“Yes, well, we do have to help our friends when they’re in need, and if you’re in need, they return the favor.”
“Sometimes,” Cora added then reddened.
Beatrice shot her a nasty look. “Yes, sometimes.” She stalked off.
Gran grabbed Marius’s arm and started talking his ear off.
I wanted to press Cora for info about Beatrice. “How’s she doing?” I asked. “You guys are friends, right? Beatrice doesn’t seem her usual self.”
“I think Oakley’s running her ragged,” Cora admitted to me under her breath as I accepted two spinach pastries and a cup of punch.
Over on the other side of the hall, Oakley, with hands clasped firmly on her belly, was berating Beatrice about the food she’d brought her.
“Beatrice is probably sad about Brooks too,” I said lightly.
“Oh?”
“Well, they were allclosefriends,” I said, hoping she’d take the hint and spill a clue. “You know, always hanging out, going off to remote cabins together. Women were always attracted to Brooks. Football captain, homecoming king.”
We wound our way to our seats.
“I’d say you could sit next to us,” Cora said to me, “but I don’t think Alice and Gertrude are going to like that.”
“Yoo-hoo!” Gran waved from where Marius was sitting stoically in his seat. She patted the chair next to her.
There was shuffling of the seniors, then I was sitting right next to Marius. The chairs in the town hall were narrow, and Marius was not a small man. Even though I scrunched up in my seat, my leg kept inadvertently bumping his, then I’d panic.
The third time I almost spilled the punch on his bespoke suit, he grabbed my knee, his hand warm through my tights.
I chugged the rest of my punch, feeling a little woozy from the rum and whatever else was in there.
“Order!” Mayor Meghan Loring called out, banging her gavel on the lectern. “Order!”
The loud talking quieted.
“Merry Christmas, everyone. We’d like to remind everyone that the tourists are guests in our quaint historic town of Harrogate, and we need to make them feel welcome. That does not mean fleecing them for murder tours,” she said to several unrepentant blond teenage boys.
Her husband, Hunter Svensson, stood over them, his face stony.
“Before we move on to new business… yes, Ida, the sex festival in tandem with the Valentine’s Day market is on the agenda, but just be warned it does not have the support of the council.”
“Send it to a referendum!” Ida demanded.
“That is new business,” Meghan said firmly. “The first old-business item: the feral-cat colonies.”
The feral-cat committee members jumped up and started chanting in the middle of the hall. “Cats belong in compost, not café!”
Marius stood up. “Excuse me. Is this town seriously advocating killing cats and throwing them into compost piles?” Marius’s courtroom voice—smooth, assured—carried throughout the hall.
Several townspeople started muttering and glaring at the feral-cat committee.
Townspeople who’d gotten there early and were on their third round of punch started throwing napkins and empty paper cups at Gertrude and Alice.
“It seems to me,” Marius continued, “that the Santa Claws Café has found a wonderful way to help these cats findhomes. I understand it’s a pilot program, however. It needs to be expanded. There have been multiple complaints from businesses on Main Street about the unhoused cats. Charles, I believe you had issues with rogue feral cats?”
Charles gulped and squeaked out, “Yes,” then half covered his face.
“Perhaps the mayor would like to put her name on an initiative for more cat cafés to help all needy cats find homes this Christmas,” Marius said to Meghan.
