Cat Trick

2

“Should I go get my handcuffs?” Marcus asked. I could tell by the gleam in his eye that he wasn’t serious.

Mary folded her arms over her chest. “Teaching that young man some manners would be a public service, not a crime,” she said tartly. “But, no, I promise I’ll behave.” She gave me a cheeky grin. “Not that I couldn’t take him on if I wanted to.”

“I have no doubt about that,” I said. And I didn’t. I’d seen Mary compete. I’d also seen her dancing onstage in a feathered mask and corset to Bon Jovi’s “You Give Love a Bad Name” during amateur night at the Brick, a club out on the highway, last winter, but I was trying to get that image out of my head.

“I need to go light a fire under Burtis,” Mary said. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Kathleen.” She gave Marcus a little wave. “Good night, Detective.”

“She wasn’t serious, was she?” Marcus said, as Mary disappeared inside the tent.

I shook my head. “I don’t think so. But trust me; Mary would be perfectly capable of drop-kicking Mike Glazer between those two light posts”—I pointed at the streetlights along the boardwalk—“if she felt like it. Just like a football through the middle of the uprights.”

He opened his mouth as though he were going to say something, then closed it again and gave a little shake of his head.

“What?” I asked.

“I was just thinking that you know a lot of interesting people,” he said, a hint of a smile on his face.

I was saved from having to answer because Maggie was cutting across the grass to us. Years of yoga and tai chi had given her excellent posture, and she moved with a smooth gracefulness, not unlike my cats.

“Hi, guys,” she said. She looked from Marcus to me and she was almost grinning. “What are you two doing down here?” She was wearing the T-shirt I’d brought her back from Boston—I Matt Lauer. The black fabric looked good with her fair skin and short blond hair, but she would have worn the shirt even if it hadn’t. Mags had a longtime crush on the morning-show host.

“We just came to see if the tents were up,” I said.

She blew out a long breath. “We’re getting there. Mike isn’t sure this is the correct type of tent. He’s been discussing it with Burtis.”

That was probably the conversation Marcus and I had caught the end of.

“What about the art show?” Marcus asked. “Is it going to be in one of the tents?”

Maggie shook her head. “No. They’re both for food. We’re in the community center.” She gestured over her shoulder to the building across the street. “There’s more space and more light. Not to mention a roof. Liam thought it was a better idea. People can come back and forth.”

Liam was Liam Stone, part-time bartender and full-time grad student in psychology. He was also the main organizer of the group that had put together the pitch to Legacy Tours. Maggie and I had met Liam the previous winter, when we’d been cruising the bars up on the highway, looking for information about who had run down former school principal Agatha Shepherd. (It was the same night I’d seen more of Mary than I had ever wanted to.)

Maggie had charmed Liam to the point that for a moment he’d struggled to make words into sentences. They’d been going out casually for months. She insisted it was nothing serious.

“Where is Liam?” I asked. I didn’t see him anywhere. He was well over six feet tall, so he was hard to miss.

“He’s just gone over to River Arts to get some backdrops to use with a few of the booths. Mike didn’t think the ones Burtis brought were ‘classy’ enough.” Maggie hunched her shoulders and stifled a yawn with one hand. “Sorry,” she said. “I’m tired and I haven’t had supper.” She looked inquiringly at Marcus. “Have you two eaten yet?”

Maggie wasn’t usually much for subtlety—getting or using—but I knew by the gleam in her green eyes that her question was a fishing expedition. She was trying to find out if Marcus and I had had dinner together. Maybe she’d picked up some sneakiness from Owen. The cat’s adoration for Maggie rivaled hers for Matt Lauer. I got a mental picture of Owen in an I Maggie Adams T-shirt and almost laughed.

“Yes,” I said, sending her a slit-eyed glare. “And so has Marcus.”

“I’ll walk back to Eric’s and get you something,” he said. “What would you like?”

“You don’t have to do that,” Maggie said, running a hand through her curls.

“I want to.” He smiled at us, and for a second I forgot what we were talking about. “Tea, right?” he asked. “And maybe some kind of sandwich?”

“Okay,” Maggie agreed.

“I won’t be very long,” he said. He turned and headed back the way we’d come.

I watched him for a moment and turned back to Maggie. She smirked at me. “He’s just as cute as a bug’s ear,” she said.

“‘I haven’t had supper. Have you two eaten yet?’” I said, mimicking her voice. “That was very creative of you.”

“Thank you,” she said, the smirk still firmly in place. “And don’t think I don’t know that the two of you had dinner together.”

“Yes, we had dinner together. And yes, before you ask, it was fun. But don’t push it. We’re taking things very slowly.”

She gave a snort of laughter. “Slowly? Fossils form faster than you two move, Kathleen.”

I made a face. “I’m changing the subject now. Tell me how things are going here.”

She sighed. “Remember when I called Mike a festering boil?”

I nodded.

Maggie glanced back over her shoulder for a moment. “I was too nice. I know that’s mean, but he doesn’t like the backdrops. He doesn’t like the tents. He doesn’t like the art show being across the street in the community center. He’s even picking at who the vendors are for the food tasting.” She took a step closer to me and lowered her voice. “Mike and Liam got into a shouting match a little while ago. They were standing over there by the wall, so I don’t know what it was about. And then Mike started in on Burtis, and for a minute I thought Burtis was going to let him have it with a sledgehammer.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I know how much Liam wants this to work.”

Maggie rubbed her hands on the front of her gray yoga pants. “If this all works out, it could bring a lot of money here every fall. Assuming somebody doesn’t lose it with Mike. You know what I heard Burtis say when Mike was yelling at Liam?”

“What?”

“He said, ‘Someday, somebody’s gonna turn that boy into a license plate.’”

“That sounds like Burtis,” I said.

She nodded. “I know. And I’m afraid that before we’re finished, Burtis—or someone else—is going to do it. Mike puts so much negative energy out into the world. Eventually it’s all going to come back to him and more.” She shook her head. “Okay, I’m done complaining. C’mon. I’ll show you what the tents will look like when we’re done.”

Maggie walked me around, pointing out where the second tent was going to be set up and how the booths would be arranged. Marcus came back after a few more minutes with a huge turkey sandwich, a take-out container of soup, and tea for her supper. We walked across to the community center, where we found Ruby Blackthorne hanging one of her oversized abstract paintings.

Like Maggie, Ruby was an artist. She was also a lot more flamboyant. Her hair was currently red on one side of her head and blue on the other, and she was wearing a T-shirt that read Ginger Did It Backward in High Heels. She smiled at me but only nodded at Marcus. Last winter Marcus had arrested Ruby for the murder of Agatha Shepherd. Even though he’d kept working on the case and ultimately caught the real killer, Ruby was still a little cool with him.

“We’re on for the morning?” Ruby asked as she pulled a couple of chairs over to a folding table pushed against the end wall of the long room. Maggie had offered to share her supper.

“Absolutely,” I said. “Hercules is looking forward to it.”

We said good-bye and headed back up the street to Marcus’s SUV.

“What’s Hercules looking forward to?” Marcus asked. “Is Ruby going to give him art lessons?”

I laughed. “No. He doesn’t do anything that might get him wet or dirty. Although now I have a mental picture of him wearing a little beret with a paintbrush in his mouth.” And standing next to his brother decked out in a Maggie T-shirt.

“Don’t laugh,” Marcus said, twisting his watch around his wrist. “I’ve seen video on the news of a beagle that paints with watercolors. And I think there was a story last winter about a cockatiel that did something artistic as well.”

“I remember that. It sang opera,” I said. “You have a better chance of getting Hercules to sing than you do getting him to paint. He does love Barry Manilow.”

Marcus grinned down at me. “Barry Manilow? You can’t be serious.”

I stopped, hands on my hips in mock indignation. “Are you suggesting there’s something wrong with loving Barry Manilow music?”

“No?” he said. “That is the right answer, isn’t it?”

“Unless you’re talking to Owen, yes,” I said, as we started walking again.

“He’s not a fan?”

“The fastest way to get Owen out of a room is to start playing ‘Mandy’ or ‘Copacabana.’” I touched his arm. “You might want to remember that in case he ever decides to visit you again.”

“Consider it filed away for future reference.” He looked both ways and we crossed at the corner. “So if Hercules isn’t going to take painting lessons from Ruby, what is he doing tomorrow morning?”

“He’s posing for her,” I said. “Last spring, Ruby took some photos and then did a pop art painting of Hercules for a workshop she was teaching. He was lime green and Big Bird yellow. Maggie convinced her to hang the painting in the co-op store and someone bought it. For a lot of money. Now Ruby wants to do another painting of Hercules to donate to a fund-raiser for a cat rescue group. So she’s taking more pictures tomorrow morning.”

“That’s really nice,” he said.

“Ruby’s a nice person.”

There was a clunky silence. Then Marcus spoke. “I arrested Ruby based on the evidence.”

“I know you did,” I said. The SUV was just ahead.

He stepped in front of me and stopped. “Wait a second. You just agreed with me.”

“I did.”

“You aren’t going to argue?”

I shook my head. “Nope.”

He pulled his mouth to one side. “What am I missing?”

I held up my index finger. “Number one, I don’t want to argue with you because I’m having a good time.”

“So am I,” he said.

I raised a second finger. “Number two, I know you have to look at facts and evidence. You can’t make decisions based on emotion.”

He opened his mouth to say something, and I raised my other hand in warning. “That doesn’t mean I like it.”

A hint of a smile flitted across his face.

I held up my ring finger with the other two. “Number three, if we argue, I’ll have to stalk off just on principle and I’m tired. I don’t want to walk all the way up the hill.”

He looked expectantly at me. “What’s number four?”

“I don’t have a number four,” I said.

“How about we can’t argue because of Maggie?” He started walking backward down the sidewalk.

I followed. “Because of Maggie?”

Marcus held out both hands and almost backed into a garbage can. “She has been working awfully hard to get us together.”

A rush of heat rose in my face. “You know?”

The hint of a smile turned into a full one. “Kathleen, Owen and Hercules probably know. Maggie hasn’t exactly been subtle.”

The cats did know, but I was pretty sure that had more to do with the fact that they weren’t exactly typical house cats than it did with Maggie’s lack of subtlety.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “She played matchmaker with Roma and Eddie—indirectly—and I think now she wants everyone to have a happily ever after.” The moment the words were out, I was sorry I’d said them. “I don’t mean I think that you’re some kind of prince on a white horse,” I added. “Or even not on a horse. Or even a prince . . . not that you’re not a great guy.” I was babbling.

Marcus stopped walking so suddenly, I smacked into him, both of my hands landing flat on his chest. It was a very nice chest, broad and manly. I sucked in a deep breath. And he did smell good.

I gave myself a mental smack. What the heck was wrong with me?

Marcus put his hands on my shoulders. “It’s okay,” he said. “I know what you mean.”

We stood there looking at each other like we were caught in a movie moment, the point where the hero gazes deeply into the heroine’s eyes and then sweeps her into a passionate kiss, so passionate that one of her feet comes off the ground.

We didn’t do that.

Marcus let go of my shoulders and I took my hands off his chest, trying not to act as flustered as I felt. We were standing next to the SUV. He unlocked the door for me and walked around to the driver’s side.

On the way up the hill, we talked about all the efforts to bring more tourists to Mayville Heights in the traditional off-season. By the time Marcus pulled into my driveway, the awkwardness I’d felt on the sidewalk was gone. He walked me to the back door, and I thanked him for dinner. He smiled, told me he’d talk to me soon and walked back around the side of the house. No movie-moment kiss, not even a peck on the cheek. As I unlocked the porch door, I couldn’t help thinking that Maggie was right: Fossils formed faster than the relationship between Marcus and me.

* * *

Hercules woke me before the alarm the next morning. I opened my eyes to see his black-and-white face next to mine as he gently batted me with one paw.

I yawned. “I’m awake,” I said groggily, rolling over onto my back.

Hercules took a swipe at the blankets and meowed at me. Translation: “Get up now.” If he could have figured out how to do it, I was sure he would have been pulling the blankets off of me. Did he somehow understand that we were going to see Ruby this morning?

I stretched and sat up. Hercules dropped back down to all fours. “Are you ready for your photo session?” I asked, pushing my hair off my face. He immediately took a pass at his own furry black-and-white face with one paw. Okay, maybe he did know where we were going.

Hercules was sitting in front of the refrigerator and Owen was under the table when I went down to the kitchen. I started the coffeemaker and then gave the cats their breakfast. Owen used one paw to push his dish across the floor so there was a good three feet of space between him and his brother.

Clearly he was in a mood about something. It was almost as if he were . . . jealous?

No. As special as both cats were, there was no way Owen understood that Hercules was posing for Ruby again this morning.

Owen took a bite of food from his bowl, set it on the floor and shot Herc a look. At the same time, he made a sound in the back of his throat that sounded an awful lot like a disgruntled hmpft.

I could accept that Owen had the ability to make himself disappear. Strangely, it was harder to believe that he was in a snit because Hercules was going to have his portrait painted.

I let him sulk while I had my own breakfast. As soon as Hercules was done eating, he began an elaborate face-washing routine. Even though Owen seemed to be ignoring Herc, I saw him sneak little peeks in his brother’s direction. And in return, Hercules stretched a couple of times and casually eyed Owen.

I put my dishes in the sink and started putting together what Maggie called one of my clean-out-the-refrigerator salads.

“I could have gotten a gerbil,” I said as I opened containers to see what I had for leftovers. “Gerbils are cute and furry. They don’t shed on the furniture, and they never have sardine breath.” The boys were too busy ignoring each other to pay any attention to me.

I was trying to figure out what else I could add to the bowl when I heard cat grumbling behind me. Swinging around, I saw Hercules and Owen, whisker-to-whisker, glaring at each other.

“Hey!” I said sharply, reaching for the kitchen tap sprayer. Two furry heads swiveled in my direction. “I know how to use this, and I will. At this distance, I could knock a sardine cracker crumb off either of your chins. Would you two like me to demonstrate?”

They looked at each other again; then, as though some unspoken signal had passed between them, both cats sat down.

“Wise choice.” I let go of the tap, wiped my hands and walked around the table. “Owen,” I said.

He looked up at me, for once not trying any of his I’m-so-cute tricks. “Ruby is going to do a painting of Hercules.”

He made that grumbly sound again. I held up a finger, feeling slightly foolish. On the other hand, I was well aware that Owen in a snit was more than capable of strewing Fred the Funky Chicken parts all over the house.

“It’s going to be auctioned off for charity—for cats that don’t have any homes, or any catnip chickens to chew on.” I tried to look serious and shook my head as I said the part about the chickens, grateful that no one without fur could hear me.

Owen seemed to be considering what I was saying. Or he could have been thinking about catnip chickens.

“And you.” I pointed at Hercules. His green eyes focused on my face. “This is for charity. As talented as Ruby is, your portrait won’t be going on exhibit in the Guggenheim Museum.” I held up my thumb and index finger about half an inch apart. “Try just a little more humility.”

I went back to my salad. After a minute, Owen came over and rubbed against my leg. “I love you, too,” I said, as he headed for the living room.

A soft meow came from the direction of the refrigerator. “Yes, and you,” I told Hercules.

Owen hadn’t reappeared by the time we were ready to leave. I’d emptied the litter box, filled his water dish and left a little stack of sardine crackers beside it. I swung the cat carrier bag—which also doubled as a tote for my tai chi shoes—up onto my shoulder, locked the door and headed out to the truck.

Hercules poked his head out of the top of the bag as I drove down the hill, but he didn’t bother climbing out. I parked in Maggie’s slot in the small lot behind the River Arts building—she’d given me the okay. Hercules and I were a little early. Ruby’s truck wasn’t in her place.

I grabbed the cat, got out and locked the truck. Then I walked over to the side of the building and looked down the street toward the boardwalk. Both tents were up now, and I wondered if Burtis and Mike had come to some kind of agreement about the setup.

The carrier wiggled against my hip, and Hercules stuck his head out again. “Ruby should be here any minute,” I said.

He looked around, then focused on the tents over on the grass, and his green eyes narrowed. He shifted in the bag, and before I realized what he was doing, he jumped out and started purposefully down the street along the side of the arts center.

“Hercules, get back here!” I shouted. I started after him, but he was already at the curb. He looked both ways, crossed to the other side and then continued down the hill, intent, it seemed, on checking out the tents.

I had to wait for two cars to pass before I could follow. By then, he’d made it to Main Street. Again he looked for cars and then trotted across the street. My heart was pounding like a Caribbean steel band in my chest. I ran, yelling for the cat, but he didn’t even break stride.

When he reached the first tent, Hercules looked back over his shoulder at me, then walked right through the heavy canvas panel and disappeared inside. I was maybe half a minute behind him. I had to duck around the tent flap because I couldn’t just pass through it.

“Hercules, wherever you are, get over here right now!” I called, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the darkness inside the canvas structure before I started looking for him.

Turns out I didn’t need to look for the cat at all. He was sitting on the grass next to a plastic lawn chair. Mike Glazer was in the chair. Even in the dim light, I was almost positive that the man was dead.