Stewart snorted with laughter, and Diesel padded over to him and meowed loudly. Stewart had yet to notice the cat, and Diesel obviously meant to bring this to the man’s attention.

“Shakespeare, actually,” Stewart said as he rubbed the cat’s head. “To be more precise, Macbeth, hence the mention of fell purpose.”

“Why this sudden interest in Shakespeare?” I was curious because Stewart, a chemistry professor at Athena College, tended to read mostly nonfiction, with the occasional lurid thriller or trashy best-seller thrown into the mix.

“Trying to elevate my mind above the mundane table of elements that I spend so much of my life with.” Stewart’s airy tone didn’t fool me. Something—more likely, someone—had prompted this interest in the Bard, but I knew Stewart wouldn’t tell me who until he was darned good and ready. I didn’t think Laura was responsible, despite her avowed devotion to the playwright. There had to be an attractive man involved somehow.

“Shakespeare is a good elevator for the mind.” I did my best to keep a straight face, but when Stewart rolled his eyes at my atrocious pun, I had to laugh. “Seriously, I hope you’re enjoying Macbeth. Great play, but my favorite is actually The Tempest.”

“Haven’t made it to that one yet.” Stewart rubbed Diesel’s head a few more times before he turned to the sink to wash his hands. “Now where are you going? You never did answer me.”

“Sorry.” I explained briefly about the dinner party. “Laura said she and Frank would keep Diesel company until I get home. They ought to be here any minute.”

“I’m staying in tonight. He can come upstairs and play with Dante.” Stewart went to the stove, lifted the lid of a pot, and sniffed appreciatively. “Minestrone. Smells sinfully delicious.”

“Sure does,” I said as the scent wafted my way. “Where is Dante anyway?” Usually the little poodle bounced around Stewart like a tiny dervish.

Stewart grimaced. “He’s having a time-out in his crate for a couple of hours. He was a bad boy earlier today while I was out—he tried to eat one of my expensive Italian loafers.”

Diesel started chattering, and Stewart and I exchanged amused glances. I would have sworn the cat was commenting on the poodle’s bad behavior, and not politely, either. The chatter stopped, and Diesel looked up at Stewart as if waiting for a reply.

Stewart winked at me. “That’s right, honey, you are a sweet, well-behaved kitty, and he’s a bad, bad little dog.”

The cat blinked, then calmly started washing his left front paw.

Stewart adjusted the heat under the minestrone. “Laura told me about the murder. That poor woman.”

“Did you know her?” I glanced at my watch to check the time. I had a good ten minutes before I had to leave.