Part 8 (1/2)

I promised I'd get the paperwork to her teacher by the end of the day. I had nothing but positive things to say about her and the work-study program. Kate worked hard, showed up early and was great with the little ones who came to story time. She'd even persuaded me to let her put a camera in the library storage room to shoot pictures of the riverfront for a school art project.

I covered the front desk while Abigail took her lunch, checking out piles of picture books for the four-year-olds who had been at story time. Susan came in about twelve thirty. When she caught sight of me at the desk, for a second she looked . . . guilty? This was the first time she'd missed work, except for a day in the fall when both of the twins had fallen out of the same tree on the same day.

”I'm sorry about this morning,” she said, standing in front of the desk, twisting her wedding ring around her finger.

”That's okay,” I said, smiling so she'd see I meant it. ”How's Eric?”

”Eric?” She swallowed a couple of times. ”Oh, he's-he's fine. This didn't have anything to do with him.” She made an elaborate shrug. ”The twins . . . They ate something they shouldn't have.”

”Oh,” I said. ”Do you want to take the rest of the day? Mary's here and I could get her to stay.”

Susan shook her head, which her set her topknot bobbing. Usually Susan had something stuck in it-a chopstick, a pencil, a swizzle stick-but today it looked as if she'd just grabbed an elastic and quickly piled her hair on her head. A few curls were loose around her face.

”It's okay, really. The boys are good.” She smiled, but it was forced. ”You know how kids are, projectile vomiting one minute and then tearing up the house the next.”

She hesitated for a second. I'd never seen her so fidgety. ”So I'll just get rid of my stuff,” she said. ”Do you want me to put the new magazines out?”

”Please,” I said. ”They're in the workroom.”

”Okay.”

I watched her head up the stairs, wondering what was really wrong. Something was making her jumpy and evasive. When she'd been talking to me her eyes kept slipping off my face, and her story about the twins having eaten something that made them sick sounded fishy.

Claire had said that Eric hadn't come into the restaurant because he'd broken a tooth. Was that true, or was it something else that had Susan acting funny?

Susan was generally sunny and kind of snarky. Eric, in contrast, was serious and intense. I liked them both and hoped things were okay between them.

It occurred to me then that Susan hadn't said a word about Agatha Shepherd. The alley extended behind the restaurant and on behind the next building. Someone had to have called Eric at home to let him know what happened. Maybe that's why Susan didn't seem like herself. Claire had said Eric sometimes let Agatha sleep in the back of the restaurant. Maybe Susan felt bad. Maybe Eric felt guilty for Agatha being in the alley in the first place.

Abigail came through the door then, snow coating her shoulders and scarf. She stamped her feet on the mat and some of the snow fell off. ”It's snowing,” she said. ”Again.” She glanced back over her shoulder. ”It's never going to stop, you know.” She looked at me again. ”I quit, Kathleen. I'm going to move to some island where I don't have to put on four layers of clothing before I go outside.”

She grabbed the front of her parka and shook it at me. ”I'm a whole person smaller underneath all of this.”

”I can see that,” I said.

”I'm going somewhere where I can wear a gra.s.s skirt and a coconut bra,” she continued, kicking the last of the snow off her feet.

”Sounds itchy,” I said.

She shot me a withering look and headed for the stairs. ”I got splashed twice-twice-on my way back. What is it about snow that makes people behave like such jerks?”

It was pretty clear that was a rhetorical question, so I didn't say a word as she clomped up the steps. From what I'd seen it wasn't bad weather that made people behave badly; they could do that no matter what it was like outside.

7.

It snowed on and off all afternoon. It was off when Abigail and I came out of the library at just after five o'clock. She gave me a ride up the hill in her truck. With its oversized k.n.o.bby tires that truck probably could have driven up out of the bottom of the Grand Canyon. I made a mental note that when I bought a vehicle, I would get tires like that. Whatever the heck they were.

Hercules came into the kitchen as I was hanging up my coat. He twisted around my legs, and I bent to pick him up. ”Where's your brother,” I asked, scratching behind his ear. ”He'd better not be sleeping on the footstool. How many times have I told him to stay off it?”

Hercules was suddenly engrossed in something over my left shoulder. I headed for the living room, still carrying the cat, who made garbled noises in his throat like he was trying to clear it.

We found Owen sitting on the rug beside the aforementioned footstool, all round-eyed cat innocence. ”I know where you were,” I said.

He looked at the footstool and then back to me, the picture of kitty bafflement.

”And you,” I said to Hercules. ”I'm not fooled by that hacking-up-a-fur-ball routine you were doing.” I gave him one last scratch before setting him on the rug. Then I bent down to Owen. ”Stay off the footstool,” I hissed.

He licked my chin.

Both cats trailed me while I changed my clothes and heated a bowl of chicken soup I'd made over the weekend. I told them about Agatha, about Ruby, about Harry Taylor. Saying it all out loud helped me sort out things in my mind.

I fished chunks of chicken and carrot out of the pot and shared them with the cats. After I'd eaten about half my soup, I set down my spoon and leaned my elbows on the table. Owen immediately looked up from the piece of chicken he was suspiciously sniffing.

”There's something off about what happened to Agatha,” I said. Herc looked up from his dish. ”Marcus wouldn't say so, but she didn't have another stroke.” Owen's ears twitched. ”Yes, he has the case, a.s.suming there is a case.”

Marcus had been at my house several times last summer. He'd tried to win over the cats-at least Owen. Hercules had pretty much ignored Marcus, but Owen, who could be bought for a handful of kitty treats, had been friendly-well, at least as friendly as he got.

I picked up my spoon again. The cats exchanged looks. Sometimes I thought they were in cahoots with Maggie and her efforts to play matchmaker. I reminded myself that they were just cats.

I scooped up a spoonful of noodles. ”All right, I admit he's a good police officer, but he's a frustrating person.” What I didn't say was that I'd enjoyed the times during the summer that we'd ended up having breakfast together. Marcus could be funny and charming when he wasn't being RoboCop. If he wasn't a police officer maybe we could be better friends.

I ate the rest of my soup while Owen and Hercules finished their chicken and carrots, exchanging glances and soft cat mumbles.

”I'm in the room and I can hear you talking about me,” I said. That didn't get any reaction. I talked to the cats like they were people, not that I would admit that to anyone. I didn't want to be known as the Crazy Cat Librarian. Part of it was probably living by myself-well, living by myself except for Owen and Hercules. And part of it was the fact that they weren't exactly run-of-the-mill house cats.

They'd helped me figure out what had happened to Gregor Easton last summer. And when the house was broken into, Hercules had gone for help while Owen had helped me knock out the intruder. How exactly could I explain that to anyone without coming across as though I were a few kitty treats short of a batch?

”Okay,” I said, getting up to put my dishes in the sink. ”Since you like Marcus so much, you'll be happy to hear I'm going out to Wisteria Hill with him in the morning.”

Hercules, who had finished eating, walked by me without making a sound, although he did flick his tail at my leg.

”Don't get too excited,” I called after him. ”It doesn't mean I'm going to go out with the guy.” He flicked his tail at me again and disappeared into the living room.

It was snowing lightly as I walked down to tai chi. I rubbed my wrist through the sleeve of my quilted coat. So far it was a better forecaster than the meteorologist on Channel 2, who had predicted clear skies and suns.h.i.+ne through Sat.u.r.day.

Rebecca was at the top of the stairs outside the studio, changing her boots for shoes, when I got to cla.s.s. Rebecca was my backyard neighbor, although several feet of snow on the ground meant we couldn't cut across each other's yards right now, so I didn't get to see her as much as I usually did. She smiled and hugged me. I dwarfed her in my huge coat.

”Kathleen, it's so good to see you,” she said, standing back to give me the once-over. She'd been out of town and had missed the last two tai chi cla.s.ses.

”How was your trip?” I asked.

”Wonderful.” Her smile got even bigger. ”I almost came home with green hair.”

I leaned back and pretended to consider it. ”Nah,” I said, shaking my head. ”I think blue is more your color.”

She laughed.