Faux Paw: A Magical Cats Mystery (10 page)

“They couldn’t get any more raucous than some of the board meetings we’ve had in there,” she’d said, looking at me over the top of her glasses.

“I’m glad to hear that,” Marcus said. “Everyone—but especially you—worked hard to raise the money to expand Reading Buddies. That’s really nice of Maggie to let you use the studio. But, uh, does she have any idea how loud that could get?”

Marcus had helped out with the kids at the library a few times. Because of his own dyslexia he was very good with reluctant readers.

“I warned her.”

“Maybe you should drop off some earplugs, just in case,” he said with a grin.

“By the way, she thinks Gavin might be right about Devin Rossi.” I glanced toward the hall again.

His smile faded. “You told her what he said.”

I studied his face as it closed into what I thought of as police officer mode. “I didn’t think it was a secret and I wanted to know if she thought Gavin’s idea had any credence.”

His eyebrows went up slightly. “Did she?”

I shifted a bit uncomfortably from one foot to the other. I could feel the skepticism coming off him. He’d made it clear he thought the idea of a cat burglar dropping into the library from the roof to steal a drawing that wasn’t any bigger than a piece of copier paper was outlandish.

“She confirmed everything Gavin told us.” I paused. When he didn’t say anything, I added, “She’s at the shop all afternoon if you’d like to talk to her.”

“Okay,” he said. He leaned against the edge of my desk. “By the way, I talked to Solomon’s police contact from Chicago.” He gave me a small smile. “You didn’t think I would, did you?”

“No, I didn’t,” I admitted, feeling my cheeks get warm.

“The only thing they have on Devin Rossi is a fingerprint from a robbery they
think
she committed at a private gallery about three years ago.”

“Did you find any fingerprints on the skylight?” I asked.

Marcus nodded. “Yes.”

“So did they match?”

He shook his head. “The only prints we had belong to Will Redfern, and I don’t think it was him who stole that drawing.”

I sighed. “And you don’t think it was Devin Rossi, either.”

He straightened up. “Sorry. I just don’t think some cat burglar broke in here, stole that drawing and killed Margo Walsh.”

I nodded. It was just so far-fetched, but I couldn’t help wishing things really were that simple.

O
wen went to sit by the back door about five minutes before Maggie was due to drive out to Roma’s with me. “She’ll be here soon,” I said. He shot a backward glance in my direction as if to say, “I know that.”

And he did. I had no idea how he knew when Maggie was going to show up or when Rebecca was about to knock on the back door with treats or even when Marcus was going to stop by unexpectedly. He just did. It was just one of the many things about the cats that I’d stopped trying to find an explanation for.

“Hey, Fuzz Face,” Maggie said when she caught sight of Owen.

He looked up at her, adoration written all over his furry gray-and-white face. I pulled on my hoodie while the two of them “talked.”

Finally, Maggie looked at me. “Hi, Kath, where’s the bench?” she said. We were taking a long, low bench that I’d painted and Mags had made a pillow for out to Roma as surprise. Maggie had surreptitiously measured the space and we were fairly confident that it would fit under the window at the end of the upstairs hallway. Roma had found a similar bench in an antiques store in Red Wing but had balked at the price. Maggie and I had found this one at a flea market a few weeks ago, painted a bilious pea soup green. Marcus had tightened one wobbly leg and Hercules had “helped” as I sanded away the old paint—from a distance, of course.

“It’s in the basement,” I said. “It’s kind of awkward for one person to bring up the stairs alone and I forgot to ask Marcus to help me when he was here.”

She lifted her right arm and made a muscle. “We can do it,” she said. “We don’t need any boys.”

Owen gave a sharp meow.

Maggie smiled down at him. “I didn’t mean you,” she said.

He went over to the basement door and pushed it open with a paw, then looked expectantly at Maggie.

“Thank you, Owen,” she said.

With Owen supervising, we got the bench up the basement stairs. Hercules came to watch as we carefully wrapped it in an old blanket, sniffing and poking the padding with a paw. Once the bench was set in the bed of the truck and Maggie had given both cats a couple of sardine crackers to thank them for their assistance, we headed out to Wisteria Hill.

I backed the truck up to the side steps of the house. Roma had come out onto the verandah when she’d heard the truck. “What is this?” she asked as Maggie and I got out.

“We brought you a little housewarming gift,” I said.

Roma looked from Maggie to me. “I should say you shouldn’t have, but I’m really curious about what it is.” She cocked her head to one side and studied the blanket-wrapped shape. “It looks a little small to be another Eddie.”

Eddie Sweeney, aka Crazy Eddie Sweeney, was a star player for the NHL’s Minnesota Wild and was Roma’s significant other. Mags had made a life-size Eddie for a Winterfest display a couple of years ago. Faux Eddie had led to a lot of rumors swirling around town about Roma and the real Eddie, and eventually to the two of them meeting. Real Eddie had bought Faux Eddie as a gift for Roma.

I climbed into the truck bed and Maggie and I got the bench off it and up onto the verandah. I unfastened the bungee cords that were holding the blanket in place and Maggie pulled it away.

“Oh my word,” Roma said softly, putting one hand to her chest. “Did . . . did you two do this?”

I nodded. I suddenly felt the unexpected prickle of tears. I was so incredibly lucky to have friends like Roma and Maggie. I caught Maggie’s eye. She swallowed and blinked a couple of times. I had a feeling she’d felt the same rush of gratitude I had.

Roma leaned over and trailed a hand across the cushion fabric and down over the wood. “It’s beautiful,” she said, her voice raspy with emotion. “It’s more beautiful than the one in Red Wing.”

She threw her arms around Maggie and reached out to pull me into the hug.

As we carried the bench up to the second floor of the old farmhouse, I crossed my fingers—metaphorically, since I couldn’t do it literally—that it would fit in the space under the tall multipaned window at the end of the hall.

It did.

Roma beamed at us. “How did you know it would fit?” she asked.

“Maggie measured the space,” I said.

Roma looked up at Mags. “When did you do that?” she asked.

Maggie had been studying the bench, head tipped to one side. She shifted it about a half an inch to the left and moved it back even less than that, then nodded with satisfaction. She looked at Roma and then shook her head. “Sorry,” she said. “When did I measure for the bench? Remember when the three of us were stripping the wallpaper in the closets?”

Roma nodded.

There had been so many layers of paper on the old walls I’d been half-afraid they’d fall down when we got it all off.

“You lost the drawstring in your hoodie,” Maggie said to me.

I made a face. “Right. The vacuum ate it.”

Her eyes darted from side to side. “I took it. That’s what I used to measure the space because I didn’t have a tape measure and I couldn’t exactly ask Roma if I could borrow one.”

“I didn’t know that,” I said. Roma was running her hand over the cushion again. I nudged her with my elbow. “It’s okay to sit on it.”

She laughed, her cheeks turning pink. “It’s so beautiful, I don’t want to mess it up.”

Maggie put her arm around Roma’s shoulder and gave her a squeeze. “You can’t ‘mess it up,’” she said.

Roma sat down in the middle of the bench. She grinned up at us.

“Your drawstring is hanging on the bulletin board in my studio, by the way,” Maggie said to me.

“Don’t worry about it. Owen turned that hoodie into the cat version of a futon.”

“See?” she said. “I told you he was smart. He’s creative, too.”

I laughed, wrapping my arms around her shoulders in a side hug, and thought that she didn’t know the half of it.

Roma had made chicken corn chowder for supper. We sat around the kitchen table talking about her plans for the yard and the outside of the old house. “Oren’s going to start painting as soon as it gets just a little bit warmer,” she said, glancing out the window to her right.

“What did you finally decide on for colors?” Maggie asked. Her spoon was paused midway between her bowl and her mouth. She had made several “mood boards” for Roma, highlighting the different color combinations she’d been trying to choose between for the old farmhouse.

Roma nodded. “Buttercream yellow, vintage white and winter-lake blue. And thank you for putting those boards together for me. I never would have been able to decide with just those little swatches.”

“You’re welcome,” Maggie said. “You picked my favorite colors, by the way.”

“Eddie’s, too,” Roma said.

Something in her voice, or maybe something in the way she said Eddie’s name, told me something was off.

“How is Eddie?” I asked, pushing my empty bowl to one side.

“Eddie’s good.” Roma couldn’t help smiling whenever she said his name, so I knew whatever was wrong between them was fixable. “Nobody expected them to make the playoffs this year and now it seems as though everyone wants to interview him.” She glanced out the window again.

I shot Maggie a sidelong warning glance to stay quiet and waited, letting the silence settle at the table with us. Roma looked from me to Maggie and back again. “Can you two keep a secret?”

It wasn’t really a serious question. I trusted Maggie and Roma as much as I trusted anyone, and I felt certain they felt the same way about me as well. Still, I nodded.

“Of course,” Maggie said softly.

Roma glanced down at her hands for a moment, then looked up at us. “Eddie won’t be going public with this until the playoffs are over, but . . .” She hesitated. Took a deep breath. “He’s decided to retire.”

I wasn’t really surprised. The last time Eddie had been in town he’d been full of plans and ideas for Wisteria Hill. In the back of my mind I’d wondered if he was thinking about making a permanent move to Mayville Heights.

“That’s good, isn’t it?” Maggie asked, picking up her spoon again.

Roma leaned both forearms on the table, reached up and began idly tracing the shoulder seam of her shirt with one finger. “It is and it isn’t.”

“I’m guessing the good part is that Eddie’s retiring while he’s still healthy,” I said.

“That’s
why
he’s decided to retire now,” Roma said. “Kathleen, do you two know who Ben Crossley is?”

“Only the best center to ever play the game,” I immediately said.

Maggie’s eyebrows went up. “Excuse me,” she said. “Sidney Crosby?”

I gave her a Cheshire cat smile. “I don’t think so, Mags. Check the numbers.” Then I turned to Roma. “Crossley was Eddie’s mentor, wasn’t he?”

She nodded. “They met at a hockey camp when Eddie was just eleven. Ben has been part coach, part mentor, part father figure.” She swallowed. “And he’s showing signs of early dementia. He suffered more than one concussion in his day.”

“Oh, Roma, I’m sorry.” Maggie reached across the table to give Roma’s arm a squeeze.

“So that’s why Eddie’s decided to retire,” I said.

Roma nodded. “Yes. He had a serious concussion himself, three years ago. He’s been thinking about retiring for a while now. If this hadn’t happened I think he might have played for another year, but that probably would have been it.”

She was still playing with her shirt. I would have expected her to be happier about Eddie’s news. There had to be something she hadn’t told us yet.

“So what does he want to do?” Maggie asked. “I mean aside from stripping all the trim upstairs.” She glanced at the ceiling over our heads.

Roma got an odd look on her face. It was a mix of panic and . . . happiness?

She looked down at the table for a moment, then lifted her head and met our eyes. “He says he wants to marry me.”

M
aggie and I both gave squeals of excitement.

“Roma, that’s wonderful,” I exclaimed, grinning at her. I knew she loved Eddie, and you only had to spend a few minutes with the two of them to know he was crazy about her, too.

“He’s a lucky man,” Maggie said, green eyes shining. Then her smile faded.

Because Roma wasn’t smiling at all.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“How can I marry him?” She pressed her lips together and stared down at the flowered tablecloth.

“It’s easy,” Maggie said. “Kathleen and I take you shopping for a pretty dress. We put lights and flowers in the living room the way we did when Everett and Rebecca got married, and then you say ‘I do.’”

Roma shook her head. “I can’t.”

Maggie shot me a sidelong glance.

“Why not?” I asked.

“I’m older than Eddie. A lot older.”

I reached over and put my hand on her shoulder for a moment. “It doesn’t matter. You know he doesn’t care.”

Roma had been married young, widowed when her daughter, Olivia, was very small, and she had put herself through college. She was in her late forties now, but most people were surprised when they found that out. She was older than both Maggie and me and it had never mattered to our friendship.

“It does matter,” Roma insisted. She reached up and raked her fingers through her hair, tipping her head toward me. “Look. I found a gray hair yesterday.”

I couldn’t see a single white strand among her glossy dark brown hair.

“So what if you have a couple of gray hairs?” Maggie said. “So what if they’re all gray? Eddie loves what’s on the inside.” She laid a hand flat against her chest. “Sure, he appreciates your colorful candy shell.”

I knew she was referring to Roma’s propensity for carrying a bag of M&M’s along with a roll of duct tape so she was covered for pretty much any emergency that might happen.

“But it’s your sweet inside that Eddie fell in love with.”

The whole analogy was so silly even Roma had to laugh. But then her expression turned serious again. “Eddie loves kids. I’m too old to have a baby. I’m not going to let him give up something I know he wants just for a life with me. So I can’t marry him.” She held up a hand. “And I don’t want to argue about it.”

I struggled to find the right words. “Roma, Maggie and I are with you, no matter what you decide to do,” I said. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Maggie nod in agreement. “Just . . . before you make a final decision, try living with the idea a little while.” It was something my father had said to me more than once, and it was the best thing I could think of to say.

We went back to talking about Roma’s plans for the yard, but Eddie’s proposal was the proverbial elephant in the room. When it was time to leave I wrapped Roma in a hug. “Call me anytime you want to talk,” I said. “Or not talk.”

“I will,” she promised. She waved from the steps as we started down the long driveway.

We were out on the road back to town before Maggie spoke. “Roma isn’t too old for Eddie. And there are other ways to make a family besides having a baby.”

I nodded without taking my eyes off the road. “I know that, but I don’t think she does.”

Gavin called me early the next morning. I was standing in the kitchen, wild haired, trying to decide between oatmeal with fruit and a scrambled egg. Owen and Hercules had already started on their breakfasts.

“Hey, Kathleen,” he said. “Could I buy you breakfast, or have you already eaten?”

I pushed my hair back off my face. “Is this about the library or are you just looking for company?” One night we had worked late on plans for the exhibit and Gavin had admitted that he didn’t like eating alone, even with a good book for company.

“I like conversation,” he’d said, a bit sheepishly.

“You need a cat,” I’d told him. “Owen and Hercules are great at making mealtime conversation, as long as you consider meows, murps and grumbling conversation.”

He’d laughed. “Where do they stand on the Wild’s playoff chances?”

“Stanley Cup in six,” I’d said, straight-faced.

Gavin laughed now. “I always enjoy your company, Kathleen, but this is about the library, specifically about the Weston piece. I have an idea I want to run by you and it’s a bit too complicated to get into on the phone.”

“And you don’t like eating alone,” I finished.

“You’re right, I don’t. So come join me. I’m at Eric’s Place. The coffee is hot, and I have an idea that might help us figure out who took that drawing.” He paused for a moment and when he spoke again the laughter had gone out of his voice. “And who killed Margo.”

I looked at the clock over the refrigerator. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

I went back upstairs, wrestled my hair into a low twist with the help of lots of bobby pins and hairspray, and brushed my teeth. Back downstairs again I pulled on my favorite ankle boots while Hercules watched with curiosity and Owen moved the rest of his breakfast from his dish to the floor so he had more room to sniff each bite.

I leaned down and stroked the top of Hercules’s head. “I’m going to have breakfast with Gavin,” I said. “Have a good day.”

Owen’s gray tabby head shot up and the brothers exchanged a look; then two sets of cat eyes focused on me.

Neither Owen nor Hercules had taken to Gavin, probably because by his own admission he was a dog person. Their eyes stayed locked on me as I checked that I had everything I needed in my bag and reached for my coat, pretending to ignore them the whole time.

Still, it was disconcerting to be stared at. I should have been used to it, given how many times they’d used the technique on me when they were dissatisfied with something I’d done.

I turned and stared back at them, arms folded over my chest. “First of all, dog people are not the Evil Empire.”

That got no reaction, not even a blink.

“You like Harrison,” I continued, “and Harry Junior, and they’re dog people.”

The Taylors—Harry Junior and Senior—had a big German shepherd named Boris. Owen and Boris had had one “unfortunate” encounter that as far as Owen was concerned made them mortal enemies for life. The truth was that Boris was an intelligent and gentle dog. I’d made the mistake of calling him a pussycat once. Owen had been understandably offended.

The cats exchanged another look. Owen wrinkled his nose at me and meowed loudly.

I smiled at him, wrinkling my own nose back at him. “No, that’s not different,” I said firmly.

He dropped his head over his food again. Clearly, as far as he was concerned the discussion was over.

Gavin was sitting at a table by the end wall of the small café when I got to Eric’s. Claire was just refilling his coffee cup. Gavin raised a hand in greeting and when Claire caught sight of me she reached for the other stoneware mug on the table.

“Oh, thank you,” I said to her, dropping my bag on the chair opposite Gavin.

“You’re welcome,” she said. “Do you need a menu or do you know what you’d like?” She gave me a knowing smile. “Eric’s sourdough breakfast sandwich, maybe?”

“Definitely,” I said. Clearly I was getting to be predictable.

Claire headed for the kitchen and I slipped off my jacket, put my bag on the floor and sat down. “Okay, I’m here, so tell me your idea. You really think you might have a way to figure out who took the Weston drawing?” I reached for the small pitcher of cream in the middle of the table.

“Maybe.” Gavin ran the fingernails of one hand over his bearded chin. “I have a . . . connection in Minneapolis.”

I took a drink of my coffee. It was strong and very hot, just the way I liked it. Not that I would necessarily turn down coffee that was cold and weak.

“A connection could be anyone from someone you worked with to someone you dated to the kid you ate erasers with in kindergarten,” I said.

“I didn’t eat erasers in kindergarten,” Gavin said. “But remind me sometime to tell you the story of what happened when I tried that paste stuff they use for papier-mâché.”

I laughed. “You didn’t.”

“Oh, I did.” He grinned across the small table at me. “I didn’t have the discriminating palate that I have now.”

I laughed. Even though I knew that Gavin was trying to charm me, I still enjoyed his company.

He held up a hand and the grin faded. “Seriously, my connection to Big Jule is professional.”

“Big Jule?” I said, not even trying to keep the skepticism out of my voice. “Like the character from
Guys and Dolls
?”

Gavin nodded. “I know what you’re thinking. Big Jule—whose real name is Julian McCrea—is a huge musical theater fan. He’s played the role of Big Jule nineteen times in amateur productions.” He shrugged. “He’s a little . . . eccentric, but if a piece of artwork is”—he paused for a moment, searching for the right word—“generating interest, Big Jule knows who’s interested.”

I took another sip of my coffee. “So he’s what? A thief? A fence?”

Gavin leaned back in his chair. “He’s more of a relocation specialist.”

“A fence, then,” I said. “So does he say ‘youse guys’ and shoot craps in a back alley?”

He laughed again. “You’re not going to break out in a chorus of ‘Luck Be a Lady,’ are you, Kathleen?” he asked.

A mental image of my dad in a snap-brim fedora and a black pinstripe suit when he’d played Sky Masterson in
Guys and Dolls
flashed into my head.

I raised one eyebrow. “You joke, but I can do the choreography.”

Gavin folded his arms over his chest and grinned across the table at me. “I’d like to see that,” he teased.

Claire was on her way from the kitchen with our breakfast. “Maybe some other time,” I said.

“Saved by a breakfast sandwich,” he countered with a laugh.

Gavin told me a little more about “Big Jule” while we ate. Julian McCrea had had an art gallery for many years. He’d represented several up-and-coming artists. With a degree in art history, he’d even been called as an expert witness in a number of cases in which the provenance of a piece of artwork was in question. Now McCrea specialized in helping a select group of clients add to their private collections. And it was clear that, like the character in
Guys and Dolls
, this Big Jule’s deals weren’t always aboveboard.

Gavin put down his fork and looked around for Claire. “Come with me, Kathleen,” he said. “I’m going to see Big Jule tomorrow and, well, you do know the choreography for ‘Luck Be a Lady.’”

I laughed. “I think you’ll do just fine without me.”

He leaned toward me across the small table. “Come with me,” he repeated. “I’ll do even better with you. You can talk about musicals with the guy and he’ll be a lot more susceptible to your charms than he is to mine.”

“I have work to do,” I said, using the last bite of sourdough bread to soak up a bit of tomato on my plate.

“It won’t take that long,” Gavin countered. “And I’m serious. Big Jule is more likely to talk to you than he is to me.”

Claire came to the table then and poured each of us more coffee. Marcus walked into the café as she was topping up my mug. The smile that flashed across his face when he saw me was tempered when he saw Gavin. I raised a hand in hello, and Marcus came over to us, crossing the space between the door and the table in about three strides of his long legs.

“Hi,” I said, smiling up at him.

Gavin got to his feet and offered his hand. “Good morning, Detective,” he said with an easy smile.

“Good morning,” Marcus replied, shaking Gavin’s hand and then, once he’d let it go, resting his other hand on my shoulder. “I didn’t know you two had a meeting this morning,” he said. His eyes flicked briefly to me, and while I knew the words were directed to me, he kept his gaze on Gavin.

“It was a last-minute thing,” I said. “Gavin may know someone who can help us figure out who might have wanted the Weston drawing.”

“I’m sure Detective Lind will be happy to have that information,” Marcus said.

“Actually, Kathleen and I were planning on going to talk to my contact tomorrow. No offense to Detective Lind, but I think we’d have better luck.” Gavin’s tone was offhand, but there was nothing offhand in the way he returned Marcus’s gaze.

“This is a police investigation,” Marcus said. His eyes shifted to me for a moment. “You know how this works, Kathleen.”

His hand was still possessively on my shoulder. I suddenly felt like a fire hydrant between two dogs.

I looked up at Marcus. “I do,” I said. “But Gavin has contacts the police don’t.” I couldn’t quite picture a man whose business clearly wasn’t completely legal and who liked to be called Big Jule—even if the name did come from a fifties musical—wanting to share a lot of information with the police, but I wasn’t going to say that to Marcus with Gavin standing right there.

The muscles were tight along his jawline, but he turned to Gavin and forced a cool smile. “I’m sure your contacts are more likely to talk to you than to us,” he said as though he’d read my mind. “But please let Detective Lind know if you find out anything.”

“Of course,” Gavin said.

“I need to get my order and get back to the station,” Marcus said, motioning toward the counter.

“I’ll walk you over,” I said, getting to my feet. His hand fell away from my shoulder. “I’ll be right back,” I said to Gavin. I followed Marcus to the back of the small restaurant.

“Hi, Detective,” Claire said. “Eric’s just putting your order together in the kitchen. I’ll be right back.”

I waited until she’d passed through the swinging door and then I turned my head to study Marcus. “So you’re really not jealous?”

He glanced over at the table. Gavin’s back was to us and he was talking to someone on his cell phone. Marcus’s blue eyes narrowed. “Of him? No. I just don’t want him interfering in the case.”

“He’s acting as a consultant,” I said gently. “That’s not exactly interfering.”

“I know that,” he said. He sighed softly. “Kathleen, I don’t trust him. There’s something he’s not being honest about.”

“You don’t think he had something to do with the robbery and Margo’s death, do you?” I asked.

Marcus shook his head and his gaze darted across the restaurant again for just a moment. “He has an alibi. He was in the bar at the hotel. At least a dozen people saw him, so, no, I don’t think he had anything to do with what happened at the library. Not directly.”