Copycat Killing: A Magical Cats Mystery

by Sofie Kelly

“Santa Claus?” Marcus said, frowning in confusion. “You mean North Pole, elves and flying reindeer?”

  “Kind of,” Maggie said.

  “Take another look,” I said to Marcus, pointing from the old black-and-white photos, to the sketch he was holding, to the soft drink ad. “Do you see it?”

  He studied the images and then looked up at me. “It does look like the same person.”

  “Exactly,” Maggie said. “There have been rumors around Mayville Heights for just about forever that Carson Henderson was the inspiration—at least in part—for the Coca-Cola Santa paintings done by Haddon Sundblom.” She narrowed her eyes at Marcus. “I can’t believe you’ve never heard that story.”

  He shrugged. “There’s always some kind of story going around town.”

  Maggie’s gaze slid over to me. “Let me guess, Mary told you, right?”

  “And Abigail, when we were putting up that big cardboard Santa in the children’s section.” I pointed to the Coke Santa photos. “I thought Sundblom always said he was inspired by a friend—a salesman—let me see, Prentiss, Lou Prentiss.”

  She nodded. “He did. And I think Prentiss was the inspiration, at least in part. But Haddon Sundblom and Carson Henderson had been friends since they were kids. Carson’s mother—Everett’s grandmother—had family in Muskegon where Sundblom grew up. Carson spent part of every summer there when he was young.”

  She looked at Marcus and pulled both hands back through her hair. “According to my grandmother, who knew pretty much every bit of gossip in Mayville Heights, Carson wasn’t the kind of man who would want to go through life as Santa Claus. Anna and Everett were pretty much his only two soft spots.”

  “So you think Jaeger Merrill knew about this Santa Claus thing?” Marcus asked. He didn’t even try to keep the skepticism out of his voice.

  “Why not?” Maggie countered, an edge in her voice. “He was an artist. People tend to tell us stories about art.”

  “And he was working at Eric’s, remember?” I added. “The whole town is in and out of the café. You can get more news there than in the newspaper.” I looked more closely at the photographs of Carson Henderson. They weren’t copies. They were original snapshots. I was pretty sure where Jaeger had gotten them.

  “That’s what Jaeger was doing out at Wisteria Hill,” I said slowly.

  Maggie nodded. “He was going back to forgery, just not those icons.”

  “He was looking for those pictures of Carson.” I gestured to the box. Then I remembered the pen cap Hercules had found at the co-op. Did it belong with the fountain pen lying in the puzzle box? I tried to take a closer look without being obvious about it.

  “Or possibly sketches Haddon Sundblom may have given to Carson.” She pointed at the drawings. “Jaeger was incredibly talented and because he knew how to forge all the provenance it was a pretty much foolproof plan.” She glanced at Marcus. “Provenance is all the documentation that proves the authenticity of a piece of art.”

  He nodded without saying anything, and I got the feeling he already knew what the word meant. Even though he didn’t have a library card he did seem to know a lot about a lot of things.

  “Do you think he was working alone?” I asked Maggie. With Marcus standing there I didn’t want to ask if she thought Ray could have been helping somehow.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “He could have reconnected with someone from his past.” She turned her attention to Marcus. “Or maybe it was me.” She made a dramatic sweeping gesture with one hand. “Maybe I just staged all of this to draw suspicion away from myself.”

  “Did you?” Marcus asked, looking around the hallway.

  Maggie’s mouth twisted sideways and she gave a slight shake of her head.

  “I’d like to take the rest of those boxes,” he said.

  For a moment Maggie didn’t say anything, but I saw her jaw tighten as she clenched her teeth together. She put a loose fist flat on her chest and took several deep breaths. Then she looked at Marcus. “I’ll need to call my lawyer first,” she said. She pulled her cell phone out of her pocket and walked down the hall several paces.

  I turned to Marcus. “Why are you picking on Maggie?” I asked.

  “All I’m doing is my job,” he said. “I’m following the evidence—wherever it leads. It doesn’t really have anything to do with Maggie.”

  I looked over at her; she had her back to us, talking quietly, I was guessing, to Peter Lundgren. I turned back to Marcus, shaking my head. “It has everything to do with Maggie,” I said.

  Before I could say anything else, she snapped her cell phone shut and walked back to us. “I’m sorry Detective Gordon,” she said, her voice cool and formal. “My lawyer has advised me not to give you these boxes unless you can show me a warrant.”

  “I understand,” he said. If he was angry I couldn’t see it. “I can get a warrant. Until then I’m going to need to have someone keep an eye on all of this.” He gestured at the stack of cardboard boxes.

  “It’s a town building,” Maggie said with a slight shrug.

  This time it was Marcus who stepped away and took out his phone.

  “I can’t believe you called Andrew,” she said as soon as he was out of earshot.

  “It’s not a big deal,” I said, and as the words came out I realized it really wasn’t. Hearing Andrew’s voice hadn’t hurt the way I’d anticipated it would anytime I thought about talking to him again. And I hadn’t thought about it for a while.

  “Was that Peter you were talking to?” I asked Maggie, keeping my voice low so Marcus wouldn’t hear me.

  She nodded. “He said that Marcus will be able to get the warrant. The idea is just to make him do all the paperwork so everything is documented properly.” She looked over at the detective. “Anyway, there isn’t anything in these other boxes.”

  “Mags, you don’t know that for sure.”

  She actually smiled at me then. “I do,” she said. She pointed to the carton still on its side on the floor. “Someone took the tape off that box—Jaeger I guess, when he put his things inside it—otherwise everything wouldn’t have fallen on the floor. There’s tape on the tops of all the other boxes. I think I’m safe.”

  I blew out a breath. I felt better. “What about the puzzle box and the portfolio?”

  “Marcus gets to keep those. And for what it’s worth, you were right. I should have called Peter when you suggested it.”

  I stretched my arms over my head and yawned. “I would have pushed if I’d realized Marcus was going to—”

  “—do his job?” Maggie finished.

  I stopped in midstretch and stared at her. “He’s looking for a way to tie you to Jaeger and that money they found.”

  She shook her head. “No he isn’t. He’s doing his job. He’s aggravating, but he’s just doing what he’s supposed to do. He’s a cop.” She put a hand on my arm. “You two butt heads because”—she smiled at me—“well, you know why I think the two of you always have a little conflict going.”

  Maggie had been trying to get Marcus and me together—romantically—for months, although she’d eased off recently. I had to admit he was easy to look at, if you liked the tall, broad-shouldered, chiseled jaw type. And maybe, maybe I did. A little.

  “But the two of you also have totally different ways of looking at life,” she continued. “Marcus is all about facts and logic. You pay attention to feelings and all the little nuances of what people don’t say. Which makes sense, by the way, given that your parents are both actors.”

  For a long moment I didn’t say anything. Finally Maggie gave me a quizzical look. “No argument?”

  I shrugged. “You’re right. I’m just not sure how to stop butting heads, as you put it.”

  “How about focusing on the fact that it’s a very cute head you keep butting, not to mention the actual bu—”

  “—I get the picture,” I interjected.

  Marcus came back over to us. “I have an officer on the way to keep a
n eye on the building. I’ll walk you two down to your cars if you’re ready to leave.”

  “May I get my purse and lock my studio?” Maggie asked.

  “Of course,” he said.

  While Maggie got her things, I rescued my bag, happy to see by its lumpy shape that Owen was inside. The date squares were still on top of the pile of boxes and Maggie picked them up when she came out. She showed the container to Marcus. “These are date squares. I’m not trying to sneak evidence out of the building. Kathleen brought them for me. I’d offer you one, but I wouldn’t want it to be misconstrued as a bribe.”

  “I appreciate that,” Marcus said, and I thought I saw his lips twitch. We headed down the stairs.

  “Call me in the morning,” I said to Maggie, wrapping her in a hug.

  “Thank you for calling Andrew,” she whispered.

  “Anytime,” I whispered back.

  Maggie’s bug was parked several spaces away from my truck. She looked around the lot. “No bogeyman,” she said to Marcus. “Talk to you tomorrow,” she said to me and then she pulled out her keys and walked over to the car.

  Marcus walked me the few feet to the truck. He gave a quick once-over to the truck bed and then glanced into the cab.

  “Good night, Kathleen,” he said.

  I looked up at him. Mags was right. That head I kept butting my own against was kind of…cute. “Good night,” I said. I put the key in the lock and he walked back to the building. I couldn’t help watching him over my shoulder. He was kind of cute from every angle. Stop thinking that, I told myself as I set Owen on the seat and slid in beside him.

  The canvas bag wriggled and Owen stuck his head out. His fur was kind of disheveled and there was a sour look on his face. He meowed loudly.

  “We’ll be home in a minute,” I said as I backed up and pulled out onto the street. “Are you hungry?”

  He meowed even more insistently, cat for, “Of course I’m hungry.”

  He was silent as we headed over to Mountain Road and started up the hill. “So, I’m assuming you heard all the stuff about Carson Henderson,” I said. Owen was staring out the windshield as though he really was riding shotgun.

  I shifted my eyes back to the road, squinting into the darkness at the edge of the range of my headlights just in time to realize there was a vehicle coming down the hill without any lights on.

  On the wrong side of the road.

  Headed straight at us.

  28

  I tightened my grip on the steering wheel as my stomach lurched and my heart thudded in my chest. Instinct took over.

  By some miracle, there was nothing coming down the hill in the opposite lane. I hit the horn and at the same time yanked the steering wheel hard to the left. The truck lurched across the road and onto the grass between the curb and the sidewalk, just missing a telephone pole. I floored the brakes with one foot and hit the clutch with the other, knocking the gearshift into neutral.

  Then I sucked in a breath, stretching my right arm across the seat in front of Owen, my left hand clutching the seat belt, and braced for the impact of the other vehicle colliding with the end of the truck bed. I didn’t see how it could miss us, and then somehow it did, speeding past, still with no lights, with what seemed like just inches to spare.

  I slumped against the back of the seat, heart pounding in stereo in my ears, a hand pressed against my mouth and the sound of my ragged breathing filling the truck. Beside me Owen was crouched wide-eyed and very, very angry, fur standing on end, claws dug into the seat.

  There was some kind of noise behind the truck and I looked in the rearview mirror. A vehicle had pulled behind me, which meant I couldn’t back up. Had the other driver stopped? I didn’t care if it was a couple of joyriding teenagers or someone who’d been stupid enough to drive after drinking, whoever it was had almost gotten all of us killed. I didn’t really want to hear an apology. I was angry enough that what I really wanted to do was yell at someone.

  Still operating on autopilot I tossed my sweatshirt, which was lying on the seat, over the cat, I guess mostly to protect him. Owen yowled his annoyance but he didn’t move. There was a wrench under my seat along with a couple of other tools in case I had a flat tire. I locked the truck door with one hand and grabbed the wrench with the other. Mayville Heights might be a very safe place but I was suddenly aware that I was a woman alone, except for a small gray cat.

  I looked in the rearview mirror again. Someone was walking toward my truck, head down, hands in his—his, judging by the build of the person—pockets. I felt the acid burn of anger in my throat. Owen gave a couple of sharply angry meows from under my hoodie. It would have been better if whoever that was just turned and walked away. We were a mightily pissed off woman and small cat.

  I tightened my grip on the wrench, ready for what, I wasn’t sure.

  Then Marcus appeared by the driver’s door of the truck. I literally sagged with relief. I leaned over, unlocked the door and opened it.

  “Are you all right?” he asked. There were tight lines of worry etched between his eyes.

  I nodded.

  “Can you get out?”

  “I’m fine,” I said, but I slid down off the seat onto the grass, glancing behind me to make sure Owen was still undercover. “Did you see the other driver?”

  “Just his or her taillights,” Marcus said. “I called it in, but I wanted to make sure you weren’t hurt.” He noticed the wrench that I was still clutching in my right hand. “Wait a minute. You thought I was…” He hung his head for a moment. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  I held up the wrench and maybe it was relief or the last bit of adrenaline zipping through my body, but I started to laugh. “It’s okay, Marcus,” I said. “I wasn’t scared. I was mad. Very, very mad.”

  He smiled. “I’m suddenly glad you’ve never been very, very mad at me,” he said.

  We both turned at the sound of a police cruiser pulling to the curb behind us. “I’ll be right back,” he said.

  I leaned back against the seat and pushed the wrench back underneath it. “Are you all right?” I asked the lump under my shirt. I got a soft murp as an answer. “Hold tight. We’ll be home in a couple of minutes.”

  After a minute or so the police car pulled into the street again and Marcus walked back across the grass to me. “They didn’t catch whoever it was, did they?” I said.

  He shook his head. “I’m sorry.” He leaned forward and looked closely at the driver’s side tire, which had gone up over the curb. “This tire looks okay. I’m just going to check the other one and the front end.”

  I waited while he walked around the front of the truck, examining the bumper and crouching down to take a closer look at the passenger side tire.

  “Everything looks okay,” he said when he came back to me. “It wouldn’t hurt to have it put up on the hoist and get the undercarriage checked, just in case.”

  “I will.”

  He jerked his head back toward his SUV. “I’m going to follow you the rest of the way up the hill.”

  “You don’t have to,” I said, rubbing the back of my neck with one hand.

  “I know,” he said.

  He pulled into the street and I backed carefully off the curb. Everything seemed to work the way it was supposed to and there were no new rattles or mysterious sounds in reverse or in drive.

  I started up Mountain Road again. Out of the corner of my eye I could see my shirt moving, kind of like there was an alligator wrestling match going on underneath. Finally Owen poked his head out. “Two minutes,” I said, “and we’ll be home.”

  The look he shot me was decidedly sour.

  I pulled into the driveway and Marcus’s SUV slipped in behind me. I got out of the truck and walked back to him and all at once I realized how quickly he’d been on the scene after I was forced off the road.

  He got out of the car.

  “You were following me home, from the arts center, weren’t you?” I asked.
<
br />   “Yes I was.”

  “Why?”

  He leaned one hand on the hood of the SUV. “When I first got there, I saw a vehicle drive by. It didn’t have any lights on.” He shrugged. “Sometimes that’s nothing more than someone who’s had a few and doesn’t want to get caught driving home.”

  “But,” I said.

  “Whoever it was, drove by more than once.” He made a face. “And I didn’t tell you because I wasn’t sure it mattered. I could have been wrong.”

  “In other words you were acting on instinct. On a feeling.” It was hard not to smirk at him.

  He shook his head, smiling. “See. I knew you were going to say that.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “I know this is just a one-time aberration.” Then I remembered Maggie. “Marcus, what about Maggie?”

  “It’s okay. I had a car follow her home as well.”

  “Do you think this has something to do with Jaeger Merrill?”

  He flexed his fingers up and down on the hood of the SUV, like a spider doing pushups. “I don’t know.”

  Since for once he wasn’t evading my questions I decided to ask another. “Thomas Karlsson’s death—that was murder.” I crossed my arms over my chest. It was cool without my hoodie.

  He nodded. “You saw the skull. There’s no way that was an accident.”

  “I know you have to talk to Pearl tomorrow,” I said. “I get that. Just please be…” I hesitated.

  “Nice?” he offered.

  “Okay.” I held up my thumb and index finger, just a tiny space apart. “Just a little bit?” Another yawn slipped out.

  “You’re tired,” he said. “I should get going.”

  I took a couple of steps closer to him and he straightened up. “Thank you, for getting me home safely.”

  He pulled in a deep breath and let it out and suddenly the air between us seemed somehow charged, electric, the way it did when Hercules walked through a wall or a door.

  “You’re welcome,” Marcus said, his eyes locked on to my face. “I’m very glad you’re okay.”

  I could feel myself moving toward him, imperceptibly, but I could feel it. Abruptly he cleared his throat and whatever the heck had come over me was gone. For the most part.