Cat Trick (9 page)

“No, you didn’t,” I said. “Owen and I are just going to wait out there for you.” I’d
said I was going to stay out of his case and I was, even though it seemed as though
the cats were on a mission to drag me into it.

I used my shoulder to nudge the tent flap out of the way, and then I ducked under
the yellow tape and stood on the grass next to the sidewalk. Owen twisted in my arms.

“If you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking, don’t,” I warned, but all he did
was shift around until his paws were on my shoulder and he could watch the tent.

Marcus came out in a minute or two. He stood next to me, feet apart, hands in his
pockets. “Start from the beginning. Tell me what happened.”

I did, starting from when I’d stepped out of the River Arts building. Marcus’s eyebrows
rose when I explained how Owen had figured out how to slide the zipper pull from the
inside of the bag. The cat, in turn, seemed to pull himself up a little straighter
in my arms, as if he were proud of his ingenuity—which he probably was.

“You can go, Kathleen,” Marcus said when I finished. “If I need to know anything else,
I’ll call you. You’ll be at the library?”

I glanced at my watch. There wasn’t time to take Owen home. “Yes,” I said.

He reached out and touched my arm as I started for the curb. “Thanks for calling me.
You could have just gone in and grabbed Owen.”

I made a face and shook my head. “No, I couldn’t.”

I got a smile for that. “I’ll see you tonight, if I don’t talk to you before then,”
he said.

A police van pulled in behind Marcus’s SUV.

“Okay,” I said. I made sure I had a secure grip on Owen, nodded to the two officers
who had gotten out of the van and crossed the street.

The cat carrier was still sitting on the pavement by the back door of the studio building.
I bent down and snagged the strap with one finger. Once we were next to the truck,
I set it down again, got out my keys and unlocked the driver’s side. Then I put Owen
on the seat. He walked across to the passenger side and sat, the picture of a well-behaved
cat. I set the bag beside him and got in. “Why did you do that?” I asked

He meowed and scraped a paw on the seat cover.

“Yes, I know you might have found a clue,” I said. “You also trespassed on a crime
scene.”

Two wide eyes stared blankly at me. Either he didn’t understand what I’d just said
to him, or he didn’t care.

I was betting on the latter.

8

A
t the library, I took Owen straight up to my office. He climbed out of the bag onto
my desk, shook himself and gave me a pointed look. I knew what he was looking for.

“Ruby already gave you a treat,” I said, trying to keep my tone stern. “And after
what you did, you should be on bread and water.”

Defiantly, he pawed at the top of my desk. So he was going to try righteous indignation
instead of cute and adorable.

“Just because you might,
might
have found some kind of clue doesn’t mean you weren’t wrong,” I said, lowering my
voice because I didn’t want Mary or Susan to come in and hear me arguing with a cat.

Owen stared at me. I glared back at him. “You drive me crazy sometimes,” I said after
a couple of minutes of the eyeball-to-eyeball routine. I sat on the edge of the desk,
and he came and put his front paws on my lap. I stroked the top of his head. “I’m
serious,” I said. “What if someone had seen you disappear? How would I have explained
that to Marcus?”

Owen lifted a paw and swatted one of the buttons on my sweater.

“That did look like it could have been a button you dug up,” I said. “Doesn’t mean
it was dropped by whoever killed Mike Glazer.”

Owen made a low murp. “I know,” I said, scratching behind his right ear. “Doesn’t
mean it wasn’t, either.” I leaned over so my face was inches from Owen’s soft gray
one. “You’re making it really hard to stay out of Marcus’s case, you know.”

I gave Owen some water, a couple of sardine crackers and an emphatic warning not to
leave my office. Then I locked the door for good measure. I was back downstairs just
as Susan and Mary arrived. I let them in and followed them up to the staff room. “Oh,
before I forget, Owen is in my office,” I said.

Susan pushed her glasses up her nose. “Because?” she prompted.

“Because he was over posing for Ruby. She’s going to paint him. It’s for the Cat People
fund-raiser.”

“I thought she was painting Hercules,” Mary said, pouring water into the coffeemaker.

“She’s doing both of them.” I got the coffee out of the cupboard and handed it to
her.

“That’s really nice,” Susan said, shrugging off her jacket and pulling on a cropped
black cardigan. She stopped with one arm half in a sleeve. “I have chicken salad,
if he’s hungry. He probably wouldn’t like the arugula or the black olives, but the
chicken isn’t too spicy.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Owen’s fine. Ruby had some organic fish crackers for him.” I didn’t
bother telling her I’d just recently learned that Owen apparently loved black olives.

Susan and I spent most of the morning unpacking two boxes of books that had been donated
to the library—a mix of children’s picture books, graphic novels and reference books,
including a huge atlas and a book of star charts—and entering them into our system.
I called Abigail at home to talk about plans for a Halloween puppet show and installed
a new math game on the two computers we kept reserved for kids.

As far as I could tell, Owen spent the morning napping in the sunshine on my desk
chair. That’s where I found him after we’d closed down the library at one o’clock.
I knew that didn’t mean he hadn’t nosed all over my office, just that he hadn’t left
any obvious evidence. There was a good chance that sometime next week I’d find a clump
of hair behind a book or in one of my desk drawers. I was glad that we closed early
on Saturday. How much mischief would he have been able to get into if he’d spent the
whole day alone in my office?

Hercules was waiting in the porch when we got home. He looked from me to Owen, wondering,
maybe, if we’d been off somewhere having fun while he was stuck at home.

“If you’re wondering why I didn’t bring your brother back earlier, it’s because he
decided it was a better idea to go digging around in a crime scene,” I said.

Herc murped at Owen, who murped back. I wondered what they were talking about. Were
they discussing the button or whatever it was Owen had uncovered? Or were they plotting
how to get me to open a can of sardines?

For lunch, I heated the last of the chicken soup I’d made earlier in the week with
my Crock-Pot. Hercules trailed me, making little rumbles and meows from time to time.
Every once in a while, he’d stop and look expectantly at me and I’d say, “Really?”
or “I understand.”

I spent the afternoon doing laundry and cleaning the house. Hercules and I had recently
discovered Nickelback. It turned out Owen didn’t like Chad Kroeger any more than he
liked Barry Manilow. We didn’t even get to the chorus of “Never Gonna Be Alone” before
Owen streaked through the kitchen like Boris the dog was on his tail, vaulting the
mop in his haste to get to the porch door and the backyard.

It took me a ridiculously long time to get dressed and do my hair for supper with
Marcus. I stood in front of the closet door with Owen on one side and Hercules on
the other, pulling out things and putting them back on the rod. Finally, I settled
on jeans and a lavender shirt my sister, Sara, had convinced me to buy when I was
back in Boston. Neither cat yowled or hid under the bed, so I figured I looked okay.

I double-checked to make sure there was fresh water in the boys’ dishes and a clean
litter box downstairs. “I’m leaving,” I called as I pulled on my jacket. Hercules
poked his head around the living room doorway. “Don’t wait up,” I told him, waggling
my eyebrows. That got no reaction.

After a moment, Owen’s gray tabby head appeared on the other side of the doorway.
“Stay off the footstool,” I reminded him. I knew he wouldn’t.

It was a beautiful evening, with just a bit of a chill in the air, a reminder that
fall was here. The leaves were starting to turn and I could see splashes of gold and
red in the trees around Marcus’s little house.

I knocked on the back door, and after a moment he called, “Come in, Kathleen.”

I stepped into the kitchen and immediately smelled chocolate. That was a good sign.
I breathed in deeply. I could also catch the scent of oranges and something spicy
as well. Marcus was at the counter, slicing a zucchini.

“Hi.” He smiled at me over his shoulder. He was wearing a denim shirt and jeans. The
hair at the nape of his neck was just a little damp.

“Hi,” I said, suddenly feeling a little awkward. “It smells wonderful in here.”

He set down the knife. “That’s probably Eric’s pudding cake.”

I took off my jacket and hung it over the back of one of the kitchen chairs. “You
made Eric’s chocolate pudding cake?” I asked.

Marcus shook his head. “No. Eric made Eric’s chocolate pudding cake. I just brought
it home and stuck it in the oven.” He reached for the knife again. “Are you hungry?
I can start cooking in about five minutes.”

I nodded. “Great. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“I have it all under control,” he said, turning back to the counter. “Have a seat.”

I pulled out a chair and sat down while he made short work of the rest of the zucchini.
“Marcus, could we talk about this morning and get that out of the way?” I asked. It
wasn’t exactly the Sword of Damocles, but I didn’t want Owen’s sleuthing hanging over
us all evening.

“Sure,” he said, wiping his hands and turning around.

“I’m sorry that Owen trespassed on your crime scene.”

Marcus leaned back against the edge of the counter, braced his hands on either side
of his body and smiled at me. “Kathleen, I do know you didn’t send Owen into the tent
on purpose.”

No, I hadn’t sent Owen across the street, but I was certain he’d headed for the tent
deliberately. Just the same way that he’d prowled through a pile of recycling when
Gregor Easton had been killed. And discovered a puzzle box and a piece of paper—hidden
in a stack of cartons at River Arts—that turned out to be the key to the scam that
artist Jaeger Merrill had been running. Both Owen and Hercules seemed to have a nose
for sleuthing.

“Maybe I could teach Owen to at least bring you a cup of coffee if he’s going to stick
his whiskers in your case,” I said, trying to keep my tone light.

“I think I’d rather have coffee with you,” Marcus said.

His deep blue eyes met mine, and for a moment what I’d been going to say next fell
right out of my head. If the timer on his stove hadn’t started buzzing just then,
I think I would have just kept staring at him.

“I have to check dessert,” Marcus said, gesturing in the direction of the oven with
his eyes still glued to my face.

Was it my imagination, or was he flustered, too?

I waited while he looked at Eric’s pudding cake and adjusted the oven temperature
before I said anything else. I liked watching him move, and it took me that long to
get my train of thought back on the rails.

“Do you think that button Owen found had anything to do with Mike Glazer’s killer?”
I asked finally. “And yes, I know it doesn’t sound like I’m staying out of things.”

“No, it doesn’t,” he said, turning the heat on under the wok that was sitting on one
of the stove’s front burners.

“Would you believe I’m only asking because Owen wants to know?”

“Given that Owen isn’t like any other cat I’ve ever been around . . .” He shook his
head and laughed. Then his expression grew serious. “What makes you think someone
killed Mike Glazer?”

“The petechiae—those pinpoints of bleeding under his skin. I saw them when I checked
to see if he was still alive. I think he was asphyxiated somehow.”

“You’re really observant.”

Maybe we really had changed our past pattern. I frowned at him. “No, you see, that
wasn’t your line. You were supposed to say, ‘Stay out of my case, Kathleen.’” I made
my voice low and gruff and my expression stern.

“I do not look like that, and I don’t sound like that, either.” He frowned. I wasn’t
sure if the expression was meant for me or the wok.

I leaned back in the chair and laced my fingers over my middle. “Yes, you do,” I said.

He dumped a plate of chicken into the wok. It sizzled as it hit the hot oil. I waited.

Finally, he nodded. “We’re not going to be able to keep it quiet much longer. You’re
right. It doesn’t look like Mike Glazer’s death was an accident. For now we’re just
calling it suspicious.”

“Does that mean the whole pitch to Legacy will be off again?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

I watched him cook for a couple of minutes. I knew how hard Liam and Maggie and a
lot of other people in town had worked to make the food tasting and art show come
together. If Legacy did decide to base a fall tour package around Mayville Heights,
it could be very good for the local economy. But would they really want to bring their
clients to a place where one of their partners had been murdered? I didn’t think so.

“I don’t suppose you could figure out who killed Mike Glazer and prove that it was
no one from Mayville Heights in, say, the next forty-eight hours?” I asked.

He shot me an amused look. “Sorry,” he said, pouring a small dish of sauce over the
chicken and vegetables in the wok. “It doesn’t quite work that way. The investigation’s
just getting started.”

“Owen already found a clue for you,” I teased. “That button.”

“I didn’t say that was a clue,” he countered. “I didn’t even say it was a button.”

“But it was.” The conversation was beginning to feel a little like a volleyball match.
Every time I spiked, Marcus managed a return.

“Okay, let’s say it was a button your cat found—for the sake of argument. That doesn’t
mean it came from something the killer was wearing. Half the town has been down on
the Riverwalk in the past few days, including both of us.” He drained a pot of noodles
with one smooth, fast motion and used a long pair of chopsticks to divide them between
two blue china bowls before moving back to the stove.

“I didn’t lose a button,” I said. “You’re welcome to check my jacket. And there’s
a pretty good chance the one Owen found is either vintage or handmade. It definitely
wasn’t mass-produced plastic.”

Marcus’s eyebrows went up. “Owen told you that?”

Orange and spices tickled my nose as he set one of the blue bowls in front of me.
I picked up the set of black lacquer chopsticks at my place. “Didn’t you know? I speak
cat.”

He slid into the chair opposite me and reached for his own chopsticks. “You know,
I half believe you,” he said. “I’ve always wondered why you seem to be able to communicate
with Lucy. She has some kind of rapport with you that she doesn’t have with any of
the other volunteers who feed the cats out there.”

“Out there” was Wisteria Hill. There was a colony of feral cats that called the old
carriage house on the estate home. Lucy, a little calico, was the undisputed leader
of the group, and we did have some kind of connection I couldn’t explain. When I’d
asked Roma what she thought the reason was, she’d just shrugged and said simply, “She
likes you.”

“That rapport might just be because she thinks I smell like sardines,” I said. “I
do make a lot of stinky crackers for the boys.”

“Somehow, I don’t think it’s the sardines,” Marcus said.

I didn’t think it was the sardines, either. I couldn’t say it to Marcus or Roma, but
I sometimes wondered if Lucy, like Herc and Owen, had some kind of “unique” ability
that I just hadn’t seen yet and that was why she responded to me. I’d always felt
that the boys had chosen me, not the other way around, and like Lucy, they were Wisteria
Hill cats. Maybe I was some kind of magnet for cats with paranormal abilities.

Okay, that definitely wasn’t the kind of thought I could share with Roma or Marcus.
“This is good,” I said, gesturing to my dish.

“Thank you,” he said.

Dang, he was cute when he smiled. Plus he could cook and fix rocking chairs and he
had his own mini library in the spare bedroom. All of a sudden I couldn’t remember
any of the reasons I’d always insisted to Maggie and Roma that Marcus and I were completely
wrong for each other.