Faux Paw: A Magical Cats Mystery (5 page)

“The world can turn without you for a little while.”

Maggie made the tea and added a little honey to the cup before she gave it to me.

I took a tentative sip. It was hot and just a little sweet and the aroma of mint swirled around me.

She cocked an eyebrow.

“It’s not coffee, but it’s not bad,” I said, taking another drink.

Maggie worked us hard in class. I was happy to spend time trying to perfect my Cloud Hands instead of worrying about the exhibit at the library. By the time we finished the complete form at the end of class, the back of my neck was damp with sweat.

Mags came over to me as I was changing my shoes. “Nice work,” she said. She held out a small box.

It was the peppermint tea bags.

“What’s this for?” I asked.

“Take these with you,” she said. “I know you’re going over to the library to see if Margo or Gavin needs anything. Maybe you can make them a cup of tea. If not, you can have a cup when you get home.”

I wrapped her in a hug. “Thank you,” I said. “I’ll see you Saturday. You’re coming early, aren’t you?”

She nodded. “Margo told us to come at noon for a preview. You’re opening the doors at twelve thirty?”

“And Everett will cut the ribbon at one.”

“I’m excited,” Maggie said, her green eyes sparkling.

“You should be,” I said as I reached for my jacket. “Your collages are fantastic. This time Saturday everyone is going to be telling you how talented you are.”

Her expression turned serious. “Thanks for everything you’ve done to make this happen.”

“I haven’t done that much,” I said. “But you’re welcome.” I reached for my bag. “I’d better get over to the library and see what’s going on.”

She hugged me. “Take deep breaths.”

The library was in darkness, except for the security lights, as I pulled level with the building. It looked as though both Margo and Gavin had finished for the night and gone back to the St. James Hotel. Everything must have gone well. Maybe there wouldn’t be a dozen messages and texts on my phone when I got home.

I turned around in the parking lot, ready to head back up the hill, when I noticed one light on in the library. In my office.

I gripped the steering wheel tightly with both hands, took a deep breath and exhaled. It didn’t help. I couldn’t remember if I’d locked my door or not, but either way my office was supposed to be off-limits.

I parked the truck, grabbed my bag and headed for the main doors of the building. Not only did I want to turn the light off in my office. I wanted to see if anything had been disturbed by Margo or Gavin or whoever had been in there. As I unlocked the front doors it occurred to me that I couldn’t have locked my office before I’d left for the day. How would someone have gotten inside without a key?

The first thing I noticed was that neither of the alarms had been set. Some prehistoric sense made the hairs come up on the back of my neck. I remembered the little sports car out in the lot. It didn’t seem like the kind of car Margo would drive, but I didn’t actually know what she was driving. She’d flown to Minneapolis from Chicago and then rented a car to drive to Mayville Heights. I knew the car didn’t belong to Gavin; he was driving a silver Mercedes SUV.

Maybe Margo was still working inside. No, that didn’t make sense. If she was working, why weren’t the main floor lights on? Was she sick? Had she climbed a ladder in those high heels and fallen? If I’d had my cell phone I would have called Marcus. But my phone was sitting on the table in my kitchen. The closest phone was inside the library. I felt a bit like the heroine in one of those old movies, heading into the spooky house during a storm, carrying nothing but a candle. And I didn’t even have a candle.

Margo wasn’t on the main floor of the building. I called her name several times and did a quick survey of the space, but there was no sign of her. I thought about calling 911 but there was no emergency.

I could see that my office door was open before I got to the top of the stairs. I called Margo’s name again, and again I got no answer. As soon as I stepped into the doorway I saw why. Margo Walsh was lying on the floor. My brass cat was on its side beside her. Someone had used it to smash in the back of her head.

She was dead.

I
called 911 from the phone at the circulation desk. Then I called Marcus. My hands wouldn’t seem to stop shaking.

“I’m on my way,” he said. “Go wait in the truck, please.”

“I’m going,” I said. I didn’t want to stay in the building. I could still see Margo lying on my office floor. How could she be dead?

I locked the door again and sat in the truck until the black-and-white patrol car stopped at the curb. I’d met Officer Derek Craig at more than one of Marcus’s crime scenes, because more than once I’d ended up involved in the cases—something that had been a big bone of contention between us for a long time. The young police officer had moved to Chicago to start at the John Marshall Law School in January. So it was Officer Stephen Keller who got out of the car. The military vet always seemed to have a serious expression on his face, and I was suddenly glad of his calm, competent presence.

I explained where Margo’s body was, stumbling over the words a little, and handed over my keys. I had no desire to go back inside.

Hope Lind’s vehicle pulled up to the curb while Officer Keller was still inside. I crossed the sidewalk to meet her.

“Hey, Kathleen,” she said as she came around the front bumper of the little blue car carrying a stainless steel coffee mug and a cardboard take-out cup. She was wearing skinny jeans, laced ankle boots and a dark fleece jacket. She handed the take-out cup to me. “I was at Eric’s,” she said by way of explanation.

“Thank you,” I said, taking the cardboard container from her and wrapping my hands around it. I didn’t know Hope that well, but what I did know about her I liked. Marcus said she was a good detective—high praise coming from him.

She looked over at the library. “What’s going on?”

I explained about forgetting my phone, driving by, spotting the light on in my office and subsequently finding Margo’s body.

Hope watched me over the top of her cup, sipping her coffee as I talked. She didn’t ask any questions or write anything down. Her expression didn’t change, even when I described the wound I’d noticed on the back of Margo Walsh’s head.

“You know how this works,” she said with a small smile when I finished speaking.

I nodded, bending my head to take a sip from the coffee she’d brought me. I was shivering a little, although I wasn’t sure whether it was from the night air or from finding Margo’s body.

“Marcus is on his way?” she asked.

I shifted from one foot to the other. “He should be here in a few minutes. He was already home.”

Officer Keller came out of the library then. Hope held up a hand in acknowledgment and then looked at me again. “Are you okay out here by yourself for a few minutes?”

“I’m fine,” I said. “I’ll just sit in the truck until Marcus gets here.”

“Okay,” she said. She drained her coffee and set the metal mug on the roof of her car. Then she pulled a pair of plastic gloves from her pocket and started for the library steps.

I changed my mind about going back to the truck. Instead I stayed there on the sidewalk with my coffee and watched for Marcus’s SUV to come along the street—which happened in just a few minutes. Okay, he hadn’t driven the speed limit all the way from his house. On the other hand, he was a detective on his way to a crime scene. He pulled in behind Hope’s car and got out. I was already starting up the sidewalk to him.

He brushed a strand of hair away from my face. “Are you all right?” he asked.

I nodded.

This wasn’t my first body. Marcus and I had met when I’d discovered composer Gregor Easton’s body at the Stratton Theatre.

“I can’t believe Margo is dead. I just saw her a few hours ago. How could this have happened?”

“We’ll figure it out,” Marcus said. He put his hands on my shoulders. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m okay,” I said. I held up the take-out cup. “Hope brought me a cup of coffee.”

“How did she get here so fast?” he asked. He was already shifting into what I thought of as “police officer mode,” patting his pocket for gloves and scanning the area around the library.

“She was at Eric’s,” I said. We started walking toward the building and I had a flash of memory of the first time I’d made coffee for Marcus. We’d sat at the table in the staff room and he’d questioned me about my connection to Gregor Easton, thinking that maybe I’d been involved in some kind of torrid relationship with the pompous musician.

Marcus caught my smile in the darkness. “What?” he asked.

“I was just remembering the first time we shared a cup of coffee.”

“Best day of my life,” he said quietly.

It wasn’t what I’d expected him to say. For a moment I didn’t have any words, so I just reached over and squeezed his arm.

He put a hand over mine. “Your hands are cold,” he said.

“My mom always says, ‘Cold hands, warm heart.’”

“Funny, I don’t remember her ever saying that. At least to me.” A smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. “I remember she did tell me what would happen if I ever hurt you, but she didn’t say anything about hands and hearts, just locations where there’s no sunshine.”

My mother was a larger-than-life person who was more likely to be doing Shakespeare in the dining room than making cookies in the kitchen. But I had never doubted her love for my brother, Ethan, my sister, Sara, or me. She was as protective as a mama grizzly would be with her cubs.

Marcus’s lips brushed the top of my head. “I’ll just check in with Hope and you can probably go,” he said.

This time I did go back to the truck, nursing my coffee until Marcus came back. In the end it was more like half an hour before he and Hope said it was okay for me to leave.

“What’s going in the case in the very middle of where the artwork is displayed?” Marcus asked. We were standing at the bottom of the library steps.

“A drawing of a native encampment by Sam Weston,” I said, stuffing my hands in the pockets of my hoodie. “It’s the focal point of the exhibit.” Then his choice of words sank in. I caught a look passing between him and Hope. “Marcus, what do you mean, ‘What’s going in the case?’ The drawing should be in that case now.”

“It’s not,” Hope said, turning to look at the building.

Marcus ran a hand back through his dark wavy hair, a sure sign that he was troubled by the fact that the Weston drawing wasn’t where it should be. Margo Walsh was dead on my office floor. It wasn’t hard to make a connection between the two.

“Everett should know what’s going on,” I said. Another look passed between Marcus and Hope. It was as if they had some form of silent communication. I’d seen Owen and Hercules do the same thing.

“I’ll call him,” Marcus said.

“All right,” I said.

He took a few steps away from us and pulled out his phone.

Hope gave me a smile that was mostly politeness. “You can go home now, Kathleen.”

I pulled my keys out of my pocket and detached the ones for the building. “This one is for the main doors,” I said, pointing to the largest silver key. “This one is the master for all the inside doors.”

She took the keys and put them in her pocket.

“You’ll need the alarm codes,” I said.

“Tell me what they are,” she said. “I can remember them.”

I recited the sequences for both alarm systems and noticed that Hope was silently repeating them after me. “If you need anything or you have any questions, I’m going right home. You can call me.”

The smile she gave me this time was a little more genuine. “Thanks,” she said. She tipped her head toward the building. “I’m sorry about this.”

I sighed softly. “Me too. Margo didn’t deserve this.”

Hope went back into the building. I turned just as Marcus put his phone back into his pocket. I knew that part of his mind was already turning over the details of the case, and I didn’t want to keep him from his job any longer.

“I’m going to go,” I said.

“Okay.” He raked his hand back through his hair again. “I don’t know how late this is going to go, but I’ll call you in the morning.”

“Tell Everett I’ll be up if he needs to talk to me.”

•   •   •

Hercules was waiting for me on the porch, sitting on the bench by the window, when I got home. I sat down beside him, leaned my head back against the window frame and closed my eyes for a moment. When I opened them again Hercules was standing on his back legs, front paws on my chest, looking at me with his head tipped to one side.

“Margo Walsh is dead,” I said. I swallowed down the lump in my throat.

“Merow?” he said.

I thought I heard an inquiry in the sound.

“Do you remember the woman who was here a couple of nights ago?” I asked. “She told you how handsome you looked, like you were wearing a tuxedo.”

Hercules ducked his head. “Mrrr,” he said softly. He’d liked Margo.

It had turned out she was a cat person. She’d been intrigued by my story of how I’d found Owen and Hercules out at Wisteria Hill when they were just kittens, or, to be more exact, how they had found me. She’d spent several minutes talking to each of them and they’d both stayed around once Margo and I had gotten down to work.

I slipped my bag up onto my shoulder again, picked up Hercules and stood up. He leaned in and licked my chin, his way of being sympathetic.

There was no sign of Owen in the kitchen. I set Hercules down and put my things away. I wasn’t exactly sure what to do next. I turned around to see the cat staring at the toaster sitting on the counter.

“That’s a good idea,” I said. I put bread in the toaster and got the milk from the refrigerator. By the time I sat down at the table with a mug of hot chocolate and a plate of peanut butter toast, Owen had appeared, peering around the basement door, whiskers twitching. He walked all the way around the table to get to my left side since Hercules was already sitting on my right.

I pulled a tiny piece for each of them from the toast. I knew Roma would lecture me about feeding them people food, but I rationalized it as being just a bite.

I told the boys what had happened at the library and they both seemed to listen intently. For all I knew it could have been the cat version of listening politely while they were daydreaming about grackles or catnip chickens.

“It has to have something to do with the Weston drawing,” I said.

Owen seemed to frown, as though he disagreed. Then he bent his head and licked a tiny dab of peanut butter from one paw.

Okay, so I didn’t have his full attention. I looked at Hercules. “If the drawing isn’t in the case, where is it?” I asked. “It was the only thing missing. Neither one of the alarms was set. Margo is dead and the drawing is gone. Do you think that’s a coincidence?”

“Merow,” he said.

“I know,” I said. “Me neither.”

Everett called at about nine thirty. He was on his way home and asked if we could get together to decide how to handle things.

“Of course,” I said.

“I appreciate this, Kathleen,” he said. “Rebecca said to tell you she has some of the Jam Lady’s marshmallows.”

I laughed grimly. “Rebecca knows me well.”

I changed out of my tai chi clothes into jeans and a white shirt. I gave the boys fresh water and left the light on over the stove.

“I have no idea how long this will take,” I said. Owen meowed and disappeared down the basement stairs. I made a mental note to figure out why he was spending so much time down there.

Hercules wound around my legs as I pulled on my favorite low leather boots. I reached down to pet the top of his head. “I know it’s asking a lot,” I said in a low voice, “but please try to get along with your brother while I’m gone.”

He suddenly found the edge of the mat where I put my shoes incredibly fascinating.

Rebecca had turned on the light at her back door. I cut across my backyard and then hers. She was watching for me and she opened the back door before I could tap on it.

“Hello, dear,” she said. “Everett told me what happened. Are you all right?”

Rebecca was one of the kindest and gentlest people I’d ever met. She was tiny, with silver hair and blue eyes and a smile that lit up her entire face. She also had a will of iron. “I’m all right,” I said, shrugging off my jacket.

As promised, she made hot chocolate and topped each pottery mug with two fat marshmallows that smelled of vanilla before she set one cup in front of me. “Would you like a rhubarb muffin?” she asked.

“This is good for now. Thank you,” I said.

Rebecca sat opposite me with her own cup. “The way Everett spoke . . .” She hesitated. “What happened to Margo Walsh wasn’t an accident, was it?”

“I uh . . . I don’t think so,” I said slowly. I hated that Margo was probably dead because of a drawing.

“That’s very sad,” she said.

“It is. Very,” I agreed.

“Everett said the Weston drawing is missing?”

I looped my finger through the handle of the cup. “It looks that way, unless Margo put it somewhere for safekeeping, and I don’t know where that would be, or even why she would.”

Rebecca gave a soft sigh. “I’ve seen the drawing, you know. It’s quite lovely and surprisingly detailed, but it’s not worth killing another human being over, no matter how much money it’s worth.”

There was a knock on the back door then. Rebecca got up to answer it, reaching out to pat my arm for a moment as she moved past me.

It was Gavin Solomon. I wasn’t surprised to see him. I’d figured that Everett would have called him as well. He was wearing jeans and a black T-shirt and his hair was mussed as if, like Marcus, he’d run his hands through it several times.

“Hello, Kathleen,” he said. He didn’t seem surprised to see me, either.

“Kathleen and I were just having hot chocolate,” Rebecca said to Gavin. “Would you like to join us? Or I could easily make a pot of coffee.”

Gavin pulled a hand across his neck. He seemed much more subdued than usual. “I think I’ve had more than my share of coffee today. A cup of hot chocolate sounds great.” He looked at me. “I can’t believe Margo is dead. I was just with her a couple of hours ago.”

He joined me at the table and by the time Rebecca had the hot chocolate ready Everett was walking through the back door.