Софи Келли - A Midwinter's Tail

“It feels like some kind of Victorian melodrama,” I said. “I can’t shake the feeling this is all connected to that pawnshop robbery.”

“I can’t make a case on feelings.”

I pushed my plate away. “I know,” I said. “But you have to admit it’s odd that Dayna stopped cooperating with the prosecutor’s office, she dropped out of sight and the next thing she shows up here—somewhere she hasn’t been in more than twenty years.”

“It does seem a little too convenient to be a coincidence,” he said. He got up and cleared the plates from the table. “Banana bread and coffee?” he asked, reaching for the kettle.

“You made banana bread?” I said.

He shook his head. “No. I bought banana bread. It’s from Fern’s. Georgia Tepper made it.”

I shifted in my chair. “That means you went to Fern’s to talk to Burtis and yes, thank you, I’ll have a slice.”

He laughed. “Okay, yes, I went to talk to Burtis over at Fern’s. Not exactly on the record, but not exactly off it, either.”

I rolled up my sleeve so the turnip stain didn’t show. “Marcus, do you honestly think Burtis killed his ex-wife?” I patted my chest. “In here, and in your gut.”

“I don’t do gut feelings,” he said, leaning against the counter and folding his arms over his midsection. “I need facts. I need evidence.”

“You also have instincts,” I countered. “What do they tell you?”

I looked at him without speaking.

Finally, he raked a hand back through his hair and gave me a wry smile. “Okay. My instincts tell me that Burtis didn’t kill his ex-wife.”

“So, does the evidence point to anybody else?”

“We’re still investigating,” he said. “We don’t have all the evidence.”

He was just a second too slow in answering.

“Who?” I asked.

“C’mon, Kathleen,” he said, reaching for a knife to slice the banana bread. “You know I can’t tell you that.”

I thought about everything I’d learned so far about Dayna Chapman’s death. I had a sinking feeling in my stomach. “Brady,” I said.

Marcus’s mouth moved, but he didn’t say anything.

“It’s Brady,” I repeated.

Marcus let out a long, slow breath. “She was at his office, and they had words at the reception desk.”

I shook my head. “It wasn’t Brady.”

“I didn’t say it was,” Marcus said.

I thought about the look on Maggie’s face when she’d said Brady’s name.

“We have to figure out who killed Dayna Chapman.”

“We?” Marcus asked, his eyebrows going up.

I nodded. “Uh-huh. You and me.”

I ate my banana bread while Marcus gave me his “this is a police investigation” speech.

When he finished I had a sip of my coffee before I answered. “Everything you said is right. But the fact is, people will tell me things that they won’t tell you. Dayna Chapman’s murder touches a lot of people I care about—Maggie, Lita and yes, Burtis.” I took a deep breath. “I won’t do anything stupid, but I’m not going to stop asking questions. If that’s a problem you’re just going to have to arrest me.” I stuck both hands out in front of me, my hands pulled into fists, like I was waiting to be handcuffed.

Marcus studied me for a moment and then picked up his cup.

“Too melodramatic?” I asked after another moment of silence.

He nodded as he got up for more coffee. “Just a little.”

We didn’t talk any more about the case for the rest of the night.

* * *

Both Owen and Hercules were in sulky moods in the morning. Owen flicked his tail in Hercules’s face and in return his brother swiped at it with one paw. A couple of yowls were exchanged before I banged my bowl of oatmeal on the counter, making them both jump.

“Both of you stop it,” I said sternly. There was silence for a moment and then they both began to grumble under their breath as they sat crouched on the floor. “Hello!” I snapped. “Did I ask for comments from the peanut gallery?”

I pointed at Owen and flicked my finger toward the back door. “You! Time to go outside. I’ll be out in a minute.” I looked at Hercules, who did a lousy job at not looking guilty. “Go in the living room or go upstairs.”

They hesitated, eyeing each other. I took one step toward them and they both moved, Owen for the porch and Herc for the living room door.

“Much better,” I said. I didn’t know if it was the shorter days or maybe the full moon, but both cats were acting crankier than usual. Of course, they could have been thinking the same thing about me.

After I finished my oatmeal, I went outside to clear the steps and the path around the house. Harry had already been by to clear the driveway.

Owen bounded around happily in the snow chasing a dried leaf.

“Let’s go,” I called when I finished. He came across the backyard with a snow beard stuck to his face. “All you need is a red stocking cap and you’d look like Santa Claus,” I said, leaning down to brush off the snow. He went ahead of me up the steps. Hercules was sitting on the bench in the porch. He jumped down and followed us into the kitchen, lifting one paw and shaking it in annoyance when he stepped on a tiny bit of snow that had fallen off his brother’s tail.

I split the last of the bag of kitty kibble that was still in my old jacket between the two of them. Owen stopped to rub against my ankle and I bent to give him a scratch behind one ear. “Have a good day,” I said.

Hercules had quickly eaten the dried chunks of cat food and now he was waiting by the door.

“Are you going outside?” I asked as I pulled on my hat and tucked some stray wisps of hair underneath it. He blinked at me, then craned his neck and looked at the porch door. That seemed to be as much of a yes as I was going to get. Hercules didn’t like going outside much in the snow—or the rain or the mud. Usually he had a purpose. I wondered what it was this time. At least the locked door wouldn’t be an obstacle to him getting back in again. That was the one advantage to his “superpower.”

I let the cat go ahead of me and turned to lock the porch door. When I turned around again Hercules was already following the path around the side of the house. I didn’t have a good feeling about that. By the time I got around to the truck, he was waiting by the driver’s door.

“No,” I said.

He looked at me. He looked at the door.

I bent down and picked him up. I expected at least an angry yowl. Instead he went limp in my arms.

“Passive resistance,” I said. “It’s not going to work.”

I stuck him back in the porch and because this wasn’t the first time this kind of thing had happened, I scooped up a couple of handfuls of snow onto the top step. I knew he’d walk through the door, but he wouldn’t walk through the snow.

I was almost around the end of the house when I heard him. I stopped and turned around. Hercules was coming along the path, stopping to shake a paw every step or two, green eyes narrowed, ears pulled forward, complaining all the way. I went to pick him up again and as I reached for him he darted left, past me, and headed for the truck.

I turned the corner just in time to see him launch himself from a snowbank onto the hood of the truck. He’d climbed up onto a snowbank? He scrambled to get his balance and for a moment I thought he was going to slide down onto the front bumper. Then he managed to get upright and stable. He shot me a look of victory and walked through the windshield onto the dashboard. Then he shook himself and jumped down onto the seat.

I opened the door and looked at him. “Why do you do this?” I asked.

“Murp,” he said, and it seemed to me that he almost shrugged.