I turned to Rebecca. “Roma told me that you helped make the winter shelters for the cats.”
She folded the edge of her sleeve back over the top of the bandage on her arm. “I couldn’t stand the thought of those poor animals out there with no way to stay warm.” She glanced around. Violet was at the door, letting Roma in. Rebecca leaned toward me across the sofa. “I’ll tell you a secret. Vi bought the plastic bins we used. She didn’t want anyone to know. She’s really a big softy.”
I put my finger to my lips. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
Roma and Violet came in from the foyer. “Hi,” Roma said, lifting a hand in greeting. She took a deep breath. “Violet, something smells wonderful.”
Violet smiled. “Which means I probably should go check on dinner. Have a seat, Roma. I’ll be right back,” she added over her shoulder as she disappeared toward the back of the house.
Roma dropped into the chair where Violet had been sitting. She looked troubled.
“How’s Lucy?” I asked. “The cat,” I added, as an aside to Rebecca.
“The leg’s broken. She needs surgery.”
I sighed.
“David Thornton—he’s a small-animal vet—is coming from Lake Forrest tomorrow to help me set it. He has some experience with a new technique that uses a mesh made from pig bladder. Lucy should be all right.”
“Let me know if you need any help when it’s time to take her back,” I said.
“I will.” She turned to Rebecca. “Kathleen seems to have a rapport with animals. Lucy panicked in the cage, but Kathleen talked to her and she settled down.”
“Kathleen has a rapport with everyone,” Rebecca said with a smile.
Violet appeared in the doorway. “How about a glass of wine? Is anyone driving?”
“I walked,” Roma said. “So I’ll have a glass. Thank you.”
“Ami’s going to pick me up,” Rebecca said. “I’ll have a little, as well, please.”
Violet looked at me.
“I walked, too,” I said. I held up my thumb and index finger about an inch and a half apart. “Just half a glass for me, please.”
“I’ll be right back,” Violet said.
I turned to Rebecca. “Any news about the festival? Did Ami say if they’ve made any decisions?”
“They’re not going to cancel, are they?” Roma asked.
Rebecca shifted sideways so she could see both of us. “If the committee can’t find a replacement conductor they’ll have to cancel the festival.” She sighed. “In fact, they may have to cancel even if someone is willing to step in.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because without a director slash conductor there’s no one to continue rehearsals.”
“Actually, there is.” We all turned toward Violet.
She smiled as she crossed the gleaming oak floor. “The festival board has asked me to continue rehearsals for now.” She was carrying a wooden tray with four wineglasses on it. She offered one to Rebecca, who picked up a glass and gave Violet a warm smile.
“Violet, that’s wonderful news. Ami didn’t tell me.”
“She didn’t know,” Violet said, turning to me with the tray. “I only got the call about an hour ago.”
“I’m glad you’re going to take over,” I said, taking a glass. “I’ve heard so much about the festival. I’d hate to see it canceled.”
Violet handed a wineglass to Roma and took the last one for herself. Roma sipped her wine. “Oh, that’s nice,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “Violet, why can’t you just take over as the festival director?”
Violet took a sip from her glass and then set it on a round glass coaster on the coffee table. “Because no one knows who I am,” she said.
“That’s ridiculous,” Rebecca said. “Everyone in Mayville Heights knows who you are. You’ve lectured at the University of Michigan and the Cleveland Institute of Music.”
Roma glanced over at the piano behind us. “I’ve heard you play,” she said. “You’re very talented.”
Violet held up a hand. “Thank you,” she said. “I’ve had a wonderful career—lots of opportunities—but I have no name recognition.”
“And that’s what the festival needs to draw people in. That’s what sells tickets, as much as the music,” I said.
Violet nodded. “Exactly.”
“But the festival should be about the music, not about personalities,” Roma said. “Not about whether the conductor went skinny-dipping at the Playboy Mansion.”
“Gregor Easton went skinny-dipping at the Playboy Mansion?” I said.
“No, Zinia Young did,” Roma said drily.
“And how did you know?” Violet asked.
Roma turned the same shade of pink as Rebecca’s blouse. “I might have seen something about it on Access Hollywood,” she mumbled.
“Access Hollywood?” Rebecca tried and failed to keep a straight face.
“Now, don’t tell me you’ve never picked up a supermarket tabloid, Rebecca,” Roma said.
“Only for the articles,” Rebecca replied, deadpan.
Roma laughed and took another drink.
I finally took a sip from my own glass. The wine was light and slightly sweet. Its warmth slid down into my stomach and spread out like a sunburst. I took another sip and turned to Violet. “This is Ruby’s wine, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is,” she said, picking up her glass again.
“It’s very good.” I tilted my glass so the clear liquid swirled around the inside. “But it does sneak up on you.”
Violet held up her own glass and studied the contents. “So I’ve noticed,” she said. She got to her feet. “Excuse me again, everyone,” she said. “We should be ready to eat very soon.”
“Kathleen, did you say Ruby made the wine?” Roma asked.
“Uh-huh.” I set my glass on a coaster on the coffee table.
Roma nodded thoughtfully. “Makes sense. I went to school with Ruby’s mother, Callie. Her father, Ruby’s grandfather, was the bootlegger around here.”
“You mean he made—”
“No, no,” Roma interjected. “He didn’t make it. He sold it. Resold it, actually.”
“He did usually have three or four swish barrels on the go,” Rebecca said. “So technically he was making it, too.”
I held up a hand. “What’s a swish barrel?”
Rebecca pushed her glasses up off the end of her nose. “It’s an oak barrel used to age whiskey and other spirits. People would buy the used barrels, put water in them and eventually the alcohol would leach into the water and you’d have a barrel of, well, swish. You know, both Oren’s father and grandfather made barrels for the Union Distillery.”
“Oren used to work summers with the old man, didn’t he?” Roma said.
Rebecca nodded. “Yes, he did. But Oren’s not just a carpenter; he’s an artist, too. He gets that from his father.”
“What happened to those sculptures?” Roma asked, shifting in her chair.
“I hope they’re still out at the homestead. Maybe Oren has them in the barn.”
I looked from one to the other, trying to figure out what they were talking about.
Rebecca noticed my confusion. “Oh, I’m sorry, Kathleen,” she said. “We’re talking about people and things you don’t know anything about.” She adjusted the pillow at her back. “Let me see if I can explain.”
I picked up my glass again and leaned back against the arm of the sofa.
“Oren’s father, Karl, was a carpenter and a house painter. He worked for Harrison Taylor—Old Harry—as well as making barrels for Union. You know the stairs that go up to the top of Wild Rose Bluff? Karl worked on those. But in his spare time he made these incredible metal sculptures. They were massive things. Sadly, very few people got to see them.”
She must have seen the surprise on my face. “In those days young men from Mayville Heights, Minnesota, did not become artists, no matter how talented they were. And he was.”
I thought of the sun Oren had made for the library entrance. “Rebecca, you haven’t been in the library lately,” I said. “You haven’t seen the sun Oren carved for just inside the doors.”