Buy a Whisker (10 page)

There were maybe a dozen people watching the boys' high school hockey team scrimmage. Michelle and I took seats in the top row of one of the end sections. She unzipped her jacket and stuffed her gloves in her pockets. In her cream cable-knit sweater with her hair pulled back in a high ponytail, she looked so much like the teenage girl she used to be.

“I know you've gone through it more than once,” she said, “but please, tell me again about Liz and Lily in front of the bakery. Did you see anyone? Did anyone stop on the sidewalk or come out of a store?”

I told the story again, noticing that she seemed to be particularly interested in who might have seen
the confrontation. Was that a good thing? Was she looking for witnesses to corroborate our story?

I shifted sideways in my seat. “Michelle, I'm not trying to tell you how to do your job, but you're looking in the wrong place if you think that Liz had anything to do with Lily's death.”

“I know,” she said.

“You know?”

She nodded. “Yes.” Her phone buzzed then. She held up a finger and retrieved the phone from her pocket. After glancing at the screen, she put it back and smiled at me. “Sorry,” she said.

“How do you know?”

“Her neighbor across the street is a techie. He has a security system with cameras mounted outside his house.” She held up her right thumb and finger about an inch and a half apart. “Tiny little things. They scan the yard and the street every thirty seconds. A little weird if you ask me, but perfectly legal. They caught Liz coming and going, and she wasn't gone long enough to get to the bakery and kill Lily.”

I felt the last of the tension I hadn't really been able to run out drain from my body. “I'm really glad to hear that,” I said. “Thanks for telling me.”

Michelle smiled. “You're welcome.”

I let out a sigh of relief. Liz was off the hook, and I didn't need to have that conversation about the
phone call she'd made to Lily that I wasn't even supposed to know about.

“Sarah, you probably have more influence with Liz than pretty much anyone,” Michelle said, the smile fading. “Could you remind her what a bad idea it is to keep things from the police—anytime—but especially in a case like this?”

“What do you mean?” I asked, even though I knew what she was going to say. Had Michelle somehow managed to read my mind?

“Liz made a phone call to the bakery the night Lily confronted the two of you, the night she was killed. I'm guessing it was just to apologize again, but she didn't tell us.” She made a face. “Not very smart of her.”

“I'll talk to her,” I said, “but I'm not making any promises.”

Then it struck me: If Michelle knew that Liz wasn't a suspect, then why had she wanted to hear my story about her encounter with Lily? “You think maybe the real killer was there, outside the bakery somewhere, and saw what happened?” I said.

She just looked at me with those calm green eyes. She didn't say a word.

I waited. She still didn't say anything. “Can't you at least wave your scarf at me if I'm on the right track?” I asked.

“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.”

He looked genuinely puzzled. “No, it isn't. It's just a little wood and some carpet samples. I already had all the lumber, and Vince got me the carpet.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “You
made
this?”

Mr. P. nodded.

I looked at the cat tower again. “But it's all . . . curvy.” I gestured with both hands.

“Oh, my dear, that part was easy,” he said. “All I had to do was put the wood in the steam box. We have one at the seniors' workshop.” He gestured at the tower. “The finish is water-based and nontoxic, by the way.”

Elvis climbed out of his new little house and jumped up on top of it. Another leap and he was on the first level above the floor. He lay down and looked around. “Mrrr,” he said approvingly.

“This is beautiful,” I said, still feeling a little at a loss for words. “This is art. I had no idea you could do this.”

“So you like it?” he said, raising an eyebrow.

I nodded. “Yes, I do. And so does Elvis.”

“You'll keep it, then?”

“I'd be honored,” I said. “Thank you for the thank-you.”

“You're very welcome,” he said. He was already putting on his coat.

“Could I drop you at your poker game?” I asked.

He waved me away. “Thank you, but the game is at Harry's and he lives just around the corner.” He pulled on his hat and wound the long scarf around his neck again.

Elvis jumped up another level and looked around rather like a monarch surveying his kingdom. “Mrrr,” he said again, clearly pleased.

“You're welcome, Elvis,” Mr. P. said. He patted my arm. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

I showed him to the door and after he left turned back around to find Elvis at the top of the tower. “You're so spoiled,” I said.

He gave me an unblinking green-eyed stare that told me he wasn't going to dignify my remark with a comment.

I reached up and lifted him down, which got me a lot of cat grumbling. “I'm just going to move it over by the window.” The tower was heavy, but I managed to get it across the floor so it was just to the right of the window. I held out a hand. “Go ahead,” I said to Elvis once it was in place.

He made his way up two levels and settled himself with an exhalation that sounded a lot like a sigh of contentment. I folded the two blankets, which I
recognized as belonging to Sam, and put them and the bungee cords in an empty grocery bag. I hung it on the front doorknob so I wouldn't forget to return everything to him.

I remembered then that I hadn't put any towels in the bathroom. I went to the storage closet to grab some clean ones. The back wall of the closet was the only wall I'd be sharing with Rose when she moved in, and I knew that Liam and Dad had used sound-muffling drywall and insulation when it had been built, so I felt confident Rose wouldn't be able to hear me and I wouldn't be able to hear her, either.

Elvis had jumped down from his perch and followed me because he was nosy that way. He poked his head into the closet the way he usually did, so we both heard the noise at the same time. It was a scratching, scrabbling sound.

I scowled and swiveled my head to look at the cat. He eyed the wall and then looked at me.

“If that damn squirrel got back in, we will be having squirrel stew for supper tomorrow night,” I said forcefully. I swear the cat made a face.

“Okay, so I don't actually know how to make squirrel stew,” I hissed. “I'm trying to make a point.”

The sound stopped. We waited, both of us warily watching the closet wall. Less than a minute later it started again.

Late in the fall my dad had replaced the bedroom window in the back apartment. A squirrel had jumped in through the opening. Dad had chased it all around the small bedroom, but it was Mom who
had saved the day by putting a piece of bread spread with peanut butter on a chair outside the window. Once the squirrel had taken off with its treat, she'd stood guard with a leaf rake until the new window was in place.