Faux Paw: A Magical Cats Mystery Page 12

  “Oh my word,” Roma said softly, putting one hand to her chest. “Did . . . did you two do this?”

  I nodded. I suddenly felt the unexpected prickle of tears. I was so incredibly lucky to have friends like Roma and Maggie. I caught Maggie’s eye. She swallowed and blinked a couple of times. I had a feeling she’d felt the same rush of gratitude I had.

  Roma leaned over and trailed a hand across the cushion fabric and down over the wood. “It’s beautiful,” she said, her voice raspy with emotion. “It’s more beautiful than the one in Red Wing.”

  She threw her arms around Maggie and reached out to pull me into the hug.

  As we carried the bench up to the second floor of the old farmhouse, I crossed my fingers—metaphorically, since I couldn’t do it literally—that it would fit in the space under the tall multipaned window at the end of the hall.

  It did.

  Roma beamed at us. “How did you know it would fit?” she asked.

  “Maggie measured the space,” I said.

  Roma looked up at Mags. “When did you do that?” she asked.

  Maggie had been studying the bench, head tipped to one side. She shifted it about a half an inch to the left and moved it back even less than that, then nodded with satisfaction. She looked at Roma and then shook her head. “Sorry,” she said. “When did I measure for the bench? Remember when the three of us were stripping the wallpaper in the closets?”

  Roma nodded.

  There had been so many layers of paper on the old walls I’d been half-afraid they’d fall down when we got it all off.

  “You lost the drawstring in your hoodie,” Maggie said to me.

  I made a face. “Right. The vacuum ate it.”

  Her eyes darted from side to side. “I took it. That’s what I used to measure the space because I didn’t have a tape measure and I couldn’t exactly ask Roma if I could borrow one.”

  “I didn’t know that,” I said. Roma was running her hand over the cushion again. I nudged her with my elbow. “It’s okay to sit on it.”

  She laughed, her cheeks turning pink. “It’s so beautiful, I don’t want to mess it up.”

  Maggie put her arm around Roma’s shoulder and gave her a squeeze. “You can’t ‘mess it up,’” she said.

  Roma sat down in the middle of the bench. She grinned up at us.

  “Your drawstring is hanging on the bulletin board in my studio, by the way,” Maggie said to me.

  “Don’t worry about it. Owen turned that hoodie into the cat version of a futon.”

  “See?” she said. “I told you he was smart. He’s creative, too.”

  I laughed, wrapping my arms around her shoulders in a side hug, and thought that she didn’t know the half of it.

  Roma had made chicken corn chowder for supper. We sat around the kitchen table talking about her plans for the yard and the outside of the old house. “Oren’s going to start painting as soon as it gets just a little bit warmer,” she said, glancing out the window to her right.

  “What did you finally decide on for colors?” Maggie asked. Her spoon was paused midway between her bowl and her mouth. She had made several “mood boards” for Roma, highlighting the different color combinations she’d been trying to choose between for the old farmhouse.

  Roma nodded. “Buttercream yellow, vintage white and winter-lake blue. And thank you for putting those boards together for me. I never would have been able to decide with just those little swatches.”

  “You’re welcome,” Maggie said. “You picked my favorite colors, by the way.”

  “Eddie’s, too,” Roma said.

  Something in her voice, or maybe something in the way she said Eddie’s name, told me something was off.

  “How is Eddie?” I asked, pushing my empty bowl to one side.

  “Eddie’s good.” Roma couldn’t help smiling whenever she said his name, so I knew whatever was wrong between them was fixable. “Nobody expected them to make the playoffs this year and now it seems as though everyone wants to interview him.” She glanced out the window again.

  I shot Maggie a sidelong warning glance to stay quiet and waited, letting the silence settle at the table with us. Roma looked from me to Maggie and back again. “Can you two keep a secret?”

  It wasn’t really a serious question. I trusted Maggie and Roma as much as I trusted anyone, and I felt certain they felt the same way about me as well. Still, I nodded.

  “Of course,” Maggie said softly.

  Roma glanced down at her hands for a moment, then looked up at us. “Eddie won’t be going public with this until the playoffs are over, but . . .” She hesitated. Took a deep breath. “He’s decided to retire.”

  I wasn’t really surprised. The last time Eddie had been in town he’d been full of plans and ideas for Wisteria Hill. In the back of my mind I’d wondered if he was thinking about making a permanent move to Mayville Heights.

  “That’s good, isn’t it?” Maggie asked, picking up her spoon again.

  Roma leaned both forearms on the table, reached up and began idly tracing the shoulder seam of her shirt with one finger. “It is and it isn’t.”

  “I’m guessing the good part is that Eddie’s retiring while he’s still healthy,” I said.

  “That’s why he’s decided to retire now,” Roma said. “Kathleen, do you two know who Ben Crossley is?”

  “Only the best center to ever play the game,” I immediately said.

  Maggie’s eyebrows went up. “Excuse me,” she said. “Sidney Crosby?”

  I gave her a Cheshire cat smile. “I don’t think so, Mags. Check the numbers.” Then I turned to Roma. “Crossley was Eddie’s mentor, wasn’t he?”

  She nodded. “They met at a hockey camp when Eddie was just eleven. Ben has been part coach, part mentor, part father figure.” She swallowed. “And he’s showing signs of early dementia. He suffered more than one concussion in his day.”

  “Oh, Roma, I’m sorry.” Maggie reached across the table to give Roma’s arm a squeeze.

  “So that’s why Eddie’s decided to retire,” I said.

  Roma nodded. “Yes. He had a serious concussion himself, three years ago. He’s been thinking about retiring for a while now. If this hadn’t happened I think he might have played for another year, but that probably would have been it.”

  She was still playing with her shirt. I would have expected her to be happier about Eddie’s news. There had to be something she hadn’t told us yet.

  “So what does he want to do?” Maggie asked. “I mean aside from stripping all the trim upstairs.” She glanced at the ceiling over our heads.

  Roma got an odd look on her face. It was a mix of panic and . . . happiness?

  She looked down at the table for a moment, then lifted her head and met our eyes. “He says he wants to marry me.”

  11

  Maggie and I both gave squeals of excitement.

  “Roma, that’s wonderful,” I exclaimed, grinning at her. I knew she loved Eddie, and you only had to spend a few minutes with the two of them to know he was crazy about her, too.

  “He’s a lucky man,” Maggie said, green eyes shining. Then her smile faded.

  Because Roma wasn’t smiling at all.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “How can I marry him?” She pressed her lips together and stared down at the flowered tablecloth.

  “It’s easy,” Maggie said. “Kathleen and I take you shopping for a pretty dress. We put lights and flowers in the living room the way we did when Everett and Rebecca got married, and then you say ‘I do.’”

  Roma shook her head. “I can’t.”

  Maggie shot me a sidelong glance.

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “I’m older than Eddie. A lot older.”

  I reached over and put my hand on her shoulder f
or a moment. “It doesn’t matter. You know he doesn’t care.”

  Roma had been married young, widowed when her daughter, Olivia, was very small, and she had put herself through college. She was in her late forties now, but most people were surprised when they found that out. She was older than both Maggie and me and it had never mattered to our friendship.

  “It does matter,” Roma insisted. She reached up and raked her fingers through her hair, tipping her head toward me. “Look. I found a gray hair yesterday.”

  I couldn’t see a single white strand among her glossy dark brown hair.

  “So what if you have a couple of gray hairs?” Maggie said. “So what if they’re all gray? Eddie loves what’s on the inside.” She laid a hand flat against her chest. “Sure, he appreciates your colorful candy shell.”

  I knew she was referring to Roma’s propensity for carrying a bag of M&M’s along with a roll of duct tape so she was covered for pretty much any emergency that might happen.

  “But it’s your sweet inside that Eddie fell in love with.”

  The whole analogy was so silly even Roma had to laugh. But then her expression turned serious again. “Eddie loves kids. I’m too old to have a baby. I’m not going to let him give up something I know he wants just for a life with me. So I can’t marry him.” She held up a hand. “And I don’t want to argue about it.”

  I struggled to find the right words. “Roma, Maggie and I are with you, no matter what you decide to do,” I said. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Maggie nod in agreement. “Just . . . before you make a final decision, try living with the idea a little while.” It was something my father had said to me more than once, and it was the best thing I could think of to say.

  We went back to talking about Roma’s plans for the yard, but Eddie’s proposal was the proverbial elephant in the room. When it was time to leave I wrapped Roma in a hug. “Call me anytime you want to talk,” I said. “Or not talk.”

  “I will,” she promised. She waved from the steps as we started down the long driveway.

  We were out on the road back to town before Maggie spoke. “Roma isn’t too old for Eddie. And there are other ways to make a family besides having a baby.”

  I nodded without taking my eyes off the road. “I know that, but I don’t think she does.”

  Gavin called me early the next morning. I was standing in the kitchen, wild haired, trying to decide between oatmeal with fruit and a scrambled egg. Owen and Hercules had already started on their breakfasts.

  “Hey, Kathleen,” he said. “Could I buy you breakfast, or have you already eaten?”

  I pushed my hair back off my face. “Is this about the library or are you just looking for company?” One night we had worked late on plans for the exhibit and Gavin had admitted that he didn’t like eating alone, even with a good book for company.

  “I like conversation,” he’d said, a bit sheepishly.

  “You need a cat,” I’d told him. “Owen and Hercules are great at making mealtime conversation, as long as you consider meows, murps and grumbling conversation.”

  He’d laughed. “Where do they stand on the Wild’s playoff chances?”

  “Stanley Cup in six,” I’d said, straight-faced.

  Gavin laughed now. “I always enjoy your company, Kathleen, but this is about the library, specifically about the Weston piece. I have an idea I want to run by you and it’s a bit too complicated to get into on the phone.”

  “And you don’t like eating alone,” I finished.

  “You’re right, I don’t. So come join me. I’m at Eric’s Place. The coffee is hot, and I have an idea that might help us figure out who took that drawing.” He paused for a moment and when he spoke again the laughter had gone out of his voice. “And who killed Margo.”

  I looked at the clock over the refrigerator. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  I went back upstairs, wrestled my hair into a low twist with the help of lots of bobby pins and hairspray, and brushed my teeth. Back downstairs again I pulled on my favorite ankle boots while Hercules watched with curiosity and Owen moved the rest of his breakfast from his dish to the floor so he had more room to sniff each bite.

  I leaned down and stroked the top of Hercules’s head. “I’m going to have breakfast with Gavin,” I said. “Have a good day.”

  Owen’s gray tabby head shot up and the brothers exchanged a look; then two sets of cat eyes focused on me.

  Neither Owen nor Hercules had taken to Gavin, probably because by his own admission he was a dog person. Their eyes stayed locked on me as I checked that I had everything I needed in my bag and reached for my coat, pretending to ignore them the whole time.

  Still, it was disconcerting to be stared at. I should have been used to it, given how many times they’d used the technique on me when they were dissatisfied with something I’d done.

  I turned and stared back at them, arms folded over my chest. “First of all, dog people are not the Evil Empire.”

  That got no reaction, not even a blink.

  “You like Harrison,” I continued, “and Harry Junior, and they’re dog people.”

  The Taylors—Harry Junior and Senior—had a big German shepherd named Boris. Owen and Boris had had one “unfortunate” encounter that as far as Owen was concerned made them mortal enemies for life. The truth was that Boris was an intelligent and gentle dog. I’d made the mistake of calling him a pussycat once. Owen had been understandably offended.

  The cats exchanged another look. Owen wrinkled his nose at me and meowed loudly.

  I smiled at him, wrinkling my own nose back at him. “No, that’s not different,” I said firmly.

  He dropped his head over his food again. Clearly, as far as he was concerned the discussion was over.

  Gavin was sitting at a table by the end wall of the small café when I got to Eric’s. Claire was just refilling his coffee cup. Gavin raised a hand in greeting and when Claire caught sight of me she reached for the other stoneware mug on the table.

  “Oh, thank you,” I said to her, dropping my bag on the chair opposite Gavin.

  “You’re welcome,” she said. “Do you need a menu or do you know what you’d like?” She gave me a knowing smile. “Eric’s sourdough breakfast sandwich, maybe?”

  “Definitely,” I said. Clearly I was getting to be predictable.

  Claire headed for the kitchen and I slipped off my jacket, put my bag on the floor and sat down. “Okay, I’m here, so tell me your idea. You really think you might have a way to figure out who took the Weston drawing?” I reached for the small pitcher of cream in the middle of the table.

  “Maybe.” Gavin ran the fingernails of one hand over his bearded chin. “I have a . . . connection in Minneapolis.”

  I took a drink of my coffee. It was strong and very hot, just the way I liked it. Not that I would necessarily turn down coffee that was cold and weak.

  “A connection could be anyone from someone you worked with to someone you dated to the kid you ate erasers with in kindergarten,” I said.

  “I didn’t eat erasers in kindergarten,” Gavin said. “But remind me sometime to tell you the story of what happened when I tried that paste stuff they use for papier-mâché.”

  I laughed. “You didn’t.”

  “Oh, I did.” He grinned across the small table at me. “I didn’t have the discriminating palate that I have now.”

  I laughed. Even though I knew that Gavin was trying to charm me, I still enjoyed his company.

  He held up a hand and the grin faded. “Seriously, my connection to Big Jule is professional.”

  “Big Jule?” I said, not even trying to keep the skepticism out of my voice. “Like the character from Guys and Dolls?”

  Gavin nodded. “I know what you’re thinking. Big Jule—whose real name is Julian McCrea—is a huge musical theater fan. He’s playe
d the role of Big Jule nineteen times in amateur productions.” He shrugged. “He’s a little . . . eccentric, but if a piece of artwork is”—he paused for a moment, searching for the right word—“generating interest, Big Jule knows who’s interested.”

  I took another sip of my coffee. “So he’s what? A thief? A fence?”

  Gavin leaned back in his chair. “He’s more of a relocation specialist.”

  “A fence, then,” I said. “So does he say ‘youse guys’ and shoot craps in a back alley?”

  He laughed again. “You’re not going to break out in a chorus of ‘Luck Be a Lady,’ are you, Kathleen?” he asked.

  A mental image of my dad in a snap-brim fedora and a black pinstripe suit when he’d played Sky Masterson in Guys and Dolls flashed into my head.

  I raised one eyebrow. “You joke, but I can do the choreography.”

  Gavin folded his arms over his chest and grinned across the table at me. “I’d like to see that,” he teased.

  Claire was on her way from the kitchen with our breakfast. “Maybe some other time,” I said.

  “Saved by a breakfast sandwich,” he countered with a laugh.

  Gavin told me a little more about “Big Jule” while we ate. Julian McCrea had had an art gallery for many years. He’d represented several up-and-coming artists. With a degree in art history, he’d even been called as an expert witness in a number of cases in which the provenance of a piece of artwork was in question. Now McCrea specialized in helping a select group of clients add to their private collections. And it was clear that, like the character in Guys and Dolls, this Big Jule’s deals weren’t always aboveboard.

  Gavin put down his fork and looked around for Claire. “Come with me, Kathleen,” he said. “I’m going to see Big Jule tomorrow and, well, you do know the choreography for ‘Luck Be a Lady.’”

  I laughed. “I think you’ll do just fine without me.”

  He leaned toward me across the small table. “Come with me,” he repeated. “I’ll do even better with you. You can talk about musicals with the guy and he’ll be a lot more susceptible to your charms than he is to mine.”