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Authors: Sofie Kelly
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to him.
He brushed a strand of hair away from my face. “Are you all right?” he asked.
I nodded.
This wasn’t my first body. Marcus and I had met when I’d discovered composer Gregor Easton’s body at the Stratton Theatre.
“I can’t believe Margo is dead. I just saw her a few hours ago. How could this have happened?”
“We’ll figure it out,” Marcus said. He put his hands on my shoulders. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m okay,” I said. I held up the take-out cup. “Hope brought me a cup of coffee.”
“How did she get here so fast?” he asked. He was already shifting into what I thought of as “police officer mode,” patting his pocket for gloves and scanning the area around the library.
“She was at Eric’s,” I said. We started walking toward the building and I had a flash of memory of the first time I’d made coffee for Marcus. We’d sat at the table in the staff room and he’d questioned me about my connection to Gregor Easton, thinking that maybe I’d been involved in some kind of torrid relationship with the pompous musician.
Marcus caught my smile in the darkness. “What?” he asked.
“I was just remembering the first time we shared a cup of coffee.”
“Best day of my life,” he said quietly.
It wasn’t what I’d expected him to say. For a moment I didn’t have any words, so I just reached over and squeezed his arm.
He put a hand over mine. “Your hands are cold,” he said.
“My mom always says, ‘Cold hands, warm heart.’”
“Funny, I don’t remember her ever saying that. At least to me.” A smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. “I remember she did tell me what would happen if I ever hurt you, but she didn’t say anything about hands and hearts, just locations where there’s no sunshine.”
My mother was a larger-than-life person who was more likely to be doing Shakespeare in the dining room than making cookies in the kitchen. But I had never doubted her love for my brother, Ethan, my sister, Sara, or me. She was as protective as a mama grizzly would be with her cubs.
Marcus’s lips brushed the top of my head. “I’ll just check in with Hope and you can probably go,” he said.
This time I did go back to the truck, nursing my coffee until Marcus came back. In the end it was more like half an hour before he and Hope said it was okay for me to leave.
“What’s going in the case in the very middle of where the artwork is displayed?” Marcus asked. We were standing at the bottom of the library steps.
“A drawing of a native encampment by Sam Weston,” I said, stuffing my hands in the pockets of my hoodie. “It’s the focal point of the exhibit.” Then his choice of words sank in. I caught a look passing between him and Hope. “Marcus, what do you mean, ‘What’s going in the case?’ The drawing should be in that case now.”
“It’s not,” Hope said, turning to look at the building.
Marcus ran a hand back through his dark wavy hair, a sure sign that he was troubled by the fact that the Weston drawing wasn’t where it should be. Margo Walsh was dead on my office floor. It wasn’t hard to make a connection between the two.
“Everett should know what’s going on,” I said. Another look passed between Marcus and Hope. It was as if they had some form of silent communication. I’d seen Owen and Hercules do the same thing.
“I’ll call him,” Marcus said.
“All right,” I said.
He took a few steps away from us and pulled out his phone.
Hope gave me a smile that was mostly politeness. “You can go home now, Kathleen.”
I pulled my keys out of my pocket and detached the ones for the building. “This one is for the main doors,” I said, pointing to the largest silver key. “This one is the master for all the inside doors.”
She took the keys and put them in her pocket.
“You’ll need the alarm codes,” I said.
“Tell me what they are,” she said. “I can remember them.”
I recited the sequences for both
He brushed a strand of hair away from my face. “Are you all right?” he asked.
I nodded.
This wasn’t my first body. Marcus and I had met when I’d discovered composer Gregor Easton’s body at the Stratton Theatre.
“I can’t believe Margo is dead. I just saw her a few hours ago. How could this have happened?”
“We’ll figure it out,” Marcus said. He put his hands on my shoulders. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m okay,” I said. I held up the take-out cup. “Hope brought me a cup of coffee.”
“How did she get here so fast?” he asked. He was already shifting into what I thought of as “police officer mode,” patting his pocket for gloves and scanning the area around the library.
“She was at Eric’s,” I said. We started walking toward the building and I had a flash of memory of the first time I’d made coffee for Marcus. We’d sat at the table in the staff room and he’d questioned me about my connection to Gregor Easton, thinking that maybe I’d been involved in some kind of torrid relationship with the pompous musician.
Marcus caught my smile in the darkness. “What?” he asked.
“I was just remembering the first time we shared a cup of coffee.”
“Best day of my life,” he said quietly.
It wasn’t what I’d expected him to say. For a moment I didn’t have any words, so I just reached over and squeezed his arm.
He put a hand over mine. “Your hands are cold,” he said.
“My mom always says, ‘Cold hands, warm heart.’”
“Funny, I don’t remember her ever saying that. At least to me.” A smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. “I remember she did tell me what would happen if I ever hurt you, but she didn’t say anything about hands and hearts, just locations where there’s no sunshine.”
My mother was a larger-than-life person who was more likely to be doing Shakespeare in the dining room than making cookies in the kitchen. But I had never doubted her love for my brother, Ethan, my sister, Sara, or me. She was as protective as a mama grizzly would be with her cubs.
Marcus’s lips brushed the top of my head. “I’ll just check in with Hope and you can probably go,” he said.
This time I did go back to the truck, nursing my coffee until Marcus came back. In the end it was more like half an hour before he and Hope said it was okay for me to leave.
“What’s going in the case in the very middle of where the artwork is displayed?” Marcus asked. We were standing at the bottom of the library steps.
“A drawing of a native encampment by Sam Weston,” I said, stuffing my hands in the pockets of my hoodie. “It’s the focal point of the exhibit.” Then his choice of words sank in. I caught a look passing between him and Hope. “Marcus, what do you mean, ‘What’s going in the case?’ The drawing should be in that case now.”
“It’s not,” Hope said, turning to look at the building.
Marcus ran a hand back through his dark wavy hair, a sure sign that he was troubled by the fact that the Weston drawing wasn’t where it should be. Margo Walsh was dead on my office floor. It wasn’t hard to make a connection between the two.
“Everett should know what’s going on,” I said. Another look passed between Marcus and Hope. It was as if they had some form of silent communication. I’d seen Owen and Hercules do the same thing.
“I’ll call him,” Marcus said.
“All right,” I said.
He took a few steps away from us and pulled out his phone.
Hope gave me a smile that was mostly politeness. “You can go home now, Kathleen.”
I pulled my keys out of my pocket and detached the ones for the building. “This one is for the main doors,” I said, pointing to the largest silver key. “This one is the master for all the inside doors.”
She took the keys and put them in her pocket.
“You’ll need the alarm codes,” I said.
“Tell me what they are,” she said. “I can remember them.”
I recited the sequences for both
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