Kelly Sofie - Curiosity Thrilled The Cat

“Violet, that’s wonderful news. Ami didn’t tell me.”

“She didn’t know,” Violet said, turning to me with the tray. “I only got the call about an hour ago.”

“I’m glad you’re going to take over,” I said, taking a glass. “I’ve heard so much about the festival. I’d hate to see it canceled.”

Violet handed a wineglass to Roma and took the last one for herself. Roma sipped her wine. “Oh, that’s nice,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “Violet, why can’t you just take over as the festival director?”

Violet took a sip from her glass and then set it on a round glass coaster on the coffee table. “Because no one knows who I am,” she said.

“That’s ridiculous,” Rebecca said. “Everyone in Mayville Heights knows who you are. You’ve lectured at the University of Michigan and the Cleveland Institute of Music.”

Roma glanced over at the piano behind us. “I’ve heard you play,” she said. “You’re very talented.”

Violet held up a hand. “Thank you,” she said. “I’ve had a wonderful career—lots of opportunities—but I have no name recognition.”

“And that’s what the festival needs to draw people in. That’s what sells tickets, as much as the music,” I said.

Violet nodded. “Exactly.”

“But the festival should be about the music, not about personalities,” Roma said. “Not about whether the conductor went skinny-dipping at the Playboy Mansion.”

“Gregor Easton went skinny-dipping at the Playboy Mansion?” I said.

“No, Zinia Young did,” Roma said drily.

“And how did you know?” Violet asked.

Roma turned the same shade of pink as Rebecca’s blouse. “I might have seen something about it on Access Hollywood ,” she mumbled.

“Access Hollywood?” Rebecca tried and failed to keep a straight face.

“Now, don’t tell me you’ve never picked up a supermarket tabloid, Rebecca,” Roma said.

“Only for the articles,” Rebecca replied, deadpan.

Roma laughed and took another drink.

I finally took a sip from my own glass. The wine was light and slightly sweet. Its warmth slid down into my stomach and spread out like a sunburst. I took another sip and turned to Violet. “This is Ruby’s wine, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is,” she said, picking up her glass again.

“It’s very good.” I tilted my glass so the clear liquid swirled around the inside. “But it does sneak up on you.”

Violet held up her own glass and studied the contents. “So I’ve noticed,” she said. She got to her feet. “Excuse me again, everyone,” she said. “We should be ready to eat very soon.”

“Kathleen, did you say Ruby made the wine?” Roma asked.

“Uh-huh.” I set my glass on a coaster on the coffee table.

Roma nodded thoughtfully. “Makes sense. I went to school with Ruby’s mother, Callie. Her father, Ruby’s grandfather, was the bootlegger around here.”

“You mean he made—”

“No, no,” Roma interjected. “He didn’t make it. He sold it. Resold it, actually.”

“He did usually have three or four swish barrels on the go,” Rebecca said. “So technically he was making it, too.”

I held up a hand. “What’s a swish barrel?”

Rebecca pushed her glasses up off the end of her nose. “It’s an oak barrel used to age whiskey and other spirits. People would buy the used barrels, put water in them and eventually the alcohol would leach into the water and you’d have a barrel of, well, swish. You know, both Oren’s father and grandfather made barrels for the Union Distillery.”

“Oren used to work summers with the old man, didn’t he?” Roma said.

Rebecca nodded. “Yes, he did. But Oren’s not just a carpenter; he’s an artist, too. He gets that from his father.”

“What happened to those sculptures?” Roma asked, shifting in her chair.

“I hope they’re still out at the homestead. Maybe Oren has them in the barn.”

I looked from one to the other, trying to figure out what they were talking about.

Rebecca noticed my confusion. “Oh, I’m sorry, Kathleen,” she said. “We’re talking about people and things you don’t know anything about.” She adjusted the pillow at her back. “Let me see if I can explain.”

I picked up my glass again and leaned back against the arm of the sofa.

“Oren’s father, Karl, was a carpenter and a house painter. He worked for Harrison Taylor—Old Harry—as well as making barrels for Union. You know the stairs that go up to the top of Wild Rose Bluff? Karl worked on those. But in his spare time he made these incredible metal sculptures. They were massive things. Sadly, very few people got to see them.”

She must have seen the surprise on my face. “In those days young men from Mayville Heights, Minnesota, did not become artists, no matter how talented they were. And he was.”

I thought of the sun Oren had made for the library entrance. “Rebecca, you haven’t been in the library lately,” I said. “You haven’t seen the sun Oren carved for just inside the doors.”

“Oren made the sun?” Roma asked. She was picking at the nail of her left ring finger. I wondered if she was more worried about the injured cat than she’d let on.

I nodded.

“I had no idea. It’s absolutely beautiful.”

“He also made the new wrought-iron railing for the steps.”

“All that skill, that talent, it’s in his blood,” Rebecca said. “Karl Senior and Anna’s father was a blacksmith.”

“Anna?” I said. “Everett’s mother?”

“Yes.” Rebecca nodded. “Everett’s mother and Oren’s grandfather were brother and sister.”

At that point Violet appeared in the doorway. “Dinner’s ready,” she said. “Please bring your glasses.”

The dining room overlooked the backyard. I’d been expecting a formal room, but it was actually very relaxed and welcoming. The table was set with a cream tablecloth and matching cream napkins with blue flowers, and flanked by six black leather Parsons chairs. Very comfortable chairs, I discovered when I sat down. Violet was at the head of the table, with Rebecca to her left and Roma and me to the right.

Dinner was sole with spiced vegetable stuffing, rice pilaf, tiny carrots and salad with mustard vinaigrette. Violet was an excellent cook. As she refilled our wineglasses I wondered how she’d ended up with a bottle of Ruby’s wine. They both loved music, but I didn’t know they were friends. Roma had apparently been thinking the same thing.

“Violet, why do you have a bottle of Ruby’s homemade wine?” she asked.

Violet set down her fork. “That’s right. I didn’t tell you,” she said. “Ruby’s going to move into the apartment over the carriage house.” She turned to me. “You probably noticed the carriage house at the end of the driveway.”

“I did,” I said.

“There’s an apartment on the second level. I haven’t had a tenant there for a long time, but I decided having a little more life around here would be a good idea.”

“When is she moving in?” Roma asked.

“End of the month. Unless the festival is canceled, in which case she may move in a bit sooner.”

Roma speared a carrot with her fork. “What do you think happened to Gregor Easton?” she asked. It seemed like a casual question; then I noticed how tightly she was clutching her fork.

“I think he was a debauched old goat who had most likely been engaged in something he shouldn’t have been doing with someone far too young for him,” Violet said.

“You think he had a heart attack or a stroke, then?”

“Don’t you?” Violet asked.

“It makes the most sense,” Roma said slowly. “From what I’d heard he was a man of large appetites. But if it was just a heart attack why are the police still investigating?”