Софи Келли - Hooked On A Feline

After a few minutes, I gave Micah one last scratch under her chin and set her on the floor. “Want to help me get supper?” I asked.

“Merow,” she said, whiskers twitching.

That seemed to be a yes.

As I stood up, I realized that there were two physics textbooks on the chair next to mine. I leaned down and opened the cover of the top book. It had come from the library in Minneapolis. There was a piece of paper poking out from between two pages just beyond the midpoint of the text.

These two books were the fifth and sixth books on theoretical physics Marcus had requested via interlibrary loan. Since he had found out about the special “skills” that Owen and Hercules and Micah had, he’d been looking for some sort of logical explanation. I’d struggled with telling him that all three cats had abilities that seemed to violate the laws of physics, at least as we knew them at this point in time. I’d put it off longer than I should have. I knew it had been hard for him to accept that Hercules had the ability to walk through any solid object, while both Owen and Micah could literally disappear at will—and usually at the most inconvenient times. Even when Marcus actually saw it happen, it was hard to believe it wasn’t some kind of trick. I understood how he felt. It had taken me a little time to accept that I wasn’t hallucinating, that I didn’t have a brain tumor.

The first time I’d seen Owen disappear, I’d been able to convince myself it was just a trick of the light and my own overtired brain. When Hercules walked through a closed door after hours at the library, I’d thought that maybe I’d had a stroke. I had long suspected Micah had the same skill as Owen, so it wasn’t as much of a surprise the first time she vanished, although the knowledge had come with the added worry that now I had to stop putting off telling Marcus just exactly how smart all three cats were.

I closed the cover of the book and straightened up. Micah was watching me, her head cocked to one side in curiosity. “He’s persistent,” I said.

“Mrr,” she agreed.

I didn’t think Marcus was going to give up until he found something that explained how the cats could do what they could do. That determined streak was one of the things that helped make him a good detective. Still, sometimes I thought he just needed to accept how things were and stop trying to find answers for questions that just might not have answers.

I washed my hands and set a pot of water on the stove to boil for the pasta. The cat watched and made little murping comments as I got out the rest of the ingredients for pasta salad.

“Should we eat in here or out on the deck?” I asked.

She immediately looked at the back door.

“Deck, it is,” I said. “Excellent choice.”

I moved the little round table Marcus kept out on the deck so it was in front of the swing and set it with place mats, napkins and silverware. While the pasta cooked, I put together a quick marinade for the chicken. Then I made the pasta salad, adding cucumber, celery, black olives and plump cherry tomatoes and radishes that Marcus had grown himself.

I’d just poured a glass of iced tea and stepped out onto the deck when Marcus came around the side of the house. “It’s so good to see you,” he said, wrapping his long arms around me and giving me a kiss.

“It’s good to see you, too,” I said. He looked tired. There was dark stubble on his chin, his pale yellow shirt was creased and I could see that he’d been raking his hands through his hair, something he did when he was stressed.

He reached up and brushed a stray bit of hair off my face. “Are you all right? I know the news about Mike was a shock.”

“It’s all anyone who came into the library was talking about. Do you know what happened yet?”

A shadow seemed to flit across his face. “Could I have a shower first?” He glanced over at the grill. “Do I have time?”

I nodded. “Go ahead. The salad’s made and I’ll start the chicken.”

He blew out a breath. “Thanks,” he said. He stopped to give Micah a scratch on the top of her head and went into the house.

The chicken was just about done when Marcus came out, wearing a pair of gray shorts and a red T-shirt, his hair damp from the shower. “Is that mine?” he asked, gesturing at the frosty glass of beer on the table.

“Yes, it is,” I said. My iced tea was sitting to the left of the grill.

Micah was perched in the middle of the swing. “Get down,” Marcus said, making a move-along gesture with one hand.

She wrinkled her whiskers at him and, instead of jumping down, moved to the left and then looked at him. It seemed to me there was a challenge in her eyes.

Marcus shook his head. “Fine. Close enough,” he said. He sat down next to the cat and reached over to stroke her fur.

I took the plate of chicken over to the table and joined them on the swing. “That smells great,” Marcus said as he reached for the tongs I’d set on the table. “What did you put on the chicken?”

“Eddie’s marinade and Harry’s barbecue sauce,” I said. I shook my head and sighed. Saying Harry’s name made me realize how much he must be grieving right now.

Marcus put a hand on my shoulder. “I saw Harry a little while ago. He’s okay. At least as okay as he can be under the circumstances.”

“I can’t believe Mike is dead,” I said, dishing some of the salad onto my plate. “He was one of those people who just seemed so . . . alive.” I looked at Marcus. “I know that doesn’t make any sense.”

“Yes, it does,” he said.

I leaned back, balancing the plate on my lap as the swing began to gently move. “Marcus, what on earth happened? Mary said Mike died from a head injury. That doesn’t sound like an accident.”

Mary Lowe had come in to work at lunchtime. Her daughter, Bridget, was the publisher of the Mayville Heights Chronicle . Bridget always seemed to know the details of any police investigation long before they made any statements on a case.

Marcus swiped a hand over his face. “I don’t know why I’m surprised to hear that,” he said. “I swear, sometimes it seems like Bridget has the station bugged.” Micah put a paw on his leg. He cut a sliver of chicken with the edge of his fork and gave it to her. She murped a thank-you. “It’s way too soon for anyone to know the exact cause of death until the medical examiner finishes his work,” he continued. “Bridget shouldn’t speculate and spread rumors.”

I noticed he hadn’t said that what Mary had told me wasn’t true. “Did someone break into his house?” I asked.

“Well, what’s Bridget saying?” His voice was laced with sarcasm, which he seemed to realize the moment the words were out. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It just . . . hasn’t been a very good day.”

I put my hand on his leg and gave it a squeeze. “I know,” I said.

“At this point we don’t know for certain what happened,” he said after a brief silence. “Mike was found inside his house. If I had to guess, I’d say he died sometime Sunday night. Beyond that, I just don’t know.”

“Maybe it was an accident,” I offered. “Maybe he tripped over something on the floor and hit his head. Maybe he had a seizure or a stroke.”

“It’s possible.” Marcus didn’t sound convinced.

“Could Mike have walked in on someone who broke into the house? I haven’t heard of any break-ins in that area.”

“There haven’t been any. At least nothing that’s been reported to us. I talked to Oren and the Kings. They haven’t seen anything suspicious.”

I folded one arm up over my head, my supper forgotten for the moment. “Do you think Mike was murdered?” I asked.

Marcus raked a hand back through his hair. “Don’t ask me that, please,” he said.