Copycat Killing: A Magical Cats Mystery (30 page)

He hesitated and I realized his reasons, even though I was pretty sure I knew what they were, were none of my
business. I pushed my chair back from the table. “I’ll let you talk,” I said.

Rebecca touched my arm. “You don’t have to go anywhere, Kathleen,” she said. “I don’t have any secrets. Not anymore.”

Everett took a deep breath and let it out. “I found the journals after my mother died. I read them.” He pulled a hand over his face. “I missed you,” he added softly. “I’d heard rumors about my mother and I knew that she’d never said no to anyone in need, so it wasn’t that hard to figure out what she’d been doing and that she’d gotten your mother involved.” He stared down into his coffee, running one finger around the rim of the cup. “It took me a long time to read them all.” He looked up at Rebecca. “Ellen loved you.”

“You thought my mother killed Tom,” Rebecca said.

He nodded. “She wrote about burying the body, but nothing about Sam being involved. I was going to burn the journals, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. They were my connection to you. I put them back in the attic. I thought if I left everything the way it was, you wouldn’t ever have to know.”

“Were you going to leave Wisteria Hill empty forever? So no one would find Tom’s body?” she asked.

“If I had to,” he said.

“You could have told me the truth.”

Everett pushed his cup away and shook his head. “Tell you your mother killed someone? No. I wouldn’t hurt you that way.”

“No more secrets,” Rebecca said. “Do you understand? A secret kept us apart for a long, long time. I’m not ever going to let that happen again.”

She covered the hand on his coffee mug with hers and
she turned her head toward me. “No more secrets, Kathleen,” she said. “Tell the whole story.”

“All right,” I said. “We’ll go through the journals together. I’ll call you later.”

“Thank you,” she said.

I nodded, touching her shoulder as I left.

I walked back across the yard to my house. Everett and Rebecca had looked at each other with so much love I couldn’t help feeling just a tiny pinch of envy.

I
called Maggie when I got home to let her know what had happened at Wisteria Hill.

“Roma’s really okay?” she asked.

“She is,” I said.

“So I was wrong about Sam?”

“Not completely,” I said. “He was downplaying his feelings for Pearl, just not for the reasons you thought.” I was sitting on the footstool and I stretched my legs out in front of me and scissored them up and down. My ankle felt pretty good this morning. “Did Abigail call you?” I asked.

“She did,” Maggie said. “We’re going to get together next week. Do you think Rebecca would talk to me about her mother?”

“I know she would,” I said. “And that reminds me, could you take a look at Ellen’s drawings? I want to display some of them but I’m not exactly sure how.”

“Absolutely,” she said.

Marcus had gotten his search warrant and the police had collected Maggie’s boxes and the ones that belonged
to Jaeger. “Do you still want to talk to Ray this morning?” I asked.

“I do,” she said. “And you’re not going to believe this.
ARTnews
is going to do a piece on his work. Do you know who Galen Lee is? Or I should say, was?”

“He was a pop artist, wasn’t he? Like Roy Lichtenstein only with kind of neon bright colors.”

“That’s him. Turns out he mentioned Ray in a letter he wrote just before he died. It’s generated some interest in Ray’s work.”

“That’s good,” I said.

She exhaled slowly. “It is—for Ray and maybe even for the co-op.”

“Except you think they’re going to ask questions about Jaeger.”

“I guess I’d like to ask the questions first.”

There were two furry faces peeking at me around the kitchen doorway. “Do you still want some company?” I asked.

“Please,” she said. “Have you had breakfast?”

“Very early this morning, over at Fern’s with Burtis Chapman—sausage, eggs, the works. But I wouldn’t say no to another cup of coffee.”

“You never say no to a cup of coffee,” Maggie said, dryly. “And I do want to hear why you had breakfast with Burtis.”

“Half an hour?”

“Yes. Ray should be here by then.”

“You’re at River Arts?” The cats were still staring at me.

“I’m here.”

“I’ll see you soon,” I said and hung up.

The cats crossed the room and sat in front of me. “I’m not making you two any snacks,” I said.

They exchanged glances and resumed staring at me. I got up and went into the kitchen and got a glass of water. Owen and Hercules were right on my heels.

“I’m serious,” I said, looking down at them. “Both of you eat way too much peanut butter. Roma said I should just be feeding you cat food and the occasional sardine.”

Owen’s face twisted into a cranky pout. Despite his gift of Fred the Funky Chicken parts, Roma was still not his favorite person.

I bent down to pet him. He sniffed my hand, reared back in a kind of kitty double take and then sniffed me again. Hercules watched, puzzled. Owen looked at me, golden eyes narrowed.

There was no way he could smell sausage on my fingers. I’d washed my hands at least twice since I came back from Fern’s, and brushed my teeth. Clearly, he’d been eavesdropping while I talked to Maggie.

He gave a snippy meow. Hercules leaned in for a sniff and his gaze narrowed as well.

I pulled back my hand. “Stop sniffing me,” I said.

They couldn’t fold their paws across their chests, but everything else about their body language said pissed-off cat. I could feel their eyes on me as I moved around the kitchen. I knew who was going to win this one.

I got a can of sardines from the cupboard and put half of one in each of their dishes. “I’m admitting nothing,” I said.

They exchanged quick glances—and started eating. I went upstairs to wash my hands. Again.

In the bedroom I put the lid back on the box of Rebecca’s mother’s things and set it up on the dresser just in case Hercules decided he wanted to “read” the journals again. The pen cap that he’d found was on the table
and I picked it up, turning it over in my fingers once again. Did it mean anything, I wondered? It was old and as far as I could tell it was the cap from a fountain pen. It looked as though it belonged to the pen that had been in Jaeger’s puzzle box. I stared at it and ideas began to link together in my head.

It had to have something to do with Ray. He collected and sold vintage ink bottles. I’d seen them in his studio. Maybe he had some old pens, too. Maybe the cap—and the pen that had been in the puzzle box—belonged to Ray.

I was certain he’d lied about being at the Summerhill auction with Jaeger, but the pen didn’t prove anything.

Or did it?

What had Maggie said to Marcus about Jaeger? He knew how to forge all the provenance. Jaeger knew how to forge documents, like a letter from a respected and dead artist.

I looked around for the piece of paper Owen had found. All that was on it was the same signature written over and over, five times on the small scrap. The handwriting was tight but shaky, like someone very old had written it. It was part of whatever Jaeger Merrill had been up to. I just wasn’t sure how it fit. I slipped the bit of paper in my pocket for now. It was time to meet Maggie and get some answers.

I made sure the litter box was clean and the cats had water. “I’ll see you later,” I told them and headed out.

Maggie was sitting on the front steps of the arts center in the sunshine. “Isn’t this beautiful?” she said, holding out her hands and looking skyward.

“How are things at the store?” I asked, walking across the sidewalk to her.

“Dry,” she said with a grin. “I might—might—be able to do a makeup tai chi class tomorrow.”

“It doesn’t seem right to be doing cloud hands when the sun’s out,” I said.

“Nice try,” she said, getting to her feet. “I expect you to be there. I know you haven’t been practicing the whole form, but you have been working on your cloud hands, haven’t you? And snake creeps down?”

“Sort of,” I said, following her inside.

“Sort of yes, or sort of no?” she asked as we started up to Ray’s studio.

“Define ‘working on.’”

“Okay, so no,” she said.

“Let’s change the subject,” I said. “I think I’ve figured out what Jaeger was doing.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

She stopped and leaned against the railing. “Since we’re on our way to Ray’s studio he must be involved in some way.”

“He is,” I said. “I think.”

“Tell me,” Maggie said.

So I did.

“You don’t think that Ray could have…pushed Jaeger down the stairs, do you?” she asked after I’d finished explaining.

I shook my head. “No. I don’t.”

“Okay,” she said. “What do we do?”

I started up the steps again. “Go talk to Ray and find out for sure.”

The door to his studio at the end of the hall was open. Ray, in jeans and a denim shirt, was studying several large drawings he’d leaned against the wall. Maggie
knocked on the door frame. “Hi,” she said. “I heard about the interview. Congratulations.”

“Thanks.” He smiled and walked over to us.

I pulled the pen cap out of my pocket and held it out. “Does this belong to you?” I asked.

“It does,” he said. “Thank you. I thought I’d lost it at the store.”

“You’re welcome,” I said. “The rest of the pen is in a box that was Jaeger’s. The police have it.”

Ray frowned, not missing a beat. “I don’t know what you mean. Why would Jaeger have one of my pens?” He was doing a better job of lying this time. He remembered to meet my gaze and he didn’t twitch or fidget.

I handed him the cap. “You loaned it to him, along with some ink. Did you get the paper he needed at the estate sale?”

“Paper? For what?” He crossed his arms over his body and continued to look me directly in the eye.

“For the letter that Jaeger forged for you. The one that Galen Lee is supposed to have written in which he said he liked your work.”

He swallowed and looked away.

“Ray, what were you thinking?” Maggie asked.

His head swung around. “I was thinking that I’m sick of working my ass off just to see some kid, whose idea of art is spray painting squiggles on the side of buildings, become the new darling of the art world, while artists—real artists—continue to be ignored.”

“So what?” she retorted. “You fake a letter from a dead artist to get noticed?”

“My work will stand on its own merits. All I’m doing is getting someone to pay attention for a minute,” he snapped.

“By lying,” I said.

He looked at me then. “It’s one letter and Galen Lee is dead. Who’s it going to hurt?”

“All of us,” Maggie said. Her face was flushed with color and one arm was up over her head, almost as if she was trying to hold herself back. “You’ve damaged the reputation of this center, and the co-op and all the artists who work here. You said your work will stand on its own merits. You should have let it do that.”

Ray’s mouth moved but no sound came out. His face was flushed as well.

“You figured out who Jaeger was,” I said.

He cleared his throat and made an effort to focus on me again. “Purely by accident. I was in Chicago. One of the local stations did a piece on the forgeries. It was the anniversary of the arrests. I recognized him. I have a good eye for details.”

“And he offered you a trade, your silence for a letter that could make your career.”

Ray nodded.

I glanced at Maggie standing stiffly beside me. “You had the pens and the ink. You went to the estate sale to find the right paper. Galen Lee was a bit of a tightwad. He never threw anything out. He wouldn’t write a letter on new paper.”

“No,” Ray said, shaking his head. “I mean yes, you’re right about Galen Lee, but Jaeger already had the paper for the letter he wrote for me. He was looking for paper for something else.”

“What?” I asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Did you know he was going to fake a Sundblom Santa Claus?” Maggie asked.

“Yes. I’d told him the rumors about Carson Henderson being the model for the Coke Santa. I think he went out to Wisteria Hill to look around a couple of times.”

“He did,” I said.

“But he gave up the idea. He had something else going. I don’t know what it was. All I can tell you is that he wanted to use a couple of other pens and some black ink. I swear I don’t know what for.”

Ray turned to Maggie. “Maggie, I’m sorry,” he said.

She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “So am I, Ray,” she said.

I left Maggie to deal with the fallout of what Jaeger and Ray had done. Ruby was in her studio and after we’d brought her up to date they started calling the other artists to arrange a meeting to decide how they’d handle things.

I got to the library just before eleven. It seemed as though everyone had run out of things to read or watch or listen to. I was happy to know the library usage numbers were staying up. It made all the work and turmoil of getting the building renovated worth it.

Roma came in with lunch for both of us a few minutes before one, just when I realized that I was hungry and had forgotten to pack anything to eat.

“Claire said you hadn’t been in, so I took a chance and brought something,” she said, holding up the take-out bag.

I smiled at her across the checkout desk. “Thank you.” Right on cue my stomach made a loud rumble. “My stomach thanks you too.”

I got a cup of coffee for each of us from the staff room and we settled in my office.

“How are you?” I asked after I’d taken a big bite of my turkey and tomato sandwich.

“Stunned, mostly,” she said. “Marcus talked to my mother, mostly to confirm what Sam told him. I went over what I remembered about being in the car with Sam and about my father getting me to hide under a blanket.” She picked up half her sandwich and put it back down again. “I don’t know what’s going to happen to Sam.”

“He thought he was protecting you and your mother,” I said. “That should count for something.”

Roma stared at her shoes. “I thanked him,” she said in a low voice. “I thanked him for loving my mother and caring about me.”