Faux Paw: A Magical Cats Mystery

by Sofie Kelly

  I took the book and set it aside in a pile I was keeping for Abigail to repair.

  “Maybe she stayed so she wouldn’t look guilty,” Marcus said. “Maybe she stayed to keep an eye on our investigation. Right now, I don’t know.”

  I took the last magazine he handed me, set it on top of the others and got to my feet. I glanced at my watch. “Rena should be here soon,” I said. “I’ll go watch for her.”

  Marcus straightened up. “I’ll do that,” he said. He went to wait between the double doors and I wandered over to stand in the entrance to the exhibit area. Marcus had sent Curtis out for coffee. I looked around the space. I remembered Margo working with Larry Taylor to make sure the lighting was absolutely perfect.

  I felt a lump in my throat. It seemed that her passing hadn’t really left a hole in anyone’s life.

  I had my crazy family as well as Lise and my other friends back in Boston. I had Marcus and Maggie and Rebecca and Harrison and so many special people here in Mayville Heights. I liked Rena Adler, but I had also liked Margo, for all her perfectionism, and I wanted whoever had killed her brought to justice. Somebody had to fight for Margo, and it looked like that was going to be me.

  I heard voices behind me. Rena had arrived and Marcus was letting her in.

  “Hi, Kathleen,” she said as she stepped into the main part of the building. She’d brought cardboard to wrap around her paintings and I could see a roll of bubble wrap poking out of the top of her canvas tote. Marcus took the cardboard from her.

  I reminded myself that if Rena hadn’t done anything wrong there was nothing to worry about and forced myself to smile at her. “Good morning,” I said.

  “Am I the first one here?” she asked, looking around.

  “You’re the only one, actually,” I said, taking the cardboard from Marcus and leaning it against the desk. “Ruby said you’ll be at the high school all day for the next couple of days. I thought it might be easier for you to get your paintings today.”

  “It is. Thanks,” she said. She glanced at Marcus. “Thank you, too, Detective.”

  “You’re welcome,” Marcus said. He looked around. “Tell me which pieces are yours and I’ll lift them down for you.”

  Rena pointed at her two paintings, one of a small mouse and the other of a turtle near the edge of a pool of water.

  Marcus lifted down the turtle painting and carried it over to the checkout desk. I slid the card with Rena’s name and the name of the painting out of its holder on the wall and handed it to her.

  She ran a hand along the side of the frame. “I like this frame,” she said. “When Margo chose it I wasn’t so sure, but now I can see she was right.”

  “You can keep it,” I said, running my own finger over the smooth pale wood.

  Rena looked uncertainly at me. In jeans and a long-sleeved black T-shirt, with her black hair in a loose side braid, she looked a lot younger than I knew she had to be.

  “Margo wanted you all to have professionally framed pieces. She arranged it through the museum.” I smiled at the memory of Margo, walking the length of the upstairs hallway, having an animated conversation with someone from the museum. “She was hoping these pieces would be part of other shows.”

  “What happened to her was horrible,” Rena said softly, her expression a mix of sadness and gravity.

  The emotion looked genuine. The energy coming off her felt genuine. A knot of uncertainty twisted in my stomach.

  “The last time you saw Margo Walsh was right after lunch on Thursday?” Marcus asked.

  Rena shook her head. “No. Before lunch.” She looked at me and I nodded my head in confirmation. “We were all here. All the local artists, I mean.”

  His gaze had been drawn to the picture on the counter. “That’s the turtle preserve isn’t it?”

  Rena smiled. “It is. How did you know?”

  “I’ve hiked all through that area, though not for a while.” He narrowed his blue eyes at her. “It’s very good. Have you been painting your whole life?”

  She nodded and reached for the roll of plastic wrap in the bag at her feet. I was surprised that she was wrapping the painting so carefully. Maybe it was going somewhere other than back to Red Wing with her. “If you count finger painting in kindergarten, then, yes,” she said.

  “I didn’t like finger painting,” I said with a sheepish smile.

  Rena turned to look at me. “Why?”

  “I didn’t like getting my hands dirty because we could only go to the reading corner with clean hands and that was my favorite place in the classroom.”

  “It sounds like our destinies were already set,” she said.

  I laughed, remembering having this same conversation with Maggie and Ruby. “If our destinies are set in kindergarten, then my brother’s destiny is to burp for a living.”

  “Burp?” Rena asked.

  The edge of the plastic refused to tear. I reached over the counter and retrieved a pair of scissors for her.

  “Ethan’s big accomplishment in kindergarten was learning to burp the entire alphabet.”

  “You’re not really serious,” Rena said as she cut the plastic and then reached for one of the large pieces of cardboard that she’d brought with her.

  “Give Ethan a big bottle of root beer and he can still do it.”

  She laughed as she held up one sheet of cardboard, looking from it to the painting. She gave Marcus a sidelong glance. “What about you, Detective?” she asked. “What were you into in kindergarten?”

  A smile played at the corners of his mouth. “I was coatroom monitor.”

  “What’s a coatroom monitor?” I asked.

  He brushed something off the sleeve of his sport coat. “I made sure everyone hung up their coat and put their boots underneath their hook.”

  I looked at Rena. “I think we may just have proved your theory.”

  She laughed again. Rena was guarded, careful, but it seemed to me that she had relaxed, just a little.

  I looked back over my shoulder. “The pond with the turtle is beautiful, but the mouse is my favorite,” I said. “The detail is incredible.”

  Rena lifted the painting and slid the cardboard underneath. Marcus reached over and helped hold the frame, edging the scissors out of the way. “Thank you,” she said. “I did that one all from photographs.” She made a face. “It’s hard to get a mouse to pose for very long.”

  “Is there really egg in egg tempera paint?” Marcus asked.

  Rena nodded, shifting the placement of the painting a little to the left. “Yes. Egg yolk for the most part, along with the pigment and something to keep the mixture from drying out too quickly. Water usually, but not always. I think the final effect is more like watercolor. You don’t get the intense colors you would with, say, oil paint, but you can create some incredible detail.” She folded the cardboard along a line she’d already scored, bringing one side up over the front of the painting. “The technique goes back to the Egyptians.”

  I remembered what Julian had said about having likely seen Devin at the gallery party. “You must be a fan of Antony Williams, then,” I said.

  “I am.” She lifted her head and looked at me, surprised. “How do you know his work?”

  “I used to live in Boston. My family is still there. His portrait of Queen Elizabeth was part of an exhibit marking her Diamond Jubilee.” I reached for the tape roller at her feet and handed it to her. “I was so taken with his work I came home and looked up his other paintings online.”

  Rena folded the cardboard over the plastic-wrapped painting. “Do you have a favorite?” she asked.

  “Eleanor on Her 87th Birthday,” I said. “He captured every line on her face, every single strand of her hair.”

  “It’s even more incredible in person,” she said.

  “Could I hold that?” I said, gesturing
at the cardboard.

  “Oh yeah, thanks,” Rena said. I held the folded cardboard in place as she secured it with several wide pieces of tape.

  “So you were at the Weyman Gallery party, what, three years ago?” Marcus said.

  “Uh, no,” Rena said. She glanced up at Marcus, frowning just a little. She was good. Her voice didn’t falter. Her hands didn’t so much as twitch. The only thing that gave her away was looking away just a fraction too soon.

  “That painting is part of a private collection,” Marcus continued. “It’s only been shown in public once in the past thirty years. At that party.”

  Rena recovered well. “I guess I must have been there, then,” she said with a small smile. “People give me tickets to things.” She looked at me and shrugged. “It’s like collecting a few sets of salt and pepper shakers. Suddenly everyone you know is bringing you a pair when they go on vacation.”

  “A very valuable watercolor painting was stolen from that gallery the day after the party closed,” Marcus said. “The only thing the police found was part of a fingerprint that they weren’t able to identify.”

  Rena smiled at him. “So you think that I went to the opening gala and did what? Hid in a bathroom stall for twenty-four hours so I could steal a painting?”

  “Your name wasn’t on the guest list.”

  Rena still wasn’t rattled. “Like I said, people give me tickets to things all the time.” She stressed the word “give.” “I’m not a thief. I’m a starving artist.”

  Marcus took a pen out of his pocket. He hooked one of the handle loops of the scissors and held them up. “Then you won’t mind coming down to the police station with me.”

  “For what?” she said. “You think I killed Margo Walsh? You’re crazy. Why would I do that?”

  “Your real name is Devin Rossi.” I said the words as a statement, not a question.

  Rena looked at me. “No. My real name is not Devin Rossi. And I didn’t kill Margo. Why would I?” She looked from me to Marcus. A shadow passed across her face and she sighed. “Look, talk to the insurance company,” she said, gesturing with both hands. “I didn’t kill Margo. She hired me to disable the security system and steal the Weston drawing.”

  19

  For a moment there was silence; then Marcus said, “Rena Adler, you have the right to remain silent. Do you understand?”

  Rena set down the tape dispenser and folded her arms over her chest. “Yes.”

  He continued reading her the rest of her rights. When he finished she nodded. “I understand, Detective. But I don’t need a lawyer. Go ahead and ask your questions.”

  I touched her arm. “Rena, are you sure about that?” I asked.

  “I’m sure,” she said. Her gaze never left Marcus’s face.

  “What did you do with the artwork?” he asked.

  “Nothing. When I got here the security system was already turned off and the drawing wasn’t in the display case.”

  “Let me get this straight; Margo Walsh hired you to steal the Weston drawing, but when you broke in it was already gone?” Marcus didn’t try to hide the skepticism in his voice.

  “Yes. She wanted to prove that the security system wasn’t enough to protect the artwork so the tour would be canceled.”

  Rena turned her head to look at me then. “The first meeting we all had with Margo.” She pointed across the library to one of our meeting rooms. “You were there, Kathleen. You heard what she said about the pieces belonging in a museum.”

  I glanced at Marcus and nodded. “Margo thought the artwork was too old and too fragile to be out of a controlled setting.” I turned to Rena. “I don’t understand; you said your name isn’t Devin Rossi.”

  “My real name isn’t Devin Rossi,” she said. “My real name is Rena Adler, and, yes, it’s a variation on Irene Adler, but I’m guessing you already figured that out. My father was a mystery lover. I got the name Devin Rossi from a movie.”

  So even though Rena’s name had made me think she might be Devin Rossi, I was wrong about which of her names was a fake.

  “Can you prove Margo hired you to break in to the library?” Marcus asked Rena.

  “You mean did I sign a contract or write a receipt? No.” There was nothing defensive in her body language, but there was an edge of sarcasm in her voice. If anything she looked . . . angry. “Talk to the insurance company. They were involved in this.”

  “I already have talked to them. They didn’t say anything about some plan to test the security system.”

  It was impossible to miss the surprise that flashed across Rena’s face. She closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them again she focused totally on Marcus. “Then check Margo’s bank accounts or her credit cards. She transferred ten thousand dollars to an account in Turks and Caicos just after one a.m. Thursday morning.”

  “Do you have a routing number?” Marcus asked.

  “If it comes to that,” Rena said. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I didn’t kill Margo. You must have her cell phone. There should be a text from Doyle’s Art Supplies telling her her order isn’t ready. That’s me letting her know there was a problem. She sent a text back saying she’d call to change her order. But she didn’t call. I was at Eric’s Place for about an hour. The waiter was flirting. He’ll remember me.”

  “You were flirting with Larry Taylor to find out how the security system worked,” I said. “You were trying to figure out how to disable it.”

  Rena looked away for a moment. “I’m sorry about Larry. He’s a nice guy. And, no, he didn’t do anything to compromise the library’s security, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  Marcus glanced over at the main doors. “You couldn’t have tampered with the keypad. It’s set up to call the police if there’s a security breach.”

  For a long moment Rena just looked at him. Then she shrugged. “In theory it is possible to redirect the keypad, send it to a rogue cell phone network. Or so I’ve heard. But like I told you. The system was off. “

  “You’ll need to come down to the police station,” Marcus said, pulling his keys out of his pocket. “And you really should find a lawyer. There’s still that fingerprint from Chicago you need to explain.”

  I saw a hint of a smile cross Rena’s face. “I don’t think that’s going to be that big a problem,” she said. “I don’t think the alleged owner really wants to explain how she ended up with that painting in the first place.”

  “Where’s the Weston drawing?” Marcus asked again.

  Rena brushed her hair back impatiently from her face. “I didn’t take it. I told you. It wasn’t in the case.”

  “You’re asking me to take a lot of things on faith, Ms. Adler,” Marcus said.

  Rena actually smiled at him. “You know I didn’t take the drawing, Detective,” she repeated.

  Marcus held up a hand. “Hang on a second,” he said. He frowned at Rena. “What do you mean, I know you didn’t take it?”

  “I know the police have the drawing, Detective. I’m assuming you’re saying you don’t to throw whoever killed Margo off base.”

  “We don’t have the drawing,” Marcus said, flatly.

  Rena shook her head. “You mean all this time this building’s been closed and you still haven’t found it?”

  “Wait a minute,” I said, pointing with one finger. “You think the Weston drawing is here? In the library?”

  She looked from me to Marcus and back to me again. “It has to be. It was dotted, so there’s no way it can leave the building with the alarm system still in place. I assumed Margo put it somewhere for safekeeping.” She was looking at us both as though we were incredibly dense—which is how I felt. I had no idea what she was talking about and, judging from Marcus’s face, neither did he.

  I looked blankly at Rena. “What do you mean the drawing was dotted?”
<
br />   “I mean there was a computer chip—a very tiny computer chip—attached to the back of it,” she said. “If anyone tried to take it out of the building the chip would trigger the security system and—”

  I shook my head. “No,” I interrupted. “We weren’t using that aspect of the system here. It was too expensive and both the museum board and the insurance company thought the risk of anything happening was small. That was Gavin’s recommendation as well.” I did see the irony in that.

  Rena ran a hand over the cardboard encasing her painting. “Margo went over his head. She convinced the insurance company that the extra security was needed and there wasn’t much the board could do at the last minute. She wanted them to see that no matter what security procedures were in place, the artwork wasn’t safe.”

  I rubbed the back of my neck with one hand. A knot of frustration made it feel as though a giant hand was squeezing the back of my head.

  Marcus shook his head. “No, she didn’t. There was no extra security. No computer chips on the back of any of the artwork.”

  Rena looked like someone had just punched her in the stomach. “I don’t understand,” she said. “Why would Margo tell me that?”

  I didn’t have an answer. I couldn’t understand why Margo had wanted to sabotage the exhibit at all.

  “So if the drawing had a computer chip attached to it, what were you supposed to do with it?” Marcus asked.

  Rena pointed across the library. “I was supposed to hide it in the fourth book from the left in that case over there.” She was indicating one of the special cabinets that held our rare book collection.

  Marcus’s phone rang then. He pulled it out of his pocket and held up his hand. “I need to take this; give me a minute.”

  He walked a few steps away from us.

  “Kathleen, I didn’t kill Margo,” Rena said. “I had no reason to. Because of her, my paintings were going to be on display; my first real exhibit.”

  I held out both hands. “You seriously thought the exhibit would continue after you stole the drawing?” It was hard to believe Rena could have been that dense.