Софи Келли - Faux Paw

Gavin smiled when he saw me walk in. I didn’t see anything in his expression that suggested he saw himself as a starving man and me as a hamburger.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” I said. “I had a small cat emergency.”

“Is everything all right?”

I nodded. “Owen got a sliver of wood stuck in his paw, but it’s out and he’s okay. In fact, he’ll probably be milking it for the rest of the week.”

“Can’t fault him for that,” Gavin said, grinning at me.

Claire was at the table with coffee for me before I’d pulled off my jacket. Gavin gave her his toothpaste-commercial smile. “Thanks, Claire,” he said. “You know you’re going to have me ruined for anywhere else to eat when I go back to Chicago.”

She smiled back at him. “It’s all part of my master plan for world domination.” She looked at me. “We got some tomatoes from the hydroponic place. They’re pretty good.” One eyebrow went up. “Are you interested in a breakfast sandwich?”

“Very,” I said. “Thank you.”

Once Claire had started back for the kitchen, Gavin leaned forward, his forearms on the small table, and smiled at me. “I think I may have found a way to satisfy the museum’s requirements for keeping the artwork safe.”

“Seriously?” I said.

He nodded and reached for his tablet. “There’s a line in our contract with the insurance company about using ‘all reasonable measures’ to protect the artwork during the times it’s not on exhibit.”

I added cream and sugar to my coffee. “Which means?”

“Keeping the library closed is not a reasonable measure.” He turned the tablet so I could see the paragraph he was talking about in the contract. “I talked to Lita to get her thoughts. She agreed with me. She even ran it by a lawyer she knows.”

That had to be Brady.

Gavin took the tablet back and set it on the table again. “He agrees.”

“Yes!” I said.

He held up one hand, and even though it felt a little silly I high-fived him because being able to open the library once the police were finished had just made my life so much easier.

I leaned back in my seat and folded my hands around my mug. “Thank you,” I said. “I appreciate you going through the contract.”

He reached for his own coffee. “Hey, it was the least I could do after all the disruption having the exhibit here has caused for you.” His expression changed. “Have you heard anything more about the investigation into Margo’s death? Or should I not ask you that?”

“No, it’s okay,” I said. “I haven’t heard anything.”

Claire came out of the kitchen with a tray and started toward us.

“There’s a memorial being planned for Margo in Minneapolis the first of next week,” Gavin said. “I’m going to try to be there. Her, uh . . . service will be in Chicago.”

“I’m glad you’re going,” I said.

Over breakfast we went over the plans to keep the artwork secure until it could be moved and how that might affect day-to-day operations at the library. With a few adjustments I felt confident we could make things work.

When Claire came back to the table, she handed the bill to Gavin, something I realized he must have arranged in advance. “No,” I said, shaking my head. “I asked you to meet me for breakfast.”

“And I’d been about to make the same request when I got your text,” he countered. “This was business. My company’s business. You can get it next time.” He turned to Claire. “Would you add a chicken salad sandwich to that, please?” he held out the bill and his credit card.

“Of course,” she said. “How would you like the sandwich?”

“Hold the bread, mayo, celery and green onions.”

Claire frowned but at the same time a hint of a smile played around her mouth. “So what you really want is the chicken.”

“Yeah,” Gavin said. “I’m trying to take a more minimalist approach to lunch.”

“Okay,” Claire said, giving up and letting the smile out. “I’ll be right back.”

He pulled on his leather jacket and grabbed his messenger bag. I told him I’d call Lita and get back to him once I’d talked to her and checked out the library.

Claire came back with his receipt and a small take-out container that I was guessing held the chicken. Gavin thanked her and passed the cardboard container over to me. “For Owen,” he said. “Guys have to stick together.”

I laughed. “Thank you. You’ll have a friend for life now.”

“You can’t have too many of those,” he said. His phone buzzed.

“I’ll talk to you later,” I said.

If Owen had been a person, I would have said his eyes lit up when his nose detected the aroma coming from the take-out container. His whiskers twitched and he momentarily forgot about his injured paw as he walked across the front seat of the truck to sniff the box.

“Are you feeling better?” I asked.

He immediately sat down, held up his paw and meowed, giving me his sad-kitty face.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. I leaned over and carefully lifted him onto my lap. “You were very brave,” I told him, “and you didn’t try to bite Roma even once.”

He ducked his head and then looked up at me with his exotic golden eyes. It was Owen’s way of trying to seem modest.

“I have to go to the library,” I said. “You can stay in the truck or you can come inside if”—I narrowed my gaze at him—“if you stay in the bag.”

He seemed to consider my words. Then he reached out and put his uninjured paw on the take-out box.

“You can have a couple of pieces now and the rest after we’re done.”

That seemed to be okay with him. He climbed down off my lap and looked expectantly at me.

I fished two slices of grilled chicken out of the container and held them out to Owen. He took each piece from my hand and set it on the seat so he could go through the little ritual of sniffing and checking that he always followed before he ate anything. If there was anything to reincarnation, Owen had probably been some autocratic ruler poisoned by a cadre of disgruntled noblemen, with enough trace memory lingering that he wasn’t going to let it happen again even though in this life he was a small tabby cat.

“Gavin sent that, by the way,” I said as I pulled away from the curb.

Owen lifted his head, looked around and gave a loud meow. Sending a thank-you out into the universe perhaps?

Owen climbed into the cat carrier without objection when we got to the library. For a moment I debated leaving him in the truck, but I knew if he got pissed off he’d just render himself invisible and follow me anyway. An Owen I could see and hopefully corral to some degree was preferable to an unseen cat roaming around the building, poking his furry nose into whatever struck his fancy.

Hope was waiting for me.

“I have Owen,” I said, putting one hand on the side of the carrier bag. “I had to take him to Roma and I didn’t have time to take him home after that.”

“Is he all right?” she asked, eyeing the carrier.

An indignant “merow” came from inside before I could answer.

“He got a big splinter between two claws on his paw,” I said. “Roma came to the rescue.”

Hope made a face. “Sounds painful.”

Owen gave another loud meow.

Hope laughed. “I swear that cat knows what you say to him.” She leaned toward the bag. “I’m sorry about your paw,” she said. “I hope you’re feeling better soon.”

He gave a little murp of acknowledgment and shifted against my hip. It occurred to me that maybe I was worrying way too much about people finding out how much I talked to the cats.

The book drop was more than overflowing, if that was possible. Two sets of shelves to one side of the circulation desk had been turned sideways and there were bits of dirt and dried grass on the floors. By my standards things were a mess. Still, I felt a huge sense of relief now that I was inside again and could start dealing with it all.