Faux Paw: A Magical Cats Mystery (17 page)

“I just put a new pot on,” he said. “If you can wait for a couple of minutes you can have a fresh cup.”

“Sounds good,” I said. “Thanks.”

I dropped onto one of the padded stools at the counter and pulled out my phone, hoping I’d get Marcus and not his voice mail. I couldn’t help smiling when I heard his voice.

“Do you have time for a break?” I asked.

“I’d love one,” he said. I imagined him leaning back at his desk and stretching his arms over his head. “Where are you?”

“I’m at Eric’s,” I said.

“I’ll be there in about five minutes.”

I was just snapping lids on the paper take-out cups when Marcus walked in to the café. I walked over to meet him. “How about a walk along the trail?” I asked.

“Fine with me,” he said.

I handed him his coffee and we left the restaurant, crossing the street to walk along the path that curved along the water’s edge.

“How was your morning?” I asked.

“Too much paperwork,” he said. He took a sip of his coffee and made a little murmur of happiness. “Why is Eric’s coffee so much better than the coffee at the station?”

“Because they don’t buy the coffee beans at the Dollar Store. Because no one pounds on the top of the coffeemaker when they think it’s not making coffee fast enough. Because they actually wash the carafe once in a while.” I ticked off the reasons on my fingers.

He shot me a sidelong glance. “That was a rhetorical question,” he said, taking another sip.

“Marcus, did you or Hope talk to an artist named Rena Adler?” I asked.

He frowned at the change of subject and stared off into the distance for a moment. “She’s one of the local artists, isn’t she? Hope talked to her.” He stopped walking. “Why?”

I took a drink to buy a moment. “Because I don’t think Rena Adler is her real name.” I held up one hand. “Hear me out before you say anything.”

He caught the hand in his own and gave it a squeeze. “I will,” he said. Then he smiled. “I will,” he repeated.

I took a deep breath. “Do you remember Gavin telling us about Devin Rossi, the art thief?”

Marcus nodded. “Yes.” He gave my hand another squeeze before he let go of it. We started walking again.

“Devin Rossi seemed to disappear two years ago. At the same time Rena Adler seemed to appear out of nowhere.” I took a sip from my cup. “I called Julian McCrea. He met Devin Rossi once at a museum gala. Except for the hair color, his description of her could have been a description of Rena. And . . .” I paused.

“And what?” Marcus asked. He gave the take-out cup a shake and took another drink.

“And she’s evasive about her past. She manages to deflect any questions anyone asks about where she lived or what she used to do.” I waited for Marcus to tell me this was a police investigation and I should stay out of it.

“I know,” is what he did say.

“What do you mean, you know?” I said.

“She was evasive with Hope as well, and Hope couldn’t find any more about the woman than you did.”

I brushed my hair back off my face. “Do you remember telling me that there was a partial fingerprint from an art heist that was probably Devin Rossi’s?”

His blue eyes narrowed. “I remember,” he said, slowly.

I held up the paper bag. “Rena Adler’s fingerprints are on the mug in this bag.”

“I can’t use that in court.”

We’d stopped walking again.

“I know,” I said. “But Rena or Devin or whoever she is doesn’t know that.”

Marcus shifted from one foot to the other. “If—
if
for the sake of argument Rena Adler is Devin Rossi, she probably does know that.”

I exhaled loudly. “Okay, but if the fingerprints tell you that Rena isn’t, well, Rena, you can at least talk to her again. You don’t have to tell her how you know.”

He may have been frustrated, but I could see a gleam of interest in his blue eyes.

I laid a hand on his arm. “Marcus, Rena Adler is Devin Rossi. I’m certain of it.”

“Because she doesn’t like talking about her past? Or because she looks like the woman Julian McCrea described to you?”

“Because of her name.”

He looked surprised and his eyes shifted uncertainly from side to side. Obviously that hadn’t been the answer he was expecting. “I don’t understand.”

“The name Rena. It can be a variation of Irene.”

“Irene Adler.” I watched as the name registered with him. “The woman,” he said slowly. “Sherlock Holmes.”

I nodded.

“It could just be a coincidence.”

“But it’s not,” I said. “We have a reciprocal agreement with the library in Red Wing. People with library cards from their library can use them in ours and vice versa. Rena borrowed a couple of books from this library:
A Coffin for Dimitrios
and
The Murder of Roger
Ackroyd
. Eric Ambler and Agatha Christie. Mystery classics.” I exhaled slowly. “Marcus, I’m not wrong about this.”

He looked out across the water for a long moment, as if somehow the answers might be bobbing on the water. Then he turned back to me. “All right,” he said, holding out his hand.

I gave him the bag.

“You know it’s a long shot,” he warned.

“Not to me,” I said. I smiled up at him. “Anyway, we were a long shot.”

“Point taken,” he said, and the look he gave me made my insides feel as wobbly as a bowl of Jell-O salad at a Fourth of July picnic.

We turned around then and walked back to Eric’s.

“Where’s the truck?” Marcus asked, looking around.

“I left it at the library. It was such a nice day I decided to walk over to Riverarts.”

“I can drop you,” he said.

I shook my head. “Thanks, but I think I’ll walk.”

He reached for my free hand and gave it a squeeze. “I’ll talk to you later,” he said.

My coffee wasn’t that hot anymore, but I finished it as I walked to the library. I wasn’t going to waste a perfectly good cup just because of the temperature. Marshall Holmes was coming toward me on the sidewalk as I came level with the building. He raised a hand in greeting.

“Good morning,” I said as he got closer.

“Good morning, Kathleen,” he said. He glanced at the building. “Are you reopening?”

I shook my head. “Not for a few more days.”

“I guess it’s a good thing I have my e-reader, then.” He smiled. “I admit I like a paper book better, though.”

I smiled back at him. “If people didn’t like paper books I’d be out of a job.”

Marshall looked over at the building again. “I’m sorry if I’m being intrusive, but are there any leads in Margo Walsh’s death?”

“I’m not really sure,” I said. “The police are still investigating.”

“I didn’t know Margo very well,” he said. “But I hope they find whoever killed her.”

“So do I,” I said. “And I hope you get your drawing back as well.”

“It’s not what’s important,” Marshall said. “But thank you.” He glanced at his watch. “It was good to see you, Kathleen. I’m going to be in town for a few more days. I’ll be in for some ‘real’ books.”

“I’ll see you then,” I said.

Marcus arrived just before suppertime.

“So?” I said, turning from the stove to look at him.

“So you were right.”

“I knew it,” I said. Hercules and Owen were sitting at my feet and I would have high-fived them both if they’d known how. And if they’d had hands. “Are you going to ask her to come in to answer more questions?”

“I’m not sure that’s the best way to go about things,” he said, peeling off his jacket. He paused for a moment. “What happened to the local pieces that were part of the exhibit? Are they still at the library?”

Owen looked at me, yawned and headed for the basement door. Bored with the conversation or heading for his lair in the cellar, I wasn’t sure.

“They are,” I said. “Gavin and I were going to see if we could return them to the artists sometime in the next few days.” Hercules leaned against my leg.

“Could you return Rena Adler’s artwork, say, tomorrow? And without Solomon?”

“I don’t see why not,” I said. “What are you thinking? You don’t want to question Rena at the police station?”

“No, I don’t,” he said. “I don’t want to question her in any kind of official way at all. If I do that, she’s likely to request a lawyer.”

“You’re having second thoughts.”

“I don’t want to do anything to jeopardize the investigation. Like I told you, I can’t use those fingerprints as evidence.”

“But if you have a conversation with her at the library, anything you learn is evidence,” I said.

“It’s a fine line, but yes,” he said.

“Okay. How about this? Gavin has a meeting in Minneapolis with the insurance company. He won’t be back until after lunch. I’ll call Rena and see if I can set something up for midmorning. Then when Gavin gets back he and I can return everyone else’s pieces.”

“Sounds good,” Marcus said.

I called Rena after supper. Marcus had gone back to work. She was happy to hear she could get her paintings back. I felt a twinge of guilt as I set a time for her to meet me at the library the next morning. Owen cocked his head to one side and eyed me as I hung up the phone.

“I hate this part,” I said to him with a sigh. “I like Rena.”

“Merow,” he said.

There really wasn’t anything else to say.

T
he sun was shining in the morning and the sky was slash of blue overhead as though Mother Nature had taken a wide paintbrush to the sky, so I walked down Mountain Road to meet Marcus at the library. As soon as we were inside the building I headed for the book drop. There weren’t nearly as many books and magazines as there had been in the past few days. I had enough time to take care of them before Rena showed up.

“I like her,” I said to Marcus as I sorted the books onto carts.

“Any special reason?” he asked. He was leaning against the circulation desk, handing books and magazines to me.

I looked up at him. “I told you how she managed to change the subject anytime the conversation turned to anything personal?”

He nodded.

“Well, Ruby and I were talking about possibly having an exhibit of local artwork at the library this summer and maybe tying it into a workshop at the co-op. Maggie asked Rena if she’d been willing to do something with egg tempera. I was watching her.”

“And?”

“She said yes and I believed her. I watched her body language.” I held up a hand before he could say anything. “She could have said no. She could have made an excuse. For that matter, why did she stay in Mayville Heights at all once the show was canceled? If she killed Margo, why didn’t she leave town? I know she’s been working at the high school with Ruby, but she could have gotten out of that.”

He ran his hand over the cover of a children’s picture book. “I think there’s jam on this one,” he said.

I took the book and set it aside in a pile I was keeping for Abigail to repair.

“Maybe she stayed so she wouldn’t look guilty,” Marcus said. “Maybe she stayed to keep an eye on our investigation. Right now, I don’t know.”

I took the last magazine he handed me, set it on top of the others and got to my feet. I glanced at my watch. “Rena should be here soon,” I said. “I’ll go watch for her.”

Marcus straightened up. “I’ll do that,” he said. He went to wait between the double doors and I wandered over to stand in the entrance to the exhibit area. Marcus had sent Curtis out for coffee. I looked around the space. I remembered Margo working with Larry Taylor to make sure the lighting was absolutely perfect.

I felt a lump in my throat. It seemed that her passing hadn’t really left a hole in anyone’s life.

I had my crazy family as well as Lise and my other friends back in Boston. I had Marcus and Maggie and Rebecca and Harrison and so many special people here in Mayville Heights. I liked Rena Adler, but I had also liked Margo, for all her perfectionism, and I wanted whoever had killed her brought to justice. Somebody had to fight for Margo, and it looked like that was going to be me.

I heard voices behind me. Rena had arrived and Marcus was letting her in.

“Hi, Kathleen,” she said as she stepped into the main part of the building. She’d brought cardboard to wrap around her paintings and I could see a roll of bubble wrap poking out of the top of her canvas tote. Marcus took the cardboard from her.

I reminded myself that if Rena hadn’t done anything wrong there was nothing to worry about and forced myself to smile at her. “Good morning,” I said.

“Am I the first one here?” she asked, looking around.

“You’re the only one, actually,” I said, taking the cardboard from Marcus and leaning it against the desk. “Ruby said you’ll be at the high school all day for the next couple of days. I thought it might be easier for you to get your paintings today.”

“It is. Thanks,” she said. She glanced at Marcus. “Thank you, too, Detective.”

“You’re welcome,” Marcus said. He looked around. “Tell me which pieces are yours and I’ll lift them down for you.”

Rena pointed at her two paintings, one of a small mouse and the other of a turtle near the edge of a pool of water.

Marcus lifted down the turtle painting and carried it over to the checkout desk. I slid the card with Rena’s name and the name of the painting out of its holder on the wall and handed it to her.

She ran a hand along the side of the frame. “I like this frame,” she said. “When Margo chose it I wasn’t so sure, but now I can see she was right.”

“You can keep it,” I said, running my own finger over the smooth pale wood.

Rena looked uncertainly at me. In jeans and a long-sleeved black T-shirt, with her black hair in a loose side braid, she looked a lot younger than I knew she had to be.

“Margo wanted you all to have professionally framed pieces. She arranged it through the museum.” I smiled at the memory of Margo, walking the length of the upstairs hallway, having an animated conversation with someone from the museum. “She was hoping these pieces would be part of other shows.”

“What happened to her was horrible,” Rena said softly, her expression a mix of sadness and gravity.

The emotion looked genuine. The energy coming off her felt genuine. A knot of uncertainty twisted in my stomach.

“The last time you saw Margo Walsh was right after lunch on Thursday?” Marcus asked.

Rena shook her head. “No. Before lunch.” She looked at me and I nodded my head in confirmation. “We were all here. All the local artists, I mean.”

His gaze had been drawn to the picture on the counter. “That’s the turtle preserve isn’t it?”

Rena smiled. “It is. How did you know?”

“I’ve hiked all through that area, though not for a while.” He narrowed his blue eyes at her. “It’s very good. Have you been painting your whole life?”

She nodded and reached for the roll of plastic wrap in the bag at her feet. I was surprised that she was wrapping the painting so carefully. Maybe it was going somewhere other than back to Red Wing with her. “If you count finger painting in kindergarten, then, yes,” she said.

“I didn’t like finger painting,” I said with a sheepish smile.

Rena turned to look at me. “Why?”

“I didn’t like getting my hands dirty because we could only go to the reading corner with clean hands and that was my favorite place in the classroom.”

“It sounds like our destinies were already set,” she said.

I laughed, remembering having this same conversation with Maggie and Ruby. “If our destinies are set in kindergarten, then my brother’s destiny is to burp for a living.”

“Burp?” Rena asked.

The edge of the plastic refused to tear. I reached over the counter and retrieved a pair of scissors for her.

“Ethan’s big accomplishment in kindergarten was learning to burp the entire alphabet.”

“You’re not really serious,” Rena said as she cut the plastic and then reached for one of the large pieces of cardboard that she’d brought with her.

“Give Ethan a big bottle of root beer and he can still do it.”

She laughed as she held up one sheet of cardboard, looking from it to the painting. She gave Marcus a sidelong glance. “What about you, Detective?” she asked. “What were you into in kindergarten?”

A smile played at the corners of his mouth. “I was coatroom monitor.”

“What’s a coatroom monitor?” I asked.

He brushed something off the sleeve of his sport coat. “I made sure everyone hung up their coat and put their boots underneath their hook.”

I looked at Rena. “I think we may just have proved your theory.”

She laughed again. Rena was guarded, careful, but it seemed to me that she had relaxed, just a little.

I looked back over my shoulder. “The pond with the turtle is beautiful, but the mouse is my favorite,” I said. “The detail is incredible.”

Rena lifted the painting and slid the cardboard underneath. Marcus reached over and helped hold the frame, edging the scissors out of the way. “Thank you,” she said. “I did that one all from photographs.” She made a face. “It’s hard to get a mouse to pose for very long.”

“Is there really egg in egg tempera paint?” Marcus asked.

Rena nodded, shifting the placement of the painting a little to the left. “Yes. Egg yolk for the most part, along with the pigment and something to keep the mixture from drying out too quickly. Water usually, but not always. I think the final effect is more like watercolor. You don’t get the intense colors you would with, say, oil paint, but you can create some incredible detail.” She folded the cardboard along a line she’d already scored, bringing one side up over the front of the painting. “The technique goes back to the Egyptians.”

I remembered what Julian had said about having likely seen Devin at the gallery party. “You must be a fan of Antony Williams, then,” I said.

“I am.” She lifted her head and looked at me, surprised. “How do you know his work?”

“I used to live in Boston. My family is still there. His portrait of Queen Elizabeth was part of an exhibit marking her Diamond Jubilee.” I reached for the tape roller at her feet and handed it to her. “I was so taken with his work I came home and looked up his other paintings online.”

Rena folded the cardboard over the plastic-wrapped painting. “Do you have a favorite?” she asked.

“Eleanor on Her 87th Birthday,”
I said. “He captured every line on her face, every single strand of her hair.”

“It’s even more incredible in person,” she said.

“Could I hold that?” I said, gesturing at the cardboard.

“Oh yeah, thanks,” Rena said. I held the folded cardboard in place as she secured it with several wide pieces of tape.

“So you were at the Weyman Gallery party, what, three years ago?” Marcus said.

“Uh, no,” Rena said. She glanced up at Marcus, frowning just a little. She was good. Her voice didn’t falter. Her hands didn’t so much as twitch. The only thing that gave her away was looking away just a fraction too soon.

“That painting is part of a private collection,” Marcus continued. “It’s only been shown in public once in the past thirty years. At that party.”

Rena recovered well. “I guess I must have been there, then,” she said with a small smile. “People give me tickets to things.” She looked at me and shrugged. “It’s like collecting a few sets of salt and pepper shakers. Suddenly everyone you know is bringing you a pair when they go on vacation.”

“A very valuable watercolor painting was stolen from that gallery the day after the party closed,” Marcus said. “The only thing the police found was part of a fingerprint that they weren’t able to identify.”

Rena smiled at him. “So you think that I went to the opening gala and did what? Hid in a bathroom stall for twenty-four hours so I could steal a painting?”

“Your name wasn’t on the guest list.”

Rena still wasn’t rattled. “Like I said, people
give
me tickets to things all the time.” She stressed the word “give.” “I’m not a thief. I’m a starving artist.”

Marcus took a pen out of his pocket. He hooked one of the handle loops of the scissors and held them up. “Then you won’t mind coming down to the police station with me.”

“For what?” she said. “You think I killed Margo Walsh? You’re crazy. Why would I do that?”

“Your real name is Devin Rossi.” I said the words as a statement, not a question.

Rena looked at me. “No. My real name is
not
Devin Rossi. And I didn’t kill Margo. Why would I?” She looked from me to Marcus. A shadow passed across her face and she sighed. “Look, talk to the insurance company,” she said, gesturing with both hands. “I didn’t kill Margo. She hired me to disable the security system and steal the Weston drawing.”