Софи Келли - Cat Trick

Elizabeth was Harry’s half sister, the product of a relationship Harrison had had while his wife was dying. They’d met for the first time just a few months ago.

“But the favor does kind of have something to do with him,” Harry said. He swiped a hand over his chin.

I put a hand on my chest. “You know how I feel about your dad. Anything I can do for him, I will.”

“Okay. See if you can figure out what happened to Mike Glazer—who killed him—because it’s pretty clear someone did.”

“The police are investigating that, Harry,” I said.

He shoved his hands in the pockets of his blue windbreaker and shifted from one foot to the other. “The police were investigating Agatha Shepherd’s death, but if it hadn’t been for you, the old man never would have gotten those papers that helped us find Elizabeth.”

I shook my head. “That was mostly just being in the right place at the right time,” I said.

“More like the wrong place, Kathleen. You almost got blown to pieces.”

“But I didn’t,” I said. “Harry, I’m not a cop. And why do you care so much about what happened to Mike Glazer? And why would your father?”

“Elizabeth.” He exhaled slowly. “Have you met Wren Magnusson?”

“At the library.”

“Boris had a run-in with a porcupine a while back. Elizabeth came with me when I took him down to Roma.”

I winced and shot Hercules a warning look not to make any editorial comment. He didn’t like Harrison’s German shepherd any more than Owen did, even though the big dog was gentle and even-tempered. Herc glared back at me and then became very interested in one of his feet.

“Wren was at the clinic. The two of them hit it off. They’re both crazy about animals. Thing is, Wren used to be close to the Glazers.”

“I heard.”

“She’s upset. So’s Elizabeth, and that makes the old man upset. There’s talk that Glazer’s death wasn’t an accident. Paper said it’s under investigation.”

“There’s always talk going around town about something,” I said.

“Kathleen, people tell you things,” Harry said. “You’re the one who figured out how Tom Karlsson ended up buried out at Wisteria Hill. You figured out who killed him.” He put one foot up on the bottom step. “Look, I’m not asking you to sneak around behind Marcus Gordon’s back. I know there’s something starting between the two of you. Just ask a few questions and tell him what you find out, whatever the heck that ends up to be. That’s all I’m asking. Please.”

It was a very bad idea. I wasn’t a police officer. I was a librarian with a couple of inquisitive cats that had questionable magical abilities. I’d told Marcus that I’d stay out of his investigation. I wasn’t sure he’d understand. And I really wanted to repeat that kiss from last night.

I knew I had to tell Harry no, but when I opened my mouth what came out was “Yes.”

The cats let the alarm clock wake me up on Monday morning. When I reached over to shut it off, there was Hercules, sitting by the door.

“I’m awake,” I told him, rolling over onto my back. I knew he was likely to stay there until I was actually out of the bed. “Where’s your brother?” I asked.

Herc looked over his shoulder toward the hallway. Owen was probably downstairs in the kitchen, not so patiently waiting for breakfast. I threw the blankets back and got up. I wasn’t going to find any insights staring at the ceiling.

I was right. Owen was in the kitchen, sitting right beside his dishes.

“I’m not late,” I told him as I put out food and water for both cats. “You’re up early.” He ignored me. Owen wasn’t really a morning person.

As I reached for the oatmeal in the refrigerator, it struck me that one of Eric’s breakfast sandwiches would taste pretty good. And if I was going to ask some questions about Mike Glazer’s death, the diner was a good place to start.

Claire was pouring coffee for a couple at a table by the window when I walked into the restaurant. “You can sit anywhere, Kathleen,” she said, smiling at me.

Eric was behind the counter, and I walked over to say hello. He had a cup of coffee poured before I even sat down on one of the shiny silver stools.

“Good morning,” he said, setting the heavy china mug in front of me. He was wearing his normally close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair a little longer and it suited him.

“Good morning and thank you,” I said, reaching for the cream and sugar.

Eric waited while I added both to my cup, stirred and took a long drink.

“Mmm, that’s good,” I said with a sigh of satisfaction.

“What can I get you?” he asked. “An omelet, maybe? I have some nice orange peppers.”

I propped my elbows on the counter. “I was thinking about one of your breakfast sandwiches.”

“Good choice,” Claire said as she passed behind Eric with her half-empty coffeepot.

He smiled and headed back to the kitchen. “It’ll just be a couple of minutes.”

I was wondering how to bring up the subject of Mike Glazer’s death as Claire set a napkin-wrapped bundle of utensils by my right elbow. She gave me a thoughtful look and then said, “Kathleen, is it true that you found Mr. Glazer’s body?” Her face flushed. “That was a tacky question, wasn’t it?”

“It’s okay,” I said. “And yes, I did find his body.” I didn’t bother adding the part about my cat finding it first.

“The guy was obnoxious, but”—she gave a little shudder—“no one deserves to die all alone like that.”

I nodded, remembering how the body was slumped in the plastic chair in the dim light of the tent. “It seems like he rubbed some people the wrong way,” I said, reaching for my coffee.

“More like everybody.” She shot a quick glance past me to make sure the other customers weren’t trying to get her attention. “He wasn’t in here five minutes and he was telling Eric how he needed to change the menu and update the decor.”

I looked around. “What’s wrong with the decor?”

Claire gave a snort of laughter. “He thought we should go for a Parisian bistro look.”

“In Minnesota?”

She reached for the coffeepot and topped up my cup. “If people want a Parisian café, they’ll go to Paris. Tourists who come here are looking for a small-town restaurant with comfort food they recognize.”

Eric came out of the kitchen then. “You must be talking about Mike Glazer,” he said, as he slid a heavy plate in front of me. I could smell bacon, tomatoes and maybe a little thyme. The thick-cut sourdough bread had been pan-toasted—crisp and golden on the outside and soaked with tomatoes and spices on the inside.

I took a large bite and sighed with happiness. How could Mike have found fault with this?

Claire grinned at me and headed for the table by the window with the pot.

“I take it Claire was telling you about Glazer’s suggestions,” Eric said.

“Parisian bistro?” I said, raising my eyebrows.

He crossed his arms over his chest. “He also thought we should get rid of all the ‘old-fashioned’ stuff on the menu, like the chocolate pudding cake.”

“Did he have any idea how popular that is?”

Eric shrugged. “Wasn’t interested. I made that recipe three times a day during the music festival last month. It was almost eighty degrees outside and the tourists were still ordering it.” He gave me a sideways smile. “By the way, how was last night’s batch?”

“Good,” I said.

His smile widened, and I knew I’d just been hooked in a fishing expedition. “Susan was positive it was you Marcus Gordon was trying to impress. As my grandmother used to say, are you and the detective keeping company?”

“No comment,” I said, bending my head over my plate. “And tell your wife she’s going to be dusting every single shelf in the library today.”