Two Tall Tails

The Cat Burglar

A Magical Cats Story

Sofie Kelly

In the uncanny sort of timing I’ve discovered Minnesota rain sometimes has, the sky seemed to open just as I started across Rebecca’s backyard toward my own. I pulled up the hood of my yellow slicker, folded both arms over the front of the raincoat and ran for my back door, my happy face–covered rubber boots clomping across the wet grass and sending water spraying up onto my jeans. It seemed as though all the rain we hadn’t gotten in April we were now going to get in May.

Inside the porch I shook myself a bit like a damp dog, then eased down the zipper of my jacket. Hercules poked his black and white face out from underneath and looked at me, green eyes narrowed, a sour expression on his face.

I set him down on the porch floor and the little tuxedo cat held up one white-tipped front paw and shook it, followed by the other.

I slipped off my jacket and hung it to drip on a hook by the back door. “There’s no way your feet are wet,” I said, stepping out of my boots. “In case you didn’t notice, your feet didn’t actually touch the grass.”

Hercules turned his back on me and started for the kitchen, making disgruntled grumbling noises in the back of his throat. The fact that the door was closed made no difference to him. He simply walked through it. The bottom panel almost seemed to shimmer for a moment and then the cat was on the other side with no more than the same soft sound a soap bubble makes when it pops.

The first time I’d seen Hercules walk through a completely solid door, I’d thought I was losing my mind. Now it was just part of his personality, like his intense aversion to wet feet, his indifference to catnip and his love for both sardine cat crackers and Barry Manilow’s music.

I had no idea where this unbelievable ability had come from—Herc’s gray tabby brother, Owen, couldn’t walk through walls. Owen’s superpower was the ability to disappear at will, and since he was a cat, it was almost always at the most inconvenient time for me. From the beginning I’d realized that if I told anyone about the cats’ “skills,” at best it would be my head getting examined and, at worst, theirs, so I kept their secret. A few times I’d had to come up with an explanation of how Hercules had gotten into a room or Owen onto the front seat of my truck, but since cats have a reputation for slightly sneaky behavior, it was pretty easy to cover.

I followed Hercules into the kitchen. He was sitting on the floor, staring at the cupboard where I kept the sardine crackers.

“Nice, try,” I said, bending down to scratch the top of his head. “But A, I know you already had bacon with Everett, and B, you didn’t get wet.” I leaned my face close to his as I said the last part and he licked my chin. “You’re welcome,” I said.

Rebecca Nixon, now Rebecca Henderson, had been my backyard neighbor as long as I’d lived in this house, one of the perks that came with taking the job as head librarian here in Mayville Heights. After she and Everett had gotten married, they decided to live in Rebecca’s little house and soon Hercules was having breakfast with Everett a couple of times a week. Everett insisted Hercules was interested in what happened on the town council, and for all I knew, maybe the little cat was.

My cell phone rang then. I straightened up and grabbed it from the kitchen table. It was Maggie. “Hey Mags,” I said.

Maggie Adams was one of my closest friends in Mayville Heights. We’d met when Rebecca invited me to try her tai chi class. Maggie was the instructor. We’d bonded over our love for the cheesy reality show Gotta Dance.

“Hi,” Maggie said. “I was wondering what your day’s like. Do you have time for lunch? I made pizza last night.”

I loved Maggie’s homemade pizza with its chewy crust and thick, spicy tomato sauce.

“I always have time for your pizza.” I leaned back against the counter. At my feet Hercules was making a show of washing his left front paw. “What time?”

“How about twelve thirty?” Maggie gave a little grunt of exertion that told me she was probably stretching at the end of her morning workout. “I’ll be over at the studio.”

“I’ll see you then,” I said. Owen had appeared in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room. He gave a loud meow. Owen adored Maggie. “Owen sends his love,” I added.

“Back at him,” Maggie said. I could hear her smile in her voice. “I’ll see you later.”

I ended the call, set the phone back on the table and walked over to Owen. The little gray tabby looked up at me with his odd, golden eyes. I reached down to stroke his fur. “Love from Maggie,” I said. His eyes narrowed to slits and he began to purr.

Owen followed me around while I finished getting ready for work. He made a face when I got my blue sweater from the closet.

“The red one?’ I asked.

“Mrrr,” he said approvingly.

When I was ready to leave, I gave each cat a stack of five sardine crackers and some fresh water. Owen eyed his pile with suspicion the way he always did, then nudged the top cracker to the floor and sniffed it carefully.

Hercules was already eating his treat, crunching happily. He looked at me, almost seeming to smile. I crouched down beside him. “You’re spoiled,” I said. “Your character has been weakened.”

He tipped his head and blinked his green eyes at me, almost as if he were saying, And whose fault is that?

I rubbed the top of his nose, where white fur gave way to the black on the top of his head. “Have a good day,” I said.

I stood up, grabbed my bag and my umbrella and headed for the porch. “Have a good day, Owen,” I said over my shoulder.

He gave a muffled murp around a mouthful of cracker which may have been “You too,” or might have been “Whatever.”

It was barely raining at lunchtime when I got to the Riverarts building, where Maggie had her art studio, but the sky was still dark out over the water. For me, one of the best parts of living in Mayville Heights was the riverfront with the elm and black walnut trees that lined the shore, and the trail that wound its way past the downtown businesses, all the way out to the marina. You could walk along the shoreline and see the boats and barges go by on the water the way they had more than a hundred years ago.

I parked on a side street a block above the art center and hurried down the hill, clutching a container with four cinnamon rolls close to my chest in case it started to pour again. The town was basically laid out like a grid. For the most part, the streets that ran up and down the hill carried on all the way to Wild Rose Bluff at the top. The bluff was the source of most of the stone in the foundations of the beautiful old buildings along the waterfront.

Mags was waiting by the back door of the old high school. “Hi,” she said.

I knew right away something was off. The smile she gave me seemed just a little forced. The long blue ombré scarf around her neck was lopsided, one end hanging much lower than the other. And her short blond curls were standing on end as though she’d run her hands through them more than once.

“Is everything all right?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. Then she shook her head and swiped one hand over the back of her neck. “No, it isn’t. Ruby’s going to join us. Is it all right if I wait until she gets here to explain?”

“Of course,” I said. I wiped my feet on the mat.

Maggie took a slow, deep breath and blew it out softly. Then she smiled at me, a much warmer smile than the first one she’d given me, and we started up the stairs. “So how was your morning?” she asked. “Weren’t the books for Reading Buddies supposed to be here today?”

“They were delivered just before we opened. Abigail and I spent the morning sorting everything.”

Reading Buddies was a program that paired kindergarteners and first graders with fourth and fifth grade students to help improve the little ones’ reading skills. It was one of the first programs I’d put in place when I’d arrived at the library. We’d just received a grant to buy enough books so that every child would have one to keep—both the beginning readers and their would-be teachers.

“Did you know Mary could do calligraphy?” I asked.

Maggie shook her head. “I didn’t, but she can do so many other things it doesn’t exactly surprise me.”

Mary was Mary Lowe, who worked for me at the library. She looked like a greeting card version of a grandmother—with fluffy white hair, kind eyes and a collection of seasonal cardigans. She was also the long-running state kickboxing champion for her age and often took the stage on amateur night at a local club that featured exotic dancing.

I’d learned that Mary could do calligraphy just that morning when she’d offered to add each child’s name inside their book. At this point I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn she could solve complex calculus problems and ride a unicycle.

I could smell the pizza as soon as we got to the top of the stairs on the third floor. “What kind of pizza did you make?” I asked as I followed my nose—and Maggie—down the hall to her studio. “Not that it makes any difference. I’m just curious.”

“Chicken and roasted red pepper.” She fished her keys out of the pocket of her jeans and unlocked the door, crossing the room to check the toaster oven where the pizza was heating. I set the cinnamon rolls on the counter near the sink and shrugged off my raincoat, draping it over one of the stools around the center workspace in the bright studio. The fact that Maggie hadn’t immediately asked what was in the container was just one more indication of how preoccupied she was.

I looked around the room for a clue about what Maggie was working on. Since she’d said she wanted to wait for Ruby before she explained what was troubling her, I found myself wondering if it could be work related. An oversized pad of newsprint was attached to her easel with binder clips. I walked over to get a better look at the rough pencil sketch on the paper. It looked like a map of Mayville Heights and the surrounding area.

Maggie was primarily a collage artist these days, and she often used her own photos in her pieces. But she’d also done some large installation pieces, including a locker room scene for the town’s Winterfest celebration a couple of years before to show off the sports history in this part of the state. It had featured a life-sized version of former NHL star Eddie Sweeney, aka Crazy Eddie. The full-sized faux Eddie had led to our friend Roma meeting the full-sized, real Eddie and romance had followed.

“What are you working on, Mags?” I asked. I could make out the water and the Riverwalk in her drawing.

Maggie set down the jug of apple cider she was pouring for us and joined me by the easel. “I’m roughing out an idea for a collage map of the hiking trails in this area. It’s for the new Tourism Coalition.”

“That’s the Riverwalk, isn’t it?” I pointed to the bottom of the paper.

She nodded. “Uh-huh. And that’s the road that runs behind Wisteria Hill.”

Wisteria Hill was the former Henderson family homestead. Roma owned the property now.

Maggie pointed to the top section of the sketch. “And that’s Turtle Lake.”

“I like it,” I said.

She smiled, the first truly warm smile since I’d arrived. “Thanks. The main problem is coming up with something that has enough visual interest to be a large poster—the kind of thing that can be hung in tourist information centers, town halls, places like the library—but not so detailed that it’s useless when it gets reproduced brochure size to hand out to tourists.”

I glanced over at Maggie’s laptop on the counter. “Have you taken any photos yet?”

“Some,” she said. “And I have some older ones from Ruby that belonged to her grandfather that I really want to use. Those I need to scan.”

Behind us the toaster oven beeped and Maggie went to get our pizza. She was just putting it on the plates, three pieces of deep blue Fiestaware, when Ruby arrived. She was wearing gray leggings, a green and white long-sleeved T-shirt and a jean jacket with faux zebra collar and cuffs—her own creation, I was guessing. Her hair, with vibrant electric blue streaks, was pulled into a tight knot on the top of her head, which showed off her long neck. “Hi, Kathleen,” she said, smiling at me. The smile seemed a little forced.

Like Maggie, Ruby was a full-time artist. Her pop art paintings, done in bold acrylics as vivid as her hair, were finding fans outside of the Midwest and there was talk of a show in Chicago in the fall.

The three of us sat at the worktable with our pizza and cider. Ruby looked over at Maggie. “You didn’t tell her yet?”

Maggie shook her head. “No, I waited for you.”

“What’s going on?” I said.

Ruby made a face. “Some stuff was stolen from the store,” she said flatly.

The store was the artists’ co-op store. It was downtown on Main Street, across from the Riverwalk, and the location made it a popular spot with tourists. Maggie and Ruby worked there, as did all the other artists who were part of the co-op. Ruby was the current president of the board that ran the co-op and the shop.

I frowned at her now. “What was taken?” During the time that I’d lived in Mayville Heights, there had never been a theft at the artists’ store as far as I knew.

Maggie sighed and set down her fork. “Some woven placemats and two linen stitch scarves, the ones Ella made. They’ve been popular with tourists.”

“Do the police have any leads?”

Maggie and Ruby exchanged a look.

“You did call the police, didn’t you?” I asked, my eyes darting between them.

Maggie raked a hand through her hair. “No, we didn’t. And we don’t want to. “

“It’s complicated,” Ruby added.

My appetite suddenly disappeared, and it felt as though my stomach were trying to tie itself into a knot. I could only think of one reason for Maggie and Ruby to be so reluctant to call the police—they had to believe they knew who the thief was. I looked at Maggie without speaking. She played with her fork for a moment before her green eyes met mine.

“Based on when the thefts took place and who was in the store, we’ve narrowed it down to three . . . suspects. I’m just having trouble believing it could be any of them.”

Ruby slid the stack of bracelets she was wearing up and down her arm. “Look, Kathleen, we don’t want anyone to get in trouble. That’s why we need your help.”

I knew them, I realized. I knew the three potential thieves. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. “Who are your suspects?” I asked.

“Nic,” Ruby said.

I frowned at her. “Nic Sutton?”

She nodded.

Nicolas Sutton was a found metal and paper artist who also worked part-time at Eric’s Place, my favorite restaurant in town. He’d previously lived in Minneapolis but had come to Mayville Heights for a new start after the death of his father, who had owned a pawn shop in the city.

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “Nic wouldn’t do something like that. Look at everything he’s done to help with fund-raising for Reading Buddies. And he volunteers at the animal shelter.”

Ruby shrugged.

“Why would he steal from the store, given how welcoming you’ve all been? It doesn’t make sense.” I picked up my glass and set it down again. “Who else?”

I could see from the expression on Ruby’s face that she was reluctant to answer my question even though she’d asked for my help. Her shoulders were tense, and the expression in her eyes was guarded. “Susan,” she finally said.

“That’s impossible,” I said flatly. Susan and I worked together at the library. She was hardworking, funny and kind. I knew her well enough to know she wouldn’t steal from the co-op or from anyone else. I shook my head again, feeling my jaw tighten.

Ruby held out both hands in a gesture of resignation but said nothing.

“That’s two,” I said. “Who’s the third suspect because Susan is not a thief and neither is Nic for that matter.” I folded my arms over my midsection and turned to Maggie because Ruby still wasn’t speaking. “You don’t need my help, Mags, because that third person, whoever they are, is your thief. So who is it?”

Maggie swallowed and said softly, “It’s Rebecca.” One arm hugged her body.

I closed my eyes briefly. “This doesn’t make sense,” I said. “I don’t know what sort of evidence you have, but it’s wrong. There has to be some other explanation. Rebecca would not steal from the store any more than Susan or Nic would.”

“The things that were taken, they were taken on two different occasions,” Maggie said. “Rebecca, Susan and Nic were the only people who were in the shop both times.” She glanced at Ruby.

I shifted in my seat to look at her as well.

“We’ve checked the purchase receipts, I’ve talked to everyone else who was working on those days, we’ve gone over hours of footage from the security camera on the street.” Ruby held up one, two, then three fingers as she recited what had been done.

“You said there has to be some other explanation and I agree with you.” Maggie leaned forward, propping her forearms on the table. “That’s why we need your help.”

“I’m not the police.”

Ruby played with a strand of blue hair that had slipped out of her topknot. “Kathleen, it wasn’t the police who figured out who killed Agatha Shepherd and cleared my name. It was you.”

“And it was you who gave Roma some closure by putting together all the pieces with respect to what happened to her father,” Maggie added. “People tell you things, things they don’t or won’t tell the police. And somehow you put them all together a lot like the way I make a collage, only what you end up with is the truth. So please say that you’ll help us.”

I didn’t know whether or not I could figure out what happened but I knew there had to be some kind of alternate, logical explanation for the items missing from the co-op store. “All right,” I said. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Ruby gave me a tight smile. Maggie reached across the table, grabbed one of my hands and gave it a squeeze.

Even cold, Maggie’s pizza was still pretty good. After we’d eaten, I pushed back my plate and checked my watch. “Since I’m heading back to the library and since Susan is working, I may as well get started with her,” I said.

“I hope we’re not putting you in a difficult spot,” Ruby said, slipping off her stool.

“You’re not,” I said. “I want to help if I can.”

“Do you need anything else from us?” she asked.

“I know you said that Susan—and Nic and Rebecca—were the only people who were at the shop both times things went missing.”

Ruby nodded. “That’s right.”

“You must have more than that.”

“We do,” Maggie said.

I turned to face her.

“I was working in the store the day of the first theft,” she said. “Ray Nightingale was working as well. It was really busy because two busloads of tourists who were on a winery tour had stopped here in town for lunch.” Maggie reached for our plates and stacked them one on top of the other, setting the forks on top. “I was at the cash register and Ray was showing one of his own pieces to a couple of the tourists when Susan came in.”

Ray Nightingale had a degree in graphic arts, and he did a lot of commercial work for different businesses. He also created large, incredibly detailed, acrylic ink drawings that reminded me a little of the Where’s Waldo? series of books. Somewhere in each of Ray’s drawings was a tiny rubber duck, no more than an inch or so long, wearing a pair of sunglasses and a snap-brim fedora. For me, much of the charm of the artwork was looking for the little duck, whose name was Bo.

“Susan had been at the diner for lunch, I think,” Maggie continued. “She walked a group of the tourists over who wanted to look around the shop before they got back on the road.” She picked up the plates and moved over to the small sink that she used to wash her brushes.

“So what happened?” I asked as she rinsed the plates.

“Susan kept going back to look at the linen stitch scarves. There were four of them at the time.” Maggie glanced up at me. “You’ve seen Ella’s work. They’re beautiful.”

I nodded. Ella King had an eye for color. I’d bought one of her scarves as a gift for my friend Lise in Boston. Even though it was hand knit, it looked like something that had been woven. “So Susan liked Ella’s work. No offense, Mags, but I don’t see how you went from that to her stealing something.” I gathered the glasses and took them over to the sink.

“She went back to those scarves at least half a dozen times that I saw. She handled them a lot and she—” Maggie stopped and turned to face me, holding one dripping plate in her hand. “She was acting furtive, looking around all the time as if she was trying to see if anyone was watching her. And yes, I know how out of character that sounds, but that’s what happened.”

“I believe you,” I said.

Maggie set the wet plate in the sink. “At the end of the day we discovered there was a scarf missing.”

“You had a store full of tourists. Are you sure one of them wasn’t the thief?”

“That’s what we thought,” Ruby said. “We’ve never had a shoplifter before, but it happens. A couple of days later I was working, Susan came in again and I noticed the same thing with her and the scarves as Maggie had seen. At the end of that day we discovered two placemats and another scarf were gone. It was very quiet. No busloads of tourists.”

I glanced at Maggie, who nodded.

“If Susan wanted a scarf, she could buy one,” I said.

Ruby shrugged. “As a former semi–juvenile delinquent, I can tell you that swiping things isn’t always about not being able to pay for them.”

Maggie had finished rinsing the plates. She took the glasses I was still holding.

“So why did Nic and Rebecca make your suspect list, aside from the fact that they were at the shop both times the thefts happened? It has to be more than just the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Well, Nic was just plain acting weird,” Ruby said.

Maggie nodded in agreement.

“Weird how?”

“He worked with me,” Ruby said, leaning against the worktable. “And his shift was after Ray’s so he overlapped a little with Maggie. He kept going over to the shelf where the scarves and the placemats were displayed, and he was looking over his shoulder as though he thought he was being watched. He seemed really nervous.”

I turned to Maggie again. “What about Rebecca?”

“Rebecca was just like Nic and Susan. She wasn’t acting like herself.” Maggie made a face. “I know that I said this about Susan, but Rebecca was acting furtive as well, glancing about a lot, standing by the display, and fishing around in her bag.”

I didn’t know what to say. The description didn’t sound like Rebecca, but then again what Maggie and Ruby had described about the other two didn’t sound like Susan or Nic, either.

I glanced at my watch again. “I need to head back,” I said. I gave Maggie a hug. “Thank you for lunch. I promise I’ll call you as soon as I talk to Susan.”

Maggie tipped her head in the direction of the cinnamon rolls. “Thank you for those, and for . . . everything.”

I nodded. “Anytime.”

“I’ll walk down with you,” Ruby said, reaching for her jean jacket. She turned to Maggie. “Thanks for the pizza. I have a couple of things to do but I’ll call you later.”

Ruby and I headed down the hall. “You’re coming with me,” I said once we were on our way down the stairs out of Maggie’s earshot. I didn’t frame the words as a question.

“Look, Kathleen, it’s not that I don’t trust you,” Ruby said, stopping one step above the turn landing. “It’s just that . . . I’m head of the co-op board now. It was my decision not to call the police and I’m okay with that. But I still need answers.”

“I understand,” I said. “If the same thing had happened at the library, I’d feel the same way.”

It had stopped raining, I discovered when we stepped out into the parking lot. “Are you taking your car or do you want to ride with me?” I asked. I gestured toward the nearby side street. “I’m just parked over there.”

“I’ll come with you, if that’s all right,” Ruby said. “I’m going to the store after and I can walk there from the library.”

“It’s fine with me,” I said. “There’s lots of room in the truck.”

I looked toward the water. The dark clouds were already thinning, and I could see bits of blue sky breaking through. The rain was over. My left wrist, which was a pretty good predictor of wet weather since I’d broken it, didn’t ache anymore.

“I forgot to tell you that I have a meeting at the hotel tomorrow,” Ruby said as we started up the hill to the truck. “I’m hoping they’ll be interested in putting together a room package for tourists who are coming for the workshops.”

“That’s a great idea,” I said.

The library and the artists’ co-op were teaming up to offer a weekend workshop called “The Art of the Doodle” in September. The library was hosting a talk on the popular art form along with an exhibit of doodle art and books. The co-op was offering hands-on workshops at both the store and the library. Even though we hadn’t made an official announcement since we were still firming up details, word of mouth was getting around and I was surprised by how much interest there already was.

“Eric is interested in offering a breakfast special for the participants. He should have some options put together for me next week.”

“That would be great.” Ruby smiled. “Those are the kind of small extras that I’m hoping will sway people who might be on the fence into coming.”

We’d reached the truck, and as I unlocked the passenger door, she patted the front fender. “I can’t believe this thing is still working.”

At one time Ruby had driven the identical mate to my truck. Mine had been a gift from Harrison Taylor for helping him find his daughter. Before that I’d walked everywhere since I’d sold my car when I left Boston for Minnesota. I’d spent my first few weeks in town wandering around exploring, which is how I’d stumbled on Wisteria Hill, where I’d found Owen and Hercules. Or more accurately, where they’d found me.

Ruby raised an eyebrow. “How long are you going to keep driving it?”

“Probably until it falls apart,” I said, sliding on to the driver’s seat. “It’s a good dependable truck and it has a lot of sentimental value.” I ducked my head for a moment. “And would you think I’m crazy if I say Owen and Hercules really like it?”

She shook her head. “That seems like a perfectly valid reason to me.”

I headed down the hill, thinking that since the lunch rush was over, I should be able to make a left turn on to Main Street. The streets that ran from one end of town to the other all followed the curve of the shoreline so it was almost a straight line back to the library.

The brick building sat on the midpoint of a curve of shoreline, protected from the water by a rock wall. It had a stained glass window that dominated one end and a copper-roofed cupola complete with the original wrought iron weather vane.

The Mayville Heights Free Public Library was a Carnegie library that had been built in 1912 with money donated by philanthropist Andrew Carnegie. It had been restored and updated to celebrate the library’s centenary. I’d come to town to supervise the renovations and taken the head librarian job permanently when they were finished.

Abigail Pierce was at the circulation desk when we got inside, rimless reading glasses perched on the end of her nose as she went through a list of book requests. Along with working at the library, Abigail had a second career as a children’s book author.

“Any messages?” I asked.

She shook her head. “None.” Then she eyed Ruby’s hair. “I like that color,” she said.

Ruby smiled. “Anytime you’d like to try it, let me know.”

“Seriously?” Abigail said.

“Absolutely.” Ruby wiggled her eyebrows. “I think a green or navy streak in the front would look good on you.”

Abigail smiled back at her. “I may just take you up on that.”

“Is Susan upstairs?” I asked.

Abigail shook her head. “She’s over in nonfiction shelving books.”

“I just need to talk to her for a minute and I’ll be back to relieve you.”

“Take your time,” she said. “I’m just going to sit here and try to imagine myself with the Incredible Hulk’s hair.”

“Better his hair than his skin,” I said.

Ruby and I found Susan in the 590s sitting on the floor, rearranging a shelf of books, a shrimp cocktail fork and what looked to be a paper-wrapped straw stuck in her updo. I wondered where the straw came from. It hadn’t been poked in her hair when I’d left the library to head for Riverarts.

She smiled at me over her black cat’s eye glasses. “Hey, Kathleen,” she said. “This shelf let go again. I think it was the clips so I got some new ones from the workroom.”

“Thanks,” I said.

It had to be a mistake, I thought. I couldn’t come up with any rational explanation for Susan stealing a couple of scarves and some placemats from the co-op store. It was just too out of character.

Susan reached up and pulled the straw out of her hair. “Weirdest bookmark yet.”

“Where did you find it?” I asked.

“In a book about hyenas,” she said, indicating the stack of books beside her on the floor.

“Someone used a straw for a bookmark?” Ruby said. “Seriously?”

“That doesn’t even make my top ten list of strangest things I’ve seen people use to mark their place in a book,” I said with a grin.

Ruby tipped her head to one side and regarded me with a skeptical look. “No, no, no. You can’t say that and then not give me the details.”

I laughed. “Okay. There’s the usual stuff, napkins, squares of toilet paper, ribbons, paper clips, et cetera. I guess the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen used as a bookmark was a snakeskin.”

“You’re making that up,” Ruby said.

I shook my head. “I swear I’m not.”

“She isn’t,” Susan said, waving the straw for emphasis. “I remember the snakeskin. It was between the pages of a book on vegetarian cooking.”

Ruby laughed. “Okay, now I know you’re messing with me.”

I put my hand over my heart. “I’m not. Librarian’s honor.”

Susan got to her feet and poked the straw back in her hair. “What’s up?” she asked.

“Susan, were you at the co-op store on Tuesday?” I tried to keep my tone light and nonaccusatory.

She nodded. “Uh-huh. That was the day those two buses of tourists stopped in town for lunch.” She pushed her glasses up her nose. “I walked a bunch of them over to the store, and then since I had a bit of time before I had to be back here, I stayed to look around for a few minutes.”

“What did you look at?” Ruby asked.

Susan reached over and straightened a couple of books on the shelf closest to her. “What’s going on?” she said.

“Do you remember what you were looking at?” I said. “It’s important.” From the corner of my eye I saw Ruby looking at me, but I kept my focus on Susan.

She looked puzzled, two frown lines pulling her eyebrows together. “Sure, I remember. I was checking out those scarves that Ella made, the multicolor knitted ones that look like they were done on some kind of loom. They’re beautiful.”

She stopped and the color rose in her cheeks. “Wait a second. Did you think I was trying to steal one of them?” She looked at Ruby, eyes wide, a mix of surprise and embarrassment on her face. Before Ruby could answer, Susan had turned to me. “That’s it, isn’t it, Kathleen? I was in the store three or four times in less than a week looking at those scarves.”

“Why?” I said.

Susan didn’t answer. She’d already turned back to Ruby again. “Ruby, I’m sorry,” she said, twisting the hem of her lime green cardigan in her fingers. “I didn’t think how it would look to someone else. I swear I didn’t take anything.”

“Why were you so interested in those scarves?” I asked gently. “You’re not really a scarf person. Why did you keep going back to look at them?”

“Kathleen, do you remember when Abigail tried to teach me to crochet?” she said.

Ruby’s eyes narrowed, and I gave an almost imperceptible head shake, hoping she’d take that as a cue to stay quiet.

“I remember,” I said.

Susan had tried to teach herself how to crochet, and when her efforts had quickly gone downhill, Abigail had stepped in to teach her. That hadn’t worked so well, either. Everything Susan had tried to make had ended in a tangled ball of yarn, a lot of frustration and a few words that weren’t usually in a librarian’s vocabulary.

Susan shifted from one foot to the other. “I’m trying to learn to knit,” she offered, her cheeks turning pink.

“Oh,” I said. “Ummm, how’s it going?”

She rolled her eyes. “How do you think it’s going, Kathleen? I was a disaster with one crochet needle. It’s twice as bad trying to knit with two.”

“Crochet hook,” Ruby said.

We both looked at her.

“You crochet with a hook, not needles.”

“See?” Susan exclaimed, holding out both hands. “I don’t even know what the stuff is called.”

“So why do you want to learn to knit?” I said.

She gave me a wry smile. “For Eric. Did you know he makes my breakfast every morning?”

I shook my head. “I didn’t.” Eric Cullen, who owned and ran Eric’s Place, was a great cook and an all-round good human being. His breakfast sandwiches were one of my favorite ways to start the day.

“He makes all our bread and granola and salad dressing.”

“You think he’d adopt me?” Ruby asked.

Susan laughed. “I want to make something special for him. Something with my own two hands.” She looked at me. “You’re right that I’m not a scarf person but Eric is. I wanted to knit one for him but the truth is I suck at knitting. I kept going back to look at Ella’s scarves because I was trying to figure out what I was doing wrong. But that’s all.” She shook her head. “And for the record. I still don’t know.”

“I can teach you,” Ruby said.

Susan sighed. “I appreciate the offer but I can’t do it. It doesn’t matter if it’s crocheting or knitting. Whatever I start ends up in a mess.” She inclined her head in the direction of the checkout desk. “Just ask Abigail.”

“I can teach you,” Ruby said again. “All you need is big needles and bulky yarn and you can make a scarf. I promise.”

Susan looked skeptical.

“I didn’t know you could knit,” I said.

Ruby grinned. “Hey, just because I’m a pierced, rainbow-haired artist doesn’t mean I don’t have traditional skills, too. I can knit, sew and make my own ketchup. My grandmother taught me.” The eyebrows went up again. “My grandfather taught me a few things, too, but I don’t usually talk about those.”

Ruby’s grandfather, Idris Blackthorne, had been the town bootlegger. I could only imagine what skills he’d taught his favorite grandchild. “Probably a road best not traveled,” I said lightly.

“Are you working tomorrow morning?” Ruby said to Susan. “We could go to the yarn store. What color were you thinking of?”

Susan made a face. “I’m not certain but I did think gray would go with his eyes.”

I put a hand on Ruby’s arm. “I’m going to go give Abigail a break,” I said. “Everything’s okay here?”

Ruby nodded. “It is. Thank you.”

“I’ll keep going,” I said quietly.

Ruby nodded again and turned back to Susan. As I headed for the circulation desk, she was pulling out her phone to show Susan a scarf that might work for Eric.

The thief wasn’t Susan. But the knot in my stomach hadn’t completely untied itself. I still had two more people to talk to.

Owen and Hercules were waiting in the kitchen when I got home. Over a bowl of chicken stew with dumplings for me and a little plain shredded chicken breast for them, I explained about the missing items at the artists’ store.

I talked to the cats all the time. They were good listeners, especially if chicken or sardine crackers were involved. They didn’t interrupt for the most part unless it was to try to mooch (unsuccessfully) part of a dumpling, and there were times when they wordlessly seemed to take part in the conversation. I didn’t generally share that last part with people.

When I was down to the last couple of bites of my dumpling, I leaned back in my chair and curled one leg underneath me. Owen was peering at his dish as though he was trying to figure out whether there could be one last morsel of chicken hidden behind it. Hercules had started his face-washing routine, spending more time that usual on the left side of his furry black and white mug.

“I need to talk to Rebecca,” I said, ticking things off on my fingers. “And I have no idea how to bring up the thefts at the store.”

Owen gave up nosing around his bowl and walked over to sit in front of the back door. He looked back over his shoulder at me and then meowed loudly.

Meanwhile, Hercules took one last pass at his face before moving across the kitchen to sit by the cupboards and stare at the one where I kept the tea.

“You two are not at all subtle,” I said.

They exchanged a look and Owen meowed again.

“Okay, I’m going,” I said. I scooped up the last bit of dumpling, then got up and headed for the living room and the telephone. I sat on the footstool and pulled the phone down beside me. As I was punching in Rebecca’s number, I looked over to see Hercules watching me, head poked around the living room doorway.

Rebecca agreed to come for tea in the morning to hear all about the new books for the Reading Buddies program. She had served on the library board for years and had a soft spot for the literacy project.

Hercules followed me around while I threw in a load of laundry and did the dishes. I told him about the rest of my day and he made little murping noises that at least made it seem as though he was interested.

Later I curled up in the big chair in the bedroom and called Marcus. This was the longest we’d been apart since we’d become a couple, and I missed him like crazy. Owen stretched out across my lap while Hercules sprawled on his back on the floor, moving his paws in the air as though he were doing a halfhearted yoga routine.

If Marcus had been in town, I would have pushed Maggie to talk to him about the thefts. Not only was he a detective with the Mayville Heights Police Department, but he also knew Susan, Rebecca and Nic. The two of us had met when I’d gotten caught up in one of his cases and it had taken a long time for us to work through our differences. Marcus was the kind of person who looked at the facts and I tended to pay more attention to feelings. It had taken a case involving his sister, Hannah, for each of us to be able to see things from the other’s perspective.

But Marcus was out of town at a hockey skills clinic. There wasn’t anything he could do so I didn’t say anything. If I couldn’t figure out who had taken the missing items from the co-op store, I would nudge Mags to get him involved when he got back. So I talked about Reading Buddies and how good Maggie’s pizza had been, and when I hung up, Owen’s narrowed golden eyes were fixed on my face.

“Don’t give me that look,” I said, scratching behind his left ear. “I didn’t tell Marcus because there’s nothing he can do.”

Owen continued to stare at me. I leaned forward and stared pointedly back at him. “Was there anything you did today that maybe you’d just as soon not share with me?” I said. To my amusement, Owen suddenly became very engrossed in his feet.

Rebecca arrived for tea about nine thirty the next morning. She was tiny, barely five foot three in her sock feet, with blue eyes and silver hair in a pixie cut that showed off her gorgeous cheekbones. Abigail was working for me in return for a shift I’d taken for her the week before so I didn’t have to be at the library until noon.

Copies of the new books we’d received were on the table. After she’d hugged me and talked to Owen and Hercules, Rebecca sat at the table to look at the books while I made the tea.

“Wonderful choices,” she said. She held up one of the picture books. “I especially like this one with the dancing cows.”

I smiled. “We all agreed on that one. Even Susan’s twins gave it a resounding yes.”

Rebecca smiled back at me. “It’s always good to get the approval of your target audience.”

I set a cup of tea in front of her. “Thank you, dear,” she said. She took a sip and nodded her approval. “I’m glad you called me. I wanted to talk to you about Reading Buddies. Everett and I would like to throw an end-of-school party for the children next month. I’m sorry, I know it’s short notice.”

“I don’t know what to say,” I said, smiling across the table at her.

I’d put a plate of cut-up fruit on the table because I knew Rebecca had been instructed by her doctor to restrain her sweet tooth a little. “Well, that’s easy,” she said, reaching for some apple slices. “You say ‘yes.’”

“Okay. Yes.” I gave her arm a squeeze and she beamed at me.

I was touched by the generous offer, which I suspected had originated with Rebecca. Everett was just as kindhearted as his wife, but Rebecca had an extra soft spot when it came to anything involving kids.

She leaned down for a moment to speak to Hercules, and I realized I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t ask her about the missing items from the co-op store because I was certain she’d had nothing to do with the thefts. It made no sense. Looking at Rebecca smiling down at Hercules, I found it hard to imagine her looking furtive while she browsed in the shop and stuffed a couple of placemats in her tote bag. There had to be some other explanation for what had happened.

“Do you think Eddie would agree to come to the party?” Rebecca asked. “He’s so good with children.”

“I think he probably would,” I said, getting up to refill my cup. Now that he didn’t have all of Rebecca’s attention, Hercules had started nosing around the canvas bag next to her chair.

“Leave that alone,” I said quietly to him.

Hercules immediately sat down, the picture of innocence, but when I turned back to the counter, from the corner of my eye I saw him nudge the bag with his nose once more. I swung around again. “Cut that out!” I said sharply.

“Oh, he can’t hurt anything,” Rebecca said.

“You spoil him and Owen,” I said, frowning in mock annoyance at her.

Since my attention was diverted, Hercules decided it would be a good time to give the tote a poke with his paw. That was enough for me. I moved to pick him up just as the bag slid down the chair leg and toppled over. A small plastic baggie fell out. Hercules swatted it with a paw and it skidded across the floor, stopping at my feet.

“Very, very bad,” I said to the cat, who didn’t look the slightest bit repentant. I bent down to pick up the baggie. Inside were five chocolate-dipped chocolate chip cookies that I recognized as coming from Fern’s Diner. I straightened up and looked inquiringly at Rebecca.

She didn’t quite meet my gaze.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

There were two spots of color high on her cheekbones. “I don’t suppose you would believe that I doesn’t know how those cookies got in my bag?” she said. The look on her face reminded me of Owen the last time he’d decapitated a Fred the Funky Chicken and scattered bits of dried catnip all over the living room.

I pointed a finger at Hercules. “There will be consequences.”

He made a soft murp and seemed to shrug, almost as though he were trying to say he didn’t really think so.

I sat down again, setting the cookies on the table, and reached over to catch Rebecca’s hands in mine. “What’s going on?” I asked again.

Rebecca pursed her lips and met my gaze this time. “I’m a weak old woman.”

I shook my head. “You are not old and you most definitely are not weak. You’re one of the strongest women—one of the strongest people I know.”

That got me a small smile. “Do you remember me telling you that my doctor wants me to cut back on the sweets a little? And by the way, my mother had a sweet tooth and she ate cookies until the day she died and she was just fine.” Her chin jutted out just a little. I’d seen that defiant pose before.

I waited without speaking. Rebecca cleared her throat. “I guess that isn’t really relevant,” she said after a minute. “I’m, uh . . . I’m having a hard time following his instructions.”

“You’ve been buying cookies at Fern’s.” I tapped the baggie with a finger.

She nodded. “I can’t make cookies at home. Everett has a nose like a bloodhound. I’ve been getting half a dozen at a time and . . . having them when I’m not home so he doesn’t find out. He’d be so disappointed in me.”

“You can’t really believe that,” I said, giving her hands another squeeze and then sitting back in my chair. “That man is bear poop crazy about you. You could go downtown right now and rob the Wells Fargo Bank and Everett would say it was their fault for having all that money inside.”

“Bear poop crazy?” Rebecca said, a smile pulling at her lips.

“Harrison Taylor’s description, not mine,” I said. “But the words are accurate.”

Her expression grew serious again. “I’m disappointed in myself, Kathleen.”

“I get it,” I said. “I really do. I’ve never met a brownie I didn’t like.”

“Merow,” Hercules said, adding his two cents to the discussion.

I smiled. “And Hercules would not want to have to give up sardine crackers. He’s always trying to find a way to sneak a couple more as it is.” And as simple as that, I knew what had happened.

“You haven’t been eating cookies at home, so where have you been eating them?” I asked.

Rebecca blushed again. “I’ve ducked into the co-op store several times as well as the library. I’m sorry. I promise I didn’t touch any books with my sticky fingers.”

Internally, I breathed a sigh of relief.

I got up and put my arms around her shoulders. “How about this weekend we try a couple of cookie recipes with less fat and sugar than what you’ve been sneaking, cookies even your doctor would approve of. I have a couple of new cookbooks at the library.”

“You are a darling, darling girl,” Rebecca said, leaning her cheek against my arm.

I saw her eye the bag of cookies on the table. I reached over and pushed the plate of fruit closer. “It would probably be better if someone else finished those cookies.”

Right on cue, Hercules meowed loudly. Rebecca laughed as I looked down at the cat and said, “Not you.”

After Rebecca left, I changed for work, packed the last of the chicken and dumplings for lunch—along with Rebecca’s cookies—and headed over to Riverarts to tell Maggie what I’d concluded about Rebecca’s furtive behavior in the shop.

“I’m sorry,” Maggie said. I’d found her in front of her easel, working on the sketch she’d shown me the day before.

I looked at her, confused. “For what?”

“For getting you mixed up in this. For thinking, even for a moment, Rebecca would have taken anything. Or Susan for that matter.” There was paint on the tip of her index finger and she scraped at it with her thumbnail. “I’m not so sure that Nic could be the thief, either.”

“Maybe there’s another explanation.”

Maggie nodded. “I like Nic. Maybe it was just a tourist.” She picked at the paint on her finger again. “I don’t like this, thinking the worst of people.”

I tucked a stray strand of hair behind one ear. “I think I’ve told you before that my mother has an expression that involves”—I made a hurry-up gesture with one hand—“getting on with things or getting off the pot.” My mother, Thea Paulson, was an actress and director, with a group of intensely devoted fans thanks to her appearances on the soap, The Wild and The Wonderful. She could be a little dramatic at times, but she was usually right.

Maggie laughed. “You have told me that before and I get it.”

“So why don’t we get off the pot and go see if Nic is in his studio so we can put an end to this?”

“Good idea,” she said.

The door to Nic’s art studio was open and he was working by the window, cutting some kind of street map out of heavy paper with an Exacto knife. He turned and smiled at us when Maggie knocked. “Hi, what’s up?” he asked.

“Did you steal from the store?” Maggie asked before I had time to even move beyond the threshold of the door.

Nic’s eyes widened and his mouth came open a little. He swallowed and set his knife down with a tight, precise motion. “What did I do that makes you have to ask that question, and for the record, the answer is no,” he said.

“You were working at the store a couple of days ago,” I said, “and you were acting a little . . . odd.”

His expression changed then. “Yeah, I was.” He looked at Maggie. “I didn’t want you to know. Until I was sure.”

“Know what?” she said.

Nic smoothed a hand over his closely shaven head. “I’m still not positive, but I think there might be mice in the store.”

Maggie took a step backward and folded her arms over her midsection like she was wrapping herself in a hug. She was afraid of small, furry creatures—mice, rats, moles, voles, even gerbils and hamsters.

I put a hand on her shoulder. “What makes you think so?” I said.

“You know the display shelves where we have the scarves and the placemats?”

I nodded.

“I was straightening things up and I noticed the end of one of the scarves looked a little bit chewed. And I saw some bits of dried leaves on the same shelf with the placemats.” He cleared his throat. “My dad had a problem with mice in his pawn shop and we saw the same thing. I wanted to be sure, though, before I said anything. If word got around that we had mice in the store . . .” He held up both hands. “I didn’t want to say something that would cause the tourists to stop coming, especially if it turned out I was wrong.”

“But you don’t think you’re wrong,” I said.

Nic shook his head. “Probably not. Sorry.”

Maggie was holding on so tightly to the sleeve of her T-shirt with one hand, I was surprised she hadn’t actually ripped a hole in it. “I’m the one who should be sorry,” she began. “I’m sorry for thinking you had . . . I’m sorry for jumping to conclusions.”

Nic held up a hand. “No. I should have told Ruby what I suspected right away.”

I gave Maggie’s shoulder a squeeze. “This is fixable,” I said. “I have to go to work in a few minutes, but I’ll go home at the end of the day and get a certain furball who will take care of any mice foolish enough to venture into the shop.”

“Okay,” she said slowly. “Unless you wanted to just get a shovel.” She pressed her lips together but it didn’t stop a grin from spreading across her face.

I narrowed my eyes at her. “So not funny,” I said.

Nic’s eyes darted between us. “Am I missing something?” he asked.

Maggie’s shoulders were shaking with suppressed laughter.

“A couple of springs ago there was some major flooding in the downtown,” I said stiffly. “There was a rat in the basement of the store.”

Nic made a face. “What happened?”

Maggie looked at me. “Oh, let me tell him. Please.” Her green eyes were sparkling with mirth.

I wrinkled my nose at her. “Go ahead,” I said, “but the next time you find a rodent using your basement as a swimming pool, you’re on your own.”

She grinned at me. “No, I’m not.”

“Somebody tell me,” Nic urged.

Maggie turned sideways so she could see both me and Nic. “Like Kathleen said, there was a lot of flooding in the downtown two springs ago, and there was about four feet of water in the basement at the shop—it was before we got the pump. Kathleen was with me when I went to check things out.”

“And you found a rat?”

Mags nodded. “Floating in the water.” She shuddered.

“What did you do?” he asked.

“I didn’t do anything,” Maggie said. “Kathleen scooped the rat out of the water with a snow shovel.”

Nic looked at me. “That was nice,” he said. He still looked confused.

“Oh, it was.” Maggie’s gaze darted to me for a moment. “Until she used the shovel like a lacrosse stick and flung the rat at Ruby.”

“That was an accident,” I said, trying not to sound huffy.

“We think Kathleen was some kind of Scottish Highlander in a past life,” Maggie teased. “She was probably very good at the caber toss.” She gave me a sweet and totally fake smile.

Nic held up a hand and looked at me. “Okay. Why did you throw a dead rat at Ruby?”

“Like I said, it was an accident.” I shot a daggers look at Maggie, who was having way too much fun telling the story. “I tossed the rat outside. I didn’t even see Ruby.”

I hadn’t. The rat had gone whizzing past Ruby’s head, just inches from hitting her, much to my embarrassment. She’d been a very good sport about the whole thing. In retrospect, I shouldn’t have flung it out on the sidewalk in the first place, but I was trying to get the thing out of the shop, away from Maggie.

Maggie was shaking with laughter now. She gestured at Nic with one hand. “And that’s not the best part. The rat wasn’t dead.”

Nic frowned. “What?”

“It wasn’t exactly dead,” I said.

“So it was what, just partly dead?”

That made Maggie laugh harder.

“It was—I don’t know—unconscious, stunned.” I pressed a hand to my forehead. I was laughing now, too, because the whole scenario had been just like something out of a Monty Python movie. The rat had zipped by Ruby’s head, landed on the sidewalk with an audible splat and then gotten up, shaken itself and scurried away.

Nic turned to Maggie. “Yeah, you definitely wanna get the cat,” he said, deadpan.

Once Maggie got control of herself, she apologized again to Nic.

“Let me know what happens,” he said. “If the cat doesn’t catch anything, I can set some traps—the humane kind.” He grinned at me. “Because I don’t even know where the snow shovel is.”

Maggie and I walked back up to her studio. She bumped me with her hip. “Are you mad at me because I told that story to Nic?”

“Yes,” I said.

“No you’re not,” she retorted. “Because that’s one of the things that made Marcus fall for you.”

I stopped and stared at her. “What?”

“He didn’t tell you?”

I shook my head. “No. He told you?”

She smiled. “Uh-huh. He said he saw how kind you were.”

“Because I flung what I thought was a dead animal at Ruby?”

Maggie’s grinned. “Because you were worried that Ruby might have been hurt and you were worried about the rat, too.” She nudged me again. “I’m glad you didn’t go back to Boston.”

I bumped her back. “Me too.”

“So what do we do now?” she said as we started up the steps again.

“First we deal with the furry intruders,” I said, “then we’ll find the thief.”

I headed straight up the hill at the end of the day. Owen was waiting by the kitchen door, almost as though he knew I was coming for him, which of course he didn’t.

“Okay, Fuzz Face,” I said, bending down to pick him up. “Maggie needs you to do rodent patrol at the store.”

“Merow,” he said loudly. Translation: “Let’s do it.”

As we drove down to the shop, I explained about the possible mice incursion at the co-op store. Owen listened intently, and when I finished talking, he licked his whiskers. I was pretty sure he knew exactly what was expected of him.

Maggie was waiting at the store, and Owen looked adoringly at her when she thanked him for coming to her rescue. She unlocked the door and we went inside. I saw her hesitate and look around.

I set Owen down. “Go for it,” I whispered.

He immediately began to nose around. Beside me Maggie sucked in a breath as Owen began to sniff around the shelving unit that still held some of the woven placemats. Then he suddenly headed purposefully for the back door, meowing loudly a couple of times.

“I think we’re supposed to go after him,” she said.

“Do you want to wait here?” I asked. “I can go.”

She shook her head. “No, but if Owen catches anything, I will be in the back of your truck—or standing on the roof of the cab.”

“Got it,” I said, putting my arm around her shoulders and giving her what I hoped was a reassuring squeeze.

Owen was sitting in front of the back door that led to the alley. He gave another insistent meow when we joined him.

Maggie opened the door. “Where are we going?” she asked as though she expected him to answer.

Owen led us down the narrow alley to a green metal Dumpster pushed up against the wall of the building, a pile of wooden pallets stacked beside it. He stopped, looked up at me and made a low murping sound.

I peered around the side of the metal bin. “Mags,” I said softly. In the cramped space between the garbage container and the pallets, a mama cat had made a home for three tiny kittens from a couple of scarves and some placemats.

“I think we’ve found your ‘cat burglar,’” I said.

Maggie crouched down and began to talk quietly to the mother cat. I pulled out my phone to call Roma, who was a vet and would know what to do about moving the mother and her babies. I glanced down at Owen, who looked up at me with a decidedly self-satisfied expression on his furry face, and I had the niggling feeling that somehow he’d figured this whole thing out long before we had.