Kelly Sofie - Curiosity Thrilled The Cat

I looked over at Owen. “He didn’t come back while we were there.” Owen meowed his agreement and continued washing his tail. “Susan said she didn’t see him, and neither did Mary. Why would they lie?”

Neither cat felt that thought was worth commenting on.

I reached for the last brownie and took a big bite. “So either he didn’t come back, or he snuck into the building. If he didn’t come back, how did the broken cuff link get there? And if he did sneak in, what the heck was he doing?”

Owen burped. It was as good an answer as any.

The phone rang then. I went into the living room to answer it.

“Hello, Katydid,” the voice on the other end said.

My mother.

“Hi, Mom,” I said, dropping into the leather chair beside the table that held the phone. I snagged the footstool with one foot and pulled it closer.

“How are you?” she asked.

For all that my mother could be incredibly self-absorbed, she also seemed to have some kind of mother radar that told her when something wasn’t right with one of us.

“I’m fine.” Because really, I was, except for a sore arm and a detective who had the idea I may have killed someone.

“I know you found that composer’s body,” she said flatly.

I slid down in the chair and propped my feet on the footstool. “How did you know?”

“I’m not a dinosaur, Katydid. I have a computer and I read the Mayville Heights Chronicle online every morning.”

So it wasn’t mother radar that had caught me; it was the Internet. “You read the Mayville paper every day?”

“Of course.” Her tone was matter-of-fact. “I like to know what’s going on where you are.”

“Well . . . that’s . . . nice,” I said.

“Are you all right? Really?”

My throat tightened and I felt that lump of homesickness in my chest again. “I am. Really.” I cleared my throat and tried to swallow down the lump.

“He was a randy old goat, you know,” Mom said.

“You knew Gregor Easton?” I probably shouldn’t have been surprised. My mother knew a lot of people in the arts. She’d been working in the theater since she started doing summer stock when she was sixteen.

“Just by reputation,” she said. “Not that it was a good one.”

“What do you mean?”

She sighed. “Mostly it was whispers and stories—you understand. I heard he couldn’t keep his hands—and other body parts—to himself.”

“Anything else?”

“It seems he liked younger women.”

I thought of what Ruby had said about Ami Lester.

“He was there as the guest artist for your summer music festival, wasn’t he?”

“Uh-huh. The Wild Rose Summer Music Festival. He was actually a last-minute replacement for someone else.” Owen came around the side of the footstool and sat next to my chair. I shifted a bit so I could pet him.

“I’m surprised,” my mother said. “Why was a musician of Easton’s caliber at a small regional festival?”

“I don’t know.” I hadn’t thought about it before, but she was right. Helping out from the goodness of his heart didn’t seem like something the man I’d met would do. Then again, we’d only met once—while the man was alive—and Owen had jumped on his head, so maybe he hadn’t been at his best.

“How’s Dad?” I asked.

“Annoying,” Mom said.

“What happened?”

“We’re having artistic differences.”

“Over what?”

“Over his interpretation of Nick Bottom. Your father is over-the-top.”

I bit the inside of my cheek so I wouldn’t laugh. “The character is kind of flamboyant,” I said.

She snorted. “There’s a difference between flamboyant and flaming.”

I couldn’t help it then. I laughed. “You’ll work it out, Mom,” I said.

There was silence for a moment. Then she said, “I saw Andrew yesterday.”

Andrew. Tall, sandy blond hair, blue eyes, muscles in all the right places and a smile that could melt the elastic in your undies.

“That’s nice,” I said, working to keep my voice from giving away my feelings.

“He said to say hello.”

Andrew, who went to Maine on a two-week fishing trip after we’d had a major fight and came back married. And not to me.

I swallowed. “How is he?”

“He looks thin.”

“This is his busy time of year,” I said. I checked my watch. “I’ve gotta go, Mom,” I said. “I have tai chi class.”

“And you don’t want to talk about your ex-boyfriend,” she said. So maybe she did have mother radar after all.

“You’re right. I don’t. But I really do have tai chi.”

“I’ll let you go, then,” she said. “Call me soon, Katydid.”

“I will,” I said. “Bye.”

I hung up the phone, then bent down and picked up Owen. He sat on my lap and studied my face.

“Andrew said hello,” I said.

Owen tipped his head to one side and put a paw on my chest.

“I’m all right,” I said. I scooped him into my arms and stood up.

“You know, Andrew said I didn’t know how to be spontaneous,” I told the cat as we headed for the stairs. “So I quit my job in Boston and came halfway across the country to supervise a renovation that’s never going to be finished, and to top it off, I’m a suspect in a murder investigation.”

Owen lifted his head to look at me.

“Yeah, I guess I showed him,” I said.

7

High Pat on Horse

Iset Owen down on the bedroom floor. He stretched. Then something seemed to catch his eye. He moved across the room and stuck his head under the bed. “The only thing you’re going to find under there is more dust bunnies,” I said.

I looked in the mirror. My hair hadn’t changed since morning. I combed my droopy bangs off to the side and fastened them back with a clip. It made me look about twelve. Assuming twelve-year-olds have permanent laugh lines.

Owen’s backside was still poking out from under the end of the bed. “I’m leaving,” I said. “Are you staying in or going out?” His back end gave an Elvis shimmy and he disappeared completely behind the hanging edge of the quilt.

I went back downstairs, stuffed my towel, sweatshirt, shoes and water bottle into my bag; grabbed my keys off the kitchen counter; and pulled on my sneakers. Hercules was nowhere to be seen. I locked both doors and started down the driveway, pulling the strap of my messenger bag over my head.

I’d tried Rebecca a couple of times in the afternoon but gotten no answer. Would she be at class? I glanced back at the house and discovered Hercules was following me down the sidewalk. I waited for him to catch up.

“Where do you think you’re going?” I asked. “And how did you get out of the house?” He stared unblinkingly at me. “Go home,” I said, pointing back at the house. His eyes followed my fingers; then he walked several steps past me, stopped and looked back. “No. You’re not coming,” I said. “Just because Owen snuck down to the library doesn’t mean you get to come, too.”

I picked him up, walked back to the yard and set him on the grass. Then I crossed the lawn and started down the street. After half a dozen steps I stopped. “You’re here, aren’t you?” I said, not turning around. Herc rubbed against my leg. I looked down. He looked up. I swear he was grinning.

“I don’t have time to do this,” I said, checking my watch. I was going to have to hustle to make the start of tai chi class. I bent and picked up Hercules again. I half ran, half speed-walked back home. I unlocked the porch door, set Hercules inside, relocked the door and ran for the street, bag smacking against my hip.

I slowed to a fast walk to catch my breath and shifted the strap of my bag. Hercules was walking beside me along the edge of the grass where it met the sidewalk. I stopped and crouched down. Herc sat.