Sleight of Paw Page 9

  A flicker of movement caught my eye in the far corner of the carriage house. I put a hand on Marcus’s arm to warn him into silence. The cats came into view. The first one was a sturdy black-and-white cat not unlike Hercules, but with more white on his face. The others came behind him, cautiously, one by one.

  They’d all come to know the volunteers and realize our presence meant food, and we all knew to stay quiet and still while they ate. Like Marcus, I eyed each cat in turn, looking for any signs of injury or illness.

  “Where’s Lucy?” he whispered.

  I looked around. He was right. There was no sign of Lucy, the matriarch of the feral-cat colony. She was usually the first one who appeared to check things out.

  I scanned the space, squinting in the dim light. There was something—I hoped it was feline—over by one of the posts supporting the carriage-house roof.

  I leaned forward on the balls of my feet, grabbing Marcus’s arm for balance. He really did smell good, like a fruit salad of orange, lemon and grapefruit. Lucy made her way slowly across the floor. The calico cat was carrying something in her mouth. Or, to be more accurate, she was half dragging something.

  She paused. Her ears twitched. I didn’t hear anything, but something caught her attention. She looked back the way she’d come for a long moment. Then, seemingly satisfied, she turned back around.

  And looked directly at us.

  I froze, not even breathing for a moment, because I didn’t want to scare her.

  The cat put a paw on whatever it was she’d captured so she could get a better grip on it with her teeth. Then she started toward us. Should we move, or would that startle her and the other cats? They were all eating, not even giving her as much as a glance as she passed them.

  Lucy made her way closer. She still had a very small limp left over from last summer when she’d injured her leg. And whatever it was she was carrying was heavy, close to half her size.

  It wasn’t a bird; I couldn’t see any feathers. I could see a long tail and . . . fur? I tightened my grip on Marcus’s arm.

  Lucy continued to make her way across the floor. About six feet or so away from us she stopped, dropped her . . . catch on the wooden floor and looked at us. Then she gave the dead animal—I was pretty sure it was dead—a push with a paw.

  It dawned on me that she was bringing us a gift. Owen and Hercules brought me things on occasion—a dragonfly, a dead bird, a very hairy caterpillar. Owen had once gifted Rebecca with a dead bat that was bigger than he was.

  “Thank you, puss,” I said softly.

  She tipped her head to one side and studied me for a second. Then she bent and nudged the gift a bit closer with her nose. With a flick of her tail she made her way over to the feeding station.

  We stayed where we were, silent while Lucy ate. My legs were cramping from being crouched in the cold for so long. I kept one eye on the dead thing, just in case it wasn’t so dead after all.

  One by one the cats finished eating and wandered away until only Lucy was at the feeding station. Like Owen, she liked to sniff and scrutinize every bit of food before she ate it. Finally she stretched, took a couple of steps away from the food and started washing her face.

  I dug my knuckles into the knot in my right thigh. If I hadn’t been holding on to Marcus, I would have fallen over. I couldn’t help thinking that Lucy was doing this on purpose, knowing we’d have to wait, huddled on the floor by the door until she was finished. From time to time she’d look our way.

  Finally she gave one last swipe of her face with her paw. She stretched again and slowly made her way across the floor of the carriage house, back to the shelters. She had the same graceful stride as a lion on a dusty African savannah, and a touch of the same menace.

  We could finally get to our feet. I shifted my weight from one leg to the other to stretch out the kinks. Marcus walked over to Lucy’s gift. He peered at it and gave the dead thing a push with his toe.

  “I think it’s just a field mouse,” I said. He looked at me, surprised. Had he thought I was going to go all girly on him and scream?

  “My parents did a lot of summer theater and every theater had more than just actors in it,” I said.

  “How nice.” He moved around the dead mouse to get the second water jug.

  “One summer they did Shakespeare in the park, just at dusk. My mother thought she was sharing a changing area—a tent—with my father.” I started to laugh at the memory. “Turns out it was a raccoon, after the ingénue’s secret stash of peanut butter cups.”

  “Oh, come on. You’re kidding.”

  “No.” I couldn’t keep the laughter from bubbling over. “I don’t know who was more surprised, my mother or the poor raccoon. There was a prop sword someone had left behind in the tent. She went after the raccoon with it. He wasn’t going to leave those peanut butter cups without a fight.”

  Marcus was laughing now, arms crossed over his chest. It was easy to like him when he was just being himself. “She chased him, at sword-point, out of the tent and across the grass, right in front of the staging area. And keep in mind she was wearing a lace-up corset and petticoats.” I was laughing so hard that I was shaking.

  “So what happened?”

  “She got the best review of the entire two-week festival. No one knew it wasn’t part of the play.”

  We worked quickly to clean up the feeding station. I gathered the dishes and picked up a couple of pieces of dropped food. Marcus put out more fresh water. I looked around the carriage house one last time. Everything else seemed okay.

  “Ready to head back?” Marcus asked.

  I nodded and picked up the bag with the food and the dirty dishes. “What about that?” I asked when we came level with the dead rodent.

  Marcus made a face. “I don’t think we should leave it here. I don’t want to attract any other animals.” He pulled his hat back on. “I have a shovel in the car. I can at least put it outside, away from the building.”

  “Good idea,” I said.

  We walked to the car. The sun was stretching up over the trees. I put the bag in the back. Marcus opened the front passenger’s door for me and took a small shovel from the rear.

  “Be right back,” he said.

  I got in the car and peeled off my hat and mittens. In the cup holder between the seats was a pump bottle of hand sanitizer. I used it to clean my hands. It left them smelling faintly of lemons.

  Something was digging into my hip. I felt in my pocket. It was Roma’s roll of duct tape. I had to remember to give that back to her.

  I unscrewed the thermos top. There was a second cup inside the top, like a nested Russian doll. I kept it out for Marcus.

  After a few minutes he was back. He set the shovel in the back and closed the hatch. Then he got in the front seat. “Done,” he said, reaching for the hand cleaner. He looked at my cup. “Coffee?” he asked hopefully.

  “Sorry,” I said. “Hot cocoa. Would you like some?”

  “Almost as good. I’d love some, please.”

  I poured him a cup and handed it carefully over to him.

  He took a sip. “Mmmm, that’s good,” he said, his eyes half closed in pleasure at the warmth and taste. “Old family recipe?”

  I laughed. “No.”

  He gave me two eyebrows raised in surprise.

  “My mother knows how to make only three things: lemonade, baking-powder biscuits and toast. All my dad can make is a martini.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously. And the toast thing is iffy.”

  “So how did you learn to cook?”

  I shrugged. “How else? The library, and a very nice woman in South Carolina who owned a little theater right on the coast. She taught me the secret to the best chocolate cake.”

  He smiled at me over the top of his cup. “Which is?”

  I laughed. “I’m not telling you. It won’t be a secret anymore.”

  “You at least have to make one sometime and let me taste it.”

/>   “Deal,” I said.

  He finished the cocoa and handed me the empty cup.

  “Would you like some more?”

  “No, thanks,” he said, fishing in his pocket for the car keys. “So, what’s the martini like?”

  “Martini?” Then I realized what he meant. “Good, as far as I know. I’m not a martini connoisseur, but my friend Lise is and she likes them.”

  He found the keys then and reached for his seat belt. Mine was already fastened. I finished my cocoa and put the thermos back together. Marcus started the SUV.

  “Home, or is there somewhere I can drop you?”

  “Home, please,” I said. “I don’t go to the library until lunchtime.”

  He backed up the car so we could drive out. “Are you closing the library early because of Winterfest?” he asked.

  I nodded. “Lita said everyone will be at the supper at the community center.”

  “She’s right,” he said, as we eased our way down the rutted, frozen driveway. “The food is terrific, by the way.”

  I grinned. “I believe you. I’ve had Mary’s apple pie.”

  “I’m looking forward to having a slice or two myself tonight.”

  This was my opening. “Will you be able to make it?” I asked. “Or will the case keep you too busy?”

  “You mean Mrs. Shepherd’s death?” He slowed to a crawl as we lurched over a particularly large frost heave. “I should be able to make it.” He kept his eyes forward, but I noticed a tiny twitching muscle in his cheek.

  Change of plans. Subtlety wasn’t going to work. “Was she hit by a car?” I asked. Based on what I’d seen, I was still convinced Agatha hadn’t died from natural causes.

  “The autopsy isn’t until later this morning.”

  That wasn’t a yes or no.

  We were at the bottom of the driveway. Marcus stopped, the back end of the SUV slipping a little on the ice. “Why are you asking?” he said. “Is there something you didn’t tell me?”

  “I told you everything that happened yesterday morning.” Just don’t ask me about the night before, I added silently.

  We pulled onto the old highway. The sun was behind us, surprisingly warm on the back of my head. Marcus continued to watch the road. “Did you see anything any other time? The night before, for instance.”

  How did he do that? It was as though he could read my thoughts. I pulled a ChapStick out of my pocket. My lips were suddenly dry and I needed to buy time.

  I snapped the cap on the little tube and rolled it over my fingers and back again before I put it in my pocket. The movement caught his attention.

  “How did you do that?”

  “Excuse me?” I said.

  “Flip that lip stuff over your fingers.”

  I looked down at my hands. “Oh, that. It’s just the same as doing it with a quarter.”

  He let out a breath. “And how do you know how to do it with quarter?”

  I felt my cheeks getting warm. “Well, poker,” I said.

  “Poker?”

  “Uh-huh, a lot of poker games happen backstage. Crew, cast. I watched. I learned things.”

  “So I see,” he said, making a left turn onto Mountain Road, slowing a little in the traffic.

  I hadn’t answered his question. Maybe I was in the clear.

  “So,” he said, checking the mirrors. “You were going to tell me if you saw anything Wednesday night.”

  I exhaled slowly. I was making myself crazy trying to protect someone who didn’t need protecting. Harry Senior didn’t drive. What did it matter if he’d had an argument with Agatha?

  “I don’t think this has anything to do with Agatha’s death,” I began, holding up my hand, because I knew he was going to interrupt. “And yes, I know you’ll be the judge of what’s important and what’s not.”

  He closed his mouth on whatever words he’d been going to say. When he did speak it was only to say, “Go ahead.” His tone told me he was already shifting into detective mode again.

  “Agatha came in to the café while Maggie, Roma, and I were there. We were waiting for Oren to open the community center for us.”

  An image of the old woman in the out-of-fashion plaid wool coat flashed in my mind, followed by another image of that same coat, stained dark with blood.

  “Eric had food for her. Right after that we all came out.”

  Marcus said nothing, hoping that the silence would make me say more, I was guessing. I already knew what I was going to say. “Down the street a little I saw Agatha with Harrison Taylor.”

  “What were they doing?”

  “As far as I could tell, talking. I couldn’t hear what they were saying.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Uh-huh. I did walk Harry to Eric’s.”

  He shot me a quick look. We were almost at my house. “Why did you do that?”

  “Because the sidewalk was slippery. Because he isn’t a young man.”

  “So, that’s it?” he said. “You saw Mr. Taylor talking to Mrs. Shepherd. You walked him to the restaurant.”

  “That’s it,” I said, feeling a knot of annoyance beginning to twist in my stomach. “What? Do you think I ran after Agatha, lured her into the alley, and whacked her with my purse?”

  “Did you?”

  For a second I thought about whacking him with my mittens. I took a breath and let it out. “No. I didn’t.”

  “I know,” he said. “The waitress saw you with Mr. Taylor. So did Peter Lundgren.”

  “So I have an alibi.”

  He smiled and turned into my driveway.

  I swallowed my aggravation and picked up the thermos.

  He shifted in his seat. “Thanks for the cocoa. And for helping me this morning.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said a bit abruptly. It bothered me that he didn’t trust me, even though I knew it was part of his job not to trust anybody. “Have a good day,” I said as I slid out of the car.

  Owen was in the kitchen, lying on his side in a square of sunlight, lazily washing his face. “Hey, fur ball,” I said as I hung up my old coat. “I forgot last night. Rebecca sent you a present.”

  At the sound of her name Owen jumped to his feet and trotted over to stand expectantly at my mine. I pulled the paper bag from the pocket of my other jacket, reached inside and fished out a Fred the Funky Chicken. If it was possible for a cat’s face to light up with joy, Owen’s did.

  I took the yellow toy out of the package, then I leaned down and handed it to him. I didn’t even bother with my usual “Rebecca spoils you” speech. Owen grabbed the chicken and disappeared around the corner of the doorway.

  After a moment Hercules came in from the living room. He looked back in the direction Owen had gone with his catnip chicken, then looked quizzically at me.

  “Rebecca,” I said.

  Herc yawned. Catnip wasn’t his thing.

  I held up the paper bag. “She sent you something, too,” I said. His head came up, eyes big and green. I held out the bag, swinging it from side to side. “Wanna see?” I teased.

  Of course he did, but unlike Owen, Hercules wouldn’t want to seem too eager. He walked slowly over to me, glanced at the small, brown paper sack, and then looked around the kitchen like it didn’t matter if I showed him or not. I waited until he sat down in front of me before I pulled the sardine can from the bag.

  “Merow,” he said. He knew what was in the can.

  “What do you think?” I asked. “Maybe you should try one, just to make sure they haven’t gone bad or anything.” I set the sardines on the counter, found a plate, and pulled back the top of the oblong can.

  The pungent smell of fish and oil hit me. “They smell like sardines,” I said. I used a fork to pull out two tiny fish and put them on the plate. I took it over to Hercules, who was studying his paw, pretending to be indifferent.

  He sniffed the little fish and looked up at me. “Yeah, I think they smell okay,” I said.

  He bent and licked a bit of oil on
the plate. And then a bit more, and then he didn’t even try to act uninterested. He started eating with a sigh of happiness.

  “Do they taste okay?” I asked. The only answer was the sound of him slurping. Better than a yes, I figured.

  I was putting the rest of the sardines away when the phone rang. It was Maggie. “Can you still give me a hand this afternoon?” she asked.

  “Sure,” I said. “What do you need?”

  “Mostly another set of hands and eyes.”

  “I could probably get away around three o’clock.” I looked out the living room window. The sky was still blue, the sun was still shining, my arm didn’t ache. There was no snow coming for a while.

  “That would be great,” Maggie said. “I think Ruby is going to come, as well, and she’s in the store until two.”

  I sank on to the footstool. “How is she really?”

  “She’s better.”

  “Marcus had said the autopsy was this morning. I know having some kind of memorial is important to Ruby,” I said.

  “And Roma and a lot of other people,” Maggie added. “Any chance you can get any information from Marcus?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said, brushing a clump of gray cat hair off the footstool. Proof that Owen was sleeping on the thing when I wasn’t home.

  “I went to Wisteria Hill with him this morning and I didn’t find out anything.” I held up a warning finger even though she couldn’t see it. “And don’t start with me,” I cautioned. “I went to feed the cats. I don’t want to go out with him. I don’t even like him most of the time—”

  “—and he doesn’t even have a library card,” she finished.

  “Well, he doesn’t,” I muttered. Did I hear a laugh on the other end of the phone? “He thought I killed Gregor Easton.”

  “You were never a serious suspect. You weren’t arrested.”

  “He thought I was having an affair with Easton. The man was twice my age.”

  “But you weren’t,” Maggie added, ever so reasonably.

  “Why don’t you bug Roma about her love life?”

  “You know, there’s a rumor going around that she’s seeing someone.” Maggie said.