Curiosity Thrilled The Cat

3

Grasp Bird’s Tail

I’ve seen a lot of stage bodies. From a distance makeup and fake blood can be pretty convincing, but up close it’s impossible to hide the fact that Colonel Mustard, who was hit with a candlestick in the library, is really a living, breathing person.

Gregor Easton wasn’t living or breathing. His skin had a waxy paleness and there was a gash on the side of his head, an ugly red-and-purple wound that stood out in stark relief almost as though it had been painted on by some makeup artist. But there was no blood. I touched his wrist to feel for a pulse and jerked my hand away. His arm was stiff and cool.

My hands shook as I fumbled for my cell phone. Then it hit me that I was in an empty theater with a body at quarter to seven in the morning. I backed across the stage, felt for the opening in the curtain and all but ran down the corridor. Outside I sat on the step and called 911.

The paramedics arrived first—a man and a woman. Him I didn’t know, but I’d seen her at the library. Jane. No, Jaime—Sandra Boynton board books, and several on potty training.

“He’s at the piano onstage,” I told them. “Go down the hall and through the curtain.”

A police car arrived next, lights flashing. The officer got out of the car and walked over to me. “Ms. Paulson?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“You reported finding a body?”

“Inside. At the piano onstage.” I said, pointing. “The paramedics are in there.”

“Ma’am, what are you doing here?” he asked. “Are you involved with the festival?”

I explained that I was looking for Oren. A car and an SUV pulled into the small lot, followed by a police van. The woman in the car and the man driving the truck had to be police officers, I decided as they got out of their vehicles. They were both dressed in cop shoes—sturdy, heavy-soled black footwear. My father always said shoes are the key to a character. “Nail the footwear and you’ll nail the man.”

The woman had gotten out of her car, holding a stainless steel coffee mug. She took a couple of mouthfuls and bent to set it back in the car. The man said something to her and grinned. She made a face at him and took one more drink.

The patrol officer walked over to them.

There was a wood and wrought-iron bench at the end of the parking lot. I sat down and waited. No one had told me not to leave, but I figured I shouldn’t until someone told me I could. I couldn’t hear what the three police officers were saying, but at one point they all turned and looked at me. I tried to look innocent and not mess with my hair.

I was still holding the bag of muffins. What was I going to do with them? And where was Oren? Along with the work he was doing at the library, the festival committee had hired him to paint and make some repairs at the theater. He was always on the job by seven.

The male paramedic came out the stage door, pulling off a pair of purple disposable gloves. He stopped to talk to the three officers. The two new ones had gloves of their own in their pockets. They pulled them on and went inside. More police vehicles pulled into the lot.

I probably sat on the bench for another ten minutes or so before the officer who had driven the SUV came out of the theater. He walked over to me, pulling off his gloves. He was tall, with dark wavy hair about two weeks overdue for a trim. He had the tanned skin of someone who was outside a lot, which was probably why I’d never seen him in the library.

“Ms. Paulson?” he said.

“Yes.” I stood up.

“I’m Detective Gordon. You found the body?”

I nodded and tried not to shiver. It was cloudy and not as warm as it had been the past few days.

“What were you doing here so early?”

“I was looking for Oren Kenyon,” I said. All of a sudden I felt embarrassed, clutching my paper bag of muffins. “He’s been doing some of the renovation work at the library. I’m the head librarian and I needed to talk to him.”

“This early?” he asked.

What did he mean by “this early?” It wasn’t as though I’d wandered down in my nightgown and slippers before the sun was up. “Oren starts work by seven at the latest. I wanted to talk to him before he got involved in something here.” Did he nod, ever so slightly?

“What’s in the bag?”

“Muffins.” I handed the detective the bag so he could see for himself. He unrolled the top and looked inside. Then he looked at me again.

“Ms. Paulson, were you and Mr. Easton involved? Were you two meeting here at the theater?”

“Involved?” I said, and my voice actually squeaked, I was so surprised. “No. I told you, I came here looking for Oren.”

Detective Gordon looked around the small parking lot. “Was his truck here?”

I pulled my hand back through my hair, which probably only made it messier. “Well, no. But I thought maybe he was parked on the other side. The door was unlocked so I went in to see if he was working.”

Why wasn’t he writing any of this down? I looked at his hands. They were twice the size of mine and callused. He did more than not write down what people told him. No wonder I’d never seen him in the library. “I saw someone at the piano,” I told him. “I thought it might be Oren. I went over and realized it was Mr. Easton.”

“So you did know him?” the detective said.

I shook my head. “I only met him last night. He came into the library looking to use a computer. But the computer room wasn’t ready. That’s why I was looking for Oren this morning.”

The detective stared intently at me. Did he think maybe I’d break and admit that I’d been having a torrid affair with Gregor Easton and that he’d died while we were having wild monkey sex on the piano?

“When I realized he was dead, I came back outside and called nine-one-one,” I said.

He glanced back at the theater. “Did you touch anything?” he asked. He’d missed a tiny patch of stubble on the left side of his jawline when he’d shaved.

I thought for a moment. “The stage door,” I said. “The curtain. And I touched Mr. Easton’s arm.”

“That’s it?”

“I think so,” I said. The silver charm was in my pocket. I pulled it out and handed it to him. “I almost stepped on this,” I said. “And there was something spilled on the floor in the hallway. I think I may have gotten it on my shoes.”

I grabbed the back of the bench and held up my right foot. He leaned over to look at the sole of my shoe.

“I’m going to need your shoes, Ms. Paulson.”

I put my foot down carefully. “I have a pair at my office at the library. May I go get them?”

“I’m also going to need your fingerprints,” he said. “Officer Craig will take you to your office and then he’ll take you to the station to be fingerprinted—if that’s all right with you?”

It was the kind of question you didn’t say no to. So I didn’t.

Officer Craig was the patrolman. He looked to be about twenty, with his close-cropped boot-camp haircut. He drove to the library and stayed with me while I got my tai chi shoes from my office. He took a bag out of his trunk, sealed my running shoes inside and actually gave me a receipt for them. Then we drove to the police station, where I had my fingerprints taken.

Officer Craig drove me back to the library. I went into the staff room and put on a pot of coffee. Even though I’d already washed my hands with some sort of industrial-strength Day-Glo orange cleaner at the police station, I washed them again.

I was worried about Oren. He didn’t have a cell phone. If something had happened to him . . . I’d just poured a cup of coffee when I heard a tapping on the main doors. I could see Detective Gordon through the glass. I unlatched the metal gate and unlocked the door.

“Ms. Paulson, I’m sorry to bother you,” he said. “I have a few more questions.”

I opened the door wider. “Come in,” I said. Maybe I could get him to look for Oren. I locked the door behind him but left the gate open.

“You don’t have an alarm system?” he asked, eyeing the metal barricade with its spiderweb design. The gates were almost as old as the building.

I smiled. “No. Up till now the only thing in this building has been books. It’s not like someone was going to break in to read.”

He smiled at that. He had a nice smile, with even white teeth and a strong jawline.

“We can talk in the staff room,” I said, leading the way up to the second level.

My coffee cup was on the table. I saw him look at it.

“Detective Gordon, would you like a cup of coffee?” I asked. “I just made it.”

“Thank you. I would,” he said. “Black with two sugars, if you have it.”

I did. I handed him a steaming mug. He wrapped both hands around it and drank, then looked at me. “It’s good. Thanks.”

I remembered the muffins then. I’d carried them around for a while, but they were wrapped in wax paper inside the bag and they hadn’t been dropped or sat on. The bag was by the sink. I put two muffins on a plate and set it and a napkin in front of him.

My palms were sweaty. I wiped them on my capris and sat down opposite the detective. This time he pulled out a small notebook and a pen.

“Ms. Paulson, you said you were looking for Oren Kenyon this morning. Did you have an appointment?”

“No. But as I told you at the theater, I know he starts work early and I wanted to talk to him.”

“What about?”

“The computer room here at the library. The contractor is behind schedule. I was hoping Oren could get some of the chairs and carrels put together so I could at least get one computer set up and connected.” It didn’t seem like a good idea to tell him my cats had suggested it.

He scribbled something on his pad.

“Did Oren show up?” I asked.

“I’m not sure,” Detective Gordon said. He put down his pen and took one of the muffins from the plate. “Ms. Paulson, you said you met Mr. Easton for the first time yesterday?” He broke the muffin in half and took a bite.

I nodded. “He came in to the library. There was something wrong with his BlackBerry and he needed Internet access.”

“But your computer room isn’t set up.”

“No, it’s not.” I traced the inside of the mug handle with my finger. “But according to the visitors’ guide Mr. Easton had, it was.”

The detective broke the remaining half of muffin into three pieces and immediately ate one piece. “How did Mr. Easton react?”

“He wasn’t happy.”

He leaned back in his chair and tented his fingers. Not only were his hands large, but he also had long fingers, what my mother would call piano-player fingers.

“So you didn’t arrange to meet Mr. Easton this morning?”

I let out a frustrated breath. “No. I didn’t arrange to meet Mr. Easton. I wasn’t having an affair with Mr. Easton. He was older than my father. Before last night I’d never even met the man.” Before he could say anything I held up my hand. “I did order breakfast to be sent to his suite this morning—from Eric’s Place—as an apology. Breakfast for one.” I wondered if it was too late to call Eric and cancel.

“Do you buy breakfast for everyone who comes in to the library, looking for an Internet connection?”

I resisted the impulse to point out that I was basically giving him breakfast right now. “Of course I don’t,” I said. I took a sip of coffee. It was cold. I got up and moved behind him to get to the coffeemaker, poured another cup and leaned against the counter. How was I going to explain this?

He turned to look at me.

“My, uh, cat had accidentally ended up here at the library yesterday. And . . . he—the cat—jumped on Mr. Easton . . . Mr. Easton’s head.”

The detective’s lips twitched. “His head?”

I nodded. He looked at me without saying anything. I felt myself flush.

He drained his cup and stood up. “Ms. Paulson, do you mind if I look around?”

I wondered what he thought he’d find. “It’s a public building, Detective,” I said, setting my own mug on the counter. “You don’t need my permission to look around. But it’s all right with me.”

I smiled to show I was a good sport; then I led him across to my office and stood in the doorway while he poked around. After that, I took him to the main part of the library. He walked through the stacks and around the magazine shelves without saying anything. I showed him the temporary circulation desk and the area where the permanent desk would be.

“Where is the computer area?” he asked.

I took him to the back section of the library. The sky was gray and cloudy outside the bank of windows.

He pointed to the stacks of cartons. “What’s in the boxes?”

“Computers, monitors, a printer. Would you like me to open one?” I asked.

He shook his head and bent to look at a couple of shrink-wrapped chairs. “That’s not necessary,” he said. He straightened, looked around and then gestured across the library. “What’s over there?” I had to walk around a couple of shelving units to see where he was pointing. A huge sheet of plastic was draped over one corner of the wall.

“Oh, that’s where the meeting room will be,” I said. “Right now it’s where the contractor is keeping his tools and things.”

“Can I see it?”

“Sure.” I led the way and pulled the plastic aside. Since the library was locked at night, the door wasn’t even closed.

We both saw the splotches at the same time, dark blotches on the brown paper protecting the tile floor.

My mouth went dry. “Is that dried blood?” I said, taking a step forward.

The detective’s arm shot out, stopping me from going any farther into the room. “Wait outside please, Ms. Paulson,” he said, pulling another pair of disposable gloves from his pocket.

I moved back to the edge of the plastic. “Is that blood?” I asked again.

“Outside, Ms. Paulson,” he snapped, pulling on a glove. “Please wait outside the building.”

The detective bent forward and picked something up as I stepped back and let the plastic drop. That was blood on the floor. What was it doing in my library?