Софи Келли - A Tale Оf Two Kitties

Marcus held up both hands like he was surrendering. “I didn’t say that.”

I grinned at him. “You didn’t have to.”

He put our filets in the oven to finish cooking then pulled me up out of my chair so he could kiss me again, and for a while I forgot all about Elias Braeden and Celia Hunter.

• • •

Sunday dawned cold and wet. Eddie was coaching at hockey camp in Red Wing and Marcus was going along to help and to rub elbows with some former Wild players. I had been supposed to spend the afternoon with Roma but she called about ten to tell me a truck towing a trailer full of Angora show goats had gone off the road just outside of Lake City. She was on her way there to help with the injured animals.

I was at loose ends after lunch so I decided to go down to the library to repair some of the books that I knew had been piling up in the workroom. Neither Owen nor Hercules was willing to dash through the rain to the truck but I didn’t mind having the library to myself. As much as I loved it when the hundred-year-old-plus building was full of life, I liked the occasional moment when I could walk through and appreciate all the beautiful details that made the library feel like my second home: Oren’s carved sun over the doors, the mosaic tile floor, the intricate, wide woodwork that Oren had matched so well it was impossible to tell where old ended and new began, and of course shelf after shelf of books.

I pulled into the parking lot and when I got out of the truck a sleek silver Mercedes pulled in beside me. Elias Braeden was behind the wheel. He got out and came around the back of the car. “Kathleen, could I talk to you for a minute?” he asked.

“Were you following me?” I said.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I just need to talk.”

“What about?” I said. I was careful to keep some distance between us.

“Leo Janes.”

I nodded. “All right.” It was drizzling lightly, not enough to be called a shower, just enough to be annoying.

“Could we go inside?” Elias said. He was wearing a gray trench coat over dark pants. I had on my purple quilted jacket and a black-and-white scarf at my neck. Neither one of us would be cold staying outside.

“I’m good here,” I said. I put one hand on the side of the truck. I didn’t think Elias was stupid enough to try anything, but I had a couple of hockey sticks in the bed of the truck from a game of driveway hockey with Marcus. Maybe I couldn’t swing a twenty-pound bag of potatoes at Elias’s head, but I could swing a hockey stick if I had to.

“The woman you were with in the café on Friday. She told you she saw me with Leo.” He stood with his feet apart, hands in his pockets.

“You lied to me,” I said.

“No, I didn’t. I told you I didn’t see Leo the day he died. I didn’t. I went to see him the day before, not to threaten him but to offer him a security job. He turned me down.”

“Can you prove this?”

Elias nodded. “Leo turned me down but he suggested I hire one of his former grad students. I didn’t tell you that because we were still negotiating her contract, but now that it’s signed you and the police are welcome to talk to her. She’ll confirm that Leo called her about my offer.” He held out a piece of paper. “This is her name and her contact information.”

I put the piece of paper in my pocket. “Thank you,” I said. I hesitated. “I apologize for thinking the worst of you.”

He smiled. “No apology necessary. I admire your loyalty and your tenacity. If you ever want to make a career change, please call me.” He got back in his car and pulled out of the lot.

I headed for the front entrance. It seemed pretty clear that Elias wasn’t Leo’s killer. Was Marcus wrong about Celia Hunter, I wondered? Was I right? I didn’t know what to think. I was glad for the distraction working on the books would give me.

Several of the repairs were minor and I breezed quickly through the first six books. I realized that the seventh was going to need Abigail’s expertise. She’d taken a course on conservation and had been able to work on several of the old books in our reference section. That was where this book had come from. The stitching had come loose and several pages had fallen out. One page in particular seemed to have been sticking out beyond the book cover, unprotected by it, for some time. The edge was worn in several places and the paper was faded a lighter color about a quarter of an inch in from the edge the entire length of the page. I’d seen another page faded and damaged in the same way just recently. I should put that book aside for Abigail as well , I thought. I looked through the other books in the pile but I couldn’t find it. Maybe Susan or Mary would know? I’d ask them both on Monday. Mia, too.

Mia.

Simon.

That was all it took to make the connection. The page I was remembering wasn’t from a book, it was the second page of the letter Celia Hunter had shared with Simon. The outside edge of the paper had been faded and worn in exactly the same way as the book page in front of me. In the case of the book, the page had been loose and a small part of the edge had extended beyond the protection of the cover. So how had the second sheet of pink stationery gotten worn and faded?

I thought about it for a moment. Both sides of the envelope were worn almost through at the folds. If the two pages of the letter hadn’t been folded evenly then that edge of the second page would have been exposed to changes in temperature and humidity inside that dusty wall, unprotected by the first page of the letter and by the envelope worn thin along the crease. But why didn’t the first page of the letter show the same wear on the opposite edge of the page where that edge would have been exposed by an uneven fold of the pages?

Because there was a middle page, I realized. That wasn’t a two-page letter, it was a three-page letter. Celia had shown Simon his mother’s letter, she just hadn’t shown him all of it.

I didn’t stop to think whether it was a good idea or a bad idea; I closed up the workroom, got my purse and my jacket from my office and headed for the St. James Hotel to find Celia Hunter.

Sunday afternoons during the fall the St. James serves high tea in their dining room. That was where I found Celia. She was sitting at a table for two and I walked across the room as though I was supposed to be joining her, pulled out the second chair and sat down. She looked cool and elegant in a long purple heather sweater and black trousers.

“Hello, Celia,” I said.

“What do you want?” she asked.

Since she had skipped the social niceties and gotten right to the point, so did I. “I want to know what it says on the page of Meredith’s letter that you didn’t show us.”

The color drained from her face but it was the only sign that she was rattled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said stiffly.

I leaned back in my seat, crossing one leg over the other to fake a confidence I didn’t exactly feel. I had no way to make her show me the missing page of the letter.

At that moment a waiter made his way across to us. “Ms. Paulson, hi,” he said as he came level with the table.

“Hello, Levi,” I said, smiling at the teen. He was a voracious reader, in the library at least once and often twice a week.

“I’ll bring you a cup and a fresh pot,” he said, smiling back at me.

“Thank you,” I said.

Celia was far too polite to protest that I wasn’t her guest. Levi moved to a nearby sideboard and returned with a larger pot of tea, wrapped in an old-fashioned quilted cozy, and a china cup and saucer. “Let me know if you need anything else,” he said.

I poured myself a cup of tea and added a little milk and two lumps of sugar. My mouth was dry and getting the tea ready bought me a little more time to figure out what I was going to say next. I took a sip and looked at Celia across the table. “The letter you received from Meredith had three pages, not two. For some reason you didn’t want Simon—or, I’m guessing, Leo—to see what was written on the middle page.”