“We’ll have to have a talk with our boarder,” I said. Diesel liked Justin and often visited him in his third-floor bedroom. “Just think what Azalea would do if she came in some morning and found a mess like this. She’d skin both Justin and me.” Diesel returned my rueful glance with a solemn gaze.

Azalea Berry, the housekeeper I inherited along with the house when my beloved Aunt Dottie died, had strict notions about keeping a clean home. She also had strong opinions about large cats as house pets, but she and Diesel somehow managed to reach detente when I brought him home with me a couple of years ago. Even when he was a kitten, Diesel had been smart enough to pick up on Azalea’s basic antipathy to cats.

Azalea had more tolerance for college-age boys, but that didn’t mean she would allow Justin to get away with leaving the kitchen a mess, even a minor one. Maybe I could help him with whatever his problem was before he did it again and Azalea got after him.

I couldn’t blame Azalea for her devotion to the house. Aunt Dottie had lavished her money—and her decorating abilities—on what she considered the center of any home. The kitchen occupied the southeast corner of the house, and the morning sun poured in through the large windows on both outside walls. Light suffused the room, helped by the pale yellow paint on the walls and the white ceramic tile on the floor. The cabinets shone a delicate blue and blended well with the darker hue of the table and chairs.

I could almost smell the scent of the ginger cookies Aunt Dottie used to make when I was a boy. There were only happy memories in this room, but for a moment I ached with the loss of my dear aunt and of my beloved wife, Jackie. They both died within a few weeks of each other three years ago. I pictured them at the table together, laughing and chatting.

Coming out of my reverie, I glanced at Diesel again, and I could swear he had a sympathetic look on his face. “Enough of that,” I told him. He twitched his tail, turned, and padded off in the direction of the utility room and his litter box.

I cleared up Justin’s mess, and as I was putting the cereal box away in the cupboard, Justin popped into the kitchen.

“Mr. Charlie,” Justin said, stopping in the doorway. “I was planning to clean up.” One hand clutched a worn backpack, and the other smoothed dark hair out of his eyes. The boy needed a haircut, or else he needed a ponytail.

Diesel reappeared and rubbed against his friend’s jean-clad leg. Justin squatted for a moment, scratching the cat’s head but watching me through his bangs.