Faux Paw: A Magical Cats Mystery (12 page)

We took our seats again. McCrea set his fedora on the empty chair between him and Gavin and turned his attention to me. “Tell me a little more about the exhibit. I didn’t get a lot of details.”

I gave him a brief background on how the library had come to be one of the stops on the exhibit of mid-nineteenth-century artwork and explained how Margo had convinced the museum to include a contemporary local segment of artwork at each stop on the tour. Gavin sat silently, nodding on occasion but letting me do all the talking.

“I met Margo several times, socially,” McCrea said. “The art world—at least here—is a very small world. I was sorry to hear what happened.” He reached for his menu, which had appeared at his elbow along with a cup of tea about thirty seconds after he’d sat down. Our waiter had to have been watching and waiting for his cue.

“Do you like fish, Miss Paulson?” he asked.

“Yes, I do,” I said.

“Then I suggest the fish cakes with lemon dill sauce.”

“They sound delicious.” I closed my menu and set it back on the table.

The waiter appeared at McCrea’s elbow again, almost as though the big man had given some kind of signal. He took our orders, refilled my and Gavin’s cups and headed for the kitchen.

McCrea talked in general terms about the art scene in Minneapolis while we waited for our food. He was well spoken and clearly knowledgeable about his subject. The man was charming but in a different way from Gavin. Gavin’s charm was all about pulling you in. Julian McCrea’s was all about keeping you at arm’s length. I didn’t think I was going to get any information from him unless I could find a way to bring that wall down.

The fish cakes were delicious, a mix of catfish and salmon, with a thin, crispy bread-crumb coating. “These are excellent,” I said, raising my fork in acknowledgment to the art dealer. “The last time I had fish cakes this good was in a little roadside diner just outside of Rockport, Maine, when my parents were doing
Noises Off
.”

“Your parents were involved in community theater?” McCrea asked.

I shook my head. “Summer stock. They’re both actors, although they also teach at a private school and my mother has been doing more directing lately.”

His blue eyes focused in on me. “May I ask their names? I’m wondering if I may have seen either of them on stage.”

“John and Thea Paulson,” I said. “If you’re a Shakespeare fan at all and you’ve seen any theater at all on the East Coast, it’s possible you’ve seen them.”

Julian McCrea’s eyes widened and a smile stretched across his face. “Thea Paulson is your mother?” he exclaimed.

It wasn’t the first time my mom’s name had gotten that kind of reaction. She’d just recently wrapped up her third visit to the daytime drama
The
Wild and the Wonderful
. My father liked to tease that they couldn’t go anywhere without at least one young woman coming up to tell her she rocked.

“And men half my age stare at her,” Dad had said, laughing and shaking his head. “And the kind of looks they give her aren’t because they’re looking at her like she’s a mother figure.”

“Yes, she is,” I said in answer to McCrea’s question.

His smile grew wider. “I saw her maybe a dozen years ago as Portia in
The
Merchant of Venice
, and two years ago as Ella in
Last Love
, in Boston. She’s very talented.”

“Yes, she is,” I said, smiling back at him. “Thank you.”

“What about you, Kathleen?” he asked. “Do you act?”

I shook my head. “I’m afraid the talent gene skipped me.” I speared a forkful of arugula. “You clearly enjoy the theater. Have you done any acting?”

“I’ve played the role of Big Jule in
Guys and Dolls
,” he said. I noticed that he sat up a little straighter as he said the words.

“It’s one of my favorite musicals,” I said. That was true. I’d loved watching my dad rehearse his role as Sky Masterson and I really could do the choreography for “Luck Be a Lady.”

I gave Julian McCrea a quick once-over. “I can see you as Big Jule,” I said.

He patted his midsection. “I do have the ‘big’ part.”

“I was thinking more that you have the presence to play the role. It’s very easy for the character to turn into a caricature.” That was also true. I’d heard my mother express her dissatisfaction with the way the part had been cast a couple of times because the director had turned Big Jule into comic relief instead of using him to move the story forward.

We spent the rest of the meal talking about musical theater. Gavin didn’t say a word. When the waiter arrived with the bill, discreetly presented inside a small black folder, he indicated with a flick of his gaze that it should be given to him.

“Thank you, my friend,” McCrea said.

“Thank you for taking the time to talk to us,” Gavin replied.

The art dealer turned to me. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be of any help to you. I can promise you that no one is shopping that missing drawing around this area. If someone were, I would know. Unfortunately, you’re just going to have to take my word for that.”

“It’s good enough for me,” I said.

I hesitated. McCrea must have seen the uncertainty in my face. “Is there something else, Kathleen?” he asked.

“The name Devin Rossi has . . . come up in the investigation,” I said, hoping I’d chosen my words wisely.

He turned his head to look at Gavin for a moment before bringing his attention back to me. “Interesting,” was all he said.

“She acquires art for her customers.”

The big man tented his fingers over his midsection. “You’re very diplomatic,” he said, an amused expression on his face.

“My mother always says you can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar,” I countered. I didn’t add that she also said you could get the best result by spreading a little bull around.

“I’ll put out a few discreet inquiries,” he said. “If I find out anything I’ll be in touch.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I appreciate that.”

He pushed back his cuff, glanced at his watch and then got to his feet. Gavin and I did the same. McCrea took my hand in both of his. “It’s truly been a pleasure to meet you, Kathleen,” he said. “I hope to see you again.”

I smiled. “I’d like that.”

“It’s always good to see you, Gavin,” the big man said, reaching for his hat.

They shook hands and McCrea headed for the door.

Gavin flashed a credit card to the waiter, who had been hovering nearby. “He plays his cards very close to the vest, but you made a good impression on him. He may very well ask around.”

“Good,” I said.

He gave me a sidelong glance. “You played him like a five-string banjo.”

I shook my head. “We both like the theater. I meant everything I said. I’m guessing he’s very good in the role of Big Jule.” I pulled out my cell phone. “You tried to play me, though.”

I’d half expected him to deny it, but he didn’t. He gave me his “I’ve been a naughty boy” smile. “I knew Big Jule would be a lot more responsive to your charms than mine. And like you said, you both like the theater.”

“You knew if you just came and asked him directly if he knew anything, he wouldn’t tell you.”

He nodded. “I told you, he doesn’t show his hand for any reason.”

He pulled his car keys out of his pocket. His expression went from lighthearted to serious then. “Kathleen, I liked Margo. It was my job to keep the exhibit and anyone involved with it safe. Now it’s my job to find out what went wrong.”

“That’s a job for the police,” I said, not unaware of the irony that I was the one saying those words.

“From what I’ve heard you don’t always follow your own advice,” he said.

“Do you think Julian can help?”

Gavin’s mouth twisted to one side. “Truth? I don’t know. I do know that he knows the art world in this part of the country better than anyone else.”

“I guess we’ll just have to keep our fingers crossed,” I said. I held up my phone. “I just need to make a quick call.”

Gavin nodded. “I’ll wait for you at the car.”

Marcus answered on the second ring. “How was lunch?” he asked. “Did you learn anything?”

“Just that Julian McCrea is a fan of my mother and as far as he’s heard, no one is trying to sell the Weston drawing and no one had been putting out feelers about the piece before it was stolen.”

“You’re on your way back now.”

“Uh-huh.” I could see Gavin standing next to the car, talking on his own cell. “We’re just about to leave.”

“Can you stop at the library when you get here?” he asked.

“I can do that,” I said slowly. I couldn’t put my finger on what it was in his voice that told me he’d found something, but somehow I knew he had. “What’s going on?”

I heard voices in the background. “I’ll explain when you get here,” he said. “I have to go. See you soon.”

He was gone. I put my phone in my bag and headed outside.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that once we were back in Mayville Heights, things were going to get a lot more complicated.

G
avin asked me more about my family on the drive back. I noticed that when I tried to steer the conversation into his personal life he’d deftly move it back to me, the way he had when I questioned him about being rebellious.

I hadn’t told him about my conversation with Marcus. When we turned off the highway he glanced at me. “Where can I drop you?” he asked.

“The library, please,” I said. “

Gavin nodded as the car hugged the curve of the exit ramp. “I’ll come with you. I did promise your detective I’d report in.”

In the parking lot of the library I recognized the car Hope and Marcus used when they worked together. Gavin followed me up the steps to the building. The first set of doors was unlocked and the old-fashioned wrought-iron security gates were also open. I tapped on the inside door and after a moment Hope came to let me in.

“Hi,” she said. “Marcus said you were on your way. You made good time.”

“And stuck to the speed limit, Detective,” Gavin said. “More or less.” His eyebrows went up and a small smile played on his face.

Hope rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Why do I think it was less rather than more?”

Marcus was standing by the circulation desk. He smiled as he caught sight of me and I couldn’t help smiling back as I walked over to him. Curtis Holt was doing a circuit of the exhibit area, checking the windows—part of his security guard duties, I guessed.

“Before you ask, we didn’t find out anything useful,” Gavin said.

I turned to look at him over my shoulder. “Yes, we did,” I said. I shifted my gaze to Hope and Marcus. “Julian McCrea told us that he hadn’t heard anything about anyone being interested in the Weston drawing, not before it was stolen and not since.”

“Do you think he was being honest with you?” Hope asked.

“I don’t think he had any reason to lie,” I said. I looked questioningly at Gavin.

“Big Jule doesn’t lie. He might split hairs or shade the truth, but he won’t tell an outright lie.”

Hope looked skeptical.

“He won’t,” Gavin repeated. “He went to Catholic school. He told Kathleen no one had approached him about acquiring the drawing. You can take that to the bank, for what it’s worth.”

“Every little piece is part of the puzzle.” Hope made a gesture like she was fitting two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle together. “You never know which small piece will help you figure out the entire picture.”

“We found something, too,” Marcus said. There was a piece of paper on the checkout desk. He reached over and picked it up.

Gavin shot me a puzzled look. I gave an almost imperceptible shrug.

“Margo Walsh kept a date book,” Marcus continued.

I nodded slowly. “She kept everything in it. It was a small book with a maroon leather cover.” Like Maggie, Margo had kept a paper schedule instead of using her phone or computer.

“We found it today.”

Hope looked at me for a moment before looking back at Marcus. Did that mean anything? I wondered.

“So what does that mean?” Gavin asked, restlessly shifting his weight from one leg to the other. “Did Margo happen to make a note that someone wanted to kill her?”

Marcus opened the folded sheet of white paper, looked at whatever was written on it, then looked at Gavin. “No. But she did make a note about having lunch with you three weeks before you told us you’d met her for the first time.”

Gavin exhaled loudly and shrugged. “I should have guessed she’d write it down,” he said. “Margo wrote everything down.”

“Why did you lie to us?” Hope asked.

“Not because I killed her,” he said. “I was in the bar at the hotel. You know that. People saw me.” He looked from Hope to Marcus. Neither one of them said a word.

“You told me this was the first time you’d worked with Margo,” I said.

“It was,” Gavin said. “It just wasn’t the first time we’d met. I didn’t lie. I just didn’t tell you everything.”

“So stop playing games and tell us everything now,” Hope said.

He exhaled loudly. “Fine. Margo and I had lunch when the schedule for the exhibit was finalized.” His mouth moved like he was working on shaping his words before he spoke them. “She had big concerns about the artwork being out of a museum.”

“Why did you let everyone think you’d never met before?” Hope asked.

I glanced over at the stairs to the second floor of the building. Margo and I had been standing there when Gavin had walked into the library for the first time. I remembered her holding out her hand and saying,
“Hello. You must be Gavin Solomon. I’m Margo Walsh.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Why did Margo pretend she didn’t know you?” I looked from Hope to Marcus. “I was here with her when Gavin arrived for our first meeting.” I turned to Gavin. “She introduced herself as though she’d never seen you before.”

“That’s because I asked her not to let on we’d already met.” He exhaled loudly and looked up at the ceiling. “When we met for lunch it was to go over the security details for the exhibit. The insurance company had certain requirements that had to be met. Margo . . . had some questions.” He dropped his head and looked at me. “The thing is, I work for ILG Security as a consultant, which means I can also work for other companies in the same capacity . . . as long as there isn’t a conflict of interest.”

“Which there was this time,” Marcus said.

“Who else were you working for?” I asked.

Gavin shifted restlessly again. “The insurance company.”

“You were working for the company that required the security and the one that was providing it.” Hope’s tone and her body language told me that she and Marcus had already figured out his conflict of interest.

I shook my head. “I don’t understand. Why on earth would Margo have gone along with keeping that a secret?”

Gavin swiped a hand across his face in exasperation. “Oh, c’mon, Kathleen. You worked with the woman. You know what she was like. She was dead set against any of the artwork being displayed anywhere other than a museum where she could control everything from the way the lights were angled to the alarm system. We could have had laser beams crisscrossing the room like a James Bond movie and she was still convinced someone was going to steal one of her precious drawings.”

“Someone did,” I said softly.

“And maybe she helped whoever it was,” he retorted. “She wanted to know a lot of the technical details on how the system worked. She
said
it was so she could keep moving things around and not set it off. I didn’t have any reason to think she wasn’t telling me the truth.” He pulled a hand over the back of his neck. “Maybe I was wrong.”

“Maybe,” Marcus said.

Gavin looked directly at him, his jaw clenched and tight lines around his mouth. “I didn’t kill her.”

Marcus came to stand next to me. “We should take this down to the station,” he said.

“Are you going to arrest me?”

“We just want to ask you a few more questions,” Hope said, her tone even and nonconfrontational.

Gavin looked directly at Marcus. “So go ahead and ask them. I don’t need a lawyer if that’s what you’re worried about. I have the right to remain silent and anything I say can be used against me. I get that.” His dark eyes flicked to me. “Kathleen, you’re my witness.” He held up both hands. “Ask your questions.”

“This is a bad idea,” I said softly. Hope shot Marcus a warning look.

He ignored both of us. “Before you worked for ILG Security, who did you work for?” he asked.

“Myself,” Gavin said. “I have a background in art and I’ve always been pretty good with electronics. People hired me to evaluate their security systems. It was pretty much a word-of-mouth business, but I can give you the contact information for some of my satisfied customers.”

A muscle twitched in Marcus’s cheek. “What about dissatisfied customers?”

Gavin smiled, although there wasn’t a lot of warmth in his expression. “There were none.”

“Ever been in any trouble with the police?”

The smile didn’t waver. “You wouldn’t ask the question unless you knew the answer. Yes. When I was a
kid
.” He emphasized the word “kid.”

He looked away from Marcus then, over to me. “I was fourteen. I broke in to a teacher’s house. I got probation and community service. I wore an orange vest that was two sizes too big for me and picked up garbage along the highway for six weeks including the hottest July on record.”

Gavin continued to focus his attention on me. “You’re the only one who doesn’t know the rest of the story, Kathleen, so here it is. I took a drawing from that teacher’s house. I guess that constitutes some kind of pattern.” He shrugged.

“Was that the only time you ever took something that didn’t belong to you?” Marcus asked. He continued his laser focus on the other man.

“I picked up a quarter from the sidewalk,” Gavin said. “Strictly speaking it didn’t belong to me. And last week I ate a muffin from the staff room here in the library, although they were on a plate in the middle of the table so you could argue there’s a reasonable assumption they were intended for everyone.” He looked away from me then, and the look he gave Marcus was a mix of flippant and defiant.

Marcus sighed softly, so softly I was probably the only person who heard him. I knew he didn’t like Gavin. He’d admitted something about the man bugged him, but did he really think the security expert had had anything to do with the theft and Margo’s death? How could he? More than one person had seen Gavin in the bar at the hotel.

Hope looked at Marcus. Something passed between them.

“Mr. Solomon, do you know a man named Alastair Darby?” Marcus asked.

I’d heard the name somewhere but I couldn’t remember where.

“He’s a collector,” Gavin said. “Fancies himself a patron of the arts.”

“You were at a fundraising event hosted by Alastair Darby a couple of years ago.”

Gavin nodded. “I was. It was a garden party at his summer home. Mediocre wine, excellent food.”

“You and Alastair Darby got into an argument at the party.” Marcus squared his shoulders and crossed his arms over his midsection. He tipped his head to one side and studied Gavin as though he was some kind of science experiment.

If Gavin was intimidated, it didn’t show. “Actually, I got into an argument with the mountainoid who worked for him. He got a little frisky in a pat down. He wasn’t my type.” He raised an eyebrow at Hope and gave her a sly smile.

“Darby thought you’d taken something that belonged to him,” Marcus said.

“He was mistaken,” Gavin said. “Which he learned after his gorilla felt me up.”

Hope smiled back at him. “You didn’t take a painting that belonged to Mr. Darby?”

Gavin laid a hand over his chest. “I promise you, Detective, I didn’t take anything from that party that belonged to Alastair Darby.”

“Two people saw you stuff something in your pants.”

He laughed. “That was all mine.”

“So you’re not a thief?” Marcus said.

Gavin held up both hands again in a gesture of surrender. “I’m just a security expert. I’m not a thief. I didn’t take anything of Mr. Darby’s. And for the record”—his eyes flicked to me again—“I wasn’t a thief at fourteen, either. The teacher? He took a piece of artwork that had been done by a student, that she didn’t give to him and that he lied about having. All I did was retrieve it.” He shrugged. “I have some unique skills. I use them to prevent things from being lost. A few times, in the past, I acted as a retrieval agent for people whose artwork had, let’s say, been borrowed without their permission. I was paid a fee when that artwork was returned to its rightful owners. I don’t think that’s against the law, Detective.”

“Mr. Solomon, were you in the bar all evening the night Margo Walsh was killed?” Hope said. “Because nobody seems to remember seeing you after about quarter to eight.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“So where were you?” I asked. This game of cat and mouse had been going on too long for me.

“With Mary,” he said, gesturing at the checkout desk.

“Mary Lowe?” I said.

He nodded. “Uh-huh. It turns out we have an interest in common.”

I should have known. I really should have known at that point. But instead I frowned and said, “You’re interested in kickboxing?”

Gavin threw back his head and laughed. “No. Mary and I were at The Brick.”

I got it then. I felt my cheeks flood with color. Marcus and Hope hadn’t figured out what Gavin was talking about, and before I could say anything he spoke again.

“It was amateur night. We performed.” One eyebrow went up and the sly smile returned to his face.

“To ‘Proud Mary,’” he said. “Together.”