Copycat Killing: A Magical Cats Mystery (27 page)

Then I sucked in a breath, stretching my right arm across the seat in front of Owen, my left hand clutching the seat belt, and braced for the impact of the other vehicle colliding with the end of the truck bed. I didn’t see how it could miss us, and then somehow it did, speeding past, still with no lights, with what seemed like just inches to spare.

I slumped against the back of the seat, heart pounding in stereo in my ears, a hand pressed against my mouth
and the sound of my ragged breathing filling the truck. Beside me Owen was crouched wide-eyed and very, very angry, fur standing on end, claws dug into the seat.

There was some kind of noise behind the truck and I looked in the rearview mirror. A vehicle had pulled behind me, which meant I couldn’t back up. Had the other driver stopped? I didn’t care if it was a couple of joyriding teenagers or someone who’d been stupid enough to drive after drinking, whoever it was had almost gotten all of us killed. I didn’t really want to hear an apology. I was angry enough that what I really wanted to do was yell at someone.

Still operating on autopilot I tossed my sweatshirt, which was lying on the seat, over the cat, I guess mostly to protect him. Owen yowled his annoyance but he didn’t move. There was a wrench under my seat along with a couple of other tools in case I had a flat tire. I locked the truck door with one hand and grabbed the wrench with the other. Mayville Heights might be a very safe place but I was suddenly aware that I was a woman alone, except for a small gray cat.

I looked in the rearview mirror again. Someone was walking toward my truck, head down, hands in his—his, judging by the build of the person—pockets. I felt the acid burn of anger in my throat. Owen gave a couple of sharply angry meows from under my hoodie. It would have been better if whoever that was just turned and walked away. We were a mightily pissed off woman and small cat.

I tightened my grip on the wrench, ready for what, I wasn’t sure.

Then Marcus appeared by the driver’s door of the truck. I literally sagged with relief. I leaned over, unlocked the door and opened it.

“Are you all right?” he asked. There were tight lines of worry etched between his eyes.

I nodded.

“Can you get out?”

“I’m fine,” I said, but I slid down off the seat onto the grass, glancing behind me to make sure Owen was still undercover. “Did you see the other driver?”

“Just his or her taillights,” Marcus said. “I called it in, but I wanted to make sure you weren’t hurt.” He noticed the wrench that I was still clutching in my right hand. “Wait a minute. You thought I was…” He hung his head for a moment. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

I held up the wrench and maybe it was relief or the last bit of adrenaline zipping through my body, but I started to laugh. “It’s okay, Marcus,” I said. “I wasn’t scared. I was mad. Very, very mad.”

He smiled. “I’m suddenly glad you’ve never been very, very mad at me,” he said.

We both turned at the sound of a police cruiser pulling to the curb behind us. “I’ll be right back,” he said.

I leaned back against the seat and pushed the wrench back underneath it. “Are you all right?” I asked the lump under my shirt. I got a soft murp as an answer. “Hold tight. We’ll be home in a couple of minutes.”

After a minute or so the police car pulled into the street again and Marcus walked back across the grass to me. “They didn’t catch whoever it was, did they?” I said.

He shook his head. “I’m sorry.” He leaned forward and looked closely at the driver’s side tire, which had gone up over the curb. “This tire looks okay. I’m just going to check the other one and the front end.”

I waited while he walked around the front of the
truck, examining the bumper and crouching down to take a closer look at the passenger side tire.

“Everything looks okay,” he said when he came back to me. “It wouldn’t hurt to have it put up on the hoist and get the undercarriage checked, just in case.”

“I will.”

He jerked his head back toward his SUV. “I’m going to follow you the rest of the way up the hill.”

“You don’t have to,” I said, rubbing the back of my neck with one hand.

“I know,” he said.

He pulled into the street and I backed carefully off the curb. Everything seemed to work the way it was supposed to and there were no new rattles or mysterious sounds in reverse or in drive.

I started up Mountain Road again. Out of the corner of my eye I could see my shirt moving, kind of like there was an alligator wrestling match going on underneath. Finally Owen poked his head out. “Two minutes,” I said, “and we’ll be home.”

The look he shot me was decidedly sour.

I pulled into the driveway and Marcus’s SUV slipped in behind me. I got out of the truck and walked back to him and all at once I realized how quickly he’d been on the scene after I was forced off the road.

He got out of the car.

“You were following me home, from the arts center, weren’t you?” I asked.

“Yes I was.”

“Why?”

He leaned one hand on the hood of the SUV. “When I first got there, I saw a vehicle drive by. It didn’t have any lights on.” He shrugged. “Sometimes that’s nothing
more than someone who’s had a few and doesn’t want to get caught driving home.”

“But,” I said.

“Whoever it was, drove by more than once.” He made a face. “And I didn’t tell you because I wasn’t sure it mattered. I could have been wrong.”

“In other words you were acting on instinct. On a feeling.” It was hard not to smirk at him.

He shook his head, smiling. “See. I knew you were going to say that.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I know this is just a one-time aberration.” Then I remembered Maggie. “Marcus, what about Maggie?”

“It’s okay. I had a car follow her home as well.”

“Do you think this has something to do with Jaeger Merrill?”

He flexed his fingers up and down on the hood of the SUV, like a spider doing pushups. “I don’t know.”

Since for once he wasn’t evading my questions I decided to ask another. “Thomas Karlsson’s death—that was murder.” I crossed my arms over my chest. It was cool without my hoodie.

He nodded. “You saw the skull. There’s no way that was an accident.”

“I know you have to talk to Pearl tomorrow,” I said. “I get that. Just please be…” I hesitated.

“Nice?” he offered.

“Okay.” I held up my thumb and index finger, just a tiny space apart. “Just a little bit?” Another yawn slipped out.

“You’re tired,” he said. “I should get going.”

I took a couple of steps closer to him and he straightened up. “Thank you, for getting me home safely.”

He pulled in a deep breath and let it out and suddenly the air between us seemed somehow charged, electric, the way it did when Hercules walked through a wall or a door.

“You’re welcome,” Marcus said, his eyes locked on to my face. “I’m very glad you’re okay.”

I could feel myself moving toward him, imperceptibly, but I could feel it. Abruptly he cleared his throat and whatever the heck had come over me was gone. For the most part.

“Good night, Kathleen,” he said. “Stay safe.”

I stood there watching him drive away, hugging myself. Then I went back to get Owen out of the truck, shaking my head to chase away the last of the discombobulated feeling. I had not been going to trace the curve of Marcus’s unbelievably manly, chiseled, stubbled jawline with one finger. And I had most certainly not been thinking about kissing him. No I had not.

I scooped Owen off the seat along with my purse and my sweatshirt. Then I unlocked the back door and carried him all the way to the kitchen before I set him on the floor.

His fur was still sticking out in every direction. He walked around the room making grumbling noises, clearly in a major bad mood.

I washed my hands, put bread in the toaster and milk to warm in the microwave. Hercules appeared from somewhere. He watched Owen walking around and grumbling for a moment, then walked over to me and gave me a quizzical look, head cocked to one side.

“Long story,” I said. “Just wait until I get the toast made and I’ll fill you in.” He sat down.

Once the hot chocolate and toast with peanut butter
were made I pulled out a chair and gave Hercules the Cliff’s Notes version of the evening, while Owen worked on a little pile of kitty treats and added a grumbling comment from time to time.

I didn’t tell the cats about the little “moment” between Marcus and me in the driveway. It was an adrenaline comedown. It was tiredness. And it hadn’t meant anything.

It hadn’t.

I had a bath, spending a long time soaking in the hot, lavender scented water. Then I did an inventory of my bruises to see what colors they were now. They went from greenish yellow, through various shades of red to deep purple. I put a layer of Rebecca’s salve on my ankle and used the last of the cotton strips to wrap it.

I was too wired to sleep. So, apparently, was Owen. He wandered in and out of the bedroom, too restless to stay for more than a minute. Hercules, on the other hand, jumped up onto my lap the minute I sat down in the big chair by the window.

“There’s nothing I can do to help Maggie,” I told him, stroking his fur. “I’m going to have to leave things in Peter’s hands for now. But maybe I can do something to help Roma. She needs answers and I think I know where to get them.”

I leaned my head against the back of the chair and closed my eyes for a moment. “I’m going to have breakfast with Burtis Chapman.”

When I opened them again, Herc’s furry black-and-white face was just inches from mine. His way, I was guessing, of asking, “Have you lost your mind?”

A
t quarter to six I was in the truck on the way over to Fern’s Diner. I didn’t know if it was a good idea or a bad idea, mostly because I knew if I thought about it too long I might just talk myself out of going.

The diner wasn’t somewhere I went very often, although I had been a couple of times with Roma for meatloaf Tuesday. According to Roma, Fern’s had been restored about five or six years ago back to its 1950s glory, or as she liked to put it, “Just like the good old days only better.” The building was low and long, with windows on three sides, aglow with neon after dark. Inside there was the requisite jukebox, booths with red vinyl seats and a counter with gleaming chrome stools.

Burtis’s black truck was in the back parking lot and he was perched on a corner stool inside, elbows on the counter, head bent over a heavy, white china coffee mug. He was wearing a green plaid shirt and his Twins
hat. His hands were massive, I noticed, big enough that he could probably squeeze my head between his thumb and index finger and make my brains come out my ears, but I tried not to think about that as I took the stool beside him.

“Good morning,” I said.

“Morning, Kathleen.” If he was surprised to see me, it didn’t show.

The waitress slid a mug in front of me and held up the coffeepot with an inquiring look on her face. At the same time she put a huge, oval dish in front of Burtis that could best be described as a heart attack on a plate.

I nodded and she poured my coffee. “What can I get you hon?” she asked. She was wearing red pedal pushers, a short-sleeved white shirt with—I kid you not—P
EGGY
S
UE
stitched over the left breast pocket and red-framed glasses. Her hair was in a gravity defying, bouffant updo. I eyed it, wondering if there was any way Rebecca could get my hair to do that.

My stomach rumbled, reminding me that not only had I not had any coffee yet, I hadn’t had any food, either. I dipped my head toward Burtis’s plate. “I’ll have what he’s having,” I said.

The waitress nodded and went through the swinging door into the kitchen.

I put cream and sugar in my mug and took a long sip. The coffee was strong and hot, just the way I liked it. I gave a small smile of pleasure and wrapped my hands around the cup. I could feel Burtis’s eyes on me and I turned my head to smile at him.

“What brings you out here so early?” he asked. “I thought you favored that little place by the water.”

“I came to talk to you,” I said.

That got me a smile. “Oh did you now?” he said. He speared a half a sausage and it disappeared into his mouth. “I’m kinda tied up with my breakfast at the moment.”

“Take your time,” I said, picking up my coffee again.

I’d finished about half my coffee when the waitress came back with my plate, as loaded as the one she’d brought for Burtis. There were scrambled eggs, sausage and bacon, fried potatoes with onions and tomato, and raisin toast. She topped up my coffee and headed down the counter to three men who had just walked in.

Burtis was watching me out of the corner of his eye. I picked up my fork and started eating. The eggs were fluffy, the bacon was crisp and I found myself wondering where they had gotten tomatoes that actually tasted like tomatoes at this time of year.

I was mopping up the last bits of potato and onion from my plate with a corner of bread when Burtis said, “What did you want to talk about?”

“Idris Blackthorne,” I said. “Harrison Taylor told me you were the one to ask what Idris was like back in the day.”

“Oh did he now?”

“He said you might be able to tell me about the way Idris did business.”

“Seems to me you’re friends with old Blackie’s granddaughter,” he said, staring down into his cup. “Why don’t you ask her?”

“Seems to me it would be bad manners to ask someone if her grandfather whacked a man over the head and buried his body out at Wisteria Hill,” I said, taking a long drink from my mug.

The words seemed to hang there for a moment and then Burtis laughed. “I guess it would at that,” he said.

I shifted sideways on my stool so I could look at him a little easier, leaning one elbow on the counter.

“Roma Davidson is my friend,” I said. “Tom Karlsson was her father and she wants to know how he ended up out in that field.”

“So you thought you’d poke your nose in and ask a few questions.”

“Pretty much.”

He gave another snort of laughter. “You’re honest girl, I’ll give you that.” Burtis wasn’t nearly as intimidating when he laughed.