Cat Trick (8 page)

“It’s sad,” Maggie said. “He spent the last days of his life arguing with people.”

I thought about Wren Magnusson’s face when she came into the library. She seemed to
be the only person who really felt bad about Mike Glazer’s death. “What was Mike like
when he was younger?” I asked.

Ruby smiled a thank-you as Mags set a steaming mug in front of her. “I don’t know.
He was older and we didn’t have any of the same friends.”

Maggie handed me a cup and sat down holding her own hot chocolate. I snapped the lid
of the marshmallow container open and held it out to Ruby, snagging a couple for myself.
They smelled like spun sugar and vanilla.

“He was the kind of guy everyone liked, pretty much,” Maggie said. “Popular, smart
enough to do well in school without having to work very hard.” She reached for the
marshmallows, popped one in her cup and after a second’s thought dropped in two more.

I leaned my forearms on the table and laced my fingers around my mug. “So when he
came back a few days ago, he was different?” I said.

She nodded. “It was like he had something to prove.”

“Maybe he did,” I said.

“Small-town boy makes good?” Ruby asked. “You really think it was that old cliché?”

I shrugged. “Things become clichés for a reason: because they happen a lot.”

“So you don’t think he’d been taken over by a malevolent entity or replaced by an
evil twin?” Ruby asked, eyes twinkling.

“Probably not,” I said.

Ruby told me a little more about some of the artwork that was going to be on display
and then available for sale online. I really hoped everything worked out.

I finished the last of my hot chocolate and stood up. “Thank you. Lunch was delicious,”
I told Maggie. “But I need to get back to the library.”

She wrapped me in a hug. “Anytime,” she said. “I wish Roma could have made it.”

“Maybe we could have dinner sometime next week.”

“Good idea.”

I tugged on my sweater and slipped my purse over my shoulder. “I’ll see you in the
morning,” I said to Ruby.

She smiled. “Thanks for letting me paint the cats. Tell Owen I have fish crackers.”

I grinned back. “And Maggie right across the hall. Two of Owen’s favorite things in
the same place. You might never get rid of him.”

I gave them both a little wave and headed out. As I came level with the tents set
up by the Riverwalk, I felt a chill, like a cold finger trailing up my spine. What
was going to happen when everyone found out Mike Glazer’s death hadn’t been an accident?
Because no matter what Roma said, I couldn’t shake the feeling it hadn’t been.

7

O
wen woke me the next morning by sticking his face about an inch away from mine, and
when I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw were his golden ones. He meowed at me,
so I got a blast of kitty morning breath, too.

“What have you been eating?” I asked, rolling on to my back and stretching.

He was already at the bedroom door. He stopped long enough to glance back over his
shoulder. “Merow!” he said. Then he kept on going. I knew cat for “Get up” when I
heard it.

I yawned and sat up. Another meow, louder and more insistent, came from the hallway.
Translation:
“Now!”

When I got down to the kitchen, Hercules was sitting by the cats’ food bowls. I bent
down to pet the top of his head. “Good morning,” I said. Owen was sitting next to
the table, carefully washing his face.

He knew. I’d explained everything over supper last night, and I was certain that somehow
he understood Ruby was going to take pictures of him and use them to paint his portrait.
Now he was meticulously getting ready for that. It wasn’t something I’d ever be able
to explain to someone who wasn’t a cat person.

“Why don’t you wait until you’ve eaten to do that?” I said as I got the cats’ breakfast.

He hesitated with a paw in midair and seemed to consider my words. Then he went back
to washing the right side of his face. Apparently, having one’s portrait painted required
a lot of grooming.

Owen ate breakfast with even more care than he usually exhibited. Then the face-washing
routine began all over again. Hercules watched his brother with what seemed to be
amusement. The first problem came when it was time to leave. Owen refused to get in
the cat carrier. He shook his furry gray head, marched over to the back door and sat
down in front of it.

“No,” I said emphatically. “You go in the bag or you don’t go.”

He disappeared, his default play when he couldn’t get his own way.

“Fine,” I said. I hung the carrier back on its hook, kicked off my shoes and sat down
at the table again. I leaned forward, forearms on my knees, and smiled at Hercules,
who still had that slightly amused expression on his black-and-white face.

He looked from me to approximately where I figured Owen was and then back to me again.
Probably wondering who was going to blink first.

“So, what do you have planned for this morning?” I asked. “Sitting on the sunporch?
A nap? Maybe some grackle stalking?”

He meowed enthusiastically at my last suggestion.

“I have to work on the staff schedule for next month.” I brushed a bit of lint off
the bottom of my pants. “And decide what we’re going to do for Halloween programs.
What do you think about a puppet show?”

He bobbed his head up and down. It might have been a yes or it might have been that
he was following a dust mite drifting near the floor.

“Did you hear the phone ring last night?” I asked. “That was Roma. She invited me
to have lunch out at Wisteria Hill next week.”

He put a paw on my leg and looked over at the carrier bag. “I’m sure Roma wouldn’t
mind you going out for a look around sometime,” I said.

Owen winked into view then. He stalked over to where the bag was hanging, tail flicking
like a whip, and sat down underneath it.

I gave Hercules a scratch on the top of his nose. “Have a good morning,” I whispered.

I got up, went over to where Owen was standing, his back to me, and set the cat tote
on the floor. He got in without looking at me while I stepped into my shoes. I put
the bag over my shoulder, grabbed my keys and briefcase and headed for the truck.

I set the carrier on the passenger side and unzipped the top so Owen could at least
poke his head out. He took riding shotgun very seriously. We were halfway down Mountain
Road before one ear emerged out of the zippered opening. After a moment, the rest
of the cat followed. He sat on the seat with the bag between us and stared out of
the windshield for the rest of the ride.

When we got to the River Arts Center, I pulled into Maggie’s parking spot, the way
I had the last time. “Bag,” I said to Owen.

He climbed inside with a twitch of his ears and a flick of his tail. I made sure the
zipper was done up all the way before I got out of the truck.

Ruby was waiting by the back door. “Good morning,” she said, holding it open for me.

“Hi,” I said.

She bent over and peeked at Owen through the front mesh panel of the carrier. “Hi,
Owen,” she said.

“Murp,” he said in return.

Ruby laughed. “I love your cats,” she said. “They’re like little people in fur suits.”

“You have that right,” I said, following her up the stairs. “Owen definitely thinks
he’s a person and should have all the same rights and privileges.”

Another meow came from the bag.

“See?” I said.

Ruby laughed again.

Once we were in Ruby’s studio, it didn’t take long for the “photo shoot” to begin.
Ruby had cleared her workspace, and her camera was ready. I opened the bag and lifted
Owen out. He blinked, shook himself and took a couple of passes at his face with one
paw.

“You look fabulous,” Ruby told him, and he immediately sat up straighter and held
his head up a little higher.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” I muttered.

Only the twitch of one ear told me that Owen had heard what I said, but since I was
still on “ignore,” he didn’t even bother to so much as glance in my direction.

I stood over by the windows, out of the way, while Ruby took photos, posing the cat
with both instructions and hand signals. I didn’t think I had ever seen Owen be so
compliant. When she was finished, she pulled the bag of organic fish crackers out
of her tote bag and dumped a generous pile in front of Owen. He gave her a cat smile
and started his sniff-and-eat routine. Ruby came over to me, scrolling through the
pictures she’d just taken.

“Did you get what you needed?” I asked.

“I did. Thanks,” she said, holding out the camera so I could look at the images. “That
cat is so photogenic.”

Owen lifted his head for a moment to look over at me. I had no idea how he knew what
“photogenic” meant, but I knew cat smug when I saw it.

Ruby and I talked about her plans for the two paintings while Owen ate and did a far
less meticulous washing of his face and paws than he had earlier.

“Okay, Fuzz Face,” I said, setting the carrier on the table. “Time to go.”

“Thank you, Owen,” Ruby said.

He tilted his head to one side and meowed softly, and then he climbed into the bag.

“And thank you, Kathleen,” Ruby said, giving me a one-armed hug. “I’ll let you know
when both paintings are done, if you’d like to see them.”

“I’d love to see them,” I said. There was a loud yowl from inside the bag. I patted
the side. “Apparently, so would Owen.”

I put the strap of the cat carrier over my shoulder and headed for the stairs, double-checking
to make sure the zipper was closed before I started down them. At the bottom, I pushed
the back door open with one hip, feeling in my pants pocket for my keys.

They weren’t there. Where had I put them? I felt the pockets of my coat sweater. The
keys to the truck were deep in the left pocket, the ring snagged on the cranberry-colored
wool.

“Crap on toast!” I muttered.

I slipped the carrier off my shoulder and set it on the pavement so I could use both
hands to get the keys free without making a hole in my favorite sweater. Which means
I didn’t see a small gray paw figure out how to slide a zipper open from the inside.

The first thing I did see as I worked the key ring free of my sweater pocket was two
gray paws and a tabby head poke out of the top of the carrier.

“No!” I said sharply. Like that ever did any good. Owen was out of the bag faster
than Houdini from a straitjacket. I lunged for him, but being a cat, he could move
faster. And did. Along the side of the building, straight for the tent across the
street.

Not again.

“Owen! No!” I shouted. One ear twitched, but he kept going, like Hercules, pausing
both times at the curb to look each way before darting across the street. I ran after
him, skidding to a stop on the sidewalk to let an SUV and a half-ton truck go by before
I could cross Main Street. That meant by the time I made it to the other side, Owen
was already at the end flap to the tent.

“Owen! Stop!” I yelled, knowing I was wasting my breath. He poked his head around
the canvas and disappeared, both inside the tent and out of sight.

I stopped outside the yellow crime scene tape that still roped off the tent. Should
I duck under and go after Owen, or call Marcus? Without an officer standing guard,
the area wasn’t exactly secured. It wasn’t a good enough excuse to ignore the yellow
tape, though.

“Owen, get your furry little cat behind out here,” I called.

I waited. Nothing. I looked around to see if anyone was watching and then, feeling
kind of silly, I stuck one arm under the crime scene tape and moved my hand through
the air, just in case the cat was sitting there, invisible, watching me make a fool
of myself.

If he was, he wasn’t anywhere I could get my hands on him.

I pulled out my phone and keyed in Marcus’s number, mentally crossing my fingers that
I got him and not his voice mail. This wasn’t something I wanted to explain in a message.

“Hi, Kathleen,” he said, answering after just a couple of rings.

“Hi, Marcus,” I said, wondering, for a moment, how to start explaining what had happened.
“I, uh, kind of have a problem.”

His voice rumbled through the phone against my ear. “What is it? Did one of your cats
find another dead body?”

I pulled my free hand down over my neck and one shoulder, wishing that Owen would
come out of the tent and I could just scoop him up and head home. He didn’t, of course.

“No,” I said slowly. “But Owen’s . . . in the tent.”

For a moment there was silence. “Which tent?” Marcus finally asked, his tone cautious.

“The one that’s surrounded by crime scene tape,” I said, cringing as the words came
out.

I heard him sigh on the other end of the phone, and I could picture the tight line
of his jaw.

“Why? How?” He paused for a second. “Never mind. I’m on my way. Don’t move.” He stressed
the last two words.

“I won’t,” I promised, but he was already gone.

I stood on the grass, hands in the pockets of my sweater, jingling the keys that had
started this whole mess. I kept one eye on the flap of the tent just in case Owen
decided to grace Riverwalk with his presence. I knew he’d come out when it suited
him and not a moment before.

Marcus pulled up about five minutes later. “I don’t suppose Owen decided to come out
by himself,” he said as he came around the front of his SUV.

“I haven’t seen even a whisker,” I said. At least that was true. If Owen wasn’t in
the tent anymore, then he was likely sitting somewhere close, watching us, hiding
in his own personal Cloak of Invisibility.

Marcus started for the yellow tape. “Do I want to know how this happened?” I’d expected
him to be a lot more, well, annoyed—mad—about what Owen had done. There was a time
he would have been. Of course, there was a time I never would have imagined Marcus
cooking dinner for me.

“I think you do,” I said, “being someone who likes to stick to the facts.”

He almost smiled. Then he ducked under the plastic tape and beckoned to me with one
finger. “So tell me the facts.”

“You want me to come with you?” I said.

He nodded and I got a small smile as well. “I saw what happened when somebody other
than you tried to pick up that cat. Remember?”

I did. Owen and I had almost been killed when a couple of propane tanks exploded.
I’d ended up in the back of an ambulance, suffering from hypothermia. Despite Marcus’s
warning to everyone not to touch the cat, a police officer had tried to move him out
of the paramedic’s way. The officer had ended up needing his own paramedic.

Marcus held up the heavy canvas flap, and I followed him into the tent, pausing a
couple of steps inside to let my eyes adjust to the dimmer light. Everything looked
pretty much the same as the last time, except, of course, that the body and the white
resin chair were gone. And there was a gray tabby cat, digging at the ground by the
long side wall of the tent.

“Owen,” I said sharply. “What are you doing?”

The cat looked from me to Marcus. Then, with his golden eyes locked on the detective’s
face, he scratched at a spot on the grass where about two inches of the tent wall
made a lip on the ground and meowed loudly.

I walked over and crouched down beside him so I could get a closer look at where he’d
been digging. Something seemed to be stuck in the damp earth. “Marcus, you better
look at this,” I said. “I think Owen found something.”

Marcus came to stand beside me, leaning over to see where I was pointing.

“I think it’s a button,” I said. It looked as though it had fallen on the grass and
then been stepped on, pushing it down into the ground. It was metal, and at first
glance, it looked to be vintage. Handmade, maybe.

He bent down for a better look. He didn’t say anything, but I caught an almost imperceptible
nod of his head. Then he straightened and felt for his phone.

I reached for Owen. “Good job on the button or whatever it is,” I whispered. “Don’t
think you’re not in trouble, though.” He rubbed the side of his face against my neck
and shifted in my arms so he could watch Marcus.

Once Marcus had finished his call, he looked at me. “You can take him outside,” he
said, inclining his head toward the cat while his eyes were already drifting back
to the tent wall.

I pointed at the small patch of torn-up grass and earth. “Do you think that button
belongs to the person who killed Mike Glazer?”

That got me all of his attention. “I didn’t say anyone killed Mike Glazer,” he said.
He hadn’t, but I knew him well enough to hear the tiniest edge in his voice, and I
knew that just because he hadn’t said it didn’t mean I wasn’t right.