Софи Келли - Final Catcall

10

Owen put one gray paw on my knee and looked up at me, curiosity in his golden eyes.

“I think that’s Hannah’s handwriting,” I said. “She helped pack programs last week and she wrote on the tops of all the boxes. I need to call Marcus.”

But I didn’t get up. I stayed there on the floor, staring at the bold, square letters scrawled across the newsprint. How could I call Marcus if Hannah had written the words? How could I not call him? It was his case. On the other hand, Hannah was his sister.

The cat murped softly at me. “I know,” I said. I reached for my purse, hanging on the back of the chair behind me, and pulled out my cell phone.

Marcus’s phone rang six times before he answered. I explained that I was sorting papers from the Red Wing theater and that I’d found something that might be related to Hugh Davis’s death. I didn’t saying anything about Hannah.

“I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes,” he said.

I was glad he hadn’t asked me what I’d found. I set the piece of paper with the attached clipping on the table and got to my feet. “I’m going to make coffee,” I said to Owen. “Would you please go watch for Marcus?”

He looked at me for a moment, then turned and headed for the porch. About ten minutes later I heard a loud meow. I stuck my head into the porch in time to see Marcus come around the side of the house. Owen was on the bench by the window. “Thank you,” I said to him as I went to open the door.

Marcus was wearing khakis and his leather jacket over a long-sleeved green T-shirt. The ends of his hair were slightly damp as though he’d just gotten out of the shower.

Okay, Marcus getting out of the shower was not something I should’ve been thinking about. “Come in,” I said, dragging my imagination back from places it shouldn’t have been going.

He followed me to the kitchen. For the moment Owen decided to stay where he was.

“What did you find?” Marcus asked.

“This,” I said, sliding the page of notes with the clipping stuck to the top over to the edge of the table.

I saw the muscles along his jawline tighten. He swallowed and looked at me. “Where exactly did you find this?”

I pointed at the box, which was sitting on a chair now. “I was sorting through these couple of boxes that came from the theater in Red Wing, to help Ben. It’s all papers he managed to grab the night of the fire there. Owen knocked that box on the floor. The newspaper clipping was mixed in with the other papers.”

“What is all this stuff?” he asked.

“Mostly Hugh Davis’s notes, mock-ups of the program and sketches for costumes. Apparently he kept all his notes on paper instead of on a computer.”

Marcus looked at the clipping again.

I laced my fingers together. “That’s Hannah’s handwriting, isn’t it?” I asked.

He didn’t hedge and he really didn’t look surprised that I knew. “Yes,” he said.

“I don’t think this really has anything to do with Hugh’s death.”

“It doesn’t.” He didn’t look at me.

I hesitated and then I put my hand on his arm, hoping he could somehow feel the warmth through his jacket.

“I’ll call the station,” he said. “Somebody else should deal with this.” He touched my hand for just a moment, then stepped away from the table and took out his phone.

I didn’t know Hannah very well, but I liked her. I would have liked her even if she hadn’t been Marcus’s sister. I couldn’t imagine her shooting anyone. But why was a clipping with drop dead written on it in her handwriting stuck to a page of Hugh Davis’s notes? And why had she driven back and forth in front of the marina the night he was killed? I’d been trying not to think about that, but if Andrew had seen Marcus’s SUV Friday night, then it had to have been Hannah driving it. I glanced at Marcus. I needed to talk to Andrew again before I said anything about the car.

Marcus put his phone back in his jacket pocket and turned around. “Someone’s on the way,” he said. “It should only be a few minutes.”

“How about a cup of coffee?” I asked.

“Maybe I should just go wait out front,” he said, shifting from one foot to the other.

“You can wait in the porch,” I said.

He exhaled slowly. “Okay, and yes, I’ll have a cup of coffee.”

I poured a mug for each of us and we went out to the porch. Owen jumped down from the bench and went to stand by the door. Marcus opened it for him and the cat went outside, meowing his thanks.

“You don’t have to wait out here with me,” he said.

I nodded. “I know.” I brushed a bit of gray cat hair off the bench and sat down.

“How many cups of coffee have we had together?” he asked as he sat down next to me.

“A lot.”

Marcus and I had met when I discovered the body of Gregor Easton at the Stratton Theater. He’d come to question me later at the library and I’d made coffee for him. Somehow I’d ended up making or getting coffee for him on every case he’d had since.

“I just made brownies. Would you like one?”

He shook his head.

“There’s a fresh batch of stinky crackers, too.”

That almost coaxed a smile out of him. “Tempting, but thank you, no.”

Maybe someone who didn’t know him as well as I did wouldn’t have noticed it, but I could tell he was worried. His blue eyes were guarded and he was squeezing the mug tightly with one hand. He glanced out the window, then looked at me again. “Kathleen, how exactly did you get those boxes?” he asked.

“I went down to the Stratton and got them from Ben.” I laced my fingers around my cup.

“You didn’t see Hannah, did you?”

I shook my head. “No, but Ben said rehearsal ran late and some of the actors had gone out for a late lunch. Maybe that’s where she is. They’re all probably at Eric’s.”

“Probably,” he said. “I’ll try her later.”

I didn’t know what else to say. He was going to find out what Andrew had seen, but I couldn’t do that to him now. So I didn’t say anything. I just sat there, and the silence was just fine. After a few minutes I could see he was getting antsy. I set my cup on the floor at my feet.

“Let’s go wait out front,” I said.

He looked at me for a long moment, then set his mug on the bench. “All right,” he said.

We walked around to the driveway and stood next to the black Caprice. Marcus watched the road and after a few more minutes a small blue car came up the hill.

He turned to me. “Thank you for keeping me company, Kathleen.”

“Anytime,” I said.

The car pulled into the driveway and the driver got out, carrying a stainless-steel coffee mug. Detective Hope Lind probably drank more coffee than I did. She was all business in black trousers, a cranberry red shirt and a cropped black leather jacket, her dark curly hair a little shorter than the last time I’d seen her.

“Hi, Kathleen,” she said with a smile. She turned to Marcus. “So what’s going on?”

I stood there silently while he explained and Hope sipped her coffee. She was a good foot shorter than Marcus, but I knew her size was misleading. Hope ran marathons in her spare time. For fun. She’d been on a leave of absence from the Mayville Heights police force for the last year, finishing her degree in criminology with a minor in Spanish.

She turned to me. “So why do you have these boxes, Kathleen?” she asked.

I told her about Ben’s phone call and how Owen had upended the carton onto the kitchen floor.

“You recognized the handwriting, too?”

“Hannah and I were putting the programs together for the festival a couple of days ago at the library. She has a very distinctive way of making her letters.”