I knew she was referring to Roma’s propensity for carrying a bag of M&M’s along with a roll of duct tape so she was covered for pretty much any emergency that might happen.
“But it’s your sweet inside that Eddie fell in love with.”
The whole analogy was so silly even Roma had to laugh. But then her expression turned serious again. “Eddie loves kids. I’m too old to have a baby. I’m not going to let him give up something I know he wants just for a life with me. So I can’t marry him.” She held up a hand. “And I don’t want to argue about it.”
I struggled to find the right words. “Roma, Maggie and I are with you, no matter what you decide to do,” I said. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Maggie nod in agreement. “Just . . . before you make a final decision, try living with the idea a little while.” It was something my father had said to me more than once, and it was the best thing I could think of to say.
We went back to talking about Roma’s plans for the yard, but Eddie’s proposal was the proverbial elephant in the room. When it was time to leave I wrapped Roma in a hug. “Call me anytime you want to talk,” I said. “Or not talk.”
“I will,” she promised. She waved from the steps as we started down the long driveway.
We were out on the road back to town before Maggie spoke. “Roma isn’t too old for Eddie. And there are other ways to make a family besides having a baby.”
I nodded without taking my eyes off the road. “I know that, but I don’t think she does.”
Gavin called me early the next morning. I was standing in the kitchen, wild haired, trying to decide between oatmeal with fruit and a scrambled egg. Owen and Hercules had already started on their breakfasts.
“Hey, Kathleen,” he said. “Could I buy you breakfast, or have you already eaten?”
I pushed my hair back off my face. “Is this about the library or are you just looking for company?” One night we had worked late on plans for the exhibit and Gavin had admitted that he didn’t like eating alone, even with a good book for company.
“I like conversation,” he’d said, a bit sheepishly.
“You need a cat,” I’d told him. “Owen and Hercules are great at making mealtime conversation, as long as you consider meows, murps and grumbling conversation.”
He’d laughed. “Where do they stand on the Wild’s playoff chances?”
“Stanley Cup in six,” I’d said, straight-faced.
Gavin laughed now. “I always enjoy your company, Kathleen, but this is about the library, specifically about the Weston piece. I have an idea I want to run by you and it’s a bit too complicated to get into on the phone.”
“And you don’t like eating alone,” I finished.
“You’re right, I don’t. So come join me. I’m at Eric’s Place. The coffee is hot, and I have an idea that might help us figure out who took that drawing.” He paused for a moment and when he spoke again the laughter had gone out of his voice. “And who killed Margo.”
I looked at the clock over the refrigerator. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
I went back upstairs, wrestled my hair into a low twist with the help of lots of bobby pins and hairspray, and brushed my teeth. Back downstairs again I pulled on my favorite ankle boots while Hercules watched with curiosity and Owen moved the rest of his breakfast from his dish to the floor so he had more room to sniff each bite.
I leaned down and stroked the top of Hercules’s head. “I’m going to have breakfast with Gavin,” I said. “Have a good day.”
Owen’s gray tabby head shot up and the brothers exchanged a look; then two sets of cat eyes focused on me.
Neither Owen nor Hercules had taken to Gavin, probably because by his own admission he was a dog person. Their eyes stayed locked on me as I checked that I had everything I needed in my bag and reached for my coat, pretending to ignore them the whole time.
Still, it was disconcerting to be stared at. I should have been used to it, given how many times they’d used the technique on me when they were dissatisfied with something I’d done.
I turned and stared back at them, arms folded over my chest. “First of all, dog people are not the Evil Empire.”
That got no reaction, not even a blink.
“You like Harrison,” I continued, “and Harry Junior, and they’re dog people.”
The Taylors—Harry Junior and Senior—had a big German shepherd named Boris. Owen and Boris had had one “unfortunate” encounter that as far as Owen was concerned made them mortal enemies for life. The truth was that Boris was an intelligent and gentle dog. I’d made the mistake of calling him a pussycat once. Owen had been understandably offended.
The cats exchanged another look. Owen wrinkled his nose at me and meowed loudly.
I smiled at him, wrinkling my own nose back at him. “No, that’s not different,” I said firmly.
He dropped his head over his food again. Clearly, as far as he was concerned the discussion was over.
Gavin was sitting at a table by the end wall of the small café when I got to Eric’s. Claire was just refilling his coffee cup. Gavin raised a hand in greeting and when Claire caught sight of me she reached for the other stoneware mug on the table.
“Oh, thank you,” I said to her, dropping my bag on the chair opposite Gavin.
“You’re welcome,” she said. “Do you need a menu or do you know what you’d like?” She gave me a knowing smile. “Eric’s sourdough breakfast sandwich, maybe?”
“Definitely,” I said. Clearly I was getting to be predictable.
Claire headed for the kitchen and I slipped off my jacket, put my bag on the floor and sat down. “Okay, I’m here, so tell me your idea. You really think you might have a way to figure out who took the Weston drawing?” I reached for the small pitcher of cream in the middle of the table.
“Maybe.” Gavin ran the fingernails of one hand over his bearded chin. “I have a . . . connection in Minneapolis.”
I took a drink of my coffee. It was strong and very hot, just the way I liked it. Not that I would necessarily turn down coffee that was cold and weak.
“A connection could be anyone from someone you worked with to someone you dated to the kid you ate erasers with in kindergarten,” I said.
“I didn’t eat erasers in kindergarten,” Gavin said. “But remind me sometime to tell you the story of what happened when I tried that paste stuff they use for papier-mâché.”
I laughed. “You didn’t.”
“Oh, I did.” He grinned across the small table at me. “I didn’t have the discriminating palate that I have now.”
I laughed. Even though I knew that Gavin was trying to charm me, I still enjoyed his company.
He held up a hand and the grin faded. “Seriously, my connection to Big Jule is professional.”
“Big Jule?” I said, not even trying to keep the skepticism out of my voice. “Like the character from Guys and Dolls?”
Gavin nodded. “I know what you’re thinking. Big Jule—whose real name is Julian McCrea—is a huge musical theater fan. He’s played the role of Big Jule nineteen times in amateur productions.” He shrugged. “He’s a little . . . eccentric, but if a piece of artwork is”—he paused for a moment, searching for the right word—“generating interest, Big Jule knows who’s interested.”
I took another sip of my coffee. “So he’s what? A thief? A fence?”
Gavin leaned back in his chair. “He’s more of a relocation specialist.”
“A fence, then,” I said. “So does he say ‘youse guys’ and shoot craps in a back alley?”
He laughed again. “You’re not going to break out in a chorus of ‘Luck Be a Lady,’ are you, Kathleen?” he asked.
A mental image of my dad in a snap-brim fedora and a black pinstripe suit when he’d played Sky Masterson in Guys and Dolls flashed into my head.