Софи Райан - A Whisker Оf Trouble

“I appreciate that,” I said. “Thank you.” This wasn’t the first time I’d hoped I’d have plausible deniability when it came to something the Angels were up to.

I looked both ways for traffic and then pulled out onto the street. When I stopped at the corner I held up my right hand, palm facing Rose. It only took a moment for her to get the significance. She high-fived me. I turned my arm and got a high five from Mr. P. as well.

“It’s not that I don’t love Nicolas,” Rose said, hands folded primly in her lap again. “It’s just that he seems to think because we’re old we’ve taken leave of our senses. I suppose it was wrong of me to spring the whole license thing on him.”

I shot her a quick glance. “Maybe just a little.” I took my hand off the steering wheel long enough to hold up my thumb and forefinger about half an inch apart. “He loves you, too,” I said. “That being said, I know that he can sometimes be a gigantic pain in the—”

Behind me Mr. P. cleared his throat.

“Neck,” I finished. I glanced in the rearview mirror and Mr. P. smiled approvingly at me.

“Would you like to join us for dinner, dear?” Rose asked.

A loud meow came from the backseat. The meat loaf from Charlotte was in a canvas bag on the seat next to Elvis.

“Thank you,” I said. “But as Elvis just pointed out, we have Charlotte’s meat loaf.”

“What are you having with it?” Rose asked.

“Ummm . . . ketchup probably.” I did a mental run-through of the contents of my refrigerator. “Or mustard.” I was pretty sure there was a half-empty bottle in the door.

Rose sighed softly. That was the wrong answer.

“And salad,” I added. There was at least one limp carrot and a couple of wrinkled grape tomatoes in the fridge, too. The two of them could be salad if I sprinkled a little of the fancy balsamic vinegar Liz had bought for me on top.

I pulled in to the driveway at home and Mr. P. climbed out and handed me the bag with Charlotte’s casserole dish of meat loaf. Elvis jumped out, his green eyes never leaving the bag. I unlocked the front door and gestured for Rose and Mr. P. to go ahead of me into the hall, but Alfred moved behind me and put a hand on the painted wood.

“Go ahead, my dear,” he said.

I smiled. “Thank you.” Mr. P. was what most people would consider an old-fashioned gentleman, and while I was perfectly capable of opening my own doors, jars and shrink-wrapped packages, I was charmed by his thoughtfulness.

I set the tote bag and my briefcase by my front door. “Have a good night, you two,” I said.

Rose reached up and patted my cheek. “You, too, dear.”

They headed down the short hallway to Rose’s apartment and I let myself and Elvis into my—our—place.

I’d owned the house for several years now. It was an eighteen sixties Victorian that had been divided into three apartments by a previous owner. The house had been an incredibly good deal, run-down but structurally sound and an easy walk to the harbor front. I’d been able to buy it before it went on the market, because the owner was interested in the tiny one-room cabin that I’d owned and that Jess and I had lived in and fixed up during our last year of college.

At first I’d told myself and everyone else that I’d bought the house as an investment. But the truth was, even though I hadn’t grown up here, North Harbor felt like home to me and deep down inside I guessed I’d always known it was where I’d end up.

My dad and my brother, Liam, had done almost all the work on my apartment and the one on the second floor where my grandmother had lived until she remarried and went off on an extended honeymoon cum road trip around the country. Mom, Jess and I had foraged through every thrift store and flea market within about sixty miles of North Harbor to furnish and decorate the place.

I’d been working slowly on the third small apartment at the back of the house for close to a year. It had been livable—it was where my parents or Liam stayed when they came to visit. When Rose had been asked to leave her apartment at Legacy Place, the seniors’ residence in the refurbished Gardener Chocolate Factory, I’d offered the little apartment to her and Mac had helped me get it ready.

I liked having Rose around. Once the snow had cleared, she and Alfred started working in the backyard. Mac had built a couple of planter boxes for them and I was looking forward to tomatoes and zucchini in late summer. I hadn’t realized just how much I missed my grandmother until Rose moved in. I liked knowing there was someone else in the big house, other than Elvis, who at the moment was at my feet looking impatiently up at me.

I set the bag with the meat loaf on the counter and held up one hand. “Five minutes,” I said to the cat. “And then we’ll eat.”

Elvis jumped up onto one of the stools, made a sound a lot like a sigh and sat, staring at the bag. I reached over and scratched the top of his head. “You’ll live,” I said.

I changed into leggings and a T-shirt and was retrieving the two tomatoes and the sad carrot from my fridge under the watchful gaze of the cat when there was a knock on the door. He looked at me and lifted one paw.

“No, no, you’re all comfortable. Let me get it,” I said.

He tipped his furry head to one side and almost seemed to smile at me. Sometimes I had the feeling that he did get sarcasm.

It was Mr. P. at the door holding a small bowl. “Rosie sent this,” he said. The dish was full of steaming rice with onions, mushrooms and some kind of leafy green.

“Let me guess,” I said, smiling at him. “She made too much food.”

“That is her story,” he said.

I took the bowl from him. “Tell her thank you and give her a kiss from me,” I said.

He smiled at me. “It would be my pleasure.” He headed back to Rose’s apartment and I realized that he was wearing her fuzzy slippers.

I warmed up a couple of slices of the meat loaf in the microwave and settled at the counter with my plate and the bowl of rice. Elvis hopped back up on the other stool and I fed him a couple of bites of the meat.

“So, did you know that Mr. P. was getting his investigator’s license?” I asked.

The cat stared at me for a moment and then licked his whiskers. I decided that could be a yes. Or a no. Or “more meat loaf.” I gave him another bite just in case it was the latter.

The Angels spent the next day doing what Rose called “background work.” That seemed to involve Mr. P. spending a lot of time on his computer using my Wi-Fi. I fervently hoped everything he was doing was legal.

“Would you like a ride home?” I asked Rose at the end of the day.

“Alfred and I were thinking about walking,” she said.

I leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Think about driving. It’s going to rain later. The walk might be a bit much for Mr. P.’s knees.” I’d noticed Rose rubbing her left hip earlier in the afternoon when she thought no one was looking. She’d never admit the damp weather was probably making it ache, but I knew she’d agree to driving with me if I couched it in terms of being good for Alfred.

“You’re right, dear,” she said with a smile. “His knees have been sounding a lot like someone deboning a turkey lately.”

Elvis sat in the back with Mr. P. and I could hear them having a murmured conversation all the way home. The cat didn’t have a lot to say, but he made a few agreeable murps from time to time.

Elvis jumped down from the backseat of the SUV as soon as Mr. P. opened the car door. He followed me inside, but instead of stopping at our apartment door he headed down the hall behind Rose and Alfred.

“Where are you going?” I said.

Mr. P. stopped and looked back at me. “I’m going to Rosie’s apartment,” he said. “Is that a problem?”