Kelly Sofie - Curiosity Thrilled The Cat

“Do you think maybe Gregor Easton wasn’t a total stranger here?”

Owen gave a loud meow.

“You could be right,” I said. “Violet was a music teacher. Could she have known him?” It was hard to imagine elegant, confident Violet luring Easton to a clandestine rendezvous at the public library.

I shifted in the chair so I could stretch out my legs. “And then there’s Ruby. She’s in the festival choir.” I couldn’t picture her enticing Easton to a private meeting, either. Ruby was more likely to call someone out in public. At great volume

The paper had said Easton had done a graduate degree at University of Cincinnati College-Conservatory of Music. Hadn’t Everett told me that the University of Cincinnati was where he’d studied business? I couldn’t imagine Everett tied up in Easton’s death, either. I couldn’t imagine anyone I knew involved. But the truth was, someone I knew had used my name to get Gregor Easton to meet him or her. And wasn’t admitting it. Someone I knew was willing to let me be tied up in a murder. In the few months I’d been in town I thought I’d made friends. Now? Maybe I was still more of an outsider than I’d realized.

Owen was stretched out on my lap, eyes closed. I stroked his fur. I couldn’t take feeling this kind of suspicion about everyone I knew. I had to do something. The most logical place to start was with the dead man himself. Maybe if I knew more about Easton I’d be able to figure out whether he did have a connection to someone in Mayville Heights and whether that someone wanted him dead.

Owen suddenly opened his eyes, shook himself and jumped off my lap. He headed for the front yard.

I got up, as well, stuffing the note Owen had swiped into my pocket along with the bit of fringe he’d taken from Rebecca’s scarf.

I started for the house just as Harry came from the front yard, pushing a lawn mower. I detoured over to him. “Good morning,” I said.

Harry mowed the lawn at the library and at my house. I had no idea how old he was, but if I had to guess, I’d say late fifties. His face was lined from years of working in the sun, and the one time he’d taken off his Twins cap to mop his sweating forehead, I’d noticed he was mostly bald with just a little salt-and-pepper hair.

“Morning,” Harry said. “Do you mind if I get at the lawn early? It’s going to rain later.”

I shook my head. “No.”

The sky overhead was clear, bright blue with only a few puffy clouds like little bits of cotton batting that had been blown up into the sky by the wind. Still, if Harry said it was going to rain, it was going to rain. It didn’t matter what this morning’s forecast said. He judged the weather by the birds, the leaves, the smell of the wind and how his left leg—which had been broken twice—felt.

He was also very well-read. He’d borrowed Solzhenitsyn’s The Gulag Archipelago and renewed the book twice, which made me think he’d actually read it all.

Harry had the kind of face that somehow smiled even when he wasn’t actually grinning. I smiled at him now. “Thank you for telling the police you saw me Tuesday night.”

“I did see you,” he said.

I felt a little awkward. “I know,” I said, sliding my hands into my back pockets, “but you didn’t have to get involved.”

Harry pulled off his cap and ran a hand over his scalp before pulling the hat back on again. “Kathleen, I don’t know what happened to Mr. Easton, but I know whatever it was, you had nothing to do with it. You love books and you’ve spent months working on restoring the library building. There’s no way on God’s green earth you’re going to whack someone over the head and let him bleed all over your library.” He shook his head from side to side for emphasis. “And I told that to Detective Gordon,” he added.

Was that why the detective had seemed less suspicious? Did Harry’s words carry that much weight?

“Well . . . thank you.” I cleared my throat. “I met your brother yesterday.”

Harry nodded. “Said he’s doing some work for you.”

“Oren says he’s a good electrician.”

“He is. And if he gives you any trouble, let me know.” Harry bent over the mower. “He’s not so big that I can’t hang him off the roof by his ankles.” He grinned, which I hoped meant he was kidding, and pulled the starter cord on the mower.

I went inside, cleaned up the kitchen and made a turkey salad sandwich to take to work with me. The necklace Ruby had given me was lying on the table. I slipped it on over my head. I didn’t know if the crystal could keep negative energy away or not, but it couldn’t hurt.

Harry and the mower moved from the back to the far side of the house. I went out into the porch to look for Owen and Hercules.

There was no sign of the cats, but Santa Claus was in the backyard, sitting in my blue Adirondack chair.

12

Fair Lady Works at Shuttle

Okay, it wasn’t really Santa in my Adirondack chair, but the elderly gentleman in my backyard definitely looked like Saint Nick, minus the belly that shook like a bowlful of jelly. He had thick white hair and a white beard that looked as soft as dandelion fluff.

I opened the door and walked across the grass to find out why Santa Claus’s doppelganger was sitting in my favorite chair. He struggled to get to his feet when he saw me approaching—Adirondack chairs are not always easy to get out of.

“Hello, my dear,” he said, offering his hand. His grip was strong and his blue eyes actually seemed to twinkle.

I didn’t think I’d ever seen the man before; still, there was something very familiar about him.

“You’re trying to decide if we’ve ever met,” he said.

Okay, not only did he look like Santa Claus, he seemed to be able to read minds like the Amazing Kreskin. The old man was still holding my right hand and now he covered it with his left. I could feel the warmth of both of his hands, sinking into mine.

“I’m Harrison Taylor,” the Kriss Kringle look-alike said. “But everyone calls me Old Harry.” He gestured at the chair behind him. “I hope you don’t mind me making myself at home.”

“Not at all.” I gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “I’m so glad to finally meet you.”

“I’m happy to meet you, as well,” he said. “I was feeling a little like someone’s big, old, smelly dog, left in the truck with the window cracked just a little. Plus, I’m a nosy old man and I wanted to see what you’ve done back here.” He patted my hand before letting go of it.

“So what do you think?” I asked.

He looked around and slowly nodded his approval. I felt a small, warm bubble of pride spread inside me. Young Harry kept the yard mowed and trimmed, but I’d cleaned out all the overgrown flower beds.

“Those roses are from the homestead,” Old Harry said, gesturing with a heavily veined hand.

“Yes, they are. So are the blackberry canes.”

“How was the rhubarb this year?”

“Delicious,” I said. It had been, once I’d figured out rhubarb needed a lot of sweetening.

The mower stopped in the front yard, replaced in a moment by the sound of the trimmer.

“Please sit down,” I said, dipping my head at the chair. Old Harry eased back into the seat and I sat on the grass.

He patted the wide arm with one hand. “I didn’t like this color, you know, when Harry started painting the chairs. I thought all the colors he chose looked like something from a box of those fancy little mints you get at the end of a la-di-da dinner party.” He smiled, which made him looked more like Santa than ever. “Turns out he was right.” His gaze shifted to something behind me. “Well, bless my soul,” he said. “Hello there, puss.”