Faux Paw: A Magical Cats Mystery (14 page)

Harry swiped a hand over his neck. “That’s pretty much how I figured things would go. Thanks for talking to him.”

“I didn’t mind. I like spending time with your father,” I said.

“I’ll call about supper,” he said. “The old man will be like a dog with a bone until I do.”

I laughed. “The way things are at the library right now, my schedule is pretty open.”

“Marcus getting anywhere on that?”

I sighed. “The drawing that was stolen might be worth a lot more than anyone knew.”

“Which means there could have been even more people who wanted it,” he finished.

“Exactly,” I said.

“Larry said she was a nice woman,” Harry said as we headed out into the porch.

I knew he was referring to Margo. Larry had worked well with her because he didn’t mind her perfectionism. He was a bit of a perfectionist himself.

“But you know, I think his head’s been turned by that new artist who’s working with Ruby.”

“You mean Rena Adler, the painter?” I asked.

Harry pulled off his Twins ball cap and smoothed a hand over his bald pate before putting the hat back on. “That’s the one. I pulled up to the library the day before the robbery. Larry was supposed to be making some last-minute changes to a few lights. He’s in the parking lot in the van checking his hair in the rearview mirror.”

He laughed. “I tapped on the window and almost gave him a heart attack.”

“Has he asked her out?”

Hercules had followed us out to the porch. He’d jumped up onto the bench and seemed to be intently following the conversation, head tipped to one side. I reached over and stroked his fur.

Harry shook his head. “Lord no! He’s the opposite of the old man. Larry pretty much moves at a snail’s pace when it comes to women. But I’m thinking she might like him. He said they spent a lot of time talking. She even brought a cup of coffee down to the basement to him while he was working.”

I thought about all the cups of coffee Marcus and I had shared while we were getting to know each other. “It sounds like she might be interested,” I said.

“At least she’s real,” Harry said, rolling his eyes. “And we know she’s a woman.”

“Your father’s not going to do anything stupid,” I said.

“I hope you’re right, Kathleen.” He smiled again. “I’ll call you about dinner.”

I nodded.

Hercules watched Harry disappear around the side of the house. Then he looked at me and meowed. I leaned down and picked him up, heading back into the kitchen.

Before I could set him down the phone rang. I went back to the living room to answer it. It was Marcus.

“How was the rest of your afternoon?” he asked.

“Good,” I said. “I have every program from the library relocated, and Harrison came for coffee. By the way, did you know Thorsten got a piercing?”

“You’re kidding.”

The seemingly straitlaced caretaker of the community center didn’t seem like the type for a piercing.

I dropped onto the footstool, still holding on to the cat. Hercules kneaded my lap with his paws and stretched out. “No, I’m not.”

“I just saw him about an hour ago. I didn’t notice an earring.”

“That’s because it wasn’t in an ear,” I said, struggling not to laugh.

“Well then, where was— No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

I did laugh then, picturing him holding up one hand and shaking his head even though I couldn’t see either gesture.

“Okay, let’s change the subject,” I said. Hercules was eyeing me as though he was trying to figure out what was so funny. “How was the rest of your afternoon?”

“I went out to The Brick,” Marcus said. “Mary’s in Red Wing so I couldn’t confirm Solomon’s alibi with her. Did you know they record their amateur shows?”

“No,” I said slowly.

“Solomon wasn’t lying,” he said. “Let’s just say I’ve seen way more of him and Mary than I ever wanted to see.”

“Oh, I know what you mean,” I said. I heard him laugh on the other end of the phone. “So now what?”

He sighed and I pictured him running one hand back through his hair the way he did when he was frustrated. “I don’t know. It looks like we’re back to square one.”

I
’d planned to sleep in Saturday morning, but Owen had other ideas. He’d swatted my face with a paw and grumbled because I didn’t seem to be getting dressed fast enough for him.

“Do you have plans this morning?” I asked as I followed him down to the kitchen.

“Merow!” he said loudly.

Owen had already started his breakfast when Hercules wandered in, yawning. He came over to me, leaned against my leg and eyed his brother curiously.

“He has plans,” I said, reaching down to scratch the top of Herc’s head.

I put half an English muffin in the toaster and scrambled an egg with onions, pepper and tomatoes. It made a very good breakfast sandwich—not quite what Eric served but delicious just the same.

Owen finished breakfast, washed his face and then headed toward the back door like a cat with a purpose. At the door he looked back over his shoulder and meowed sharply at me.

“I’m coming,” I said, padding across the floor to let him out. I paused with my hand on the doorknob. “I didn’t hear any ‘please.’”

“Murp,” he said, much to my amusement.

I opened both doors and let Owen out onto the back step. He headed down the stairs and I wondered if he was going to Rebecca’s.

“I’m going to the library if I hear back from Marcus this morning,” I said.

That got me another murp, but he didn’t even slow down.

I finished my breakfast, threw a load of bedding in the washer and then sat at the table, making a list of things I wanted from the Farmers’ Market, with Hercules settled on my lap. “Do you think the Jam Lady will have any marmalade?” I asked.

The cat’s whiskers twitched. He liked the occasional dab of marmalade on a sardine cracker, information we didn’t share with Roma.

I pulled on my hoodie and got my cloth shopping bags from the hall closet. Hercules followed me out into the porch and watched while I tied my sneakers. He looked a little at loose ends to me.

“You want to come for a ride in the truck?” I asked, canting my head in the direction of the driveway and feeling a little foolish as I said the words. At least half of a cat’s life was spent lying around at loose ends, as far as I could see.

He had been washing the white fur on his chest. He lifted his head, shook himself and then went to sit by the outside door. That was a yes.

I stood in the middle of the backyard and called Owen several times. There was no sign of him. Hercules meowed at me from the steps. “I know,” I said. “He’s probably over at Rebecca’s mooching a treat. Let’s go.”

I found a parking spot on the street not too far from the market. “I won’t be very long,” I told the cat, grabbing a bag from the floor on the passenger side of the truck. He stretched out on the seat.

“Maybe we’ll go to Tubby’s when I’m done,” I said, “as long as you promise not to tell Roma—or your brother.” I wasn’t really sure who would be more annoyed to find out I’d let Hercules have a taste of Tubby’s bestselling strawberry frozen yogurt: the cat or the vet.

I’d long since come to the conclusion that not only were the boys not exactly ordinary house cats; they didn’t have the digestive systems of regular cats, either. But I didn’t want to take any chances on their health, so when Roma had gotten after me about feeding them people food, I’d gotten a lot stricter about what they ate.

Hercules looked at me and at the same time crossed one paw over the other. Was that cat for “cross my heart”? It was good enough for me.

I got some onions, a dozen brown eggs, the marmalade and some spring lettuce and onions from the greenhouse Taylor King’s parents kept. I was just about to head back to the truck when I bumped—literally—into Diana Holmes. I was surprised to see the owner—or to be exact, half owner—of the Weston drawing. I hadn’t had any contact with her since Margo’s death.

“I’m sorry,” she said, reaching down to pick up the bag of lettuce she’d knocked from my hand. “I had my eye on a red velvet cupcake and wasn’t paying attention to where I was going.” She was wearing a long, slim black-and-white-patterned skirt with a white cotton sweater and a short jean jacket. I felt a little underdressed in jeans and a hooded sweatshirt.

“It’s all right,” I said. “I’ve been distracted by Georgia’s cupcakes more than once myself.” I took my lettuce from her and put it back in my shopping bag. “I didn’t realize you were still in town.”

Diana smiled with more politeness than genuine warmth. “Marshall has been discussing some business with Everett Henderson. He decided to stay for a few more days. It’s such a lovely little town, even with everything that happened, I thought I’d do the same.”

“I’m sorry about the Weston drawing being stolen,” I said.

She nodded. “So am I. It was my father’s favorite piece in his collection.”

It seemed to me I could see a glimpse of real sadness in her expression for a moment.

“I’m trying not to lose sight of what’s really important,” she continued. “The drawing is . . . a thing. And it was insured. I just want the police to find whoever killed Margo Walsh.”

“So do I,” I said.

“Have you heard anything?” she asked.

I shook my head. “No. But Mayville Heights has an excellent police department. They’ll find whoever did this.”

“That’s good to hear.” She gave me the polite smile again. “It was nice to see you, Kathleen,” she said. “Enjoy your weekend.”

I walked back to the truck, wondering what kind of business Everett was doing with Marshall Holmes.

I put the shopping bags on the floor of the passenger side. Hercules leaned over to sniff each one and then straightened up and looked at me.

“Yes, we’re going to Tubby’s,” I said.

I parked by the waterfront and Hercules and I sat in the truck with the windows rolled partway down and enjoyed a small cup of creamy, icy strawberry frozen yogurt. I got Hercules his own flat-paddle wooden spoon and gave him a couple of tastes. Then he curled up on the seat next to me with a sigh of contentment. He was so relaxed that when my phone buzzed on the seat next to him he started and almost fell onto the floor.

I put one hand on his back and picked up the cell with the other. It was Marcus.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“I’m at Tubby’s, sitting in the truck with Hercules eating frozen yogurt.”

“Why? Was Owen busy?”

“As a matter of fact, he was,” I said. Hercules turned his head to lick a tiny smear of yogurt off the side of my thumb.

Marcus laughed, the sound tickling my ear as it came through the phone. “Do you still want to clear the book drop?” he asked.

“Please,” I said.

“I can meet you at the library in about fifteen minutes.”

That didn’t give me time to take Hercules home. “The only problem is, like I said, I have Hercules with me.” The cat looked up at me and narrowed his green eyes as though he didn’t like be referred to as a problem.

“That’s not a problem,” Marcus said. “He can’t hurt anything. We’ve wrapped up everything we want to do in the building. We’re releasing it back to you. You could probably reopen on Monday.”

I leaned against the back of the seat as relief flooded my body. “I’m going to need to get the cleaners in, and there are stacks of books to reshelve. And I’ll have to call Gavin to see if we can get the artwork moved on Monday. Maybe we should wait and reopen Tuesday.” I rummaged in my purse, looking for a pen and the notebook I usually carried.

“Kathleen, take a breath,” Marcus said.

“What?” I said.

“Take a breath,” he repeated. “You don’t have to do everything at once.”

“You’re right,” I said. “How about Hercules and I come and meet you and we’ll go from there?”

“I’ll see you in a few minutes,” he said.

Hercules sat up, took a couple of passes at his face with a paw and then looked expectantly at me.

Marcus was waiting by his SUV in the library parking lot. I popped Hercules into the spare shopping bag I’d brought with me and got out of the truck. I knew there was no point in leaving him in the truck when he didn’t want to stay there. He’d just climb out through the door—literally—and how would I explain that to Marcus?

“Hi,” I said as we walked over to him.

“Hi,” he said, leaning down to kiss me. “Hey, Hercules,” he said to the little black-and-white cat, who was poking his head out of the top of the bag.

“Merow,” the cat said.

Marcus let us into the building, and before I could take more than a few steps toward the checkout desk, Hercules jumped out of the bag, shook himself and looked around. “No, no, no,” I said, reaching for him. “You need to stay with me.”

Marcus turned to look at me. “It’s okay, Kathleen,” he said. “We’re finished in here. He can’t hurt anything.”

The cat gave me a look and headed straight for Curtis, who was in his usual spot.

“Is this your cat?” the guard asked.

I started toward them. “Yes. This is Hercules. Please don’t try to pet him. He was feral. He doesn’t have the best people skills.”

Curtis laughed. “Yeah, people say that about me, too.” He looked at the cat. “Hello, Hercules,” he said.

“Merow,” the cat answered. He considered the security guard for a moment and then moved around the circulation desk.

I handed a take-out container of coffee to Curtis. I’d gotten it from Tubby’s before we left. “I thought you might like a cup,” I said. The creamer and a couple of sugar packets were on top.

Curtis smiled at me. With his bushy eyebrows and nose that looked as though it had been broken at least once, he was an imposing man—a good trait for a security guard—but when he smiled his expression was transformed.

“Thank you, Ms. Paulson,” he said. “I was a bit late getting started this morning, so I’m like my old truck that leaks oil; I’m down a quart.”

Hercules was still prowling around, checking everything out. Marcus was doing the same, I realized, minus the whisker twitching.

“What are you looking for?” I asked. Marcus turned to look at me. Hercules kept nosing around.

“Are you talking to me or him?” Marcus asked, gesturing to the cat, who was sniffing the edge of one of the metal pylons that was restricting access to the exhibit area.

“You,” I said.

He shrugged. “I don’t know, exactly. Something, anything that we might have missed.”

“You’ll figure this out,” I said. “You always do.”

Hercules was still sniffing the pylon. His pink tongue came out and he gave the shiny metal surface a tentative lick. “Leave that alone,” I called to him.

He gave a sharp meow but otherwise ignored me.

I walked over to the cat. “Don’t lick that,” I said firmly. “You don’t know what’s on it.”

Of the two cats, Owen was the one who had finicky little quirks about his food, but I’d never seen Hercules do something as undignified as lick a metal post.

He looked up at me, put a paw on the base of the metal pylon, and meowed again. I knew that insistent tone. It meant, “Look at this.”

I leaned over to look at the spot he’d licked. “Move your foot,” I said.

He obligingly lifted his white-tipped paw. There was a tiny smear of what looked like blue paint on the shiny metal.

Curtis joined me. “That’s paint,” he said.

“Don’t eat that,” I said to Hercules.

His green eyes met mine and he licked his lips.

“What is it?” Marcus asked. He’d walked over and was standing behind Hercules. The cat looked up at him and then back at the pylon. As far-fetched as it seemed, I knew there was some connection he was waiting for me to make.

“I’m not sure,” I said slowly. I scraped a tiny speck of the paint off the pylon with a nail and then sniffed the end of my finger, hoping that I wasn’t inhaling some obscure, drug-resistant bacteria.

“What are you doing?” Marcus said, pulling a face like I’d just scraped a piece of gum off my shoe and started chewing it.

Herc’s green gaze was fixed on my face, and even though no one else would have believed it, I could see a gleam of expectation in his eyes.

“It smells like egg,” I said, more to the cat than to Marcus, wondering at the same time if it was just my imagination at work.

Hercules sat back on his haunches then, seemingly satisfied that he’d made his point.

“No one was in here eating eggs,” Curtis said.

The cat shot him a look of disdain as only a cat could do.

Hercules had been having a sardine and a slice of hard-boiled egg every Sunday since the weather got warmer. We’d sit in the backyard and I’d have coffee while the boys had their Sunday treat. Hercules had developed a fondness for the hard-boiled egg. It really wasn’t that big a surprise that his nose had discovered the small splotch of paint.

“Egg tempera,” I said slowly.

“Paint,” Marcus said.

I nodded. “It’s a mixture of pigment, egg and something to keep the egg from drying out too fast; water, vinegar, Maggie says some artists even use wine.”

He crouched down beside me and studied the pale blue dab on the pylon base. Then he looked at me.

“That’s fresh paint, not a flake of old paint that fell off something and stuck,” I said.

“So one of the artists had wet paint on a shoe or a pants leg and brushed against this at some point. You said yourself that Maggie and the others were in and out a lot in the days before the art from the museum arrived.”

I shook my head. “No. These are brand-new pylons. I helped take them out of the box and set them up right after we closed the library on Thursday.”

“Was Maggie here after that?” he asked. “Or any of the others?”

“No,” I said. “Just Margo and Gavin and the staff from the museum who came with the artwork.”

He looked at Curtis. “Did Mr. Solomon bring anyone else in here while you’ve been here?”

Curtis shook his head. “Every time he’s been here, he’s been alone, except for Detective Lind.”

“Okay, thanks,” Marcus said.

The guard went back to his chair.

Hercules was watching us intently, head turning from side to side as we talked.

“Rena Adler paints with egg tempera,” I said, getting to my feet. I remembered seeing a dab of blue paint on her finger. “She’s the only local artist in the exhibit who does.”