Yes, I am. I’m allergic to cashew nuts. That can trigger a lesser reaction to something like pistachios, and that’s what the doctors think happened.” She pushed up the sleeve of her nubby sweater. There was a silver-colored medic alert bracelet on her right wrist. “I should be wearing this all the time. I will be wearing it all the time now. I thought it didn’t look very fashionable, which was stupid on my part.”

“I think that’s a very good idea,” I said.

She swallowed a couple of times. “I’m so sorry the other woman . . . didn’t make it. I don’t know what happened, but I swear there were no nuts in those chocolates.” She was carrying her quilted jacket over one arm and she played with the zipper pull. “I, uh, understand totally if you don’t want my help, but if you decide to do another fundraiser, I’d like to help.”

“Thank you,” I said, smiling so she’d know I meant what I was saying. “I don’t know what we’re going to do yet, but I appreciate all the work you did. And please take it easy. You just got out of the hospital.”

Olivia gave me a tentative smile in return. “I will. I can’t use my kitchen right now anyway. The police and some people from the state medical examiner’s office are there.”

My surprise must have shown on my face.

“I want everyone to know my chocolates weren’t the reason that woman died last night. It wasn’t my fault.” She looked over her shoulder. “I see someone I need to talk to. Again, if I can help with another fundraiser, call me.”

I nodded and watched her walk over to Georgia, who was part of a small group of people talking to Vincent Starr, and touch her on the shoulder.

The police and the medical examiner’s office were already checking out Olivia’s kitchen? I could see Marcus’s hand in that. Had Olivia been negligent in some way that could be considered a crime? I really hoped not.

Vincent answered questions for close to twenty minutes. He looked at the box of old readers from the community center and told us they were probably worth a couple of thousand dollars, which would help with their roof repairs. Then Abigail and I took him to lunch at Eric’s. Over bowls of Eric’s pea soup with ham and carrots, we talked about the morning’s lecture. Or rather Vincent talked and Abigail and I listened. He was enthusiastic over a couple of potential finds. It seemed that Ella King might have a first edition of Live and Let Die , by Ian Fleming.

“I haven’t seen a decent copy of that book in years,” Vincent said, gesturing with half a slice of Eric’s sourdough bread.

It turned out that Lita had a box of books from Wisteria Hill that Vincent was equally eager to check out. “I’m hoping there’s a copy of The Birds of America in that collection,” he said, beaming across the table at us.

I’d been worried that Dayna Chapman’s death would leave Vincent with a negative impression of Mayville Heights. Clearly that hadn’t happened. I was relieved and at the same time I felt a little sad. No one really seemed to be grieving for the woman. I remembered Brady, quietly saying he didn’t need to go to the hospital. It seemed that his mother had burned a lot of bridges.

I paid for lunch, although Vincent gallantly tried to pick up the tab.

“Thank you for inviting me to town, Kathleen,” he said as we stood outside on the sidewalk, buried in our heavy overcoats, our breath hanging in the frigid air.

He turned to Abigail. “And thank you for all the work you did putting it all together.”

“You’re very welcome,” I said. “We appreciate your coming. We had a bigger turnout than even I expected.”