Kelly Sofie - Curiosity Thrilled The Cat

We started walking again. “Why?” I said.

“Because that somebody knew Easton wouldn’t show up for him . . . or her.”

“But they thought he’d show up for me?”

Maggie shot me a wry sideways glance. “Kath, you’re not exactly ugly, you know.”

“I’m not exactly Easton’s type, either. From what I’ve heard he liked women young enough to be his granddaughters.”

We crossed the street and started up Mountain Road, and I switched Hercules to my other shoulder.

“After what happened with Owen in the library Easton probably thought you were looking to make amends.”

I squirmed at the image. Then comprehension set in. I stopped walking and turned to face Maggie. “But that would mean whoever sent the note knew what had happened.”

She nodded. “So who knew?”

“You. Susan. Mary.” I held up my hand and ticked the names off on my fingers. “That’s it. Oh, and Eric—Susan’s husband—because I’d asked her to call him and have breakfast delivered to Easton as an apology.”

Maggie stretched one arm behind her head as we started up the hill again. “Anyone else?” she asked.

“Just the cats,” I said. “And I don’t think they told anyone, but I have no idea who Susan or Mary or Eric—”

“—or even Easton himself might have told,” Maggie finished. “Did you see the paper? Do you know what it said?”

“I saw it,” I said. I pulled the image of Detective Gordon holding up the plastic bag with the note inside into my head. “It was written on a piece of paper from one of the library notepads. Remember? The ones that say ‘Mabel’ instead of ‘Mayville.’ There were two boxes in the workroom. There’s a silhouette of an open book in the left corner and it says ‘Mabel Heights Free Public Library’ across the bottom.” I rubbed the back of my neck again. “The note itself said, ‘Meet me at the library at eleven thirty. Kathleen.’”

Maggie made a skeptical noise and touched my arm. “He sure had an overinflated idea of his appeal if he thought you were interested in a rendezvous among the stacks at eleven thirty at night.”

“The man didn’t lack confidence, Mags,” I said.

She smiled and her hand, still on my arm, was warm. “Tomorrow I’ll ask around and see what I can find out about Easton and what he’d been doing since he got here. No one’s going to believe you killed the man.”

Hercules meowed his agreement from my hip. Maggie held up both hands. “See? Even Furry Face knows that.” She checked her watch, then patted the canvas bag she was carrying. “It’s five minutes to showtime, and I have a bag of organic cheese puffs and another bottle of Ruby’s homemade wine.”

I opened the porch door and followed Maggie inside, tucking my keys in my pocket. My fingers touched the little sea-green glass bead. Okay, so I couldn’t take it to the police. I could do some digging of my own. Because I was definitely going to figure out what was going on.

Someone had used my name to get Gregor Easton to meet him or her. And maybe kill him.

Not someone passing through town. Not some stranger.

Someone here in Mayville Heights. Someone I knew.

10

Play Guitar

Iwoke up early, and when I couldn’t get back to sleep I cooked. By eight o’clock a batch of blueberry- poppy seed muffins was cooling on the counter next to a double recipe of Hercules and Owen’s favorite kitty treats. There was a cat glued to each of my legs as I made coffee and scrambled an egg.

I poured a cup of coffee and put it, my breakfast and a big handful of cat nibbles on a tray. Then I snagged the newspaper from the front door and carried everything out to the backyard, followed, of course, by the cats.

I settled on my favorite Adirondack chair and spread my napkin on the grass. Half the cat crackers went on one side; half on the other.

Hercules sniffed the food carefully even though he’d been dogging me since the cookie sheets had come out of the oven. He must have liked what his nose told him because he began to eat, eyes half closed in enjoyment. Owen, as usual, was moving his stash, two or three pieces at a time, onto the grass.

“That’s going to get soggy,” I told him.

He shot me an annoyed glare and continued to deposit his food in little piles on the lawn.

I read the paper as I ate. There were very few details about the investigation into Gregor Easton’s death, beyond a statement from Detective Gordon saying that the police were still investigating. The major story was what was going to happen to the music festival. The paper, via its editorial, took the position that without a well-known musician to act as music director, the festival should be canceled. The opinions in the letters to the editor section ran the gamut from continuing without a guest musician to bringing in the latest American Idol winner, to hiring Luciano Pavarotti, who was, unfortunately, dead.

Both cats finished eating. Owen set off across the lawn, probably heading for Rebecca’s gazebo and a nap. Herc walked around the yard, doing his daily survey of things. I watched him for a moment, wondering if last night could somehow have been just a stress-fueled hallucination. Logically, I knew cats couldn’t walk through solid doors or walls. Neither could dogs, monkeys, snakes, or people—although I’d seen some cockroaches come pretty close.

It wasn’t like I hadn’t heard rumors about the cats from Wisteria Hill, but there were no tales about paranormal abilities. Stories about the Wisteria cats ranged from innocuous (they all had six toes; mine didn’t) to bizarre (the cats were more than a hundred years old). I’d never heard anyone suggest the cats had the ability to disappear at will. Not that I’d been able to find out much about them or the crumbling house. Most people changed the subject when I brought it up. Maybe I’d be able to find out more when I went out there with Roma.

Herc had finished his check of the yard and worked his way back to me. He gave the napkin, still spread on the grass, a cursory sniff and then jumped up onto my lap. I scratched the top of his head and he started to purr. The reality was, I couldn’t ever say anything to anyone about what I’d seen him do. Because if I did and someone actually believed me, it was only going to end with my cats in a lab somewhere with wire mesh on the windows and electrodes stuck to their little shaved heads.

“I’d rather be the crazy cat lady,” I told Hercules.

He purred even louder. I took that to mean living with a crazy cat lady was okay by him. Suddenly he lifted his head. His ears moved and he looked toward the side of the house.

I leaned sideways in the chair, but I couldn’t see anyone. That didn’t mean no one was there. I set the cat on the grass and stood up just as Everett Henderson came around the side of the house. “How do you do that?” I whispered to Hercules.

Everett Henderson looked a lot like Sean Connery—balding, close-cropped white beard, intense dark eyes, and a lived-in face—enough that when he spoke I always expected to hear Connery’s Scottish accent. Everett was tall and lean, and when he walked into a room focus shifted automatically to him. If he said he was going to do something, it got done. I had no idea how he’d made his money, but, based on how much he was spending on the library, he seemed to have a lot of it.

“Hello, Kathleen,” he said. “I’m sorry to bother you on your morning off.”

“You’re no bother,” I assured him. “I was just having coffee and reading the paper. Would you like a cup?”

“It’s not decaf, is it?”

I made a cross with one index finger over the other. “Bite your tongue,” I said.