“Dina?” I said. The water was boiling. I filled both cups. “The Jam Lady?”
“Uh huh.”
I’d been a little homesick and a lot heartsick when I’d arrived in Mayville Heights just over a year ago. I’d eaten a lot of toast smothered in The Jam Lady’s strawberry rhubarb preserves in those first few lonely weeks. And a fair number of brownies too. If it weren’t for all the walking I’d have ended up looking like the Pillsbury Doughboy. And I probably wouldn’t have Hercules and Owen either.
Maggie emptied the boxes and when the water boiled I made the hot chocolate and added marshmallows to both cups. I gave one to Maggie. She took a long sip and then smiled at me over the mug. “Ummm, that’s good. Thank you.”
I took a drink from my own cup. The mix of dark chocolate and vanilla tasted as good as it smelled.
Maggie pulled her hand over her hair again. “I can’t believe Jaeger’s dead,” she said, her expression troubled.
“It’s not your fault.”
“I know,” she said, but there was something in her voice that told me she wasn’t completely convinced. I looked at her, without saying anything else, until she lifted her head and met my gaze.
“What?”
“Jaeger’s not dead because he wanted to bring in a corporate sponsor for the co-op and you didn’t. It’s not your fault he was in the basement. It’s not your fault the stairs were wet.”
“I know. I do. I just keep thinking if we hadn’t had the meeting today maybe he wouldn’t have gone back down to the basement.”
“Then you would have had it another day. And Jaeger could still have been down in the basement this morning. Or this afternoon, or next Tuesday.”
I leaned against the worktable to take the weight off my ankle “It was an accident, Mags. An awful, stupid accident.”
“Why are you always so sensible and logical?” she said, the beginnings of a smile pulling at her mouth.
I took another drink of my hot chocolate. “Probably because my mom and dad are masters of drama.” I set the cup down. “Right before I came here my father broke his ankle. Can you guess what he was doing?”
“Probably not taking out the garbage.”
I shook my head. “Uh uh. He was doing the balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet. My father. On the fire escape. In January.” I sighed. “No wonder I’m sensible. It was the only form of teenage rebellion left.”
Maggie laughed. She’d never met my family in person, but she’d heard a lot of my stories about them.
“Seriously Mags, I know you feel bad. But it’s been raining for a week. You’re tired. You’re wet and if you’re like me, there are probably some funky mold spores growing in your boots.” I tucked a stray piece of hair behind my ear, wincing when I inadvertently touched the edge of my scraped forehead again.
“I’m sorry about Jaeger,” I said. “I really am. But it’s not your fault.” I hugged her and I could feel some of the tension seep out of her body.
“I should get these parcels packed,” Maggie said, breaking out of the hug.
“And I need to check on things at the library.” I grabbed my cup and drained the last of the cocoa. “You’re still coming for supper?”
“Absolutely. I wouldn’t want to disappoint Owen.”
“You’ll be the highlight of his little kitty day,” I said. “Call me if anything changes.”
Maggie was already unrolling the bubble wrap. She waved over her shoulder in my direction.
I stopped in the hall to pull out my keys and glanced through the open door to Ruby’s studio. She was on the floor, underneath one of the tall windows, her back to the door, chin propped on one hand, surrounded by books, engrossed in whatever she was reading.
It had seemed pretty obvious when Ruby told me she had something to check on her computer that what she was planning to do was stick Jaeger Merrill’s name in a search engine. I was happy to see that she’d given up on trying to figure out where she’d first seen him. It didn’t matter now, anyway.
Of course I was wrong.
On both counts.
7
I ended up having to park the truck on a side street near the library. Even though that whole block of Old Main Street was on higher ground than where the artists’ co-op was located, because of the slope of the land and drainage problems, the section of street in front of the library was still covered with water, blocked off by three town sawhorses and a large yellow caution sign, but at least the level had dropped a couple more inches.
Inside the library, the pump Oren Kenyon had installed the previous fall seemed to be easily handling what little water had seeped into the basement. I went down the steps only as far as I needed to see that the cellar was staying dry. And I held on to the railing with both hands.
The main floor of the building was eerily quiet without Abigail leading story time and Susan shelving books, her dark hair up on her head with a couple of pencils or a crochet hook stuck in the topknot, steering readers to the latest science fiction as well as her favorite classics from Ray Bradbury and John Wyndham.
I emptied the book drop, checked in the returned books and reshelved everything. Then I called Lita, Everett Henderson’s assistant.
Everett had funded the library renovations—his gift to Mayville Heights—and he was president of the library board. I knew Lita would be able to find out when the building could reopen a lot faster than I would. It seemed as though she knew every single person in Mayville Heights, plus she was related in one way or another to most of the town as well.
“It’s going to be another day at least, Kathleen,” Lita said. “Probably two. Right now it all depends on how much rain we get. I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know.”
I thanked her and hung up. Everything in Mayville depended on how much rain we got. I rubbed my left wrist. It was a bit sore from falling down the embankment, but it didn’t have the bone-deep ache that usually meant rain.
I turned on the computer at the front desk and signed in to the system. I’d been keeping up with e-mail from my laptop at home so there wasn’t much to deal with. Then, because I was curious, I pulled up the archives for the Mayville Heights Chronicle and read the article about the disappearance of Roma’s father.
It wasn’t much of a story. Thomas Karlsson’s car had been found abandoned and out of gas. There was no sign of foul play. There were more lines in the brief article about his glory days playing high school baseball than there were about him going missing.
Since there wasn’t really anything else I needed to do at the library, I decided to walk over to Eric’s Place and get some coffee and something to eat. Breakfast had been a long time ago.
There was a black, extended cab pickup truck parked parallel to the yellow sawhorses out on the street when I came down the library steps. As I got closer to it the driver’s window rolled down and Burtis Chapman stuck his head out.
“Morning,” he said. “I’m lookin’ for Harry Junior. Don’t suppose he’s at the library?”
I shook my head. “I’m sorry. I haven’t seen him.”
Burtis was a big block of a man—with wide shoulders and a barrel chest. I had no idea how old he was; his face was lined and weathered and the few tufts of hair sticking out from under his Minnesota Twins cap were snow white. He was whip smart and extremely well read I knew. But he wasn’t above playing the hick from rural Minnesota if it suited his purposes.
“What happened to your head?” he asked, tipping his at mine.
Without thinking I put my hand up to my forehead and winced. When was I going to learn to not do that? “I was out at Wisteria Hill,” I said. “The bank let go underneath me.”
“Out behind the old carriage house, I’ll bet.”