Faux Paw

7

The détente between Owen and Hercules seemed to still be holding. They ate breakfast while I got supper started in the slow cooker the next morning, and then Owen decided to go outside while Hercules came upstairs to watch me brush my teeth and do my hair.

When we got back downstairs I went to the back door to call Owen. He was already coming across the grass. And he was limping. I cut across the lawn to him, bending down to pick him up. He held out his left front paw, somewhat sheepishly, it seemed to me. A large sliver of wood protruded between his first and second claw.

I sucked in a breath. “What happened?” I asked. That had to hurt.

Owen looked in the direction of Rebecca’s house.

“The woodpile,” I said.

“Merow,” he said sadly. He liked to sit on the top of the wood Rebecca had split for her fireplace and survey both our yards like a ruler on his throne.

I started back to the house, keeping a firm grip on the cat, because I knew once he figured out what my next move was going to be he was going to disappear.

Literally.

As soon as I was in the kitchen, I reached for the cat carrier bag hanging by the door, swept Owen inside and zippered the top shut with one smooth motion. His howl of outrage brought Hercules from the living room.

“I’m sorry,” I said to Owen. “This is something Roma has to do.”

His golden eyes glared at me through the mesh panel in the top of the bag. As I picked up my phone, Hercules approached the bag and meowed softly in inquiry at his brother. Owen held up his injured paw and gave a pitiful meow. Hercules looked over his shoulder at me.

“No,” I said as I pulled up Roma’s number on my phone. “I’m not doing this. He needs a doctor.” I shook my head. Why was I explaining myself to them?

Roma agreed to meet us at the clinic. Once we got into an examination room she gave me a towel to wrap around Owen and pulled on her Kevlar glove. I tried to stroke his fur, but he twisted his head away and glared at me.

“I know it hurts,” I said. I took hold of his paw with my right hand, keeping his body against my body with my arm. At the same time I held a catnip chicken in front of his face with the other hand. He turned his head, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. Owen knew a bribe when he was presented with one, and he wanted to ignore the yellow chicken, but there’s principle and then there’s funky chickens.

He grabbed the toy in his mouth and at the same moment Roma yanked the sliver of wood from his paw with a large pair of tweezers. Owen gave a yowl of surprise and Fred the Funky Chicken fell into my outstretched hand. He tried to shake his paw but I was still holding on to it.

“Let Roma make sure she got it all,” I said.

He shot me a baleful glance and took the catnip chicken in his teeth, biting down through the yellow fabric into the tightly packed catnip with a crunching sound.

Roma straightened up. “I don’t see any other slivers of wood, and the skin is barely broken. I’m going to rinse the area, but that’s about all. Given that Owen is . . . well . . . Owen, I’m not going to put on a bandage, but if you see any sign at all of infection, bring him back.”

She leaned sideways to get in the little tabby’s line of sight. He stared, resolutely, at the floor. “Good job, Owen,” she said.

He made ungracious grumbling sounds in his throat.

By the time we were back in the truck it was almost time to meet Gavin. I decided Owen would be okay for about half an hour in the truck. I gave him a pile of sardine crackers.

“I’ll bring you something from Eric’s,” I promised.

He licked his whiskers but refused to look at me.

I left him spreading his crackers all over the seat.

Gavin smiled when he saw me walk in. I didn’t see anything in his expression that suggested he saw himself as a starving man and me as a hamburger.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” I said. “I had a small cat emergency.”

“Is everything all right?”

I nodded. “Owen got a sliver of wood stuck in his paw, but it’s out and he’s okay. In fact, he’ll probably be milking it for the rest of the week.”

“Can’t fault him for that,” Gavin said, grinning at me.

Claire was at the table with coffee for me before I’d pulled off my jacket. Gavin gave her his toothpaste-commercial smile. “Thanks, Claire,” he said. “You know you’re going to have me ruined for anywhere else to eat when I go back to Chicago.”

She smiled back at him. “It’s all part of my master plan for world domination.” She looked at me. “We got some tomatoes from the hydroponic place. They’re pretty good.” One eyebrow went up. “Are you interested in a breakfast sandwich?”

“Very,” I said. “Thank you.”

Once Claire had started back for the kitchen, Gavin leaned forward, his forearms on the small table, and smiled at me. “I think I may have found a way to satisfy the museum’s requirements for keeping the artwork safe.”

“Seriously?” I said.

He nodded and reached for his tablet. “There’s a line in our contract with the insurance company about using ‘all reasonable measures’ to protect the artwork during the times it’s not on exhibit.”

I added cream and sugar to my coffee. “Which means?”

“Keeping the library closed is not a reasonable measure.” He turned the tablet so I could see the paragraph he was talking about in the contract. “I talked to Lita to get her thoughts. She agreed with me. She even ran it by a lawyer she knows.”

That had to be Brady.

Gavin took the tablet back and set it on the table again. “He agrees.”

“Yes!” I said.

He held up one hand, and even though it felt a little silly I high-fived him because being able to open the library once the police were finished had just made my life so much easier.

I leaned back in my seat and folded my hands around my mug. “Thank you,” I said. “I appreciate you going through the contract.”

He reached for his own coffee. “Hey, it was the least I could do after all the disruption having the exhibit here has caused for you.” His expression changed. “Have you heard anything more about the investigation into Margo’s death? Or should I not ask you that?”

“No, it’s okay,” I said. “I haven’t heard anything.”

Claire came out of the kitchen with a tray and started toward us.

“There’s a memorial being planned for Margo in Minneapolis the first of next week,” Gavin said. “I’m going to try to be there. Her, uh . . . service will be in Chicago.”

“I’m glad you’re going,” I said.

Over breakfast we went over the plans to keep the artwork secure until it could be moved and how that might affect day-to-day operations at the library. With a few adjustments I felt confident we could make things work.

When Claire came back to the table, she handed the bill to Gavin, something I realized he must have arranged in advance. “No,” I said, shaking my head. “I asked you to meet me for breakfast.”

“And I’d been about to make the same request when I got your text,” he countered. “This was business. My company’s business. You can get it next time.” He turned to Claire. “Would you add a chicken salad sandwich to that, please?” he held out the bill and his credit card.

“Of course,” she said. “How would you like the sandwich?”

“Hold the bread, mayo, celery and green onions.”

Claire frowned but at the same time a hint of a smile played around her mouth. “So what you really want is the chicken.”

“Yeah,” Gavin said. “I’m trying to take a more minimalist approach to lunch.”

“Okay,” Claire said, giving up and letting the smile out. “I’ll be right back.”

He pulled on his leather jacket and grabbed his messenger bag. I told him I’d call Lita and get back to him once I’d talked to her and checked out the library.

Claire came back with his receipt and a small take-out container that I was guessing held the chicken. Gavin thanked her and passed the cardboard container over to me. “For Owen,” he said. “Guys have to stick together.”

I laughed. “Thank you. You’ll have a friend for life now.”

“You can’t have too many of those,” he said. His phone buzzed.

“I’ll talk to you later,” I said.

If Owen had been a person, I would have said his eyes lit up when his nose detected the aroma coming from the take-out container. His whiskers twitched and he momentarily forgot about his injured paw as he walked across the front seat of the truck to sniff the box.

“Are you feeling better?” I asked.

He immediately sat down, held up his paw and meowed, giving me his sad-kitty face.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. I leaned over and carefully lifted him onto my lap. “You were very brave,” I told him, “and you didn’t try to bite Roma even once.”

He ducked his head and then looked up at me with his exotic golden eyes. It was Owen’s way of trying to seem modest.

“I have to go to the library,” I said. “You can stay in the truck or you can come inside if”—I narrowed my gaze at him—“if you stay in the bag.”

He seemed to consider my words. Then he reached out and put his uninjured paw on the take-out box.

“You can have a couple of pieces now and the rest after we’re done.”

That seemed to be okay with him. He climbed down off my lap and looked expectantly at me.

I fished two slices of grilled chicken out of the container and held them out to Owen. He took each piece from my hand and set it on the seat so he could go through the little ritual of sniffing and checking that he always followed before he ate anything. If there was anything to reincarnation, Owen had probably been some autocratic ruler poisoned by a cadre of disgruntled noblemen, with enough trace memory lingering that he wasn’t going to let it happen again even though in this life he was a small tabby cat.

“Gavin sent that, by the way,” I said as I pulled away from the curb.

Owen lifted his head, looked around and gave a loud meow. Sending a thank-you out into the universe perhaps?

Owen climbed into the cat carrier without objection when we got to the library. For a moment I debated leaving him in the truck, but I knew if he got pissed off he’d just render himself invisible and follow me anyway. An Owen I could see and hopefully corral to some degree was preferable to an unseen cat roaming around the building, poking his furry nose into whatever struck his fancy.

Hope was waiting for me.

“I have Owen,” I said, putting one hand on the side of the carrier bag. “I had to take him to Roma and I didn’t have time to take him home after that.”

“Is he all right?” she asked, eyeing the carrier.

An indignant “merow” came from inside before I could answer.

“He got a big splinter between two claws on his paw,” I said. “Roma came to the rescue.”

Hope made a face. “Sounds painful.”

Owen gave another loud meow.

Hope laughed. “I swear that cat knows what you say to him.” She leaned toward the bag. “I’m sorry about your paw,” she said. “I hope you’re feeling better soon.”

He gave a little murp of acknowledgment and shifted against my hip. It occurred to me that maybe I was worrying way too much about people finding out how much I talked to the cats.

The book drop was more than overflowing, if that was possible. Two sets of shelves to one side of the circulation desk had been turned sideways and there were bits of dirt and dried grass on the floors. By my standards things were a mess. Still, I felt a huge sense of relief now that I was inside again and could start dealing with it all.

The exhibit space looked pretty much the same as it had when I’d last been in the building on Thursday night, except that Gavin had created a half wall, maybe four feet high, of Plexiglas panels in metal frames, attached to temporary supports bolted to the walls at each end. I knew Harry Junior had put in the panels, which were actually part of a railing system, and Oren had already assured me he could fix the walls where the supports had been screwed in.

A middle-aged man in a dark blue uniform was sitting in front of the half wall. He got to his feet. “Good morning, Ms. Paulson, Detective,” he said.

“Good morning, Curtis,” Hope said, smiling across the room at him.

I raised a hand in acknowledgment. Curtis Holt was one of Gavin’s security guards. Gavin had e-mailed him my photo so he’d recognize me. The man sat back down and went back to whatever he was reading on his tablet.

“Did you manage to work anything out as far as reopening?” Hope asked, looking around the space.

I pushed a stray piece of hair out of my face and set Owen in his carrier on the circulation desk. “I think so,” I said. “Gavin and Lita may have found an out in the contract with the insurance company that will let us get the building open again.”

“I like him,” Hope said. “He’s a bit of a flirt, but he knows his stuff.” She gave me an appraising look. “He kind of has a bit of a guy thing going with Marcus.”

“A guy thing?” I said. “You mean a ‘Who’s going to win the cup’, ’Let’s grab a cold one’ thing?”

She laughed and put a hand on her pocket for a second as if she were checking for her phone. “No. More like ‘Let’s bang our heads together like a couple of big-horned rams on one of those nature shows on PBS.’”

I’d pretty much known that based on how Marcus had reacted to my breakfast meeting with Gavin. I shook my head slowly.

“It’s not a big deal,” Hope said. “They mostly stand around puffing out their chests like a pair of lowland gorillas while they try to outdo each other with obscure bits of technical stuff about electronics.” She laughed. “Can you tell I’ve been on a nature documentary binge?”

“Maybe just a little.” I grinned back at her. “Although I can picture the two of them grunting and pounding on their chests.”

Because I’d been talking to Hope and imagining Marcus and Gavin acting like a couple of posturing apes, I hadn’t noticed that Owen had managed to work the zipper on the carrier bag from inside, sliding it open so he could work out a shoulder and then his whole body. He climbed out, shook his head and jumped down to the floor.

“Crap on toast!” I exclaimed. “Owen, get back here. What did I say about staying in the bag?” It was a total waste of words. He listened only if it suited him or he was trying to placate me in some way.

Owen was making his way purposefully across the mosaic tile floor. He didn’t seem to be having any problem with his paw. He stopped at a spot in the middle of the space, under the domed ceiling with its curved skylight, bent his head and sniffed at something on the floor. He scraped at whatever he’d found and then sat and looked over his shoulder at me.

“Really bad thing to do if you want the rest of that chicken,” I said, glaring at the small cat. I reached down to pick him up. He twisted away, put his paw on the same spot on the floor he’d been pawing at and meowed at me.

“Do you happen to have a cat-size set of handcuffs?” I asked Hope.

“Sorry,” she said. “I left them in my other jacket.” She frowned at Owen. “What’s he scratching at?”

“I don’t know.” I crouched down beside the little tabby. He looked at the floor and then he looked at me. I knew that expression. It was his “So do you see it?” look.

There was something stuck to the tiny square tiles. I scraped the edge with a fingernail. It was a dried pine needle sticky with sap. I held out my finger to show Hope. I was certain Owen had a reason for pointing out this particular bit of dirt, but I couldn’t exactly tell that to Hope. No, that wouldn’t seem at all peculiar, would it?

“That’s pine sap,” she said. She turned and squinted toward the front entrance.

I waited. I could tell from her expression that she was making connections in her head. I didn’t need to tell her Owen thought the sticky pine needle was important; clearly she thought it was as well.

Hope sat back on her haunches. “Kathleen, there aren’t any pine trees out front, are there?”

I shook my head. “No. There’s one by the loading dock.”

She pressed her lips together. Owen was watching her intently. “I don’t suppose you know when this floor was last cleaned?” she asked.

Suddenly I understood why both she and Owen were so interested in the pinesap. “I do,” I said, slowly. “This entire level was steam mopped late last Thursday afternoon.” I picked up Owen, who made no move to wiggle away from me now, although he kept all of his focus on Hope. “Do you think the thief might have gotten into the building through the loading dock?” I asked. Hope got to her feet and so did I.

“We went over the entire building, but I’m thinking it might be worth a second look,” she said. “My guys wore booties when they were in here, and if the floor was cleaned not too long before the break-in . . .” She held out both hands.

“Maybe this was tracked in by the person who took the Weston drawing and killed Margo,” I finished.

Hope looked at me. “Maybe,” she said. She got her camera and took some photos of the spot on the floor as well as of my finger. Then she scraped the sticky pine needle off my finger into an evidence envelope.

“I should call Marcus,” she said. She peeled off the latex gloves she’d pulled on to collect the sap from my finger, pulled out her phone and called Marcus. The call went to voice mail.

“Damn!” she muttered almost under her breath. “He’s in a meeting with the prosecuting attorney.”

While she’d been making the call I’d put Owen back in the cat carrier. He’d climbed in without objection—something he didn’t often do. He seemed to have forgotten about his injured paw.

Hope dropped her phone back in her pocket. She looked at me and one eyebrow went up. “Do you want to go take a look back there? Off the record?” She blew out a breath. “Way, way off the record.”

Before I could say anything, Owen answered for me. “Merow!” he said loudly.

“We’re in,” I said.

She turned to the security guard. “Curtis, we’re just going to check something outside.”

He nodded.

I swung the bag over my shoulder and followed Hope out, stopping to lock up and set both alarms. Owen and I stood on the grass and watched while she examined the loading-dock area and the heavy metal door.

After a few minutes she pushed her hair back from her face and sighed. “I don’t see any sign that someone broke in through this door,” she said. She looked at the cat carrier. I could see a pair of eyes watching her. “You got any more clues, Owen?” she asked.

“Murp,” he said.

Hope came to stand beside us. “I guess I was just grasping at straws,” she said, scanning the area.

Harry Junior had just started working on the library grounds, collecting small branches that had blown down over the winter and uncovering the shrubs that had been protected from the cold and snowy Minnesota weather.

Hope was focused on a spot to the side of the loading dock, where the bronze rain chain hung down the side of the building. It looked like a sequence of tiny pots.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“It’s a rain chain,” I said. “It guides the water down to the ground from the gutter.”

“Why don’t you have a downspout?” she asked without taking her eyes off the side of the building.

“That was Harry’s idea,” I said. “Kids kept using the downspout to climb up onto the roof over the loading dock.”

Hope’s eyes met mine then. “Stay right here,” she said. She took a couple of steps forward, her gaze fixed to the ground. Then suddenly she stopped and backtracked.

“What size would you say Harry’s feet are, Kathleen?” she asked. “Fourteen maybe?”

I thought about the big black rubber boots he had been wearing when he’d last been working on the library grounds. “At least,” I said.

Hope looked at me. “I think I know how the killer got into the building,” she said, pulling out her phone.