Софи Келли - Faux Paw

“Sounds good,” I said. “Thanks.”

I dropped onto one of the padded stools at the counter and pulled out my phone, hoping I’d get Marcus and not his voice mail. I couldn’t help smiling when I heard his voice.

“Do you have time for a break?” I asked.

“I’d love one,” he said. I imagined him leaning back at his desk and stretching his arms over his head. “Where are you?”

“I’m at Eric’s,” I said.

“I’ll be there in about five minutes.”

I was just snapping lids on the paper take-out cups when Marcus walked in to the café. I walked over to meet him. “How about a walk along the trail?” I asked.

“Fine with me,” he said.

I handed him his coffee and we left the restaurant, crossing the street to walk along the path that curved along the water’s edge.

“How was your morning?” I asked.

“Too much paperwork,” he said. He took a sip of his coffee and made a little murmur of happiness. “Why is Eric’s coffee so much better than the coffee at the station?”

“Because they don’t buy the coffee beans at the Dollar Store. Because no one pounds on the top of the coffeemaker when they think it’s not making coffee fast enough. Because they actually wash the carafe once in a while.” I ticked off the reasons on my fingers.

He shot me a sidelong glance. “That was a rhetorical question,” he said, taking another sip.

“Marcus, did you or Hope talk to an artist named Rena Adler?” I asked.

He frowned at the change of subject and stared off into the distance for a moment. “She’s one of the local artists, isn’t she? Hope talked to her.” He stopped walking. “Why?”

I took a drink to buy a moment. “Because I don’t think Rena Adler is her real name.” I held up one hand. “Hear me out before you say anything.”

He caught the hand in his own and gave it a squeeze. “I will,” he said. Then he smiled. “I will,” he repeated.

I took a deep breath. “Do you remember Gavin telling us about Devin Rossi, the art thief?”

Marcus nodded. “Yes.” He gave my hand another squeeze before he let go of it. We started walking again.

“Devin Rossi seemed to disappear two years ago. At the same time Rena Adler seemed to appear out of nowhere.” I took a sip from my cup. “I called Julian McCrea. He met Devin Rossi once at a museum gala. Except for the hair color, his description of her could have been a description of Rena. And . . .” I paused.

“And what?” Marcus asked. He gave the take-out cup a shake and took another drink.

“And she’s evasive about her past. She manages to deflect any questions anyone asks about where she lived or what she used to do.” I waited for Marcus to tell me this was a police investigation and I should stay out of it.

“I know,” is what he did say.

“What do you mean, you know?” I said.

“She was evasive with Hope as well, and Hope couldn’t find any more about the woman than you did.”

I brushed my hair back off my face. “Do you remember telling me that there was a partial fingerprint from an art heist that was probably Devin Rossi’s?”

His blue eyes narrowed. “I remember,” he said, slowly.

I held up the paper bag. “Rena Adler’s fingerprints are on the mug in this bag.”

“I can’t use that in court.”

We’d stopped walking again.

“I know,” I said. “But Rena or Devin or whoever she is doesn’t know that.”

Marcus shifted from one foot to the other. “If— if for the sake of argument Rena Adler is Devin Rossi, she probably does know that.”

I exhaled loudly. “Okay, but if the fingerprints tell you that Rena isn’t, well, Rena, you can at least talk to her again. You don’t have to tell her how you know.”

He may have been frustrated, but I could see a gleam of interest in his blue eyes.

I laid a hand on his arm. “Marcus, Rena Adler is Devin Rossi. I’m certain of it.”

“Because she doesn’t like talking about her past? Or because she looks like the woman Julian McCrea described to you?”

“Because of her name.”

He looked surprised and his eyes shifted uncertainly from side to side. Obviously that hadn’t been the answer he was expecting. “I don’t understand.”

“The name Rena. It can be a variation of Irene.”

“Irene Adler.” I watched as the name registered with him. “The woman,” he said slowly. “Sherlock Holmes.”

I nodded.

“It could just be a coincidence.”

“But it’s not,” I said. “We have a reciprocal agreement with the library in Red Wing. People with library cards from their library can use them in ours and vice versa. Rena borrowed a couple of books from this library: A Coffin for Dimitrios and The Murder of Roger Ackroyd . Eric Ambler and Agatha Christie. Mystery classics.” I exhaled slowly. “Marcus, I’m not wrong about this.”

He looked out across the water for a long moment, as if somehow the answers might be bobbing on the water. Then he turned back to me. “All right,” he said, holding out his hand.

I gave him the bag.

“You know it’s a long shot,” he warned.

“Not to me,” I said. I smiled up at him. “Anyway, we were a long shot.”

“Point taken,” he said, and the look he gave me made my insides feel as wobbly as a bowl of Jell-O salad at a Fourth of July picnic.

We turned around then and walked back to Eric’s.

“Where’s the truck?” Marcus asked, looking around.

“I left it at the library. It was such a nice day I decided to walk over to Riverarts.”

“I can drop you,” he said.

I shook my head. “Thanks, but I think I’ll walk.”

He reached for my free hand and gave it a squeeze. “I’ll talk to you later,” he said.

My coffee wasn’t that hot anymore, but I finished it as I walked to the library. I wasn’t going to waste a perfectly good cup just because of the temperature. Marshall Holmes was coming toward me on the sidewalk as I came level with the building. He raised a hand in greeting.

“Good morning,” I said as he got closer.

“Good morning, Kathleen,” he said. He glanced at the building. “Are you reopening?”

I shook my head. “Not for a few more days.”

“I guess it’s a good thing I have my e-reader, then.” He smiled. “I admit I like a paper book better, though.”

I smiled back at him. “If people didn’t like paper books I’d be out of a job.”

Marshall looked over at the building again. “I’m sorry if I’m being intrusive, but are there any leads in Margo Walsh’s death?”

“I’m not really sure,” I said. “The police are still investigating.”

“I didn’t know Margo very well,” he said. “But I hope they find whoever killed her.”

“So do I,” I said. “And I hope you get your drawing back as well.”

“It’s not what’s important,” Marshall said. “But thank you.” He glanced at his watch. “It was good to see you, Kathleen. I’m going to be in town for a few more days. I’ll be in for some ‘real’ books.”

“I’ll see you then,” I said.

Marcus arrived just before suppertime.

“So?” I said, turning from the stove to look at him.

“So you were right.”

“I knew it,” I said. Hercules and Owen were sitting at my feet and I would have high-fived them both if they’d known how. And if they’d had hands. “Are you going to ask her to come in to answer more questions?”

“I’m not sure that’s the best way to go about things,” he said, peeling off his jacket. He paused for a moment. “What happened to the local pieces that were part of the exhibit? Are they still at the library?”

Owen looked at me, yawned and headed for the basement door. Bored with the conversation or heading for his lair in the cellar, I wasn’t sure.