Faux Paw: A Magical Cats Mystery (7 page)

I thought of Margo’s reluctance to have the pieces out of the museum. I was beginning to think she’d been right.

“Wouldn’t it make more sense to repack everything? Or better yet, send it all on to the next stop on the tour.”
And give me back my building,
I added silently.

“There is no more tour,” Hope said. “The insurance company refuses to take on the additional risk with the Weston piece missing. As for packing up everything, apparently there are some extra security measures in the display cases that are supposed to make them safer than just putting everything back in their crates.” She stretched one arm along the railing. “That security system is probably the most complicated one I’ve ever come across. That’s why Solomon has come onto the case as a consultant.”

“What?” Marcus said. He had just come out from the kitchen with the coffee.

“Oh yeah,” Hope said, taking the steaming cup he held out to her. “The word came down from on high.”

I knew by the set of Marcus’s jaw that he wasn’t happy about Gavin being involved in their case.

“You don’t want to work with Gavin,” I said, framing the sentence as a statement and not a question.

A look passed between them.

Hope took a sip of her coffee and gave an offhand shrug. “It’s not that,” she said. “It’s just that anytime someone else gets tied up in an investigation, things always get more complicated.”

It was more than that, I knew, but I also knew it wasn’t the right time to ask more questions.

Marcus sat down next to me again. He didn’t say anything.

“Okay, if we can’t reopen, can I at least get into the building to get a couple of things from my office and clear the book drop?” I asked. “It has to be overflowing by now.”

Hope nodded. “I don’t see why not. If you call Mr. Solomon I’m sure he’ll clear you with the security guard. Why don’t you come by about nine thirty or so?”

She was trying just a bit too hard to keep things light, but I just smiled and thanked her.

Hope finished her coffee and we talked about the water levels and how lucky the town was that there hadn’t been any real flooding this spring. She gave Micah one last scratch behind the ear and stood up, yawning again as she tipped her head toward one shoulder.

“Sorry,” she said. “It’s not the company. It’s just been a long day.” She handed her cup to Marcus. “Thanks for the coffee.” Then she looked at me. “I’ll see you in the morning?”

“Yes,” I said.

“I’ll walk you,” Marcus said, getting to his feet again. He glanced at me. “Be right back.” He and Hope disappeared around the side of the house. I could hear their voices, too low to make out the words.

Micah studied me from her seat on the bench. Then she jumped down, came across the deck and launched herself onto the swing, timing her jump to match its slight sway. “Mrrr,” she said softly, tipping her head to one side inquiringly.

If it had been Owen or Hercules sitting beside me, I would have convinced myself the cat was asking if everything was all right.

Micah put a paw on my lap and continued to give me that look.

Feeling a little silly, I leaned toward the cat. “Marcus doesn’t like Gavin,” I said, keeping my voice low, because after all, I was talking to a cat. “Why?”

“Mrrr,” she said again, pawing the leg of my jeans. I had no idea what she meant.

“You and Hope are awfully friendly,” I said.

The little tabby turned and looked at the back door before resting her chin on my leg next to her paw. I “spoke enough cat” to know that meant “scratch behind my ears.” So I did.

“Hope has been to the house a lot.”

Micah opened her eyes, looked at me and then dropped her head back onto my lap.

“I sound jealous, don’t I?” I said. Did I actually think I was having a conversation with her?

I had conversations with Owen and Hercules all the time, which I told myself was just a way of thinking out loud. But the truth was, deep inside I did think they understood what I was saying. Was it really that far-fetched to think a cat who could walk though walls or disappear at will would also be able to follow a conversation?

“It makes sense that Hope would be out here,” I said to the little cat. “She works with Marcus. It’s just that . . .” I shifted in my seat, trying not to disturb her. She opened one eye, looked at me as if to gently chastise me and then closed it again. “Why didn’t he ever say so?”

Marcus was very private person. So much so that it had been a big stumbling block to our relationship getting off the ground.

“And what’s taking him so long?” I whispered.

Micah meowed softly without opening her eyes, and Marcus came around the side of the house. He sat down beside me. The cat sat up, stretched, shot me a look and jumped down to the deck. Then she disappeared down the steps and into the backyard.

Marcus put his arm around me. “Sorry that took so long,” he said. “There were just a couple of things we needed to talk about that had to do with the case.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “Micah kept me company.”

“She likes you,” he said.

I leaned my head against his shoulder. “The cat or Hope?”

“Well, both, but I was talking about Micah.” I felt his lips brush my hair. “I think Maggie is right. I think maybe you are the Cat Whisperer.”

Maggie had given me the nickname for my ability to get so close to Lucy and the other cats in the feral cat colony that called the old carriage house out at Wisteria Hill, where Roma now lived, home. And she had jokingly dubbed Marcus my sidekick, the Cat Detective.

“Well, I am pretty much a cat person,” I said lightly. “But I do like Hope as well. And so does Micah, it seems.”

The moment the words were out I was sorry I’d said them. There was a sour taste at the back of my throat. I was fishing, and I didn’t want to be
that
kind of girlfriend.

“She’s been out here a few times,” Marcus said, “you know, when we’ve been working on a case.”

“That’s what I thought.” I leaned forward and picked up my cup. “I should get going,” I said, standing up. “Who knows what Hercules and Owen could have gotten into, and I need to call Everett and see how he wants to handle the building being closed.”

Marcus reached out and caught my hand. “The cats are fine, and couldn’t you call Everett from here?” The space between his eyebrows was furrowed into two frown lines.

I turned to face him, setting my mug on the deck railing and rolling my arm in his grasp so I could link my fingers through his. “You and Hope work together a lot. You’re close,” I said.

“Yeah, I guess we are,” he said. There was just a hint of color on those gorgeous cheekbones.

“Close as in colleagues who work together a lot or close as in this?” I held up our clasped hands.

“I should have told you sooner,” he said. “We went out a few times. Before us. Before I even knew you.” To his credit, he didn’t look away.

“So why didn’t you?” I asked.

He swiped a hand across the stubble on his chin. “I don’t know. I didn’t want things to be awkward. The longer I waited, the harder it got. I’m not good at sharing personal stuff. You know that.” He did look away then and swallowed hard. “I am sorry.”

I leaned over and plinked the middle of his forehead with my thumb and index finger.

“Ow!” he exclaimed.

I dropped back down beside him on the swing. “What did you think I’d do when you told me? Jump on Hope’s back, pull her hair and yell, ‘Keep your hands off my man!’”

“No,” he said, looking a little embarrassed. “Probably not.”

I leaned back and started the swing swaying slowly back and forth. “My mother, on the other hand, would be perfectly capable of doing something like that, but she’s not here.” I nudged him with my shoulder, smiling at him because I felt better.

“I know,” Marcus said with a wry smile. “She made it very clear what would happen if I made you unhappy.”

I kissed his cheek. “Lucky for you that you make me very happy.”

“Lucky for me, period,” he said, turning his head so my second kiss landed on his mouth.

I could have stayed there for another half an hour just kissing him, because oh my, could he kiss, but I made myself pull away and stand up. “I really have to call Everett,” I said. “I’m sorry. And talk to Gavin, and I need my computer and my date book so I can keep everything straight.”

Marcus got to his feet as well. “Why do you need to talk to Solomon?”

“You heard what Hope said.” I started for the back door, looking around to see if Micah was close by and wanted to come in. I didn’t see her. “The insurance company wants to keep the rest of the exhibit in my library until the museum cleans up after that sprinkler malfunction. I don’t want to stay closed for another two weeks. Maybe he can satisfy them and we can find a way to open.”

My phone was lying on the kitchen table. I picked it up and sent a text to Gavin asking if we could meet for breakfast to talk about things at the library. He texted right back suggesting Eric’s first thing in the morning.

“I could join you,” Marcus said, leaning against the counter as I pulled on my sweater.

“Thanks, but we’re going to spend the whole time talking about the exhibit and the security system,” I said, tucking my cell in my pocket. “I know you have better things to do with your time than listen to that.”

“I don’t mind,” Marcus said with an offhand shrug. “I’ll pick you up.”

I laid a hand on his cheek for a moment. “It’s a business meeting and I need the truck because Hope is going to let me into the library and there are some things I need to take home.” I smiled at him. “How about lunch?”

He hesitated just a moment too long.

“You’re jealous,” I said slowly.

“I just want to spend some time with you,” he said, reaching out with one hand to pull me closer. “You’ve been so busy getting ready for the exhibit, and now Hope and I have this case.”

I held up one finger. “True I’ve been busy.” I held up a second finger. “True that you’re going to be tied up investigating Margo’s murder.” I added a third finger to the first two. “Also true that you, Marcus Gordon, brilliant detective, are jealous.”

I felt his breath against my hair as he exhaled slowly. “I’m not jealous,” he finally said. “I just don’t like the way Solomon looks at you.”

I pulled back so I could see his face. “And how does he look at me?”

His cheeks reddened. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

I felt my shoulders tighten, and this time I was the one who took a deep breath and then exhaled slowly, once, twice. “How does Gavin look at me?” I asked again, my dark eyes locked on Marcus’s blue ones.

His mouth twisted and he broke the gaze, looking over my shoulder. “He looks at you like you’re a hamburger and he hasn’t eaten for a week.”

“Gavin’s a flirt,” I said. “He flirts with me; he flirts with Lita; he flirts with the senior women in the book club.”

“If Burtis catches him flirting with Lita, we’ll have another case to investigate,” Marcus said, with, it seemed to me, just a touch of petulance in his voice.

“You’re missing the point,” I said, struggling to keep the frustration I was feeling out of my voice. “It doesn’t matter if Gavin puts on a G-string and dances around to Beyoncé at the next meeting we have with him. Neither Lita nor I am interested.” I was pretty sure I could speak for Lita, given how serious the relationship seemed to be with Burtis.

“I trust you,” he said, his gaze coming back to my face. Trust had been an issue in the past between the two of us, with Marcus feeling I didn’t trust him enough to share an instinct I had about one of his cases and me feeling shut out because he hadn’t shared any details about his family. I didn’t really think this was about trust. I was pretty sure it was a guy thing.

“You just want to mark your territory.”

“I’m not a dog, Kathleen,” he said, reaching out to run a hand down my arm. “I’m not trying to lift my leg and—”

I held up one hand. “I get the picture,” I said. “And I think you’re more like Owen.”

Marcus frowned. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

“Before he figured out that Hercules had no interest in catnip in general and yellow chickens full of catnip in particular, whenever he got a Fred the Funky Chicken, the first thing he’d do is lick it from one end to the other. It was his way of saying, ‘Mine.’” I folded my arms over my chest. “You’re trying to do the same thing by joining us for breakfast. And you’re not invited.” I caught his hand and gave it a squeeze. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“You’re mad,” he said, frowning in surprise.

I held up my thumb and index finger about an inch apart. “Little bit,” I said.

Micah was sitting on the top of the deck railing by the stairs, next to my empty cup. I stopped to give the top of her head a scratch. “Sometimes he makes me crazy,” I whispered to her.

She gave a soft “mrrr” and nuzzled my hand in what I decided was solidarity.

T
he détente between Owen and Hercules seemed to still be holding. They ate breakfast while I got supper started in the slow cooker the next morning, and then Owen decided to go outside while Hercules came upstairs to watch me brush my teeth and do my hair.

When we got back downstairs I went to the back door to call Owen. He was already coming across the grass. And he was limping. I cut across the lawn to him, bending down to pick him up. He held out his left front paw, somewhat sheepishly, it seemed to me. A large sliver of wood protruded between his first and second claw.

I sucked in a breath. “What happened?” I asked. That had to hurt.

Owen looked in the direction of Rebecca’s house.

“The woodpile,” I said.

“Merow,” he said sadly. He liked to sit on the top of the wood Rebecca had split for her fireplace and survey both our yards like a ruler on his throne.

I started back to the house, keeping a firm grip on the cat, because I knew once he figured out what my next move was going to be he was going to disappear.

Literally.

As soon as I was in the kitchen, I reached for the cat carrier bag hanging by the door, swept Owen inside and zippered the top shut with one smooth motion. His howl of outrage brought Hercules from the living room.

“I’m sorry,” I said to Owen. “This is something Roma has to do.”

His golden eyes glared at me through the mesh panel in the top of the bag. As I picked up my phone, Hercules approached the bag and meowed softly in inquiry at his brother. Owen held up his injured paw and gave a pitiful meow. Hercules looked over his shoulder at me.

“No,” I said as I pulled up Roma’s number on my phone. “I’m not doing this. He needs a doctor.” I shook my head. Why was I explaining myself to them?

Roma agreed to meet us at the clinic. Once we got into an examination room she gave me a towel to wrap around Owen and pulled on her Kevlar glove. I tried to stroke his fur, but he twisted his head away and glared at me.

“I know it hurts,” I said. I took hold of his paw with my right hand, keeping his body against my body with my arm. At the same time I held a catnip chicken in front of his face with the other hand. He turned his head, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. Owen knew a bribe when he was presented with one, and he wanted to ignore the yellow chicken, but there’s principle and then there’s funky chickens.

He grabbed the toy in his mouth and at the same moment Roma yanked the sliver of wood from his paw with a large pair of tweezers. Owen gave a yowl of surprise and Fred the Funky Chicken fell into my outstretched hand. He tried to shake his paw but I was still holding on to it.

“Let Roma make sure she got it all,” I said.

He shot me a baleful glance and took the catnip chicken in his teeth, biting down through the yellow fabric into the tightly packed catnip with a crunching sound.

Roma straightened up. “I don’t see any other slivers of wood, and the skin is barely broken. I’m going to rinse the area, but that’s about all. Given that Owen is . . . well . . . Owen, I’m not going to put on a bandage, but if you see any sign at all of infection, bring him back.”

She leaned sideways to get in the little tabby’s line of sight. He stared, resolutely, at the floor. “Good job, Owen,” she said.

He made ungracious grumbling sounds in his throat.

By the time we were back in the truck it was almost time to meet Gavin. I decided Owen would be okay for about half an hour in the truck. I gave him a pile of sardine crackers.

“I’ll bring you something from Eric’s,” I promised.

He licked his whiskers but refused to look at me.

I left him spreading his crackers all over the seat.

Gavin smiled when he saw me walk in. I didn’t see anything in his expression that suggested he saw himself as a starving man and me as a hamburger.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” I said. “I had a small cat emergency.”

“Is everything all right?”

I nodded. “Owen got a sliver of wood stuck in his paw, but it’s out and he’s okay. In fact, he’ll probably be milking it for the rest of the week.”

“Can’t fault him for that,” Gavin said, grinning at me.

Claire was at the table with coffee for me before I’d pulled off my jacket. Gavin gave her his toothpaste-commercial smile. “Thanks, Claire,” he said. “You know you’re going to have me ruined for anywhere else to eat when I go back to Chicago.”

She smiled back at him. “It’s all part of my master plan for world domination.” She looked at me. “We got some tomatoes from the hydroponic place. They’re pretty good.” One eyebrow went up. “Are you interested in a breakfast sandwich?”

“Very,” I said. “Thank you.”

Once Claire had started back for the kitchen, Gavin leaned forward, his forearms on the small table, and smiled at me. “I think I may have found a way to satisfy the museum’s requirements for keeping the artwork safe.”

“Seriously?” I said.

He nodded and reached for his tablet. “There’s a line in our contract with the insurance company about using ‘all reasonable measures’ to protect the artwork during the times it’s not on exhibit.”

I added cream and sugar to my coffee. “Which means?”

“Keeping the library closed is not a reasonable measure.” He turned the tablet so I could see the paragraph he was talking about in the contract. “I talked to Lita to get her thoughts. She agreed with me. She even ran it by a lawyer she knows.”

That had to be Brady.

Gavin took the tablet back and set it on the table again. “He agrees.”

“Yes!” I said.

He held up one hand, and even though it felt a little silly I high-fived him because being able to open the library once the police were finished had just made my life so much easier.

I leaned back in my seat and folded my hands around my mug. “Thank you,” I said. “I appreciate you going through the contract.”

He reached for his own coffee. “Hey, it was the least I could do after all the disruption having the exhibit here has caused for you.” His expression changed. “Have you heard anything more about the investigation into Margo’s death? Or should I not ask you that?”

“No, it’s okay,” I said. “I haven’t heard anything.”

Claire came out of the kitchen with a tray and started toward us.

“There’s a memorial being planned for Margo in Minneapolis the first of next week,” Gavin said. “I’m going to try to be there. Her, uh . . . service will be in Chicago.”

“I’m glad you’re going,” I said.

Over breakfast we went over the plans to keep the artwork secure until it could be moved and how that might affect day-to-day operations at the library. With a few adjustments I felt confident we could make things work.

When Claire came back to the table, she handed the bill to Gavin, something I realized he must have arranged in advance. “No,” I said, shaking my head. “I asked you to meet me for breakfast.”

“And I’d been about to make the same request when I got your text,” he countered. “This was business. My company’s business. You can get it next time.” He turned to Claire. “Would you add a chicken salad sandwich to that, please?” he held out the bill and his credit card.

“Of course,” she said. “How would you like the sandwich?”

“Hold the bread, mayo, celery and green onions.”

Claire frowned but at the same time a hint of a smile played around her mouth. “So what you really want is the chicken.”

“Yeah,” Gavin said. “I’m trying to take a more minimalist approach to lunch.”

“Okay,” Claire said, giving up and letting the smile out. “I’ll be right back.”

He pulled on his leather jacket and grabbed his messenger bag. I told him I’d call Lita and get back to him once I’d talked to her and checked out the library.

Claire came back with his receipt and a small take-out container that I was guessing held the chicken. Gavin thanked her and passed the cardboard container over to me. “For Owen,” he said. “Guys have to stick together.”

I laughed. “Thank you. You’ll have a friend for life now.”

“You can’t have too many of those,” he said. His phone buzzed.

“I’ll talk to you later,” I said.

If Owen had been a person, I would have said his eyes lit up when his nose detected the aroma coming from the take-out container. His whiskers twitched and he momentarily forgot about his injured paw as he walked across the front seat of the truck to sniff the box.

“Are you feeling better?” I asked.

He immediately sat down, held up his paw and meowed, giving me his sad-kitty face.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. I leaned over and carefully lifted him onto my lap. “You were very brave,” I told him, “and you didn’t try to bite Roma even once.”

He ducked his head and then looked up at me with his exotic golden eyes. It was Owen’s way of trying to seem modest.

“I have to go to the library,” I said. “You can stay in the truck or you can come inside if”—I narrowed my gaze at him—“if you stay in the bag.”

He seemed to consider my words. Then he reached out and put his uninjured paw on the take-out box.

“You can have a couple of pieces now and the rest after we’re done.”

That seemed to be okay with him. He climbed down off my lap and looked expectantly at me.

I fished two slices of grilled chicken out of the container and held them out to Owen. He took each piece from my hand and set it on the seat so he could go through the little ritual of sniffing and checking that he always followed before he ate anything. If there was anything to reincarnation, Owen had probably been some autocratic ruler poisoned by a cadre of disgruntled noblemen, with enough trace memory lingering that he wasn’t going to let it happen again even though in this life he was a small tabby cat.

“Gavin sent that, by the way,” I said as I pulled away from the curb.

Owen lifted his head, looked around and gave a loud meow. Sending a thank-you out into the universe perhaps?

Owen climbed into the cat carrier without objection when we got to the library. For a moment I debated leaving him in the truck, but I knew if he got pissed off he’d just render himself invisible and follow me anyway. An Owen I could see and hopefully corral to some degree was preferable to an unseen cat roaming around the building, poking his furry nose into whatever struck his fancy.

Hope was waiting for me.

“I have Owen,” I said, putting one hand on the side of the carrier bag. “I had to take him to Roma and I didn’t have time to take him home after that.”

“Is he all right?” she asked, eyeing the carrier.

An indignant “merow” came from inside before I could answer.

“He got a big splinter between two claws on his paw,” I said. “Roma came to the rescue.”

Hope made a face. “Sounds painful.”

Owen gave another loud meow.

Hope laughed. “I swear that cat knows what you say to him.” She leaned toward the bag. “I’m sorry about your paw,” she said. “I hope you’re feeling better soon.”

He gave a little murp of acknowledgment and shifted against my hip. It occurred to me that maybe I was worrying way too much about people finding out how much I talked to the cats.

The book drop was more than overflowing, if that was possible. Two sets of shelves to one side of the circulation desk had been turned sideways and there were bits of dirt and dried grass on the floors. By my standards things were a mess. Still, I felt a huge sense of relief now that I was inside again and could start dealing with it all.

The exhibit space looked pretty much the same as it had when I’d last been in the building on Thursday night, except that Gavin had created a half wall, maybe four feet high, of Plexiglas panels in metal frames, attached to temporary supports bolted to the walls at each end. I knew Harry Junior had put in the panels, which were actually part of a railing system, and Oren had already assured me he could fix the walls where the supports had been screwed in.

A middle-aged man in a dark blue uniform was sitting in front of the half wall. He got to his feet. “Good morning, Ms. Paulson, Detective,” he said.

“Good morning, Curtis,” Hope said, smiling across the room at him.

I raised a hand in acknowledgment. Curtis Holt was one of Gavin’s security guards. Gavin had e-mailed him my photo so he’d recognize me. The man sat back down and went back to whatever he was reading on his tablet.

“Did you manage to work anything out as far as reopening?” Hope asked, looking around the space.

I pushed a stray piece of hair out of my face and set Owen in his carrier on the circulation desk. “I think so,” I said. “Gavin and Lita may have found an out in the contract with the insurance company that will let us get the building open again.”

“I like him,” Hope said. “He’s a bit of a flirt, but he knows his stuff.” She gave me an appraising look. “He kind of has a bit of a guy thing going with Marcus.”

“A guy thing?” I said. “You mean a ‘Who’s going to win the cup’, ’Let’s grab a cold one’ thing?”

She laughed and put a hand on her pocket for a second as if she were checking for her phone. “No. More like ‘Let’s bang our heads together like a couple of big-horned rams on one of those nature shows on PBS.’”

I’d pretty much known that based on how Marcus had reacted to my breakfast meeting with Gavin. I shook my head slowly.

“It’s not a big deal,” Hope said. “They mostly stand around puffing out their chests like a pair of lowland gorillas while they try to outdo each other with obscure bits of technical stuff about electronics.” She laughed. “Can you tell I’ve been on a nature documentary binge?”

“Maybe just a little.” I grinned back at her. “Although I can picture the two of them grunting and pounding on their chests.”

Because I’d been talking to Hope and imagining Marcus and Gavin acting like a couple of posturing apes, I hadn’t noticed that Owen had managed to work the zipper on the carrier bag from inside, sliding it open so he could work out a shoulder and then his whole body. He climbed out, shook his head and jumped down to the floor.

“Crap on toast!” I exclaimed. “Owen, get back here. What did I say about staying in the bag?” It was a total waste of words. He listened only if it suited him or he was trying to placate me in some way.