Faux Paw

21

I drove Maggie home first. She reached forward from the back and hugged Roma in the passenger seat. “‘All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well,’” she said softly.

“Julian of Norwich,” I said. It had been a long time since I’d heard the quote generally attributed to the Christian mystic.

“If you want to talk or just be quiet, call me,” Maggie added.

Roma nodded. “I will.”

I waited until I saw Maggie go inside her apartment building; then I turned to Roma. “Come home with me,” I said. “I’ll loan you a pair of fuzzy pajamas and I promise that Owen and Hercules won’t ask you any annoying questions.”

“I should go home,” she said.

“Why?” I asked.

She pulled a hand back through her dark hair. “I don’t know.”

“So come with me.”

“All right,” she finally said with a shrug.

“We’re home,” I called as Roma and I stepped into the kitchen.

After a moment a furry black-and-white head peered around the living room doorway. A moment later a gray tabby head looked around the doorframe on the other side. The cats exchanged a look.

“Merow!” Owen said. Then he disappeared. Luckily, not literally.

Hercules padded into the kitchen.

I took Roma’s jacket, hanging it on one of the hooks by the back door.

“How about some tea?” I asked.

“Is it that the herbal tea Maggie likes?” she asked, pulling out one of the kitchen chairs and sitting down.

I nodded. “It is.”

“Then no, not really.”

I smiled. It was good to see Roma’s sense of humor. “How about another cup of hot chocolate?”

She thought for a moment. “I think that would be good.” She tucked one leg up underneath her and folded her arms over her midsection.

Hercules came and sat next to her chair. He looked up at her, his green eyes narrowed almost as though he was wondering why she was here.

“How was your night?” Roma said to him.

“Mrrr,” he said.

When the milk was heated and the cocoa made, I joined Roma at the table. She stirred her hot chocolate, watching the little whirlpool she made in her cup. “Don’t be mad at Marcus, Kathleen,” she said finally, looking up at me. She almost smiled. “I know he was part of all this. Eddie had to have had someone helping him. They probably did some male version of a pinkie swear.”

“I’m not mad,” I said, dropping a marshmallow in my cup and dunking it with my finger. “You’re right. He did help. And he did try to tell me, right before Harry called about the library.”

We sat in silence for a moment, Hercules watching both of us but keeping his own counsel; then Roma said softly, “He’s a good person.”

I wasn’t sure if she meant Marcus or Eddie.

We sat and talked for a while about everything but Eddie’s proposal. There wasn’t really anything else to say about that.

Roma yawned and covered her mouth with one hand. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s not the company.”

“It’s okay,” I said. “The spare room bed is made up. I’ll find you a pair of pajamas.”

Hercules went ahead of us up the stairs and turned in to the bathroom. He stopped under the wooden cupboard on the wall, looked up and meowed.

“Good idea,” I said. Roma was used to me talking to the boys, but she raised her eyebrows at me this time.

“I have some of Rebecca and Maggie’s bath infusions,” I said. “Would you like one for the tub?”

Rebecca’s mother had used a lot of herbal remedies and had acted as an informal nurse in the town when Rebecca was young. Rebecca in turn had learned a lot of her mother’s herbal secrets and had been teaching them to Maggie. They’d made poultices and wraps several times for me, and their tub infusions seemed to help everything from sore muscles to an overloaded mind.

I fished in the cupboard and held out two wraps of cheesecloth tied with string. “What do you think?” I said to Hercules.

His nose twitched as he sniffed at one and then the other.

“Meow!” he said, pawing the air in the direction of the one in my left hand.

“This one gets the paw of approval,” I said. I put two fluffy towels on the wicker stool underneath the cupboard and set the sachet of herbs and flowers on top.

“Thank you, Hercules,” Roma said.

I got her a pair of soft flannel pajamas from my bedroom. They were hot pink, decorated with little gray-and-white images of Bigfoot.

“A present from Ethan,” I said.

“Why did your brother buy you a pair of pajamas with Bigfoot on them?” she asked.

“Because he used to razz me about dating Bigfoot since I was living in the wilderness, according to him.”

Roma smiled.

“I just remind him that I used to change his diapers,” I said. “That always shuts him up.”

“You and Ethan and Sara are still close,” she said, taking the pajamas from me. “Even with you here and them in Boston.”

“I miss them,” I said, “but even if I were still in Boston I probably wouldn’t see them any more than I do now. Ethan’s band has been on the road most of the last six months and Sara has worked on two films.”

“I wanted siblings when I was younger,” Roma said. “Then I’d spend a month with my cousins in the summertime and being an only child didn’t seem so bad.”

“When I found out I was going to have a baby brother and sister, all I felt was mortified. My parents were divorced and there was the undeniable proof that they’d been having sex.” I smiled at the memory of my melodramatic teenage self, deciding that I could never be seen in public again with my mother and father. “And then they brought Ethan and Sara home from the hospital and my mother let me hold them for the first time,” I said.

“And you bonded with them,” Roma said, holding the Bigfoot pajamas to her chest and folding her arms over them.

“Not even close,” I said. “Ethan spit up all over the front of my favorite shirt and at the exact same time Sara did the same on the back of it.” I grinned and raised my eyebrows. “They’ve always been competitive.”

It was good to see Roma laugh. “So what changed?” she asked.

“I’d get up in the middle of the night and sneak in to look at them. I was convinced they’d ruined my life, but I couldn’t stay away from them, either. One night Ethan was awake and I just started talking to him. Then Sara woke up, too. As long as I was talking they didn’t cry. About a week later Mom got up to check on them and found the three of us downstairs watching one of those really bad Japanese Godzilla movies with subtitles on TV.”

I smiled at her. “And I’m going to stop talking,” I said. “Toothbrush and toothpaste in the cupboard on the second shelf. If you need anything else, just yell.”

She nodded. “I will.”

I cleaned up the kitchen while Roma was in the bathtub; then I had a bath myself, sinking down in the water until it was up to my chin. I wondered how Eddie was. I wondered if there was any way Roma would change her mind.

I was sitting on the edge of the bed brushing my hair when my cell phone buzzed. It was Marcus.

“Hi,” he said. “You weren’t sleeping, were you?”

“No,” I said.

“How’s Roma?” he asked.

“Sad, mostly,” I said, standing up and walking over to set the brush on my dresser. “I convinced her to stay here for tonight.”

“I thought you might.”

“How’s Eddie?”

Marcus exhaled softly. “Pretty much the same as Roma. He’s already on his way back to St. Paul. He left about an hour ago.”

I yawned. “I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s been a long day.”

“Go to bed. I’ll talk to you in the morning.” I could hear the smile in his voice. “Good night.”

“Good night,” I said.

I woke up at five minutes after two, unsure of why I was awake. I padded out into the hallway in bare feet. The door to the spare bedroom was open. Roma wasn’t in bed.

I was halfway down the stairs when I heard voices. Then I realized it was just one voice, Roma’s. I crept silently to the bottom of the steps and moved across the living room floor until I could see into the kitchen. Roma was at the table, her back to the doorway, one foot up on her chair with her chin resting on her bent knee and her arms wrapped around her leg. Hercules was sitting at her feet.

She was talking to him. And he was listening, his head tilted a bit to one side. It occurred to me that maybe Roma had found exactly the right “person” to talk to who would listen without judgment. I took several steps backward and then I went silently back upstairs.

I drove Roma home after breakfast, moving Marcus’s SUV out onto the street so I could back the truck out of my driveway. When I got back it was gone and there was a brown paper bag propped on the doorknob of the back door. There was a smiley face drawn on the front with a black marker and one of Eric’s cinnamon rolls inside.

Rebecca called a few minutes after nine o’clock. “I have some information for you,” she said. “Do you have a few minutes?”

“I do,” I said. “Would you like to come over and tell me in person? I have coffee, tea and”—I leaned sideways to look at the counter, realizing as I did that Roma and I had eaten the last of the blueberry scones and I’d demolished Marcus’s cinnamon roll—“sardine cat crackers.”

Rebecca laughed. “As . . . tempting as that sounds, I’m not home. I’m actually downtown in Everett’s pied-à-terre.”

“Ahh, romantic,” I teased.

“Yes, it was,” she said a saucy lilt to her voice.

I could imagine her smile and the twinkle in her eyes. Rebecca and Everett could make the most cynical person out there believe in love and happily ever after.

“So what did you find out?” I asked, pulling my feet up so I was sitting cross-legged on the chair.

“The Holmeses are not the happy family they seemed to be on the outside,” she said.

“All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way,” I said.

“Exactly,” Rebecca said. “I think Tolstoy had that right, although I think the unhappy families are that way for the same few reasons.”

“What do you think the reasons were in this case?”

“I think there was only one: money.”

I reached for my coffee. “Charles Holmes’s art collection.”

“Yes. I talked to the wife of one of Everett’s business associates. Clara told me that Marshall Holmes tried to sue his sister over the collection. He thought Diana had used undue influence on their father.”

“You said, ‘tried to sue,’” I said.

“The case was dismissed,” she said. “It seems that before he died Charles had decided to have all the artwork appraised with the idea that he’d divide the collection equally between Marshall and Diana. He died before anything really got started, so the way his will was written, they shared the whole collection.”

“I can see how that caused problems,” I said. I took a sip of my coffee.

“It seems there was enough evidence to show what Charles’s intentions had been,” she said. “Even though Marshall’s lawsuit was dismissed, the judge ordered a complete appraisal of the art at the estate’s expense with the goal being to divide the collection as fairly as possible.”

“So shouldn’t that have solved the problem?”

“Well, dear, you’d think it would,” Rebecca said. “But from what I could gather, it hasn’t. First of all, the appraisal process takes time, not to mention, some of the artwork is out on loan in various exhibits at the moment. And both Marshall and Diana have some limited veto over who’s going to do the actual assessment.”

I took another sip of my coffee and set the cup on the table. “They haven’t started yet, have they?” I asked.

“The only piece that’s been valued is the Weston drawing,” she said. “Charles had that evaluated right before his death.” She made a sound of annoyance. “Both of those young people are very childish in their behavior. On the other hand, this really is something Charles should have settled long before he died.”

I sensed there was a similarity between Marshall and Diana Holmes wrangling over the Weston drawing and Owen and Hercules bickering about the grackle. Nobody wanted to give in first.

“Rebecca, do you think either one of them could have been involved in what happened at the library?” I said.

She sighed softly. “I hate to think it, Kathleen,” she said. “But, yes, it’s possible. Clara told me that both Marshall and Diana are having some—as she put it—cash-flow problems.”

“They’re broke,” I said, stretching sideways and snagging the handle of the coffeepot with two fingers.

“As the proverbial church mouse,” Rebecca countered. “The business and the foundation are doing quite well, but both children have been living way beyond their means for some time.”

“I just have one more question,” I said. “Did your friend happen to mention who did the appraisal of the Weston drawing?” Mentally, I crossed my fingers, remembering Lise’s comment about Edward Mato and the Weston drawing: “I think he actually might have appraised it at some point.”

“I think she said his last name was Mato. I’m sorry. I don’t remember his first name. I’m not sure Clara even said.”

I did a little fist pump in the air. “It doesn’t matter,” I said. “Thank you for doing all this for me.”

“Oh, my dear, you’re very welcome,” Rebecca said. “I quite enjoyed it. I think I would have made a very good spy.”

I laughed. “I think you would, too. I’m glad we’re on the same side.”

Rebecca laughed and promised she’d be over soon for tea, and we said good-bye.

I got up and stretched. I didn’t have anything I could really share with Marcus, but I felt confident I was on the right track.

I looked at my watch. Lise should be in her office in Boston. I punched in her number.

“Hey, Kath, what’s up?” she said when she answered.

“I need your help with something,” I said.

“Name it. It’s yours.”

“Your friend, Edward Mato. Do you think he’d talk to me?”

“I don’t see why not,” she said. “Are you looking for more information about that missing drawing?”

“I have a couple of questions about its history,” I said.

“Let me call him and see what he says. Is it okay if I give him your number?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll see if I can track him down.”

“I owe you,” I said.

“Umm, I know,” she said with a laugh. “I’ll put it on your tab.”

I knew it could be hours or days before I heard from Edward Mato, if he even agreed at all to talk to me about the Weston drawing, so I was surprised when my phone rang about ten minutes later and it was him.

Edward Mato had a smooth, deep voice and a slightly formal manner of speaking.

“Lise told me it was your library that Below the Falls was stolen from,” he said.

“Below the Falls, that’s the name of the Weston drawing?” I said. I hadn’t heard the drawing called by that name.

“That’s the title the artist gave it, yes.”

“Mr. Mato, you appraised that drawing for Charles Holmes before he died. If it turns out that it was actually the work of his first wife, what would that do to its value?”

“Please, call me Edward,” he said.

“I will,” I said. “If you’ll call me Kathleen.”

“You’ve heard the rumors about the drawing’s origins, then, Kathleen,” Edward Mato said, phrasing the sentence as a statement, not a question.

“Yes, I have. And I know it’s not the only piece by Weston that’s in question.”

“You do your homework.” I thought I heard a note of approval in his voice.

“I like to know what I’m talking about, where I can,” I said.

“Even without incontrovertible proof, a collector could conceivably be willing to pay two, two and a half million dollars for Below the Falls.”

Two and a half million dollars. Two and a half million reasons to steal the drawing and replace it with a fake. Two and a half million reasons to kill Margo Walsh.

“You told Charles Holmes that you believed his drawing hadn’t been done by Sam Weston.”

“That’s correct. Based on my knowledge of Native American art and techniques from that time period as well as what I know about Weston’s work, I told Mr. Holmes I believed Below the Falls was created by his first wife, not Weston himself.”

“You said Below the Falls is the title the artist gave the drawing. You meant Stands Sacred,” I said.

“Very good,” he said. I could hear the smile in his voice.

“Would your appraisal be enough for a court to give the drawing to the Dakota Sioux people? I know they’ve returned land and other property based on treaty agreements.”

“It’s possible,” he said. “I’ve been an expert witness twice in legal actions.”

So if someone was going to sell Below the Falls to a collector, now was the time.

I thanked Edward Mato for his time and ended the call.

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” I said. There were no cats around and I felt a little silly just talking to myself.

So if Marshall and Diana Holmes were both having financial problems and they were co-owners of a drawing worth more than two million dollars, did it mean that one of them was involved in Margo’s murder?

I walked outside and sat on the steps, hoping that somehow the fresh air would clear my head. I saw movement at the edge of the grass where my yard joined Rebecca’s. Owen came stalking across the lawn. He climbed the steps and sat down beside me. There was a scrap of newspaper hanging cock-eyed from one of his ears.

I snagged the bit of paper and held it up. “Stay out of Rebecca’s recycling bin,” I said, glaring at him.

“Murp,” Owen said.

“You think I don’t know you’re over there all the time,” I said, setting the corner of newsprint on my leg and smoothing it flat with a finger. “You pretend you’re over there to do rodent patrol when really you’re just nosy. It’s classic misdirection.”

He looked at me unblinkingly. Then he lifted a paw and nonchalantly began washing his face.

“Misdirection,” I repeated slowly. Maybe it was the fresh air. Or Owen’s penchant for rooting around in Rebecca’s recycling bin. Or maybe my little gray cells had finally put the pieces together.