Sleight of Paw Read online

  “Look for somewhere to park,” Roma said.

  I scanned the street, wondering why there were so many cars on a Wednesday night in February.

  Maggie must have read my mind. “Wait a sec. There’s an auction going on tonight over at Fischer’s Warehouse, isn’t there? The stuff from Cormac Henry’s place.”

  I remembered reading about that in the paper. “That’s where Mary is,” I said.

  “Probably Thorsten, too,” Roma added.

  “There,” Maggie suddenly squealed, pointing across the street. Amazingly, there was an empty parking spot in front of Eric’s.

  Roma scanned the pavement in front of us. “You didn’t see this,” she muttered. She made a tight U-turn in the mouth of the alley two buildings down from the café, then drove ahead and backed smoothly into the empty space in front of the restaurant. “There,” she said to Maggie. “You can keep an eye on Eddie and he won’t miss all the fun.”

  We piled on to the sidewalk and went into the restaurant. It was almost empty. Peter Lundgren was at a table by the end wall, his head bent over a book, probably something to do with World War II history; that was where his reading interests lay. I also knew he liked heavy-metal music, which wasn’t what I would have expected of a lawyer.

  Claire, my favorite waitress, smiled at us. “Sit anywhere,” she called, making a sweeping gesture with one hand.

  I caught sight of Eric behind the counter.

  “Why don’t we take a table by the window so we can keep an eye on Eddie?” Roma said.

  “Good idea,” I said. “I’ll be right back. I just need to speak to Eric for a second.”

  “Hi, Kathleen,” Eric said with a smile. He was wearing a long apron with splotches of chocolate all over it. That had to be good.

  “Hi,” I said. “I just wanted to say thank you for the apple cake this morning.” Eric liked to experiment with new recipes for the café. Sometimes Susan brought his efforts to work.

  “Oh, you’re welcome.” He pushed back the sleeves of his dark green sweater. “Did you think there was too much cinnamon?”

  I shook my head. “No. But if you feel you need to experiment a little more . . .”

  “You’ll all force yourselves to be my taste testers.”

  I put my hand over my heart. “We’ll make the sacrifice,” I said solemnly.

  He laughed, and I headed back to Roma and Maggie, pulling off my old coat. It was warm, but it was an ugly shade of brown. I’d bought it to wear out to Wisteria Hill when it was my turn to help feed the cat colony that lived at the abandoned house. Since I’d paid only five dollars for the jacket at Goodwill, I didn’t really care that it wasn’t very fashionable. I was pretty sure the cats didn’t, either.

  Claire came over with an insulated carafe. “Hot chocolate?” she asked, holding it up.

  “Please,” Roma said, pulling off her gloves and rubbing her hands together.

  Maggie and I both nodded.

  Claire poured three mugs of cocoa. “Marshmallows or cinnamon?”

  “Marshmallows!” Maggie and I said in unison.

  “Eric made chocolate pudding cake,” Claire said with a sly smile. Her red curls were caught in two pigtails and she looked like a mischievous little girl.

  Roma was bent over, fixing her boot. “Yes,” she said, holding up one hand and waving it.

  “That sounds good,” Maggie said.

  “It does,” I agreed.

  “It’ll just be a couple of minutes,” Claire promised, heading back to the counter.

  Roma straightened and picked up her mug. “Here’s to chocolate and duct tape.”

  “Excuse me?” I said.

  “Chocolate and duct tape,” she repeated. “Between the two of them you can solve just about any problem.” She stuck out her left leg, pointing to her boot. “See?” There was a piece of gray duct tape stuck to the heel on the inside edge. “I caught that on a spike this afternoon. Couple of pieces of tape and it’s fine for now.”

  I laughed. “Don’t tell me you carry a roll of duct tape in your bag.”

  “I do. And a bag of M&M’s.” She held out her right hand, palm up. “Duct tape.” She did the same with her other hand. “M&M’s. If I can’t fix whatever’s wrong with those two things, I’m going home and getting back into bed.”

  Claire was coming toward us, carrying a large oval tray. I could smell the warm chocolate. She set a dish of marshmallows in the middle of the table, then slid a bowl of pudding cake in front of each of us.

  It tasted even better than it smelled, and it smelled wonderful. “Can I get you anything else?” she asked. All she got for an answer was three grunts. She smiled. “I’ll check back in a few minutes.”

  We ate in silence except for the occasional sigh of pleasure. Maggie set down her spoon first and licked a drop of chocolate sauce from the side of her thumb. “That was so, so good,” she said. She pulled a small black notebook from her pocket. “What’s the rest of your week look like?” she asked Roma. “I need to take some more pictures of the cats.”

  Roma wiped her hand with her napkin. “What works for you?” she asked. They leaned across the table, comparing schedules.

  Maggie had done a collage of photos of the feral cat colony at Wisteria Hill, where I’d found Owen and Hercules. It hung in the waiting room of Roma’s veterinary clinic. Now an animal-rescue organization had commissioned Maggie to create a poster for their spay-neuter program. She was going to take pictures of three new strays that had been left on the doorstep of the clinic last week.

  There was a rush of cold wind in my face as the door to the café opened. A tiny, elderly woman stepped inside. Something about her seemed familiar. She hesitated in the doorway, blinking in the light. Was she looking around for someone? I wasn’t sure. I touched Roma’s arm. “Roma, who’s that?” I asked.

  She looked up, smiling at the sight of the old woman. “That’s Agatha,” she said, her smile widening as the other woman noticed her. Agatha didn’t exactly smile back, but her expression softened a little. And she ducked her head in recognition. Then her eyes shifted to me and she nodded.

  Roma frowned. “Do you know her?”

  “Not exactly,” I said. “I saw her a couple of times yesterday. When I was shoveling she, uh, she stopped to talk to Hercules. You know what a wuss he is about getting his feet wet.”

  What I didn’t say was that Agatha had picked up my little black-and-white cat and carried him over to me. Hercules and Owen, like the rest of the cats from Wisteria Hill, were likely feral. I’d found them as kittens, and they typically wouldn’t let anyone other than me touch them.

  Agatha was slowly making her way over to where Peter Lundgren was leaning on the counter, talking to Eric. I couldn’t tell how old she was. She was hunched over with what I guessed was osteoporosis, her face lined with a web of fine wrinkles. She wore what looked to me like an early 1960s vintage red-and-black-plaid mohair coat. It seemed just a bit too big, or maybe the woman wearing it had gotten smaller with time.

  Peter straightened and walked over to Agatha, offering his arm to her. She took it, shifting a black canvas bag to her other hand, and he helped her the rest of the way. They clearly knew each other.

  “Why have I never seen her before?” I said.

  “Agatha had a minor stroke this time last year and fell and broke her hip,” Roma said. “She’s been in a rehab center in Minneapolis.” She glanced over at the counter, where Eric was handing Agatha a brown paper bag and take-out cup. Peter was on his way back to his table. “I didn’t think she was coming home and then yesterday I saw her with Ruby.”

  Like Maggie, Ruby was also an artist. She painted huge abstracts and taught art. And she was the best student in our tai chi class.

  The second time I’d seen Agatha she’d been talking to Ruby, as well. They’d been in the parking lot of the library and Agatha had seemed upset with Ruby, the way she seemed to be right now with Eric. He was gesturing at an envelope the old woman w
as holding. She’d had it the day I’d seen her with Ruby, as well. It looked like the kind of envelope my sixth-grade report card had been in.

  Even at a distance I could see Agatha’s expression, her lips pulled into a thin, angry line. Eric’s face was flushed. He shook his head.

  Agatha turned, her shoulders rigid under the out-of-date coat. She made her way back to the door, cup in one hand, bag in the other, the envelope held tightly against her chest with her forearm. It was an old report-card envelope, I realized as she passed us.

  “She was a teacher,” I said.

  “Principal, actually,” Maggie replied. She checked her watch. “We should get going.” She looked around for Claire.

  “You know, Agatha kept more than one kid from becoming a juvenile delinquent,” Roma said, pushing back her chair and standing up.

  Maggie nodded. “Ruby,” she said. “And Eric.” Claire came over and Maggie took all three checks from her, then held up her hand. “I’m getting this.”

  “There’s two of us,” I said to Roma.

  She narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. “I think we could take her.”

  “I want to do this,” Maggie said. “Don’t argue with me.”

  Roma and I exchanged glances. “Okay,” I said.

  Maggie headed for the cash register. “And there’s no way that you two could take me,” she said over her shoulder.

  Through the window I could see Agatha moving slowly down the sidewalk. Roma followed my gaze as she zipped her coat. “Me,” she said softly, with a slightly embarrassed shrug.

  It took me a moment to get what she meant. “You were a juvenile delinquent?” Roma as a wild child didn’t fit with the compassionate veterinarian I’d become friends with since I’d moved to Minnesota.

  “Maybe not exactly a delinquent,” she said, pulling on her gloves. “But I was hanging out with a bad bunch of kids—sneaking out of the house, smoking, drinking—and I was only fourteen.”

  “That doesn’t sound like you,” Maggie said. She’d come back in time to hear the tail end of the conversation.

  “That’s because of Agatha,” Roma said. “She noticed my interest in animals. Also caught me cutting school.” She laughed at the memory. “Part of my punishment was cleaning cages three days a week after school at the animal shelter. For an entire month.”

  We headed for the door. I waved good-bye to Eric, who nodded in return. I turned back to Roma. “I take it the punishment really wasn’t much of a punishment.”

  “I loved it,” she said. “Not that I let on. When the month was up the shelter director offered me a part-time job, Saturdays and after school. I didn’t find out for years that was Agatha’s doing, too. Walking dogs, cleaning cages—I didn’t have time to get into trouble anymore.”

  Maggie flipped up her hood and pushed the door open with her hip. It was achingly cold outside. “Agatha entered a painting of Ruby’s in a statewide contest,” she said. “She won tuition to a summer art camp.”

  Roma moved behind the SUV, squeezing between it and the bumper of the half-ton parked behind us. “I know she encouraged Eric’s interest in cooking,” she said. “He was about fifteen and he did all the food for some big teachers’ breakfast.”

  Raised voices, sharp in the icy air, came up the sidewalk toward us. Roma stopped and craned her neck to see. Maggie leaned back and looked down the street, her hand on the car’s door handle. I took a step backward for a better view.

  What I saw was Agatha, her tiny, birdlike frame in the too-big plaid coat, still clutching the envelope to her chest. It took a few more seconds to recognize the man towering above her, despite the fact that he was leaning on a cane.

  “Is that Harry Taylor?” Maggie asked.

  “Uh-huh,” I said.

  Harry and Agatha’s voices, not so much the words as the tone, hung in the frigid air. I didn’t need to make out the words to know they were arguing. The old man reached a hand toward the envelope Agatha was holding. She shook her head vigorously, turned and began to make her way slowly along the sidewalk. Harry stayed where he was, leaning heavily on his cane.

  I hesitated, looking down the street to where he stood alone on the sidewalk. I didn’t want to interfere, but he wasn’t well. Old Harry—Harrison—was always with one of his sons, usually Harry Junior—Young Harry—but I didn’t see him or the truck anywhere.

  “Harry Taylor is as tough as a boiled owl,” Roma said, noticing my hesitation.

  I let out a breath. She was right. But it was so cold. What was the old man doing out by himself on a night that was so cold? And why had he been fighting with Agatha?

  2

  “Go,” I said, pulling the hood of my parka tighter against my neck.

  “We can wait,” Maggie said.

  I shook my head. “No, it’s okay. Go. Don’t keep Oren waiting. I just want to make sure Harry’s all right.”

  Roma nodded and patted her coat pocket. “Call my cell if you need anything or you want me to come back and get you.”

  “Thanks,” I said. I hunched into my jacket and headed down to where the old man was standing. It was a clear night, the moon a thin sliver in the inky blue-black sky. Harry turned as I got to him, the expression on his face not surprise, but more like What took you so long?, and I had the feeling that he’d known I was up the street and would walk down to him.

  “Hello,” I said, pushing back my hood.

  “You want to exchange pleasantries or go right to the part where you ask me what I’m doing out here when it’s cold enough to freeze the brass off a bald monkey?” he asked.

  “It is cold,” I agreed. “What are you doing out here?”

  “Without my keepers?”

  “Without a ride.”

  “Boys are at the auction,” Harry said, inclining his head in the direction of the riverbank. “There’s nothing of Cormac’s I want. I’ve got too much junk of my own. So I decided to get some air.”

  I didn’t say anything, but my eyebrows disappeared up under my wool hat. A sudden gust of wind blew a swirl of snow down off the roof of the store we were standing in front of.

  Harry gave a halfhearted shrug. “I like snow with my air,” he said.

  “How do you feel about chocolate with your air?” I asked, offering my arm. “Eric has a pretty good chocolate pudding cake tonight.”

  “I can be flexible,” he said, taking my arm with his gloved hand. “Why don’t you walk me up to the restaurant so I don’t get into any trouble?” He glanced behind him, but Agatha had disappeared.

  “Harry, is everything all right?” I asked.

  “Nothing to worry about.”

  That didn’t really answer my question.

  “How are your cats?” he asked.

  “Fine,” I said as we made our way very slowly toward the café. “But Hercules doesn’t like the snow.”

  “There are days I feel the same way,” he said. “Boys were after me to go south for a while, sit on a beach and have some fussy little drink with an umbrella stuck in the top. I said it’s February. In February you’re supposed to be wearing long johns, not some dinky swimsuit stuck up—” He caught himself and smiled. “Stuck up a palm tree.”

  “That does sound . . . uncomfortable,” I said with a grin.

  We’d made it to the door of the restaurant. “Thank you, Kathleen,” Harry said, letting go of my arm and dipping his head with old-fashioned gallantry. I half expected him to sweep off his hat with its pile earflaps and bow to me. “The boys will be along in a bit.”

  “All right,” I said.

  “You figuring on standing here until you see me go inside?”

  “That’s pretty much my plan.” I stamped my feet on the sidewalk. “Sure is cold.”

  He let out a snort of laughter. “I’m going, I’m going.” He waved away my offered hand and reached for the door. “Go catch up with your friends before you freeze something.”

  “Good night, Harrison,” I said.

  He gave me a d
ismissive wave as the door closed behind him.

  I pulled up my hood again and started for the community center. Snow crunched under my boots and my breath hung in the air like some sort of smoke signal to lead me.

  I looked back. There was no sign of anyone. I hoped that meant Harry really was inside Eric’s, waiting for his sons. On the other hand, I knew the old man was perfectly capable of doing exactly what he wanted the second I’d started walking.

  Oren’s truck was next to Roma’s SUV in the lot at the community center. There was no sign of him, or Roma or Maggie or even Eddie, and there were definitely lights on inside. I tried the door. It was unlocked. Kicking snow off my boots, I went in.

  The main auditorium was at the top of the stairs. I saw boots to the right of the door; Maggie’s Sorels, Roma’s pile-lined mukluks with their duct-tape patch, and big black boots that had to belong to Oren. I couldn’t help grinning as I pulled off my own boots. That was Maggie, making everyone take off their outside footwear to keep the floor clean, when in a couple of days most of Mayville Heights would be clomping around inside.

  Her display was at the far end of the auditorium, along with a larger exhibit of old photographs. She stood in front of the wall, arms crossed, head cocked to one side. Roma stood beside her. Eddie was on the floor, head slumped forward as though he’d just been checked especially hard into the boards. I looked around, but didn’t see Oren anywhere.

  Roma caught sight of me and walked over to meet me. I gestured at the wall.

  “What is this? The history of Winterfest?” Maggie had been very closemouthed about the project. She’d been sorting through old photos for months.

  “Close,” she said. “History of sports in Mayville.” She gave me a searching look. “Harry okay?”

  I nodded. “Yeah. Apparently he was at the auction and got antsy. He’s meeting the boys at Eric’s.”

  Roma shook her head. “He’s a stubborn old buzzard,” she said.

  “I know.” I couldn’t help feeling uneasy. Had the old man stayed at Eric’s or was he back outside?

  “Is Harry okay?” Maggie asked as we joined her.