Sleight of Paw

by Kelly, Sofie

  I wasn’t sure what to say, although I was starting to see the reason for his intensity. “I was shoplifting,” he continued, “swiping stuff out of cars. You know that straight stretch of highway just outside of town, headed for Minneapolis?”

  “I do.”

  “Raced out there more times than I can count or remember. Pretty much every time with Eric riding shotgun.” He gave me a wry smile, almost like he had a bit of pride for the memory

  “So, what changed?” I asked, leaning my elbow on the table and propping my head on my hand. “I take it you’re not still doing that anymore.”

  He laughed, “Nope. Sober and straight for seven years now. No dope, no booze, although I do admit to still having a bit of a lead foot on the highway. What happened is I got arrested. I got sent to juvie.”

  “Where you’ve learned . . . ?” I prompted.

  “How to hot-wire a car and pretty much nothing else.” He fingered the silver skull bracelet on his right arm. “It took a couple more trips there and a couple of kick-ass counselors to turn me around. It’s why the camp’s so damned important. Some of us need a kick in the ass and a lot of help to get it all together.”

  He drummed his fingers on the edge of the stool between his legs. “Eric, on the other hand, he got it together by himself. With Agatha Shepherd’s help.” He laughed. “Of course, it probably helped that I wasn’t around.”

  His face got serious. “When I drank I was just mostly looking to have a good time, you know, but Eric, he was”—he hesitated—“destructive.”

  I was still having a problem picturing Eric as the young man Justin was describing.

  “He had blackouts when he had no idea what he’d been doing.” Justin looked at me. “It’s good that he doesn’t drink anymore. Period. I just don’t want what’s happened to mess up everything he’s worked so hard for.”

  I thought about seeing Eric at the rink and how my first thought was that he looked like he’d just come off a binge. “Are you saying that something like Agatha’s death could start Eric drinking again?”

  “No,” he said. “I mean, she was one of the few people who stuck by him when he was still drinking, so her death had to hit him hard. But start drinking? No.”

  He fiddled with one of the silver skulls again. “Stress is not good for an alcoholic. There’s the impulse to have a couple, you know, just to take the edge off.” He exhaled slowly and noisily. “But that’s not where Eric is anymore. He has a wife and kids.” Justin traced the edge of the stool’s curved seat with his finger. “And he’d never do something and let Ruby or anyone else take the blame.”

  Abruptly he got to his feet. “Sorry,” he said. “Sometimes I talk too much. I need to go see how Ruby’s doing. Excuse me.”

  I watched him walk over to where Ruby seemed to be saying good-bye to Peter and slide his arm around her waist. I slipped off my own stool and went to Maggie. “I have to get back to the library.”

  “Did Justin talk your ear off?” she asked.

  “No, I, uh, learned a couple of things,” I said.

  “Anything you want to share?”

  “Later,” I said.

  Maggie studied my face, but all she said was, “All right.”

  I grabbed my coat and left. As I walked, I thought about what Justin had said, his insistence that Eric wouldn’t drink. I thought about Eric’s appearance, his evasiveness, and Susan’s out-of-character excuses. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he had been drinking. And now I couldn’t help thinking that maybe I didn’t know better.

  I stopped at the corner. Peter was farther ahead of me, already on the other side of the intersection. All at once I was frozen in place, watching him making his way down the sidewalk in a black woolen Winterfest hat . . . and Ellis Slater’s aviator jacket.

  20

  I had to remind my feet to move, and by the time I was across the street I’d lost sight of Peter. I must be wrong, I told myself as I trudged back to the library. He’d been wearing a jacket that looked like the one I’d seen in Agatha’s house, not the actual jacket. Peter wouldn’t take something that didn’t belong to him. He was a lawyer, after all, and a pretty decent guy, from what I’d heard.

  I was glad to get home at the end of the day. I heated the last of the stew and ate with Owen for company. Hercules appeared long enough to let me scratch behind his ears and then he wandered off.

  I thought about Hercules’ little forays into Ruby’s apartment and Eric’s office.

  “You know what the problem is?” I said to Owen. The cat leaned forward as though he really wanted to hear the answer to the question. “Too many secrets. I’m starting to see connections where there aren’t any. I saw Peter Lundgren ahead of me on the street and I actually thought he was wearing a jacket I’d seen in Agatha’s house and that had belonged to her brother.”

  There were a couple of pieces of meat and a bit of carrot left in my dish. I set it on the floor for Owen. “Don’t tell Roma,” I said. Admittedly, I was telling him to keep a secret when I had been complaining about other people doing it.

  I checked the clock. I had about a half hour before Harry came to get me. What was the old man going to tell me? Anything? The more roadblocks I ran into, the more curious I got, and the more convinced I became that the envelope’s contents held the key to Agatha’s death.

  “Ruby knows what Agatha was carrying around with her.” Owen had finished eating and started to clean himself up. “And Eric is mixed up in this in some way, too. Why won’t anyone tell me what’s in the damn thing? What’s the big secret?”

  It didn’t make any sense. What were Harrison Taylor, Eric and Ruby all willing to risk being implicated in a crime for? Had Agatha done something illegal? Had someone else? It wasn’t money. I was fairly certain of that. Harry wouldn’t keep his mouth shut, promise or no promise, over money. For him it was personal, emotional. Probably for Eric and Ruby, too. The one thing they had in common was they all loved Agatha.

  I was going to have to talk to Eric again. I kept trying to push the thought that he’d been drinking out of my mind. But it wouldn’t quite go. Justin said Eric had been destructive when he drank and sometimes he blacked out.

  I look down at Owen and gave voice to the thought that had been twisting in my head and in my stomach since I’d left Maggie’s studio. “Eric did not get drunk, have a blackout and run over Agatha. Did he?”

  Hearing the words made me see how preposterous the idea was. Owen didn’t even dignify the question with so much as a twitch. I didn’t have any real proof that Eric had been drinking, let alone that he had been drunk. And if he had fallen off the wagon and had a blackout I didn’t believe that meant he’d turned into someone else. Even if there’d been some kind of accident, I refused to believe Eric could drink enough to turn into the kind of person who would just leave someone to die.

  “I’ll talk to Eric again after I talk to Harry,” I said to Owen as I reached for the bowl on the floor. “If Harry tells me what all the secret keeping has been about maybe I’ll be able to find out what’s happening with Eric.”

  I began filling the sink with hot water. “And maybe somewhere in all of this we’ll find a way to help Ruby.” Owen finished washing his tail and went to get a drink.

  “I’m going out to the Taylors to talk to Harry in a little while,” I said. “I forgot to tell you.” Owen’s head snapped up. I could read his little kitty mind. “Forget it,” I said. He ignored me, walked over to the door where the messenger bag sat by the heating vent and stuck one paw side.

  “No,” I said. “You can’t go with me.” After what had happened this morning I wasn’t chancing taking a cat with me to Harry’s.

  He leaned his head over the top of the bag and peered inside.

  “Owen, have you forgotten about Boris?” I asked. His paw came out a lot faster than it had gone in. Boris was Harry Junior’s German shepherd. Boris was a pussycat, pun intended, but I couldn’t convince the cat of that. The only menacing
thing about Boris was his bark, but Owen wasn’t taking any chances.

  Harry pulled into the driveway at exactly seven o’clock. “Your father knows I’m coming?” I asked as I got in the truck.

  He nodded. “I wouldn’t ambush the old man.”

  “I didn’t really think you would.”

  “He knows about Ruby being arrested. He wants to talk,” Harry said as he backed out onto the road and started up the hill. “I think there’s stuff he’s been wanting to get off his chest for a long time.” He glanced over at me. “And he likes you.”

  “As I said before, I like him, too.”

  “There’s no way he’s going to talk to me. He still sees me as a kid. Dad keeps his cards pretty close to his vest, but for some reason he trusts you.” He blew out a breath as he realized how that sounded. “I’m sorry,” he started. “I didn’t mean—”

  “It’s okay,” I said, lifting a mittened hand to stop him. “I know what you meant.”

  “I think the fact that you didn’t grow up here makes a difference,” Harry continued. “You don’t have any judgments about anyone, or any ideas about who they ought to be or how they ought to live.”

  It was the first time being from away was seen as an advantage. I liked Harry’s way of looking at things.

  The Taylors lived close to Oren, two roads above the Kenyon family homestead. Young Harry and his kids—a boy and a girl, both teenagers—lived in the main house. I knew Harry and his wife were divorced and she lived out of state, but the town talk was silent on that subject.

  The old man lived in a small house, more like a cottage or a guesthouse, behind and to the left of the main house, in a cleared area surrounded by trees, with Harry Junior’s shop nearby.

  “Your dad still lives alone?” I asked as the truck followed the curve of the neatly plowed driveway.

  “Oh, yeah,” Harry said. “There’s a woman who comes in every weekday to clean up and do some cooking. Paula Stevens—she’s a cousin somehow to Lita. You know, Everett’s secretary.”

  I nodded. It seemed like half of Mayville was related to Lita somehow.

  “Old man doesn’t like it,” Harry went on, “but sometimes he lets me win one.”

  We pulled into a wide, clear area between the little house and the shop and we both got out of the truck. It was a bitingly cold night. The tiny house looked warm and welcoming. An amber light shone in the outside fixture, and a spiral of smoke came from the chimney.

  We walked toward the back door. “Dad’s been very quiet and thoughtful the past couple of days,” Harry said. “Whatever this all is, I think he wants to get it out.” He rapped on the back door, then turned the knob and stepped back so I could go in.

  Harry Senior was sitting on a chair by the corner woodstove in the kitchen. He smiled at me.

  “Don’t get up,” I said, but he was already pushing himself to his feet.

  “I wouldn’t be much of a gentleman if I didn’t get up and take your coat,” he said.

  I slipped out of my jacket and gave it to him. His son gave me a quick smile, which his father caught. He dipped his head toward the younger man. “See, Kathleen? My son has already figured out to humor the old man.”

  Boris padded over for a scratch behind the ears. When I bent to undo my boots, he nudged my hand with his head, much the way the cats did when they felt they weren’t getting enough attention.

  “Dog’s spoiled,” Harry said, reaching down to pat him on the head.

  “Would you like some coffee?” his father offered. “Will it keep you up?”

  “I’ll chance it,” I said. “Thank you.”

  “Let me get that, Dad,” Harry said, taking off his boots.

  The old man shot him a look.

  “Or not,” his son said, holding out both hands in surrender.

  “Coffee cake,” I said, holding up a foil-wrapped package.

  Harrison smiled at me. “I was hoping I’d get to try some of your cooking.” He pointed to one of the cupboards. “Plates are in there. Knives are in the top drawer.”

  Harry Junior had put his boots back on without doing up the laces. “I’ll be outside, cleaning up the driveway,” he said.

  “You don’t have to leave,” the older man said without looking up from the coffee he was pouring.

  “It’s okay, Dad.”

  I cut several slices of cake and put them on a blue bubble-glass plate. Harrison had poured three mugs of coffee. He set them on a wooden tray along with spoons, napkins, cream and sugar. I added the cake plate.

  “Would you set that on the table over there, please, Kathleen?” he asked, gesturing at the low wooden trunk in front of the woodstove.

  “Of course,” I said. I picked up the tray as the old man made his way over to his son, still standing by the door.

  Harrison clapped a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Sit down and have a piece of cake.”

  The old man’s seat was clearly the chair closest to the fire. There was a plum-colored corduroy pillow against the cushions for his back and a couple of books and a newspaper on the floor. He liked Scottish history and political biographies, I knew. I took the chair next to him. Boris came and lay down with his head against my leg.

  “Over here, boy,” Harrison said to the dog, patting the side of his chair. “Give Kathleen some space.” The dog lifted his head, gave the old man a mildly interested look and lay back down.

  “Stubborn,” he said, shaking his head.

  “Wonder where he learned that,” his son muttered.

  “I heard that,” Harrison said, reaching for the coffee.

  The hint of a smile played across the younger man’s face.

  Boris raised his head again, nose twitching. I took a piece of cake for myself, broke off a small piece, and slipped it to the dog. If the two men noticed, they didn’t say.

  The old man added cream and sugar to his mug and settled back in his chair. I held on to my coffee with one hand and scratched Boris’s neck with the other.

  Old Harry smiled at me.” You have more questions about Agatha.”

  “I’m sorry for being so nosy,” I said. “But I like Ruby. I truly believe she had nothing to do with Agatha’s death.”

  “The police are idiots. You’re thinking they’ll stop looking for answers now that they think they have the killer.”

  “Yes.”

  “For what it’s worth, I agree with you about Ruby.” He studied the flames behind the glass window of the woodstove door. “You want to know what Agatha and I were fighting about,” he said, still watching the flickering fire.

  “I’m sorry to invade your privacy and hers. But whatever was in that envelope that Agatha was holding on to so tightly, I’m convinced it has something to do with her death.”

  The old man let out a slow breath. To my left his son hadn’t moved an inch. “You don’t think Agatha’s death was an accident?”

  “No, I don’t,” I admitted. “Even if someone did hit her by mistake and then panicked, they ran and they left Ruby to be blamed. Either way, Agatha’s death is a crime.”

  I set my cup back on the tray and turned toward him. “I saw three very different people argue with Agatha about that old brown envelope. Now it’s disappeared.”

  His face went pale and he closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again he looked at me. “Would it be enough if I told you that what was in the envelope had nothing to do with her death?”

  I held out a hand. “I need to be sure,” I said softly. “I’m sorry. But I need to know why you’re so certain.”

  He sighed. Boris looked over at him. I gave the dog another scratch behind the ears.

  Boris got up and moved over to the old man’s chair. His hand settled on the thick fur on the back of the dog’s neck. “There have been too many secrets,” he said, absently patting the dog. “And I’ve been guilty of keeping them.” He looked over at his son. “You know how much I loved your mother.” It was a statement, not a question.

&nbs
p; Harry nodded.

  “I’m not making excuses,” the old man began. He stopped and fingered his beard for a moment. “If I’m not making excuses, then I shouldn’t be making them, should I?”

  “It’s okay, Dad,” Harry said quietly.

  They locked eyes and something stretched between them. For a moment it felt almost the way it did when Hercules walked through a wall or a door. The energy in the room seemed to somehow change.

  Finally the old man leaned back and smiled wryly. “You know, don’t you?”

  I looked from one man to the other, but I didn’t say anything. It was clear I was on the verge of learning something important.

  “You had an affair with her.”

  Harrison looked at me. “The boy’s right,” he said. “I broke my vows.”

  I hadn’t been expecting this.

  “My mother had a series of strokes that eventually ended with her in a nursing home,” the younger Harry said, as though his father hadn’t spoken. “She spent the last two years of her life there.” He gestured at his father. “He never missed one single day of visiting her in those two years. She couldn’t talk. She couldn’t move.” He looked down at his hand still holding the coffee he hadn’t even touched. Then he met his father’s steady gaze. “No one would fault you for taking a little comfort.”

  “I fault myself,” the old man said, his voice harsh. “I had no right to do what I did. How could I offer my heart when I wasn’t free to do that?”

  His son set his cup on the tray and stood up. “Don’t judge the man you were so harshly,” he said. “I’m not.” He turned and went out the door.

  Boris moved a bit closer to the old man’s feet and stretched out with his head on his paws. “He’s a good man,” Harrison said, his eyes still on the door his son had just exited through.

  “Yes, he is.”

  We sat in silence for a few minutes, but it wasn’t awkward. I knew now he was going to tell me the whole story. All I had to do was let him do it in his own way.

  “That envelope?” he said finally.