Kelly Sofie - Curiosity Thrilled The Cat

Owen had already eaten the cracker and licked all the crumbs from the floor. He watched Detective Gordon pull the paper off one of the muffins and break it in half.

Since the detective had taken a break from asking questions, I decided I might as well ask a few of my own. “Detective, did Mr. Easton somehow get into the storage area at my library?”

To his credit, he didn’t even look surprised by the question. “It looks that way,” he said, before taking a mouthful of coffee.

“Was that his blood on the floor?”

“I’m not sure yet. There may be more than one sample.”

I drank from my own cup. “But you found something else that tells you he was there, more than the cuff link.” His mouth was full of muffin now so he just nodded.

I flashed back to the night before as I’d tried to rub my fingerprints off the door like some crazed criminal. “You found his fingerprints,” I said.

“Very good,” he said, brushing crumbs from his mouth.

I needed more coffee. I got up, refilled my mug and leaned across the table to top up the detective’s. “Thanks,” he said.

I sat back down, glancing over at Owen, who had moved a few steps closer to us.

“Do you know yet how he died? Did he have a heart attack?”

He shook his head. “It wasn’t a heart attack.”

I gripped my cup tightly with both hands. “That gash on his head. Someone hit him.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t say it was natural causes, either. And you wouldn’t still be asking questions if you thought it was.”

He nodded. “True.” He started carefully peeling the paper cup off the second muffin. “Okay, I can tell you Mr. Easton’s death is suspicious.”

I’d kind of already figured that out. “Are you going to arrest me?” I asked.

That question didn’t seem to surprise the detective, either. “No,” he said.

“Why not?”

“Excuse me?” He’d been watching Owen out of the corner of his eye.

“Why aren’t you going to arrest me?” I really did want to know. I wasn’t asking just to needle him—well, not for the most part.

“Harry Taylor saw you walking up here at about eight thirty. Mrs. Nixon said your lights went on just as Entertainment Tonight was ending. And Dr. Davidson saw them go off about eleven thirty, as she was leaving Mrs. Nixon’s house.” He ticked off each person on the fingers of his left hand.

I remembered waving to Young Harry, who had passed me as I walked up the road, but I wouldn’t have been able to say if Rebecca’s lights had been on or if Roma’s car had been in her driveway. It was a good thing that they were more observant than I was.

“So if I’d been meeting Mr. Easton at eleven thirty—the time on the note—then I would have been late,” I said.

“You would.” He smiled at me. He was unflappable, which, childishly, made me want to try to get a rise out of him.

“I could have had the lights on a timer,” I said, raising one eyebrow at him. (I love doing that. It’s very Mr. Spock.)

He drained the last of his coffee and stood up. “Yes, you could have.”

His attitude had changed. Was it because of all the people who had vouched for me, or did he have another—a better—suspect? I got to my feet, as well. “Would you like to look around the house to see if I have a timer?” I asked.

“It’s not necessary,” he said. “Thank you for the coffee and the muffin.”

“You’re welcome,” I said.

He paused in the doorway to the porch, bent down and set a tiny pile of cat treats on the floor about a foot and a half in front of Owen.

Owen had whipped his head around before all the little crackers had made it onto the floor.

“Hey, puss,” Detective Gordon said softly before he straightened up.

Owen eyed the detective. He eyed the small heap of treats. (And how had Detective Gordon managed to palm them without me noticing?) His nose twitched. His whiskers quivered. He lifted a paw.

Detective Gordon caught my eye and gave me a small, smug smile.

Owen started washing his face.

I smiled back—magnanimously, not at all smugly. “Really, it’s not you,” I said with a slight shrug. “The cats won’t get close to anyone except me.”

The detective acted as if I hadn’t spoken. He kept his eyes on Owen. “C’mon,” he said again softly.

The cat paused, one paw behind his ear. And then he set it down. And took a step forward. And another.

When he got close enough he reached out with one paw and pulled the crackers toward him, taking a couple of steps backward, his kitty gaze never leaving the detective’s face. Finally he bent and ate one treat from the top of the pile, actually sighing with pleasure.

Detective Gordon looked at me then, giving me a small smirk—a small, restrained smirk, but a smirk nonetheless. “Have a nice day, Ms. Paulson,” he said. And he was gone.

The sound of crunching filled the kitchen. “Nice to know you’re on my side, Owen,” I said. He burped without bothering to look up.

Note: Sarcasm is wasted on a cat.

11

Wild Horse Separate Mane

“You are a little cat fink!”I said to Owen.

He glanced up at me. There were crumbs stuck to his nose and whiskers. As far as Owen was concerned, there was kitty integrity and then there were kitty treats.

I heard a “meow” from the porch. I left Owen spreading the rest of his snack over the floor and his face, and went to see what Hercules was up to.

He was sitting on the bench by the window. “Your brother is consorting with the enemy,” I said. Herc nuzzled my hand.

Okay, so Detective Gordon wasn’t exactly the enemy. He wasn’t exactly my friend, either.

I looked out through the screen door and caught sight of Rebecca in her gazebo, trying awkwardly to sweep. “C’mon,” I said to the cat. “I don’t see Ami, and Rebecca could use a hand.” He jumped down and went to stand by the door. I stopped to step into my gardening clogs, which I’d kicked off when I brought Detective Gordon in for coffee. Herc meowed impatiently.

“A closed door didn’t stop you last night,” I said, pushing the door open for him.

He flicked his tail at me, went down the steps and started for Rebecca’s.

I felt the brush of fur against my leg. Owen leaned out around me to look across the yard. “We’re going over to see Rebecca,” I said. At the sound of her name Owen trotted down the steps and headed purposefully for the back hedge. I followed the cats, even though I couldn’t see either one of them anymore.

“Hello, Kathleen,” Rebecca said when she spotted me. “Isn’t it a beautiful morning?”

“Yes, it is,” I said, climbing up the three steps to the main floor of the gazebo and taking the broom from her hands. “I’ll finish up.”

“You don’t have to do that,” she protested. Just then Hercules meowed from behind us. Rebecca turned. I started sweeping.

Herc’s front paws were on the top step.

“Hello, Hercules,” Rebecca said, leaning down toward the cat.

I swept my way toward them.

“Your fur is looking especially glossy,” she said.

The cat ducked his head—embarrassed by the compliment?

“Sardines,” I said.

Rebecca looked at me, puzzled.

“His fur. Susan told me to add sardines to the cats’ diet. She claims they’re what keep her dog’s coat looking so good.”

Rebecca patted her cheeks with both hands. “Do you think they’d work on my wrinkles?”

“Maybe,” I said with a grin. “But they’d be hell on your social life.”

I swept the last of the gazebo floor and the three shallow steps leading up to it. “There,” I said, “what else can I do?”