Kelly, Sofie - Sleight of Paw

“I think so,” I said. I dropped my foot and squeezed past him to get to my desk drawer. He smelled citrusy—a bit like one of those drinks with a tiny plastic sword skewering a wedge of lime. I shook my head. Why the heck was I smelling the man? Most of the time I didn’t even like him.

I held up a business-sized envelope. “Will this do?”

“That’s perfect.”

I held open the top and he dropped the piece of glass inside; then I handed the whole thing over to him.

He sealed the top and put the envelope into the pocket of his coat. “Thank you,” he said.

“You’re welcome.”

He didn’t move.

“Was there something else you wanted to ask me?” I said.

“I just have a couple of questions.”

I gestured to the chairs. “Have a seat.”

He made a dismissive gesture with one hand. “I’m okay,” he said.

I didn’t want to sit down if he wasn’t and have him looming over me like a cop in an old black-and-white movie, so I stayed standing, as well. “What did you want to know?”

“You were meeting Ms. Adams and Ms. Blackthorne at the restaurant. What time did you get there?”

“I was meeting Maggie,” I said. “She told me Ruby was coming, as well, because she had the lightbulbs Maggie needed for the Winterfest display. And as for when I arrived, I’d say about seven thirty. Maggie was already there.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “How long before Ms. Blackthorne showed up?”

I shrugged. “Five minutes, maybe,” I said. “Less than ten, for sure. We’d ordered, but our food hadn’t arrived and I hadn’t finished my first cup of coffee.”

He nodded and I guessed he was filing the information away somewhere in his head. “So, you went to the alley to check on Mrs. Shepherd?”

I nodded.

“Why?”

“Why?” I repeated.

He shifted from one foot to the other. “Why didn’t you just call nine-one-one, or at least let someone else go take a look?”

I exhaled slowly, trying to get rid of some of the irritation Marcus always seemed to make me feel.

“I didn’t know there was a reason to call nine-one-one,” I explained. “Ruby was . . . upset, and the alley’s dark. Maybe she hadn’t seen what she thought she had. As for why me”—I gestured toward my boots standing on a square of newspaper under the coatrack—“Maggie had boots with heels, and I didn’t. The sidewalk was icy and I could move a lot faster than she could.”

He looked at the boots and for a moment I thought he was going to walk over to pick them up. But he didn’t. “So, you got to the alley. What did you do then?”

“I could see that there was something on the ground about halfway down. I couldn’t tell if it was a person or maybe a bag of garbage that had just blown there.”

I folded my own arms across my chest, mimicking his stance. “I told Ruby to stay at the end of the alley while I walked down to see who it was. As I got closer I could see that it was Agatha, and I could see that she was dead.”

“How did you know that?” he asked.

“That wasn’t my first dead body,” I said dryly. “But as I told you, I felt for her pulse.”

“Did you touch anything else besides the body?” He unfolded his arms and turned his head from one side to the other to stretch his neck.

“No,” I said slowly and clearly. He’d already asked me this, so there was obviously some reason he was intent on going over it again. “I didn’t touch anything else. I walked down and back, and I tried to stay in Ruby’s footsteps. When I realized I couldn’t do anything for Agatha, I went back to Ruby. Maggie was with her, and I asked Maggie to call nine-one-one because my phone was in my briefcase, which was still in the restaurant.”

I held up a hand before he could speak. “Ruby was cold and I was afraid she might go into shock, so I got Maggie to take her back to Eric’s while I waited for you to show up. That’s it.”

He nodded again and felt in his pocket for something. “Did you know Mrs. Shepherd?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “I’d seen her a few times in the past couple of days, but I didn’t know who she was until she came into Eric’s last night and I asked Roma—Dr. Davidson.”

I thought about Agatha and Old Harry Taylor standing on the sidewalk, arguing. I didn’t see how that had anything to do with Agatha’s death, so there didn’t seem to be any reason to tell Marcus and have him start bothering the old man.

I leaned back against the desk and stretched my legs in front of me, crossing one foot over the other. “Is there anything else?”

He smiled, almost. “I can’t think of anything else. Thank you.” He touched his pocket. “And thank you for calling me when you found the piece of glass.”

I gave him a small smile. “You’re welcome,” I said.

He started for the door and then stopped and turned back to me. “Any chance you’d be available to help me out at Wisteria Hill tomorrow morning?”

There was still a colony of feral cats living out at the old Henderson estate, Wisteria Hill. Roma had a group of volunteers taking care of them. Marcus was one. So was I.

I ran through what I had planned for Friday morning: laundry, housecleaning—nothing that couldn’t be put off. And I have a soft spot for Wisteria Hill. It’s where I found Owen and Hercules, or to be more exact, where they’d found me.

I nodded. “I can help you.”

He smiled for real then. “Thanks. I’ll pick you up about eight, if that’s okay.”

I still found it disconcerting, the way he could switch from being coolly professional to almost friendly. “It is,” I said.

“I’ll call you if something changes.”

“You mean if you find the person who hit Agatha.”

He didn’t even blink. “You think someone hit Mrs. Shepherd?” he said, standing there so unconcerned, feet apart with his hands in his pockets.

“I think a car or truck hit her, yes.” I pointed at his pocket. “The broken glass, the blood soaked into her coat, tire tracks in the alley. She didn’t have a stroke.” I straightened and faced him head-on, almost challenging him to tell me I was wrong.

He looked at me for a long, silent moment. “You’re very observant, Kathleen,” he said finally.

I waited for something else, some admission that I was right, but all he did was pull on his gloves.

“Have a nice day, Kathleen,” he said. This time he made it all the way to the door before he turned around.

I was already reaching for my briefcase.

“Kathleen.”

I turned.

“Thanks for the coffee.”

He was gone before I could say “You’re welcome.”

I took my laptop and the file about the reference books I wanted to order out of my briefcase and set the bag next to my boots, under the coatrack. Then I walked down to the front desk, where Abigail was sorting the books from the book drop, peering through her rimless reading glasses.

“I let Detective Gordon in. Was that all right?” she said.

“Yes, it was.”

“He’s kind of cute in a chiseled-jaw, broad-shouldered, Dudley Do-Right kind of way,” Abigail said, a hint of a smile making her lips twitch.

“Don’t you start, too,” I said. “I’m not interested in him. He’s not my type.”

She held up one hand. “Okay, whatever you say,” she said in a tone that meant she didn’t quite believe me. “So, what was Detective Do-Right here for?”

“Do you know Agatha Shepherd?” I asked.

“Not really. I know who she is.” She looked up, her face serious. “Something happened to her?”

I nodded. “She’s dead. Ruby found her body. You know the alley that turns and runs behind Eric’s?”

She nodded.