Faux Paw

2

Abigail arrived about five minutes later, carrying a Sweet Thing box and a square stainless steel tin. She held them out to me. “One dozen of Georgia’s maple crème cupcakes and some Earl Grey tea bags,” she said with a smile.

“You’re a lifesaver. Thank you,” I said. After I’d left Rebecca and Everett I’d called Abigail and asked her if she could bring some tea bags so we could at least offer the library board a cup after their tour. Abigail was friends with Georgia Tepper, who ran Sweet Thing, the cupcake bakery. She’d offered to stop in and bring a dozen of whatever cupcakes Georgia had on hand. I’d been happy to take her up on the offer.

“Do we have enough cups in the lunchroom to give tea to the entire library board?” Abigail asked as she followed me up the stairs.

“I brought cups and saucers from home,” I said.

Mary had made coffee. The aroma drew me toward the small second-floor lunchroom.

Mary had set two mugs on the counter. When she saw Abigail she grabbed a third. Once we all had coffee we sat around the small table and I went over the day’s activities.

The art exhibit was using the open space overlooking the water that normally held our computers. The computers had taken over the magazine and reading area, which was now temporarily in the larger of our two meeting rooms. It wasn’t an ideal situation, but it was the only way to keep the computers in sight of the main desk so users could be supervised.

We hadn’t really had much of a problem with our public-access computers—aside from the occasional teenage boy trying to access certain sites that our security software prevented him from getting to. Still, it didn’t hurt to have Mary, who knew all the kids’ parents and grandparents, at the circulation desk while they tried to work their way around the latest firewall I’d installed.

“Larry should be here about nine thirty to do a test of the window alarms,” I reminded Mary and Abigail. They both made faces. The temporary security system that Larry Taylor was helping to install had an alarm that sounded like an air horn. “The board will be here at two for an update. And the quilters are using our meeting room because there’s water in the church basement.”

Mary took off her glasses and began cleaning them with the end of her sweater. “Kathleen, where are we going to entertain the board if the quilters are in our only meeting room?”

“I already thought of that,” I said. I held up a finger. “The quilters finish at one thirty. Give them fifteen minutes to gather their stuff.” I held up a second finger. “At one forty-five I give the room a quick vacuum and toss a cloth on the table. Mia will be here by then.” The teenager had started out as a co-op placement from the high school and now worked part-time for me. The little ones loved her Kool-Aid-colored hair and the seniors were charmed by her lovely manners.

I added a third finger to the first two. “Mia sets the table while I run back upstairs to make the tea, and at five to two I will be waiting, graciously, by the front desk.” I extended both hands with a flourish. “Ta-da!”

Abigail laughed. “All you need is one long-winded quilter and your whole plan falls apart.”

I narrowed my gaze at her. “O ye of little faith,” I said. “Do you remember those boxes of books that Pete Simmons brought us when he cleared out his mother’s house?”

She nodded.

“Eva was a quilter. There were several books about quilting in one of the cartons. Mary is going to ask the ladies to come out to the desk and take a look at them so we can decide if we should add any of them to our collection.” I raised one eyebrow at her in classic Mr. Spock–from–Star Trek style. “As I said, ta and da.”

“Very crafty of you,” Abigail countered with a grin.

I made a face at her pun and got to my feet. “Let’s get started, then,” I said.

It was a busy day. Rena Adler showed up just after we opened.

“Hi, Kathleen,” she said. “Is Margo here?” She was carrying a blue file folder and she tapped one edge of it with her fingers.

I shook my head. “Not yet.”

Rena made a face. She was a bit shorter than me, maybe five-five, in her black Dr. Martens, with her black hair in a twist. “She asked for my bio.” She held up the folder. “Would you mind giving it to her for me? I’m meeting Ruby at the co-op store in a few minutes.”

Rena had been staying in Mayville Heights all month. After they’d met, Ruby had recruited her for a painting workshop she was doing with a couple of art classes at the high school.

“I don’t mind at all,” I said. “Does Margo have a number for you in case she wants to talk to you about it?”

Rena smiled. Like Marcus, she had deep blue eyes and incredibly long eyelashes. “Yes, she does. She’s probably called me ten times just about the frames for my paintings.”

“Margo is very . . . exacting. But she cares about every piece in the show.”

She nodded. “You’re right about that.” She handed over the folder. “Thanks, Kathleen.”

“You’re welcome,” I said.

Rena left and I took the papers she’d given me upstairs. I’d meant what I’d said to her: Margo did care about every single painting and drawing in the exhibit. She wanted the local artwork to be seen at its best and she worried about what the change in conditions would do to the museum pieces. I felt certain that if the decision had been up to her, the library would never have been chosen as a venue.

Margo Walsh walked in at nine thirty with Larry Taylor. I caught enough of their conversation to know she wanted to move some of the new lights he’d installed.

Again.

Luckily, Larry, the younger of Harrison Taylor’s sons, was one of the most laid-back people I’d ever met. He smiled at me over the top of Margo’s head.

Margo Walsh was a tiny woman, five foot four or so only because of her four-inch heels. She wore her blond hair in a sleek bob with side-swept bangs.

“Good morning, Kathleen,” she said as she passed me, her head bent over her phone.

“Good morning,” I replied, but she was already past me, heels clicking on the mosaic tile floor. I walked over to Larry. “She wants to move those spotlights again,” I said.

He pulled off his ball cap and smoothed a hand over his blond hair. “That she does.”

I shook my head. “I’m sorry. I know working with Margo has been a bit of a challenge.”

Larry laughed. “The old man when he gets his shorts in a bunch over something—excuse my language—now, that’s a challenge.” He gestured toward the steps with one large hand. “Her, not so much.”

Larry’s father, Harrison Taylor Senior, was one of my favorite people in town. He was also, to use an expression from his other son, Harry Junior, as stubborn as a bear with a closed picnic basket.

I laid a hand on Larry’s arm. “How about a cup of Mary’s coffee in about half an hour?”

“I wouldn’t say no to that,” he said. He had the same warm smile as his father and brother. He headed toward the exhibit area, and I went upstairs to talk to Margo.

She was in the workroom that she’d taken over as a temporary office. She was dressed in slim black pants and one of her ubiquitous white shirts, the sleeves rolled back to her elbows. She turned when she heard me in the doorway. “Kathleen, I need a favor,” she said.

That was a change. Usually Margo left out the word “favor.”

“What is it?” I asked.

“Do you know Oren Kenyon?”

I nodded. “Yes, I do. Oren did a lot of work on the restoration of this building.”

Margo leaned back against the worktable that she was using as a desk. “Maggie Adams told me he made the sun that’s over the entrance.”

“Yes, he did.”

Our library, like many others of its vintage, was a Carnegie library, built with funds donated by Scottish American industrialist Andrew Carnegie. The carved wooden sun Oren had made for the entrance was a nod to the first Carnegie library in Dunfermline, Scotland.

“The detail is incredible,” Margo said.

I wondered how she knew that. The sun was twelve feet in the air over the main doors.

She must have read the question on my face. “Lorenzo let me use his ladder.”

Lorenzo? Did she mean Larry Taylor? Why didn’t I know his full name was Lorenzo?

Margo was still talking. “I’ve heard that Mr. Kenyon has created a replica of this town’s seal done in the same way as the sunburst over your door.”

I’d heard that rumor, too, although I wasn’t sure if it was true or not. Oren didn’t talk a lot about what was going on in his life.

“It seems that he doesn’t have a cell phone.” She glanced over at her own smartphone, lying on the table next to her briefcase. “And I haven’t had any luck getting his home phone number, either. I asked Mary and somehow the conversation turned to how many third cousins she has in town.”

I bit the inside of my cheek so I wouldn’t laugh. If Mary didn’t want to tell you something, she could lead you into a conversational labyrinth.

Margo’s eyes flicked to the heavy, stainless steel watch on her left arm. “If the seal does exist and it’s as good as that sun, I’d love to have it in the exhibit. It fits with the overall theme of the other artwork: the history of this part of Minnesota.”

Oren was a very private person. His father, Karl Kenyon, was a frustrated artist, a metal sculptor who’d spent his whole life working as a laborer, dreaming of a different life. Oren had inherited his father’s artistic streak, but unlike Karl, Oren enjoyed his quiet, small-town life in Mayville Heights. He liked working on the old buildings, extending their lives or giving them new ones. He was an incredibly talented pianist as well as a skilled woodworker and he had no desire to do anything differently.

“I’ll talk to him,” I said. “I can’t promise he’ll say yes. But I will ask.” I knew that Oren was doing some work for Roma out at Wisteria Hill, her new home.

“Thank you.” Margo glanced at her phone again. Most of her focus was clearly somewhere else.

“I’ll be in my office if you need me,” I said.

She nodded without even looking in my direction and reached for a file folder on the table. I headed for my office, but before I got there I caught sight of Larry Taylor coming up the stairs.

“Kathleen, do you have a minute?” he asked.

“Of course,” I said. “Is something wrong?”

He shook his head. “It just struck me that it might make more sense to put in a permanent fixture for the little spotlights Margo is talking about rather than doing something temporary. Cost-wise it’ll actually save you money, and Oren won’t have to patch the ceiling when this show is over.”

“Exactly how little are these spotlights?” I had a mental image of the computer room looking like the stage at the Stratton Theatre.

“That’s what I wanted to show you,” Larry said.

We started down to the main floor. I darted a quick sideways glance at Larry. “Lorenzo?” I asked, keeping my voice low.

His face flushed with color. “It’s a long story, Kathleen,” he said, ducking his head.

I held up one hand and smiled at him. “I love long stories.”

At that moment, behind me, I heard Margo Walsh call my name. At the same time Abigail came around the corner of the circulation desk. She raised a hand. “Kathleen, the reference computers have gone catawampus again.”

I blew out a long breath. I had a feeling it was going to be a long day.

And it was.

The spotlights Larry was proposing to install permanently were small and could be rotated 360 degrees, so I told him to go ahead and put them in, making a mental note to call Lita and tell her what I’d agreed to.

Margo had final (final, final) confirmation that the exhibit would be arriving Friday afternoon, which meant the library would be closed from one o’clock on Thursday until Saturday morning. Mary started making signs so our patrons would know what was going on, while Abigail dealt with a pile of books from the book drop and I tried to persuade the aging reference software on our even older computers to boot up for another day. I found myself thinking longingly of Rebecca’s muffins sitting on my desk.

In the end, one of those muffins and a large cup of coffee were all I had time to grab all day—I gave the other muffin to Larry, who worked through his own lunch—and that wasn’t until after the library board had left, all of them happy with the way the work for the exhibit was shaping up, and charmed by Margo and her genuine praise for the library and the town. She could certainly turn on the charm and tone down the nitpicking when it mattered.

I was very happy that Marcus had offered to cook supper for me. He’d also stopped in at my house to check on Owen and Hercules so I could drive directly out to his house when I left the library.

Micah met me at the door. The small marmalade tabby had appeared one day out at Wisteria Hill, the former Henderson estate that was now Roma’s home. She hadn’t been part of the feral colony of cats that called the old carriage house home. They had all been neutered as part of Roma’s trap-neuter-release program and were cared for by Roma and a group of volunteers that included Marcus and me. Roma’s best guess was that someone had simply dumped the little tabby near Wisteria Hill, maybe believing she could just join the other cats.

For months Roma had put out food for Micah; she had named her for the way the sunlight glinted off her ginger fur. She’d also erroneously said that Micah was a he. Marcus was the one who had first noticed that the very cautious cat was in fact a she, something he’d gently teased Roma about.

Just as Owen and Hercules, who were also from Wisteria Hill, had bonded with me, Micah had bonded with Marcus. Roma was certain she had had a home somewhere before Wisteria Hill. She was happy to let other people stroke her fur or scratch under her chin. If anyone other than me tried that with Owen or Hercules they would go from charming house cats to Tasmanian devils in about a second and a half.

There was no sign of Marcus, but something smelled wonderful. Micah wound around my legs and I bent and picked her up.

“Lasagna?” I asked.

“Merow,” she said.

The cat tipped her head to one side and looked at me, whiskers twitching. Her sense of smell was as good as Owen’s.

“I brought you something,” I said quietly. I pulled a small bag of the same sardine kitty treats I made for my own cats out of my pocket. I took two out and held out my hand.

Micah made a soft thank-you meow before leaning over to eat one of the small crackers.

“You’re spoiling my cat,” Marcus said behind me.

I turned around to face him. “Look who’s talking,” I said with a laugh. Marcus had snuck so many “treats” to Owen and Hercules, Roma had finally given him a stern lecture about what constituted “cat food” and what didn’t.

Micah took the other cracker from my hand and I reached over and stroked the top of her head. “And she’s not spoiled. She’s an angel cat.”

As if she’d understood every word I’d just said, Micah leaned her furry face against my cheek. We both looked up at Marcus.

He laughed and shook his head. Then he leaned down and gave me a quick kiss and ran his hand over the little cat’s fur.

I handed him the bag of fish crackers and put Micah down on the floor. She licked crumbs off her whiskers and looked up at Marcus.

“One,” he said, his voice edged with warning.

The cat bobbed her head as if in agreement. I knew he’d give her more than that and so did she.

Marcus opened the bag and fished out two crackers. He bent down and held them out to the cat, who took them both in her mouth and then set them on the floor.

He brushed his hands on his jeans, straightened up and pulled me into his arms for another, longer kiss. I still felt the same rush of giddiness I’d felt the first time he’d kissed me, standing out in the driveway next to my old truck.

“How was your day?” he asked.

“Long,” I said, pulling off my jacket and hanging it and my purse over the back of one of the kitchen chairs.

Marcus turned to look at the timer on the stove. “Are you hungry?” he asked.

My stomach growled loudly then, as if in answer to his question.

“You skipped lunch again,” he said, reaching for an oversize pair of oven mitts. I noticed that he hadn’t phrased his comment in the form of a question.

“No, I didn’t,” I said, just a little defensively, as I pulled out a chair and sat down. “I had one of Rebecca’s muffins.”

“A muffin is not lunch,” Marcus countered. He opened the oven door, mumbled something and closed it again.

“It was a big muffin.”

He turned to look at me then, and I gave him my best innocent expression. It was the same kind of look Owen gave me, generally when I’d caught him doing something he shouldn’t have been. It worked about as well on Marcus as it did when Owen used it on me.

“Kathleen, this is the third time in the last week and a half that you’ve missed lunch.”

Actually, it was the fourth, but I wasn’t stupid enough to correct him. Micah was at my feet, looking from one to the other of us as though she was following the conversation. For all I knew, maybe she was.

Marcus waved an oven mitt at me. “I’m bringing you lunch tomorrow.”

“Leftover lasagna?” I asked. That was assuming there was any left over by the time I’d finished my supper.

“How did you know I made lasagna?”

“Merow,” Micah said then. She had the same uncanny sense of timing that both Owen and Hercules seemed to possess.

“She told me,” I said, gesturing at the little cat and trying to keep a straight face.

Marcus set a multicolored pottery bowl of salad on the table. “The cat told you that we’re having lasagna?”

I shrugged. “I asked. She confirmed.”

Once again, the “meow” was perfectly timed.

“See?” I said.

He laughed.

I gestured at the little marmalade tabby. “She seems happy here.”

He nodded. “I actually took her over to Roma today. She’s gained a little weight.” He smiled. “I mean the cat, not Roma.” He went back to the refrigerator for the salad dressing, his own secret concoction. I’d been trying for months to wheedle the recipe out of him.

I watched Marcus move around the kitchen for a moment, just enjoying the view, so to speak. “Does she still think that Micah was abandoned?” I asked. The little cat leaned against my leg and I bent forward to pet her, wondering how anyone could have left her out at Wisteria Hill to fend for herself.

“Uh-huh,” Marcus said. “And it makes sense. All the carriage house cats have been neutered. And she’s definitely socialized.” He gestured at Micah, still leaning against my leg, eyes half closed, purring as I stroked her ginger-colored fur.

“I’m glad you decided to take her,” I said.

He smiled. “I think it was more like you and Roma decided I should take her.”

I smiled back at him. “Potato, potahto.”

He grinned as he turned back to the stove.

“There’s no way I could have taken her,” I said. “As it is, Owen and Hercules are squabbling over—” I exhaled loudly and shook my head. “I don’t know what. Bacon, possibly.”

Marcus took the lasagna out of the oven and set it on a tile trivet on the countertop. “Bacon?” he asked, glancing back over his shoulder at me.

I thought about Hercules eating Everett’s treat with what had seemed to me to be a somewhat smug expression on his furry black-and-white face. “Maybe,” I said. “Hercules has been eating bacon nearly every morning with Everett, and Owen loves bacon almost as much as he loves Maggie. But he’s slow in the morning. I think it’s just sibling jealousy, although you may be called in at some point to investigate the decapitation of one Fred the Funky Chicken.”

“You know, Micah may not be a true Wisteria Hill cat, but I think she’s one in spirit,” he said.

“What do you mean?” I asked. The lasagna smelled wonderful and my stomach growled audibly again. It had been a long time since Rebecca’s muffin.

“You know how Owen is always sneaking into your truck?” Marcus reached for the plates on the counter.

“Uh-huh,” I said slowly. Marcus didn’t know about the boys’ “superpowers,” so he didn’t know that Owen was able to “sneak” into my truck by making himself invisible.

He tipped his head in Micah’s direction. “She’s done the same thing to me. Twice I was halfway to work before I realized that she was sitting on the backseat.”

I felt the hairs rise on the back of my neck. “Really?” I said slowly. “You didn’t see her jump in the back?”

“I didn’t even see her follow me out of the house.” He set a steaming plate in front of me and leaned down to give the top of Micah’s head a little scratch. “I guess she shares that stealth-ninja gene with Owen.”

“I guess she does.” I stared down at the cat, who looked up innocently at me and then began to wash her face.

It wasn’t possible. Micah didn’t share Owen’s ability. I was overreacting, I told myself sternly as I unfolded my napkin. Over. Re. Acting.

If I repeated the words enough times, maybe I’d start to believe them.