Софи Райан: Buy А Whisker

Sometimes it felt as though Mac could read my mind. This was one of those times. I dipped my head ever so slightly in Rose’s direction. Mac gave me an almost imperceptible nod in answer to my unspoken question.

Rose and Liz were still arguing. I came up behind them and wrapped my arms around Rose’s shoulders. “Come live with me,” I said. “Mac will get the apartment ready, and since we won’t be living in the same space, you won’t have to put a pillow over my face in the middle of the night.”

“I can’t,” she said. “You’re young. I’ll cramp your style.”

I laughed until I realized she was serious. Then I gave her a hug. “Rose, I don’t have a style. I work. I run. I go home. Say yes. Please. It’ll get Liz off your case, and it will put my mind at ease.”

She hesitated. “All right. Yes.”

Charlotte and Liz beamed. Avery cheered. Even Elvis gave an enthusiastic meow.

I glanced back at Mac, who smiled at me as well.

It really was the best solution. And really, what could go wrong?

You’d think I’d know better than to ask that question.

Chapter 3

Liz came back just before five to pick up Avery. It had turned out to be a busy afternoon, not Canadian skiers this time, though. We’d had a busload of Japanese tourists on a snow tour through New England. They’d taken great delight in posing for pictures next to the snowbanks in the parking lot, and they’d bought every refurbished quilt and vintage tablecloth in the shop.

Avery was vacuuming and Rose was out back with Mac. I walked over to Liz, put both hands on her shoulders and rested my chin on them. She smelled like lavender talc.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” she asked.

I knew she meant letting Rose have the apartment.

“I’m sure,” I said.

“I’ll pay for whatever you need to get the place ready.”

“No, you won’t,” I said. “I already have everything. Liam got me a great set of kitchen cabinets for a song from a rehab he did. They were only a year old and they’re just like new. Mac’s going to do the work, and we’ll work out some kind of compensation.”

My brother, Liam—who, strictly speaking, was my stepbrother; our parents had married when we were little—was a building contractor. He was very involved in the small-house movement.

“I think you’re going to have to be creative about that,” Liz said.

I nodded, making my chin bounce against my interlaced fingers. “I know. So thank you for the offer, but I have it all covered.”

“You’re a stubborn child,” Liz said. She turned her head and narrowed her eyes at me, but I could hear the affection in her voice.

I stretched forward and kissed her cheek before I dropped my hands and straightened up. “That’s because I spent my formative years with all of you.”

“Well, at least let me take you out to Sam’s for supper,” Liz said. “Avery is going over to Rose’s to bake.” Unlike Liz, Rose loved to cook. Not only was she teaching Avery to bake, but she was trying to teach me some basic cooking skills. So far Avery was the better student.

Supper with Liz or my specialty, a scrambled-egg sandwich with the two cardboard tomatoes from my fridge. It was an easy choice.

“Okay,” I said.

We agreed on a time, and I went to cash out.

Liz left with Rose and Avery.

“Would you like a ride?” I asked Mac.

“I’m good,” he said, pulling up the hood of his parka. He gestured at the large chandelier that was sitting on a tarp in front of a section of shelving. “What do you think? It’s pretty much cleaned up.”

The chandelier was cast bronze, an Art Deco–style from the 1920s, according to my research. The circular body of the light was about two feet across, with a cutwork design of four phoenixes rising from the ashes. Behind the cutwork was a red glass shade. We’d bought it from a department store in Portland that was closing. And Jon West had expressed interest in buying it. If the harbor-front project went ahead, the beautiful old light could end up in the lobby of the proposed hotel.

I walked over for a closer look. “Oh, Mac, it looks good,” I said. What I’d been afraid was patina caused by aging had turned out to be just dust and grime. Now that both the metal and the glass were clean, the beauty of the light was even more apparent.

“Glad you like it,” he said. “We should be able to turn a decent profit. And you might want to thank Avery. She spent a lot of time working on that glass shade with a toothbrush.”

“I will,” I said.

I locked up my office, and when I came back downstairs, I found Elvis was sitting by the back door, waiting for me.

“Looks like it’s just you and me,” I said. I opened the door, and he stuck his furry black nose outside and promptly sat down.

“Let’s go,” I urged.

He looked up at me and meowed.

I knew what he wanted. “You can walk,” I said.

He craned his neck around the door for another look at the parking lot. Then he looked at me again, tipping his head to one side so I couldn’t miss the ropy diagonal scar that cut across his nose.

“Just because you have that battle scar doesn’t mean I should carry you,” I said.

The vet had no idea how Elvis had gotten his war wound. “I’ll bet you the other guy looked worse, though,” he’d said.

Elvis was still watching me. He didn’t even twitch a whisker.

I pulled on my gloves. “Anyway, I can’t carry you. I already have a load.” In addition to my purse, I had a large tote bag full of table runners that I was hoping my homemade stain fighter would work on.

Elvis got up, walked over to the canvas carryall and put a paw on top.

“No. You can’t ride in there. I don’t want cat hair all over those runners.”

He dipped his head, licked his chest several times and then shot me an expectant look.

I blew out an exasperated breath. I was arguing with a cat. A cat! And who was I kidding? He was winning.

I’d had Elvis for the past seven months. He’d just appeared one day, down along the harbor, mooching from several different businesses, including The Black Bear. He had shown up at the pub about every third day for a couple of weeks. No one seemed to know who owned the cat. That scar on his nose wasn’t new; neither were a couple of others on his back, hidden by his fur. Sam had managed to con me into taking the cat. I was pretty sure Elvis had been in on the scam, too.

He was very social, I’d discovered. He’d quickly made himself at home in the shop, charming customers who could easily get distracted by his war wounds and end up spending more than they’d intended. I’d quickly realized that Elvis’s skill at sales wasn’t his only ability. Strange as it sounds, he had an uncanny knack for figuring out when someone was lying. When someone was stroking his fur, if they were not being completely honest about whatever they happened to be talking about, he somehow knew, the knowledge evident in the disdainful expression on his furry face.

Mac had pointed out that researchers had discovered dogs had a part of their brains devoted to decoding emotions in people’s voices, so why couldn’t Elvis decode lies from the truth? Jess’s theory was that Elvis was the feline version of a polygraph. Somehow he was responding to changes in a person’s heartbeat, breathing and skin. It was as good an explanation as any. The problem was the kitty lie detector acted as one only when it suited him.

I slid the strap of my purse over one shoulder, put the tote bag over the other and bent down to pick him up. “This doesn’t mean you’ve won,” I said. “It just means I don’t want to stand here all night.”

“Murr,” he said. He looked up at me, a guileless look in his green eyes. We both knew who had won.