and stretched my legs in front of me, crossing one foot over the other. “Is there anything else?”
He smiled, almost. “I can’t think of anything else. Thank you.” He touched his pocket. “And thank you for calling me when you found the piece of glass.”
I gave him a small smile. “You’re welcome,” I said.
He started for the door and then stopped and turned back to me. “Any chance you’d be available to help me out at Wisteria Hill tomorrow morning?”
There was still a colony of feral cats living out at the old Henderson estate, Wisteria Hill. Roma had a group of volunteers taking care of them. Marcus was one. So was I.
I ran through what I had planned for Friday morning: laundry, housecleaning—nothing that couldn’t be put off. And I have a soft spot for Wisteria Hill. It’s where I found Owen and Hercules, or to be more exact, where they’d found me.
I nodded. “I can help you.”
He smiled for real then. “Thanks. I’ll pick you up about eight, if that’s okay.”
I still found it disconcerting, the way he could switch from being coolly professional to almost friendly. “It is,” I said.
“I’ll call you if something changes.”
“You mean if you find the person who hit Agatha.”
He didn’t even blink. “You think someone hit Mrs. Shepherd?” he said, standing there so unconcerned, feet apart with his hands in his pockets.
“I think a car or truck hit her, yes.” I pointed at his pocket. “The broken glass, the blood soaked into her coat, tire tracks in the alley. She didn’t have a stroke.” I straightened and faced him head-on, almost challenging him to tell me I was wrong.
He looked at me for a long, silent moment. “You’re very observant, Kathleen,” he said finally.
I waited for something else, some admission that I was right, but all he did was pull on his gloves.
“Have a nice day, Kathleen,” he said. This time he made it all the way to the door before he turned around.
I was already reaching for my briefcase.
“Kathleen.”
I turned.
“Thanks for the coffee.”
He was gone before I could say “You’re welcome.”
I took my laptop and the file about the reference books I wanted to order out of my briefcase and set the bag next to my boots, under the coatrack. Then I walked down to the front desk, where Abigail was sorting the books from the book drop, peering through her rimless reading glasses.
“I let Detective Gordon in. Was that all right?” she said.
“Yes, it was.”
“He’s kind of cute in a chiseled-jaw, broad-shouldered, Dudley Do-Right kind of way,” Abigail said, a hint of a smile making her lips twitch.
“Don’t you start, too,” I said. “I’m not interested in him. He’s not my type.”
She held up one hand. “Okay, whatever you say,” she said in a tone that meant she didn’t quite believe me. “So, what was Detective Do-Right here for?”
“Do you know Agatha Shepherd?” I asked.
“Not really. I know who she is.” She looked up, her face serious. “Something happened to her?”
I nodded. “She’s dead. Ruby found her body. You know the alley that turns and runs behind Eric’s?”
She nodded.
“Ruby was cutting through to meet Maggie and me at the café.”
“Poor Ruby,” Abigail whispered. “Wasn’t Agatha in a rehabilitation hospital? She’s only been home for, what, maybe a week?” She shook her head. “It doesn’t seem fair. Was it another stroke?”
I flashed back to the dark stain of blood soaked into the plaid mohair coat. “I . . . I don’t know,” I said. “Detective Gordon didn’t say.”
“She was a good principal,” Abigail said. “She helped a lot of kids.” She glanced down the desk and made a face. “Kathleen, I’m sorry I forgot to tell you that Susan called. She won’t be in until after lunch.”
“Are the twins sick?” I asked. I remembered that Eric hadn’t been at the café. It wasn’t like either of them to miss work.
“She didn’t say, but
He smiled, almost. “I can’t think of anything else. Thank you.” He touched his pocket. “And thank you for calling me when you found the piece of glass.”
I gave him a small smile. “You’re welcome,” I said.
He started for the door and then stopped and turned back to me. “Any chance you’d be available to help me out at Wisteria Hill tomorrow morning?”
There was still a colony of feral cats living out at the old Henderson estate, Wisteria Hill. Roma had a group of volunteers taking care of them. Marcus was one. So was I.
I ran through what I had planned for Friday morning: laundry, housecleaning—nothing that couldn’t be put off. And I have a soft spot for Wisteria Hill. It’s where I found Owen and Hercules, or to be more exact, where they’d found me.
I nodded. “I can help you.”
He smiled for real then. “Thanks. I’ll pick you up about eight, if that’s okay.”
I still found it disconcerting, the way he could switch from being coolly professional to almost friendly. “It is,” I said.
“I’ll call you if something changes.”
“You mean if you find the person who hit Agatha.”
He didn’t even blink. “You think someone hit Mrs. Shepherd?” he said, standing there so unconcerned, feet apart with his hands in his pockets.
“I think a car or truck hit her, yes.” I pointed at his pocket. “The broken glass, the blood soaked into her coat, tire tracks in the alley. She didn’t have a stroke.” I straightened and faced him head-on, almost challenging him to tell me I was wrong.
He looked at me for a long, silent moment. “You’re very observant, Kathleen,” he said finally.
I waited for something else, some admission that I was right, but all he did was pull on his gloves.
“Have a nice day, Kathleen,” he said. This time he made it all the way to the door before he turned around.
I was already reaching for my briefcase.
“Kathleen.”
I turned.
“Thanks for the coffee.”
He was gone before I could say “You’re welcome.”
I took my laptop and the file about the reference books I wanted to order out of my briefcase and set the bag next to my boots, under the coatrack. Then I walked down to the front desk, where Abigail was sorting the books from the book drop, peering through her rimless reading glasses.
“I let Detective Gordon in. Was that all right?” she said.
“Yes, it was.”
“He’s kind of cute in a chiseled-jaw, broad-shouldered, Dudley Do-Right kind of way,” Abigail said, a hint of a smile making her lips twitch.
“Don’t you start, too,” I said. “I’m not interested in him. He’s not my type.”
She held up one hand. “Okay, whatever you say,” she said in a tone that meant she didn’t quite believe me. “So, what was Detective Do-Right here for?”
“Do you know Agatha Shepherd?” I asked.
“Not really. I know who she is.” She looked up, her face serious. “Something happened to her?”
I nodded. “She’s dead. Ruby found her body. You know the alley that turns and runs behind Eric’s?”
She nodded.
“Ruby was cutting through to meet Maggie and me at the café.”
“Poor Ruby,” Abigail whispered. “Wasn’t Agatha in a rehabilitation hospital? She’s only been home for, what, maybe a week?” She shook her head. “It doesn’t seem fair. Was it another stroke?”
I flashed back to the dark stain of blood soaked into the plaid mohair coat. “I . . . I don’t know,” I said. “Detective Gordon didn’t say.”
“She was a good principal,” Abigail said. “She helped a lot of kids.” She glanced down the desk and made a face. “Kathleen, I’m sorry I forgot to tell you that Susan called. She won’t be in until after lunch.”
“Are the twins sick?” I asked. I remembered that Eric hadn’t been at the café. It wasn’t like either of them to miss work.
“She didn’t say, but
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