Ghostly Paws (Mystic Notch Cozy Mystery Series) (14 page)

I cleared my throat. “I … umm … I was coming to ask your grandfather about some bronzes he donated to the library many years ago.”
 

Derek narrowed his eyes. “Bronzes … oh, yes. We have a big collection. I don’t remember him donating any to the library, though.”

“It was in the sixties, before our time,” I said, remembering that even though the family trait of a thick streak of premature gray in Derek’s hair made him
seem
a lot older, he was really only a few years my senior. He would have been a kid when the bronzes were donated.

Derek chuckled, relaxing a bit. “Ahh … what did you want to know?”

“I was wondering if your grandfather would remember who was around at the ceremony when he donated them.”

“Why would you want to know that?”

“We think someone might have broken into the library to steal them and I was trying to figure out who might have known they were there. They were moved downstairs years ago and I think most everyone has forgotten about them.”

“We?” Derek’s smile faltered and he looked at me funny. “Are you working with the police or something?”

I shifted uneasily. “Well, no, it’s just—”

Crash!

We both swiveled toward the sound that had come from the room on the left.

Derek’s face took on a look of panic and we started toward the room, only to be met by Felicity Bates, Derek’s mother, who swept out of the room in a long black dress, wide sleeves flowing around her wrists.
 

She stopped short at the sight of us, a look of surprise on her face.

“Mother, what’s going on?” Derek’s voice was tinged with panic.

“Oh, dear, I was just practicing …” Felicity let her voice trail off as she noticed me standing there. “What is she doing here?”

My brows shot up. She didn’t sound very friendly. “I just came to ask—”

“She was just leaving,” Derek interrupted me, grabbing my elbow roughly and jerking me toward the door.
 

“Was that a crash?” Derek’s brother Carson came running down the stairs, taking them two at a time. “Mother, are you okay?”

“Yes, but there’s a mess in there.” Felicity pointed toward the french doors and Carson looked in that direction, catching sight of me on the way.

“Oh. Hi, Willa.” His eyes went to Derek’s hand on my elbow and he shot me a confused and apologetic look.

“Hi, Carson—” Derek cut off my words by tugging me forcefully in the direction of the door. I turned, looking back over my shoulder at Carson, then craning to see what was going on in the room beyond the french doors. I couldn’t see a thing, though, and the movement was making my leg hurt.

Derek pulled the front door open with one hand, and shoved me through the threshold backwards. Inside the house, I could see Felicity gesturing wildly to Carson about something. Carson was making soothing motions, I assumed to calm her down. I looked at Derek.
 

“Hey, wait. I—”

Derek slammed the door in my face and I stumbled backward. I could feel my bad leg starting to give out on me and I braced for the impact of the cold, granite steps, screwing my face up into a grimace and flapping my arms.
 

But, instead of feeling the sharp edge of the hard rock steps, I found myself in a pair of strong arms. I twisted around, my heart thudding against my rib cage and looked straight into the steely gray eyes of … Eddie Striker.

Chapter Twenty

“What are
you
doing here?” I asked through pain-clenched teeth.

“I should be asking the same of you.” He looked up at the imposing oak door. “What did you do to him to make him slam the door on you like that?”

“Nothing,” I said, although not with as much indignation as I’d intended, because I was distracted by his woodsy, leathery smell. I probably smelled like medicinal peppermint.

“So, what
are
you doing here?” He gently eased me back up onto my feet.
 

Instead of answering, I gingerly tested my left leg, wincing in pain as I increased the pressure.
 

Striker’s face turned hard. “Did he hurt you?”

“No, the weather makes it act up.” Of course, Derek’s forceful exit didn’t help any, but I didn’t need Striker getting all macho and defending me.

“Where does it hurt?”

I pointed to where it hurt, an area on the side, running mid-thigh to mid-calf. He knelt down, poking and prodding at the area, causing me to yip and groan at various decibels, depending on how much it hurt. He was surprisingly gentle, but even the slightest pressure was painful.

After a few minutes, he stood up. I shook my leg out, surprised to find it actually felt a little better.

“The muscle is knotted up. Probably from previous damage … you mentioned you were in a car accident …”

“Yes, a little over a year ago.”

“You should be getting massages, maybe even acupuncture.” He looked down at my leg. “That would help it heal quicker and give you less pain.”

“Oh, thanks.” I wasn’t sure what to say. Why was he suddenly being so nice, and how did he know so much about muscle pain?
 

His head was tilted, still looking down at my leg. The drizzle had stopped and the late afternoon sun made an appearance from behind the clouds. I noticed how the angle of the light accentuated his chiseled features, making him look dangerously handsome. My stomach started to flip-flop uncomfortably and I took a step away.

“You didn’t answer my question.” Striker’s eyes followed me as I slowly backed toward my car. “What were you doing here, and why was Derek throwing you out?”

“He wasn’t actually throwing me out.” I pressed my lips together, puzzled as to why he did throw me out. “There was a crash in one of the rooms and I guess they needed to clean it up.”

Striker looked at me like he didn’t believe me.
 

I half-shrugged and spread my arms. “I know it sounds weird, but it’s true. Why are you here?”

“Police business.”
 

No kidding. I wondered if he was following the same trail that I was. “About the bronzes?”
 

Striker narrowed his eyes at me. “Maybe.”

We stood there staring at each other for a few electrically charged seconds while I decided whether to keep badgering him for information or just leave.

He must have been thinking the same thing, because he said, “I get the impression you’re not going to stop looking into this. Maybe it would be best if we compared notes. How about we meet back at the
The Mystic Cafe
in say … fifteen minutes?”

Compare notes? Since when did the police want to let me in on their investigation? He must have thought I had some information he could use … but maybe he had some
I
could use.

My pulse kicked into high gear and I heard myself say, “Sounds good. I have to go back to town before I go home anyway.”

“Okay, I’ll only be a few minutes here. Order me a small coffee. Black.” Striker turned to the door and I hobbled to my Jeep, wondering if I’d just accepted an invitation that was finally going to give me a break in the case … or that would lead to our first date.

***

I found a parking spot on Main Street between my shop and the Mystic Cafe. Glancing over to the bookstore, I could see Pandora glaring at me from her cat bed in the window. Her displeasure was obvious in her slitted golden-green orbs and I wondered if she’d demonstrate it to me by leaving a hairball on my purple sofa … or worse.
 

It was just a little after five and the cafe was fairly empty. I chose a booth near the back and sat facing the door. I ordered Striker his coffee and one for myself, along with a roast beef and melted Swiss cheese on an onion roll. I was hungry.

Striker strolled in just as the sandwich appeared on the table.
 

“Roast beef and Swiss?” He eyed the sandwich before taking a sip of the coffee I’d shoved over to his side of the table.

“You want half?” I raised my brow at him and slid the sandwich toward him.

“No, thanks.” He watched me smear some horseradish from the condiment dish on the sandwich and take a bite. I suddenly felt self-conscious, my face flushing—probably from the horseradish. I swallowed and the food sat like a leaden lump in my stomach.

“So, what have you got?” I asked.

“You go first.”

I shrugged. “I don’t really have anything. My best guess is that it has something to do with the bronzes.”

“How did you find out about the bronzes, anyway?”

“Josiah Barrows, the old postmaster mentioned it. He remembered when they were donated.” No way was I going to tell him Lavinia had verified that.

“So that’s why you were at the Bates’?”

I shrugged.

“And how did you happen to be behind the library, conveniently finding the murder weapon?”

“Aha! So that
was
the murder weapon.”

Striker nodded. “We found Lavinia’s blood on it. But how did you even know to look there?”

I narrowed my eyes. I didn’t like how this was going. It was starting to feel more like an interrogation than sharing information. So far, it was all take and no give.

“I actually wasn’t there because I thought I would find a murder weapon. At that time, I didn’t even know Lavinia had been murdered. I was looking for my cat,” I said, then tried to turn the tide so I was the one getting information instead of giving it. “So, you were at the Bates mansion because of the bronzes, too? That must mean you think the same thing I do.”

“Not necessarily. But I have to follow every lead.”

I took another bite of my sandwich. A string of cheese dribbled down my chin, causing the corners of Striker’s mouth to curl up in an alarmingly charming grin. I swiped at the cheese with as much dignity as I could. “Have you and Augusta come up with any other clues, besides the embosser and the bronzes?”

Striker studied me, probably deciding if he could trust me. I stared back with my most earnest look. It must have worked, because he said, “We did find some gray hairs clutched in Lavinia’s hand.”

My brows shot up. “Gray hairs? You mean like from an old person?”

Striker shrugged. “Or a young person with gray hair.”

My eyes immediately looked up at my hairline where those pesky white hairs were starting to appear. I noticed Striker looking, too.
 

“Mine are white,” I said.

Striker laughed. “You hardly have any—this was a clump.”

“So you think she grabbed onto the killer’s hair?” I made a mental note to ask Lavinia about that.

“It’s possible.”

“Maybe it was her own hair. She did have gray hair.” Like half the town, I thought, as I looked around the half-empty cafe noticing most of the patrons were senior citizens.

“It’s not a match with her hair.” Striker rubbed his chin. “Unfortunately, the forensics lab here doesn’t have all the latest equipment, so we couldn’t tell much more about it. Augusta sent it out for more analysis, but that’s going to take a while.”

Striker watched patiently while I polished off my sandwich. He’d given me a clue and now I supposed I should reciprocate.

I wiped my mouth with the brown paper napkin. “Ophelia said she saw a long, black car speeding away from town that morning.”

Striker’s left brow lifted a fraction of an inch and I realized with satisfaction the he hadn’t known about that.
 

“You talked to her?” he asked.

“Yep. She said she saw the car after she did her banking.” I paused. “Didn’t you say she was at the bank at Lavinia’s time of death?”

Striker nodded. “I suppose that could have been the killer making a hasty get-away. Did she see who was driving?”

I shook my head.
 

He pressed his lips together. “Hmm … well that’s something to keep in mind, anyway.”

“It doesn’t seem like there’s much to go on.” My words were weighted down with disappointment. How were we ever going to find Lavinia’s killer with these skimpy clues? “I mean, there are so many people that each of these clues could point to.”

“I know it seems that way.” Striker finished his coffee and made ‘getting ready to leave’ motions. “But the trick is to find the one person that all the clues fall into place for. So, if you come up with any others, let me know … it could mean the difference between narrowing things down to the real killer or not.”

He pushed up from the table and I followed suit, all the while thinking about the big ring Lavinia had said the killer was wearing. Glancing around the shop, I picked out several people who had big rings on. Like the other clues, it wasn’t much to go on and I couldn’t tell Striker about it anyway … not unless I wanted to tell him I talked to ghosts. Which I didn’t.

Striker swiped up my sandwich wrappings and paper cup and tossed them in the trash, then opened the door for me and we stepped out onto the street. It was dusk, but the clouds had dispersed and a setting slice of sun glittered cheerfully on the street.
 

“I’m parked down there.” Striker pointed down the street, and I could see the police car a few spots past my shop.

“I have to go that way, too,” I said, starting in that direction. “Gotta stop in the shop and pick up my cat.”

Striker fell in beside me and I was suddenly awkwardly aware of his presence. He was walking kind of close, which, I noticed with annoyance, made my pulse skitter.
 

I tried to stick to business. “So, what made you share the clues with me?”

Striker snorted. “It was obvious you weren’t going to stop looking into this, so I figured it was better to join forces so I could keep an eye on you.”

“Are you sure it’s not because you thought I had some clues you couldn’t figure out?” I teased.

Striker laughed, and his wide smile made my stomach flip. We’d reached my shop and he stopped beside me on the sidewalk as I dug around in my pocket for the key.

“Well, thanks for sharing.” I turned toward the door and he touched my arm, turning me back to him.
 

I looked up at him. His face had turned serious. “Willa, I want you to be very careful on this. Don’t go off on any investigations without talking to me first. We still don’t know the motive for this killing and … well … it could dangerous.”