Buy a Whisker (11 page)

Elvis was sniffing the closet wall. He pawed at it and looked at me. “I don't know how it got in,” I said in answer to what I imagined was his unspoken question. “Maybe while Mac and I were carrying in the ladder yesterday.” I turned and headed for the kitchen and my shoes, the cat on my heels. He followed me out into the entryway. There was a small pile of long boards, trim pieces we hadn't needed for the cupboards stacked in the hallway. I took a section about three feet long from the top of the stack. I didn't really want to hurt the squirrel, but when I saw it, I was going to swing that plank like I was Big Papi swinging for the Green Monster in Fenway. Elvis looked at me and licked his lips. He was in.

I unlocked the apartment door and eased it open, trying to be as quiet as I could. The sound was even louder in the apartment. It sounded like the squirrel—or whatever it was—was trying to dig its way out of the closet. I motioned to Elvis to go ahead of me, which he did, creeping across the kitchen like a furry black ninja. My plan was for Elvis to spook the squirrel into running and then I would chase it down the hall and out the front door, which I'd already opened.

The scratching sound seemed to be getting louder. It occurred to me that maybe it wasn't a squirrel
back there. But as long as it wasn't a black bear, my money was still on Elvis. I eased my way over to the living room doorway and nodded at the cat. He darted around the corner to the bedroom doorway. I waited. No squirrel shot out of the bedroom with a cat in hot pursuit. The scratching sound began again. I crossed my fingers—figuratively since I was holding the length of wood with both hands—that Elvis didn't have a skunk cornered in there, and I launched myself into the bedroom swinging the board in front of me—narrowly avoiding taking off the top of Rose's head.

She turned and smiled at me. “Oh, hello dear,” she said.

My heart was pounding so hard it took a few seconds for me to get my breath. I'd come way too close to actually walloping Rose with my makeshift squirrel eliminator. “Rose!” I exclaimed. “You almost gave me a heart attack. What are you doing in here?”

“I'm trying to get this dang-blasted curtain rod out of the closet,” she said. The rod was the long wrought-iron one that belonged over the living room window.

“Merow!” Elvis said sharply.

“I'm sorry, Elvis,” Rose said, inclining her head toward him. “Excuse my language.”

“Let me see,” I said. I poked my head around the closet door for a closer look. Each end of the rod had a pointed finial, and one of the points was wedged in the back corner of the space.

I twisted and maneuvered and in a couple of minutes I had the curtain rod free.

“You are a darling girl and very, very smart,” Rose exclaimed, clapping her hands together.

I blew my hair back off my face. “How did you get in here?” I asked. Elvis had gone into the closet, maybe to make sure for himself that there weren't any squirrels in there.

“I borrowed the extra set of keys that Isabel keeps at Charlotte's,” she said.

“And does my grandmother know you borrowed the keys?”

“Well, of course not,” Rose said, giving me a slightly condescending look. “She isn't even in town.” She started patting her coat pockets.

“What did you lose?” I asked, brushing a dust bunny off the knee of my leggings.

“Nothing,” she said. “I'm just looking for—” She found something in her left pocket. “Never mind, dear. Here it is.” She pulled out a tape measure. “Hold this end for me, please.”

I took the end of the metal tape, and Rose went to the other end of the curtain rod. She peered at the numbers and her lips moved, although no sound came out. Then she smiled. “That's going to work just fine,” she said.

I looked blankly at her.

“I have some panels that I was hoping would work in the living room window. And they will.” For the first time she noticed the board I'd been carrying. “Oh my goodness,” she said, her eyes widening. “Did you think I was someone breaking in?”

I bent down to pick up the plank. “I thought you were a squirrel.”

Her eyes darted around the room. “A squirrel?”

“One got in this room last fall when Dad put in the new window. I thought maybe it had gotten in again on the weekend when Mac and I were bringing in the paint and the ladder.”

Rose looked at the piece of cupboard trim in my hand.

“You weren't going to hurt a little squirrel—were you, Sarah?”

The length of wood—which had seemed so small in the hallway when I was headed to confront a vicious rodent—suddenly felt like an oversized club now that I was standing here with Rose.

“I . . . I wasn't going to hurt it,” I stammered. “I was only going to herd it outside again.” I made the motion with the piece of wood and noticed that Elvis had already slipped out of the room.

“Well, I'm glad to hear that,” she said, putting the tape measure back in her pocket. “Squirrels are environmentalists, you know.”

She leaned over to pick up one end of the curtain rod.

“I, uh, didn't know that,” I said, taking it from her and following her out to the living room, where Elvis was sitting under the window, not looking at all like a cat who a few minutes ago was licking his whiskers at the thought of squirrel kebobs for a little evening snack.

“Oh yes,” Rose said. “Squirrels are the animal kingdom's equivalent of Johnny Appleseed.” She tipped her head to one side and smiled at me, making a wide circle with one hand. “They spread seeds
far and wide and help maintain genetic diversity in a lot of plant species.”

I nodded silently. I had the niggling feeling that Rose was screwing with me, but nothing showed in her face.

I set the curtain rod down on the floor under the window. “Is there anything else you need to do while you're here?” I asked.

She shook her head and began to button her coat. “That's all.”

I smiled. “I'll get my coat then and I'll drive you home.”

She waved away the suggestion with one hand. “I walked over here. There's no reason I can't walk home.”

“It's cold,” I said.

“It was cold when I walked over,” she replied, squaring her shoulders under her blue coat.

“Rose, am I going to have to pin you down and tie you up with that cord”—I pointed to a window blind lying on one of the folding chairs, its cord spilling onto the floor—“and wrestle you into the car? Because I could do it.”

Rose reached over and patted my cheek with a gloved hand. “Fine. I'm going to let you drive me home because I don't want you to be embarrassed when a little old lady takes you down.”

We started for the door. “You think you could take me down?” I said.

“Well, of course I could.” She gave me a look that,
had it come from Avery, would have also come with the comment, “Well, duh.”

We stepped out into the small hallway, and I locked the door.

“When you have gray hair and wrinkles people tend to underestimate you. It's one of the pluses of being old,” she said, “which is good, because some of the minuses are a pain in the hind end.”

“I don't underestimate you,” I said, waggling my eyebrows at her. “But you may be underestimating me. I've spent most of my life around you and Gram and Charlotte and Liz.” I gave her a sly smile. “I've learned a few things from all of you.” I winked at her and went in to get my coat. I caught sight of the cat tower by the window. I poked my head back out in the hallway and beckoned at Rose. “I want to show you something.”

“Oh, my dear, that's a lovely cat climber,” she said. She looked down at Elvis. “You're a very lucky cat.”

He murped agreement.

“Sarah, where did you get this?” Rose asked.

“Alfred made it for me,” I said. “As a thank-you for me letting you have the apartment. You just missed him.”

Her face turned an adorable shade of pink. “Oh my goodness,” she said, putting a hand to her cheek.

“He's crazy about you, Rose,” I said.

She smiled. “I know.”

“Rose Peterson has a very nice ring to it,” I teased as I got my jacket from the closet.

“Never you mind about my love life, missy,” she said tartly.

I looked at her over my shoulder. “Oh, so your love life is off-limits, but it's okay for you and Liz and Charlotte to meddle in mine.”

She pulled herself up to her full height of almost five feet. “Yes, it is. We're not meddling. We're just sharing the benefit of our experience with you.”

I laughed and pulled on my hat. “Why do you always get the last word?” I asked.

Rose smiled. “Because I'm old and very cute.” She winked at me.

I kissed the top of her head much the way Sam had done with me. “That you are,” I said, grabbing my purse.

“Before I forget, I have some good news,” I said as I pulled out of the driveway. “Liz isn't a suspect in Lily's death anymore.”

“That's wonderful,” Rose exclaimed. “How do you know?”

I told her about meeting Michelle.

“This doesn't mean we're stopping the investigation.”

I was at a stop sign and there was no one behind me, so I turned to look at her. “Why is this so important to you?” I asked. “You barely knew Lily. And Liz is in the clear now.”

“We can make a difference,” she said. “And when you get old, you get invisible.”

I shook my head. “I don't understand. You're not invisible, Rose. Not to me.”

She nodded. “But you're the exception, dear. Old people make younger people nervous. They see that we're slower and more forgetful. And nothing is where it's supposed to be anymore without surgery or spandex.”

She put her hands on the front of her coat and made an upward motion like she was hiking up her chest, and I had to bite my tongue so I didn't burst out laughing.

“Sarah, I know that you're the one who figured out who killed Arthur Fenety, but we all helped,” she said.

She was right. They had. They'd driven me crazy in the process, but they had.

“We made a difference in the world beyond making baby quilts and selling cookies to get new playground equipment. I liked the feeling.”

“Those other things matter, Rose,” I said. I looked both ways and crossed the street.

“And so does this,” she said.

I sighed softly. “So what's next?”

“You're really not going to try to shut us down?”

I shot her a quick glance. I could tell from the brief glimpse of her body language that I'd be wasting my time. I'd always been wasting my time trying to stop them. So was Nick.

I didn't even try to stifle a smile. “I told you I've learned a few things from all of you, and one of them is to know when I've been beaten. So no, I won't. What will you do now?”

Rose sighed softly. “It's looking more and more
like Lily's death has something to do with the harbor-front development,” she said. “It certainly has brought out the worst in some people.”

“Money usually does,” I said. I glanced over at her again.

She nodded. “That and sex,” she said.

“Right,” I agreed, keeping my eyes fixed on the road through the windshield. I was
not
going to get into a discussion involving sex with Rose.

“I know this is a good thing for Liz and for Eamon Kennedy and for a lot of the businesses along the harbor front, but I wonder sometimes if this proposal is good for the town.”

I did glance over quickly at her then. “It could be good for bringing in more tourists.”

“I know,” Rose said, folding her hands in her lap. “I meant the division it's caused in town isn't good for any of us. Whatever happens, those kind of wounds tend to linger.”

We drove in silence for about a minute or so.

“Sarah, do you think that man—Jon West—could have killed Lily because she wouldn't sell the bakery to him?” she asked.

I exhaled softly. “I don't know,” I admitted. “People have committed murder for a lot weaker reasons.”

“Maybe what happened was an accident,” she said, “and the person got scared and ran.”

“Then whoever it was, they need to come forward. The longer they wait, the worse it gets.”

“It's not always easy to do the right thing,” Rose
said softly. “It takes you down the road less traveled, and that's a bumpy trip.”

I nodded without speaking. I wasn't sure what road we were on as far as the investigation into Lily's death, but I was certain we were in for a rough ride.

Tuesday passed quietly. I spent most of the morning working on the old dining room hutch.

“What do you think?” I said to Mac, pushing the dust mask I had been wearing onto the top of my head and wiping my hands on my old jeans.

He walked around the piece. “It seems sturdy enough.”

“The middle shelf is cracked.” I pointed to the split that ran the length of the wood. “Could you cut me a new one?”

He nodded. “Sure. Do you want me to try to match the wood?”

I shook my head. “No. That doesn't matter.”

Mac grabbed a tape measure from the worktable. “So you're painting the shelves?”

“I'm painting the whole thing.” I ran my hand over the side of the unit. “The wood isn't exactly pretty.”

Mac looked past me toward the shelves on the back wall. “Do you remember that desk we
cannibalized when we were working on the armoire?” he asked.

I squinted in the direction of the shelves. “If you're thinking about using the wood from the bottom of the leftover drawer for a shelf, I don't think it's long enough.”

“No,” he said. “I was thinking that maybe you could use the drawer pulls on this piece.”

I pulled my dust mask off completely. “I don't remember what they look like,” I said.

“They're Victorian ring pulls,” he said. “Let me see if I can find them.”

The chandelier Mac and Avery had been cleaning up was still on the tarp, taking up a lot of the room's space. “Are you finished working on this?” I asked.

“Almost,” Mac said, looking up from a box he'd just lifted down. “I need to replace a couple of screws that were stripped when I took the glass shade out.”

“I had a call from a developer in Bangor,” I said. “He's renovating an old building, turning it into a restaurant. I think he'd take the chandelier if Jon West doesn't want it for his new hotel.”

“Give me another day,” Mac said. “Then you can call West and see what he wants to do.”

“Fine with me,” I said. A day wasn't going to change anything with respect to the future of the waterfront development, as far as I could see.

“Carl Levenger is coming in sometime today to get that table,” Mac said, pointing at a rectangular wooden table over by the door to the shop. We'd sanded the table smooth and stained it light oak
with the legs painted a medium gray color called iron ore.

Carl Levenger owned the Owl & the Pussycat bookstore. He'd bought the table for the back of the store, where his various reading groups had their meetings. Carl showed up about quarter to twelve. He walked approvingly around the table.

“I still really like it,” he said. Carl was a former university professor in his late fifties who had taken early retirement a couple of years ago and come home to run the bookstore when his father died. The Owl & the Pussycat had been started by Carl's grandfather.

Mac began to wrap the top of the table in a couple of old blankets we kept for just that purpose, and Rose stepped in to help him.

Carl smoothed a hand over his bald pate. “I heard you were the one who found Lily,” he said. “I'm sorry. She was good person.”

I nodded. “Yes, she was.”

“We'd talked about going in on a better security system.” He shook his head. “I wish now we had. Maybe then the police could have caught whoever it was who was hassling her and Lily would still be alive.”

Mac helped Carl load the table in the back of his van. Rose touched my arm. “It's almost lunchtime,” she said. “How about a fresh pot of coffee?”

I smiled at her. “That sounds good.” She started for the stairs, and I watched Carl pull out of our parking lot and start down the street. Was he right?
Was the solution to Lily's murder as simple as finding out who had been harassing her?

Jess showed up about four o'clock with new three new quilts. She poked her head around my office door. “Do you have a minute? I need your opinion on something.”

“Sure,” I said, coming around my desk. “What is it?”

She grinned. “I'd rather show you than tell you.”

I followed her downstairs. Asia Kennedy was standing in the middle of the shop with Charlotte and Avery. Vince's daughter was wearing a sock monkey hat with a black quilted jacket, a denim skirt and a wild pair of burgundy-pink-and-orange-argyle knitted leggings.

“Hi, Asia,” I said. “How's the guitar?”

I'd just sold the fifteen-year-old a used Fender acoustic with a black finish. She'd clearly inherited some of her father's musical ability.

Asia smiled shyly at me. “It's awesome,” she said.

“I'm glad,” I said, smiling back at her. I turned to Jess. “So what did you want me to see?”

“Me,” Asia said, sticking out one leg.

“Did you make those?” I asked Jess.

She nodded. “Remember that box of sweaters you sold me?”

I leaned forward for a closer look at the diamond-pattern tights Asia was wearing. She turned her leg from one side to the other. “Those were a sweater?” I said.

“Yep,” Jess said.

“I want a pair,” Avery clamored. “Please, please, please.”

“Which you have to pay for,” Charlotte said.

“I will. I promise,” Avery said, putting a hand over her heart.

Jess smiled. “Come down to the store and I'll let you look through the sweaters and pick which one you like.”

Avery started jumping up and down and grinning.

Jess held up a hand. “And I'll give you the same deal I gave Asia. You can have the leggings for free as long as you wear them to school and tell everyone where they can buy a pair.”

“You're kinda like a walking billboard,” Asia said with a shrug.

“Deal,” Avery immediately agreed.

Jess looked at me. “So will you and Mac keep an eye out for more sweaters the next time you get hired to clear out someone's house?”

“Absolutely,” I said.

“You want a pair to go running in?” she asked, lowering her voice, her blue eyes gleaming.

“Absolutely not,” I said.

Mac and I put a second coat of paint on the living room walls of Rose's apartment after supper. I told Mac the story of thinking I was going to do battle with a rowdy squirrel in the apartment and discovering Rose instead.

He laughed. “I have a feeling living next to Rose is going to be interesting.”

I shook my paintbrush at him. “Don't use that word,” I warned. “The last time you did that, I ended up with a detectives' office in my sunporch and a senior-citizen computer hacker using my Wi-Fi.”

There was a teasing gleam in his dark eyes. “But think how boring life would be without them.”

“You're probably right,” I said, pulling my paint can a little closer. I was doing the edging and Mac the roller work.

I realized that I hadn't told Mac about the cat tower. “Hey, I didn't tell you what Mr. P. did last night.”

“Do I want to know?” Mac said. One eyebrow went up and he grinned.

“You probably do,” I said. “He made a cat tower for Elvis to thank me for letting Rose have this apartment. I'll show it to you when we're done. It's more like a piece of sculpture.”

“I didn't know Mr. P. knew anything about woodworking,” Mac said, putting his roller back in the tray for more paint.

I moved along the floor a little farther. “Maybe you should try picking his brain,” I said. “He knows how to use a steam box. Didn't you say that's how you bend wood when you're making a boat?”

Mac nodded. “I will. Thanks for the suggestion.” He worked his way down the wall. “He really is crazy about Rose.”

“Did you know he was married? He told me he and his wife were together for fifty-two years.” I used the edge of my T-shirt to wipe a dab of paint off
the trim because I couldn't find the rag I'd been using.

“I knew Alfred had been married,” Mac said, putting more paint on his roller, “but not for that long.” He tipped his head to one side and studied the stretch of wall he'd just painted. “It's funny. When we get married, we're making a commitment that's forever. If it's a good marriage, forever isn't long enough.”

“And if it's not a good marriage?”

“Then it just feels like forever.”

“That sounds like experience talking,” I said. I kept my eyes on the edge of the wall above the baseboard.

After a moment Mac said, “It is.”

“Which kind of forever did you have?” I asked. I continued to work my way along the tape line above the trim, wondering if he'd answer the question or evade it.

“Both, I guess,” Mac said after another silence. “At different times it was both.”

Mac had been married. It was the first bit of personal information he'd shared in the time I'd known him. Somehow I knew not to ask anything else right now.

*   *   *

I did a little more work on the hutch first thing in the morning at the shop. Cleveland showed up with two boxes of trash-picked old Dick and Jane readers. Charlotte poked through both cartons and her eyes lit up. She looked up at me and nodded.

Cleveland and I dickered over price for a few
minutes. In the end he got a little more than I wanted to pay but not as much as he'd asked for. As my grandmother would have put it, we were both a little happy and both a little had.

“These are wonderful,” Charlotte said. “They're in excellent shape. They didn't spend a lot of time in a classroom.” She beamed at me and pushed her glasses up her nose.

“Would you go through the boxes and catalog them for me,” I asked. Charlotte loved books. I knew she was the right person for the job. She'd handle the books with care and make meticulous notes on each volume.

“I'd love to,” she said.

“I'll carry the boxes inside for you,” Mac offered.

“Could you watch things here for about an hour?” I asked when he came back to the workroom. I'd told Michelle I'd talk to Liz, and I hadn't done that yet. I didn't want to put it off any longer.

“Sure,” he said. “Charlotte and I can handle things here. Take your time.”

I drove down to McNamara's and bought a couple of lemon tarts. Then I pulled out my cell phone and called Liz. “I have two of Glenn's lemon tarts,” I said when she answered. “I'm willing to share if you're willing to make coffee.”

“The lemon-cream-cheese filling or lemon meringue?” she immediately asked.

“Do you care?”

Her warm laugh came through the phone. “I'll go turn the coffeepot on.”

Liz and I sat at the round wooden table in her huge kitchen. I could see why Avery liked to cook there. The space was a cook's dream with stainless-steel appliances and granite countertops.

“So what did you want to talk to me about?” Liz asked after she'd had a bite of her lemon tart.

“Why do you think I want to talk to you?” I said, adding cream to my coffee.

“You brought a bribe, and it's the middle of the morning.” She gave me a fake smile across the table.

“All right. I did come to talk to you.”

“About?”

“You called Lily the night she died, the night she confronted us on the sidewalk in front of the bakery,” I said.

“What if I did?” Liz asked. She leaned back in her chair and crossed one leg over the other.

“You didn't tell the police.”

She drew in a breath, held it for a moment and then let it out slowly. “I don't suppose there's any point in asking you who told you that?” she said.

I shook my head. “Nope.”

“It was either Nicolas or Michelle Andrews.”

“It doesn't matter who told me,” I said, watching her across the polished wooden table. “What matters is that it was a dumb thing to do. You withheld information from the police, Liz.”

She shrugged. “Which they could find if they did their job—which they did. No harm done.”

I glared at her. “Yes harm done. It's a bad idea to
keep things from the police, especially when they're investigating a murder in which you're a suspect!”

Liz tapped a pale pink nail on the edge of her cup. “I didn't tell the police because I knew it would make them suspicious, which they were when they found out, which just proves my point.” She picked up her cup and took a drink, watching me over the rim.

“How did you convince Josh it was a good idea to keep that information from the police?” I asked. I was fairly certain I knew the answer.

Liz glanced over toward the windows above the sink. She looked a little sheepish.

“Liz,” I said, an edge of warning in my voice.

Her gaze came back to me. “All right. I didn't exactly tell him. I didn't want him to have to lie.”

I pulled a hand back through my hair and sighed.

“Don't give me that look,” she said. “I protect the people I care about. You know that, Sarah.”

There was a knock on the back door then. It opened and Elspeth Emmerson, Liz's niece, stepped into the kitchen.

“Hi, Sarah,” she said when she caught sight of me.

“Hi,” I said.

“Am I interrupting something?”

I shook my head. The conversation with Liz was going nowhere.

“No,” Liz said. “We're just having coffee. Come sit down and I'll get you a cup.”

Elspeth joined us at the table. She was in her late
twenties, and she reminded me a lot of her aunt. She had the same big heart and probably didn't own a pair of sensible shoes. She was wearing skinny black pants tucked into black stiletto ankle boots, and her long blond curls fell below her shoulders.

Liz made a move to get up.

I laid a hand on her arm. “I've got it,” I said.

I got a cup and saucer from the cupboard and poured Elspeth a cup of coffee.

“Thanks,” she said as I set it in front of her. She set a manila envelope on the table. “Dad asked me to give these to you,” she said to Liz.