Scoop to Kill: A Mystery a La Mode - By Wendy Lyn Watson Page 0,17

Finn out, and found Cal McCormack standing on my front porch, fist poised to knock.

Cal’s military background showed in his dress: his dark green shirt was tucked evenly in his jeans, the tail of his belt had been slipped through the loops, and the toes of his boots shone with a fresh coat of polish. But that morning, there were signs of wear in his demeanor. His close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair stuck up all higgledy-piggledy on one side of his head, and dark circles around his cerulean eyes stood out in his drawn face.

“Hey, Cal,” Finn drawled, amused.

“Finn.” Cal’s expression betrayed no emotion at all.

“I’ll see you later, Tally,” Finn called over his shoulder as he sauntered down the walk.

“Come on in, Cal,” I said, stepping out of his way.

He walked in, but stopped awkwardly just inside the door, like he wasn’t sure if he was really welcome. Sherbet, always interested in new visitors, came trotting into the front room with his yarn trophy clamped in his tiny jaws. Cal crouched down and scratched the cat behind the ears, then stood and faced me.

“I stopped by the A-la-mode, but Bree said you were at home this morning.” His jaw tightened. “She didn’t mention you had company.”

“She didn’t know,” I said.

One dark eyebrow arched.

“No, what I mean is Finn just stopped by. He brought banana cake. You want some?”

Cal looked at me like I’d suggested he might want to streak naked through the courthouse square. “No. Thank you.”

“So what can I do for you?”

“I, uh . . .” He stopped and cleared his throat. “Thanks for coming to the, uh, the church yesterday.”

Funeral. I’d never known Cal McCormack to show a lick of fear, but he couldn’t say that little word.

“Of course, Cal. I hope you know how sorry I am. For you and for Marla.”

“Yeah, well, it means a lot.” He studied his boots. “You know, when bad things happen, you know who your friends are. They’re the ones who call or drop you a note and say, ‘Hey, if there’s anything I can do, just holler.’ ”

He paused again, and made a little sound in the back of his throat as though he were agreeing with himself. Then he looked up, and fixed me with the full power of that blistering blue gaze.

“You also learn who’s more than a friend. Who’s family. They’re the ones who walk right up to you and hold out their hands without even waiting for you to ask.”

I knew what it cost Cal to stand in the middle of my living room, a marmalade tabby winding between his feet, and let a little of the tenderness inside his hard cowboy heart show. And it did my own heart good to know that the bond we’d formed as children had survived our years of estrangement. I didn’t have much family, but what I had I held close. I’d gladly welcome Cal into that circle.

On impulse, I closed the gap between us and wrapped my arms around him. Cal stood nearly a foot taller than me, and I thought he might have a gun somewhere on his person, so the best I could manage was an awkward hug. I felt him stiffen, but then his own hands fumbled across my back until he held me tight against him.

I never saw a tear in his eyes or felt moisture against my cheek, but in his own way Cal McCormack cried that morning. Ripples of tension passed through his body, as though he were convulsing, heaving the pain from his body, and my hair muffled a raw sound that welled up from deep within him.

We stood that way for a long time, neither of us speaking, just letting the years melt away and feeling the old bonds of deep friendship.

Finally, Cal broke the silence. “Tally?”

“Hmmm?”

“Where’s the yarn?”

“What?” I asked, pulling away.

Cal pointed at the ground behind me. “Where’s the yarn?”

I turned and looked down at the floor. Sherbet crouched on the carpet, staring, slightly dazed, at the bare floor in front of him.

He belched daintily.

“Oh, crap,” I muttered, dropping to my haunches and searching the floor for the yarn. It didn’t seem possible that such a small cat, still little more than a kitten, could have consumed a whole ball of yarn in the blink of an eye. But the yarn had been there, and now it wasn’t. I lifted the edge of Grandma Peachy’s quilt from where I’d left it hanging off the couch, scattered the throw pillows,