by Sofie Kelly
“Spend my money wisely, Ms. Paulson,” he said. “I’ll be interested to see how your program goes.”
“You’re welcome to check in anytime,” I said. I waited until he was gone; then I walked over and waved the check in Abigail’s face.
“Is it real?” she asked.
“As far as I know,” I said. “Between the money from Oren and this, we can do everything we talked about.”
“Is it all right if I jump up and down and squeal?” she asked.
I grinned. “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t,” I said.
When I eventually got back up to my office, Hercules was sitting in the middle of my desk with a very self-satisfied look on his face, and two tiny tendrils of paper stuck to his tail that told me he’d been in the workroom. It was where we kept the paper shredder.
That meant there was an excellent chance that the piece of paper at his feet had been stolen—from Detective Webster.
23
“What did you do?” I asked, glaring at him.
He lifted one white-tipped paw and set it down on the piece of paper.
“You stole that from the detective, didn’t you?”
He sat up a little straighter, obviously proud of himself.
“I told Marcus I wouldn’t ask her about the case.”
“Merow,” Hercules said, looking down at the piece of paper and then back at me.
“Okay, so stealing something from a police officer”—I glared at him—“isn’t quite the same as asking her questions, but it’s still wrong.”
The cat’s expression didn’t change. This wasn’t the first time Hercules had swiped a piece of paper from someone connected to one of Marcus’s cases. In the previous cases it had actually helped me eventually figure out who the killer was.
I crossed the room, leaned back against the desk and picked up the piece of paper.
“I think this makes me an accessory after the fact,” I said.
His response was to lick his paw and take a couple of swipes at his face.
“Somehow I don’t think the fact that you’re cute is going to help me,” I said.
Hercules leaned against my arm as I looked at the page that he’d “borrowed” from Detective Webster. It was a list of items stolen from the pawnshop.
I looked down at the little tuxedo cat. There was something about his expression that made me think if he could talk he would have said, “See? Do you get it?”
The problem was I didn’t. I looked at the list again. What was I not seeing? Hercules thought this was a clue. Both Owen and Hercules somehow knew what was a clue and what wasn’t. I would have admitted Herc’s ability to walk through walls and Owen’s to become invisible before I would ever have admitted that to anyone. It still felt uncomfortable to admit it to myself.
The list of stolen items was surprisingly short, I noticed, several diamond rings, a couple of watches . . . and two rare books.
“Dayna Chapman had a ticket to Vincent Starr’s lecture,” I said to Hercules.
The wheels were turning in my brain. “Could Dayna have somehow been involved in that robbery?” I asked Hercules.
Something was there in the back of my mind, poking at me like a broken spring in a chair. I put my finger on the titles of the two stolen books. A first edition of Steinbeck’s East of Eden would have been worth maybe fifteen hundred dollars. The first edition of The Hobbit, a little more—probably between three and four thousand. Neither book was going to make anyone rich.
I replayed what Maggie had told me about Brady’s conversation with his mother. And then I had it. I looked at Hercules.
“I should be mad at you,” I said, “because you’re going to turn into a feline delinquent. But I think I have an idea of what Dayna was up to.” I looked at my watch. I was done for the day in about fifteen minutes. “We’re going to have to make a little side trip before we go home,” I said, reaching for the phone.
Maggie answered her cell on the third ring. “Hi, what’s up?” she said.
“I need to ask Brady a question about that conversation he had with his mother,” I said. “Could you set that up for me?”
“You figured something out.”
I stretched my legs out in front of me. “I’m not sure,” I said. “That’s why I need to talk to him.”
“I’m sitting here outside his office right now,” Maggie said. “We were going to have an early supper before class.”
“I can be there in about twenty minutes.”
I pictured Maggie pulling a hand through her blond curls. “Okay, I’ll see you then,” she said.
* * *
When I walked into Brady Chapman’s office, his receptionist smiled at me. “You can go on back, Ms. Paulson,” she said. “Mr. Chapman is expecting you.”
Brady was standing in his office doorway with Maggie. “Hi, Kathleen,” he said. “Maggie says you might have figured something out. What is it?”
“Tell me about the piece of paper with the address on it that your mother dropped,” I said.
“That isn’t going to help,” Brady said. “The street doesn’t exist. Not here. Not in Minneapolis or Red Wing, either.”
“Tamera Lane,” I said. “Right?”
Brady nodded.
I pulled a pen and a pad of paper out of my bag. “Like this?” I wrote the address across the middle of one page.
Brady shot Mags a puzzled look. “Yes,” he said.
I exhaled loudly and tapped the paper with one finger. “That’s not Tamera Lane,” I said. “It’s Tamerlane. All one word, and it’s not an address; it’s the name of a very, very valuable book.”
“How valuable?” Maggie asked.
“The last one sold at auction in 2009 for more than six hundred thousand dollars,” I said.
24
“Good dog!” Maggie exclaimed.
“You think my grandparents owned a copy of this book?” Brady asked, pulling a hand over the back of his neck.
“I don’t know,” I said. I couldn’t tell him that I thought his mother might have had something to do with stealing the book. First of all, it was a big leap to think that Nic Sutton’s father had had a copy of a very old and rare book and that it had been stolen, and yet he hadn’t said anything about it to the police and his insurance provider. And second, I couldn’t tell Brady that I suspected his mother had been involved somehow in that pawnshop robbery. It would have been cruel, especially since I didn’t have any proof.
“I need to tell Marcus about this,” I said.
Brady shrugged. “That’s okay.”
His mind was somewhere else. Replaying that visit with his mother, I wondered.
He loosened his tie. “Thank you, Kathleen,” he said.
“I’ll see you at class,” I said to Maggie.
“Thanks,” she said, wrapping me in a hug. “There’s more, isn’t there?” she whispered against my ear. She studied my face when she let me go and I nodded, almost imperceptibly, but I knew from the way Maggie pressed her lips together that she’d seen.
I touched her arm. “I’ll see you later,” I said.
I called Marcus as soon as I got home. I told him I thought the address Dayna Chapman had dropped wasn’t an address at all and explained about the value of the book. Tamerlane and Other Poems was Edgar Allan Poe’s first published work, and a 2009 sale of a first edition had been big news. Well, at least among librarians and book collectors. I could tell from the tone of his voice that he wasn’t convinced.
Maggie must have been watching for me, because she came over to me as soon as I stepped into the studio. “Did you talk to Marcus?” she asked.
I nodded.
“What did he say?”
“I don’t think I convinced him that Dayna had written down the name of a rare book and not a nonexistent street,” I said, adjusting the drawstring waist of my workout pants.
“What didn’t you say to Brady?” she asked.
“Mags, don’t ask me that,” I sighed
.
Her eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“Because . . . because I’m way out on a limb. Because I don’t want to say anything that might hurt Brady when I don’t have any proof. And because I don’t want you to have to lie to him.”
She swallowed and nodded. “Okay.”
I gave her arm a squeeze.
* * *
I’d left the truck parked on a side street about halfway between the studio and Eric’s Place. After class I walked over to the restaurant. I knew there was a good chance Nic would be there, and I needed to see if he knew anything about his father having a copy of Tamerlane.
He was just delivering a tray full of food and I waited at the counter. “Hi, Kathleen,” he said. “What can I get you?”
“A large hot chocolate with marshmallows to go, please.”
“Just give me a minute,” he said as he disappeared into the kitchen. He came back with a tall take-out cup, the top rounded over with a pile of the Jam Lady’s handmade marshmallows.
“May I ask you a question about your dad’s pawnshop?” I asked as I snapped the take-out lid on the top of the cardboard cup.
“Sure,” he said with a shrug. “What did you want to know?”
“There were two first editions stolen in the robbery.”
He nodded. I noticed a tiny flush of color in his cheeks.
“Did your dad get a lot of rare books in the shop?” I asked.
Nic fingered the knot in the strings of the long apron tied at his waist. “A few. In a pawnshop you never know what’s going to come through the door.”
“Like a very rare, very valuable book that might have some questionable lineage?” I asked. That was about as diplomatic as I could word things.
Color flooded his face. He looked down at the floor for a moment. “I don’t know,” he finally said. “Not for sure. But it’s . . . possible.” His mouth twisted to one side. “My grandfather started that pawnshop. Not everything he did was on the up-and-up. Some of his customers still brought my dad business. He didn’t turn it down.” His eyes narrowed. “Why do you ask?”
“I’m trying to figure why someone would have wanted to kill Dayna Chapman. Maybe then I can figure out who did.”
25
I would have slept late in the morning since I didn’t have to go in to the library until noon, but Owen poked his furry gray face over the edge of the bed and meowed at me about six thirty.
“Go away,” I mumbled.
He put his paw over my nose. I knew this was another one of those battles that I’d lose, so I got up.
Both cats were still in crabby moods. Hercules managed to upend Owen’s dish and Owen kept crowding Hercules away from his. Frustrated, I finally snapped my dish towel in the air. That got their attention and made a very satisfying whipping sound. I glared at them. “I don’t know what’s up with you two, but cut it out,” I said.
I picked up Owen’s dishes and set them on the floor over by the sink. I moved Hercules’s breakfast closer to the back door. I could see them darting looks at each other while they finished eating, but other than that it was peaceful.
Roma called just after eight o’clock. “What do you think about having supper in Red Wing before we go shopping for Rebecca’s dress?” she asked.
“I’d like that,” I said. Maybe a change of scenery would help me figure out what I was missing about that pawnshop robbery. “Want me to check with Rebecca?”
“If it’s not too much trouble,” Roma said. I could hear a smile in her voice.
“You sound extra happy,” I said. “Has Eddie gone AWOL from the team?”
She laughed. “No. Ollie called me last night. She’s coming for Christmas!” Roma’s daughter was a biologist and a commercial diver. “And don’t let me call her Ollie when she’s here. That was her nickname when she was two.”
“My mother still calls me Katydid,” I said. “But I’ll try to keep you out of trouble.”
Roma said she’d pick me up at the library at five thirty and we ended the call.
I was about to call Rebecca when I heard the sound of a cat squabble from the kitchen. Hercules was next to his water dish, eyes narrowed, ears flattened. Owen was by the basement door. He didn’t look nearly as wary as he should have. Hercules rarely got angry, but when he did it was a bad idea to get in the way of his fury. Of course, usually the person he was angry with was Roma and usually there was a needle and Kevlar involved.
“What’s going on?” I said.
Hercules stopped glaring at his brother long enough to look at his water dish. His little purple mouse was lying in the middle, doing the dead mouse float.
Hercules loved that little mouse. He never would have dropped it in his water dish. On the other hand, Owen had been coveting the toy since the day Rebecca bought it for his brother. Hercules didn’t usually go for toys, which meant until the purple mouse had arrived, all the toys in the house were the property of Owen.
I looked at him sitting by the door. I had no proof, of course, but there was something defiant in the way he sat there, head up, tail flicking around.
I took a step closer to him. “Owen, did you do that?” I asked, pointing at the water dish with its little purple corpse. He met my eyes for a moment and then he turned to study the side of the refrigerator. Okay, so he was a cat and not a person, but that looked like a guilty conscience to me.
“That mouse belonged to your brother,” I said. “That was mean.”
His gaze flicked back to me for a moment and then something behind me caught his eye. He gave a yowl of outrage. I turned around to see Hercules coming from the living room with one of Owen’s yellow funky chickens in his mouth. He set it on the floor, put a paw on the body and pulled off the head. Then he looked directly at Owen and started chewing.
It was a really stupid idea for revenge. Hercules was pretty much indifferent to the charm of catnip and I knew the bits that were flying into the air as he shook his and the chicken’s head were going to make him sneeze. Which in a moment they did.
The first sneeze launched the yellow chicken out of his mouth. It arced across the kitchen in a perfect curve and splashed down next to the purple mouse.
There was a sudden silence in the room. Owen made his way over to the water dish. He poked the limp chicken head with one paw. Hercules joined him. He looked sadly at his mouse, but he didn’t poke it. That would have meant getting his paw wet.
“That serves you both right,” I said.
I went into the living room and called Rebecca, relaying Roma’s idea of supper when she answered.
“Oh my word,” she said. “I forgot completely that we were going to Red Wing.”
“Is it a problem?” I asked.
She sounded distracted.
There was a brief silence and then she sighed softly. “Kathleen, have you ever been out to Marsh Farm?” she asked.
“Is that the beautiful, big house between here and Red Wing where they have weddings in the summertime?”
“That’s it,” she said. “It’s usually closed all winter, but Everett has rented the entire place because we didn’t have an engagement dinner and now he’s decided we need to do that before we get married.”
“Oh,” I said.
“I hope you don’t have any plans for next Saturday night,” she added.
I sat down on the footstool. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Thank you, dear, no. Maggie’s out there right now seeing what we’ll need for centerpieces and things like that. And then I have to drive out there myself because now it seems that Everett has come up with a seating plan that Maggie is going to need to see.”
“Do you need to talk to Maggie for anything else?” I asked.
“No,” Rebecca said. “I don’t care about seat covers and party favors. All I want to do is get married. I should have listened to you when you suggested I tell Everett that I didn’t want all this hoopla.”
“You love him,” I said. “You didn’t w
ant to hurt his feelings. So let me do something for you. Where’s this seating plan? Do you have it?”
“Lita’s going to bring it up in a few minutes.”
“Call her and tell her to drop it off here,” I said. “Please. Then Roma and I will pick you up about quarter to six, we’ll find a dress in Red Wing and things will end the way they do in all stories of true love: happily ever after.”
Rebecca actually laughed. “Having you become my backyard neighbor is one of the best things that’s ever happened to me.”
“Me too,” I said.
“You’re a darling girl,” Rebecca said. “Thank you. I’ll call Lita. She should be there in about fifteen minutes.”
“I’ll see you tonight,” I said.
I had more than enough time to get the vacuum cleaner out and vacuum up the bits of catnip on the kitchen floor. What on earth had Hercules been thinking, assuming that cats thought through what they were going to do? He didn’t even like catnip, but he was willing to eat it just to get back at Owen.
It was as if one domino had been knocked over in my brain and suddenly another and another were following. Hercules was a cat, a very smart one with some very unusual abilities, but a cat nonetheless. And he’d eaten a catnip chicken to make a point. Was it possible that Olivia Ramsey had eaten a chocolate she knew she was allergic to, just to eliminate herself as a suspect in Dayna Chapman’s death? If Marcus had been here he would have laughed and said I was being sent off on a tangent by my feelings. I didn’t have a single fact. Why on earth would Olivia Ramsey want to kill Dayna Chapman?
Then another domino fell over. Roma’s daughter’s name was Olivia, too. Ollie had been her baby nickname when she was two. She could just as easily have been called Liv. The way Georgia had called Olivia Ramsey “Liv.”
Dayna had said “live” and “package” to me. Both Marcus and I had assumed she was trying to say she wanted to live and she was allergic to something in the little package of chocolates. But what if “live” was really “Liv,” short for Olivia?
I scrambled up the stairs for my laptop, brought it back downstairs and went to Edwin Jensen’s Web site. I scrolled through the photos looking for any with Dayna and Olivia together. I couldn’t find any, but as I studied the images of Olivia, I noticed something. In the first two shots of her giving first aid to Nic Sutton’s father, there was something on the ground beside her. Olivia had said she was coming from the comic book store. But it didn’t look like a plastic bag. It looked like a small, padded envelope.