Sleight of Paw (12 page)

“The autopsy isn’t until later this morning.”

That wasn’t a yes or no.

We were at the bottom of the driveway. Marcus stopped, the back end of the SUV slipping a little on the ice. “Why are you asking?” he said. “Is there something you didn’t tell me?”

“I told you everything that happened yesterday morning.”
Just don’t ask me about the night before,
I added silently.

We pulled onto the old highway. The sun was behind us, surprisingly warm on the back of my head. Marcus continued to watch the road. “Did you see anything any other time? The night before, for instance.”

How did he do that?
It was as though he could read my thoughts. I pulled a ChapStick out of my pocket. My lips were suddenly dry and I needed to buy time.

I snapped the cap on the little tube and rolled it over my fingers and back again before I put it in my pocket. The movement caught his attention.

“How did you do that?”

“Excuse me?” I said.

“Flip that lip stuff over your fingers.”

I looked down at my hands. “Oh, that. It’s just the same as doing it with a quarter.”

He let out a breath. “And how do you know how to do it with quarter?”

I felt my cheeks getting warm. “Well, poker,” I said.

“Poker?”

“Uh-huh, a lot of poker games happen backstage. Crew, cast. I watched. I learned things.”

“So I see,” he said, making a left turn onto Mountain Road, slowing a little in the traffic.

I hadn’t answered his question. Maybe I was in the clear.

“So,” he said, checking the mirrors. “You were going to tell me if you saw anything Wednesday night.”

I exhaled slowly. I was making myself crazy trying to protect someone who didn’t need protecting. Harry Senior didn’t drive. What did it matter if he’d had an argument with Agatha?

“I don’t think this has anything to do with Agatha’s death,” I began, holding up my hand, because I knew he was going to interrupt. “And yes, I know you’ll be the judge of what’s important and what’s not.”

He closed his mouth on whatever words he’d been going to say. When he did speak it was only to say, “Go ahead.” His tone told me he was already shifting into detective mode again.

“Agatha came in to the café while Maggie, Roma, and I were there. We were waiting for Oren to open the community center for us.”

An image of the old woman in the out-of-fashion plaid wool coat flashed in my mind, followed by another image of that same coat, stained dark with blood.

“Eric had food for her. Right after that we all came out.”

Marcus said nothing, hoping that the silence would make me say more, I was guessing. I already knew what I was going to say. “Down the street a little I saw Agatha with Harrison Taylor.”

“What were they doing?”

“As far as I could tell, talking. I couldn’t hear what they were saying.”

“That’s it?”

“Uh-huh. I did walk Harry to Eric’s.”

He shot me a quick look. We were almost at my house. “Why did you do that?”

“Because the sidewalk was slippery. Because he isn’t a young man.”

“So, that’s it?” he said. “You saw Mr. Taylor talking to Mrs. Shepherd. You walked him to the restaurant.”

“That’s it,” I said, feeling a knot of annoyance beginning to twist in my stomach. “What? Do you think I ran after Agatha, lured her into the alley, and whacked her with my purse?”

“Did you?”

For a second I thought about whacking him with my mittens. I took a breath and let it out. “No. I didn’t.”

“I know,” he said. “The waitress saw you with Mr. Taylor. So did Peter Lundgren.”

“So I have an alibi.”

He smiled and turned into my driveway.

I swallowed my aggravation and picked up the thermos.

He shifted in his seat. “Thanks for the cocoa. And for helping me this morning.”

“You’re welcome,” I said a bit abruptly. It bothered me that he didn’t trust me, even though I knew it was part of his job not to trust anybody. “Have a good day,” I said as I slid out of the car.

Owen was in the kitchen, lying on his side in a square of sunlight, lazily washing his face. “Hey, fur ball,” I said as I hung up my old coat. “I forgot last night. Rebecca sent you a present.”

At the sound of her name Owen jumped to his feet and trotted over to stand expectantly at my mine. I pulled the paper bag from the pocket of my other jacket, reached inside and fished out a Fred the Funky Chicken. If it was possible for a cat’s face to light up with joy, Owen’s did.

I took the yellow toy out of the package, then I leaned down and handed it to him. I didn’t even bother with my usual “Rebecca spoils you” speech. Owen grabbed the chicken and disappeared around the corner of the doorway.

After a moment Hercules came in from the living room. He looked back in the direction Owen had gone with his catnip chicken, then looked quizzically at me.

“Rebecca,” I said.

Herc yawned. Catnip wasn’t his thing.

I held up the paper bag. “She sent you something, too,” I said. His head came up, eyes big and green. I held out the bag, swinging it from side to side. “Wanna see?” I teased.

Of course he did, but unlike Owen, Hercules wouldn’t want to seem too eager. He walked slowly over to me, glanced at the small, brown paper sack, and then looked around the kitchen like it didn’t matter if I showed him or not. I waited until he sat down in front of me before I pulled the sardine can from the bag.

“Merow,” he said. He knew what was in the can.

“What do you think?” I asked. “Maybe you should try one, just to make sure they haven’t gone bad or anything.” I set the sardines on the counter, found a plate, and pulled back the top of the oblong can.

The pungent smell of fish and oil hit me. “They smell like sardines,” I said. I used a fork to pull out two tiny fish and put them on the plate. I took it over to Hercules, who was studying his paw, pretending to be indifferent.

He sniffed the little fish and looked up at me. “Yeah, I think they smell okay,” I said.

He bent and licked a bit of oil on the plate. And then a bit more, and then he didn’t even try to act uninterested. He started eating with a sigh of happiness.

“Do they taste okay?” I asked. The only answer was the sound of him slurping. Better than a yes, I figured.

I was putting the rest of the sardines away when the phone rang. It was Maggie. “Can you still give me a hand this afternoon?” she asked.

“Sure,” I said. “What do you need?”

“Mostly another set of hands and eyes.”

“I could probably get away around three o’clock.” I looked out the living room window. The sky was still blue, the sun was still shining, my arm didn’t ache. There was no snow coming for a while.

“That would be great,” Maggie said. “I think Ruby is going to come, as well, and she’s in the store until two.”

I sank on to the footstool. “How is she really?”

“She’s better.”

“Marcus had said the autopsy was this morning. I know having some kind of memorial is important to Ruby,” I said.

“And Roma and a lot of other people,” Maggie added. “Any chance you can get any information from Marcus?”

“I don’t think so,” I said, brushing a clump of gray cat hair off the footstool. Proof that Owen was sleeping on the thing when I wasn’t home.

“I went to Wisteria Hill with him this morning and I didn’t find out anything.” I held up a warning finger even though she couldn’t see it. “And don’t start with me,” I cautioned. “I went to feed the cats. I don’t want to go out with him. I don’t even like him most of the time—”

“—and he doesn’t even have a library card,” she finished.

“Well, he doesn’t,” I muttered. Did I hear a laugh on the other end of the phone? “He thought I killed Gregor Easton.”

“You were never a serious suspect. You weren’t arrested.”

“He thought I was having an affair with Easton. The man was twice my age.”

“But you weren’t,” Maggie added, ever so reasonably.

“Why don’t you bug Roma about her love life?”

“You know, there’s a rumor going around that she’s seeing someone.” Maggie said.

“There’s always a rumor going around about something,” I said. “I heard the same story. The only male she sees on a regular basis is that old horse the Kings bought for their daughter.”

Maggie laughed.

“I’ll see you at three o’clock.”

“See you then,” she said, and hung up.

I went upstairs and checked my e-mail. There was one from my sister, Sara. She was working in northern Canada on a film. Sara was a documentary filmmaker, but she paid her bills working as a makeup artist on small, and now increasingly bigger, independent films. In In the attached photo she was squinting into the sun, most of her face obscured by the hood of her parka. I peered at the background. There was almost much snow there as there was in Mayville.

There was also an e-mail from my friend Lise, in Boston.
I miss you,
her e-mail ended.
This time next year you’ll be home
.

This time next year.

I’d been in Minnesota for almost a year now. That meant I had just over a year left on my contract. What if they wanted me to stay? Did I want to stay? When I left Boston it had been an impulsive decision.

Andrew had married someone else. Granted, there had been a large amount of alcohol involved, but as far as I was concerned, his being married, even if it was to somebody he’d known for just two weeks, meant I wasn’t going to be with him anymore.

And while I loved my mom and my dad, and Ethan, my brother, and Sara, they’d always been impetuous and unpredictable. Someone had had to be sensible and practical. Someone had had to make sure there was milk and toilet paper. Someone had had to know how to fill out the myriad of papers in the emergency room. And get supper, even if it was only peanut butter–and-banana sandwiches.

That someone had been me for as long as I could remember. Me, when it was just Mom and Dad and me. Me, when they got divorced and I alternated weeks between them. Me, when they got married again because they couldn’t leave each other alone, which is why Ethan and Sara were guests, so to speak, at the wedding.

Coming to Mayville had really been running away. I hadn’t expected to make friends. In Boston everyone just assumed that I’d be back when my two-year contract was over.

I tried to imagine not sitting in Eric’s with Maggie and Roma, not going to tai chi—I was so close to mastering the complete form—and not walking across the backyard to have iced tea with Rebecca in her gazebo.

And what about Owen and Hercules? Could I take them back to Boston? I tried to picture them in an apartment in the city. Owen, who fancied himself a hunter—the birds had never been safer—would hate it. And how would I get Hercules to stay inside?

I couldn’t leave my cats behind. They wouldn’t let anyone but me touch them. Well, other than Agatha, who was dead, and Old Harry, who was supposed to be, according to the gossip around town.

And how would I explain to anyone—Roma, Maggie, anyone—about the cats? Roma said they were special, but she meant because of the way they’d attached themselves to me.

As much as I missed watching my parents prepare for a production, or seeing what Ethan had done to his hair, or going to one of Lise’s dinner parties, I wasn’t sure I wanted to go back to Boston.

That was a surprise.

Something in the hallway caught my eye. Owen was just passing the bedroom door with the funky chicken’s decapitated head in his mouth and a blissful look on his face. I couldn’t be sure, but he didn’t seem to be walking in a straight line. Owen was a little catnip junkie, no matter what Roma said.

I looked at my watch. I had enough time to get the slow cooker started and get to the library early.

I got supper simmering, quickly cleaned up, and hustled back upstairs to get ready for work.

“I’m leaving,” I called, pulling on my coat. From somewhere in the house I heard a faint meow—Owen. Then in a moment Hercules appeared. “I’ll see you later,” I said. He gave me a soft “murp” and disappeared back into the living room.

I pulled on my boots and hat and grabbed my bag. I was locking the door when I realized I hadn’t packed a lunch. I looked at my watch. It would be faster to walk down to Eric’s Place and get a sandwich than to go back inside and make something. And yes, maybe I would get some of the latest talk about Agatha Shepherd’s death, too.

I was three houses down the hill when Harry Junior’s truck drove past me, slowed and stopped. He rolled down his window. “Hey, Kathleen, would you like a drive down the hill?” he called.

The sun was bright, but with the wind, it wasn’t very warm out. “Yes,” I said.

“Hop in, then,” he said. He rolled the window back up.

I waited for a minivan to pass in the other direction, then scooted across the street and climbed into Harry’s truck. It may have been well used, but Harry took care of the old Ford and the heat was blasting like I was sitting in front of a stoked woodstove.

“Thank you so much,” I said, reaching for the seat belt.

“You’re welcome.” He put the truck in gear, checking the mirrors before he pulled into the street.

I leaned back against the turquoise vinyl seat and let the heat soak through my coat. “I have to buy a car.”

“Is there a reason you haven’t?”

“Pretty much laziness,” I said with a laugh. “I sold my car in Boston, intending to buy one when I got here.” I held my hands up to the heating vent. “But it was easy to walk everywhere and, well, you know what they say about good intentions.”

Harry smiled. “That I do.”

“Are you going to the Winterfest supper tonight?” I asked.

“Absolutely,” he said. “The old man hasn’t missed a Winterfest supper in”—he paused for a second—“well, ever, except for when he was overseas. As long as he’s got a pulse he’s going to be there.”