Buy a Whisker (9 page)

Rose and Mr. P. headed to the back room to start looking for more details about Caleb Swift's disappearance. Liz pulled out her phone, I assumed to call Josh Evans's office. Charlotte came over to me and put her arm around my shoulders. “I'm sorry you're stuck in the middle, but we have to do this. Liz needs our help.”

One of the things I'd always loved about Charlotte and Rose and Liz was their sense of family. They knew it was more than blood or a piece of paper like a marriage license. They knew that family came from the heart. So what right did I have to tell them not to help Liz? And it wasn't like I could stop them anyway.

I looked at Charlotte. “I'm not in the middle. I'm one hundred percent on your side.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Are you sure?”

I smiled. “Absolutely. And I'm just going to say one thing about Nick. For all he huffs and puffs and roars, he's on your side, too.”

Charlotte gave my shoulders a squeeze. “He's still going to have a cow,” she said.

I grinned at one of Avery's expressions coming out of Charlotte's mouth. “It won't kill him,” I said.

Mac poked his head in then from the back room. “There are two buses pulling into the parking lot.”

“Canadians,” Charlotte said with a gleam in her eyes.

“Thanks,” I said to Mac. “Would you tell Rose I need all hands on deck? The case is going to have to wait for a while.”

He nodded. “Sure.”

Charlotte was right. The two busloads of people were Canadians, on their way back from catching a couple of Bruins games in Boston.

I'd already decided that the stereotype about Canadians being exceptionally polite was true, and this group was no exception.

“If it's not too much trouble, could I try that guitar?” a man in his mid-forties asked me, pointing to a black Epiphone Limited Edition Special-I electric guitar that we'd had in the shop for only about a week. I'd found it, minus both E strings, at an estate sale. Now that it was cleaned up, with a new set of strings, I knew it would be a good instrument for a beginner.

“Do you play?” I asked the man as I lifted down the guitar. He was wearing a black knit Bruins beanie with a gold pompom and the team logo on the front.

He shook his head. “I don't, but my grandson started lessons a couple months ago. I think he has some talent.” He smiled. “I may be a little biased.”

I smiled back at him. “The tone isn't as good as a more expensive instrument,” I said, running one hand over the smooth, dark finish. “But that's something a beginner probably isn't going to notice. The action is good, and it's fun to play.”

“So you play,” he said.

I nodded. “I do, but I'm pretty rusty.”

He smiled. “Would you play something, please? Just so I can hear what it sounds like?”

I was rusty, although my fingers weren't quite as out of practice as I'd been letting on to Sam and Nick. I'd gotten my guitar out several times in the last couple of months and sat on the bed, playing around with it while Elvis listened and seemed—at least some of the time—to bob his head along to the music.

Elvis had gotten his name, via Sam, because the latter claimed the cat had once sat just inside the door of The Black Bear while Sam and the guys did a set of the King's music, leaving only when they segued into their Rolling Stones set. The next morning he was back in the narrow alley beside the shop, watching Sam as he took a pile of cardboard boxes to the recycling bin. “Hey, Elvis. Want some breakfast?” Sam had asked after tossing the last box in the bin. The cat had walked up to him and meowed a loud yes. I was a little skeptical about the story, but Elvis the cat clearly had an affection for the other Elvis's music.

“Okay,” I said with a smile. “Just don't judge the guitar by the guitar player.”

I did a quick check on the strings to make sure they were in tune. Then I exhaled slowly and played the first few notes of Boston's “Amanda.” I sang along softly, more out of habit. When I got to the end, the customer applauded—and so did the rest of the shop. I had no idea anyone else was listening. I felt my face getting warm.

Mac caught my eye from behind the cash register. “Nice,” he mouthed.

I raised a hand in acknowledgment of the applause. “Thank you,” I said. I turned back to my customer.

“I'll take it,” he said. “And if that's rusty, you must be
wow
when you're practiced.”

In the end we sold three guitars, all the quilts we had—both the antique ones and the ones Jess had made from recycled fabric—about half of our vintage postcards and most of Avery's new collection of candles—tea lights made from miniature silver trophies she'd found at the curb on garbage day, to which she'd added beeswax votives.

Mac helped me restock and reorganize at the end of the day. The tour director had told him a bus of skiers would be coming through tomorrow, and she'd suggest to their tour leader that they stop at Second Chance.

“We should put a
We Heart Canadians
sign on the door,” Rose said, brushing lint off the front of her apron.

“You certainly do,” I said. “I saw you flirting with that older man with the . . . interesting hair.” The
man in question had been wearing an ill-fitting curly hairpiece that was the color of Elvis's fur.

“I wasn't flirting,” she retorted, giving me her stern teacher look. “I was being charming.”

I held up a hand. “I'm sorry. I stand corrected.”

“But that hair was unfortunate.” She sighed and shook her head. “I did work it into the conversation that I believe hair is not necessarily a sign of virility in a man.” She gave me a sly smile. “But you know what they say about men with big feet—don't you, dear?”

Behind me Mac made a strangled sound like a dead car battery failing to turn over.

“What do they say about men with big feet?” I asked, knowing I was going to regret the question.

“They wear big shoes.” She laughed, then patted my arm and headed for the back room.

After work I took Elvis home and changed into my running clothes. The cat climbed up on the chair I kept for him by the window, looked outside at the wind blowing the snow around and then turned to look over his shoulder at me. It might have been my imagination, but it almost looked as though he gave a little shiver.

“I'm going to the track,” I said.

He yawned.

“Why is it no one ever wants to go running with me?” I asked.

He yawned again.

My favorite shoes were at the back of the closet by the front door. The laces of the left shoe seemed to be
caught up on something, and I knelt down to unsnag it.

“I could have gotten a dog, you know,” I said. “Maybe a great big German shepherd. German shepherds like to run.”

A furry black face seemed to materialize in front of me. Elvis stared at me unblinkingly, his way of expressing how ridiculous replacing him with a dog would be.

“Okay,” I said. “So I'm not really going to replace you with a dog.”

Satisfied, he turned around and headed for the bedroom.

“But I could,” I called over my shoulder.

“Merow,” he answered without looking back.

I ran three miles, faster than my usual pace, using my frustration to drive my legs. About two laps from finishing, I looked up to see Nick standing by the doors, holding two cardboard takeout cups. He smiled as I ran by and lifted one of the cups in a mock toast to me. I really hoped they held hot chocolate and that one of them was for me. I held up two fingers to signify two more laps and he nodded.

I was ready to slow down. I should have slowed down, but something about Nick standing there watching made me keep up the pace until the very last step.

“I'm tired just watching you,” he said, walking over to me as I stretched by the railing.

“You're welcome to join me anytime,” I said, raising an eyebrow in invitation. “I could train you.”

“You could kill me,” he said, handing me one of the takeout cups, which was hot chocolate with marshmallows half-melted on top. I wasn't crazy about whipped cream on my cocoa, but I loved marshmallows.

“Wait a minute,” I said after taking a sip. “This is from McNamara's.” I eyed him suspiciously. “What do you want?” Glenn used steamed milk, sugar, cocoa and melted chocolate in his hot chocolate. It tasted rich and decadent and not at all like something made with hot water and powder from a paper packet.

Nick gave me that little-boy look that he'd been using to get out of trouble since he actually was a little boy. “Hey, I just wanted to do something nice for you. You're so suspicious.”

“Well, thank you,” I said. I took another sip of the hot chocolate. It was good—chocolaty and not too sweet. “But you're so transparent, your head may as well be a giant round fishbowl. What's up? Spill.”

“Please keep this under your hat,” he said, his expression suddenly serious.

I nodded, wondering what I was swearing myself to silence over.

“Liz called the bakery the night Lily died.”

“Damn!” I whispered. I turned away for a moment and then looked back at Nick. “I take it she didn't tell you or Michelle when you talked to her.”

“No, she didn't,” he said. “You know I don't think that Liz had anything to do with Lily's death, but . . .” He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.

I shook my head and wrapped my hands around the cup to warm them. “This kind of thing makes her look bad.”

Nick nodded.

“I'll talk to her,” I said, although I wasn't sure how exactly I was going to urge Liz to tell the police something I wasn't even supposed to know about.

“The Angels are on the case,” I said, mostly to change the subject. I watched his face over the top of my cup. “I couldn't come up with any way to dissuade them.”

He gave me a wry smile. “I know. Mom called me. I know you tried.” He shook his head. “She also told me that if I gave you a hard time about it, she'd use a certain photo of me in a”—he gestured with his free hand—“sort of loaded diaper as her Christmas card next year.”

I crossed an arm over my midsection and tipped my head to one side to study him. “Your mother plays hardball,” I said.

“Yes, she does,” he said with a smile.

“So that's why you brought me this.” I held up my cup and then took another sip from it. “It's a bribe.”

“Guilty as charged,” he said with a shrug.

I wrinkled my nose at him. “I really need to see that photo of you before I can promise anything.”

“How about having supper with me instead? That would get me some more brownie points.”

His cell phone buzzed then. He handed me his cup and fished in his pocket, pulling it out and
studying the screen. “Hang on a second,” he said, taking a few steps away from me.

I sipped my hot chocolate and waited. The call took less than a minute. Nick walked back to me, putting his cell back in his pocket. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I have to go. Rain check on supper?”

“Sure,” I said. I handed him his cup. “And I'll talk to Liz.”

“Thanks,” he said. “I'll walk you out.”

I gestured at the cubbies on the end wall. “I have to get my coat and boots. You go ahead.”

“Okay,” he said, zipping his jacket and pulling on his gloves. “I'll see you Thursday night.” He rolled his eyes. “Assuming no one dies and I don't get called in to work.”

I nodded. “We'll save you a seat.”

He left and I walked over to the cubbies, stopping to stretch my calves again before I switched my running shoes for boots.

I came out of the doors to the track just as Michelle got to the top of the stairs from the main level.

“Hi,” I said.

She stopped on the top step. “Hi. Do you have a minute? I need to talk to you about something.”

“Sure,” I said. “Have you eaten yet? We could have supper if you have time.”

Her expression turned cautious. “Are you cooking?” she asked as we started down.

“Would it be bad if I were?” I said, working to keep my expression serious.

Her mouth moved before she answered. “Cooking was never your strength,” she finally said.

“I could be a lot better cook now than I was when we were teenagers,” I said. Michelle and I had just reconnected after a very long period of estrangement. She had no way of knowing I still couldn't cook any better than I had when we were fifteen. Back then she'd helped me bury more than one of my cooking creations in my grandmother's backyard.

She narrowed her eyes at me. “Are you?” she asked. Her clear green eyes stayed locked on my face, and after a few seconds I felt a tiny twinge of sympathy for any suspect that had ever been questioned by her.

I made a face. “Rose has been trying to teach me.”

“So that's no?” she said.

“That's no.”

She pushed back the sleeve of her jacket and looked at the heavy gold watch she was wearing on her left arm. There was something familiar about it, but I couldn't place it. Michelle hadn't worn the watch when we were teenagers. She hadn't worn any watch at all. But it still looked familiar.

“Actually, I don't have a lot of time,” she said. She gestured at the main level ice surface behind her. “Is it okay if we just go sit inside where they're practicing and talk? The heat'll be on.”

The TV was on the timer so Elvis would be able to watch
Jeopardy!
. He had to be the show's most faithful viewer. I had no idea why. It was just one of his
little quirks I'd discovered since he and Sam had conspired to put us together.

“Sure,” I said.

Michelle and I were still building a friendship that had derailed—although I hadn't known why—when we were fifteen. It had been only last fall when I'd found out she'd heard my thoughtless comment to Nick that I'd wished her father, who had just been sentenced to jail for embezzlement, was the one who was dead, instead of my own father, who had died when I was small. She hadn't stayed around long enough to hear me take the words back less than a minute after, and when her father died two weeks later, she hadn't been able to forgive me. I was glad that we were working on a new friendship. I'd missed her. Even though Jess and I had become very close, Michelle—like Nick—was a connection to my childhood. I was very glad to have it back.