Free Catnip (Dunbarton Mysteries Book 1) by Valerie Tate Page A

Now, if you don’t mind, I don’t seem to have much appetite. I think I’d
just better get back to the office. I’ll take care of the check on my way out.”
    Chris started to protest but
James was gone, winding his way through the tables, shoulders drooping, head
bowed, a picture of dejection and defeat.

Chapter 14
    Some piece of cake! Night after
night hiding in these bushes and for what? Not even the sight of him. Just
rabbits, raccoons and that rotten little mutt next door. But his luck had
to change sometime…
    Wait a minute. What’s that by
the corner of the house? Yup, that’s him. At last! That’s right, you come right
this way. Look at him, s trollin’ across the lawn,
sweet as you please, straight for him. A little bit closer and he’d have him.
Just a little bit closer …
    Damn!
    It’s like the cat knew he was
waiting for him. Almost within reach and then, at the last minute, straight up
into the tree. And now sitting up there laughing at him.
    And that rotten mutt next door
is barking to wake the dead, which is what he’ll be if I ever get my hands on
him.

Chapter 15
    Monday morning arrived much too
soon. Chris had begged off Sunday dinner, unable to face either Alice’s
enthusiasm or James’ depression, and had spent the time trying to think of a
way to save the business.
    The factory was a large, square,
brick structure overlooking the lake. It would be a prime site for a developer
wanting to convert it to lake-front condos, he thought.
    James met him at the door and
showed him through.
    “I’ve always been fascinated by
wood-working. There’s such a sense of satisfaction in feeling something come to
life under your hands,” Chris said appreciatively.
    “I know how you feel. To see a
piece of furniture emerge from a block of wood. I never really wanted to be
involved in the management side of the business, but there was no other choice.
At any rate, at least I’ve been able to keep my hand in, until now, that is.”
    They watched the men working with
their chisels, lathes and files, each one working on a single piece of
furniture until the final finishing. There was a thin layer of sawdust covering
everything and the rich, pungent scent of wood filled the air.
    “This is the finishing room,”
James said as they mounted a flight of stairs to the second floor. “The men use
a special compound and each piece is rubbed for countless hours until a fine,
glossy finish is achieved.” He caressed a table with a loving hand, his pride
in their work evident in every gesture, every word. No wonder that he’d rather
pull out than lower their standards.
    “I don’t see any sofas or
armchairs here.”
    “No, that’s soft furniture and we
don’t make that. There used to be another company in town, Bolton’s, and they
manufactured the soft furniture, but they went out of business a number of
years ago. We make hard furniture: chairs, tables, bedroom and dining room
suites.”
    “It’s marvelous furniture. I’ve
never seen finer. You know, I’ve got a friend, Peter Harrison. We went to
college together but he dropped out part-way through and I didn’t hear anything
of him for years. Anyway, I ran into him when I was home a couple of weeks ago
and it turns out that he’s living in a small town making hand-hewn furniture.
He works mostly in pine and, of course, on a very small scale, but he did say
he wished it were possible to work on a larger scale and with finer woods. I’ve
been thinking about him ever since you spoke to me on Friday, and it’s given me
an idea. There must be many people like Pete, working on their own, who’d like
to work on a larger scale but don’t want to get stuck on an assembly line. S o, for a start, I phoned him yesterday and told him about
your company and he’s very interested. I thought it might be possible to hire
Pete and perhaps others like him to fill the gap, and in the meantime start an
apprentice program to bring younger men and women into the