Faux Paw

15

I’d planned to sleep in Saturday morning, but Owen had other ideas. He’d swatted my face with a paw and grumbled because I didn’t seem to be getting dressed fast enough for him.

“Do you have plans this morning?” I asked as I followed him down to the kitchen.

“Merow!” he said loudly.

Owen had already started his breakfast when Hercules wandered in, yawning. He came over to me, leaned against my leg and eyed his brother curiously.

“He has plans,” I said, reaching down to scratch the top of Herc’s head.

I put half an English muffin in the toaster and scrambled an egg with onions, pepper and tomatoes. It made a very good breakfast sandwich—not quite what Eric served but delicious just the same.

Owen finished breakfast, washed his face and then headed toward the back door like a cat with a purpose. At the door he looked back over his shoulder and meowed sharply at me.

“I’m coming,” I said, padding across the floor to let him out. I paused with my hand on the doorknob. “I didn’t hear any ‘please.’”

“Murp,” he said, much to my amusement.

I opened both doors and let Owen out onto the back step. He headed down the stairs and I wondered if he was going to Rebecca’s.

“I’m going to the library if I hear back from Marcus this morning,” I said.

That got me another murp, but he didn’t even slow down.

I finished my breakfast, threw a load of bedding in the washer and then sat at the table, making a list of things I wanted from the Farmers’ Market, with Hercules settled on my lap. “Do you think the Jam Lady will have any marmalade?” I asked.

The cat’s whiskers twitched. He liked the occasional dab of marmalade on a sardine cracker, information we didn’t share with Roma.

I pulled on my hoodie and got my cloth shopping bags from the hall closet. Hercules followed me out into the porch and watched while I tied my sneakers. He looked a little at loose ends to me.

“You want to come for a ride in the truck?” I asked, canting my head in the direction of the driveway and feeling a little foolish as I said the words. At least half of a cat’s life was spent lying around at loose ends, as far as I could see.

He had been washing the white fur on his chest. He lifted his head, shook himself and then went to sit by the outside door. That was a yes.

I stood in the middle of the backyard and called Owen several times. There was no sign of him. Hercules meowed at me from the steps. “I know,” I said. “He’s probably over at Rebecca’s mooching a treat. Let’s go.”

I found a parking spot on the street not too far from the market. “I won’t be very long,” I told the cat, grabbing a bag from the floor on the passenger side of the truck. He stretched out on the seat.

“Maybe we’ll go to Tubby’s when I’m done,” I said, “as long as you promise not to tell Roma—or your brother.” I wasn’t really sure who would be more annoyed to find out I’d let Hercules have a taste of Tubby’s bestselling strawberry frozen yogurt: the cat or the vet.

I’d long since come to the conclusion that not only were the boys not exactly ordinary house cats; they didn’t have the digestive systems of regular cats, either. But I didn’t want to take any chances on their health, so when Roma had gotten after me about feeding them people food, I’d gotten a lot stricter about what they ate.

Hercules looked at me and at the same time crossed one paw over the other. Was that cat for “cross my heart”? It was good enough for me.

I got some onions, a dozen brown eggs, the marmalade and some spring lettuce and onions from the greenhouse Taylor King’s parents kept. I was just about to head back to the truck when I bumped—literally—into Diana Holmes. I was surprised to see the owner—or to be exact, half owner—of the Weston drawing. I hadn’t had any contact with her since Margo’s death.

“I’m sorry,” she said, reaching down to pick up the bag of lettuce she’d knocked from my hand. “I had my eye on a red velvet cupcake and wasn’t paying attention to where I was going.” She was wearing a long, slim black-and-white-patterned skirt with a white cotton sweater and a short jean jacket. I felt a little underdressed in jeans and a hooded sweatshirt.

“It’s all right,” I said. “I’ve been distracted by Georgia’s cupcakes more than once myself.” I took my lettuce from her and put it back in my shopping bag. “I didn’t realize you were still in town.”

Diana smiled with more politeness than genuine warmth. “Marshall has been discussing some business with Everett Henderson. He decided to stay for a few more days. It’s such a lovely little town, even with everything that happened, I thought I’d do the same.”

“I’m sorry about the Weston drawing being stolen,” I said.

She nodded. “So am I. It was my father’s favorite piece in his collection.”

It seemed to me I could see a glimpse of real sadness in her expression for a moment.

“I’m trying not to lose sight of what’s really important,” she continued. “The drawing is . . . a thing. And it was insured. I just want the police to find whoever killed Margo Walsh.”

“So do I,” I said.

“Have you heard anything?” she asked.

I shook my head. “No. But Mayville Heights has an excellent police department. They’ll find whoever did this.”

“That’s good to hear.” She gave me the polite smile again. “It was nice to see you, Kathleen,” she said. “Enjoy your weekend.”

I walked back to the truck, wondering what kind of business Everett was doing with Marshall Holmes.

I put the shopping bags on the floor of the passenger side. Hercules leaned over to sniff each one and then straightened up and looked at me.

“Yes, we’re going to Tubby’s,” I said.

I parked by the waterfront and Hercules and I sat in the truck with the windows rolled partway down and enjoyed a small cup of creamy, icy strawberry frozen yogurt. I got Hercules his own flat-paddle wooden spoon and gave him a couple of tastes. Then he curled up on the seat next to me with a sigh of contentment. He was so relaxed that when my phone buzzed on the seat next to him he started and almost fell onto the floor.

I put one hand on his back and picked up the cell with the other. It was Marcus.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“I’m at Tubby’s, sitting in the truck with Hercules eating frozen yogurt.”

“Why? Was Owen busy?”

“As a matter of fact, he was,” I said. Hercules turned his head to lick a tiny smear of yogurt off the side of my thumb.

Marcus laughed, the sound tickling my ear as it came through the phone. “Do you still want to clear the book drop?” he asked.

“Please,” I said.

“I can meet you at the library in about fifteen minutes.”

That didn’t give me time to take Hercules home. “The only problem is, like I said, I have Hercules with me.” The cat looked up at me and narrowed his green eyes as though he didn’t like be referred to as a problem.

“That’s not a problem,” Marcus said. “He can’t hurt anything. We’ve wrapped up everything we want to do in the building. We’re releasing it back to you. You could probably reopen on Monday.”

I leaned against the back of the seat as relief flooded my body. “I’m going to need to get the cleaners in, and there are stacks of books to reshelve. And I’ll have to call Gavin to see if we can get the artwork moved on Monday. Maybe we should wait and reopen Tuesday.” I rummaged in my purse, looking for a pen and the notebook I usually carried.

“Kathleen, take a breath,” Marcus said.

“What?” I said.

“Take a breath,” he repeated. “You don’t have to do everything at once.”

“You’re right,” I said. “How about Hercules and I come and meet you and we’ll go from there?”

“I’ll see you in a few minutes,” he said.

Hercules sat up, took a couple of passes at his face with a paw and then looked expectantly at me.

Marcus was waiting by his SUV in the library parking lot. I popped Hercules into the spare shopping bag I’d brought with me and got out of the truck. I knew there was no point in leaving him in the truck when he didn’t want to stay there. He’d just climb out through the door—literally—and how would I explain that to Marcus?

“Hi,” I said as we walked over to him.

“Hi,” he said, leaning down to kiss me. “Hey, Hercules,” he said to the little black-and-white cat, who was poking his head out of the top of the bag.

“Merow,” the cat said.

Marcus let us into the building, and before I could take more than a few steps toward the checkout desk, Hercules jumped out of the bag, shook himself and looked around. “No, no, no,” I said, reaching for him. “You need to stay with me.”

Marcus turned to look at me. “It’s okay, Kathleen,” he said. “We’re finished in here. He can’t hurt anything.”

The cat gave me a look and headed straight for Curtis, who was in his usual spot.

“Is this your cat?” the guard asked.

I started toward them. “Yes. This is Hercules. Please don’t try to pet him. He was feral. He doesn’t have the best people skills.”

Curtis laughed. “Yeah, people say that about me, too.” He looked at the cat. “Hello, Hercules,” he said.

“Merow,” the cat answered. He considered the security guard for a moment and then moved around the circulation desk.

I handed a take-out container of coffee to Curtis. I’d gotten it from Tubby’s before we left. “I thought you might like a cup,” I said. The creamer and a couple of sugar packets were on top.

Curtis smiled at me. With his bushy eyebrows and nose that looked as though it had been broken at least once, he was an imposing man—a good trait for a security guard—but when he smiled his expression was transformed.

“Thank you, Ms. Paulson,” he said. “I was a bit late getting started this morning, so I’m like my old truck that leaks oil; I’m down a quart.”

Hercules was still prowling around, checking everything out. Marcus was doing the same, I realized, minus the whisker twitching.

“What are you looking for?” I asked. Marcus turned to look at me. Hercules kept nosing around.

“Are you talking to me or him?” Marcus asked, gesturing to the cat, who was sniffing the edge of one of the metal pylons that was restricting access to the exhibit area.

“You,” I said.

He shrugged. “I don’t know, exactly. Something, anything that we might have missed.”

“You’ll figure this out,” I said. “You always do.”

Hercules was still sniffing the pylon. His pink tongue came out and he gave the shiny metal surface a tentative lick. “Leave that alone,” I called to him.

He gave a sharp meow but otherwise ignored me.

I walked over to the cat. “Don’t lick that,” I said firmly. “You don’t know what’s on it.”

Of the two cats, Owen was the one who had finicky little quirks about his food, but I’d never seen Hercules do something as undignified as lick a metal post.

He looked up at me, put a paw on the base of the metal pylon, and meowed again. I knew that insistent tone. It meant, “Look at this.”

I leaned over to look at the spot he’d licked. “Move your foot,” I said.

He obligingly lifted his white-tipped paw. There was a tiny smear of what looked like blue paint on the shiny metal.

Curtis joined me. “That’s paint,” he said.

“Don’t eat that,” I said to Hercules.

His green eyes met mine and he licked his lips.

“What is it?” Marcus asked. He’d walked over and was standing behind Hercules. The cat looked up at him and then back at the pylon. As far-fetched as it seemed, I knew there was some connection he was waiting for me to make.

“I’m not sure,” I said slowly. I scraped a tiny speck of the paint off the pylon with a nail and then sniffed the end of my finger, hoping that I wasn’t inhaling some obscure, drug-resistant bacteria.

“What are you doing?” Marcus said, pulling a face like I’d just scraped a piece of gum off my shoe and started chewing it.

Herc’s green gaze was fixed on my face, and even though no one else would have believed it, I could see a gleam of expectation in his eyes.

“It smells like egg,” I said, more to the cat than to Marcus, wondering at the same time if it was just my imagination at work.

Hercules sat back on his haunches then, seemingly satisfied that he’d made his point.

“No one was in here eating eggs,” Curtis said.

The cat shot him a look of disdain as only a cat could do.

Hercules had been having a sardine and a slice of hard-boiled egg every Sunday since the weather got warmer. We’d sit in the backyard and I’d have coffee while the boys had their Sunday treat. Hercules had developed a fondness for the hard-boiled egg. It really wasn’t that big a surprise that his nose had discovered the small splotch of paint.

“Egg tempera,” I said slowly.

“Paint,” Marcus said.

I nodded. “It’s a mixture of pigment, egg and something to keep the egg from drying out too fast; water, vinegar, Maggie says some artists even use wine.”

He crouched down beside me and studied the pale blue dab on the pylon base. Then he looked at me.

“That’s fresh paint, not a flake of old paint that fell off something and stuck,” I said.

“So one of the artists had wet paint on a shoe or a pants leg and brushed against this at some point. You said yourself that Maggie and the others were in and out a lot in the days before the art from the museum arrived.”

I shook my head. “No. These are brand-new pylons. I helped take them out of the box and set them up right after we closed the library on Thursday.”

“Was Maggie here after that?” he asked. “Or any of the others?”

“No,” I said. “Just Margo and Gavin and the staff from the museum who came with the artwork.”

He looked at Curtis. “Did Mr. Solomon bring anyone else in here while you’ve been here?”

Curtis shook his head. “Every time he’s been here, he’s been alone, except for Detective Lind.”

“Okay, thanks,” Marcus said.

The guard went back to his chair.

Hercules was watching us intently, head turning from side to side as we talked.

“Rena Adler paints with egg tempera,” I said, getting to my feet. I remembered seeing a dab of blue paint on her finger. “She’s the only local artist in the exhibit who does.”

Marcus stood up as well. He looked at me and shook his head. “I see where you’re going with this, Kathleen, but it’s a pretty big leap from someone paints with a particular kind of paint to saying they killed someone.” He pulled his hand back through his hair and as he did I remembered Harry Junior making the same gesture as he stood in my porch Friday morning . . . talking about his brother . . . and Rena Adler.

I looked at Marcus. “Harry said she was asking Larry a lot of questions. He thought she was flirting with him and so did I, but what if she was fishing for information? She took him coffee.” I pointed at the floor. “When he was working downstairs. Where the setup is for the temporary security system.”

He stared at me for a long moment. Then he pulled his phone out.

“What are you doing?” I asked. I glanced at Hercules, who was washing his face. Clearly he figured his work was done.

“Bringing the crime scene techs back to take a closer look at that pylon and the others.”

“I thought you said it was too big a leap,” I said.

“Maybe it is,” he said, “but I don’t have anything else.” He gave me a half smile. “So I may as well jump.”