Софи Келли - Final Catcall

Marcus held out the bowl. “They do smell pretty good.”

“Don’t do—”

Owen swiped one gray paw over the top of the small bowl and a plump marshmallow landed on the floor at his feet.

“—that,” I finished.

The cat immediately began to sniff his treasure.

“You better not put a paw on that marshmallow,” I warned, pushing back my chair and standing up.

Wrong thing to say.

Owen’s eyes flicked in my direction and then he dipped his head and licked the top of the marshmallow. He looked up at me, defiance in his gold eyes.

Marcus started to laugh as a look passed between man and cat.

“You better not have done that on purpose,” I said, glaring at Marcus. He picked up two marshmallows for himself and dropped them into his mug. “I didn’t. I swear,” he said, holding up a hand.

I reached for the marshmallow on the floor. Owen yowled his objections and raised a paw.

“Oh, c’mon, Kathleen,” Marcus said. “Let him have it.”

“You’re just as bad as Maggie,” I said. “Roma will have my head if she finds out I let Owen have marshmallows.”

He reached for his hot chocolate. “Well, I’m not going to tell her,” he said. He leaned sideways to look at the gray tabby, still guarding his prize, one paw ready to swat anyone (me) who tried to take it away.

“Marshmallows are not good for cats. They’re going to stick to his teeth. Are you planning on hanging around to brush them?”

Marcus’s expression turned thoughtful. “Maybe you could make a trade.”

Owen’s gaze had been shifting between Marcus and me. Now he meowed softly.

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll trade half a sardine for that marshmallow.”

“One sardine,” Marcus countered.

“He already had one sardine. One half.”

“One. Fish is brain food.” Marcus leaned back in the chair and folded his arms over his chest. “You’re the one who pointed out that he’s going to have marshmallow stuck to his teeth if he eats it. Do you want to floss his teeth tonight?”

He glanced at Owen, who somehow seemed to be following the conversation and chose the perfect moment to lean down and lick the marshmallow again.

I knew when I was beaten, but I made them wait just a few moments longer before I gave in. “One sardine,” I said, holding up a finger. “One.” I leaned forward and snatched the marshmallow off the floor before the two of them tried to up the ante. Then I got Owen his sardine and another for Hercules, who had sat silently, watching and listening to the “negotiations” with a bemused expression on his black-and-white face.

I sat back down at the table and Marcus smiled at me. “You’re right,” he said. “These marshmallows are good.”

I made a face at him and reached for my own cup.

His expression grew serious. “Did you touch anything?” he said. I knew he meant when I’d stumbled over Hugh Davis’s body.

“The top of his head, when I put my hand out to steady myself. And the collar of his jacket, when I felt for a pulse.”

“What about Andrew?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“Then what did you do?”

I explained about Andrew calling 911 and how we’d waited at the bottom of the stairs. Both cats had finished eating and were judiciously washing their paws. I knew by the way their ears were moving that they were also listening to everything I was saying.

Marcus traced a finger around the inside of the handle of his mug. “Did you see anyone? In the parking lot, maybe, or over by the marina?”

“No. I didn’t see anyone.”

“What about cars in the parking lot?”

I closed my eyes for a moment and pictured the almost deserted parking lot in my head. “There were two trucks that belong to the marina in the far corner of the lot, a little silver-colored car and a van. I think it was white. That’s it.” I opened my eyes. “Wait a minute. There were no other cars in the parking lot. How did Hugh get there?”

He gave a slight shrug. “That’s a good question.” He drained the last of his hot chocolate and stood up. “I have to get down to the station. Thank you for the hot chocolate.”

“Anytime,” I said. I got to my feet and came around the table. For a moment we just stood there, an awkward silence stretching between us.

“If you think of anything . . .” Marcus began.

I remembered the papers in the workroom. “I don’t know if it matters, but Hugh was working at the library this afternoon,” I said. “There was something wrong with the wi-fi at the Stratton. He left his briefcase and a bunch of papers in the workroom.”

“I’ll send someone over to get them first thing in the morning. Thanks.”

I walked him to the back door. “Have you talked to Abigail, or Ben Saroyan?” I asked.

“That’s where I’m going.”

“This doesn’t make any sense,” I said. “Hugh Davis has only been here for a week. Why would anybody want to kill him?”

Marcus pulled his keys out of his jacket pocket. “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

It wasn’t until he was gone that I realized he hadn’t corrected me when I’d said someone had killed Hugh Davis.

Someone had killed Hugh Davis. Shot him on purpose.

Who?

Why?

I made another cup of hot chocolate and settled at the table with it. “What is this going to do to the festival?” I said aloud. Neither of the cats seemed to know. I didn’t see how Ben could continue without another director. There was one more week of rehearsals and he couldn’t be everywhere.

Owen stretched and launched himself onto my lap. “Hello,” I said. He was too busy sniffing my mug—probably hoping to snag another marshmallow—to pay any attention to me.

I reached for the cup, lifting it over his head and out of reach of his paws. “Get your nose out of that.”

He made an annoyed murp.

“Forget it,” I said. “You’ve had all the marshmallows and sardines you’re getting tonight.” I stroked his fur with my free hand and after a few moments of stubbornly looking the other way he leaned against my chest with a soft sigh.

His warm, purring body was comforting. I barely knew Hugh Davis, but I still felt unsettled by his death.

“‘Any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind,’” I said softly. At my feet, Hercules, who had been carefully washing his tail, lifted his head and looked at me. “John Donne,” I said. “He was a British poet.”

The cat seemed to think about that for a moment, as though he was storing the information in his kitty brain, and then went back to working the knots out of his tail.

I felt bad for Abigail, too. She’d put in so much effort on the festival over the past week. Now I didn’t see how it could continue. She’d told me that she wasn’t trying to steal the event from Red Wing, but she had hoped that if things went well, maybe the festival would expand and the two towns could share the performances—and the tourist dollars.

Abigail and Ben had hit it off and I knew he would have put in a good word for Mayville Heights. It mattered to Ben that things got done when they were promised, and Abigail didn’t make promises she didn’t keep. He had an excellent reputation in the theater community, so his word would carry weight with New Horizon’s producers.

“I wonder what Hugh would have said about Mayville Heights,” I said to Owen. He wrinkled his nose as he thought about it. Or maybe he was plotting world domination. It was hard to tell.

What had Abigail said about Hugh that day of the food tasting when Andrew had volunteered to build the stages for her? I closed my eyes for a moment and replayed the conversation in my head. He’s still a control freak, I’ve discovered .