Faux Paw: A Magical Cats Mystery

by Sofie Kelly

  Maggie smiled over the top of her tea. “It just wasn’t meant to be. Something else will come along.”

  “Hey, Kathleen, any chance we could put together an exhibit of local art at the library, maybe this summer?” Ruby asked. “I know it wouldn’t pull in as many people as the museum artwork would have, but there are a lot of tourists in town then.”

  “I’ll have to run it by the board, but I like the idea,” I said. “Would you be willing to put together something in writing that I can take to them?”

  Ruby shrugged. “Sure.” She looked at Maggie. “That okay?”

  “Yes,” Maggie said. “And maybe we could coordinate some workshops at the store. Oren should have everything finished by summer.” She turned to Rena and smiled. “Would you think about coming and doing a workshop in egg tempera?”

  Rena nodded. “If I’m in town, absolutely.”

  “How did you start working in egg tempera, anyway?” Ruby asked, shifting sideways on her stool to look at Rena.

  “I liked the effect,” Rena said, brushing a loose tendril of hair back off her cheek. “I started playing around, but believe it or not, it was actually a weekend workshop that got me hooked.”

  “How did you end up in Red Wing?” I asked.

  She smiled across the table. “Would you believe I saw a short video about Red Wing online and fell in love with the town?”

  Maggie’s mouth was full but she began to nod.

  “The man with the springer spaniel?” I said.

  Rena nodded.

  “That’s Morgan,” Maggie said. “The dog, I mean. Tim, his owner, is a documentary filmmaker. He grew up in Red Wing.”

  “Where did you live before Red Wing?” Ruby asked as she speared another piece of cake. I wanted to hug her. She was asking most of the questions I’d been going to ask.

  “Pretty much everywhere. My dad designs recycling plants. We’d spend a year or two somewhere and then move on. Living in Red Wing may be the longest I’ve ever stayed in one place.” She looked at the three of us. “What about you? Did you all grow up here?”

  “Ruby and I did,” Maggie said. She slid off her stool and headed for the kettle. “Kathleen came here from Boston to supervise renovations at the library.”

  “And you fell in love with Mayville Heights,” Rena said.

  Ruby looked up from her plate. “More like with a certain police detective.”

  I felt my cheeks getting red. “That’s not the only reason I decided to stay,” I said. “I really do like living here. And there’s Owen and Hercules.”

  Rena looked confused. “Owen and Hercules?”

  “My cats,” I said. “They kind of think they’re people. I don’t think they’d do well in the city.” I looked over at Maggie, who had just put more water in the kettle and plugged it in again. “They’re a bit spoiled.”

  “Owen and Hercules are not like other cats,” Maggie said. “They’re very intelligent.”

  That was an understatement, I thought.

  “Wait a minute,” Rena said, gesturing at Ruby with her fork. “I saw those paintings you did. Were those Kathleen’s cats?”

  Ruby grunted a yes because her mouth was full of cake. She swallowed and began to tell Rena about the boys posing for her.

  Rena Adler was very good at deflecting any conversation away from herself, I realized. I was even more convinced that she was hiding something. But was I right that she was really Devin Rossi? And even more important, had she killed Margo?

  As I listened to her and Ruby talk, with occasional comments added by Maggie, I found myself hoping I was wrong. Rena was funny, kind in her comments about other artists’ work without being fake or cloying. I could see both Maggie and Ruby liked her.

  After about another ten minutes or so, Ruby got to her feet and stretched. “I need to get back to work,” she said. She smiled across the table. “Thanks for the cake, Kathleen. And the tea, Maggie.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said.

  “I’ll put something together on that art exhibit idea and e-mail it to you if that’s okay?” she said.

  I nodded. “That’s good.”

  Ruby looked at Maggie. “You’ll be down at the shop this afternoon?”

  “I’m meeting Oren there at one o’clock,” she said.

  Rena slid off her stool. “I should get back to work as well.” She looked from me to Maggie. “This was fun. Thank you.”

  “I’m glad you joined us,” Maggie said. She tipped her head in my direction. “Kathleen makes great brownies, too.”

  “Was that a hint?” I teased.

  She nodded. “It was.”

  Rena smiled at us. “See you later,” she said.

  I watched her head down the hall, waving at Ruby as she passed her studio door. I closed Maggie’s door and turned around to discover she’d taken all the cups and plates over to the sink. So much for my plan. I closed my eyes and blew out a breath.

  “It’s in a bag on the counter,” Maggie said.

  I opened my eyes. “What’s on the counter?”

  She turned from the sink. “Rena’s cup. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? Something with her fingerprints?” She gestured at the brown paper bag sitting next to the kettle.

  “How did you know?” I asked walking over to her.

  She turned off the tap. “Did you notice how Rena deflected any questions about herself? When Ruby asked where she’d lived before she moved to Red Wing she didn’t name a place. She said ‘everywhere.’”

  I leaned against the wooden cabinet. “I noticed.”

  “That’s not the first time she’s done that,” Maggie said, reaching for the small towel she kept on a hook next to the sink. “She did the same thing with Susan one of the times we were at the library.” She dried her hands. “I think she’s hiding something.”

  I nodded. “I think you’re right.”

  Maggie raked a hand through her blonde curls. “She didn’t kill Margo Walsh.”

  “I like her too, Mags,” I said, gently.

  “I’m not saying that just because I like her. She doesn’t give off that kind of energy.” She shook her head. “I’m not saying she’s not keeping secrets, because it’s pretty obvious she is. I just don’t think killing Margo is one of them.”

  I looked over at the paper bag. “I hope you’re right.”

  I left Riverarts and walked over to Eric’s. I’d left the truck in the library parking lot. It was too early for lunch, but a large cup of coffee sounded pretty good.

  Nic Sutton was working. “Hi, Kathleen,” he said. “What can I get you?”

  “Two large coffees to go,” I said.

  “I just put a new pot on,” he said. “If you can wait for a couple of minutes you can have a fresh cup.”

  “Sounds good,” I said. “Thanks.”

  I dropped onto one of the padded stools at the counter and pulled out my phone, hoping I’d get Marcus and not his voice mail. I couldn’t help smiling when I heard his voice.

  “Do you have time for a break?” I asked.

  “I’d love one,” he said. I imagined him leaning back at his desk and stretching his arms over his head. “Where are you?”

  “I’m at Eric’s,” I said.

  “I’ll be there in about five minutes.”

  I was just snapping lids on the paper take-out cups when Marcus walked in to the café. I walked over to meet him. “How about a walk along the trail?” I asked.

  “Fine with me,” he said.

  I handed him his coffee and we left the restaurant, crossing the street to walk along the path that curved along the water’s edge.

  “How was your morning?” I asked.

  “Too much paperwork,” he said. He took a sip of his coffee and made a little murmur of happiness. “Why is Eric’s coffee s
o much better than the coffee at the station?”

  “Because they don’t buy the coffee beans at the Dollar Store. Because no one pounds on the top of the coffeemaker when they think it’s not making coffee fast enough. Because they actually wash the carafe once in a while.” I ticked off the reasons on my fingers.

  He shot me a sidelong glance. “That was a rhetorical question,” he said, taking another sip.

  “Marcus, did you or Hope talk to an artist named Rena Adler?” I asked.

  He frowned at the change of subject and stared off into the distance for a moment. “She’s one of the local artists, isn’t she? Hope talked to her.” He stopped walking. “Why?”

  I took a drink to buy a moment. “Because I don’t think Rena Adler is her real name.” I held up one hand. “Hear me out before you say anything.”

  He caught the hand in his own and gave it a squeeze. “I will,” he said. Then he smiled. “I will,” he repeated.

  I took a deep breath. “Do you remember Gavin telling us about Devin Rossi, the art thief?”

  Marcus nodded. “Yes.” He gave my hand another squeeze before he let go of it. We started walking again.

  “Devin Rossi seemed to disappear two years ago. At the same time Rena Adler seemed to appear out of nowhere.” I took a sip from my cup. “I called Julian McCrea. He met Devin Rossi once at a museum gala. Except for the hair color, his description of her could have been a description of Rena. And . . .” I paused.

  “And what?” Marcus asked. He gave the take-out cup a shake and took another drink.

  “And she’s evasive about her past. She manages to deflect any questions anyone asks about where she lived or what she used to do.” I waited for Marcus to tell me this was a police investigation and I should stay out of it.

  “I know,” is what he did say.

  “What do you mean, you know?” I said.

  “She was evasive with Hope as well, and Hope couldn’t find any more about the woman than you did.”

  I brushed my hair back off my face. “Do you remember telling me that there was a partial fingerprint from an art heist that was probably Devin Rossi’s?”

  His blue eyes narrowed. “I remember,” he said, slowly.

  I held up the paper bag. “Rena Adler’s fingerprints are on the mug in this bag.”

  “I can’t use that in court.”

  We’d stopped walking again.

  “I know,” I said. “But Rena or Devin or whoever she is doesn’t know that.”

  Marcus shifted from one foot to the other. “If—if for the sake of argument Rena Adler is Devin Rossi, she probably does know that.”

  I exhaled loudly. “Okay, but if the fingerprints tell you that Rena isn’t, well, Rena, you can at least talk to her again. You don’t have to tell her how you know.”

  He may have been frustrated, but I could see a gleam of interest in his blue eyes.

  I laid a hand on his arm. “Marcus, Rena Adler is Devin Rossi. I’m certain of it.”

  “Because she doesn’t like talking about her past? Or because she looks like the woman Julian McCrea described to you?”

  “Because of her name.”

  He looked surprised and his eyes shifted uncertainly from side to side. Obviously that hadn’t been the answer he was expecting. “I don’t understand.”

  “The name Rena. It can be a variation of Irene.”

  “Irene Adler.” I watched as the name registered with him. “The woman,” he said slowly. “Sherlock Holmes.”

  I nodded.

  “It could just be a coincidence.”

  “But it’s not,” I said. “We have a reciprocal agreement with the library in Red Wing. People with library cards from their library can use them in ours and vice versa. Rena borrowed a couple of books from this library: A Coffin for Dimitrios and The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. Eric Ambler and Agatha Christie. Mystery classics.” I exhaled slowly. “Marcus, I’m not wrong about this.”

  He looked out across the water for a long moment, as if somehow the answers might be bobbing on the water. Then he turned back to me. “All right,” he said, holding out his hand.

  I gave him the bag.

  “You know it’s a long shot,” he warned.

  “Not to me,” I said. I smiled up at him. “Anyway, we were a long shot.”

  “Point taken,” he said, and the look he gave me made my insides feel as wobbly as a bowl of Jell-O salad at a Fourth of July picnic.

  We turned around then and walked back to Eric’s.

  “Where’s the truck?” Marcus asked, looking around.

  “I left it at the library. It was such a nice day I decided to walk over to Riverarts.”

  “I can drop you,” he said.

  I shook my head. “Thanks, but I think I’ll walk.”

  He reached for my free hand and gave it a squeeze. “I’ll talk to you later,” he said.

  My coffee wasn’t that hot anymore, but I finished it as I walked to the library. I wasn’t going to waste a perfectly good cup just because of the temperature. Marshall Holmes was coming toward me on the sidewalk as I came level with the building. He raised a hand in greeting.

  “Good morning,” I said as he got closer.

  “Good morning, Kathleen,” he said. He glanced at the building. “Are you reopening?”

  I shook my head. “Not for a few more days.”

  “I guess it’s a good thing I have my e-reader, then.” He smiled. “I admit I like a paper book better, though.”

  I smiled back at him. “If people didn’t like paper books I’d be out of a job.”

  Marshall looked over at the building again. “I’m sorry if I’m being intrusive, but are there any leads in Margo Walsh’s death?”

  “I’m not really sure,” I said. “The police are still investigating.”

  “I didn’t know Margo very well,” he said. “But I hope they find whoever killed her.”

  “So do I,” I said. “And I hope you get your drawing back as well.”

  “It’s not what’s important,” Marshall said. “But thank you.” He glanced at his watch. “It was good to see you, Kathleen. I’m going to be in town for a few more days. I’ll be in for some ‘real’ books.”

  “I’ll see you then,” I said.

  Marcus arrived just before suppertime.

  “So?” I said, turning from the stove to look at him.

  “So you were right.”

  “I knew it,” I said. Hercules and Owen were sitting at my feet and I would have high-fived them both if they’d known how. And if they’d had hands. “Are you going to ask her to come in to answer more questions?”

  “I’m not sure that’s the best way to go about things,” he said, peeling off his jacket. He paused for a moment. “What happened to the local pieces that were part of the exhibit? Are they still at the library?”

  Owen looked at me, yawned and headed for the basement door. Bored with the conversation or heading for his lair in the cellar, I wasn’t sure.

  “They are,” I said. “Gavin and I were going to see if we could return them to the artists sometime in the next few days.” Hercules leaned against my leg.

  “Could you return Rena Adler’s artwork, say, tomorrow? And without Solomon?”

  “I don’t see why not,” I said. “What are you thinking? You don’t want to question Rena at the police station?”

  “No, I don’t,” he said. “I don’t want to question her in any kind of official way at all. If I do that, she’s likely to request a lawyer.”

  “You’re having second thoughts.”

  “I don’t want to do anything to jeopardize the investigation. Like I told you, I can’t use those fingerprints as evidence.”

  “But if you have a conversation with her at the library, anything you learn is evidence,” I said.<
br />
  “It’s a fine line, but yes,” he said.

  “Okay. How about this? Gavin has a meeting in Minneapolis with the insurance company. He won’t be back until after lunch. I’ll call Rena and see if I can set something up for midmorning. Then when Gavin gets back he and I can return everyone else’s pieces.”

  “Sounds good,” Marcus said.

  I called Rena after supper. Marcus had gone back to work. She was happy to hear she could get her paintings back. I felt a twinge of guilt as I set a time for her to meet me at the library the next morning. Owen cocked his head to one side and eyed me as I hung up the phone.

  “I hate this part,” I said to him with a sigh. “I like Rena.”

  “Merow,” he said.

  There really wasn’t anything else to say.

  18

  The sun was shining in the morning and the sky was slash of blue overhead as though Mother Nature had taken a wide paintbrush to the sky, so I walked down Mountain Road to meet Marcus at the library. As soon as we were inside the building I headed for the book drop. There weren’t nearly as many books and magazines as there had been in the past few days. I had enough time to take care of them before Rena showed up.

  “I like her,” I said to Marcus as I sorted the books onto carts.

  “Any special reason?” he asked. He was leaning against the circulation desk, handing books and magazines to me.

  I looked up at him. “I told you how she managed to change the subject anytime the conversation turned to anything personal?”

  He nodded.

  “Well, Ruby and I were talking about possibly having an exhibit of local artwork at the library this summer and maybe tying it into a workshop at the co-op. Maggie asked Rena if she’d been willing to do something with egg tempera. I was watching her.”

  “And?”

  “She said yes and I believed her. I watched her body language.” I held up a hand before he could say anything. “She could have said no. She could have made an excuse. For that matter, why did she stay in Mayville Heights at all once the show was canceled? If she killed Margo, why didn’t she leave town? I know she’s been working at the high school with Ruby, but she could have gotten out of that.”

  He ran his hand over the cover of a children’s picture book. “I think there’s jam on this one,” he said.