I had stopped feeding the cats pizza, but that was mostly because it gave Owen unholy bad breath and made Hercules burp like a Pepto-Bismol tester. The cats had some decidedly uncatlike abilities and I was beginning to suspect their digestive systems were not exactly those of typical cats, either.
I topped up Rebecca’s cup and her expression grew serious. “Kathleen, what about the cats out at Wisteria Hill? Will they be okay?”
“They’re all right for now,” I said. “Marcus has the carriage house cordoned off, but if the investigation goes on very long”—I shrugged—“it’s possible they’ll have to be relocated.”
“I hope that doesn’t happen,” she said. She smiled down at Owen and Hercules. “Those cats should be able to live out their days where they feel safe.”
She took another sip from her coffee. “What’s the name of the little calico? Lita and I saw her when we were out at the house getting my mother’s journals. She peeked around the side of the carriage house.”
“That’s Lucy,” I said. “She’s kind of the matriarch of the colony.”
“She reminded me a little of Owen,” Rebecca said. He meowed softly at the sound of his name.
“That’s probably because they both walk around like some kind of jungle cat,” I said, smiling down at Owen who was too busy watching Rebecca to spare me even a sideways glance. Hercules, on the other hand, came and leaned against my leg. I reached down to scratch the top of his head.
“You know, you didn’t have to go all the way out to Wisteria Hill just to get those journals for me,” I said to Rebecca as I straightened up.
“Of course I did,” she said. “You’ve worked so hard on the library restoration. I can’t wait for the centennial celebration. And it’s long past time I got my mother’s things from Wisteria Hill. It was good to be out there. I have a lot of wonderful memories.”
I wondered how Rebecca felt about the old estate having been abandoned. Did she know why Everett continued to leave the house empty and neglected? No one else did.
“I hate to see the house looking so lost and forgotten,” Rebecca said then.
How had she known what I was thinking? “Rebecca, you make the best lemon meringue pie I’ve ever had and you’re a whiz with scissors.” I pulled a hand through my hair. “Don’t tell me mind reading is one of your skills, too?”
She tilted her head to one side and gave me a sly smile. “Well, I don’t like to brag.” She picked up her cup and then set it down and her expression grew serious again. “It will probably seem odd to you, but I think it’s nostalgia that keeps Everett from doing anything with the old place.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Well, you know he grew up there, and since my mother worked for Anna, in many ways my brothers and I grew up at Wisteria Hill as well. I was the youngest. I spent a lot of time out there.”
“It’s where the two of you fell in love.”
Rebecca’s cheeks turned an adorable shade of pink again. She always blushed when the conversation turned to Everett’s feelings for her. He’d loved her steadily for most of his life.
“We had a charmed childhood, Kathleen, as clichéd as that may sound. If Everett sells Wisteria Hill, or develops the land himself, that last link to those times will be gone.”
I ran a finger around the rim of my cup. “I’d never thought of it that way,” I said.
“Everett has a sentimental streak,” Rebecca said.
“That wouldn’t be my first choice of words to describe him,” I said with a laugh.
Everett Henderson was a very successful, self-made businessman. He was generous with both his time and his money. He was also hard-nosed and uncompromising. There was nothing soft about the man.
“He’s really a pussycat.”
I looked down at Owen and Hercules. “Are you trying to tell me he has fish breath and sheds on the furniture?” I said.
Rebecca laughed. “Well, he does like my tuna casserole.”
I laughed and Hercules looked from me to Rebecca, probably trying to figure out what the joke was. Hercules took fish very seriously.
“Do you think you’d like to live out there?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Wisteria Hill was a wonderful place to grow up, but my life is in town now.” She smiled at both cats. “I’d miss these two coming across my backyard. I’d miss visiting you. And how could I not be here to see what contraption the Justason boys were building in their backyard?” She held up both hands. “I’d miss the bright lights of Mayville Heights too much.” There was a devilish twinkle in her blue eyes. “And have you ever been out there in the early summer? The mosquitoes are large enough to carry you away.” She looked at her watch. “Heavens, I should get going,” she said.
“Thanks for this,” I said, gesturing to the box as I got to my feet. “And for the salve.”
“Oh you’re welcome,” Rebecca said. “Use whatever you like from my mother’s things. And rest that ankle.” She leaned over and looked from Owen to Hercules. “Come over for tea some morning once things dry out.” Both cats gave answering meows.
I walked her out to the porch door. “Do you mind if I ask Maggie if she has any ideas on how we can display some of your mother’s notes and drawings?”
“Not at all,” Rebecca said. “That reminds me. I was thinking of asking Maggie if she’d do one of her big collages of Wisteria Hill for me. I have some old photographs that have just been sitting in a box.”
“I’m sure she would,” I said. Maggie had created some wonderful collage panels of old photographs for a display during the Winterfest celebrations a few months ago. They were on permanent display now in the town hall.
“At first I thought maybe a painting or a drawing of the place would be nice. When Lita and I were out there, someone actually was sketching the old house.”
There was nothing to stop anyone from being out at Wisteria Hill, other than technically they were trespassing because the land was private property. I had Owen and Hercules because I’d been wandering around exploring out there.
In fact, one day late last summer Harry Taylor—the younger—had discovered a bilious green Volkswagen camper van in the yard and two middle-aged women—as Harry described them, looking like they were on their way to a reunion at Woodstock—picking mint and bouquets of cow parsnip.
“Don’t tell me those two women in the chartreuse microbus stopped by again on their way back to Manitoba?” I said with a grin.
Rebecca grinned back. “No. Though rumor has it that one of them gave Harry her e-mail address. No. I’m not sure who we saw—one of the co-op artists, most likely—he or she was wearing a big sweatshirt with a hood.” She stepped into her ladybug boots. “Now I really have to get going. I’m meeting that young man who works for Eric at the café.”
I looked at her blankly.
“You know,” she said. “The artist. Jaeger Merrill.”
10
My face clearly gave me away because Rebecca’s eyes narrowed. “Did I say something wrong?” she asked.
I shook my head. “No,” I said. “It’s just that Jaeger slipped on the basement stairs at the co-op store. He, uh…he’s dead.”
Rebecca closed her eyes for a moment. “Oh my word,” she said. “That poor man.”
“Why were you meeting him?” I asked. “If I’m not being too nosy by asking.”
“You’re not,” she said. “I was at the café having lunch with Lita, the day we’d gone out to Wisteria Hill. I was telling her about breaking my old apple peeler just as Jaeger showed up with our food. He asked if I still had it. He said he could take it apart and use some of the pieces in his masks. We started talking and I realized I had some other things—what I thought of as, well, junk really—that he might be able to use. So I told him I’d look around and see what I could find. That was just a couple of days ago.”