Copycat Killing: A Magical Cats Mystery (6 page)

“I have a picture somewhere of him wearing it,” she said. She couldn’t take her eyes off those bones spread on a blue tarp. “I’ll see if I can find it.”

He nodded.

“He walked out on us,” Roma continued, “when I was a little girl. At least that’s what I thought. My mother always said he was just too young for the responsibility of a family.”

“It’s just a ring,” Marcus said. “We don’t know how it ended up out here. Let Dr. Abbott do her job. Let me do my job. I’ll call you later.”

“C’mon, Roma, let’s go,” I said. I had no idea who those remains belonged to, but I knew it wasn’t good for her to be standing there, staring out at them. The pain I could see in her pale, still face made my chest hurt.

I looked at Marcus, and mouthed the words thank you. He nodded.

We made our way back along the edge of the field. I clenched my teeth, concentrating on not stumbling on the slippery, uneven ground. When we got level with the back of the carriage house Roma stopped and faced me. “Can we check on the cats and…and leave all of this until after? Please?”

I nodded. “Of course we can.”

Derek let us duck under the yellow crime scene tape and I followed Roma into the old building, blinking as my eyes adjusted to the light. My ankle hurt every time I took a step and I tried to concentrate on the cats, on Roma, on anything else to distract myself. “What are we looking for?” I said.

Roma rubbed the top of her shoulder. “I don’t really know,” she said. “I’d feel better if I knew Lucy was here. The rest of the cats follow her lead.”

Lucy wasn’t the largest cat, but she was the undisputed leader of the feral cat colony. She may have been
a tiny calico, but she had the heart and the spirit of a jungle cat.

There was no sign of Lucy anywhere. “Why don’t we take a look at the shelters,” Roma said.

The cat shelters were made from oversized plastic storage bins, well insulated to keep the cats warm during the freezing Minnesota winter. They sat in the far corner of the building in a space that had probably once been used to keep feed for the horses. Harry Taylor—the son, not the father—had made a raised platform for the shelters to sit on, and straw bales around the three walls added extra insulation and warmth.

I squinted in the dim light. There wasn’t so much as a twitching whisker to be seen. Beside me Roma let out a slow breath.

“The cats could be asleep,” I whispered. “They could be out prowling around. They’re probably okay.”

She pressed the heel of her hand against her forehead, between her eyes. “You’re right,” she said. “I just don’t want them to get spooked and run.”

I craned my neck, looking for some movement, some sign that some or any of the cats were around. Something caught my eye near the farthest stack of straw bales. I crossed my fingers it was a cat and not a field mouse.

“Lucy, c’mere puss,” I called softly.

Roma looked at me like I was crazy. “That’s not going to work,” she said.

The cats were nobody’s pets. They were skittish around people—even the volunteers they saw regularly. They didn’t come when they were called. They were a lot more likely to bolt, but Lucy and I had a rapport that was impossible to explain.

I put a hand on Roma’s arm. “Hang on a second,” I said. I took a couple of steps closer to the shelter space and crouched down, biting my tongue so I didn’t groan out loud.

“Lucy,” I called again. I kept my eyes on the corner where I thought I’d seen that flash of movement and held my breath.

I saw the ears first. They poked up over the top of a straw bale, followed by the rest of a furry face. Lucy’s furry face.

My shoulders sagged with relief. The small, calico cat tipped her head to one side and stared at me, almost as though she was wondering what the heck I wanted.

“She’s fine,” I said to Roma.

“As long as Lucy is here the other cats should stay around too,” she said.

Lucy meowed and ducked back behind the straw. I had to put my good hand down on the rough wooden floor to push myself upright. My ankle objected and I almost fell over sideways.

Roma was looking distractedly around the space, checking for leaks, I guessed, but I knew the bones out in the field behind the carriage house were foremost in her mind.

I touched her shoulder. “Ready to go?”

She nodded. I followed her, waiting while she made sure the door was tightly closed. We ducked under the yellow tape again and I thanked Derek. I waited for Roma to say something, about the ring, about her father. But instead she busied herself brushing dirt that only she could seem to see off her jeans.

“Do you have time for coffee?” I said.

She gave me a blank look and then shook her head. “I’m sorry, what did you say?” she asked.

“Let’s go back to the house and have coffee. Do you have time?”

Her eyes automatically went to the carriage house even though we couldn’t see Marcus or Dr. Abbott from where we were standing. I could tell that she wanted to walk back out to see what was going on.

“I have cinnamon coffee cake,” I said. Sitting down with a cup of coffee and a slice of coffee cake seemed like a pretty good idea to me. Even just sitting down would be good. I shifted my weight onto my “good” leg.

Roma noticed the movement. “Your leg hurts,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

“Just my ankle. It’s a bit stiff,” I said, tucking my hands in the front pocket of my sweatshirt.

Roma’s gaze darted sideways again for a brief moment. Then she exhaled slowly and turned her full attention to me. “Let’s go,” she said. “You should get off that leg and I could use a cup of coffee.”

We walked to our vehicles. Roma frowned as I pulled my keys out of my pocket. “Are you sure you’re okay to drive?”

“Yes,” I said. “I swear.”

She gave me a half smile. “I know. Librarian’s honor.” She fished her own keys out of her pocket. “I’ll follow you. If you feel sick, pull over.”

“I will.”

I climbed into the truck as Roma walked over to her SUV. I’d been hurt a couple of times last summer—accidents that turned out not to be so accidental after all. Roma had thought I wasn’t taking those “accidents” seriously enough, and I’d thought she was taking them a bit too seriously. Right now she was fussing over me a little more than was typical for her. Maybe it was a way to
distract herself from thinking about that old high school ring.

We lurched our way down the driveway and I turned onto the road, Roma close behind me. Except for my bruised hip and my slightly swollen ankle—that felt a little better now that I was sitting down—I really was okay. Seeing the sheared off bank had made me realize just how lucky I had been to walk away with just some aches and scrapes.

There was no sign of either Owen or Hercules when we got to the house—no surprise given that Roma was probably their least favorite person.

“I’ll start the coffee,” Roma said. “Why don’t you sit?”

I was about to start my umpteenth recitation of the “I’m all right” speech when it occurred to me that maybe she needed to be busy, maybe she needed to keep her hands moving while she sorted out what had happened up at Wisteria Hill.

So I said, “Okay,” and sank onto one of the kitchen chairs, propping my foot up on another. Roma started the coffee pot, found cream and sugar, cut the coffee cake and got plates for both of us. The entire time she talked about the Wisteria Hill cats, the kind of aimless chitchat I’d never heard Roma make before. She didn’t sit down until the coffee was poured and we each had a mug. She looked at me across the table and all at once pressed her hand to her mouth.

I reached over and put my hand on her arm. She blinked hard and swallowed a couple of times before dropping her hand and wrapping her arm around her body.

“That’s my father, Kathleen,” she said. “Those pieces of bone that were…lying…on that tarp, they…they’re my father.” She closed her eyes for a moment. I
wasn’t sure if she was picturing what we’d seen at Wisteria Hill, or trying to banish the image.

I gave her arm a squeeze and she opened her eyes again. “I didn’t realize your dad—Neil—isn’t your biological father.”

Roma traced the inside loop of the cup handle with one finger, around and around and around. “No he’s not. He married my mother when I was five. He’s been my father in every way that matters, but he’s not my birth father.”

“Thomas Karlsson was.”

She nodded.

I folded my hands around my own mug. “Roma, you said he left when you were little.” I flashed to the skull in the dirt. “Where did you think he’s been?”

She shrugged. “He was just…gone. He and my mother were kids when they had me, right out of high school—kids when they got married, which I’m pretty sure was because they were having me, by the way.”

I nodded but didn’t say anything. My brother and sister—Ethan and Sara—had been guests at my parents’ wedding—their second try at marriage.

Roma took a sip of her coffee and set the mug on the table again. “My mother always said he just got overwhelmed by the responsibility of having a family when he was really just a kid himself.” She sighed. “She said he was probably ashamed that he had taken off, but the longer he stayed away from Mayville the harder it was to face people.”

“And maybe that is what happened,” I said. “Those…remains, they may not be him at all.”

She shook her head, the movement almost imperceptible. “That’s his ring, Kathleen. It’s the right year and the right initials.”

“That doesn’t mean he was wearing it. Maybe he lost it. Maybe he gave it to someone else to wear.” I was trying to be the voice of reason.

“You heard me tell Marcus that I have a picture of my father—Thomas—wearing that ring?”

I nodded.

“It’s a newspaper clipping. He played baseball. They were state champions his senior year in high school.” Her mouth twisted into a wry smile. “I suspect that I was the result of the celebrations.” She leaned back in her chair. “The seniors on the team got their class rings early. It was a big deal. They were big shots in school. Heck, they were big shots all over town.”

“Glory days,” I said softly.

“The photograph is Tom being presented with his ring. And there’s another shot, a close-up of the ring itself.”

She stumbled a bit over his name, I noticed. I took another drink of my coffee and waited while she collected her thoughts.

“And you’re right, those were his glory days, his shining moment in the spotlight. Then it was gone. Like that.” Roma snapped her fingers. “It was diapers and bottles and bills.” There was an edge of hurt to her voice that sharpened her words.

I reached across the table and gave her arm a squeeze again.

“My mother told me once that he never took that ring off. He didn’t wear a wedding ring but he always, always wore his class ring.” Her eyes met mine and I could see the pain in them as well. “Those…” She cleared her throat. “It’s him, Kathleen.”

“I think you should call your mother and let her know
what’s happened,” I said. “Marcus is going to want to talk to her.”

“You’re right. I’d rather her hear about this first from me.” She looked at her watch. “I need to get back to the clinic.”

We both got to our feet. “Roma are you going to be all right?” I asked.

That got me a smile, albeit a small one. “I’m supposed to be asking you that,” she said.

I smiled back at her. “I’m fine, just some scrapes and my dignity’s a little banged up.”

“Don’t overdo it. Okay?” she said.

“I promise,” I said. “You do the same. If you need anything, if you just want to talk, call me. Anytime. Please.”

“Thanks,” she said. “I’ll probably be taking you up on that.” She hesitated for a moment, and then wrapped her arms around me in a quick hug.

“Marcus will figure this out,” I said.

She nodded. “It’s funny. I’m always telling you what a great guy and a great police officer he is. I guess now I’m going to find out.”

I walked her to the back door. She turned on the top step. “There were always two versions of my father—Tom—what my mother said about him and all the gossip whispered around town. I wanted to believe that he was a decent guy, that he was just young and scared and stupid. Now, I just want the truth, whatever it is.”

I waited until I heard her SUV start in the driveway before I went back into the kitchen. Hercules and Owen were sitting in front of the refrigerator.

“You could have come out and said hello,” I told them as I got myself a fresh cup of coffee. They stared at me, steady and unblinking.

I sat down again at the table. Owen’s whiskers were twitching. He could smell the coffee cake. I broke off a bite and set it down on the floor for him. He scooted over and began sniffing it. “It’s not hemlock, Socrates,” I said. He ignored me.

I broke off another piece of cake for Hercules and held it out to him. Being a lot less finicky than his brother, he just ate the food from my fingers.

I took a long drink from my coffee and propped my leg on the chair again. “Marcus has an anthropologist out at Wisteria Hill, looking at the bones that were unearthed when the hill collapsed,” I said to the cats.

Owen had finally finished checking out his food. He didn’t even look up at me. Hercules was sniffing around to see if there was any more, so all I got from him was an offhand glance.

I speared a piece of cake with my fork. That got both cats’ attention. “This is mine,” I said. They gave me their best pathetic kitty looks. They shouldn’t have worked on me, but they usually did.

“That’s enough,” I said. “Roma is right, you know. I give you two way too much people food.”

When I said Roma’s name they exchanged glances. I took another sip from my mug.

Poor Roma. It really did look like the ring belonged to her biological father. And if it was his…it raised the question: what had happened to him and why had he ended up buried out at Wisteria Hill?

L
ater that afternoon I drove down to the library to check on things. The street and the parking lot were still flooded but the water barely came to the top of my boots—a good sign. Just a couple of days previously it had been knee-level. The building itself was still dry.