“What was that?”
Kate stood up. “You heard me. I’m going to bed. Tomorrow I want to sell at least three houses and I don’t want to think about Sylvia or Tayla or Janet or Gil.”
“Or about your mother. Hey! You ever think she might have a boyfriend? If she’s happy in New York, maybe it’s some Wall Street guy in a three-piece suit. Or do they all wear suspenders now?”
Kate gave a bit of a smile. “Thanks,” she said, then disappeared into her rooms. He really had made her feel better.
Eight
KATE SLEPT LATE the next morning, awoke smiling, and hummed while she dressed. It was going to be a good day. No murder would fill her mind, and thanks to Jack, she felt less worried about her mother. He was probably right. Maybe something had happened that had nothing to do with her. Maybe—
She had her hand on the door into the house when she heard her aunt say, “Absolutely not. I refuse.”
Jack said, “You owe the man so you are going.”
Kate stepped into the room. Jack and Sara were glaring at each other across the kitchen counter. “Should I get the boxing gloves?”
Sara, her mouth in a grimace of anger, said, “Tell her what you want me to do.”
He turned to Kate. “Arthur Niederman has invited all of us to tea at his house at four today. I think we should go, but Medlar here says no.”
Kate went to the kitchen and got a cereal bowl out of a cabinet. “I take it this has to do with the book Arthur wants you to read.”
“Go on,” Jack said to Sara. “Tell her the rest of it.”
“The book is awful.”
“And you don’t want to tell him that,” Kate said. “I understand.”
“It’s more than that,” Sara said. “I’ve read dozens of unpublished novels and I’ve always been truthful about them. But without exception, the writers hate me. Not dislike, hate. That’s because they all expect me to tell them their book is so fabulous that I turned it over to my agent and he got them a ten-million-dollar movie deal.”
Kate gave a little laugh but Jack and Sara were looking at her seriously. “You’re joking, right?”
“Not at all,” Jack said. “Two years ago my mother conned Sara into reading the manuscript of a friend. Sara nicely told her the book needed work, and even told her how to change it. The woman got so angry I had to protect our Sara from the, uh, less than friendly language.”
“How bad is the Niederman book?” Kate asked.
“He’s not a bad writer, but the plot is like every other detective novel. You can get away with bad writing, but you must have a good plot. I can’t imagine that anyone will publish it as it is.”
Kate considered that for a moment as Sara and Jack stared at her. “Jack’s right. We owe Arthur so we have to go today. And you have to tell him the truth about his book. He helped us so much with the Morris case and critiquing his novel was the price.”
“I know,” Sara said, “but I bloody well don’t want to do it.”
Jack put his arm around her small shoulders. He was over a foot taller than she. “We’ll be right there with you. I have to go to work now so I can protect Gil from himself, but I’ll be back before it’s time to leave.” He kissed the top of her head.
“Hope you have a good day,” Kate said.
Jack turned his face to the side and tapped his cheek, meaning for her to kiss him goodbye.
Kate hesitated.
“How’s your mom?” he asked. He was reminding her that he’d helped her last night.
She kissed his cheek.
“Ah, at last. I think I’ll shellac over that spot so it never goes away.”
Smiling, Kate shook her head. “I’ll meet you back here no later than 3:45 and we’ll go to tea.”