Rose Hill by Pamela Grandstaff Page A

was pouting at the front door.
    “It won’t be any good now it’s cold,” she said. “You could have at least called.”
    Scott kissed her temple and apologized, then went to the kitchen, where a perfectly prepared meal was waiting, and it was still hot. She refused to eat, saying she wasn’t hungry. She cleaned the spotless kitchen instead, sighing heavily, while he ate.
    His mother abhorred gossip, so he couldn’t ask her if she’d heard anything about Theo. He asked about his sister, got a blow-by-blow account of her latest phone call, and dutifully admired the newest pictures of his niece and nephew.
    “They’ve invited me to come for two weeks next month, so I can be there when the twins are confirmed,” she said.
    This led her to lament his missing Mass that morning.
    “I was investigating Theo Eldridge’s murder,” he said.
    “I don’t appreciate your tone, young man. You could still have let me know you were going to miss church and be late for dinner.”
    “I’m sorry, Mom,” he said, as all his resistance drained out of him. “I got busy and didn’t think.”
    “Didn’t think about me, you mean,” she said. “I’m just your mother, I know. I don’t rate up there with murderers and people from the county sheriff’s office. I didn’t know where you were or what had happened to you. You could have been lying dead by the side of the road, for all I knew.”
    She dissolved into tears and he got up and hugged her, even as she pretended to turn away. It felt stuffy in the house, and Scott had an urge to open a window and let some air into the room. His mother had a horror of drafts, however, and he knew from experience that all the windows were painted shut.
     
     
    When Scott left his mother’s house, awake again from several cups of coffee, he drove out the narrow dirt road known as Possum Holler to Drew Rosen’s house. As he pulled up he could see Drew was attempting to shovel his walkway with a flimsy plastic shovel. Scott pulled a heavy steel shovel out of the back of his SUV and assisted, making better headway using the proper tool. After they had the path cleared Drew thanked him, but he was obviously not glad to see him. Scott returned the shovel to his vehicle and faced the man.
    “You want to do this outside or inside?”
    Drew invited him in.
    The old house was shabby and drafty, and Scott felt sorry for anyone who had to live like this. The recuperating black lab was stretched out on a broken down couch on top of a puffy sleeping bag, and merely acknowledged their presence with a wan lift of the head and listless thump of the tail before going back to sleep. A fire blazed in the large gas box stove, but the warmth only radiated out a few feet before a perpetual icy draft dissipated it.
    Scott pulled a chair out from a wobbly kitchen table, on top of which sat a big wooden bowl with an oversized tabby cat in it. Duke opened one golden eye to consider Scott before yawning, stretching, and repositioning himself for a better look. Scott accepted Drew’s offer of tea and reached over to rub the top of the big cat’s head.
    “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Drew said, watching with some concern.
    “Duke and I are good buddies,” Scott said. “He sometimes accompanies me on my rounds at night.”
    Drew gave Scott a dubious look, but Scott nodded.
    “He does. And sometimes he comes home with me and sleeps in my kitchen.”
    “I’m sorry if he’s making a nuisance of himself,” Drew said. “I advise my clients to keep their cats indoors, but if I try to keep him inside he attacks me.”
    “He’s good company,” Scott said. “I don’t mind at all.”
    “When I bought the practice the vet’s widow told me Duke was the clinic blood donor cat. The first time I tried to draw blood from him he got more out of me.”
    “Owen loved cats, but his wife hates them,” Scott said. “That was probably the excuse he gave her for keeping the cat around. No wonder he doesn’t