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“You mean like semaphore with accessories?” she said.

I laughed, picturing her spelling out “yes” or “no” in the air with the fringed ends of her scarf.

Michelle tipped her head to one side and regarded me, a smile starting at the corners of her mouth. “I’m not Nick. Your charm doesn’t work on me.”

I laughed. “Trust me. It doesn’t work on Nick, either.”

“Are you sure?” she said. “Because I saw him on his way out of the rink tonight. When I said I was looking for you, he wanted to know why. I thought he was going to start beating on his chest with his fists.”

I couldn’t help laughing even harder. “I think that has more to do with the fact that Nick thinks of me as family than with my so-called charm.”

Michelle rolled her eyes. “Of course.”

Below us the scrimmage seemed to be over. The players were gathering at the opposite end of the rink. “So how long have you been involved with the hot-lunch program?” Michelle asked.

“I took over from Gram when she went on her honeymoon.” Down on the ice the coach had the boys doing speed drills. “Sam and Lily and Glenn—plus a couple of restaurant owners—have done most of the work. Glenn bailed me out the other morning when Lily was . . .” I didn’t finish the sentence. I cleared my throat. “Have you heard whether or not Caroline is going to keep the bakery?”

“You mean is she going to sell to North by West for the development?”

“Actually, I didn’t, but do you think she will?”

Michelle shrugged. “I don’t know.”

I wondered if she thought Lily’s death had anything to do with her opposition to the North Landing project. I knew there was no point in asking.

Michelle reached for her jacket and pulled it on. I zipped up mine.

“Let’s get together sometime soon,” I said. “Sometime when we don’t have to talk about one of your cases.”

“I’d like that,” she said with a smile.

We hugged. It was still a little awkward, but it got less so every time I saw her.

Jeopardy! was just ending when I got home. Elvis was on his favorite chair in front of the television. I peeled off my running clothes and had a shower, letting the water work on my stiff shoulders for a moment. My brother had talked me into a low-flow showerhead that somehow used air to make the spray of water feel more intense. I had no idea how it worked. But I liked it for loosening my muscles after running.

The phone was ringing when I came out of the bathroom. I sprinted for it, doing a hurdle over Elvis, who was sprawled in the middle of the hallway.

“Don’t get up,” I called over my shoulder to him.

His response was to roll onto his back and paw the air like he was in some very slow-paced exercise class.

It was Sam. “Hey, kiddo,” he said. “Are you going to be there for the next fifteen minutes or so?”

“I’m going to be here for the rest of the night,” I said, grabbing a clean pair of socks from the bed and pulling them on my bare feet.

“Then is it okay if I stop in for a minute?”

“Sure.”

“See you in a few, then.”

I got dressed in leggings and a heavy sweatshirt and decided to throw a load of towels in the washer. It was closer to twenty minutes before Sam rang my bell. I opened the door to find him standing next to a tall, blanket-wrapped . . . something and Alfred Peterson.

“Hi,” I said. I pointed at the bundle. It was close to five feet high, the old wool blankets lashed together with elastic bungee cords. “What is that?” Elvis was peering around my ankles.

“It’s, uh . . .” Sam swiped a hand over his mouth. He was wearing a gray hand-knitted hat—probably made by Rose—and bits of his salt-and-pepper hair were poking out from underneath. He shrugged. “I don’t know what it is. I just loaded it and drove it here.”

Mr. P. leaned sideways and smiled at him. “Thank you, Sammy. I’ve got this.”

Sam pointed through the open doorway. “You want this inside?”

Mr. P. hesitated. “Well, if it’s not too much trouble,” he said.

Sam shook his head. Then he wrapped his arms around the blanket-wrapped . . . thing and muscled it into my living room, setting it in the middle of the floor. He put an arm around my shoulders and kissed the top of my head. “Enjoy, kiddo,” he said.

I closed the door behind him. “Alfred, what is this?” I asked, gesturing at the blanket-wrapped bundle that seemed to be taking up all the extra space in my living room.

“It’s a thank-you,” the elderly man said.

“For what?”

“For giving Rosie the apartment. For sharing your home with her.”

“You don’t have to thank me for that,” I said, wondering what on earth he’d done. “I love her. I don’t want her living somewhere that isn’t safe.”

“Yes, I do,” he said.

He was still bundled up in several layers against the cold. “Why don’t you take your coat off and have a seat?” I said.

“Just for a minute,” he said. “I’m meeting the boys for poker later.”

He pulled off his navy blue cap and unwound the long scarf from around his neck. I took them and his heavy woolen overcoat. Underneath he was wearing a bulky striped sweater and another, thinner scarf. He could have led an expedition to the North Pole and not been cold.

Mr. P. took a seat on the sofa, and Elvis immediately settled at his feet. “Sarah, did you know that I was married for fifty-two years?”

I sat down in the chair opposite him. “No. I didn’t,” I said.

“My wife’s name was Kate. She was beautiful and feisty—like Rose.” He smiled. “When she died, I thought I’d never meet anyone else I could love. I didn’t even want to. And then Rose came into my life.”

“She’s special,” I said.

“Yes, she is,” he agreed. “And stubborn. She didn’t want any of you to know she couldn’t find a place to live.” He reached down and stroked Elvis’s fur. “I’m very grateful for what you and Mac are doing—fixing the apartment and letting her live here.” He indicated his thank-you gift in the middle of the room. “Please, accept this as my way of saying thank you.”

I wasn’t quite sure what to do. “What is it?” I asked.

“Merow,” Elvis said.

“Elvis thinks you should see for yourself,” Mr. P. said. “I agree.”

“All right,” I said. I got to my feet, brushed off my hands and started removing the elastic bungee cords that were holding the two wool blankets in place. They fell to the floor, and for a moment I just stood there, speechless.

It was a cat tower. And not just any cat tower. It stood about five feet high with a sleek, curved S shape. At the top was a smooth, curved platform topped with a Berber carpet square. About a foot below that was another level, and there was a third underneath that, maybe three feet off the ground. On the bottom, on one side was a hidey-hole, about two feet square with a circular opening. It too was topped with a square of carpet. On the opposite side of the S curve, a rectangle of sisal had been attached, perfect for sharpening claws. All I could think was that it looked so elegant, not a word I would have used to describe a cat tower before this.

“Oh my word,” I whispered. I was speechless, something that rarely happened. I looked at Mr. P., my mouth hanging open.

“Mrrr,” Elvis said. He made his way across the floor and poked his head in the hidey-hole entrance.

“No, you can’t go in there,” I said.

Being a cat, he immediately decided that was exactly what he wanted to do and did.

“It’s okay, Sarah,” Mr. P. said. “It’s for Elvis.”

I shook my head. “It’s beautiful. It really is. But I can’t keep it. It’s way too expensive.”