Sofie Kelly - Copycat Killing - A Magical Cats Mystery

I craned my neck, looking for some movement, some sign that some or any of the cats were around. Something caught my eye near the farthest stack of straw bales. I crossed my fingers it was a cat and not a field mouse.

“Lucy, c’mere puss,” I called softly.

Roma looked at me like I was crazy. “That’s not going to work,” she said.

The cats were nobody’s pets. They were skittish around people—even the volunteers they saw regularly. They didn’t come when they were called. They were a lot more likely to bolt, but Lucy and I had a rapport that was impossible to explain.

I put a hand on Roma’s arm. “Hang on a second,” I said. I took a couple of steps closer to the shelter space and crouched down, biting my tongue so I didn’t groan out loud.

“Lucy,” I called again. I kept my eyes on the corner where I thought I’d seen that flash of movement and held my breath.

I saw the ears first. They poked up over the top of a straw bale, followed by the rest of a furry face. Lucy’s furry face.

My shoulders sagged with relief. The small, calico cat tipped her head to one side and stared at me, almost as though she was wondering what the heck I wanted.

“She’s fine,” I said to Roma.

“As long as Lucy is here the other cats should stay around too,” she said.

Lucy meowed and ducked back behind the straw. I had to put my good hand down on the rough wooden floor to push myself upright. My ankle objected and I almost fell over sideways.

Roma was looking distractedly around the space, checking for leaks, I guessed, but I knew the bones out in the field behind the carriage house were foremost in her mind.

I touched her shoulder. “Ready to go?”

She nodded. I followed her, waiting while she made sure the door was tightly closed. We ducked under the yellow tape again and I thanked Derek. I waited for Roma to say something, about the ring, about her father. But instead she busied herself brushing dirt that only she could seem to see off her jeans.

“Do you have time for coffee?” I said.

She gave me a blank look and then shook her head. “I’m sorry, what did you say?” she asked.

“Let’s go back to the house and have coffee. Do you have time?”

Her eyes automatically went to the carriage house even though we couldn’t see Marcus or Dr. Abbott from where we were standing. I could tell that she wanted to walk back out to see what was going on.

“I have cinnamon coffee cake,” I said. Sitting down with a cup of coffee and a slice of coffee cake seemed like a pretty good idea to me. Even just sitting down would be good. I shifted my weight onto my “good” leg.

Roma noticed the movement. “Your leg hurts,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

“Just my ankle. It’s a bit stiff,” I said, tucking my hands in the front pocket of my sweatshirt.

Roma’s gaze darted sideways again for a brief moment. Then she exhaled slowly and turned her full attention to me. “Let’s go,” she said. “You should get off that leg and I could use a cup of coffee.”

We walked to our vehicles. Roma frowned as I pulled my keys out of my pocket. “Are you sure you’re okay to drive?”

“Yes,” I said. “I swear.”

She gave me a half smile. “I know. Librarian’s honor.” She fished her own keys out of her pocket. “I’ll follow you. If you feel sick, pull over.”

“I will.”

I climbed into the truck as Roma walked over to her SUV. I’d been hurt a couple of times last summer—accidents that turned out not to be so accidental after all. Roma had thought I wasn’t taking those “accidents” seriously enough, and I’d thought she was taking them a bit too seriously. Right now she was fussing over me a little more than was typical for her. Maybe it was a way to distract herself from thinking about that old high school ring.

We lurched our way down the driveway and I turned onto the road, Roma close behind me. Except for my bruised hip and my slightly swollen ankle—that felt a little better now that I was sitting down—I really was okay. Seeing the sheared off bank had made me realize just how lucky I had been to walk away with just some aches and scrapes.

There was no sign of either Owen or Hercules when we got to the house—no surprise given that Roma was probably their least favorite person.

“I’ll start the coffee,” Roma said. “Why don’t you sit?”

I was about to start my umpteenth recitation of the “I’m all right” speech when it occurred to me that maybe she needed to be busy, maybe she needed to keep her hands moving while she sorted out what had happened up at Wisteria Hill.

So I said, “Okay,” and sank onto one of the kitchen chairs, propping my foot up on another. Roma started the coffee pot, found cream and sugar, cut the coffee cake and got plates for both of us. The entire time she talked about the Wisteria Hill cats, the kind of aimless chitchat I’d never heard Roma make before. She didn’t sit down until the coffee was poured and we each had a mug. She looked at me across the table and all at once pressed her hand to her mouth.

I reached over and put my hand on her arm. She blinked hard and swallowed a couple of times before dropping her hand and wrapping her arm around her body.

“That’s my father, Kathleen,” she said. “Those pieces of bone that were…lying…on that tarp, they…they’re my father.” She closed her eyes for a moment. I wasn’t sure if she was picturing what we’d seen at Wisteria Hill, or trying to banish the image.

I gave her arm a squeeze and she opened her eyes again. “I didn’t realize your dad—Neil—isn’t your biological father.”

Roma traced the inside loop of the cup handle with one finger, around and around and around. “No he’s not. He married my mother when I was five. He’s been my father in every way that matters, but he’s not my birth father.”

“Thomas Karlsson was.”

She nodded.

I folded my hands around my own mug. “Roma, you said he left when you were little.” I flashed to the skull in the dirt. “Where did you think he’s been?”

She shrugged. “He was just…gone. He and my mother were kids when they had me, right out of high school—kids when they got married, which I’m pretty sure was because they were having me, by the way.”

I nodded but didn’t say anything. My brother and sister—Ethan and Sara—had been guests at my parents’ wedding—their second try at marriage.

Roma took a sip of her coffee and set the mug on the table again. “My mother always said he just got overwhelmed by the responsibility of having a family when he was really just a kid himself.” She sighed. “She said he was probably ashamed that he had taken off, but the longer he stayed away from Mayville the harder it was to face people.”

“And maybe that is what happened,” I said. “Those…remains, they may not be him at all.”

She shook her head, the movement almost imperceptible. “That’s his ring, Kathleen. It’s the right year and the right initials.”

“That doesn’t mean he was wearing it. Maybe he lost it. Maybe he gave it to someone else to wear.” I was trying to be the voice of reason.

“You heard me tell Marcus that I have a picture of my father—Thomas—wearing that ring?”

I nodded.

“It’s a newspaper clipping. He played baseball. They were state champions his senior year in high school.” Her mouth twisted into a wry smile. “I suspect that I was the result of the celebrations.” She leaned back in her chair. “The seniors on the team got their class rings early. It was a big deal. They were big shots in school. Heck, they were big shots all over town.”

“Glory days,” I said softly.

“The photograph is Tom being presented with his ring. And there’s another shot, a close-up of the ring itself.”