Part 12 (1/2)

This time next year.

I'd been in Minnesota for almost a year now. That meant I had just over a year left on my contract. What if they wanted me to stay? Did I want to stay? When I left Boston it had been an impulsive decision.

Andrew had married someone else. Granted, there had been a large amount of alcohol involved, but as far as I was concerned, his being married, even if it was to somebody he'd known for just two weeks, meant I wasn't going to be with him anymore.

And while I loved my mom and my dad, and Ethan, my brother, and Sara, they'd always been impetuous and unpredictable. Someone had had to be sensible and practical. Someone had had to make sure there was milk and toilet paper. Someone had had to know how to fill out the myriad of papers in the emergency room. And get supper, even if it was only peanut b.u.t.terand-banana sandwiches.

That someone had been me for as long as I could remember. Me, when it was just Mom and Dad and me. Me, when they got divorced and I alternated weeks between them. Me, when they got married again because they couldn't leave each other alone, which is why Ethan and Sara were guests, so to speak, at the wedding.

Coming to Mayville had really been running away. I hadn't expected to make friends. In Boston everyone just a.s.sumed that I'd be back when my two-year contract was over.

I tried to imagine not sitting in Eric's with Maggie and Roma, not going to tai chi-I was so close to mastering the complete form-and not walking across the backyard to have iced tea with Rebecca in her gazebo.

And what about Owen and Hercules? Could I take them back to Boston? I tried to picture them in an apartment in the city. Owen, who fancied himself a hunter-the birds had never been safer-would hate it. And how would I get Hercules to stay inside?

I couldn't leave my cats behind. They wouldn't let anyone but me touch them. Well, other than Agatha, who was dead, and Old Harry, who was supposed to be, according to the gossip around town.

And how would I explain to anyone-Roma, Maggie, anyone-about the cats? Roma said they were special, but she meant because of the way they'd attached themselves to me.

As much as I missed watching my parents prepare for a production, or seeing what Ethan had done to his hair, or going to one of Lise's dinner parties, I wasn't sure I wanted to go back to Boston.

That was a surprise.

Something in the hallway caught my eye. Owen was just pa.s.sing the bedroom door with the funky chicken's decapitated head in his mouth and a blissful look on his face. I couldn't be sure, but he didn't seem to be walking in a straight line. Owen was a little catnip junkie, no matter what Roma said.

I looked at my watch. I had enough time to get the slow cooker started and get to the library early.

I got supper simmering, quickly cleaned up, and hustled back upstairs to get ready for work.

”I'm leaving,” I called, pulling on my coat. From somewhere in the house I heard a faint meow-Owen. Then in a moment Hercules appeared. ”I'll see you later,” I said. He gave me a soft ”murp” and disappeared back into the living room.

I pulled on my boots and hat and grabbed my bag. I was locking the door when I realized I hadn't packed a lunch. I looked at my watch. It would be faster to walk down to Eric's Place and get a sandwich than to go back inside and make something. And yes, maybe I would get some of the latest talk about Agatha Shepherd's death, too.

I was three houses down the hill when Harry Junior's truck drove past me, slowed and stopped. He rolled down his window. ”Hey, Kathleen, would you like a drive down the hill?” he called.

The sun was bright, but with the wind, it wasn't very warm out. ”Yes,” I said.

”Hop in, then,” he said. He rolled the window back up.

I waited for a minivan to pa.s.s in the other direction, then scooted across the street and climbed into Harry's truck. It may have been well used, but Harry took care of the old Ford and the heat was blasting like I was sitting in front of a stoked woodstove.

”Thank you so much,” I said, reaching for the seat belt.

”You're welcome.” He put the truck in gear, checking the mirrors before he pulled into the street.

I leaned back against the turquoise vinyl seat and let the heat soak through my coat. ”I have to buy a car.”

”Is there a reason you haven't?”

”Pretty much laziness,” I said with a laugh. ”I sold my car in Boston, intending to buy one when I got here.” I held my hands up to the heating vent. ”But it was easy to walk everywhere and, well, you know what they say about good intentions.”

Harry smiled. ”That I do.”

”Are you going to the Winterfest supper tonight?” I asked.

”Absolutely,” he said. ”The old man hasn't missed a Winterfest supper in”-he paused for a second-”well, ever, except for when he was overseas. As long as he's got a pulse he's going to be there.”

”I hope that's a long time,” I said.

”Me, too,” Harry said. He opened his mouth as though he was going to say something else, but he didn't.

I waited without saying anything myself. Harry would get to whatever it was in his own time.

”Are you headed for the library?” he asked as we got to the bottom of the hill.

”I'm going over to Eric's to get something for lunch,” I said. ”But here is fine. Anywhere is fine.”

”I'm going to the bookstore.” Harry put on his turn signal. ”It's only one door down.”

”Okay,” I said. The truck was so cozy and warm that I was happy to stay in my seat for a few more blocks.

”Have you heard anything about Agatha Shepherd's death?” Harry asked.

I looked at him, but he kept his gaze fixed on the road. His tone was almost too offhand. It occurred to me that maybe it wasn't just chance that Harry had been driving by just as I was walking downtown. ”I was at Wisteria Hill this morning with Detective Gordon,” I said. ”He said the autopsy was this morning. That's it.”

Harry sighed. ”Kathleen, I'm worried about the old man.”

I could see the tightness in his face. ”They were friends.”

”They were,” Harry said quietly. We were at a stop sign with no other cars behind us. He turned to me. ”They stopped speaking a long time ago.”

I struggled for a moment. I didn't want to break the old man's confidence, but it was clear Harry knew something had happened to his father and Agatha's friends.h.i.+p. ”He said they had a falling-out,” I said finally.

Harry nodded. ”He likes you,” he said, turning down toward the water.

”I like him.”

He pulled into an empty parking spot just a couple of s.p.a.ces down from the cafe and put the truck in park, but stared out through the winds.h.i.+eld for a moment before he said anything more. ”Kathleen, he had some kind of argument with Agatha the other night, didn't he?”

I undid my seat belt to delay answering his question for a moment. ”They had a conversation about something. It was very short. Your father was upset, although he tried to hide it. How did you know?”

He held out his hand, turned it over and studied his palm before he answered. ”He wasn't himself, even before he heard about Agatha. And Detective Gordon came to talk to him last night.” He let out a breath.

”Dad wouldn't tell me what the detective wanted, but he said something about saying things in anger that you can't take back. I figured it had to be Agatha. It was pretty clear you two hadn't argued about anything.”

I reached over and touched his arm. ”Whatever they were discussing had nothing to do with her death.” I gestured to the cafe with my free hand. ”She had a disagreement with Eric right before she saw your father. People argue, Harry. It doesn't always mean anything.”