Cat Trick

by Sofie Kelly

  “Were you missing the spatula then?”

  “Honestly, I didn’t miss it at all. I think I have at least half a dozen exactly alike.”

  An idea was starting to form in my head, like a snowball rolling downhill, gaining size and form as it went.

  “Detective Gordon—Marcus—will get to the bottom of this,” I said. “He’s not just a good police officer; he’s my friend. You can trust him.”

  “Okay,” Georgia said. She pressed her lips together and then gave me a small smile. “Thank you for . . . for listening and for believing me.”

  “If I can help at all, please ask,” I said. I pointed over my shoulder at the library building. “I’m here most of the time when we’re open and Abigail knows how to get in touch with me when I’m not.”

  I turned to Abigail. “I’ll see you Monday,” I said. I smiled at Georgia one last time and headed for Eric’s.

  It was past one thirty, so the lunch rush was over when I stepped into the café. There were five people at one of the tables by the window, including a couple of artists who had studio space at River Arts. Marcus was sitting alone at a table by the end wall. He looked up when I walked in and smiled. Then he pushed back his chair and got to his feet. My feet had already started walking over to him.

  “Hi,” he said.

  I couldn’t help smiling back at him. “Hi.”

  “Kathleen, I’m sorry,” he said.

  I hadn’t been expecting that. “What for?” I asked.

  “Could you sit down for a minute?” he asked, gesturing at the table.

  I nodded and pulled out the other chair.

  Marcus leaned one elbow on the table. “Look,” he said. “I keep saying, ‘Stay out of my case,’ but I do know that you’re not getting mixed up in my investigations on purpose.”

  I could see the sincerity in his blue eyes. I owed him the same thing in return. “Sometimes I am,” I said.

  His expression changed to surprise. He straightened in the chair and put a hand on each armrest. “Okay. Would you like to explain?”

  This time I leaned forward. “Marcus, Harrison Taylor is very important to me,” I said.

  He nodded. “I know. You risked your life to get those papers about his daughter.”

  For a minute I was back in the old cabin in the woods, smoke slowly seeping into the small, dark basement where I’d been trapped. I swallowed and gave my head a little shake.

  Marcus must have seen something in my face. “You all right?” he asked.

  I nodded. “I’m okay. I was just thinking how happy I was to see you coming through the snow that day.”

  “I was happy to see that you were alive,” he said quietly.

  “You know I’d do anything that I could for Harrison, for any of the Taylors.” I cleared my throat. “Harry—Harry Junior—asked me to see what I could find out about Mike Glazer’s death.”

  Marcus rubbed a hand across his chin. “You said yes.”

  I nodded. “Have you met Wren Magnusson?”

  “I’ve spoken to her.”

  “She’s friends with Harrison’s daughter, Elizabeth.”

  “And Mike’s brother, Gavin, was almost her stepfather.”

  “Yes.”

  Behind the counter, over Marcus’s shoulder, Claire held up a turkey sandwich and gave me an inquiring look. I nodded and focused on Marcus again. “People tell me things. Maybe it’s because I’m from away and they think their secrets are safe with me. Or maybe it’s because I’m a good listener.” I shrugged. “And I’m pretty decent at spotting a liar. I’ve been watching people pretend to be someone they’re not all my life.” I wished I had a cup or a glass so I’d have something to do with my hands. “Harry didn’t ask me to keep anything I learned from you, and I haven’t.”

  Marcus continued to silently watch me. I could tell from the line of his jaw that he was clenching his teeth together.

  Claire came over to us with the coffeepot. She poured a cup for me and topped up Marcus’s. “Your sandwich will be ready in a couple of minutes,” she said.

  “Why didn’t you tell me this before?” Marcus asked once Claire was back at the counter.

  A good question, although I wasn’t sure he was going to like my answer. I folded my hands around my cup, lacing my fingers together. “Because I knew that no matter what you said to me, I was going to see what I could find out. I didn’t want to argue with you and I also didn’t want to ruin this”—I made a back-and-forth motion in the air—“whatever this is between us.”

  I studied his face. “Can you accept the fact that I can’t just stand around making stinky cat crackers when people I care about need help?”

  “I don’t want you to end up being the one who needs help,” he said. “So can you accept the fact that I’m never going to like you getting involved in a police investigation?”

  I played with my knife, sending it spinning on the table like the pointer in a game of chance. “I’m trying,” I said.

  He blew out a breath. “So am I.”

  Claire appeared then with my sandwich. She topped up my cup, smiled and said, “Enjoy.”

  “No secrets, Kathleen,” Marcus said, his voice and expression serious. “No investigating cabins in the woods with only a cat for backup. I’m not going to tell you not to do this, because I know you’re going to ignore me. Just don’t go off playing amateur detective by yourself. You find out something—anything—I want to know.”

  I nodded. “Okay.” I picked up half my sandwich. It tasted even better than it smelled and it smelled wonderful. “You don’t seriously think Georgia Tepper killed Mike, do you?” I asked after a couple of big bites.

  “You talked to her,” Marcus said. He didn’t seem surprised.

  “She was at the library with Abigail.”

  He shifted sideways so he could stretch out his long legs. “So you know Georgia Tepper—”

  “—is really Paige Wyler. I do.” I pulled a bit of mushroom out of my sandwich and ate it. “I also know she lived in Chicago and the company her father-in-law works for is one of Legacy Tours’ clients.”

  Marcus tented the fingers of his right hand over his coffee cup. “It is true, you know; people do tell you things,” he said.

  “I also know Georgia was arrested and charged with assault and then the charges were dropped.”

  “She threatened her former mother-in-law with a chef’s knife.”

  “That I didn’t know,” I said. “But according to Georgia, the former mother-in-law was trying to kidnap Georgia’s little girl. You can’t fault her for protecting her child.”

  Marcus shook his head. “That’s why the charges were dropped.” He picked up his cup and drained it. “But you have to admit there’s a similarity: a chef’s knife, a spatula.”

  “There’s a big difference between a chef’s knife and a little spatula used for spreading frosting on cupcakes.” I frowned at him. “And Mike Glazer was asphyxiated.” I waved the hand that wasn’t holding the other half of my sandwich at him. “I know you didn’t say that, but I saw the body.”

  He folded his arms. “No comment.” That was usually as good as a yes.

  “If Georgia was responsible for Mike’s death, then why would she take that spatula and stick it in the ground? It makes no sense. It’s a red herring.”

  “This isn’t an Agatha Christie novel, Kathleen,” he said.

  “No,” I said. “But it’s the kind of thing that would turn up in one of her books.” I leaned my elbows on the table. “The knife wasn’t there the day Owen found the button from Alex Scott’s jacket. I know you think I can’t be sure of that, but I am. Which means that someone stuck it in the ground later. Why? There’s no reason for Georgia to do that.”

  Marcus brushed crumbs off his tie. “There’s no reason for anyone to do that.”

  I wiped my fingers on my napkin. “Yes, there is. It’s a diversion. A distraction. It puts the focus on Georgia instead of the real killer.”

 
“Alleged killer.”

  “All right, alleged killer,” I said.

  He looked at his watch. “I’m sorry, Kathleen. I have to go.” He got to his feet and grabbed his jacket from the back of his seat. “By the way, your chair’s almost finished,” he said.

  “You mean you’ve actually been able to put those pieces back into something I’m going to be able to sit on?”

  He nodded.

  “I can’t wait to see it,” I said, smiling up at him. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

  He shrugged and his deep blue eyes never left my face. “Maybe you’ll think of something.”

  I immediately thought of his mouth kissing mine and wondered if he was thinking the same thing. “I, uh, I’ll try,” I managed to get out.

  “I’ll talk to you soon,” he said and headed over to pay Claire.

  I watched him go because . . . well, it was fun watching his long legs move. Then I ate the last bites of my sandwich and finished my coffee. I wiped my fingers again and headed up to the counter.

  Claire gave me a knowing Cheshire cat grin. “Detective Gordon already got it,” she said. She held out a small take-out bag. “This too.”

  It was a still-warm chocolate-chip cookie. I felt my cheeks redden as I waited for her to say something else, but she just kept smiling at me. I took a step backward and almost fell over a chair.

  “I’m just going to go then,” I said, gesturing in the general direction of the door. And I did, before I started acting any more like a goofy teenager.

  18

  Sunday was warm and sunny, and even Hercules was happy to spend most of the day outside while I worked in the yard. I sat on one of the big Adirondack chairs to eat lunch. Hercules took the other, eyeing the big maple for any signs of Professor Moriarty, while Owen roamed between our yard and Rebecca’s. By midafternoon I’d cleaned out the last of the flower beds and made a pile of brush and weeds for Harry to take away for composting.

  Owen was sprawled over the railing of Rebecca’s gazebo, on his stomach, legs hanging down on either side, dozing in the sunshine. Hercules was poking at the compost pile with one paw. My back was stiff from bending over and I needed a break.

  I stretched out in the swing, knees bent, one arm tucked under my head. “Hey, leave that alone,” I called to Hercules.

  He made his way across the grass and came to stand in front of the swing, green eyes narrowed questioningly. I patted my midsection. “C’mon up,” I said.

  He jumped onto my stomach, setting the swing swaying gently. I reached out to steady him with my free hand. He leaned his head back and looked all around.

  “The bird’s not here,” I said. “He’s hanging out somewhere with his little bird friends. I think you can relax.”

  He made a sound a lot like a sigh and lay down, stretching across my chest with his chin on my breastbone.

  “And please stay out of that pile of branches and dead plants. Harry’s coming to get all that tomorrow to put in his compost pile.”

  I stroked the cat’s black fur, warm from the afternoon sun. “I don’t have anything to tell him,” I said. “Mike Glazer didn’t die from anything natural—like a heart attack—but other than that, I don’t know what happened to him, or why it happened.”

  I scratched the top of the cat’s head with one finger. “Got any ideas?” I asked.

  He squinted at me. Either he was pondering my questions or the sun was in his eyes.

  “Mike’s partners are out. They both have alibis. They were at that awards dinner in Minneapolis.” I sighed. “I keep thinking that it has to matter that he was killed here, in Mayville Heights.” I moved my arm a little under my head. “Okay,” I said. “There’s Liam.”

  Hercules made a face.

  “Yes, I know Maggie likes him, but Liam and Mike did have that argument outside Eric’s Place. Maybe whatever happened was an accident and Liam panicked.”

  Hercules didn’t look convinced.

  “Who else?” I said.

  He seemed to think for a moment and then he licked his whiskers.

  “Georgia?” I said. I shook my head. “I don’t think so.” She’d been awfully convincing in her explanation about losing the little spatula. Then again, whoever killed Mike had likely convinced him they weren’t a threat.

  He flicked the tip of his tail and gave a snippy meow.

  “Fine. Liam and Georgia are both on the list.”

  Herc put his head back down again.

  “What about Burtis?” I asked.

  Hercules gave his head a vigorous shake. I wasn’t sure if that was a yes or a no.

  “What reason could he have had for killing Mike?” The cat didn’t have an answer. “Does Burtis strike you as the kind of person who would panic and run if something had happened by accident?” I blew a strand of hair off my cheek. “Liam, Georgia and Burtis,” I said. “That’s what we have. Or some mysterious person from out of town who followed Mike here to kill him because . . . because . . .” I made a face. “I don’t have a ‘because.’”

  I put my arm around Hercules and sat up. I set him on the swing beside me. He shook himself and looked inquiringly at me. “I guess we might as well start with Liam. What do we know about him?” I held up one finger. “He’s a bartender at Barry’s Hat.” I stuck a second finger in the air. “He’s working on a degree in psychology.” I held up a third finger. “He’s been the driving force behind this whole tour proposal idea.”

  Herc cocked his head to one side.

  I nodded. “Yeah. That might be important.”

  I knew almost nothing about Liam Stone, I realized, other than he was good-looking and liked to help women in trouble. He hadn’t borrowed books or anything else from the library. People’s borrowing habits were a good way to get some insight into what secret dreams they had and who they really were.

  “Maggie said Liam likes to rescue damsels in distress,” I said to Hercules. Then I remembered what she’d also said about Liam rescuing Wren Magnusson the night Mike Glazer had been killed.

  I folded one arm over my face and groaned into my shoulder. “Liam has an alibi,” I said, letting my hand slide down over the back of my head. I nodded slowly. “I bet Marcus knew that. That’s why he didn’t seem too concerned about that fight between Liam and Mike.”

  Hercules put both paws on my leg.

  “That leaves us with Georgia, Burtis and some nameless, faceless person from Chicago . . . or, or anywhere for that matter.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “Do you know what the problem is?”

  He looked around. Searching for an answer to my question or doing a quick spot check to make sure his friend the grackle wasn’t back?

  “We don’t know anything about Mike other than what Rebecca and Harrison told us. And the fact that everyone who’d dealt with him here in town thought he was a jerk.”

  Rebecca had described Mike as being “full of life.” Harry Senior had said he was “young and reckless.” And they’d both talked about how the death of his brother had changed Mike.

  I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to recall Harrison’s exact words: If anyone had predicted that one of the Glazer boys was going to end up dead the way he did, well, no one would have figured it to be Gavin.

  I opened my eyes and looked down into Hercules’s green ones. “Everyone says that Mike changed when his brother died. And Harrison told me no one would have expected Gavin to die ‘the way he did.’ Maybe that’s where the answer to this whole thing is. Maybe what we need to do next is to find out just exactly how Gavin Glazer did die.”

  19

  The problem was I couldn’t find any details about Gavin Glazer’s death online. His car had missed a turn on Wild Rose Bluff and gone down over an embankment. The weather was good, the road bare and dry. I scrolled through two weeks’ worth of newspapers online for the period of time after the accident, looking for follow-up articles and reading the Letters to the Editor. There was some speculation that a deer might have darted in f
ront of the car, and when Gavin had swerved to avoid it, he’d lost control of the vehicle, but that’s all it was—speculation.

  After supper I’d taken the computer outside to sit in one of the big chairs by the back steps. Hercules was on the wide, flat arm of the other so he could look at the computer screen. “There’s something off here,” I said to him. “The night of Gavin Glazer’s accident it wasn’t snowing or raining. He was on a stretch of road he’d been driving since he was sixteen.” I touched the screen with one finger. “See that?” I said, pointing to the photo on the front page of the archived issue of the Mayville Heights Chronicle. “The embankment is on the left-hand side of the road and it’s an open field on the right. If a deer ran out in front of him, where did it come from and why didn’t he see it?”

  I leaned against the back of the wooden chair. Hercules seemed to be reading the article on the screen, so I left the page open. I knew I was reaching, but something felt off about Gavin Glazer’s death. Maybe it had nothing whatsoever to do with his little brother’s death last week, but I didn’t have anything better to go on.

  “I think I’ll call Mary,” I said.

  Hercules stopped reading—assuming he had been reading and not just admiring his reflection in the screen. He jumped down and started for the house. There was an e-mail in my in-box from Lise, I noticed. It was probably the information I’d asked her for about Legacy Tours.

  Hercules paused, looked back over his shoulder at me and meowed insistently. I could read the e-mail later, I decided. I shut down the computer and followed him.

  I wasn’t sure how to explain to Mary why I wanted to know what I wanted to know.

  “You don’t think Mike’s death was an accident, do you, Kathleen?” she asked.