Cat Trick: A Magical Cats Mystery

by Sofie Kelly

He looked expectantly at me. “What’s number four?”

  “I don’t have a number four,” I said.

  “How about we can’t argue because of Maggie?” He started walking backward down the sidewalk.

  I followed. “Because of Maggie?”

  Marcus held out both hands and almost backed into a garbage can. “She has been working awfully hard to get us together.”

  A rush of heat rose in my face. “You know?”

  The hint of a smile turned into a full one. “Kathleen, Owen and Hercules probably know. Maggie hasn’t exactly been subtle.”

  The cats did know, but I was pretty sure that had more to do with the fact that they weren’t exactly typical house cats than it did with Maggie’s lack of subtlety.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “She played matchmaker with Roma and Eddie—indirectly—and I think now she wants everyone to have a happily ever after.” The moment the words were out, I was sorry I’d said them. “I don’t mean I think that you’re some kind of prince on a white horse,” I added. “Or even not on a horse. Or even a prince . . . not that you’re not a great guy.” I was babbling.

  Marcus stopped walking so suddenly, I smacked into him, both of my hands landing flat on his chest. It was a very nice chest, broad and manly. I sucked in a deep breath. And he did smell good.

  I gave myself a mental smack. What the heck was wrong with me?

  Marcus put his hands on my shoulders. “It’s okay,” he said. “I know what you mean.”

  We stood there looking at each other like we were caught in a movie moment, the point where the hero gazes deeply into the heroine’s eyes and then sweeps her into a passionate kiss, so passionate that one of her feet comes off the ground.

  We didn’t do that.

  Marcus let go of my shoulders and I took my hands off his chest, trying not to act as flustered as I felt. We were standing next to the SUV. He unlocked the door for me and walked around to the driver’s side.

  On the way up the hill, we talked about all the efforts to bring more tourists to Mayville Heights in the traditional off-season. By the time Marcus pulled into my driveway, the awkwardness I’d felt on the sidewalk was gone. He walked me to the back door, and I thanked him for dinner. He smiled, told me he’d talk to me soon and walked back around the side of the house. No movie-moment kiss, not even a peck on the cheek. As I unlocked the porch door, I couldn’t help thinking that Maggie was right: Fossils formed faster than the relationship between Marcus and me.

  * * *

  Hercules woke me before the alarm the next morning. I opened my eyes to see his black-and-white face next to mine as he gently batted me with one paw.

  I yawned. “I’m awake,” I said groggily, rolling over onto my back.

  Hercules took a swipe at the blankets and meowed at me. Translation: “Get up now.” If he could have figured out how to do it, I was sure he would have been pulling the blankets off of me. Did he somehow understand that we were going to see Ruby this morning?

  I stretched and sat up. Hercules dropped back down to all fours. “Are you ready for your photo session?” I asked, pushing my hair off my face. He immediately took a pass at his own furry black-and-white face with one paw. Okay, maybe he did know where we were going.

  Hercules was sitting in front of the refrigerator and Owen was under the table when I went down to the kitchen. I started the coffeemaker and then gave the cats their breakfast. Owen used one paw to push his dish across the floor so there was a good three feet of space between him and his brother.

  Clearly he was in a mood about something. It was almost as if he were . . . jealous?

  No. As special as both cats were, there was no way Owen understood that Hercules was posing for Ruby again this morning.

  Owen took a bite of food from his bowl, set it on the floor and shot Herc a look. At the same time, he made a sound in the back of his throat that sounded an awful lot like a disgruntled hmpft.

  I could accept that Owen had the ability to make himself disappear. Strangely, it was harder to believe that he was in a snit because Hercules was going to have his portrait painted.

  I let him sulk while I had my own breakfast. As soon as Hercules was done eating, he began an elaborate face-washing routine. Even though Owen seemed to be ignoring Herc, I saw him sneak little peeks in his brother’s direction. And in return, Hercules stretched a couple of times and casually eyed Owen.

  I put my dishes in the sink and started putting together what Maggie called one of my clean-out-the-refrigerator salads.

  “I could have gotten a gerbil,” I said as I opened containers to see what I had for leftovers. “Gerbils are cute and furry. They don’t shed on the furniture, and they never have sardine breath.” The boys were too busy ignoring each other to pay any attention to me.

  I was trying to figure out what else I could add to the bowl when I heard cat grumbling behind me. Swinging around, I saw Hercules and Owen, whisker-to-whisker, glaring at each other.

  “Hey!” I said sharply, reaching for the kitchen tap sprayer. Two furry heads swiveled in my direction. “I know how to use this, and I will. At this distance, I could knock a sardine cracker crumb off either of your chins. Would you two like me to demonstrate?”

  They looked at each other again; then, as though some unspoken signal had passed between them, both cats sat down.

  “Wise choice.” I let go of the tap, wiped my hands and walked around the table. “Owen,” I said.

  He looked up at me, for once not trying any of his I’m-so-cute tricks. “Ruby is going to do a painting of Hercules.”

  He made that grumbly sound again. I held up a finger, feeling slightly foolish. On the other hand, I was well aware that Owen in a snit was more than capable of strewing Fred the Funky Chicken parts all over the house.

  “It’s going to be auctioned off for charity—for cats that don’t have any homes, or any catnip chickens to chew on.” I tried to look serious and shook my head as I said the part about the chickens, grateful that no one without fur could hear me.

  Owen seemed to be considering what I was saying. Or he could have been thinking about catnip chickens.

  “And you.” I pointed at Hercules. His green eyes focused on my face. “This is for charity. As talented as Ruby is, your portrait won’t be going on exhibit in the Guggenheim Museum.” I held up my thumb and index finger about half an inch apart. “Try just a little more humility.”

  I went back to my salad. After a minute, Owen came over and rubbed against my leg. “I love you, too,” I said, as he headed for the living room.

  A soft meow came from the direction of the refrigerator. “Yes, and you,” I told Hercules.

  Owen hadn’t reappeared by the time we were ready to leave. I’d emptied the litter box, filled his water dish and left a little stack of sardine crackers beside it. I swung the cat carrier bag—which also doubled as a tote for my tai chi shoes—up onto my shoulder, locked the door and headed out to the truck.

  Hercules poked his head out of the top of the bag as I drove down the hill, but he didn’t bother climbing out. I parked in Maggie’s slot in the small lot behind the River Arts building—she’d given me the okay. Hercules and I were a little early. Ruby’s truck wasn’t in her place.

  I grabbed the cat, got out and locked the truck. Then I walked over to the side of the building and looked down the street toward the boardwalk. Both tents were up now, and I wondered if Burtis and Mike had come to some kind of agreement about the setup.

  The carrier wiggled against my hip, and Hercules stuck his head out again. “Ruby should be here any minute,” I said.

  He looked around, then focused on the tents over on the grass, and his green eyes narrowed. He shifted in the bag, and before I realized what he was doing, he jumped out and started purposefully down the street along the side of the arts center.

  “Hercules, get back here!” I shouted. I started after him, but he was already at the curb. He looked both ways, crossed to the other side an
d then continued down the hill, intent, it seemed, on checking out the tents.

  I had to wait for two cars to pass before I could follow. By then, he’d made it to Main Street. Again he looked for cars and then trotted across the street. My heart was pounding like a Caribbean steel band in my chest. I ran, yelling for the cat, but he didn’t even break stride.

  When he reached the first tent, Hercules looked back over his shoulder at me, then walked right through the heavy canvas panel and disappeared inside. I was maybe half a minute behind him. I had to duck around the tent flap because I couldn’t just pass through it.

  “Hercules, wherever you are, get over here right now!” I called, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the darkness inside the canvas structure before I started looking for him.

  Turns out I didn’t need to look for the cat at all. He was sitting on the grass next to a plastic lawn chair. Mike Glazer was in the chair. Even in the dim light, I was almost positive that the man was dead.

  3

  Hercules looked over at me and meowed.

  “Yes, I see him,” I said. I let the bag slip from my shoulder onto the grass and made my way carefully over to where the body was slumped in the white resin chair. A square metal table sat maybe four feet or so away, a tangle of dark fabric piled on top.

  Mike’s eyes were closed, and his head sagged to one side. I knew he was gone even before I felt for his pulse, but I swallowed down the sour taste at the back of my throat and touched the side of his neck with two fingers just to be certain. His skin was cold and mottled and I couldn’t feel the thrum of a heartbeat.

  I closed my eyes for a moment and mentally wished his spirit safe passage, and then I straightened up and looked down at Hercules, who was sitting patiently at my feet. “We have to call the police,” I told the little tuxedo cat.

  Hercules picked his way carefully back across the grass to where I’d dropped the carrier and climbed inside. I followed him, trying to stay in my original footprints on the grass. I grabbed the shoulder strap of the bag and stepped back outside.

  Ruby was across the street on the sidewalk, looking up and down, probably wondering where I was. I pulled out my cell phone and dialed 911, and when she looked in my direction, raised a hand in recognition. She started over to me.

  “Admiring Burtis’s handiwork?” she asked with a smile as she reached the curb. Her red and blue hair was pulled back into a short braid, and she was wearing earrings only in the piercings in her left ear.

  Something in my expression as I ended the call must have told her there was a problem. “Kathleen, is something wrong?” she asked, two frown lines appearing between her eyes.

  I looked back over my shoulder at the tent. “Mike Glazer’s . . . dead.”

  The color drained out of her face. “Good dog,” she said softly, closing her eyes for a moment. “Have you called the police?” she asked when she opened them again.

  I held up my phone. “I just did.”

  Ruby crossed one arm over her midsection. “Have you called Detective Gordon? I know the two of you are . . . friends.”

  I exhaled slowly. I had been planning to call Marcus.

  “I think you should.”

  I punched in his number from memory, thinking I should program it into my phone.

  He answered on the fourth ring. “Hi, Kathleen,” he said. “I already know, and I’m on my way. Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” I said.

  “Stay where you are. There’s a cruiser on the way, and I’ll be there in about five minutes.” He ended the conversation, and I put my phone back in my pocket.

  Ruby had been staring out at the water, but she looked back at me. “Ruby, could you take Hercules over to your studio?” I asked. I didn’t want him getting out of the bag again, or even worse, demonstrating his walking through walls—or canvas tents—skills to the Mayville Heights police department.

  I put my hand on the bag, and Hercules meowed from inside. “As long as you don’t touch him, you’ll be fine.”

  “Sure,” she said.

  I handed over the carrier and cat. Ruby headed back to River Arts, holding the bag out in front of her body by the strap as though it might spontaneously combust.

  A couple of minutes later, a police car came down the street, lights flashing but siren silent. It stopped nose-in at the curb. Officer Derek Craig got out of the driver’s side. According to gossip around town, the young policeman had applied to the University of Minnesota for winter admission. He’d been reading everything we had or had been able to request about the law and law school for months, so I suspected the rumors were true.

  The other officer, Stephen Keller, was a little older than Derek. His serious expression and straight-backed posture made me think he’d been in the military before he’d become a police officer.

  They both nodded at me.

  “He’s in that tent, in . . . in a chair,” I said, gesturing behind me.

  Officer Keller moved past me, to check on the body. Derek Craig took a couple of steps closer. “Good morning, Ms. Paulson,” he said. “What happened? How did you find the body?”

  Before I could answer, I saw Marcus’s SUV at the corner. He pulled onto the street, swung around and slid in next to the cruiser. He got out from behind the wheel, and I was both relieved to see him and a little worried that he was going to give me a hard time. He came across the grass in a couple of long strides. He was wearing dark gray trousers and a black and gray tweedy sport coat over a white shirt and plum-colored tie. He looked good.

  “Give me a second,” he said.

  I nodded.

  He took a couple of steps away from me with Derek. The other police officer came out of the tent then and joined them. Marcus spoke briefly to the younger man, clearly giving him some kind of instructions, and then he followed Officer Keller back into the tent, pulling on a pair of latex gloves as he went.

  I stayed where I was, hands in my pockets, staring out over the water until Marcus came back out and walked over to me.

  “What happened?” he asked, peeling off the thin purple gloves.

  “I came down to meet Ruby.” I gestured across the street to the River Arts Center. “I was a bit early and she wasn’t there.”

  He nodded, but didn’t say anything.

  “I had Hercules with me and, as we started for the building, he jumped out of the carrier.”

  “And?”

  “And he ran down the hill and across both streets.” I put my hand back in my jacket pocket.

  Marcus exhaled softly. “Kathleen, don’t tell me your cat discovered the body.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Cats have a highly evolved sense of smell—a lot more sensitive than ours.”

  His gaze automatically went to the studio building, one street up, before he focused again on me. “You think that Hercules knew there was a dead body over here a block and a half away?” Marcus’s tone told me it wasn’t what he thought.

  “I know he did,” I said. “He crossed two streets and came directly to the tent.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I followed him. When I saw . . . the body, I checked for a pulse; then I called nine-one-one. Ruby had arrived by then. I gave her Hercules and called you. Then I just waited.” The muscles in my shoulders were getting tighter, and I could hear an edge in my voice.

  “Did Ruby go inside the tent?” Marcus asked. He wasn’t writing any of our conversation down, but I knew he’d remember every word. Because of his dyslexia, he made fewer notes than most police officers.

  I shook my head. “No. She didn’t come any closer than the curb. She didn’t see anything. She didn’t touch anything.” I took a deep breath and slowly let it out. “I felt for a pulse at . . . Mike’s neck. I didn’t touch anything else.” I held out my hands, palms down, and then rolled them over so he could see them. “I don’t think Hercules touched anything, but I don’t know for sure.”

  More vehicles were arriving. Marcus glanced past
me, and then his gaze settled on my face again. “Where did Ruby go? Her studio?”

  I nodded.

  “Okay, wait for me there. I shouldn’t be very long.” His expression softened, just a little. “Please?” he added.

  “All right,” I said. I crossed the street, glancing back when I reached the sidewalk on the other side in time to see Marcus go back inside the tent.

  Ruby had left the back door open. I climbed the stairs to her top-floor studio, stopping in the doorway to watch her take shots of Hercules. He was sitting on a long worktable in the middle of the room while Ruby snapped photos, giving the cat directions, complete with hand signals—which for the most part he seemed to be following.

  It didn’t really surprise me. Hercules couldn’t spontaneously disappear the way Owen did. His “talent” was walking through walls—and doors. It didn’t really seem that big of a stretch that he could strike a few poses for the camera. Or catch the scent of a dead body across the street.

  I leaned against the doorframe and watched Ruby work until she straightened up and saw me. “Hey, Kathleen,” she said. “C’mon in.” She set the camera on the table and massaged the back of her neck with one hand. “I went ahead and took some pictures. I don’t mean to be insensitive, but the auction is just a few weeks away.” She glanced at the windows overlooking the street. “I can’t do anything for Mike Glazer,” she said quietly, “but maybe I can help save some cats.”

  “It’s not insensitive,” I said. “It isn’t going to help anyone if you don’t do the painting for the auction.”

  Ruby bent down and reached for the fabric tote bag on the floor by her feet. Hercules didn’t so much as flick an eyelash in my direction. All his attention was focused on Ruby.

  She pulled a little brown and yellow box out of her bag, and he wrinkled his nose and sniffed. “They’re organic cat treats,” she said. “Roma said they’d be okay.”

  “Go ahead,” I said.

  Ruby poured a little pile of what looked like fish-shaped crackers on the table. Hercules meowed his thanks and dipped his head to eat. After the first cracker, he made a rumbly sigh of satisfaction deep in his throat.