Софи Келли - Faux Paw

“Thanks, but we’re going to spend the whole time talking about the exhibit and the security system,” I said, tucking my cell in my pocket. “I know you have better things to do with your time than listen to that.”

“I don’t mind,” Marcus said with an offhand shrug. “I’ll pick you up.”

I laid a hand on his cheek for a moment. “It’s a business meeting and I need the truck because Hope is going to let me into the library and there are some things I need to take home.” I smiled at him. “How about lunch?”

He hesitated just a moment too long.

“You’re jealous,” I said slowly.

“I just want to spend some time with you,” he said, reaching out with one hand to pull me closer. “You’ve been so busy getting ready for the exhibit, and now Hope and I have this case.”

I held up one finger. “True I’ve been busy.” I held up a second finger. “True that you’re going to be tied up investigating Margo’s murder.” I added a third finger to the first two. “Also true that you, Marcus Gordon, brilliant detective, are jealous.”

I felt his breath against my hair as he exhaled slowly. “I’m not jealous,” he finally said. “I just don’t like the way Solomon looks at you.”

I pulled back so I could see his face. “And how does he look at me?”

His cheeks reddened. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

I felt my shoulders tighten, and this time I was the one who took a deep breath and then exhaled slowly, once, twice. “How does Gavin look at me?” I asked again, my dark eyes locked on Marcus’s blue ones.

His mouth twisted and he broke the gaze, looking over my shoulder. “He looks at you like you’re a hamburger and he hasn’t eaten for a week.”

“Gavin’s a flirt,” I said. “He flirts with me; he flirts with Lita; he flirts with the senior women in the book club.”

“If Burtis catches him flirting with Lita, we’ll have another case to investigate,” Marcus said, with, it seemed to me, just a touch of petulance in his voice.

“You’re missing the point,” I said, struggling to keep the frustration I was feeling out of my voice. “It doesn’t matter if Gavin puts on a G-string and dances around to Beyoncé at the next meeting we have with him. Neither Lita nor I am interested.” I was pretty sure I could speak for Lita, given how serious the relationship seemed to be with Burtis.

“I trust you,” he said, his gaze coming back to my face. Trust had been an issue in the past between the two of us, with Marcus feeling I didn’t trust him enough to share an instinct I had about one of his cases and me feeling shut out because he hadn’t shared any details about his family. I didn’t really think this was about trust. I was pretty sure it was a guy thing.

“You just want to mark your territory.”

“I’m not a dog, Kathleen,” he said, reaching out to run a hand down my arm. “I’m not trying to lift my leg and—”

I held up one hand. “I get the picture,” I said. “And I think you’re more like Owen.”

Marcus frowned. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

“Before he figured out that Hercules had no interest in catnip in general and yellow chickens full of catnip in particular, whenever he got a Fred the Funky Chicken, the first thing he’d do is lick it from one end to the other. It was his way of saying, ‘Mine.’” I folded my arms over my chest. “You’re trying to do the same thing by joining us for breakfast. And you’re not invited.” I caught his hand and gave it a squeeze. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“You’re mad,” he said, frowning in surprise.

I held up my thumb and index finger about an inch apart. “Little bit,” I said.

Micah was sitting on the top of the deck railing by the stairs, next to my empty cup. I stopped to give the top of her head a scratch. “Sometimes he makes me crazy,” I whispered to her.

She gave a soft “mrrr” and nuzzled my hand in what I decided was solidarity.

7

The détente between Owen and Hercules seemed to still be holding. They ate breakfast while I got supper started in the slow cooker the next morning, and then Owen decided to go outside while Hercules came upstairs to watch me brush my teeth and do my hair.

When we got back downstairs I went to the back door to call Owen. He was already coming across the grass. And he was limping. I cut across the lawn to him, bending down to pick him up. He held out his left front paw, somewhat sheepishly, it seemed to me. A large sliver of wood protruded between his first and second claw.

I sucked in a breath. “What happened?” I asked. That had to hurt.

Owen looked in the direction of Rebecca’s house.

“The woodpile,” I said.

“Merow,” he said sadly. He liked to sit on the top of the wood Rebecca had split for her fireplace and survey both our yards like a ruler on his throne.

I started back to the house, keeping a firm grip on the cat, because I knew once he figured out what my next move was going to be he was going to disappear.

Literally.

As soon as I was in the kitchen, I reached for the cat carrier bag hanging by the door, swept Owen inside and zippered the top shut with one smooth motion. His howl of outrage brought Hercules from the living room.

“I’m sorry,” I said to Owen. “This is something Roma has to do.”

His golden eyes glared at me through the mesh panel in the top of the bag. As I picked up my phone, Hercules approached the bag and meowed softly in inquiry at his brother. Owen held up his injured paw and gave a pitiful meow. Hercules looked over his shoulder at me.

“No,” I said as I pulled up Roma’s number on my phone. “I’m not doing this. He needs a doctor.” I shook my head. Why was I explaining myself to them?

Roma agreed to meet us at the clinic. Once we got into an examination room she gave me a towel to wrap around Owen and pulled on her Kevlar glove. I tried to stroke his fur, but he twisted his head away and glared at me.

“I know it hurts,” I said. I took hold of his paw with my right hand, keeping his body against my body with my arm. At the same time I held a catnip chicken in front of his face with the other hand. He turned his head, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. Owen knew a bribe when he was presented with one, and he wanted to ignore the yellow chicken, but there’s principle and then there’s funky chickens.

He grabbed the toy in his mouth and at the same moment Roma yanked the sliver of wood from his paw with a large pair of tweezers. Owen gave a yowl of surprise and Fred the Funky Chicken fell into my outstretched hand. He tried to shake his paw but I was still holding on to it.

“Let Roma make sure she got it all,” I said.

He shot me a baleful glance and took the catnip chicken in his teeth, biting down through the yellow fabric into the tightly packed catnip with a crunching sound.

Roma straightened up. “I don’t see any other slivers of wood, and the skin is barely broken. I’m going to rinse the area, but that’s about all. Given that Owen is . . . well . . . Owen, I’m not going to put on a bandage, but if you see any sign at all of infection, bring him back.”

She leaned sideways to get in the little tabby’s line of sight. He stared, resolutely, at the floor. “Good job, Owen,” she said.

He made ungracious grumbling sounds in his throat.

By the time we were back in the truck it was almost time to meet Gavin. I decided Owen would be okay for about half an hour in the truck. I gave him a pile of sardine crackers.

“I’ll bring you something from Eric’s,” I promised.

He licked his whiskers but refused to look at me.

I left him spreading his crackers all over the seat.