Kelly Sofie - Curiosity Thrilled The Cat

Finally he looked up at me. “I’m not sixteen anymore. I knew he was lying and I told him so. I told him I was going to tell the whole world that it was my music, not his.”

“And?”

“And he laughed at me. Said it was my word against his, and who would believe a mental case like me?”

I wanted to smack Easton myself. “Lots of people would believe you, Oren,” I said. “All they’d have to do is hear you play.”

He smiled. “Thank you for saying that,” he said. “But I had—have—proof. I have all my original notation, all the work as the music evolved. The papers are in a safedeposit box in St. Paul. At least they were.”

“You saved everything?”

“I guess maybe I cared more about the music than I thought.”

My mind began to race ahead. “That’s why you missed meat loaf night. That’s why you weren’t at the Stratton the next morning. You went for the proof.”

Oren walked over to where I was sitting. He stood in front of me, hands jammed in his pockets. “I thought with the proof I could convince him to take the deal I’d offered. I’m sorry I wasn’t at the theater that morning. I’m sorry you found Easton’s body.”

“You didn’t kill him, Oren. You don’t have anything to be sorry about.” I stretched my arm across my chest to try to ease the knot in my shoulder, which had stiffened up while I was sitting.

“Your shoulder?” Oren asked.

I nodded. “It’s still a bit stiff,” I said. “Oren, have you told Detective Gordon where you were?”

He nodded.

“Did you tell him who Easton used to be? Did you tell him you knew each other?”

“I didn’t,” he said softly. “I like my life, Kathleen. I don’t want to lose what I have.”

I slid off my stool. “Maybe it won’t come to that. Maybe if you give people a chance they’ll surprise you.” I waited until he looked at me. “I think you need to tell Detective Gordon who Easton used to be.”

“Do you really think it has something to do with his death?”

“I do,” I said. “Oren, he met someone the night he died.” I flashed on the wound on the side of Easton’s head. “Someone was with him at the Stratton. Someone he knew. Someone he’d let his guard down around. Virtually the entire choir was at a birthday party at Eric’s. He knew someone else here besides you.”

Oren stared out the window for a moment. “Have you read The Go-Between ?”

I nodded. “‘The past is a foreign country.’”

“I didn’t think I’d ever go back,” Oren said. “But maybe it’s time.”

I took a deep breath. “I think for Gregor Easton, the past was getting a little too close to home.”

20

Step Back Ride the Tiger

Ithought it was Rebecca knocking on my door first thing Monday morning, but it was Detective Gordon standing on my back stoop, holding a jar of something in front of his chest. I wasn’t sure if it was a shield or a peace offering.

“Good morning, Ms. Paulson,” he said, smiling at me.

“Good morning, Detective Gordon,” I said. “Are you here on police business or have you come for breakfast?”

He had the good grace to blush a little. “Police business,” he said. “May I come in?”

“Of course.” I stepped back so he could come into the porch, and wondered if people ever said no when he asked to come in.

I led the way to the kitchen and turned around, back to the table and crossed my arms. “How can I help you, Detective Gordon?” I asked. I was pretty sure this visit had something to do with Oren’s visit to the police station the day before, but I wasn’t going to spot him any gimmes.

“First of all, this is for you.” He handed me a jar of jam. It was strawberry rhubarb. “I thought you might have changed your mind.”

The jam was a deep crimson in the jar, tart from the rhubarb, I imagined, and sweet from the berries. “Umm, thank you for this,” I said, finally remembering my manners.

“You’re welcome. Thank you for encouraging Oren Kenyon to come talk to us.”

“He told you that?”

“He did.” He shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other. “What he told us about Easton—Douglas Williams—saved us some time, so I appreciate having the information.”

“Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”

“Detective, you’ve probably noticed how much I like a good cup of coffee. In fact, I like a not-so-good cup of coffee, too. It’s no trouble.”

“Then yes,” he said. I got a cup from the cupboard and poured coffee for him, topping up my own cup at the same time. I set his on the table and pushed out one of the chairs as an invitation to sit down. Then I grabbed plates for both of us and set them on the table, along with a couple of knives and some butter.

“You don’t have to give me breakfast, Ms. Paulson,” the detective said. “Coffee’s fine.”

I put four multigrain rolls in a little breadbasket and set it on the table, too. “I know I don’t have to feed you, Detective,” I said, “but you do seem to keep showing up at breakfast time. And since we are sharing a meal again, could you please call me Kathleen?” I picked up the jam. The cover was tight on the mason jar.

He smiled. “I guess I’m just a morning person, Kathleen. I had a paper route when I was seven. What about you?”

I twisted the lid of the jar as hard as I could, trying not to make a face at the effort. “Me?” I said. “My parents are actors. A lot of the time they’d be going to bed when everyone else was getting up. I think being an early bird was an act of rebellion.”

I was beginning to think the lid had been welded on. I braced myself against the counter and twisted again, trying to smile and not grunt.

Detective Gordon cleared his throat. “Uh, Kathleen, would you find it sexist if I offered to open that for you?”

I could feel drops of sweat on my neck from the effort, and there was no way I could get the stupid top off the jar. I was almost out of breath. Wordlessly I handed the bottle to him and he uncapped it without any effort at all. How had he done that? My mouth probably hung open a little bit.

“I’m sure you loosened it,” he said, handing me the jar.

“No, I didn’t,” I said, laughing. I put the jam on the table between us and sat down. “So.” I reached for a roll. “Oren isn’t a suspect in Easton’s death.”

“He never was. There’s surveillance footage of him at the bank, as well as on several highway cameras.”

“What about me?” I asked as I buttered my bread and added a thick layer of jam.

He took a drink of his coffee before answering. “You weren’t a suspect. You were a person of interest.”

“You thought I was having an affair with Easton.”

He held up his thumb. “He had a note from you in his pocket.” He added the index finger. “You had ordered breakfast to be sent to his hotel room.” The middle finger popped up. “You showed up very early at the theater.” And finally the ring finger. “And you both spent the previous year in Boston, where you could have easily met Easton through your job or your parents.” There was something condescending in the smile he gave me as he picked up his mug.

I held up my own thumb, which had a dab of jam on the end. “I didn’t write the note to Easton.” I added my index finger. “I sent breakfast as an apology, not as an illicit invitation. And, by the way, it was never delivered.” I added my middle finger, which stuck out at a bit of a weird angle. “I was at the theater to find Oren, not Mr. Easton. And finally”—I stuck my ring finger in the air with the other three—“Boston is full of people, most of whom I don’t know.”