Sleight of Paw

by Kelly, Sofie

  The picture. I’d put it back in my purse. I pulled it out. Maggie took the photo from me and slid it across the bar. “Were you working last Wednesday night? Did you see this guy?”

  The bartender studied the picture, then looked up at Maggie. “What did he do?”

  “Well,” Maggie said, holding out both hands. She looked at me and raised her eyebrows.

  I felt my face getting red. I ducked my head, took another drink and followed it with pretzel.

  Zoe smiled knowingly and looked at Eric’s photograph again. “No, he wasn’t here. It was very quiet last Wednesday night because of that auction.”

  She gave me a look of . . . pity? Sympathy? I wasn’t sure which. Then she turned to Maggie. “He wasn’t here. Is that a good thing?”

  “Maybe,” Maggie said. “But everybody has to be somewhere, so maybe not. Thank you for your help.”

  “No problem,” she said. There were a couple of guys at the far end of the bar, trying to get her attention. She grabbed another basket of pretzels and headed toward them.

  Maggie picked up her coffee cup, drained it and set it down again. She looked at my wineglass. “You want one for the road?”

  I grimaced. “No. I think the windshield-washer fluid would taste better.”

  “Let’s go, then,” she said, slipping out of her seat.

  We were halfway to the door when Maggie caught my arm and said, “Please tell me that’s not who I think it is.” She was gurgling with laughter.

  I put a hand up to the side of my face. “I’m not looking.”

  She grabbed my wrist and pulled my arm away from my cheek. “If you don’t look I’m going to describe what I just saw in teeny, tiny detail.”

  I took a quick look at the stage. Then a longer one. Then I grabbed Maggie’s sleeve and dragged her out of the Brick so fast she tripped over a step and almost landed in a heap of snow in front of the building.

  “So was it?” she asked, one arm wrapped around a railing post so she could get her balance.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe. Probably. I think so.”

  She started to laugh. She laughed so hard her feet started to slide on the icy parking lot and she had to wrap her other arm around the stair post. From a distance she looked drunk.

  I glanced back at the building. I could hear the music—Bon Jovi belting out “You Give Love a Bad Name”—and I could still see the dancer in my mind’s eye. A black corset, fishnets, heels and a harlequin feather-trimmed mask, all worn by Mary, the kickboxing grandmother who worked at the library and hand-made all those luscious pies for the Winterfest supper.

  Because it was her. The mask didn’t hide enough of her face. Maggie was still laughing, hugging the stair post like it was a giant teddy bear.

  “It’s not funny,” I said. “I work with Mary. What am I supposed to say when I see her tomorrow? Nice corset?”

  “Well, it was a very nice corset,” Maggie laughed. “Where do you think she got it? Not around here.”

  I started for the car. “I’m not asking her, so don’t even think about it.”

  “I didn’t think you were such a prude, Kathleen,” Maggie said as we got in the bug.

  “I’m not a prude,” I said. “And what people do for fun is their own business. It’s just that Mary was the last person I expected to see in a strip club. She’s someone’s grandmother.”

  “She looked hot,” Maggie said. “All the kickboxing means she’s in great shape. Why shouldn’t she flaunt her booty once in a while?”

  I glared at her. “Thanks for putting that image in my mind.”

  One thing was for sure: When I saw Mary at the library tomorrow I wasn’t going to ask her how her evening went.

  24

  We repeated the process at the next bar, The Hilltop, only with a waitress and with the same result. Now that I knew my role as cuckolded girlfriend, I played it up a little, looking morose and sighing. Apparently Maggie thought I was turning it up a bit too much. She elbowed me in the ribs. Hard.

  It didn’t matter. The place had been deadly quiet Wednesday night and Eric hadn’t been in.

  At Barry’s Hat, which was more of a jazz place than a dive bar, Maggie charmed the male bartender. It was a side of Mags I’d never seen before. I couldn’t exactly figure out what she was doing. It was nothing blatant.

  The guy had gone from businesslike to goofy in about three minutes. By now I had the wronged-woman routine down pat. When Maggie pulled out Eric’s photo, all I had to do was think about the quick glimpse I’d gotten of Mary starting to undo the laces on the front of her corset, and my cheeks burned.

  We weren’t any luckier at Barry’s Hat. The smitten bartender even had one of the waitresses look at the picture. No one remembered seeing Eric on Wednesday night.

  As we were standing up to leave, the bartender asked, “Have you tried the after-hours club back that way?” He pointed the way we’d come. “The Drink,” he said, and rolled his eyes. “Really creative name. Your guy might be doing his drinking there.”

  He gave Maggie directions and she gave him a smile that probably made him forget his own name for a moment. “Come back in sometime,” he said.

  “I just might,” she said.

  “Where did you learn to flirt like that?” I asked.

  “I wasn’t flirting. I was just talking.”

  “Of course you were,” I said, pulling on my gloves. We hadn’t found out anything about Eric, but I’d had an educational night. I’d learned that Mary had some smooth moves as a stripper, and Maggie had some smooth moves period.

  “You want to go check out this Drink place? We’re going to pretty much be driving by it, anyway.”

  I leaned my head against the back of the seat. “Why not?”

  The parking lot of the Drink was jammed with cars. Maggie squeezed the bug in at the end of a row. I hoped she’d be able to back it out when we were ready to leave.

  The Drink was noisy, smelled like smoke and bodies and was jammed with people. Maggie scanned the space.

  “How are we going to do this?” I shouted.

  She turned toward me but kept her eyes on the people dancing and drinking. “I don’t know.” Then something caught her eye. She started to smile. “This is going to work,” she said. “This is going to work just fine. Come on.” She started making her way through the crowd.

  I kept my eyes on the back of her head and followed. She stopped beside a young woman with hair the color of lime Jell-O and a nose ring. “Jamie?” she asked.

  The young woman, whose little apron marked her as a staff member, turned. When she saw Maggie, her face split with a huge grin. “Hi,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

  Maggie tipped her head toward me. “Helping a friend.”

  After Barry’s Hat she’d put Eric’s photo in her pocket. Now she pulled it out. “Were you working last Wednesday night? Was he here?”

  “What did he do?” Jamie asked suspiciously.

  “It’s more like who,” Maggie said. She looked from the waitress to me and back again.

  Jamie looked at me and shrugged. “Sorry.” Then she took the picture from Maggie. “He was here.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Oh, yeah. He was a good tipper and he got really, really drunk.”

  Maggie and I exchanged looks.

  “But he wasn’t with any girl. He came in by himself.”

  My heart sank.

  She gave me an apologetic half smile. “He seemed really nice. Way nicer than his jerk of a friend.”

  Maggie held up a hand. “Wait a second. I thought you said he came in by himself.”

  “He did,” she said. “His friend was waiting for him.”

  “What did the friend look like?” I asked.

  “He was cute.” A guy two tables away snapped his fingers at her. “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming,” she called. She turned back to us. “Like I said, cute. Bit of stubble, dark hair all slicked back in a ponytail and one of those ja
ckets sailors wear.”

  Maggie looked blankly at me.

  “A peacoat?” I asked.

  “Yeah, that’s it. But he was a jerk. Figured he knew way more than me because I’m just a dumb waitress. And he stiffed me on a tip.”

  “Thanks, Jamie,” Maggie said. “Any time you want to come for a few classes, they’re on me.”

  She gave Maggie a one-armed hug. “Thanks. I might do that.”

  Finger-Snapping Guy was at it again. Jamie made a face. “Your guy’s nice, you know, for what it’s worth.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I said. “Thanks.”

  We elbowed our way back out and slid across the parking lot to the car.

  “How do you know her?” I asked Maggie.

  “Jamie? She was in my tai chi class last winter. She has great balance. I think her hair was blue then, though.”

  I waited while she negotiated the car out of the cramped parking spot before I said anything else. “Any idea who the other guy was?” I asked.

  “No,” Maggie said. “I was hoping you did.”

  “Problem is, whoever it was doesn’t even have to live in Mayville anymore. All Susan knew was that Eric used to be our mystery guy’s sponsor.”

  Maggie nodded. “Stubble, a ponytail and a peacoat isn’t much to go on.”

  “Maybe Roma will come up with something as far as the trucks,” I said.

  “What if you just laid it all out for Eric?”

  “He won’t tell Susan who he was with,” I said. “What makes you think he’ll tell me? And when I did talk to him I didn’t get anywhere.”

  “What kind of support group is this where you can cover for someone who’s committed a crime?” Maggie asked, flicking the switch for the heater up a notch. The inside of the car began to get warmer.

  “I think it’s more Eric’s thing than any group’s thing,” I said thoughtfully. “Have you noticed how important loyalty seems to be to him?”

  “What do you mean?” she asked, eyes glued to the road. A few flakes of snow were blowing around.

  “Look at the staff of the café. He hires the same students in the summer. His regular staff’s been there for years. He’s done the library barbecue forever, according to Abigail. Even the year Susan was pregnant with the twins and couldn’t get out of bed.”

  “Good point,” Maggie said.

  I sighed and shifted in the seat. I couldn’t wait for Susan to talk to Eric. “Maybe if he understands this is going to help Ruby . . .”

  We talked about Winterfest the rest of the way home and how the rumors about Roma and Eddie Sweeney wouldn’t die. But I was really giving the conversation only half my attention. I kept rolling Jamie’s description of Eric’s friend around in my mind. It could have been anyone. Anyone.

  So why couldn’t I shake the feeling that I should know exactly who it was?

  25

  The next morning I was at the table, feeding Owen crunchy peanut butter, when Harry Taylor—the younger Harry—knocked on the back door. Owen was in an extra-good mood because Rebecca had stopped in for a minute to bring my newspaper, which had somehow ended up at her house instead of mine.

  “Hi,” I said to Harry. “I was going to call you this morning.” I’d changed shifts with Abigail, so I wasn’t due at the library until lunchtime.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked.

  “No. Something might be right. Hang on a second.” I hustled into the living room for the baby-picture fragment. I’d put it in a small envelope. I handed it to Harry. “This is for your father. There’s no way to know for sure, but it’s possible this is a picture of his and Agatha’s child.”

  He swallowed a couple of times. Slowly he slid the image from the envelope. “Where did you get this?”

  “Ruby ended up with a bag of Agatha’s things. It was inside. It doesn’t seem to be a picture of her son, David; it’s not that old. I asked Rebecca”—I held up a hand—“without telling her why, and she didn’t recognize the child. Maybe—and it’s a big maybe—it’s the baby.”

  “Thank you, Kathleen,” Harry said, his voice suddenly husky. “Dad will . . .” He stopped and cleared his throat, then looked at me. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said, suddenly feeling my own throat tighten.

  Harry shook his head. “I almost forgot myself.” He held out a set of keys. “These are for you.”

  “For what?”

  “For the truck sitting in your driveway.”

  “Harry, I can’t take a truck from you.”

  “First of all, it’s not from me; it’s from the old man. And second of all, if you really don’t want it you’re going to have to tell him, because there’s no way I’m doing it.” He swung the keys back and forth. “He wants to do this for you. Do you really want to tell him he can’t?”

  “I . . .” I looked at him helplessly. “All right,” I said, holding out my hands in surrender. “But only until I find something for myself.” I took the keys.

  “It’s not fancy,” Harry said. “But it runs well and has new tires. You’ll have to call Gunnar about insurance.”

  I nodded. “Okay.”

  Carefully he slid the envelope with the baby picture into an inside pocket of his jacket. “Thank you for the picture.”

  “I hope it helps,” I said. “Thank you for the truck.”

  “I hope it helps,” Harry said with a smile.

  After he’d gone I pulled on my jacket and boots. I didn’t have to coax either cat to come with me. We walked around the house, and there was the truck in the driveway. It was identical to Ruby’s, sort of an ugly brown color. The only difference was that the right front fender had been replaced and it was primer red. I opened the driver’s door. The inside was sparkling clean—no surprise, since the truck came from Harry’s.

  Both cats were craning their necks to see. I bent down and picked up Owen and set him on the seat. When I reached for Hercules he wrinkled his nose. “It’s clean,” I told him. “No Boris cooties.”

  I set Hercules on the seat next to Owen, who was alternately sniffing and poking a paw into everything. Then I leaned in and studied the dashboard. What I really wanted to do was dance around the truck, squealing. The truck was a wonderful gift.

  I pulled my head out of the inside and checked the tires. They were big with heavy, knobby treads. More than enough for Mountain Road in the snow. Harrison’s generosity made me even more determined to help the old man find out about his child.

  “Let’s go,” I said to the boys. Owen came to the edge of the seat, looked at the ground and jumped. “Nice,” I said.

  Hercules came to the end of the seat, looked down and looked at me, meowing pitifully. I scooped him up in my arms and shut the door with my hip just as Roma pulled into the driveway.

  She got out of the SUV and pushed her sunglasses up on her head.

  “Why do you have my old truck?” she asked. Then she stopped, studied the old Ford and said, “It’s not mine, is it?”

  “Nope,” I said. “For now it’s mine. Want a cup of coffee?”

  “Please.”

  We walked around the house. Owen was on the top step. There was no sign of Hercules, which meant he’d decided not to wait. Why wait to be let in when you can just walk through the door?

  Inside I poured a cup of coffee for Roma and another for myself and we sat at the table. Owen had disappeared but I could see Hercules’ whiskers as he lurked by the living room doorway.

  “So, how do you have one of the trucks like my old one?” Roma asked.

  “Harry Taylor. It’s his. He loaned it to me.” I ran my finger around the rim of my cup. “Tell me you found something useful,” I said, although I knew she hadn’t. If she had, she would’ve said so the minute she saw me in the driveway.

  Roma shook her head, confirming what I’d suspected. “Nothing. Truck number one is out of state. Truck number two is driven only in the summer—trust me, I saw it. It’s covered in bird droppings. And tr
uck number three has been cut down to drive in the woods. It doesn’t have a roof anymore.” She leaned back in the chair. “It’s covered with a tarp, sitting in a snowbank.”

  I squeezed my forehead with my thumb and two fingers. I was so sure I’d been on to something.

  “For what it’s worth, I thought we were going to find something.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Maybe there was another truck?”

  “Do you really think so?” I sighed, which sent my bangs airborne.

  “Not really.”

  I raked my fingers through my hair.

  “Rebecca did a great job with your hair,” Roma said.

  “Yeah, she did. I can finally get it back into a ponytail. And I admit I’ve eaten the occasional sardine with the cats. Susan claims sardines will make their fur shiny. Maybe it works for my hair.”

  Roma made a face.

  “Well, I wouldn’t expect you to eat sardines,” I said. “Especially since you’re so hot and heavy with Eddie Sweeney.”

  Her face turned a cute shade of pink. “I don’t think there’s a single person in Mayville Heights who hasn’t heard the story of my torrid affair with Eddie Sweeney, the famous hockey player.” She shook her head, drained her cup and set it on the table.

  “Winterfest is almost over,” I said. “As soon as Fake Eddie is out of the community center, gossip about you and the real Eddie will stop.”

  Roma stood up. “I need to get to the clinic,” she said. “Call me if there’s anything else I can do to help Ruby.”

  I promised I would and thanked her for the help. As soon as she was out the door Hercules stuck his head all the way around the living room trim.

  “She’s gone,” I said. He walked over to me. “We’re back to square one.”

  I pulled my hands through my hair again. Roma was right. Rebecca was a great hairdresser. All I had to do most days was wash my hair and put a little gel in it.

  And then it was as though all the little pieces fell into the proper slots. What had the waitress said about Eric’s friend? He was cute. He needed a shave. He was wearing a peacoat and his dark hair was slicked back in a ponytail.