One of the part-timers who had done inventory before said it would take at least two days, maybe three if it was as bad as Betsy said. This person—a male, oddly enough—recommended she call the insurance agent, which she did (TWENTY-FOUR-HOUR SERVICE his calendar on the kitchen wall advertised). Betsy wasn’t up to seeing him tonight, so he would also come by tomorrow.

The phone rang. It seemed as if every time she hung up, it rang again. It was, as before, someone with a cat they thought might be Sophie. This one, by the description, was a kitten.

“No, Sophie’s big, really big. Huge,” Betsy said. “But thank you for calling, and I hope you find the owner of the kitten.”

She had no more than taken her hand off the phone when the doorbell rang. She went to push the button that released the lock. She should go down and unlock it and stick up a note: Bring Alleged Sophies Up to Apartment One.

So far two people had come by with cats. The first time, seeing the large heap of white fluff in the woman’s arms, her heart had leaped with joy—but it hadn’t been Sophie.

The second one, brought in a carrier, hadn’t any white on it at all.

It was sad and disturbing to realize how many homeless cats there were in just this small town.

So she was really surprised when she opened the door this time and it was Joe Mickels standing there.

Betsy nearly slammed the door in his face, but restrained herself. Still, she managed a good degree of frost in her voice as she asked, “What do you want?”

“We’ve got some business to discuss, Ms. Devonshire,” he said. His voice was calm, so decided a contrast to his fierce expression that it occurred to her his face looked that way naturally. “May I come in? This won’t take long.”

“Very well.” She stepped back and led him into the living room. Because she did not want him to sit in her sister’s chair, she took it, and when she did, he sat on the love seat.

“I understand you are taking inventory in the store.”

“We haven’t begun yet, we’re still cleaning up after—” The words choked her, she could not finish the sentence. “Anyhow how did you find that out?”

He showed a fierce grin. “This is a small town.”

“Then perhaps you also know I have spoken with Mr. Penberthy,” she said, allowing the ice to show once more, “and he tells me we need to complete an inventory to close the estate.”

“Any idea how long that will take?”

“At least three days.”

“I can find some helpers if you need them to hurry things along, and to help you set up for the going-out-of-business sale. How about I let you stay in the apartment until everything’s finished?”