Copycat Killing: A Magical Cats Mystery (2 page)

I’d moved to Mayville Heights about a year ago to become head librarian and to oversee the renovations to the library building. Now we were just a few months away from celebrating the library’s centennial. When I moved, I’d sold my car. I’d sold just about everything. Coming to the town was a new beginning for me, a chance to take a break from my flamboyant family, and to regroup because Andrew—handsome, charming Andrew—the man I was supposed to spend the rest of my life with, had gotten drunk after we’d had a fight and ended up married to a waitress from a fifties diner.

Mayville was small enough that I could walk everywhere I wanted to go. But it was nice not to have to carry two bags of groceries up the hill. And with all the rain we’d had in the past week, and all the flooding, I never would have been able to get to the library—or a lot of other places—without the old truck.

The morning sky was dull, and the air was damp. We’d had a week of off and on rain—mostly on—and the
downtown was at serious risk of major flooding. The retaining wall between Old Main Street and the river was strong, but it had been reinforced with sandbags just in case. We’d spent hours two nights ago moving those bags into place along a human chain of volunteers.

This was the second day the library was closed. The building was on higher ground, a rise where the street turned, and the pump Oren Kenyon had installed in the basement was handling what little water had come in, but both the parking lot and the street were flooded.

Maggie was waiting for me on the sidewalk in front of the artists’ co-op building. The old stone basement had several feet of water in it, and we’d spent most of the previous day moving things from the first floor store into the second floor tai chi studio, in case the water got any higher. There were still a couple of her large collage panels that needed to be carried upstairs.

“Hi,” I said. “How late did you stay here last night?” There were dark circles under her green eyes.

“Not that late,” she said, as she unlocked the front door.

I followed her inside. Mags and I had met at her tai chi class and bonded over our love of the cheesy reality show,
Gotta Dance
. She had the tall, lean build of a runner or a dancer, but she was an artist, a tai chi instructor, and she ran the co-op store.

“Why do you have two paper clips in your hair?” I asked.

Maggie put a hand up to her head. “That’s what I did with them,” she said, pulling the two clips out of her short, blond curls. “I was doing some paperwork over at the studio.”

The two collage panels were up on a table, carefully
wrapped and padded. We carried them up the steps without any problems.

I was about to suggest we walk over to Eric’s Place for coffee and one of his blueberry muffins when we heard someone banging on the front door.

“Kathleen, please tell me that isn’t who I think it is,” Maggie said. Before I could ask whom she meant, she was on her way downstairs.

Jaeger Merrill was outside, his back to the door. Maggie let out a soft sigh and went to unlock it. He turned at the sound.

“Good morning,” she said.

Jaeger stepped inside. “The window in my studio is leaking,” he said. “The side of the cabinet where I keep my tools was damp. Some of those things can’t be replaced easily, Maggie.” There were two deep frown lines between his eyebrows.

Jaeger was a mask-maker. He could turn what other people saw as junk into art. I’d seen him at the re-purpose store out by the highway, and a few days ago he’d been scrounging in a dumpster that was in the front yard of a house being renovated halfway down the hill from my little house. Jaeger sold both his masks and some of the elaborate preliminary sketches he made for them in the store.

“Ruby told me,” Maggie said. “Someone’s coming to take a look at it this morning.”

“I wanted to get some work done and instead I had to waste a lot of time sticking my stuff in boxes. Again.” He dragged his fingers back through his blond hair. A couple of weeks ago he’d cut off a good six inches. It made him look more serious, less bohemian. “The building needs a manager.”

“River Arts does have a manager,” I said. “The town owns the building.”

“Too much bureaucracy and too little money,” Jaeger said derisively. “The center should have a corporate sponsor. So should the store.”

Maggie placed a loosely closed fist against her breastbone and took a slow, deep breath. I knew that was her way of staying calm and in control. “The artists own and run the store,” she said. “So they can make the decisions.”

He gave his head a slight shake. “Like I said before, what the hell does the average artist know about running a business?”

Maggie was the current president of the co-op board. I thought about how hard she’d worked to promote the artwork and the artists at the shop in just the year I’d known her.

“I’m sorry about the leak,” she said. “There isn’t anything anyone can do about all the rain. Everyone is frustrated and tired, Jaeger.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “This is a ridiculous way to run a business,” he started.

“The weather and how we run the co-op are two different things,” Maggie said. Her tone hadn’t changed at all but there was something just a little intimidating about the way she stood there so perfectly straight and still. “If you have problems with River Arts, go to the town office, call public works, call the mayor. Save everything else for the meeting.”

She tipped her head to the side and looked at him. If it had been an old Western, this would have been the point where the audience did a collective “Ohhh.” Maggie could outstare anyone, even my Owen and Hercules, who were masters of the unblinking glare.

Jaeger’s mouth opened and closed. He shook his head. “This is stupid,” he muttered. He pushed past us and headed upstairs.

“What was that?” I asked once he was out of sight.

Maggie gave me a wry smile. “Mostly Jaeger being Jaeger. You know he’s been pushing for the co-op to find a patron almost since he first got here?”

I nodded.

“With the flooding and having to move everything in the store, he’s just gotten worse. There are days I regret welcoming him into the co-op and helping him get that part-time job at Eric’s.” She let out a breath, put one hand on the back of her head and stretched. Then she looked at me. “I should check the basement.”

“Okay,” I said. I followed her through the empty store to the back storage room. She flipped the light switch and unlocked the door. Three steps from the top of the basement stairs she stopped, sucking in a sharp breath.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Is he dead?” Maggie asked in a tight voice.

I leaned around her to get a better look at the body. “Yeah, he’s dead.”

“Are you sure?”

I moved past her on the steps so I could see better. The corpse of a large, gray rodent was floating on its back, near the stair railing, in the four feet of muddy, smelly water that filled the basement at the moment. “He’s not doing the backstroke, Maggie,” I said. “He’s dead.”

She shivered and pulled a hand back over her hair. “I’m not touching him.”

“I’ll get it,” I said. It wouldn’t be the oddest thing I’d ever done in the name of friendship. I grabbed the yellow
plastic snow shovel that was hanging on a nail to the right of the cellar door and went down a couple more steps so I could scoop up the dead rat. Behind me I heard Maggie make a faint squeaky noise in her throat, probably afraid that it had just been floating, eyes closed in the filthy water, like some rodent spa-goer, and was now going to roll over and run up the steps.

It didn’t.

I tightened up on the shovel handle and turned, swinging it in front of me. “I’m coming up,” I warned. Maggie took a step backward. I grabbed the railing and something sliced into my thumb. “Ow!” I yelled, yanking my hand back. There was blood welling from a gash on the fleshy pad of my thumb.

The end of the shovel dipped like a teeter-totter, the plastic blade banging hard on the wooden step. The rat corpse somersaulted into the air like a high diver coming off a tower. I swiped my bleeding hand on the leg of my jeans and lunged with the shovel, but the rat had gotten a surprising amount of height and distance. It arced through the air and landed with a soggy splat on Maggie’s foot.

She shrieked and jerked backward, banging into the door frame.

I scrambled up the stairs. “I got it. I got it,” I said. “It’s okay.” I scooped up the dead rodent and squeezed past Mags, keeping the shovel low to the ground.

Out in the hallway I looked around. Okay, so what was I going to do? I couldn’t exactly drop the rat in the metal garbage can in the corner.

Holding the shovel out in front of me, I cut through the empty store, opened the street door, and tossed the body of the rat out toward the street. It didn’t do any
elegant somersaults this time. It hit the sidewalk with the same wet splat as when it had landed on Maggie’s foot. Except this time the rat rolled over, shook itself and scurried away. I said a word well-mannered librarians didn’t normally use, and then realized that Ruby Blackthorne was standing by the streetlight. The rat had gone whizzing right by her head.

Crap on toast! “Ruby, I’m sorry,” I said, holding the door for her as she came across the sidewalk.

She looked at me, still hanging on to the shovel. “Inventing a new sport?” she asked. “Because I don’t think it’s going to replace discus in the Olympics. And I’m pretty sure you just violated at least a couple of cruelty to animal laws.”

“It was floating in the basement.” I gestured behind me.

“And that was your version of rat CPR?”

I wasn’t sure if she was joking or serious. Then I noticed just a hint of a smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. She was growing her usually spiked short hair and it stuck out from the sides of her head in two tiny pigtails, one pink and one turquoise, above her multipierced ears.

“I really thought it was dead,” I said. “It was on its back in the water. It didn’t move.” I went to swipe my hand across my sweatshirt, which is when I realized my thumb was still bleeding.

“Hey, are you okay?” Ruby asked. “It didn’t bite you, did it?”

I shook my head and felt in the pocket of my hoodie for a Kleenex. “No. I did that on the railing.”

Maggie came out through the store then, holding a length of old pipe like a club, scanning the space as though the rat might come walking by. It didn’t seem like a good plan to tell her it was possible it could.

“It’s okay, Mags,” I said. “It’s gone.” That much was true. “I put it outside.” Also true.

She looked around again, and then tucked the piece of pipe between her knees.

I shot Ruby a warning look, hoping she remembered how Maggie felt about small, furry things.

“Is Jaeger still here?” Maggie asked, glancing at the stairs.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“I just saw him putting boxes in his car,” Ruby offered. She rolled her eyes at Maggie. “So what was it this time? The we-need-a-corporate-sponsor speech? Or the we-need-to-expand-our-horizons rant?”

“The first one,” Maggie said. “Plus he’s upset because of that leaking window. He said the cabinet where he keeps his tools got wet.”

“That’s funny,” Ruby said, “because that cabinet where he keeps his fancy Swedish power tools is across the room from the windows, by the door.”

Maggie pulled one hand back over her neck and grabbed the pipe again with the other. Then she noticed my thumb. “Did you do that on the railing?” She caught my wrist. “I think that needs stitches.”

“I don’t need stitches,” I said. “It isn’t even bleeding anymore. All I need is a Band-Aid.”

Maggie shook her head and mock-glared at me. “C’mon upstairs. I’ll fix it.”

Ruby and I followed her up the steps. Maggie knew I hated all things medical, especially hospitals. It went back to when I was a kid. Blame it on a weak stomach, a dark examining room, an artificial leg and way too many cheese curls.

“What exactly is this corporate sponsor idea Jaeger has?” I asked Ruby, while Maggie cleaned my cut.

Ruby made a face. “He thinks we should find some big business to subsidize the co-op, kind of like a patron of the arts.” Ruby painted huge abstracts and also taught art. She looked at Maggie. “We still have the co-op meeting tomorrow, don’t we?”

Maggie nodded. “Uh huh. And I have a meeting at city hall this afternoon.”

Ruby rolled her eyes. “Maybe Jaeger will forget.”

“If you did have a sponsor, what’s in it for the business?” I asked. “I’m guessing something more than just goodwill.”

“The use of our artwork for commercial purposes, among other things,” Maggie said, fastening a big bandage around my thumb. “I’m not against that, necessarily. But I’m not about to give up the right to choose how my art is used. Jaeger thinks I’m wrong.” She looked at me. “How’s that?”

I wiggled my thumb and opened and closed my fingers a few times. “Perfect,” I said. “Thank you.”

“He’s an asshat,” Ruby said.

“A what?” I asked.

“Asshat,” she repeated. “You know, someone whose head is so far up his…you know…he’s wearing it for a hat.”

“Sounds uncomfortable,” Maggie said.

“Does Jaeger look familiar to either of you?” Ruby asked.

I shook my head. “No.”

“Uh uh,” Maggie said. “Why?”

“I can’t shake the feeling I’ve seen him somewhere before, especially since he cut his hair.”

“Maybe a workshop or an exhibit,” I said.

“No, I don’t think that’s it.” Ruby shook her head and
all the little hoops in her left ear danced. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I just came to see if you guys wanted to go get something to eat at Eric’s.”

I glanced at my watch.

“Is this a cat morning?” Maggie asked.

“Uh huh.” I was one of several volunteers who helped take care of a feral cat colony out at Wisteria Hill, the old, abandoned Henderson estate just outside town.

“Going by yourself?” She was all innocent sweetness.

“Maybe,” I said. I knew where the conversation was headed.

For months, Maggie had been trying to play matchmaker between Marcus Gordon and me. Marcus was a police detective and we’d gotten off on the wrong foot the previous summer when he thought it was possible that I had killed conductor Gregor Easton, or at the very least been involved in some intimate hanky-panky with the man who was twice my age and a … well … pretentious creep.