Cat Trick (20 page)

17

W
hen we closed the library at one o’clock, I decided to walk over to Eric’s for lunch.
As I came down the steps of the building, I saw Abigail and Georgia on the sidewalk.
Georgia looked troubled, dark hair windblown, shoulders hunched, her arms crossed
tightly over her chest.

Abigail saw me and motioned me over to them. “Kathleen, please tell Georgia that Marcus
Gordon is one of the good guys,” she said.

I gave Georgia a small smile. “He is.” There were tight lines around her mouth and
eyes. She didn’t look convinced. “Is something wrong?” I asked.

Georgia’s gaze flicked to Abigail, who gave an almost imperceptible nod. Georgia looked
at me again. “The police found something of mine . . . in the tent where they found
Mike Glazer’s body. It was a little spatula I use for spreading frosting.”

The knife that Oren had found. It wasn’t a butter knife—it was a spatula.

She pulled a hand over her neck. “I wasn’t in that tent. I was over at the community
center, where the art show is going to be, but I wasn’t in the tent and I have no
idea how that spatula ended up there.”

“How did the police figure out it belonged to you?” I asked.

Georgia looked down at her feet. “My fingerprints,” she said.

That meant her fingerprints were in the system. She might have been no bigger than
a piece of dandelion fluff, as Harrison Taylor had described her, but it wasn’t her
first encounter with the police.

“Georgia was arrested for assault, when she lived in Chicago,” Abigail said quietly.
“The charges were dropped.”

Georgia lifted her head and met my gaze. “They were dropped because I didn’t assault
anyone. The thing is . . .” She hesitated. Then she took a deep breath and uncrossed
her arms, lacing her fingers together in front of herself. “I changed my name. I’m
not really Georgia Tepper. My real name is Paige Wyler.”

I shook my head. “It’s not really any of my business.”

“Everyone’s going to find out,” she said. “I may as well start by telling you.” Her
eyes darted for a moment to Abigail. “Abigail says I can trust you.”

“Go ahead then,” I said. “I’m listening.”

“I was married,” she said. “My in-laws didn’t like me—they’d wanted their son to marry
someone else—but it didn’t matter as long as he was alive.”

“He died?”

“Our daughter was only six months old. His parents tried to get custody. When that
didn’t work, they tried to kidnap her. That’s where the assault charge comes from.”

She was twisting a narrow gold and platinum ring around her right ring finger. I wondered
if it was her wedding ring, moved from her left hand.

“I left Chicago in the middle of the night with Emmy—that’s my daughter. We moved
around for a while. Eventually we ended up here. The police think I knew Mike because
I used to live in Chicago.”

I shifted my briefcase from one hand to the other. “Did you?” I asked.

Georgia shook her head. “But the company my former father-in-law works for has used
Legacy Tours; at least that’s what that detective told me.” She held out both hands.
“I know it seems like a lot of coincidences, but that’s what they are. I’d never met
Mike Glazer before, and I didn’t know about any connection between his company and
the one my former father-in-law works for. I haven’t had any contact with my husband’s
parents other than through my lawyer.”

She didn’t shift her feet or look away from me. There was no hesitation in her words.
I believed her, which is what I said.

“The police are going to check out everything you told them. All they want is to get
to the truth. No one is going to try to railroad you.”

She exhaled slowly. “I hope you’re right,” she said. “I really like it here, but . . .
I’ve been thinking maybe it would be better if Emmy and I just moved on again.”

I gave Georgia a small smile. “I hope you don’t,” I said. “There are a lot of good
people in Mayville Heights.” I glanced at Abigail. “Including Detective Gordon. I’m
not going to tell you to relax, because I know you can’t, but I think it’ll be okay.”

Abigail reached over and gave my shoulder a squeeze. “Thanks,” she said.

“What I don’t understand is how a spatula belonging to me ended up in that tent,”
Georgia said, rubbing the back of her head with one hand. “I wasn’t anywhere near
it.”

“Maybe someone else borrowed it and then dropped it and didn’t notice,” Abigail offered.

I realized they didn’t know the spatula had been stuck into the ground, not just left
in a booth or on the grass. “What’s the last place you were that you were using a
spatula?” I asked.

Georgia shrugged. “Well, over at Fern’s, because I did a couple of caramel fudge cakes.”
A couple of frown lines appeared between her eyes. “I did decorate a batch of cupcakes
in the kitchen at the community center—one of the other partners from Legacy came
for a quick meeting with us all, and Liam asked me to put together a little food for
after. But that was a couple of days after Mike was already dead.”

“Were you missing the spatula then?”

“Honestly, I didn’t miss it at all. I think I have at least half a dozen exactly alike.”

An idea was starting to form in my head, like a snowball rolling downhill, gaining
size and form as it went.

“Detective Gordon—Marcus—will get to the bottom of this,” I said. “He’s not just a
good police officer; he’s my friend. You can trust him.”

“Okay,” Georgia said. She pressed her lips together and then gave me a small smile.
“Thank you for . . . for listening and for believing me.”

“If I can help at all, please ask,” I said. I pointed over my shoulder at the library
building. “I’m here most of the time when we’re open and Abigail knows how to get
in touch with me when I’m not.”

I turned to Abigail. “I’ll see you Monday,” I said. I smiled at Georgia one last time
and headed for Eric’s.

It was past one thirty, so the lunch rush was over when I stepped into the café. There
were five people at one of the tables by the window, including a couple of artists
who had studio space at River Arts. Marcus was sitting alone at a table by the end
wall. He looked up when I walked in and smiled. Then he pushed back his chair and
got to his feet. My feet had already started walking over to him.

“Hi,” he said.

I couldn’t help smiling back at him. “Hi.”

“Kathleen, I’m sorry,” he said.

I hadn’t been expecting that. “What for?” I asked.

“Could you sit down for a minute?” he asked, gesturing at the table.

I nodded and pulled out the other chair.

Marcus leaned one elbow on the table. “Look,” he said. “I keep saying, ‘Stay out of
my case,’ but I do know that you’re not getting mixed up in my investigations on purpose.”

I could see the sincerity in his blue eyes. I owed him the same thing in return. “Sometimes
I am,” I said.

His expression changed to surprise. He straightened in the chair and put a hand on
each armrest. “Okay. Would you like to explain?”

This time I leaned forward. “Marcus, Harrison Taylor is very important to me,” I said.

He nodded. “I know. You risked your life to get those papers about his daughter.”

For a minute I was back in the old cabin in the woods, smoke slowly seeping into the
small, dark basement where I’d been trapped. I swallowed and gave my head a little
shake.

Marcus must have seen something in my face. “You all right?” he asked.

I nodded. “I’m okay. I was just thinking how happy I was to see you coming through
the snow that day.”

“I was happy to see that you were alive,” he said quietly.

“You know I’d do anything that I could for Harrison, for any of the Taylors.” I cleared
my throat. “Harry—Harry Junior—asked me to see what I could find out about Mike Glazer’s
death.”

Marcus rubbed a hand across his chin. “You said yes.”

I nodded. “Have you met Wren Magnusson?”

“I’ve spoken to her.”

“She’s friends with Harrison’s daughter, Elizabeth.”

“And Mike’s brother, Gavin, was almost her stepfather.”

“Yes.”

Behind the counter, over Marcus’s shoulder, Claire held up a turkey sandwich and gave
me an inquiring look. I nodded and focused on Marcus again. “People tell me things.
Maybe it’s because I’m from away and they think their secrets are safe with me. Or
maybe it’s because I’m a good listener.” I shrugged. “And I’m pretty decent at spotting
a liar. I’ve been watching people pretend to be someone they’re not all my life.”
I wished I had a cup or a glass so I’d have something to do with my hands. “Harry
didn’t ask me to keep anything I learned from you, and I haven’t.”

Marcus continued to silently watch me. I could tell from the line of his jaw that
he was clenching his teeth together.

Claire came over to us with the coffeepot. She poured a cup for me and topped up Marcus’s.
“Your sandwich will be ready in a couple of minutes,” she said.

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” Marcus asked once Claire was back at the counter.

A good question, although I wasn’t sure he was going to like my answer. I folded my
hands around my cup, lacing my fingers together. “Because I knew that no matter what
you said to me, I was going to see what I could find out. I didn’t want to argue with
you and I also didn’t want to ruin this”—I made a back-and-forth motion in the air—“whatever
this is between us.”

I studied his face. “Can you accept the fact that I can’t just stand around making
stinky cat crackers when people I care about need help?”

“I don’t want you to end up being the one who needs help,” he said. “So can you accept
the fact that I’m never going to like you getting involved in a police investigation?”

I played with my knife, sending it spinning on the table like the pointer in a game
of chance. “I’m trying,” I said.

He blew out a breath. “So am I.”

Claire appeared then with my sandwich. She topped up my cup, smiled and said, “Enjoy.”

“No secrets, Kathleen,” Marcus said, his voice and expression serious. “No investigating
cabins in the woods with only a cat for backup. I’m not going to tell you not to do
this, because I know you’re going to ignore me. Just don’t go off playing amateur
detective by yourself. You find out something—anything—I want to know.”

I nodded. “Okay.” I picked up half my sandwich. It tasted even better than it smelled
and it smelled wonderful. “You don’t seriously think Georgia Tepper killed Mike, do
you?” I asked after a couple of big bites.

“You talked to her,” Marcus said. He didn’t seem surprised.

“She was at the library with Abigail.”

He shifted sideways so he could stretch out his long legs. “So you know Georgia Tepper—”

“—is really Paige Wyler. I do.” I pulled a bit of mushroom out of my sandwich and
ate it. “I also know she lived in Chicago and the company her father-in-law works
for is one of Legacy Tours’ clients.”

Marcus tented the fingers of his right hand over his coffee cup. “It is true, you
know; people do tell you things,” he said.

“I also know Georgia was arrested and charged with assault and then the charges were
dropped.”

“She threatened her former mother-in-law with a chef’s knife.”

“That I didn’t know,” I said. “But according to Georgia, the former mother-in-law
was trying to kidnap Georgia’s little girl. You can’t fault her for protecting her
child.”

Marcus shook his head. “That’s why the charges were dropped.” He picked up his cup
and drained it. “But you have to admit there’s a similarity: a chef’s knife, a spatula.”

“There’s a big difference between a chef’s knife and a little spatula used for spreading
frosting on cupcakes.” I frowned at him. “And Mike Glazer was asphyxiated.” I waved
the hand that wasn’t holding the other half of my sandwich at him. “I know you didn’t
say that, but I saw the body.”

He folded his arms. “No comment.” That was usually as good as a yes.

“If Georgia was responsible for Mike’s death, then why would she take that spatula
and stick it in the ground? It makes no sense. It’s a red herring.”

“This isn’t an Agatha Christie novel, Kathleen,” he said.

“No,” I said. “But it’s the kind of thing that would turn up in one of her books.”
I leaned my elbows on the table. “The knife wasn’t there the day Owen found the button
from Alex Scott’s jacket. I know you think I can’t be sure of that, but I am. Which
means that someone stuck it in the ground later. Why? There’s no reason for Georgia
to do that.”

Marcus brushed crumbs off his tie. “There’s no reason for anyone to do that.”

I wiped my fingers on my napkin. “Yes, there is. It’s a diversion. A distraction.
It puts the focus on Georgia instead of the real killer.”

“Alleged killer.”

“All right, alleged killer,” I said.

He looked at his watch. “I’m sorry, Kathleen. I have to go.” He got to his feet and
grabbed his jacket from the back of his seat. “By the way, your chair’s almost finished,”
he said.

“You mean you’ve actually been able to put those pieces back into something I’m going
to be able to sit on?”

He nodded.

“I can’t wait to see it,” I said, smiling up at him. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

He shrugged and his deep blue eyes never left my face. “Maybe you’ll think of something.”

I immediately thought of his mouth kissing mine and wondered if he was thinking the
same thing. “I, uh, I’ll try,” I managed to get out.

“I’ll talk to you soon,” he said and headed over to pay Claire.

I watched him go because . . . well, it was fun watching his long legs move. Then
I ate the last bites of my sandwich and finished my coffee. I wiped my fingers again
and headed up to the counter.

Claire gave me a knowing Cheshire cat grin. “Detective Gordon already got it,” she
said. She held out a small take-out bag. “This too.”

It was a still-warm chocolate-chip cookie. I felt my cheeks redden as I waited for
her to say something else, but she just kept smiling at me. I took a step backward
and almost fell over a chair.