“Dad, I’m sorry,” he said. “You, uh, worked with Agatha. You knew her.”
“I did,” Harrison said. I noticed how tightly he was gripping his cane.
Harry Junior took off his cap and ran a hand over his scalp. He looked at me. “What happened?”
I tried not to think about Agatha’s body lying in that alley, or her and Harry arguing on the sidewalk, the anger between them crackling in the cold night air. “I don’t think anyone knows for sure,” I finally said.
He looked at his father. “You okay?”
“I wouldn’t mind sitting down,” the old man said. “And if that’s coffee,” he gestured toward Abigail’s mug, “I wouldn’t mind a cup of that, either.”
“You’re not supposed to be drinking more than one cup of coffee.”
Harrison fixed his gaze on his son. “If I always did what I was supposed to do, you wouldn’t be here.”
Harry sighed. “You’re a stubborn old far—” He looked at me and caught himself. “Man,” he said instead.
“Go do whatever it was you came to do,” the old man said. “I can stay here with Kathleen. Maybe I’ll poke a few books back on the shelf for her.”
“I can always use an extra set of hands,” I said. I turned to Harry. “Go ahead. We’re fine.”
He hesitated. His mouth worked, but in the end all he said was, “Fine.” Then he turned and went back out the front doors.
“Would you like that cup of coffee now?” I asked Harrison.
“Please,” he said. “Before the Food Police comes back.”
I gestured across the library to the computer room. “There are a couple of chairs by the window. Have a seat and I’ll go get it.”
He smiled at me, and I couldn’t help thinking how much he looked like Santa Claus with his warm, blue eyes and white hair and beard. If I hadn’t seen him arguing with Agatha, I wouldn’t have believed it. There was no way an old man who could pass for Kriss Kringle had any connection to Agatha Shepherd’s death.
He made his way across the tile floor toward the big windows looking out over the water. I turned to the front desk and mouthed Watch him to Abigail, who nodded. Then I went upstairs and poured coffee for Harry. I set the carton of cream, several packets of sugar and a spoon next to the cups on a black plastic tray and carried the whole thing down the stairs.
Abigail was on the phone. “Come get me if you need help,” I whispered. She nodded without looking up.
Harry had taken off his coat and hat. I wondered why he had so much thick hair and his son had so little.
There was a low table under the window. I pulled it closer with my foot and then set the tray on top.
Harry noticed the carton of coffee cream. “Ahh,” he said, approvingly. “The good stuff.”
“I didn’t know how you took it,” I told him, as he poured cream into the cup.
“A little cream and three sugars,” he said, reaching for the paper packets. “Because I’m a sour old coot.”
“You are not,” I said.
He put the sugar in his coffee, stirred and then took a sip. “Mmmm, that’s good coffee.”
“Thank Abigail.” I told him. “She made it.”
“I will,” he said.
I took a drink from my own cup. Harrison was right. It was good coffee. I shifted sideways, watching as he settled himself a little more comfortably in the chair. Some inner resilience had taken over.
Balancing the cup on the arm of the chair, he looked at me. “Are you going to ask me about Agatha?” he said.
I wasn’t really surprised by the question. “It’s not any of my business.”
“Not a lot of secrets in a small place like this.”
I had to smile at that. Sometimes it was annoying how quickly news spread through Mayville. On the other hand, I was growing to like the fact that people knew me, that I was starting to belong.
The old man studied his left hand for a long moment, and I wondered what he was really seeing—some image from the past? Abruptly, he looked up at me again. “You probably figured out that I knew
“I did,” Harrison said. I noticed how tightly he was gripping his cane.
Harry Junior took off his cap and ran a hand over his scalp. He looked at me. “What happened?”
I tried not to think about Agatha’s body lying in that alley, or her and Harry arguing on the sidewalk, the anger between them crackling in the cold night air. “I don’t think anyone knows for sure,” I finally said.
He looked at his father. “You okay?”
“I wouldn’t mind sitting down,” the old man said. “And if that’s coffee,” he gestured toward Abigail’s mug, “I wouldn’t mind a cup of that, either.”
“You’re not supposed to be drinking more than one cup of coffee.”
Harrison fixed his gaze on his son. “If I always did what I was supposed to do, you wouldn’t be here.”
Harry sighed. “You’re a stubborn old far—” He looked at me and caught himself. “Man,” he said instead.
“Go do whatever it was you came to do,” the old man said. “I can stay here with Kathleen. Maybe I’ll poke a few books back on the shelf for her.”
“I can always use an extra set of hands,” I said. I turned to Harry. “Go ahead. We’re fine.”
He hesitated. His mouth worked, but in the end all he said was, “Fine.” Then he turned and went back out the front doors.
“Would you like that cup of coffee now?” I asked Harrison.
“Please,” he said. “Before the Food Police comes back.”
I gestured across the library to the computer room. “There are a couple of chairs by the window. Have a seat and I’ll go get it.”
He smiled at me, and I couldn’t help thinking how much he looked like Santa Claus with his warm, blue eyes and white hair and beard. If I hadn’t seen him arguing with Agatha, I wouldn’t have believed it. There was no way an old man who could pass for Kriss Kringle had any connection to Agatha Shepherd’s death.
He made his way across the tile floor toward the big windows looking out over the water. I turned to the front desk and mouthed Watch him to Abigail, who nodded. Then I went upstairs and poured coffee for Harry. I set the carton of cream, several packets of sugar and a spoon next to the cups on a black plastic tray and carried the whole thing down the stairs.
Abigail was on the phone. “Come get me if you need help,” I whispered. She nodded without looking up.
Harry had taken off his coat and hat. I wondered why he had so much thick hair and his son had so little.
There was a low table under the window. I pulled it closer with my foot and then set the tray on top.
Harry noticed the carton of coffee cream. “Ahh,” he said, approvingly. “The good stuff.”
“I didn’t know how you took it,” I told him, as he poured cream into the cup.
“A little cream and three sugars,” he said, reaching for the paper packets. “Because I’m a sour old coot.”
“You are not,” I said.
He put the sugar in his coffee, stirred and then took a sip. “Mmmm, that’s good coffee.”
“Thank Abigail.” I told him. “She made it.”
“I will,” he said.
I took a drink from my own cup. Harrison was right. It was good coffee. I shifted sideways, watching as he settled himself a little more comfortably in the chair. Some inner resilience had taken over.
Balancing the cup on the arm of the chair, he looked at me. “Are you going to ask me about Agatha?” he said.
I wasn’t really surprised by the question. “It’s not any of my business.”
“Not a lot of secrets in a small place like this.”
I had to smile at that. Sometimes it was annoying how quickly news spread through Mayville. On the other hand, I was growing to like the fact that people knew me, that I was starting to belong.
The old man studied his left hand for a long moment, and I wondered what he was really seeing—some image from the past? Abruptly, he looked up at me again. “You probably figured out that I knew
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