Cat Trick

“I can’t fault her for that,” Roma said, twisting the silver ring she wore around her index finger. “When Luke died, it was hard for me to be around his family at first; all I saw was reminders of what I’d lost. We’d been married such a short time. More than once I’d catch sight of his brother—at the counter in the kitchen, or coming down the stairs—and I’d think, ‘Here’s Luke,’ and for a split second it was as though the accident hadn’t happened. And then I’d remember that it had.” She exhaled slowly. “But they were Olivia’s family—her grandparents, her aunts and uncle. Over time it got”—she shrugged— “not exactly easier, just not so raw. I’m sorry Celia was never able to get to that place.”

“Mary said that Mike left Mayville Heights not long after his brother died,” I said.

Maggie nodded. “This was literally his first visit back.”

“And his last,” Roma added softly.

I wondered what it had been like for Mike to come back to the place where he’d grown up after almost ten years, to see people he hadn’t seen in all that time. I’d had an aching attack of homesickness when my plane had landed in Boston, and I’d been away for only a little more than a year. When I caught sight of my mother and father and Ethan and Sara waiting for me, I’d almost burst into tears.

Roma touched my arm. “Would you like a drive up the hill?” she asked.

“I should walk,” I said.

She shrugged. “I didn’t ask you if you thought you should walk. I asked if you’d like a drive.”

I nodded. “Please.” Suddenly I was tired. All I wanted to do was go home, hug Owen and Hercules—assuming they felt like coming when I called them—and then pick up the phone and call my parents.

Roma and I changed our shoes out on the landing. She pulled on her sweatshirt. I stuffed my sweater in my bag. Maggie leaned against the doorframe. “Don’t forget lunch tomorrow,” she said to me. She looked at Roma. “Can you come?”

Roma shook her head, and it seemed to me she was trying to stifle a smile. “Sorry. I can’t.” Then the smile got loose. “I’m getting the keys to Wisteria Hill tomorrow.” She was moving in once renovations to the old house were done. Given how much work it needed, that might be a while.

Maggie’s eyes lit up and she did her little happy dance, which looked pretty much like a two-year-old having a tantrum.

I threw my arms around Roma. “That’s wonderful,” I said.

“We’re going to be at my studio,” Maggie said. “Stop by for a minute if you can, so we can toast your new home.”

“Okay,” Roma said, dropping her shoes in her bag. “I’ll try.”

I leaned around Mags to wave good-bye to Ruby and Taylor, and then Roma and I headed down to her SUV.

Roma didn’t say a word as she pulled out of her parking spot and started down the street, but I saw her eyes dart in my direction a couple of times. There was something on her mind. Something she hadn’t wanted to say in front of Maggie—or anyone else.

“What is it?” I finally asked. The fact that she didn’t immediately ask me what the heck I was talking about told me my hunch was right.

Her mouth moved for a moment before any words came out. She shot me another look before speaking. “I may regret asking you this, but . . . what do you know about Mike Glazer’s death that the rest of us don’t?” She held up one hand for a second to head off what she probably figured would be my objections before putting it back on the steering wheel. “And don’t say ‘nothing,’ because I saw your face when Maggie made her comment about him having a heart attack.”

I looked out the windshield for a minute before answering. “It’s not that I ‘know’ anything,” I began.

“Okay, you suspect something.”

I shrugged. “Suspect might even be too strong a word. It’s just . . .” I folded my arms over my chest, suddenly wishing I had put on my sweater. “I told you it was Hercules who found the body.”

Roma nodded but remained silent, her eyes on the road.

“Mike was sitting in one of those white plastic lawn chairs and there was just something about the way—I knew he was dead, but I felt for a pulse at his neck, just to be sure.” I took a deep breath and let it out. “There wasn’t one. His face was blotchy, mottled. His skin was cold.”

“And?” she prompted softly.

“There were tiny red spots on his face.” I touched the side of my face.

“Petechiae?” she asked.

“Yes.”