Софи Келли: Cat Trick

I felt my cheeks get warm as I straightened in my chair. “I’m sorry,” I said, realizing I’d been caught out with my attention away from my dinner companion. “That was rude.”

He smiled. “No, it wasn’t. And I’d like to see what’s going on myself.”

I put my napkin in my lap. “I was talking to Maggie when Burtis arrived. He started unloading the truck, and it made me think of one of those little cars at the circus that some implausible number of clowns gets out of. There was so much stuff. It looked as though he were going to set up something big enough to hold a circus.”

“You think it’ll work?”

“You mean the tents or the food tasting?” I asked.

“The food tasting,” Marcus said, shifting in his chair so he could stretch out his jeans-clad legs. “I know Burtis will make the tents work. He’s very . . . resourceful.”

“That he is,” I said with a grin. Among other things, Burtis Chapman was allegedly the town bootlegger. Allegedly, because it wasn’t something he admitted to and he’d never been caught. “I don’t know about the whole food tasting thing. I like the idea, but it’s turned out to be a lot of work. And Maggie says Mike Glazer is”—I struggled for a moment to come up with the appropriate words—“challenging to work with.”

“Challenging?” Marcus raised his eyebrows.

“Actually, she called him a festering boil. I was paraphrasing.”

He was nodding like he agreed. “I probably wouldn’t have called Glazer a festering boil,” he said, “but from what I’ve heard, he has been challenging to work with.”

Mike Glazer was a partner in Legacy Tours, a company out of Chicago that put together small, exclusive travel packages for its upscale clients. Several businesspeople in Mayville Heights were trying to entice Legacy to base a package around the town; the foliage was gorgeous in Minnesota in the fall, we had a thriving artists’ community here—thanks to Maggie—and the food was terrific.

Mike had grown up in Mayville Heights, then moved away and eventually gone to law school. He hadn’t been back in years, according to Maggie. He was in town for a few days now, listening to the pitch for the tour. Part of that pitch was a food tasting and small art show.

I was about to ask Marcus what he’d heard about the man when Claire came back with our food. We’d both ordered the same thing—Mediterranean fish stew—something Eric had just added to the café’s menu. Claire set the steaming bowls in front of us and placed a basket of corn bread in the middle of the table. I breathed in the scent of tomatoes and onions and picked up my spoon.

I was down to the last spoonful of fragrant broth when Claire came back to the table. “Dessert?” she asked. “There’s chocolate pudding cake in the kitchen.”

“None for me,” I said, wondering if there was a polite way to get the last bits of corn bread and cheese from the bottom of my bowl.

“I’ll try some, please,” Marcus said.

Claire smiled at him. “I’ll be right back.”

When she set the heavy stoneware bowl in front of Marcus, the scent of warm chocolate reached across the table like a finger beckoning me to lean over for a taste. He picked up the spoon and held it out to me without saying a word, but a smile pulled at his mouth and the corners of his eyes.

I thought about just shaking my head. After all, it was his dessert, not mine. I thought about signaling to Claire for a dish of my own. I could see from the corner of my eye that she was watching us, even as she seemed to be giving directions to a tall man in jeans and a black and red jacket whom I remembered talking to earlier at the library. But I had a feeling from the smile that Marcus had been unable to stifle that sharing dessert had been his plan all along. So I smiled back at him and took the spoon. The man in the plaid jacket nodded at me as he passed us on his way out. “It’s delicious,” he said, gesturing at the bowl.

He was right. But I’d already known that.

“Who’s that?” Marcus asked, giving the man an appraising look as he went out the door. Some small part of him was always in police officer mode.

“A tourist, I think,” I said. “He came into the library this afternoon looking to use one of the public access computers and a printer. Then he asked me if I could recommend somewhere good for supper.” I reached across the table and scooped up a spoonful of cake and warm chocolate sauce.

“And you said Eric’s, of course.”

I nodded. My mouth was too full of chocolate bliss to answer.

“Thank you for sharing,” I said when we’d finished the pudding cake and our coffee refills.

“You’re welcome.” Marcus leaned one arm on the back of his chair. “Are you ready to walk up and take a look at the tents?”

I pushed back from the table. “Yes. I could use some exercise.”

He got to his feet. “I have this,” he said.

I opened my mouth to argue that I could pay for my dinner, but he was already halfway to the counter.

The sun was just going down and the sky over the river was streaked with red and gold when we stepped outside. I stopped on the sidewalk for a moment to take in the view.

“‘Red sky at night, sailor’s delight. Red sky in morning, sailors take warning,’” Marcus said softly behind me.

I turned to look at him.

“My father used to say that,” he said with a shrug. “Then he’d go into this long explanation about the light from the setting sun, dust particles and high-pressure systems.”

“He wasn’t wrong,” I said as we started walking.

“Yeah, I know. But when you’re ten and your friends are standing there, that kind of thing is embarrassing.”

I waved my hand dismissively at him. “No, no, no, no. Embarrassing is your father doing the balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet on the fire escape. In tights. In January. Embarrassing is all your friends dressing up as tap-dancing raisins for Halloween because your father played one in a cereal commercial and became some kind of cultural icon slash cult hero.”

“You’re joking,” Marcus said.

I sighed and shook my head. “No, sadly, I’m not.”

“A tap-dancing raisin?” He still looked a little disbelieving.

“A shriveled, tap-dancing raisin that had no rhythm.”

He nodded slowly. “You win. That definitely is more embarrassing.”

I bumped his arm with my shoulder. “Someday I’ll tell you about the time my mother picked me up at school after rehearsal for Gypsy .”

“I look forward to it,” he said, smiling down at me.

The street curved, following the shoreline, and ahead I could see that one of the tents was about three-quarters assembled. We crossed at the corner, and as we got closer to the boardwalk, I caught sight of Burtis Chapman and Mike Glazer.

Burtis was built like an offensive lineman, with wide shoulders and huge, muscled arms. His skin was weathered from working outdoors and his hair was snow-white in a Marine Corps brush cut. He was extremely well-read, I knew, but was happy to play the uneducated hick if it suited him.

Mike was about the same height, only leaner, with sandy blond hair cropped close and a couple days’ stubble. In his black wool commando sweater and gray trousers, he looked like a city boy.

“I just think we’d be better served with something from this century,” he was saying, pointing at the tent. He didn’t look happy. “And a lighter fabric—a polyester or nylon.”

I remembered Maggie rolling her eyes in exasperation as she’d described Mike as a festering boil on the backside of life. It was about as close to swearing as Mags got.

For all that Mike seemed to be arrogant and condescending, I knew he could be kind of personable as well. He’d spent some time in the library the previous morning, walking around looking at the large collage panels that told the history of the building.