Софи Райан - A Whisker Оf Trouble

I shook my head. “I’m sorry. I was talking to Elvis, not you.”

At the sound of his name the black cat looked toward the door to Rose’s small apartment, then turned to look back at me—almost as though he was saying that he was going to Rose’s apartment as well.

Rose was already at her door, fishing for her keys in her voluminous tote bag. “Elvis is having dinner with us,” she said. “I invited him.”

“You invited my cat to dinner?”

“Yes,” she said. “It’s Thursday,” as though that explained everything, which it didn’t.

“Is Thursday Invite a Cat to Dinner Day?” I asked.

Rose crinkled her nose at me. “Don’t get saucy with me, young lady. Aren’t you going to Sam’s for Thursday Night Jam?”

By Sam’s she meant The Black Bear Pub owned by Sam Newman. Sam was like a second father to me. On Thursday nights his band, The Hairy Bananas, played, and anyone and everyone was welcome to sit in. Most Thursdays Jess and I were in the audience.

“Yes,” I said.

“Well, Elvis was going to be all by himself.” Rose looked at me as though the rest was self-explanatory.

I could have pointed out that we were talking about a cat, but half the time the cat in question seemed to think he was a person anyway, and I knew if I tried to argue the point with Rose I’d be late meeting Jess.

“Okay,” I said.

“I’ll just let him in to your apartment when he’s ready to come home, if that’s all right,” she said.

I nodded. “That’s fine.”

Liz had told me that I was out of my mind for giving Rose a spare key to my apartment, but Rose hadn’t abused the privilege so far. Then again, I had her key and I was careful not to abuse that privilege, either. Seeing Mr. P. in her fuzzy slippers was all the information that I needed to have about Rose’s private life.

Jess was at a table to the left of the stage when I got to the pub. She was wearing jeans and a plaid shirt with her long hair loose on her shoulders. Instead of bringing our usual basket of nachos, a waiter slid a bowl of Sam’s chili in front of me as soon as I sat down. Jess was working on a plate of fries and an egg over easy.

“How did you know I didn’t have supper?” I asked, snagging a french fry and dipping it in my chili before eating it.

Jess pressed two fingers to her right temple and squinted at me. “I’m getting an image of a dark, empty place. It’s very cold . . . it looks like . . . the inside of your refrigerator!” She grinned at me, blue eyes sparkling.

I made a face at her. “What do I owe you?”

“You can get us some nachos at intermission.” She looked around. “Is Nick coming?”

My mouth was full, so I shook my head.

“Still got his knickers in a knot over being bested by Rose and her crew of supersleuths?”

“It wasn’t like that.”

Jess raised an eyebrow.

I set my spoon down and gave her my full attention. “C’mon, Jess. Charlotte’s his mother and Rose and Liz are like family. He doesn’t want anything to happen to them, so no, he doesn’t like the idea of them playing detective.”

“From what I’ve seen they’re not playing detective. They’re actually pretty good at it.” She speared a forkful of egg and two french fries and dipped the whole thing in ketchup. “So are you, for that matter.”

“No, no, no,” I said, shaking my head. “I am not getting involved in another one of their cases. Not going to happen.”

“Famous last words,” Jess said, blue eyes sparkling.

“Not-going-to-be-changing last words,” I said firmly.

She laughed and we ate in silence for a couple of minutes. “He seemed like a nice man, you know,” she said as I reached over to swipe another french fry from her plate before they were all gone.

I gave her a blank look. “Who seemed like a nice man?”

“Ronan Quinn.”

“Wait a minute. You knew him?” I said. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that there were almost no empty chairs now in the pub.

“I didn’t know him, but I did talk to him. I was buying a bottle of wine for Josh. He helped me get that problem with the streetlight outside the shop fixed.”

Josh was Josh Evans, a lawyer I’d known since we were kids. He’d helped the Angels more than once.

“And?” I prompted.

Jess shrugged. “And I know nothing about wine. I was standing there holding a bottle wondering how to tell if it was any good. Quinn was behind me. He said, ‘Don’t buy that.’ I asked him why. He said wine was his area of expertise. It didn’t seem as though he was trying to hit on me, so I got the bottle he suggested.”

“When was this?”

“Last Monday afternoon, sometime just after four o’clock.” Before I could say anything she held up a finger. “Yes, I know that’s the day before he was killed and yes, when I saw his photo in the Globe this morning I called Michelle and told her.”

“She’s probably trying to put a timeline together,” I said. Jess talking to Ronan Quinn confirmed what Ethan had said, that he and Quinn had left the house together the day before the murder.

Jess picked up her cell phone, which had been sitting on the table next to her now-empty plate. “I have a voice mail from Rose. She asked me to call her.”

I couldn’t help laughing. “How does she do that?” I said. Actually I was pretty sure that Rose had gotten her information via a certain geriatric computer whiz.

“You think Rose knows I saw Mr. Quinn just before he died.”

“I can promise you she does.” I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “And it doesn’t matter because I’m staying out of it.”

The crowd began to clap and cheer as Sam and the rest of the band came from the back of the pub and made their way to the same stage. Jess smirked and said something that got lost in the noise. I was pretty sure she’d said “famous last words” again.

Elvis and I left the house early the next morning. I’d found him asleep at the top of his cat tower when I got home. Rose wasn’t due in until lunchtime. I had no idea what time Mr. P. had left or if he even had. It was none of my business and since they were consenting adults and then some, I didn’t want to know.

Elvis sat on the passenger seat watching the road. The cat was a backseat driver no matter where he was sitting, turning to look over his shoulder when I backed up and intently watching the lights when we were stopped. He’d even protested loudly when I ran a yellow light, much to the amusement of Jess, who’d been in the passenger seat that day.

We stopped at McNamara’s Sandwich Shop to pick up the rolls for the elementary school’s hot lunch program. Glenn McNamara was in the kitchen stirring a huge pot of soup. “Banana muffins just came out of the oven,” he said, dipping his head in the direction of two wire racks on the long stainless steel counter. “Try one and tell me what you think.”

I picked up a muffin, broke off a bite and popped it in my mouth. “Oh, that’s good,” I said after a moment. “Do I taste walnuts? And nutmeg, maybe?” As part of my cooking lessons, Rose was teaching me about spices and herbs.

Glenn grinned and nodded. “Very good. I was getting tired of the same old thing, so I wanted to change it up just a little.”

“I’d buy them,” I said, breaking off another piece. “And what do I owe you for this one?”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, moving to the large sink to wash his hands. “I needed a taste tester.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“I heard you found a little more than you bargained for when you went to clear out Edison Hall’s house,” he said, reaching for a paper towel to dry his hands. “He was a nice guy, Quinn, I mean.”