by Sofie Kelly
11
Wild Horse Separate Mane
“You are a little cat fink!”I said to Owen.
He glanced up at me. There were crumbs stuck to his nose and whiskers. As far as Owen was concerned, there was kitty integrity and then there were kitty treats.
I heard a “meow” from the porch. I left Owen spreading the rest of his snack over the floor and his face, and went to see what Hercules was up to.
He was sitting on the bench by the window. “Your brother is consorting with the enemy,” I said. Herc nuzzled my hand.
Okay, so Detective Gordon wasn’t exactly the enemy. He wasn’t exactly my friend, either.
I looked out through the screen door and caught sight of Rebecca in her gazebo, trying awkwardly to sweep. “C’mon,” I said to the cat. “I don’t see Ami, and Rebecca could use a hand.” He jumped down and went to stand by the door. I stopped to step into my gardening clogs, which I’d kicked off when I brought Detective Gordon in for coffee. Herc meowed impatiently.
“A closed door didn’t stop you last night,” I said, pushing the door open for him.
He flicked his tail at me, went down the steps and started for Rebecca’s.
I felt the brush of fur against my leg. Owen leaned out around me to look across the yard. “We’re going over to see Rebecca,” I said. At the sound of her name Owen trotted down the steps and headed purposefully for the back hedge. I followed the cats, even though I couldn’t see either one of them anymore.
“Hello, Kathleen,” Rebecca said when she spotted me. “Isn’t it a beautiful morning?”
“Yes, it is,” I said, climbing up the three steps to the main floor of the gazebo and taking the broom from her hands. “I’ll finish up.”
“You don’t have to do that,” she protested. Just then Hercules meowed from behind us. Rebecca turned. I started sweeping.
Herc’s front paws were on the top step.
“Hello, Hercules,” Rebecca said, leaning down toward the cat.
I swept my way toward them.
“Your fur is looking especially glossy,” she said.
The cat ducked his head—embarrassed by the compliment?
“Sardines,” I said.
Rebecca looked at me, puzzled.
“His fur. Susan told me to add sardines to the cats’ diet. She claims they’re what keep her dog’s coat looking so good.”
Rebecca patted her cheeks with both hands. “Do you think they’d work on my wrinkles?”
“Maybe,” I said with a grin. “But they’d be hell on your social life.”
I swept the last of the gazebo floor and the three shallow steps leading up to it. “There,” I said, “what else can I do?”
“Not a thing,” Rebecca said. “Thank you. Ami should be back from the theater in a couple of hours, and I thought we could have lunch out here.”
“The theater? Does that mean they’re going ahead with the festival?”
Rebecca shrugged and picked up a flowered tablecloth she’d set on the bench seat by the steps. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
I grabbed an end of the fabric and helped unfold the cloth. Hercules climbed onto the railing to supervise.
“The board called a meeting with all the performers,” Rebecca said. “I don’t think anything’s been decided yet.”
We spread the cloth over the table and Rebecca smoothed out the wrinkles. The breeze caught a corner of the material and blew it up over the tabletop.
I looked around. “Rebecca, where are your corner weights?” I asked.
“Oh. They’re in the shed,” she said, pointing to the small outbuilding in the far corner of the yard.
“I’ll get them,” I said, starting down the steps.
“They’re on the shelf under the window,” she called after me.
I snagged the broom as I passed it so I could put it away.
Rebecca’s garden shed, painted the same gray-blue as the house, looked like a tiny cottage, somewhere the three bears or Hansel and Gretel might live. The door was open. I stepped inside, blinking to adjust to the change in light. I set the broom behind the door and turned to the window. The weights were on the shelf, just as Rebecca had said.
Tablecloth weights were Maggie’s creation—whimsical pottery elves, fairies or gargoyles, hanging from a cord with a clip at the other end. The idea was to attach one to each corner of a tablecloth. The weight was enough to keep the breeze from blowing the edge of a picnic cloth into the potato salad on all but the windiest days.
I scooped up Rebecca’s weights—four grinning, zaftig and slightly lecherous-looking winged fairies—and turned around.
My eyes had completely adjusted to the dim light in the shed, so it was impossible to miss Owen, standing with his paws on the top edge of the recycling bin just to the right of the door. He had a piece of paper in his mouth.
“Owen!” I snapped. He turned at the sound of my voice. “What are you doing? Put that back!” I kept my voice low so Rebecca wouldn’t hear.
Owen dropped to all four paws, the sheet of paper still in his mouth.
I jerked my head toward the bin and took a couple of steps toward him. “Put it back!” I said, my voice sharp with warning. “Now.”
Owen looked at the recycling box, craning his neck to see the cardboard and paper stacked to the top.
And then he bolted.
I lunged, but I didn’t have a hope of grabbing him. I couldn’t catch what I couldn’t see. At the same moment Owen had run he’d also . . . vanished, faded out in less than a second.
I slumped against the doorframe of the shed. I had one cat that could walk through walls and another that could disappear—and also seemed to be developing into a kleptomaniac. My cat was turning into a cat burglar.
I rubbed the back of my neck. This would be funny if it were happening to someone else.
I was still holding on to Rebecca’s weights. I didn’t have time to obsess, figure out why my cats had superpowers and, in the case of Owen, flagrant disregard for the law. I didn’t even have time to figure out where Owen was. And any more deep breaths and I was going to hyperventilate and pass out on the floor of Rebecca’s shed. So I tucked my hair behind my ears and went back to the gazebo.
“You found them,” she said.
“I’ll fasten them for you,” I said. I dropped to one knee by the table. While I attached the fairies to the cloth I did a quick scan of what I could see of the yard beyond the steps to the gazebo. I didn’t catch so much as a glimpse of gray fur or even a piece of disembodied paper bouncing around the yard. I switched to the other side of the table and hung those weights, as well, before standing up to see if the cloth was hanging properly.
“That’s perfect. Thank you,” Rebecca said, smoothing out a small wrinkle in the cloth. “Why don’t you come over later and join us?” she asked. “I made lemon meringue pie.”
I sighed loudly, making my bangs flutter against my forehead. “I love your lemon meringue pie. But I have to be at the library early today.”
“Then at least take a piece home.”
How could I say no? “I’ll get a couple of chairs for you from the shed,” I said.
Rebecca made a dismissive gesture with her good hand. “You don’t have to do that,” she said.
“I don’t mind. And for a piece of your lemon pie, I’d walk down to the library to get you chairs.”
She laughed. “All right, then. I’ll go get you a piece of that pie.”
Owen wasn’t in the shed. At least I couldn’t see him. I did a quick check of the backyard. I didn’t see the cat anywhere, which, I realized, didn’t mean he wasn’t around.
Tucking a chair under each arm, I headed back to the gazebo, still watching for the cat. Maybe he’d gone home. I looked over into my own yard. I didn’t see Owen, but I did see Maggie. “Mags,” I called. She turned, grinning when she saw me and holding up a brown paper bag.
I was guessing she’d brought the blueberries she’d promised me.
She ducked through the gap in the hedge and walked over to where I was standing.
“Blueberries?” I asked.
“Picked this morning.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I have muffins in the house. Just let me open up these chairs for Rebecca.”
“I’ll give you a hand,” Maggie said, setting the sack of berries above her on the wide gazebo railing and taking one of the folding wooden chairs from me.
We set the chairs on opposite sides of the table. Maggie stood, mesmerized, looking up at the cedar timbers above her head. “This is beautiful,” she said, continuing to stare at the gazebo roof. “Look at the joints, the symmetry.” Maggie tended to look at everything from the perspective of an artist.
She ran her hand down one of the long posts that supported the roof of the structure. “I bet Harry built this.”
“Actually, it was his father.” Rebecca spoke from behind us.
I hadn’t heard her come out of the house. She was holding a plastic food container. Based on the size, there had to be more than one piece of pie inside.
“Hello, Maggie,” Rebecca said. “It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?”
“It is beautiful. And so is your gazebo,” Maggie said.
Rebecca reached out to pat the railing with one hand. “Thank you. But Harrison—Old Harry—deserves the credit. I told him what I wanted and he built it.”
“No plan?” I asked.
Rebecca shook her head. “He said he could see the gazebo in his mind’s eye and all he had to do was put the pieces together.”
Maggie was looking up again. “Incredible,” she murmured. Then she looked down at Rebecca. Her face grew serious and she pressed her lips together. “Rebecca, I owe you an apology,” she began. “I was rude to you at the last class, asking personal questions about your herbal remedies.” Her cheeks were tinged with pink and she clasped her hands in front of her like a child.
“And I acted like a sour, suspicious old woman,” Rebecca said. “I’d be happy to tell you more about my mother and her medicines . . . if you’re still interested.”
Maggie’s face lit up. “Yes, I’m interested.”
“Mother’s notebooks are in the attic.” Rebecca looked back at the house. “If you don’t mind some dust and cobwebs, you can look around up there for them.”
“Dust, cobwebs, giant spiders—I don’t mind,” Maggie said eagerly.
They put their heads together and quickly agreed on Sunday afternoon. I heard Maggie mention blueberries and Rebecca say something about pie. Neither of them noticed a floating piece of paper go bobbing by the gazebo steps.
Owen.
I leaned over and grabbed the paper bag of berries as a cover, so I could make shooing gestures in the direction of the fold of paper, now hanging immobile about six inches off the ground.
“Go!” I whispered.
The paper started around the side of the gazebo, and, I hoped, toward the gap in the hedge. It occurred to me that maybe I should have said, “Appear” instead.
I leaned over the railing. The paper wasn’t moving very fast. “Go!” I whispered again.
“Did you say something, Kathleen?” Rebecca said behind me. Both she and Maggie were looking at me.
I crossed my fingers that Owen was out of sight and then realized that was the problem. “I, uh, just that I have to go,” I stammered. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“You’ve done more than enough, Kathleen. Thank you.” She held out the plastic container. “Don’t forget your pie.”
“Never,” I said, taking the box with my free hand and hugging it against my chest. “If you need anything, if Ami isn’t around”—I pointed at my house—“you know where I am.”
She nodded.
“I’ll see you Sunday,” Maggie said over her shoulder, as she followed me down the steps. Rebecca gave a little wave of acknowledgment.
“What kind of pie?” Maggie asked, eyeing the container as we cut through the hedge.
I was busy scanning the yard for a small gray tabby or a small piece of paper that seemed to be self-propelled.
Nothing.
“What?” I said, then remembered what she’d asked. “Oh. Lemon meringue.”
“I like lemon meringue,” she said.
“Yeah, everyone does,” I said distractedly. Where was Owen? Maybe by the back door, and, I hoped, three-dimensional.
Maggie had been talking and I hadn’t been paying attention, I realized.
“So, you’ll help me?” she said, looking expectantly at me.
“Umm, yeah, of course I will.” I wondered what I’d just agreed to.
Maggie burst out laughing.
“What? What’s so funny?” I asked.
“I just told you that I’m giving up art to become an exotic dancer in Vegas, and you agreed to help me make a costume out of pigeon feathers.”
I felt my face redden.
“What’s with you this morning?”
What could I say? One of my cats is adding new meaning to the term “cat burglar,” Everett mistook my cat for his dead mother’s cat, and, oh, yeah, the police were still asking questions and trying to seduce Owen over to the dark side. Plus, I’d had way, way more caffeine than I should have. I decided just to share the last two things on that list.
Maggie stared at me, decidedly dumbfounded. “The police were here and you gave them breakfast? Again?”
I tried not to cringe. “It was just one police—Detective Gordon—and I didn’t give him breakfast, I gave him coffee.”
She folded her arms across her chest and continued to stare at me.
“And a muffin . . . okay, two muffins, but they were right there on the rack on the counter, and not offering any to him would have been rude.” I stopped to take a breath.
“The man thought you and Gregor Easton were playing musical mattress and you don’t want him to think you’re rude?” Mags shook her head.
I couldn’t help laughing. “Can I help it if I have nice manners?”
Grinning herself, Maggie shook her head at me. “You’re hopeless,” she said. Then her expression got more serious. “What did he want? Aside from a free breakfast.”
I pushed my bangs back off my face. “Well, it looks like I’m moving down on the suspect list.”
“I told you.” Maggie pointed a finger at me. “No one is seriously going to believe you killed someone.”
I saw movement over her shoulder. It was Owen, sitting on my blue Adirondack chair, watching us, still as a statue and just as solid, the piece of paper under one of his paws.
I felt my shoulders loosen a little and I nudged open the screen door. “It helped that both Roma and Rebecca could confirm where I was, at least part of the time. Harry, too.”
I remembered how Detective Gordon had turned down my offer to look through the house to see if I had a timer for my lights. “I have the feeling the police are focusing somewhere else now,” I added.
Maggie nodded with satisfaction. “About time.”
I paused in the doorway. “You want a cup of coffee?” I asked. “And a blueberry muffin?” I gave her the eyebrow. “I have cheese-and-sardine crackers,” I wheedled.
Maggie grimaced, then pasted on a decidedly fake smile. “As tempting as a good cheese-and-sardine cracker can be, I’m afraid I’ll have to pass. I’m working an extra shift in the store today. Rats!” She gave a huge, exaggerated sigh before smiling for real. “You going to the market in the morning?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Want to have breakfast at Eric’s?”
Breakfast at Eric’s. Homemade cinnamon bread. An omelet with cheese and mushrooms. Granola with gobs of raisins. And I knew a lot of the people involved with the music festival had been hanging out at Eric’s—the menu was eclectic, but very good. I didn’t know if any of them would be around early on a Saturday, but it was worth a shot, and I hadn’t had breakfast at Eric’s in ages. “Okay,” I said.
We settled on a time and Maggie
left. I waited until she’d had enough time to make it to the street; then I backtracked to where Owen still sat on my chair like some furry lawn ornament. One paw was still holding down the piece of paper he’d taken from the recycling bin in Rebecca’s shed.
“What is with you?” I said. “First you chew a piece of fringe off Rebecca’s scarf and now you swipe something from her recycling bin.” I reached for the paper, but he kept his paw firmly on it. “If this is some kind of protest because I told Rebecca not to buy you any more catnip, it’s not going to work.” I pulled at the paper again. “Give it here.”
He looked at me, narrowing his golden eyes like he was actually thinking over my request. “If you ever want me to make you another batch of those crackers you’ll move your paw now.”
Owen didn’t even hesitate for effect. He lifted his paw and I picked up the page. It was a photocopy of a piece of sheet music. Written by Gregor Easton. For a moment I half expected to hear the music from The Twilight Zone. First Hercules found something that may have been connected to Easton’s murder, and now Owen. Could they actually be trying to . . . help me? I shook my head. That was crazy. On the other hand, a cat that could disappear kind of defied logic, too.
Owen was watching me. Feeling a little foolish, I looked around to make sure no one else was. “Okay, I’m going to . . . take a big leap and believe that you brought me this for a reason. Why?” I waved the piece of sheet music in front of his face. “Ami is over there all the time and she’s singing in the festival. Nice try, but this doesn’t mean anything.”
Owen made disgruntled muttering sounds low in his throat. I scooped him up with one arm and dropped onto the lawn chair, settling the cat on my lap. “C’mon,” I said, scratching under his chin. “You don’t actually think Ami had something to do with Easton’s death, do you?” I tried to picture Ami, who just last night I’d seen carry a spider out to Rebecca’s gazebo in her china gravy boat instead of squishing it, killing Gregor Easton. Killing anyone.
I looked at the piece of sheet music again. “You know what I don’t understand?” I said to the cat. “Why did someone want Easton dead? He was a stranger. He hadn’t been here long enough to make anyone angry enough to kill him.”