Софи Келли - Cat Trick

As far as I could tell, Owen spent the morning napping in the sunshine on my desk chair. That’s where I found him after we’d closed down the library at one o’clock. I knew that didn’t mean he hadn’t nosed all over my office, just that he hadn’t left any obvious evidence. There was a good chance that sometime next week I’d find a clump of hair behind a book or in one of my desk drawers. I was glad that we closed early on Saturday. How much mischief would he have been able to get into if he’d spent the whole day alone in my office?

Hercules was waiting in the porch when we got home. He looked from me to Owen, wondering, maybe, if we’d been off somewhere having fun while he was stuck at home.

“If you’re wondering why I didn’t bring your brother back earlier, it’s because he decided it was a better idea to go digging around in a crime scene,” I said.

Herc murped at Owen, who murped back. I wondered what they were talking about. Were they discussing the button or whatever it was Owen had uncovered? Or were they plotting how to get me to open a can of sardines?

For lunch, I heated the last of the chicken soup I’d made earlier in the week with my Crock-Pot. Hercules trailed me, making little rumbles and meows from time to time. Every once in a while, he’d stop and look expectantly at me and I’d say, “Really?” or “I understand.”

I spent the afternoon doing laundry and cleaning the house. Hercules and I had recently discovered Nickelback. It turned out Owen didn’t like Chad Kroeger any more than he liked Barry Manilow. We didn’t even get to the chorus of “Never Gonna Be Alone” before Owen streaked through the kitchen like Boris the dog was on his tail, vaulting the mop in his haste to get to the porch door and the backyard.

It took me a ridiculously long time to get dressed and do my hair for supper with Marcus. I stood in front of the closet door with Owen on one side and Hercules on the other, pulling out things and putting them back on the rod. Finally, I settled on jeans and a lavender shirt my sister, Sara, had convinced me to buy when I was back in Boston. Neither cat yowled or hid under the bed, so I figured I looked okay.

I double-checked to make sure there was fresh water in the boys’ dishes and a clean litter box downstairs. “I’m leaving,” I called as I pulled on my jacket. Hercules poked his head around the living room doorway. “Don’t wait up,” I told him, waggling my eyebrows. That got no reaction.

After a moment, Owen’s gray tabby head appeared on the other side of the doorway. “Stay off the footstool,” I reminded him. I knew he wouldn’t.

It was a beautiful evening, with just a bit of a chill in the air, a reminder that fall was here. The leaves were starting to turn and I could see splashes of gold and red in the trees around Marcus’s little house.

I knocked on the back door, and after a moment he called, “Come in, Kathleen.”

I stepped into the kitchen and immediately smelled chocolate. That was a good sign. I breathed in deeply. I could also catch the scent of oranges and something spicy as well. Marcus was at the counter, slicing a zucchini.

“Hi.” He smiled at me over his shoulder. He was wearing a denim shirt and jeans. The hair at the nape of his neck was just a little damp.

“Hi,” I said, suddenly feeling a little awkward. “It smells wonderful in here.”

He set down the knife. “That’s probably Eric’s pudding cake.”

I took off my jacket and hung it over the back of one of the kitchen chairs. “You made Eric’s chocolate pudding cake?” I asked.

Marcus shook his head. “No. Eric made Eric’s chocolate pudding cake. I just brought it home and stuck it in the oven.” He reached for the knife again. “Are you hungry? I can start cooking in about five minutes.”

I nodded. “Great. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“I have it all under control,” he said, turning back to the counter. “Have a seat.”

I pulled out a chair and sat down while he made short work of the rest of the zucchini. “Marcus, could we talk about this morning and get that out of the way?” I asked. It wasn’t exactly the Sword of Damocles, but I didn’t want Owen’s sleuthing hanging over us all evening.

“Sure,” he said, wiping his hands and turning around.

“I’m sorry that Owen trespassed on your crime scene.”

Marcus leaned back against the edge of the counter, braced his hands on either side of his body and smiled at me. “Kathleen, I do know you didn’t send Owen into the tent on purpose.”

No, I hadn’t sent Owen across the street, but I was certain he’d headed for the tent deliberately. Just the same way that he’d prowled through a pile of recycling when Gregor Easton had been killed. And discovered a puzzle box and a piece of paper—hidden in a stack of cartons at River Arts—that turned out to be the key to the scam that artist Jaeger Merrill had been running. Both Owen and Hercules seemed to have a nose for sleuthing.

“Maybe I could teach Owen to at least bring you a cup of coffee if he’s going to stick his whiskers in your case,” I said, trying to keep my tone light.

“I think I’d rather have coffee with you,” Marcus said.

His deep blue eyes met mine, and for a moment what I’d been going to say next fell right out of my head. If the timer on his stove hadn’t started buzzing just then, I think I would have just kept staring at him.

“I have to check dessert,” Marcus said, gesturing in the direction of the oven with his eyes still glued to my face.

Was it my imagination, or was he flustered, too?

I waited while he looked at Eric’s pudding cake and adjusted the oven temperature before I said anything else. I liked watching him move, and it took me that long to get my train of thought back on the rails.

“Do you think that button Owen found had anything to do with Mike Glazer’s killer?” I asked finally. “And yes, I know it doesn’t sound like I’m staying out of things.”

“No, it doesn’t,” he said, turning the heat on under the wok that was sitting on one of the stove’s front burners.

“Would you believe I’m only asking because Owen wants to know?”

“Given that Owen isn’t like any other cat I’ve ever been around . . .” He shook his head and laughed. Then his expression grew serious. “What makes you think someone killed Mike Glazer?”

“The petechiae—those pinpoints of bleeding under his skin. I saw them when I checked to see if he was still alive. I think he was asphyxiated somehow.”

“You’re really observant.”

Maybe we really had changed our past pattern. I frowned at him. “No, you see, that wasn’t your line. You were supposed to say, ‘Stay out of my case, Kathleen.’” I made my voice low and gruff and my expression stern.

“I do not look like that, and I don’t sound like that, either.” He frowned. I wasn’t sure if the expression was meant for me or the wok.

I leaned back in the chair and laced my fingers over my middle. “Yes, you do,” I said.

He dumped a plate of chicken into the wok. It sizzled as it hit the hot oil. I waited.

Finally, he nodded. “We’re not going to be able to keep it quiet much longer. You’re right. It doesn’t look like Mike Glazer’s death was an accident. For now we’re just calling it suspicious.”

“Does that mean the whole pitch to Legacy will be off again?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

I watched him cook for a couple of minutes. I knew how hard Liam and Maggie and a lot of other people in town had worked to make the food tasting and art show come together. If Legacy did decide to base a fall tour package around Mayville Heights, it could be very good for the local economy. But would they really want to bring their clients to a place where one of their partners had been murdered? I didn’t think so.