Софи Келли - Faux Paw

Suddenly, I knew how to answer Gavin’s question. “I have a photo of my mom onstage as Adelaide in Guys and Dolls . I thought maybe if Julian would like it, I’d send it to him as a thank-you for talking to us.”

“I know what you’re trying to do, Kathleen,” Gavin said, a knowing edge to his voice.

“You do?” I said.

“You think if you offer to send the picture it might motivate him to ask around, see if he can learn anything about the Weston drawing.”

“Something like that,” I said.

“All right, fine,” he finally said.

I reached down, grabbed a pad of paper from the floor and wrote down the number he gave me.

“Good luck, Kathleen,” Gavin said. I heard a woman’s voice in the background. “I have to go.”

“I’ll call you in the morning,” I said. “Good night.”

I set the phone down and looked at Hercules. He looked at me.

“I should be mad at you,” I said.

The cat didn’t so much as twitch a whisker.

“Between you and your brother I feel like all I do is pick up paper.”

Still no reaction.

I glanced down at the photo album on the floor. Thanks to Hercules knocking things over I’d come up with a plausible reason to call Julian McCrea. And I would send him the photo if he wanted it. In a moment of levity my mother had signed it before she’d given it to me.

“Well,” I said slowly. “You did help me. Indirectly. So I guess you’re off the hook.”

He blinked, turned and headed for the kitchen. He stopped in the doorway and looked expectantly back over his shoulder.

“Indirectly,” I repeated. “That doesn’t warrant a treat.”

“Murp,” he said, disappearing—not literally—around the doorway.

I padded out to the kitchen and gave Hercules a second tiny bite of sardine, because who was I kidding? We both knew I was going to. Owen wandered in, looked at his brother eating and then looked at me.

“What did you do to warrant a treat?” I asked.

He seemed to think for a minute, then tipped his head to one side and gave me his “I’m so adorable” look. “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” I said. Then I got him a chunk of the little fish.

“You’re both spoiled,” I said, leaning against the counter. “Your character has been weakened.”

They looked at each other. Something passed wordlessly between them and then they dropped their heads and went back to eating.

Since Owen and Hercules were having a treat I decided I’d have one as well. I made a cup of hot chocolate and took it to the table with the last cinnamon roll.

“Am I crazy?” I said.

Neither cat even bothered to look up at me.

My cell phone was sitting in the middle of the table. I had Julian McCrea’s number now. There was nothing to stop me from calling him and asking about Devin Rossi. Nothing except the fact that the more I thought about it, the more preposterous my idea seemed. An art thief who had been stealing from museums and galleries all over North America changes her name, retires to Red Wing, Minnesota, to live the quiet life of an artist, then comes out of retirement to steal a drawing from an exhibit in my library.

“I think it might have been an episode of Murder, She Wrote ,” I muttered, mostly to myself.

On the other hand . . . “It’s better to do something and know than not do it and wonder.” How many times had I heard my mother say those words?

I got up and retrieved the piece of paper with Julian McCrea’s phone number. When I came back to the kitchen, both cats were sitting next to my chair and two furry faces were pointed in my direction. I took it as a vote of support.

Julian McCrea answered his phone on the fourth ring. “Good evening, Kathleen,” he said smoothly. He must have had caller ID.

I smiled, hoping it would come through in my voice. “Good evening, Julian,” I said. “I hope I haven’t taken you from anything important.”

“You haven’t,” he replied. “What can I do for you?”

“I have a photograph of my mother in character as Adelaide. It’s even signed. You mentioned you were a bit of a fan. I’d like to send it to you as a small thank-you for meeting with me. Is there an address I could use?”

“That’s very thoughtful,” he said. “Do you have a pen?”

I did. He gave me a post office box address and I wrote it underneath his phone number.

“I’m sorry that I don’t have any more information for you,” Julian said.

“It’s all right,” I said. “I understand. I don’t think this is going to be an easy case to solve.”

“The police aren’t any closer to figuring out who took the Weston drawing?”

I shifted in my chair, pulling one foot up underneath me. “Or who killed Margo Walsh. No.” I hesitated. “Do you remember we spoke about Devin Rossi?”

“Let me guess,” Julian said. “Gavin still thinks that perhaps she was the thief.” I could hear the amusement in his voice.

I tried to match his tone. “I know it’s kind of silly to think an art thief came to a small town in Minnesota to steal a drawing that isn’t even worth that much money.”

“No offense, Kathleen, but, yes, a little.”

“We’re all kind of grasping at straws,” I said. “So I hope you won’t think less of me if I ask if you know what Devin Rossi looks like. Is she possibly quite tall—over six feet, with an athletic frame? There was a woman like that in the library the day before the picture was stolen and Margo was killed.”

Rena Adler was probably a couple of inches shorter than I was. The person I’d described had been in the library the day before Margo’s murder. She was the women’s basketball coach at the high school.

I didn’t know if Julian McCrea’s business dealings were legitimate or not. I didn’t want anyone to know what I suspected, just in case.

“I’m sorry,” Julian said. “I met a woman I believe was Devin Rossi once at a party for the Antony Williams exhibit about three years ago at the Weyman Gallery in Chicago. Without heels I don’t think she’s as tall as you are. She had blond hair and, I think, blue eyes. I’m sorry, that’s all I can tell you.”

“I guess that would just be too easy an answer,” I said. “Again, thank you for talking to me. I’ll get the photo in the mail to you.”

“It was my pleasure, Kathleen,” he said. “Good night.”

I ended the call and set the phone back on the table. Then I got up and went into the living room for my laptop. Rena Adler had blue eyes. Except for the hair color—which could easily be changed—Julian’s description of Devin Rossi could easily have been Rena, or, I had to admit, a million other women. Julian had said he’d met Devin Rossi at a party in Chicago. Was it possible there were photos from that party online? There were. But I couldn’t find Rena Adler in any of them.

“It’s her,” I told the boys. “I know I’m right. So how am I going to convince Marcus?”

The cats exchanged glances. Then they looked at the refrigerator. Clearly this was going to take more thought. And more sardines.

I warmed up my cocoa and went back to the table. I still had half a cinnamon roll on my plate. The idea of an art thief living in Red Wing and coming to Mayville Heights to steal the Sam Weston drawing might sound far-fetched, but I was starting to think it was possible. But how was I going to prove that Rena Adler was that art thief? And, as much as it made me uncomfortable to think about, Margo’s killer?

Owen came over to my chair. Without waiting for an invitation he launched himself onto my lap.

“Hello,” I said.

He nuzzled my cheek, then leaned around me and tried to lick my cup.

“Forget it,” I said. “Hot chocolate is not for cats.” I set the cup on the table and realized that it hadn’t been the hot chocolate Owen had been trying to get at. There was a smudge of icing from the roll on the side of the blue porcelain. I swiped it with my finger and licked off the icing.