Final Catcall

by Sofie Kelly

  “Marshmallows are not good for cats. They’re going to stick to his teeth. Are you planning on hanging around to brush them?”

  Marcus’s expression turned thoughtful. “Maybe you could make a trade.”

  Owen’s gaze had been shifting between Marcus and me. Now he meowed softly.

  “Fine,” I said. “I’ll trade half a sardine for that marshmallow.”

  “One sardine,” Marcus countered.

  “He already had one sardine. One half.”

  “One. Fish is brain food.” Marcus leaned back in the chair and folded his arms over his chest. “You’re the one who pointed out that he’s going to have marshmallow stuck to his teeth if he eats it. Do you want to floss his teeth tonight?”

  He glanced at Owen, who somehow seemed to be following the conversation and chose the perfect moment to lean down and lick the marshmallow again.

  I knew when I was beaten, but I made them wait just a few moments longer before I gave in. “One sardine,” I said, holding up a finger. “One.” I leaned forward and snatched the marshmallow off the floor before the two of them tried to up the ante. Then I got Owen his sardine and another for Hercules, who had sat silently, watching and listening to the “negotiations” with a bemused expression on his black-and-white face.

  I sat back down at the table and Marcus smiled at me. “You’re right,” he said. “These marshmallows are good.”

  I made a face at him and reached for my own cup.

  His expression grew serious. “Did you touch anything?” he said. I knew he meant when I’d stumbled over Hugh Davis’s body.

  “The top of his head, when I put my hand out to steady myself. And the collar of his jacket, when I felt for a pulse.”

  “What about Andrew?”

  I shook my head. “No.”

  “Then what did you do?”

  I explained about Andrew calling 911 and how we’d waited at the bottom of the stairs. Both cats had finished eating and were judiciously washing their paws. I knew by the way their ears were moving that they were also listening to everything I was saying.

  Marcus traced a finger around the inside of the handle of his mug. “Did you see anyone? In the parking lot, maybe, or over by the marina?”

  “No. I didn’t see anyone.”

  “What about cars in the parking lot?”

  I closed my eyes for a moment and pictured the almost deserted parking lot in my head. “There were two trucks that belong to the marina in the far corner of the lot, a little silver-colored car and a van. I think it was white. That’s it.” I opened my eyes. “Wait a minute. There were no other cars in the parking lot. How did Hugh get there?”

  He gave a slight shrug. “That’s a good question.” He drained the last of his hot chocolate and stood up. “I have to get down to the station. Thank you for the hot chocolate.”

  “Anytime,” I said. I got to my feet and came around the table. For a moment we just stood there, an awkward silence stretching between us.

  “If you think of anything . . .” Marcus began.

  I remembered the papers in the workroom. “I don’t know if it matters, but Hugh was working at the library this afternoon,” I said. “There was something wrong with the wi-fi at the Stratton. He left his briefcase and a bunch of papers in the workroom.”

  “I’ll send someone over to get them first thing in the morning. Thanks.”

  I walked him to the back door. “Have you talked to Abigail, or Ben Saroyan?” I asked.

  “That’s where I’m going.”

  “This doesn’t make any sense,” I said. “Hugh Davis has only been here for a week. Why would anybody want to kill him?”

  Marcus pulled his keys out of his jacket pocket. “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

  It wasn’t until he was gone that I realized he hadn’t corrected me when I’d said someone had killed Hugh Davis.

  Someone had killed Hugh Davis. Shot him on purpose.

  Who?

  Why?

  I made another cup of hot chocolate and settled at the table with it. “What is this going to do to the festival?” I said aloud. Neither of the cats seemed to know. I didn’t see how Ben could continue without another director. There was one more week of rehearsals and he couldn’t be everywhere.

  Owen stretched and launched himself onto my lap. “Hello,” I said. He was too busy sniffing my mug—probably hoping to snag another marshmallow—to pay any attention to me.

  I reached for the cup, lifting it over his head and out of reach of his paws. “Get your nose out of that.”

  He made an annoyed murp.

  “Forget it,” I said. “You’ve had all the marshmallows and sardines you’re getting tonight.” I stroked his fur with my free hand and after a few moments of stubbornly looking the other way he leaned against my chest with a soft sigh.

  His warm, purring body was comforting. I barely knew Hugh Davis, but I still felt unsettled by his death.

  “‘Any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind,’” I said softly. At my feet, Hercules, who had been carefully washing his tail, lifted his head and looked at me. “John Donne,” I said. “He was a British poet.”

  The cat seemed to think about that for a moment, as though he was storing the information in his kitty brain, and then went back to working the knots out of his tail.

  I felt bad for Abigail, too. She’d put in so much effort on the festival over the past week. Now I didn’t see how it could continue. She’d told me that she wasn’t trying to steal the event from Red Wing, but she had hoped that if things went well, maybe the festival would expand and the two towns could share the performances—and the tourist dollars.

  Abigail and Ben had hit it off and I knew he would have put in a good word for Mayville Heights. It mattered to Ben that things got done when they were promised, and Abigail didn’t make promises she didn’t keep. He had an excellent reputation in the theater community, so his word would carry weight with New Horizon’s producers.

  “I wonder what Hugh would have said about Mayville Heights,” I said to Owen. He wrinkled his nose as he thought about it. Or maybe he was plotting world domination. It was hard to tell.

  What had Abigail said about Hugh that day of the food tasting when Andrew had volunteered to build the stages for her? I closed my eyes for a moment and replayed the conversation in my head. He’s still a control freak, I’ve discovered.

  Owen nudged my hand with his head because I’d stopped scratching behind his left ear.

  “She said ‘still.’”

  He looked at me blankly.

  “Abigail said Hugh was ‘still a control freak.’ Still. But how could she know that? How on earth could she know something like that?”

  Owen looked at me. Thoughtfully, it seemed to me.

  “They knew each other,” I said slowly, as pieces clicked together in a way I didn’t like. A knot tightened in my stomach. “Abigail and Hugh knew each other. So why did she say she didn’t know anyone involved with the festival?”

  The cat didn’t have an answer to that question, either.

  “It has to be a coincidence,” I told the small gray cat. “I know Abigail. She didn’t have anything to do with Hugh’s death.” The knot twisted in my stomach.

  Up to now I would have said that Abigail wouldn’t lie, either. But it looked as if she had. Why? Why would she have lied about knowing Hugh? It didn’t make any sense.

  Owen sat up, yawned, and then looked pointedly at the refrigerator again. I knew he wasn’t hinting for a treat.

  “No, I’m not calling Marcus,” I said.

  A look passed between the boys and then Hercules meowed softly. Why?

  “Because Marcus is a good police officer. If—if there was some kind of connection between Abigail and Hugh Davis, he’ll find it.” I got up and carried my dishes over to the sink. “I’m staying out of this—I’m staying out of all of Marcus’s cases.”

  I looked over my shoulder to find
two furry faces cocked to one side and two sets of unblinking eyes staring at me. “I’m serious,” I said, feeling a little silly explaining myself to a couple of cat skeptics.

  Neither cat moved. How could they go so long without blinking? No wonder they won every staring contest I was foolish enough to get involved in with them.

  “Will you two please look somewhere else?” I said. After a moment, Hercules dropped his head and studied the speckled pattern on the kitchen floor. Owen yawned again and stretched his neck up to stare at the ceiling.

  “Thank you,” I said, turning back to the sink and putting the plug in the drain so I could wash the dishes by hand—the other way, aside from talking to the cats, that I worked things out in my head.

  I knew the two of them didn’t believe I would really stay out of Marcus’s case. But I would, I told myself as the sink filled with hot water and bubbles. I ignored the little voice in the back of my head that was asking who was I trying to convince. Owen and Hercules?

  Or myself?

  7

  Abigail came into the library just after we opened in the morning. There were dark circles, like smudges of charcoal, under her eyes, and her usually smiling face was serious. Ben was with her.

  “Kathleen, do you have a couple of minutes?” she asked.

  “Of course,” I said. I gave Ben a small smile. “Hi.”

  “You know about Hugh Davis, don’t you?” Abigail said, pushing the strap of her messenger bag up on her shoulder.

  I nodded. “Yes, I do.”

  Three women came in the front door and made a beeline for the cookbook section. They were followed by a teenage girl, her platinum and black hair sticking up all over her head, carrying a pile of books stacked so high she could rest her chin on top—and did—yawning as she carried them to the desk.

  “Come up to my office. It’s a little quieter there,” I said, gesturing toward the stairs.

  Ben and Abigail took the two chairs in front of my desk, while I leaned back against it. “I’m sorry about Hugh,” I said. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Yes,” Ben said. He was sitting on the edge of his seat, elbows propped on his knees. “Call Thea and ask her to come fill in for Hugh.”

  “Please,” Abigail added.

  I ran one hand along the edge of the dark wood of the desk. “Like I told you, Mom’s in Los Angeles, doing Wild and Wonderful.”

  Ben leaned forward. “We got lucky. I talked to a friend out there. The show’s going to be dark for the next ten days—some kind of renovations to the studio. She’ll come if you ask her.”

  He was right. I just wasn’t sure if I wanted to ask.

  I loved my family. When I’d gone home to visit during the summer I’d realized just how much I missed them. All four of them—Mom, Dad, Sara, and Ethan—were exuberant and melodramatic and sometimes it felt as though they sucked all the air out of the room. Mayville Heights was the first place I’d ever lived where I was Kathleen first, not Ethan’s big sister or Thea’s daughter.

  My mother was a force of nature. No one ever forgot her. I had a mental picture of her holding court at Eric’s, teaching a stunt-fighting class on the Riverwalk or, heaven forbid, getting onstage with Mary for amateur night at the Brick, strutting her stuff in a feathered corset to Bon Jovi or Beyoncé. She was capable of doing all that and then some.

  On the other hand, she was a good director and an even better actor, and if she came, the festival could continue.

  And I missed her.

  I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Abigail looked tired, the expression in her eyes almost pleading. Whatever relationship she’d had before the festival with Hugh Davis was none of my business. I’d learned how to size people up from my mother. And I knew Abigail. She hadn’t had anything to do with Hugh’s death. Mayville Heights was my home now. I wanted the New Horizons festival to be successful as much as anyone else in town did.

  “Yes,” I said. “I’ll ask her.”

  Abigail closed her eyes for a second and I saw some of the tension ease in her shoulders.

  Ben’s face relaxed into a smile. His eyes darted to the phone. “Why don’t you call her right now?” he said.

  I laughed. “It’s quarter after seven in Los Angeles, Ben.”

  My dad insisted Mom had been a raccoon in a past life. She liked shiny things and roaming around at night. She didn’t like mornings. When she had to be up early, she did it with more of her usual dramatic flare.

  Ben leaned back in the chair. “She’s probably had a lot earlier wake-up call for the past couple of weeks.”

  “And it’s Saturday. I promise I’ll call her after lunch, but unless you want to hear ‘menj el à máj’ growled at you, you won’t call her now.”

  “Menj el what?” Ben said.

  “Menj el à máj,” I said. “It loosely translates to ‘go away or I’ll eat your liver.’ It’s Hungarian. I think.”

  “Your mother speaks Hungarian?” Abigail asked, reaching for her bag.

  “Let’s just say my mom knows a lot of ‘colorful’ expressions in a lot of different languages.”

  “I think I’m going to like her,” she said, pulling a dark green folder out of the canvas satchel.

  I nodded. “Yes, you are.”

  I really wanted her to come, I realized. My mother wasn’t the conventional bake-cookies/remind-you-to-wear-clean-underwear kind of mom. The only things she could make with any degree of success were baking powder biscuits, lemonade and toast. And the toast was iffy. And the only advice she’d ever given me pertaining to underwear was to tell me not to get my knickers in a knot over something. But she loved Ethan and Sara and me with the fierceness of a mama grizzly bear, and I could use a little of that right now.

  Abigail handed me the green folder and stood up. “That’s the tentative schedule for the next week. As soon as she says yes, I’ll arrange the plane tickets and everything else.”

  “I’ll call you as soon as I talk to her,” I said.

  She threw her arms around me, whispering, “I owe you” in my ear.

  Ben got to his feet, patted his pockets and pulled out a pen. He took the green folder from me and scrawled a phone number across its front. “That’s my cell. Tell Thea she can call me when it’s good for her.” He squeezed my arm. “And thank you.”

  I smiled at him. “You’re welcome.”

  I walked them to the top of the stairs, then got myself a cup of coffee from the staff room and went back to my office to tackle the pile of paperwork next to my computer. About quarter after ten I went downstairs again to relieve Susan and Mary so they could take their breaks.

  Mary was at the circulation desk checking out books for a teacher from one of the neighborhood day-care centers. Susan was pushing a cart full of books toward the stacks. Mia was in the children’s department, her neon blue hair pulled back from her face with a wide zebra-print headband. She had a small bucket and a cloth and she was washing the tables.

  I walked over to Susan. “I can’t wait to meet your mom,” she said.

  “Abigail told you,” I said.

  “Actually Abigail told Mary. Mary told me.”

  I shook my head. “Of course. I forgot how information moves around here.”

  “Faster than a speeding bullet,” Susan said with a grin. She tipped her head in Mia’s direction. “For the record, best student intern ever.”

  “She picked up the computer system like that,” I said, snapping my fingers.

  “The story-time kids love her hair. They were all clamoring to sit around her.” Susan pointed to the round table in the children’s department. Mia was scraping gum from under the bottom edge. “Nobody asked her to clean those tables. She volunteered.”

  “You think I should offer her the part-time job when she’s done with her work-study?”

  Susan nodded. “Yeah, I do. You said at the last staff meeting that we needed more help around here. Why not Mia?”

  “Okay,” I said. “I�
�ll think about it.” I looked at my watch. “Do you want to take your break first?”

  She shook her head. “I’d rather get these shelved before I do. It’s the last cart. Anyway, I think Mary should go first. She doesn’t exactly seem like herself today.”

  The day-care teacher was heading out the door and Mary was on the phone.

  “What do you mean, she doesn’t seem like herself?” I said.

  Susan poked the crochet hook holding her topknot a little tighter into her hair. Either she was trying to keep it away from the twins so they didn’t put someone’s eye out or Abigail was still trying to teach her how to crochet.

  “I don’t know. She seems kind of preoccupied about something. She went to put the coffee on and then came back down without doing it. And she forgot to lock the book drop after we emptied it.” She held up a hand. “That reminds me. Oren put a new strip of metal on the top edge where it was eating magazines. He said to let him know how it works.”

  I nodded and made a mental note to make a written one so I wouldn’t forget.

  Mary was just hanging up the phone when I walked over to the desk. “You can take your break now,” I said.

  She looked blankly at me for a moment, then shook her head. “Sorry, Kathleen. I was somewhere else.”

  “Is everything all right?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said, tugging at the bottom of her cream-colored cardigan. The sweater had slipped down on her right shoulder, and the totem pole of scarecrows that decorated that side looked as though it was about to topple over. She sighed. “No, everything’s not all right.”

  “Could I help?”

  “Maybe you could. Obviously you know that Hugh Davis is dead.”

  I nodded.

  “Well, yesterday morning I walked over to the Stratton to see if I could help Abigail with anything. It was early and the only car in the lot was hers. I just assumed she was there by herself.” She gave me a wry smile. “At my age you’d think I’d know not to assume anything.”

  I knew better than to try to rush Mary. She would get to the point in her own time.

  “I thought that Abigail would be in the office at that time of day, so I went in the front.”