Cat Trick (6 page)

“With the show and the tasting?” Maggie said, grabbing a cup to make herself some
tea. “I think they might as well. We were only a few days from it all coming together.
I hate to see everyone’s hard work go to waste. As far as the pitch to the tour company,
I think that’s done.” She reached for the box of chocolate-spice tea bags. “I don’t
think it was going to work anyway, even if Mike hadn’t had a heart attack or whatever
it was.”

For a moment I could almost feel the man’s cold skin under my fingers. I swallowed
as my stomach tightened. “Why do you say that?” I asked.

Maggie dropped a tea bag into her cup and added hot water. The tea smelled delicious—like
cloves and chocolate. “I hope Mike was welcomed by the light,” she said, “and I don’t
like to be critical of someone who isn’t here to defend himself anymore, but most
of the time, he acted like he thought we were all a bunch of small-town hicks.”

I thought about Burtis fingering the sledgehammer while Mike ranted at him and about
Mary saying she was going to kick Mike’s backside between two light posts like a placekicker
going for three points. Given what I suspected about how Mike Glazer had died, I didn’t
like knowing how many people had disliked working with the man.

“I noticed that last night,” I said carefully.

“But maybe it was just that he knew what kinds of things his customers were looking
for in a getaway,” Roma offered.

Maggie shook her head. “It was more than having high standards. I don’t have a problem
with that. I have very high standards for how my art is displayed.” She sighed. “I
got the feeling Mike thought we didn’t know how to do things properly, let alone well.”

Roma drank the last of her tea and set the cup on the table. “It sounds as though
he’d forgotten where he came from.”

“Maybe he didn’t want to remember,” I said quietly.

Maggie and Roma both looked at me. “What do you mean?” Maggie asked.

“Wren Magnusson came into the library looking for Mary,” I said. “Susan told me about
Mike’s brother.”

Maggie laced her fingers around her cup of tea. “I’d forgotten about that,” she said.
She turned to Roma. “You were gone when Gavin Glazer was killed in that car accident,
weren’t you?”

Roma nodded. “But I remember reading about it. His car went off the road. It was up
on the bluff, wasn’t it?”

Maggie sighed again. “He was on his way into town. Celia”—she looked at me—“that was
Wren’s mother—was a different person after the accident, colder, closed off. She . . .
she didn’t want to have anything to do with Gavin’s family.”

“I can’t fault her for that,” Roma said, twisting the silver ring she wore around
her index finger. “When Luke died, it was hard for me to be around his family at first;
all I saw was reminders of what I’d lost. We’d been married such a short time. More
than once I’d catch sight of his brother—at the counter in the kitchen, or coming
down the stairs—and I’d think, ‘Here’s Luke,’ and for a split second it was as though
the accident hadn’t happened. And then I’d remember that it had.” She exhaled slowly.
“But they were Olivia’s family—her grandparents, her aunts and uncle. Over time it
got”—she shrugged— “not exactly easier, just not so raw. I’m sorry Celia was never
able to get to that place.”

“Mary said that Mike left Mayville Heights not long after his brother died,” I said.

Maggie nodded. “This was literally his first visit back.”

“And his last,” Roma added softly.

I wondered what it had been like for Mike to come back to the place where he’d grown
up after almost ten years, to see people he hadn’t seen in all that time. I’d had
an aching attack of homesickness when my plane had landed in Boston, and I’d been
away for only a little more than a year. When I caught sight of my mother and father
and Ethan and Sara waiting for me, I’d almost burst into tears.

Roma touched my arm. “Would you like a drive up the hill?” she asked.

“I should walk,” I said.

She shrugged. “I didn’t ask you if you thought you should walk. I asked if you’d like
a drive.”

I nodded. “Please.” Suddenly I was tired. All I wanted to do was go home, hug Owen
and Hercules—assuming they felt like coming when I called them—and then pick up the
phone and call my parents.

Roma and I changed our shoes out on the landing. She pulled on her sweatshirt. I stuffed
my sweater in my bag. Maggie leaned against the doorframe. “Don’t forget lunch tomorrow,”
she said to me. She looked at Roma. “Can you come?”

Roma shook her head, and it seemed to me she was trying to stifle a smile. “Sorry.
I can’t.” Then the smile got loose. “I’m getting the keys to Wisteria Hill tomorrow.”
She was moving in once renovations to the old house were done. Given how much work
it needed, that might be a while.

Maggie’s eyes lit up and she did her little happy dance, which looked pretty much
like a two-year-old having a tantrum.

I threw my arms around Roma. “That’s wonderful,” I said.

“We’re going to be at my studio,” Maggie said. “Stop by for a minute if you can, so
we can toast your new home.”

“Okay,” Roma said, dropping her shoes in her bag. “I’ll try.”

I leaned around Mags to wave good-bye to Ruby and Taylor, and then Roma and I headed
down to her SUV.

Roma didn’t say a word as she pulled out of her parking spot and started down the
street, but I saw her eyes dart in my direction a couple of times. There was something
on her mind. Something she hadn’t wanted to say in front of Maggie—or anyone else.

“What is it?” I finally asked. The fact that she didn’t immediately ask me what the
heck I was talking about told me my hunch was right.

Her mouth moved for a moment before any words came out. She shot me another look before
speaking. “I may regret asking you this, but . . . what do you know about Mike Glazer’s
death that the rest of us don’t?” She held up one hand for a second to head off what
she probably figured would be my objections before putting it back on the steering
wheel. “And don’t say ‘nothing,’ because I saw your face when Maggie made her comment
about him having a heart attack.”

I looked out the windshield for a minute before answering. “It’s not that I ‘know’
anything,” I began.

“Okay, you suspect something.”

I shrugged. “Suspect might even be too strong a word. It’s just . . .” I folded my
arms over my chest, suddenly wishing I had put on my sweater. “I told you it was Hercules
who found the body.”

Roma nodded but remained silent, her eyes on the road.

“Mike was sitting in one of those white plastic lawn chairs and there was just something
about the way—I knew he was dead, but I felt for a pulse at his neck, just to be sure.”
I took a deep breath and let it out. “There wasn’t one. His face was blotchy, mottled.
His skin was cold.”

“And?” she prompted softly.

“There were tiny red spots on his face.” I touched the side of my face.

“Petechiae?” she asked.

“Yes.”

Roma slowed down, flicked on her turn signal and pulled into my driveway. She put
the SUV in park and shifted in her seat to look directly at me. “Kathleen, I know
you’ve seen more than your share of dead bodies since you came to Mayville Heights,”
she said. “And none of them were from natural causes.”

“But,” I said.

“But not every death is something suspicious,” she said with a half smile. “Lots of
things can cause petechiae: a violent coughing jag, vomiting, certain medications,
a blood disorder. By themselves, petechiae don’t necessarily mean Mike Glazer was
murdered.”

“I didn’t realize that,” I said. “Thanks.” I smiled and held up a hand with my first
and second fingers crossed. “Good luck tomorrow.”

Her smile got wider. “I’ll stop by Maggie’s studio if I can.”

I got out of the SUV and waved as she backed out of the driveway. Then I walked around
the side of the house and let myself into the porch. Not only was Roma a very good
vet; she also had first aid training. So I believed what she’d said about there being
lots of reasons for those red pinpoints on Mike Glazer’s face.

I toed off my sneakers and unlocked the kitchen door. Those marks didn’t mean that
someone killed him, I told myself firmly. But I couldn’t stop the thought that it
didn’t mean someone hadn’t, either.

6

H
ercules was sitting next to the kitchen table like a statue of the Egyptian god Bast.
“Hi, Fuzz Face,” I said. I hung my bag on the hook by the back door, and he trailed
me into the living room.

I sank into the wing chair and propped my feet on the footstool. Hercules jumped into
my lap. His nose twitched and he narrowed his green eyes.

“Hey, I was at tai chi class,” I said. I dropped my head and sniffed, feeling a little
foolish because I was checking to see if I was offensive based on Hercules’s cranky
face. All I got was the scent of line-dried T-shirt and baby-powder-scented deodorant.
“I don’t smell bad,” I told him.

He put a white-tipped paw over his nose. “Yes, I know,” I said. “Cat’s noses.” Satisfied
that he’d made his point, he stretched across my chest, resting his furry head just
below the hollow of my throat.

Owen came down the stairs then, jumped up and sprawled sideways across my legs so
his head was just below my knee and his back paws and tail were mostly on the footstool.

“Everyone comfortable?” I asked.

Owen meowed, rolling partway on to his back. Hercules rubbed the side of his face
against my T-shirt and began to purr. The warmth from their two furry bodies somehow
chased away that lingering pinch of homesickness I’d felt back in Maggie’s studio.
I decided I wouldn’t call Boston after all. Instead, I pulled the phone closer and
punched in Marcus’s number.

I got his voice mail. “Hi, Marcus,” I said. “It’s Kathleen. Call me when you have
time. Please.” I recited my number in case he hadn’t memorized it, the way I somehow
seemed to have done with his.

Both cats were staring at me when I hung up the phone. In Owen’s case, he was looking
at me upside down. “I’m not trying to get information,” I said.

Neither one of them so much as blinked.

“I like Marcus,” I said. “I think he likes me. I don’t want this case—if it even is
a case—to mess that up before I at least get a chance to kiss him. Plus I didn’t tell
him about that bump on Mike Glazer’s head—and why am I explaining all of this to the
two of you?”

Hercules lifted his head and cocked it to one side, almost as though he were wondering
the same thing. Owen stayed sprawled over my legs, golden eyes fixed on mine, and
I would have sworn from the expression on his upside-down face that he was laughing
at me.

Marcus didn’t call me until the next morning. I was sitting at the table with a bowl
of yogurt, homemade granola, and an apple—the one breakfast neither cat would try
to mooch off me—when the phone rang. I left the dish on the table, confident that
there was no way it would “accidentally” end up on the floor the way a plate of scrambled
eggs and toast would.

“Hi, Kathleen. It’s Marcus,” he said when I answered. “I got your message, but it
was too late to call you back last night.”

“Hi,” I said. How was I going to say this?

Suddenly I could hear my mother’s voice in my head. “Katydid, if you have to dance
with a bear, put on your best high heels and tango.” It was her colorful way of saying
get on with it. So I did.

“I forgot to tell you yesterday that when I checked Mike Glazer’s body for a pulse,
I noticed a bump—at least I think that’s what it was—at the back of his head, behind
his ear.”

“I saw it,” he said, “but thanks for calling me.”

I didn’t want him to hang up before I’d said everything I wanted to say. It was time
to tango. “And I wanted you to know that I’ll stay out of your case, assuming there
even is one.”

“I appreciate that,” he said. There was silence for a moment; then he added, “Does
that mean you’re not going to bring me coffee?”

I laughed. “Not necessarily.”

“Kathleen, I know this is short notice, but would you like to have supper with me
tomorrow night?”

Two furry faces were watching me around the kitchen doorframe.

“I would,” I said.

“Full disclosure: I’m cooking.”

“As long as you’re not planning on making something with sardines in hot sauce, I
think I’ll be okay,” I said.

It was Marcus’s turn to laugh. “So does that mean that there won’t be any cats joining
us?”

“Yes, it definitely does.” I glanced over at the doorway again. Owen and Hercules
had disappeared.

“About six thirty?”

“I’ll see you then,” I said. “Have a good day.”

“You too, Kathleen,” he said, and he was gone.

I went back to finish my breakfast. Owen and Hercules were sitting beside my chair
like two adorable, well-behaved cats.

“I’m not fooled,” I said, picking up my spoon. “I know you heard enough to figure
out that Marcus invited me for dinner, and I’m not taking either one of you.”

“Rrrow,” Hercules said. It seemed he wasn’t happy that Owen had been to Marcus’s house
and he hadn’t. Or he might have been trying to point out the piece of yogurt-covered
apple that had just fallen off my spoon onto the floor.

“Nice try,” I mumbled around a mouthful of granola. “But it’s not as though your brother
had a five-course meal when he was visiting Marcus.” I glanced down at Owen, who was
still in well-behaved mode. “And it’s not like he’ll be visiting again anytime soon.
Emphasis on soon.”

Hercules poked the chunk of apple with a paw and then made a cranky face when he ended
up with yogurt on his fur. He held up the sticky paw and glared at me, a sour expression
on his face.

“It’s only a bit of yogurt,” I said. “From soy milk. Look.” I held up my spoon and
licked the back of the bowl. “Lick it off your foot. You might like it. Abigail made
it.”

He looked uncertainly at his paw, glanced over at the sink and then focused on me.

I shook my head. “No,” I said. “I’m not washing your feet again.”

He made annoyed noises in his throat. I figured he was probably muttering “Bite me”
in cat. Then tentatively, he licked his paw. Then he licked it again. Then he looked
up at me and made a hacking sound, like he was about to bring up a fur ball—or that
tiny dab of yogurt.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” I said in exasperation. I stood up, went over to the cupboard
and got the container of stinky crackers. “Here. Maybe this will get rid of the taste.”

Owen meowed, reminding me—as if I could forget—that he was here, too. “Yes, you can
have one, too,” I said, leaning over to set the sardine cracker on the floor in front
of him.

I went back to my breakfast, and it occurred to me that if I could keep Owen and Hercules
from popping up—literally—somewhere they weren’t supposed to be and outing themselves
and their talents to the world, I should be able to keep a police investigation from
coming between Marcus and me.

Usually on Fridays I didn’t go down to the library until noon, but I’d changed shifts
with Mary because of the upcoming food tasting, and since she hadn’t called, I was
assuming she still wanted the time.

Eric dropped off Susan just as I was unlocking the library doors. “Hi, Kathleen,”
the twins yelled, waving from the backseat. I waved back as Susan hurried up the stairs.

“Did you hear?” she asked.

“Hear what?” I said as I keyed in the code on the alarm pad.

“If you have to ask, then you didn’t.” She smiled. “The pitch to Legacy is still a
go. One of the Scott brothers is coming for the tasting and the art show.”

“That’s good news,” I said.

“Yeah, it is,” Susan said, unzipping her jacket as she followed me inside. “Most of
the work is already done. What’s the worst that can happen?”

Given that Mike Glazer’s body had been found in one of the tents that was going to
be used as part of the presentation to Legacy Tours, I was pretty confident that the
worst had already happened. “I forgot to ask you,” I said, switching on the downstairs
lights. “What’s Eric making for the tasting?”

Susan grinned at me. “Three kinds of pudding cake—chocolate, apple spice, and lemon—and
little mini muffins—cheddar and spinach, cinnamon streusel, blueberry, and ham and
Swiss.”

I groaned. “You’re making me hungry.”

“Eric said you’d say that.” Susan held up her fabric tote. “That’s why he sent a little
care package.” She held the top of the bag open, and I looked inside. It was actually
a big care package, assuming all the food was staying at the library.

“Your husband is wonderful,” I said.

“Yeah, he is pretty great,” she agreed as we headed for the stairs. “He snores, but
I kick, so it all works out.”

I dropped my things in my office while she headed for the staff room. The coffee was
started, and Susan was putting a selection of muffins on a glass plate when I got
there. There was a metal crochet hook skewered through her updo.

“Susan, why do you have a crochet hook in your hair?” I asked.

She pushed her dark-framed glasses up on her nose and put two mugs on the table. “I
couldn’t exactly leave it lying around the house,” she said. “The boys would put someone’s
eye out with it.”

She was right about that. The twins were scary smart. Literally. They generally used
their smarts to do something involving heights and electrical appliances.

“I didn’t know you crocheted,” I said.

Susan gave a snort of laughter. “I don’t. Abigail is trying to teach me how to make
a scarf, but let’s just say it’s not going well and leave it at that.”

I looked at her, eyebrows raised. She sighed and inclined her head toward her bag,
hanging on the back of a chair at the end of the table. “Take a look,” she said.

I set the bag on the table, reached inside and pulled out a tangle of soft, cranberry-colored
yarn that filled both my hands. “It’s not that bad,” I said. “All you need to do is
wind this into a ball and you can start your scarf.”

She turned from the counter, coffeepot in her hand. “Kathleen, that is the scarf.”

My cheeks reddened. “Oh. Well, it’s soft.”

Susan filled my mug and pushed it toward me. “It’s a mess.”

“It’s not that bad,” I said, turning the clump of wool over in my hands. “It’s just
kind of twisty.”

She filled her own cup and put the pot back. “It’s supposed to be that way. It’s one
of those spiral scarves—you know, with a ruffled edge.” She made a circular motion
with one finger.

“Well, at least you got that part right,” I said.

Susan started to laugh. “Honestly, Kathleen, I appreciate the fact that you always
say something nice, but that is not a spiral scarf. It’s not any kind of scarf. It’s
a tangle of yarn that might make a good bird’s nest, but that’s about it.”

I handed the scarf back to her and she stuffed it back in her bag. “Maybe you’d be
better at knitting,” I suggested, eyeing the muffins, wondering which one I should
try first.

“Maybe I’d be better at buying a scarf,” she said. She pointed at the plate. “Try
that one. It’s ham and Swiss. I think you’ll like it.”

I bit into the muffin and made a little moan of happiness. “Could we just keep the
doors locked and maybe stay here and eat muffins all morning?”

Susan shook her head. “We have a ninth-grade English class coming for a tour at nine
thirty. You have five minutes to eat as many muffins as you can, and then it’s time
to get this show on the road.”

It turned out I could eat three of the tiny muffins in five minutes. Then Susan and
I went downstairs to open the building for the day.

It was a busy morning. It seemed like half of Mayville Heights had run out of reading
and viewing material, and the ninth-grade class had dozens of questions about the
reference section. I was glad I’d asked Abigail to come in early. Things finally eased
off about twelve thirty.

I found Abigail still in the reference section, reshelving some books. “You were great
with that class,” I said. “Thank you.”

She smiled. “It was fun. They asked some great questions.”

I smiled back at her. “They were trying to stump you.”

“I know.” Her hair, red-gold shot with streaks of silver, was in its usual braid,
and she flipped it over her shoulder. “That’s exactly the kind of thing I used to
do when I was that age, so I can pretty much guess what the questions will be.”

“Susan told me you’re trying to teach her how to crochet.”

Abigail laughed. “You’ve heard the expression ‘all thumbs’?” she asked.

“I have,” I said, reaching down to line up the spines of three dictionaries on a lower
shelf.

“If we could get to that point, I’d be happy.”

“She showed me the scarf,” I said.

Abigail shook her head. “I have no idea what the problem is. She’s working at it and
I’m watching every stitch. I glance away for a second or two, and it goes from a scarf
to something that looks like Medusa’s head.” She brushed lint off the front of her
sweater. “That doesn’t mean I’m giving up, though.”

“I didn’t think you would,” I said. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a woman coming
toward us.

Abigail caught sight of her and smiled. “I’m glad you’re here,” she said to me. “I
want you to meet my friend Georgia.”

Georgia Tepper was about my height, with jet-black hair cut shorter than Maggie’s.
She had long, strong fingers, I noticed as Abigail introduced us and we shook hands.

“Georgia is one of the vendors for the food tasting,” Abigail said.

“You’re Sweet Things,” I said, realizing I’d heard Maggie mention her name—and rave
about the maple cream cupcakes she’d made for the reception after the final concert
of the Wild Rose Summer Music Festival. I’d been in Boston and missed the festival.

Georgia smiled. “Yes, I am.”

Abigail nudged me with her shoulder. “And she’s doing some of the baking at Fern’s,
too.” Fern’s was the fifties diner where I’d had breakfast with Burtis Chapman. “You’ll
love her devil’s food cupcakes.” She knew about my penchant for anything chocolate.
“With dark-chocolate frosting and bittersweet shavings,” she added with a sly grin.

“You’ll be my first stop,” I promised Georgia.

“Wait a minute,” Abigail said. “Does that mean the food tasting is still on?”