Софи Келли - A Tale Оf Two Kitties

“He’s in the clear,” Marcus said when he called me at the library. “What made you think Mariah might have video of his car in the first place?”

“I remembered Simon saying that he’d seen a drone flying over a field. I figured there was a chance he was on the same stretch of highway where Eddie had been followed. It was a long shot, but it was plausible.”

I was sitting at my desk and I swiveled around so I could see out the window. Watching the water helped me focus my thoughts. “I’m sorry I ruined your case.”

“Hey, don’t apologize,” Marcus said. “I don’t want to arrest an innocent man. I want to catch the person who really killed Leo Janes.”

“Any idea who that might be?” I asked.

Marcus exhaled softly. “I think I’ll just say ‘No comment’ for now.”

We said good-bye and I went downstairs to give Mary a break at the circulation desk. I had a quick meeting with Lita over at Henderson Holdings at two thirty. I told her about Maggie’s idea to frame the photos from the post office for display along with some of the mail that had been found. Maggie was confident that at least some of the recipients would loan whatever card or letter they had received for our exhibit.

“I don’t see why the board would have any problem with you doing that,” Lita said.

“We’re hoping to get the display done early in December,” I said. “We have more people come into the library then anyway.”

Lita and I spent another fifteen minutes on library business and then I bundled up to walk back to the library. The wind off the water was cold and very quickly I began to regret my decision not to bring the truck. When I came level with Eric’s Place I decided to duck inside for a cup of coffee to go.

“I put on a fresh pot,” Claire said. “It’ll just be a couple of minutes.”

“I don’t mind,” I said. I sat on a stool with my back to the counter. I was happy to have a chance to warm my hands. I’d left my gloves back at the library.

The front door of the restaurant opened and Rebecca came in. She smiled and came over to the counter. “I bet you’re on your way back from your meeting with Lita,” she said.

I nodded. “I came in to get warm and get a cup of coffee. I’m just waiting for a new pot.”

“I’m meeting Patricia Queen for tea,” Rebecca said. “I’m hoping she can repair an old quilt that Everett’s mother made.”

Claire came out of the kitchen then. “Would you like a table, Mrs. Henderson?” she asked.

“In just a moment I would,” Rebecca said as she pulled off her gloves.

Claire smiled. “You can have the one in the window if you’d like or any other one along the back wall.”

Rebecca smiled back at her. “Thank you,” she said.

The door opened again and Elias Braeden and two other men came in.

“I’ll just get these customers and then I’ll get your coffee, Kathleen,” Claire said.

“It’s all right,” I said. “Take your time.”

Elias noticed me then. He gave a small smile and a nod of recognition, which I returned.

“Kathleen, who is that?” Rebecca asked, a frown forming between her eyebrows.

“His name is Elias Braeden. He’s here on business. He’s considering buying the Silver Casino.”

“Oh, that explains it,” she said, her expression clearing.

I turned to look at her. “Explains what?”

“Nothing, really,” Rebecca said. “It’s just the day before Leo died I saw him out in front of the house talking to that man. Did you know Leo liked to play blackjack?”

I nodded. “I did.”

“That must be how he knew Mr. Braeden.”

Claire came then with my coffee. Rebecca gave me a hug and headed toward the window table.

I headed out for the library. So Elias had talked to Leo the day before he was killed. Interesting.

Very interesting.

• • •

Oren Kenyon came into the library about four thirty. Oren was in his midfifties, tall and lean like a farm-boy version of actor/director Clint Eastwood. He was quiet and thoughtful, a child musical prodigy who had chosen a quiet life working in Mayville Heights rather than the fame and fortune of a concert stage that certainly could have been his if he’d wanted it.

Mary was at the front desk. She beckoned Oren over. Some of the old photographs were spread across the counter.

“I think I’ve figured out where some of these were taken,” she said as I joined them. “There used to be a summer day camp out at Long Lake when I was a girl.” She held up one of the photos. “I think this one is some of the boys from the camp.” She pointed at a little boy with a crew cut, sitting cross-legged on the ground with half a dozen other kids about the same age, all of them squinting at the camera. “Oren, isn’t that your cousin Ira?”

Oren studied the old black-and-white image for a moment. Then he nodded slowly. “That’s Ira,” he said. “And I think that’s Thorsten’s brother behind him.” A small frown creased his forehead.

Ira Kenyon was a little . . . eccentric. Back when Kingsley-Pearson had planned to develop the area around Long Lake, before the company’s problems with the IRS and before Simon had bought the land, Ira had been camped out there, insisting the land really belonged to the Kenyons. One of the first things Simon had done was hire the man as a caretaker for the property, which seemed to settle the issue, at least for the moment.

Mary smiled. “Thank you.” She looked at me. “I’ll give Thorsten a call and get him to come take a look at these sometime in the next couple of days.”

“Perfect,” I said.

She looked over toward the computer area, where one of the older Justason boys was working at a terminal. He had one hand on top of the backward baseball cap on his head and he seemed to be squinting in confusion at the monitor.

Mary shook her head. “Excuse me,” she said. “I think Perry is having more problems formatting his bibliography.”

She made her way over to the computers and I turned to Oren. He was carrying a brown envelope and I hoped that meant he’d brought the drawings of the porch swing he was going to make as a wedding gift for Roma and Eddie from Marcus and me.

He had. He’d drawn a front view of the swing, a side perspective and a close-up of the detail along the arms. I spread the drawings out on the circulation desk.

“I hope you like it,” he said shyly.

“It’s beautiful,” I said, tracing the lines of the sketch with one finger.

“Thank you,” he said. “I think I have enough reclaimed black locust. It’s beautiful wood.”

“Whatever you decide will work is fine with me,” I said. “I trust your judgment.”

Abigail hung up the phone and leaned over to look at the drawing.

“It’s for Roma and Eddie,” I said. “Their wedding gift.”

“They’re going to love it,” she said.

“The arms are based on a design my father did for a rocking chair,” Oren said.

“Roma will love that,” I said. Roma and Oren were distant cousins.

I put the drawing back in the envelope and offered it to Oren.

He shook his head. “Those are for you,” he said. “I have another set.” He tapped his temple with one hand. “And the idea is here anyway.”

We started toward the entrance. Then Oren stopped and looked back over his shoulder at the circulation desk. “Kathleen, there’s something I need to ask you,” he said. His expression was serious.

“All right,” I said. “What is it?”

“I saw you over at the hotel with Simon Janes and a woman named Celia Hunter?”

“Yes,” I said, since he’d framed the sentence as a question.

Oren nodded. “I went to talk to the manager about restoring an old walnut desk that had been stored in the basement. It has some water damage. I thought it was her.” He looked down at his feet for a moment, then his blue eyes met mine. “I wasn’t sure if I should say anything or not, but maybe that old photo of Ira is a sign that I should.”