Sleight of Paw (11 page)

Everett didn’t talk about the estate, ever. It wasn’t that he changed the subject. He just didn’t talk about it. And because of that there were a lot of rumors about the old place. Some people said it was haunted; others said that the cats were very old and had some kind of magical powers. Roma felt they were most likely descendents of the kitchen cats from the estate.

But most people believed the cats were descended from Everett’s mother’s cat, Finn. It was commonly believed that Finn had otherworldly abilities. That last rumor worried me. People knew Owen and Hercules came from Wisteria Hill. After Roma told me that she didn’t think they had ever been feral, I started telling people that they had probably been abandoned. I didn’t want anyone getting the idea my cats might have superpowers.

At one point there had been a push to round up all the Wisteria Hill cats and find foster homes for them. Roma had strongly resisted that, making a point of educating people so they understood that a feral cat was never going to turn into a fluffy house cat, chasing a ball of yarn across the living room floor.

“Do you think it’s true?” Marcus asked as we went around to the side of the old carriage house, where the cat shelters and feeding stations were.

“Do I think what’s true?” I said, as he held the side door for me.

“Do you think there’s something different about these cats?”

I looked back at him and tried not to smirk. “You think they might have supernatural powers?” I waggled one hand from side to side at him. “Or maybe they’re shape-shifters?” I stood for a moment, letting my eyes adjust to the dim light.

Marcus closed the door carefully behind us. “No, I don’t mean all that nonsense,” he said. “But you have to admit, some of these animals have lived a very long time under”—he held out both hands—“some pretty adverse conditions.”

Marcus Gordon didn’t seem the type to buy in to the woo-woo theories about the old estate or the cats. “You think the cats have some kind of genetic mutation?” I asked. Now that I could see better, I started across the wooden floor to the feeding station.

“Maybe.”

My chest tightened. I didn’t want him—or anyone else—to get any ideas about Owen and Hercules.

I bent to brush some straw and dry leaves from around the shelf where the dishes would sit, so he couldn’t see my face. “So do you think they should be somewhere being studied instead of living here?”

“No, I don’t.”

I stood up and turned so I could see him now and read his expression. He pulled off his hat. His dark hair stood up at the crown of his head. It made him look like a kid, not like an annoying police officer.

He met my gaze directly. “I think the cats have the right to live where they feel safe. They aren’t bothering anyone and I don’t think anyone should bother them.”

“Wait a second. Has someone been out here again who shouldn’t be?” I asked, stuffing my mittens into my pocket so I could open the bag of cat food. “I know Roma made a couple of extra trips out here this week.”

“Yeah, I think so.” He took the clean water bowls I held out to him. “Monday the outside door wasn’t closed properly.”

“It could’ve just been someone being careless,” I said, even though I knew none of Roma’s volunteers would be careless with the cats’ safety.

“Harry saw tracks when he came out to plow.”

“What kind of tracks?”

“Snowmobile.” Marcus leaned around me, setting the water bowls in place. A couple of times during really bad weather, Harry had used his own snowmobile to come out and feed the cats, but other than that everyone else drove their trucks or SUVs.

“Were the cats okay?” I asked, as he filled the bowls with water.

“As far as anyone can tell. I don’t think whoever it was realized the shelters are back here.”

The cats’ homes—insulated shelters built by Roma’s volunteers—were in what she called the cathouse, a corner of the old building that had probably originally been used for storage.

I filled all the food dishes and Marcus and I retreated to the door, where we waited, crouched down on the dusty floor.

“Why would anyone want to be out here, anyway?” I whispered.

His shoulders rose under his jacket. “Who knows? Maybe it was just kids. The rumors are kind of dramatic, when you think about it. What kid wouldn’t want to own a cat that was a hundred years old and could turn in to a wolf?”

A flicker of movement caught my eye in the far corner of the carriage house. I put a hand on Marcus’s arm to warn him into silence. The cats came into view. The first one was a sturdy black-and-white cat not unlike Hercules, but with more white on his face. The others came behind him, cautiously, one by one.

They’d all come to know the volunteers and realize our presence meant food, and we all knew to stay quiet and still while they ate. Like Marcus, I eyed each cat in turn, looking for any signs of injury or illness.

“Where’s Lucy?” he whispered.

I looked around. He was right. There was no sign of Lucy, the matriarch of the feral-cat colony. She was usually the first one who appeared to check things out.

I scanned the space, squinting in the dim light. There was something—I hoped it was feline—over by one of the posts supporting the carriage-house roof.

I leaned forward on the balls of my feet, grabbing Marcus’s arm for balance. He really did smell good, like a fruit salad of orange, lemon and grapefruit. Lucy made her way slowly across the floor. The calico cat was carrying something in her mouth. Or, to be more accurate, she was half dragging something.

She paused. Her ears twitched. I didn’t hear anything, but something caught her attention. She looked back the way she’d come for a long moment. Then, seemingly satisfied, she turned back around.

And looked directly at us.

I froze, not even breathing for a moment, because I didn’t want to scare her.

The cat put a paw on whatever it was she’d captured so she could get a better grip on it with her teeth. Then she started toward us.
Should we move, or would that startle her and the other cats?
They were all eating, not even giving her as much as a glance as she passed them.

Lucy made her way closer. She still had a very small limp left over from last summer when she’d injured her leg. And whatever it was she was carrying was heavy, close to half her size.

It wasn’t a bird; I couldn’t see any feathers. I could see a long tail and . . . fur? I tightened my grip on Marcus’s arm.

Lucy continued to make her way across the floor. About six feet or so away from us she stopped, dropped her . . . catch on the wooden floor and looked at us. Then she gave the dead animal—I was pretty sure it was dead—a push with a paw.

It dawned on me that she was bringing us a gift. Owen and Hercules brought me things on occasion—a dragonfly, a dead bird, a very hairy caterpillar. Owen had once gifted Rebecca with a dead bat that was bigger than he was.

“Thank you, puss,” I said softly.

She tipped her head to one side and studied me for a second. Then she bent and nudged the gift a bit closer with her nose. With a flick of her tail she made her way over to the feeding station.

We stayed where we were, silent while Lucy ate. My legs were cramping from being crouched in the cold for so long. I kept one eye on the dead thing, just in case it wasn’t so dead after all.

One by one the cats finished eating and wandered away until only Lucy was at the feeding station. Like Owen, she liked to sniff and scrutinize every bit of food before she ate it. Finally she stretched, took a couple of steps away from the food and started washing her face.

I dug my knuckles into the knot in my right thigh. If I hadn’t been holding on to Marcus, I would have fallen over. I couldn’t help thinking that Lucy was doing this on purpose, knowing we’d have to wait, huddled on the floor by the door until she was finished. From time to time she’d look our way.

Finally she gave one last swipe of her face with her paw. She stretched again and slowly made her way across the floor of the carriage house, back to the shelters. She had the same graceful stride as a lion on a dusty African savannah, and a touch of the same menace.

We could finally get to our feet. I shifted my weight from one leg to the other to stretch out the kinks. Marcus walked over to Lucy’s gift. He peered at it and gave the dead thing a push with his toe.

“I think it’s just a field mouse,” I said. He looked at me, surprised. Had he thought I was going to go all girly on him and scream?

“My parents did a lot of summer theater and every theater had more than just actors in it,” I said.

“How nice.” He moved around the dead mouse to get the second water jug.

“One summer they did Shakespeare in the park, just at dusk. My mother thought she was sharing a changing area—a tent—with my father.” I started to laugh at the memory. “Turns out it was a raccoon, after the ingénue’s secret stash of peanut butter cups.”

“Oh, come on. You’re kidding.”

“No.” I couldn’t keep the laughter from bubbling over. “I don’t know who was more surprised, my mother or the poor raccoon. There was a prop sword someone had left behind in the tent. She went after the raccoon with it. He wasn’t going to leave those peanut butter cups without a fight.”

Marcus was laughing now, arms crossed over his chest. It was easy to like him when he was just being himself. “She chased him, at sword-point, out of the tent and across the grass, right in front of the staging area. And keep in mind she was wearing a lace-up corset and petticoats.” I was laughing so hard that I was shaking.

“So what happened?”

“She got the best review of the entire two-week festival. No one knew it wasn’t part of the play.”

We worked quickly to clean up the feeding station. I gathered the dishes and picked up a couple of pieces of dropped food. Marcus put out more fresh water. I looked around the carriage house one last time. Everything else seemed okay.

“Ready to head back?” Marcus asked.

I nodded and picked up the bag with the food and the dirty dishes. “What about that?” I asked when we came level with the dead rodent.

Marcus made a face. “I don’t think we should leave it here. I don’t want to attract any other animals.” He pulled his hat back on. “I have a shovel in the car. I can at least put it outside, away from the building.”

“Good idea,” I said.

We walked to the car. The sun was stretching up over the trees. I put the bag in the back. Marcus opened the front passenger’s door for me and took a small shovel from the rear.

“Be right back,” he said.

I got in the car and peeled off my hat and mittens. In the cup holder between the seats was a pump bottle of hand sanitizer. I used it to clean my hands. It left them smelling faintly of lemons.

Something was digging into my hip. I felt in my pocket. It was Roma’s roll of duct tape. I had to remember to give that back to her.

I unscrewed the thermos top. There was a second cup inside the top, like a nested Russian doll. I kept it out for Marcus.

After a few minutes he was back. He set the shovel in the back and closed the hatch. Then he got in the front seat. “Done,” he said, reaching for the hand cleaner. He looked at my cup. “Coffee?” he asked hopefully.

“Sorry,” I said. “Hot cocoa. Would you like some?”

“Almost as good. I’d love some, please.”

I poured him a cup and handed it carefully over to him.

He took a sip. “Mmmm, that’s good,” he said, his eyes half closed in pleasure at the warmth and taste. “Old family recipe?”

I laughed. “No.”

He gave me two eyebrows raised in surprise.

“My mother knows how to make only three things: lemonade, baking-powder biscuits and toast. All my dad can make is a martini.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. And the toast thing is iffy.”

“So how did you learn to cook?”

I shrugged. “How else? The library, and a very nice woman in South Carolina who owned a little theater right on the coast. She taught me the secret to the best chocolate cake.”

He smiled at me over the top of his cup. “Which is?”

I laughed. “I’m not telling you. It won’t be a secret anymore.”

“You at least have to make one sometime and let me taste it.”

“Deal,” I said.

He finished the cocoa and handed me the empty cup.

“Would you like some more?”

“No, thanks,” he said, fishing in his pocket for the car keys. “So, what’s the martini like?”

“Martini?” Then I realized what he meant. “Good, as far as I know. I’m not a martini connoisseur, but my friend Lise is and she likes them.”

He found the keys then and reached for his seat belt. Mine was already fastened. I finished my cocoa and put the thermos back together. Marcus started the SUV.

“Home, or is there somewhere I can drop you?”

“Home, please,” I said. “I don’t go to the library until lunchtime.”

He backed up the car so we could drive out. “Are you closing the library early because of Winterfest?” he asked.

I nodded. “Lita said everyone will be at the supper at the community center.”

“She’s right,” he said, as we eased our way down the rutted, frozen driveway. “The food is terrific, by the way.”

I grinned. “I believe you. I’ve had Mary’s apple pie.”

“I’m looking forward to having a slice or two myself tonight.”

This was my opening. “Will you be able to make it?” I asked. “Or will the case keep you too busy?”

“You mean Mrs. Shepherd’s death?” He slowed to a crawl as we lurched over a particularly large frost heave. “I should be able to make it.” He kept his eyes forward, but I noticed a tiny twitching muscle in his cheek.

Change of plans. Subtlety wasn’t going to work. “Was she hit by a car?” I asked. Based on what I’d seen, I was still convinced Agatha hadn’t died from natural causes.