A Midwinter's Tail

17

I shut the computer off and gave Owen the last two pieces of ham from the bottom of my dish. I rationalized it by telling myself how healthy Roma had said Owen was at his checkup the week before. Right before he bit her Kevlar glove.

“Eddie’s related to the detective who investigated that pawnshop robbery,” I told the cat as I put my dishes in the sink. “That might be a way to find out if I’m right about Nic.”

Owen made a little grunt, which probably had a lot more to do with the ham than what I’d come up with.

“I’m leaving for class,” I said.

I put on my boots and jacket, grabbed my heavy gloves and pulled on the striped hat Rebecca had knit for me. Then I grabbed my bag and went out to the truck.

When I got to the stop sign at the bottom of the hill, I realized I had enough time to stop at Eric’s for a cup of hot chocolate. I hadn’t had any dessert, I reasoned, and the only thing Mags would have at tai chi was tea. And if I got the chance to talk to Nic Sutton while I was waiting for my hot chocolate, that would just be a happy coincidence.

I headed for the restaurant, telling myself that if I could find a close parking spot, I’d take that as a sign to go in. There was an empty place directly in front of the café door. I smiled, thinking about Lise back in Boston, who would have said, “I don’t believe in signs, but if I did, this would be one.”

I pulled into the empty spot, tucked my keys in the pocket of my jacket, and reached across the seat to the floor of the passenger side for my bag where I’d tucked my wallet. It had fallen off the seat as I drove down the hill. I stepped out of the truck, sliding my hand in my pocket for the keys so I could lock the door.

They weren’t there.

At the same moment Owen materialized on the driver’s seat, standing on his back legs with his paws on the door, just below the window. My keys were on the seat by his feet. They must have slipped out of my pocket.

A split second too late I saw what was going to happen. I lunged for the truck door and Owen put one gray paw down on the lock.

I smacked both hands against the side window. The cat jumped and glared at me. I slumped against the front fender of the truck. How could Owen have managed to sneak into the truck yet again without me noticing? Either he was getting sneakier or I wasn’t paying enough attention.

I exhaled loudly and watched my frustration hang in the air in front of me. Then I turned and put my face close to the driver’s-side window.

“Open the door,” I said, enunciating each word carefully.

Owen blinked his golden eyes at me. Could he even hear what I’d just said? Could cats lip-read? I wondered.

I took another deep breath, tapped on the window and then pointed to the door lock. “Put your paw right there,” I said.

He yawned.

I tapped on the window again. “Owen, right there, put your paw right there,” I said, a little more insistently than the last time.

He sat down on the seat, sniffed my keys and then began methodically washing his face.

He looked up at me once and I swear he was smiling.

He’d done it on purpose. He’d locked me out of my own truck on purpose. I knew how ridiculous that was. I also knew I was right.

“Open this door right now, you little fur ball!” I hissed.

He went back to his careful face-washing routine.

I leaned against the truck. Once again I had been bested by eight pounds of sneaky cat.

I turned my head to glare at him through the windshield. He didn’t even twitch an ear.

“I know you can hear me, Owen,” I said. “When we get home I’m going to gather up every sardine and every funky chicken and make a big bonfire in the front yard and—and—roast marshmallows out there.”

I was lousy at making threats. Owen’s whiskers didn’t move and he didn’t so much as flick his tail at me.

I narrowed my eyes at him. “I’m serious, mister,” I warned.

I took out my phone. I tried Marcus, but the call went straight to voice mail. I sent a text to Maggie but didn’t get a response, probably because class was about to start.

Rebecca was in class and so was Ruby. Roma was out of town.

I was about to call Harry when Eric stuck his head out the front door of the café. “Kathleen, is everything all right?” he called.

I walked around the front of the truck.

“No,” I said. “I accidentally locked myself out of the truck and Owen is inside.” I looked back through the windshield. I couldn’t remember the last time he’d spent so much time washing his face. I held up my phone. “I’m going to try Harry.”

“You won’t get him,” Eric said. “He stopped in for a coffee about ten minutes ago. He’s at a meeting about the community center roof. You know Thorsten. Everyone’s phone will be off.”

I groaned and swallowed a word that my mother would have said a lady wouldn’t use.

“I’m going to walk home and get my spare keys, then,” I said, brushing snow off my jacket. At least it wasn’t cold. “Could you keep an eye on the truck and Owen? He should be all right and I won’t be that long.”

Eric smiled and gestured to me. “Come have a cup of coffee and I’ll text Susan. She might be able to come and run you up to get your keys.”

I didn’t really want to walk up the hill in the snow.

“Okay, thanks,” I said.

I brushed the rest of the snow off me and followed Eric inside. I took a seat at the counter and he poured me a cup of coffee. “How did you get locked out?” he asked.

I made a face. “Keys fell out of my pocket and Owen hit the lock.”

“I don’t suppose you could coax him to hit it again and let you in?” he asked with a smile.

I pulled off my hat. “Only if you could somehow make a sardine materialize on the button,” I said.

Eric shook his head. “That I can’t do,” he said. “But I can go get my phone. It’s in my office. I’ll be right back.”

Nic was just coming back from making a circuit with the coffeepot. He looked from Eric to me. “Are you locked out of your car?” he asked.

“Truck,” I said. “Yes. And my cat’s inside.” I shrugged. “Long story.”

He set the pot back on its burner. “Is it new?” he said.

I shook my head.

“I can probably jimmy the lock and get you in, then,” he offered.

“Really?” Eric said. He sounded skeptical.

“Yeah,” Nic said. He grinned. “And before you ask, no, I wasn’t a juvenile delinquent. My dad taught me. He had a pawnshop. He knew all kinds of stuff.”

So I was right.

“What do you think?” Eric said to me. “I can still text Susan.”

“It’s worth trying.” I looked at Nic. “The truck’s old. You can’t hurt it.”

“Give me a second,” he said. He took off his apron and pointed toward the kitchen. “Okay if I get a screwdriver from the toolbox in the storage room?” he asked Eric.

“Sure,” Eric said. He looked at me. “I’ll get my phone anyway, just in case.”

“Thanks,” I said.

He grabbed a couple of menus. A man and a woman—tourists, I was guessing—had just come in. Eric gestured at my coffee as he passed me. “That’s on the house.”

He headed for the customers and I took another long drink just in case I did end up walking up the hill.

Nic came out of the kitchen in a black jacket, carrying a long, flat-bladed screwdriver. “Show me your truck,” he said.

I took him outside.

Owen had finally finished washing his face. He watched us walk around the truck with interest, but he made no move toward the door.

“What’s your cat’s name?” Nic asked as he lifted the driver’s-side door handle.

“Owen,” I said, making a face at the fur ball, who ignored me and watched Nic intently instead. “He is—was feral.”

“In other words, don’t try to pet him.”

I nodded. “How did you know?”

He shrugged. “I volunteered with a rescue group in Minneapolis. There were three feral cats living in the alley next to my dad’s pawnshop.”

He pointed to the door handle hinge. “See this? You have to be very careful, but you stick the screwdriver in here . . .” He slipped it in an opening by the hinge. “You feel around for the rod attached to the lock mechanism and . . .” I heard a clunk. “That’s it.”

Nic opened the door, picked up my keys and handed them to me. He looked at Owen. “Hey, Owen,” he said.

“Merow?” the cat said. He seemed a bit surprised to be called by name by someone he didn’t know.

“I’ll close this so he doesn’t get out on the street,” Nic said, shutting the door again.

“Thank you so much,” I said, holding tightly to the keys.

He made an offhand shrug. “No problem. It’s good to know I can still do that. It’s been a while.”

“I read the news story about your father,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

“Thanks,” he said. He ran a hand over his smooth scalp, wiping away the snow. “It took a long time, but he’s doing really great now.”

I brushed snow off the side of the truck. “So you knew Dayna Chapman.”

He nodded. “She was a witness. She was just walking by on the sidewalk when everything went down that night.” He turned the screwdriver over in his hands. “You think the stories are true? You think someone killed her?”

I scraped my boot against the pavement. “Yes, I do,” I said.

Nic rubbed his gloveless hand across his mouth. “I guess that makes me a suspect, then,” he said.