Kelly, Sofie - Sleight of Paw

“Ruby was cutting through to meet Maggie and me at the café.”

“Poor Ruby,” Abigail whispered. “Wasn’t Agatha in a rehabilitation hospital? She’s only been home for, what, maybe a week?” She shook her head. “It doesn’t seem fair. Was it another stroke?”

I flashed back to the dark stain of blood soaked into the plaid mohair coat. “I . . . I don’t know,” I said. “Detective Gordon didn’t say.”

“She was a good principal,” Abigail said. “She helped a lot of kids.” She glanced down the desk and made a face. “Kathleen, I’m sorry I forgot to tell you that Susan called. She won’t be in until after lunch.”

“Are the twins sick?” I asked. I remembered that Eric hadn’t been at the café. It wasn’t like either of them to miss work.

“She didn’t say, but I’m guessing that was probably it. She sounded pretty frazzled.”

“And Eric wasn’t at the café this morning. I think Claire said he broke a tooth.”

Abigail winced in sympathy. “I can hold down the fort for a while. Kate will be here soon.” Kate was our work-study student from the high school.

“You have story time.” As well as working part-time at the library, Abigail was also a children’s author. She often read some of her own stories to the kids. I never quite knew what was going to happen at story time—one morning I’d come in to find all the children wearing foil hats with pom-pom antennae—and I liked that.

I glanced at my watch. “I’ll try Mary.”

“Okay,” Abigail said as she went back to checking in books.

I went back up to my office and called Mary at home.

“I can be there in about a half hour,” she said. “Only thing you’re taking me from is a heap of laundry, and it won’t miss me.”

I thanked her, hung up and went back down to tell Abigail that Mary was on her way.

It was nine o’clock. Abigail had turned on the rest of the library lights, and I unlocked the front doors. I started going down a mental list of what needed to be done that morning.

“I’ll get the rest of the books from the book drop,” Abigail said. “Coffee’s ready. Strong, the way you like it.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I’ve had only one cup this morning.”

“Should we unleash you on an unsuspecting world when you’re down at least two cups?” she asked, struggling to keep a straight face.

I looked at her thoughtfully for a moment. “No,” I said. We both laughed.

Abigail’s face grew serious again. “Kathleen, I didn’t ask you. Is Ruby all right?”

“She was a little shaky,” I said. “She’s working in the store this morning and she decided she still wanted to do it. Maggie went with her.”

“I’m glad she’s okay.”

I thought about Ruby standing there, hunched against the cold at the mouth of the alley, trembling with Maggie’s arm around her. “So am I,” I said.

Abigail brushed off the cover of a big coffee-table book about the Sahara. “It just doesn’t seem fair,” she said again. “I can’t believe Agatha’s dead.”

There was a crash behind me. I jumped and swung around.

Harrison Taylor was standing there, his face ashen, his cane on the floor beside him.

6

“Harry, are you all right?”I said.

It took a second for him to focus on me. “Oh, yes . . . I���m—I’m getting clumsy in my old age.” He started to reach for his cane, but I bent down and picked it up for him.

“Thank you, my dear,” he said. His color still wasn’t good, I noticed as he took the carved, black walking stick from me. He ran a hand over his chin, twisted finger joints pulling at the skin on his hand, which seemed as thin as tissue paper.

“Did I hear you right, Kathleen?” he asked, blue eyes troubled. “Is Agatha Shepherd . . . dead?”

I nodded, putting a hand on his shoulder. I was surprised when he lifted his own hand and put it over mine. “I’m sorry,” I said softly.

“Me, too,” the old man said.

His son came in then. “There you are,” he said, a touch of exasperation in his voice. “I went back to the truck and you weren’t there.”

“That’s because I’m here,” Harrison retorted.

“I can see that,” Harry—the younger—said dryly. “I told you to wait in the truck.”

“Well, I’m not six years old,” Harrison said. “And I didn’t want to sit in the truck.”

Harry opened his mouth to say something else, and then it seemed our expressions or maybe the way we were standing registered with him. “What’s wrong?” he asked, and all the aggravation was gone from his voice.

I glanced at the old man first. He met my gaze for a moment and looked down. “It’s Agatha Shepherd,” I began. I gave Old Harry’s arm a gentle squeeze and then let go. “She’s . . . dead.”

The younger man’s face paled. “Dad, I’m sorry,” he said. “You, uh, worked with Agatha. You knew her.”

“I did,” Harrison said. I noticed how tightly he was gripping his cane.

Harry Junior took off his cap and ran a hand over his scalp. He looked at me. “What happened?”

I tried not to think about Agatha’s body lying in that alley, or her and Harry arguing on the sidewalk, the anger between them crackling in the cold night air. “I don’t think anyone knows for sure,” I finally said.

He looked at his father. “You okay?”

“I wouldn’t mind sitting down,” the old man said. “And if that’s coffee,” he gestured toward Abigail’s mug, “I wouldn’t mind a cup of that, either.”

“You’re not supposed to be drinking more than one cup of coffee.”

Harrison fixed his gaze on his son. “If I always did what I was supposed to do, you wouldn’t be here.”

Harry sighed. “You’re a stubborn old far—” He looked at me and caught himself. “Man,” he said instead.

“Go do whatever it was you came to do,” the old man said. “I can stay here with Kathleen. Maybe I’ll poke a few books back on the shelf for her.”

“I can always use an extra set of hands,” I said. I turned to Harry. “Go ahead. We’re fine.”

He hesitated. His mouth worked, but in the end all he said was, “Fine.” Then he turned and went back out the front doors.

“Would you like that cup of coffee now?” I asked Harrison.

“Please,” he said. “Before the Food Police comes back.”

I gestured across the library to the computer room. “There are a couple of chairs by the window. Have a seat and I’ll go get it.”

He smiled at me, and I couldn’t help thinking how much he looked like Santa Claus with his warm, blue eyes and white hair and beard. If I hadn’t seen him arguing with Agatha, I wouldn’t have believed it. There was no way an old man who could pass for Kriss Kringle had any connection to Agatha Shepherd’s death.

He made his way across the tile floor toward the big windows looking out over the water. I turned to the front desk and mouthed Watch him to Abigail, who nodded. Then I went upstairs and poured coffee for Harry. I set the carton of cream, several packets of sugar and a spoon next to the cups on a black plastic tray and carried the whole thing down the stairs.

Abigail was on the phone. “Come get me if you need help,” I whispered. She nodded without looking up.

Harry had taken off his coat and hat. I wondered why he had so much thick hair and his son had so little.

There was a low table under the window. I pulled it closer with my foot and then set the tray on top.

Harry noticed the carton of coffee cream. “Ahh,” he said, approvingly. “The good stuff.”

“I didn’t know how you took it,” I told him, as he poured cream into the cup.

“A little cream and three sugars,” he said, reaching for the paper packets. “Because I’m a sour old coot.”