Part 9 (2/2)

”Very,” Mary said. ”She couldn't abide gossip.” The smile turned to a grin. ”But since Gran is gone, tell me if there's any truth to what I heard about Roma.”

”What did you hear about Roma?”

Mary looked around and leaned toward me. ”I heard from more than one person that she's seeing someone.”

”Someone? You mean a man?”

”No, I mean a grizzly bear,” she shot back with exasperation. ”Yes, a man.”

”Nope.”

”You sure?”

”Positive.”

Mary looked disappointed.

I tugged my hat down over my ears and pulled on my mittens again. ”Since you don't need me, I'm heading home. I'll see you tomorrow.”

”Good night,” Mary said. The phone rang then and she reached for it.

I put the strap of my bag over my shoulder and headed out. Peter Lundgren was just coming across the parking lot, a couple of library books under his arm. I'd always found him a little imposing when we'd talked in the library. He was a large man who seemed to fill whatever s.p.a.ce he was in. But I remembered how carefully he'd walked Agatha over to the counter at Eric's, and I smiled at him as we both got to the bottom of the steps. He nodded and started to move past me. I reached over and touched his arm.

”Excuse me, Peter,” I said. ”Could you tell me if there are any plans yet for a service for Agatha Shepherd?”

He brushed a few flakes of snow off the top of his sandy hair. He wore it long, almost to his shoulders, a kind of rebel-lawyer look. ”I can tell you that there will be some sort of memorial service once her son is back in the country. David wants to plan that himself.”

I nodded.

”There should be something in the paper next week.”

”Thank you,” I said. He was already halfway up the stairs, so I wasn't sure he'd even heard me.

It was snowing lightly, tiny flakes reflected in the pinkish glow of the streetlights like little stars. I started up Mountain Road. The street looked more like a stage set, a picture-perfect town in a picture-perfect scene. Perfect always made me a little antsy.

I couldn't help it. Because of my parents' acting, I'd spent a lot of time in theaters big and not so big. I knew about subterfuge and illusion. I knew things are rarely as they appear on the surface. Other kids had parents that taught them how to ride a bike, manage money or do long division. Not mine.

What I got from my mother and father was the ability to separate fakery from reality, to spot the truth in a sea of fallacy. And that was why I felt so unsettled. No matter what everyone thought and no matter what Marcus Gordon wasn't saying, Agatha Shepherd hadn't died from natural causes.

Something bad had happened.

I just knew it.

8.

I was dressed and ready with my thermos of hot chocolate when Marcus pulled into my driveway in the morning. It was a clear morning, sharp and biting cold, and the sun seemed far away in the cloudless sky. Hercules sat on the bench, looking out the porch window.

I picked up the stainless-steel thermos sitting on the bench beside him and gave him a quick scratch just above his nose. ”Stay out of trouble,” I told him. ”I won't be long.”

He turned back to the window. He liked winter as long as he was only looking at it. It was almost as cold in the porch as it was outside, but I knew Hercules had his own way to get in the house again when he got cold.

I locked the door and headed around the house to the driveway. Marcus was just getting out of his SUV. He wore a blue parka with the hood thrown back, black snow pants, and lace-up boots. His cheeks were red from the cold. Okay, so Maggie was right. He was cute. His blue eyes flicked over my old brown quilted coat and insulated pants, and for a second I had the ridiculously childish urge to strike a model's pose, hands on my hips and feet apart, with a vaguely haughty look on my face. But I didn't. I kept the fantasy to myself and smiled at him instead.

”Good morning.”

He smiled back. ”Good morning.”

I walked around the front of the car and got in the pa.s.senger's side. As I fastened my seat belt, I took the opportunity to quickly check out the SUV. It was clean. Not no-cardboard-coffee-cups-on-the-floor-or-junk-on-the-backseat clean. It was how-the-heck-can-he-be-so-clean-in-the-middle-of-winter? clean. The only thing on the backseat was an old gray blanket. The dashboard in front of me was s.h.i.+ning-no smudges, no dust, no fingerprints. There was no mug of half-finished coffee in the cup holder.

I clicked my seat belt into place and then set the thermos at my feet. The floor mats looked like they'd just come from the dealer. Okay, so it seemed as though Marcus Gordon was a bit of a clean freak, at least with respect to his personal vehicle. Being a fairly tidy person myself, I couldn't exactly see that as a flaw. I wasn't going to tell Maggie about this. She'd see the clean-car thing as another karmic sign that Marcus and I were soul mates.

He backed out of the driveway and started up the hill. The overnight snow had been plowed and there was sand on the road. As we drove past the road to Oren's place, I made a mental note to talk to him about which pieces of his father's artwork I wanted to display in the library for the centennial celebrations. I still had to figure out how to get the ma.s.sive metal sculptures from his workshop to the library. I was hoping Harry Taylor would have some ideas on that.

”You're somewhere else,” Marcus said.

I turned from the window to look at him. ”Excuse me?”

”You were thinking about something else,” he said, shooting me a quick glance.

”The library centennial.”

”End of May?” he asked, putting on his left turn signal to pull onto the road to Wisteria Hill.

”Close,” I said. ”End of June. That's the one hundredth anniversary of the original construction being completed.”

There was a break in the line of pa.s.sing cars, and we pulled onto the road. The rear wheels spun for a second on an icy patch and then found traction.

”Are you staying?” Marcus asked.

I'd forgotten that the conversation could take some quick detours with him. I had the feeling sometimes that his mind was three steps ahead of everyone else's. Thank goodness he didn't drive the way he talked.

”I have another year on my contract.”

The car in front of us slowed and so did we. Marcus took the opportunity to look directly at me for a moment. ”No, I meant are you going to stay beyond that, or are you going back to Boston when your contract is up?”

”I don't know.” I adjusted the shoulder belt so it wasn't pus.h.i.+ng the hood of my coat against my neck.

That was the truth. I didn't know if I wanted to stay in Mayville or even in Minnesota. I also didn't know if I'd be offered the chance. There was always the possibility that the library board would smile politely, shake my hand, thank me for my service and send me on my way.

And did I want to stay? The decision to apply for the two-year job supervising the upgrade of the library and organizing its centennial had been an impulsive one. Probably the most impulsive choice of my life.

Except it wasn't spontaneous; it was mostly running away, from Andrew-him marrying that waitress had pretty much ended our relations.h.i.+p-and from my wildly unpredictable family, who'd come to expect I'd always be the dependable, responsible one.

<script>