Cat Trick: A Magical Cats Mystery Read online

  “Ever since he was a kitten,” I said. “You’re probably going to want to wash that floor. He’s not good at staying in one place.” I could hear Owen nudging the bowl closer to the table, closer to us. He might not have liked to be touched, but he did like people.

  Marcus rolled back the sleeves of his blue shirt. “I should be able to get at that chair tomorrow,” he said, dipping his head toward the back door and reaching for a cracker at the same time.

  The chair he was referring to actually looked more like a pile of firewood sitting on the floor. It was an old rocking chair—or would have been if it hadn’t been in so many pieces. It had come from Wisteria Hill. Businessman Everett Henderson had sold the place to Roma at the start of the summer. Everett’s fiancée—and my backyard neighbor—Rebecca, had been supervising clearing out the old house before the property officially became Roma’s in a few days. I’d gone over to help a couple of times and rescued the old rocker from the discard pile.

  “I’m not in a hurry,” I said, picking a tiny clump of gray cat hair from the front of my tangerine-colored sweater. “I just hated to see it thrown away. The wood is beautiful. It’s a good chair, or it would be if it hadn’t come apart.”

  When I’d put the pieces of the rocking chair in the back of my truck I’d thought it would be easy to reassemble. And it had been. Except the rocker leaned about thirty degrees to the left. Marcus had heard me venting my frustration to my friend Maggie, and he’d offered to put the chair together for me. With Maggie grinning and poking me in the ribs with a finger, it had been impossible to turn down his offer.

  Marcus looked from the pile of wooden pieces to me, and his eyebrows went up. “If you say so,” he said, sounding like he wasn’t exactly convinced.

  I gave him a sheepish smile. “I like things that have a story.”

  He washed down another cracker with his lemonade. “This table probably has a story,” he said, rapping on the top with his fingers.

  “Where did you get it?” I glanced down at Owen, who was under my side of the table, enthusiastically licking hot sauce off the tail end of a sardine.

  “Burtis Chapman.”

  I laughed. “If this table belonged to Burtis, it has more than one story.” Burtis Chapman had a number of small businesses on the go in Mayville Heights. Some of them were even legal.

  Marcus laughed, too. He had a great laugh. Maggie, who was my closest friend in town, had been trying to get Marcus and me together for the past year. She loved that we were “dating”—her word, not mine. I wasn’t sure what we were doing. About a week after the library’s centennial celebration, Marcus had made me dinner and let me prowl through his extensive book collection. Then he’d been gone on a computer forensics course for most of the summer.

  I put another piece of mozzarella on top of a cracker and took a bite. That got Owen’s attention. He shot me an inquiring look. “This is mine,” I said. He wrinkled his nose and bent over his bowl again. I turned back to Marcus. “Burtis and a couple of his sons were starting to put up the tents down on the Riverwalk when I left the library.”

  “Are you going to the food tasting?” he asked, leaning sideways a little so he could see what Owen was doing.

  I nodded. “I think so.” I was about to ask if he’d like to go with me when Marcus knocked a cheese-topped cracker onto the floor and made a face. Owen’s head came up again. The cat eyed the piece of cheese and then narrowed his gaze questioningly at Marcus.

  “Okay if I let him have that?” Marcus asked. “It’s already on the floor.” He reached for my empty glass.

  “Go ahead,” I said, propping my feet on the blue vinyl seat of the chrome chair at the end of the table. “Although you do need to work on your whoops-I-knocked-the-cheese-on-the-floor routine.”

  He turned to look at me, lemonade pitcher in one hand. He looked guilty. Owen, waiting at my feet, was all wide-eyed innocence. He could give his coconspirator lessons. “Are you saying I dropped that cracker on purpose?”

  “Are you saying you didn’t?” I countered, struggling to keep the corners of my lips from twitching.

  “Where’s your evidence?”

  The cat had scooted under the table while we were talking, grabbed the bit of mozzarella and retreated back to my side.

  “Owen’s eating it, Detective,” I said.

  Marcus held out both hands, palms up. “Sorry. Without the evidence you don’t have a case.”

  I shook a warning finger at him. “If Roma gets after me about his cholesterol levels, I’m sending her to you.”

  His smile got wider, and he refilled my glass, his fingers brushing mine for a moment as he handed it to me.

  Owen finished eating, took a couple of passes at his face with a paw and looked around. I knew what he really wanted to do was nose all over Marcus’s house. I patted my legs. “C’mon up.” He started washing his tail instead. “Owen,” I said, a little more insistently.

  “Kathleen, there’s nothing he can hurt in this house,” Marcus said, threading his fingers around his own glass. “Let him look around if he wants to.”

  “He sheds,” I warned.

  He ruffled his hair with one hand. “So do I.”

  I couldn’t help laughing. “I’m serious.”

  “Sadly, so am I,” he said with a grin. “Let him go.”

  Owen’s golden eyes were fixed expectantly on me. “Stay out of trouble, and stay off the furniture,” I told him sternly, shaking a finger for emphasis, “and come when I call you.” I got a low murp for an answer, which might have meant he would. Or might have meant he wouldn’t.

  Marcus and I sat at the table for maybe another half an hour, talking about our respective jobs and what was going on around town. It reminded me of the first time we’d sat across a table from each other. I’d discovered the body of conductor Gregor Easton at the Stratton Theater the summer before this past one. Marcus was the investigating officer on the case. We’d gotten off on the wrong foot when he raised the possibility that maybe I’d been at the theater to meet the conductor—who was older than my father—for a romantic rendezvous. I’d taken offense at what he’d been suggesting, and he’d taken offense at what he saw as me poking around in his case.

  Gregor Easton’s murder wasn’t the first case of Marcus’s that we’d butted heads on, but in the past few months we’d been trying not to do that. It helped that there hadn’t been a major crime in Mayville Heights in a while.

  I stretched my arms up over my head. I’d been stuck behind my desk at the library all day. “I should collect Owen and head home,” I said.

  “Have supper with me,” Marcus said. Conversations with him sometimes veered off in unexpected directions. “We could go down to Eric’s Place—that is, if you don’t have plans.”

  “I don’t,” I said. “But I have to take Owen home first, assuming he hasn’t decided he’s going to live with you now.” I got to my feet and called the cat. After a minute, he sauntered back into the kitchen. His fur was rumpled and there was a dust ball stuck to his tail. I picked him up and he licked the side of my face, clearly pleased with the way his visit had turned out.

  “Thank Marcus for his hospitality,” I said. Owen meowed his appreciation.

  Marcus nodded at the cat. “You’re welcome.” To me he said, “I’ll follow you.”

  I grabbed my purse from the back of my chair and carried Owen out. I didn’t completely trust him to stay where I could see him, so to speak.

  Once we were headed along the road toward home, I glanced over at him on the passenger seat. He was looking out the windshield.

  “So did you have a good time?”

  “Merow,” he said. His gaze flicked to me and then he went back to staring straight ahead.

  “Think of this little visit like it was two visits,” I said darkly. “A first one and a last one.” I didn’t get so much as a whisker twitch for the rest of the ride.

  I pulled into the driveway at home, and when I turned off the tru
ck, Owen climbed onto my lap, put a paw on my shoulder and rubbed the side of his face against my cheek. “You’re in big trouble,” I warned, trying to sound mad but not really getting there. “Being cute is not going to save you.”

  He licked my chin.

  “That would be a whole lot more adorable if you didn’t have fish breath,” I told him.

  I carried Owen inside and left him in the kitchen. Hercules was nowhere to be seen. I ran upstairs, undid my ponytail, and ran a brush through my hair. I was still growing out my hair—with help from Rebecca, who used to be a hairdresser. I had layers with side-swept bangs, but I could finally pull it back off my face when I wanted to.

  Owen was sitting by the refrigerator when I came down. “Nice try,” I said. “You’ve already eaten. More than once.” I made sure I could see him as I closed and locked the door behind me.

  Marcus was waiting in the driveway. I climbed into the passenger side of his SUV.

  “Is Owen okay?” he asked as he backed onto the street.

  “Are you kidding?” I said. “He had sardines in hot sauce, a hunk of mozzarella cheese, and he got to poke his furry little nose into who knows what at your house. It was just about the perfect cat outing.” I shifted sideways in my seat a little so I could watch him drive.

  We started down Mountain Road, and Marcus glanced over at me. “So have you decided what you’re going to do?” he said.

  I didn’t have to ask, “About what?” I knew he meant had I decided if I was going to accept the offer Everett Henderson had made to me on behalf of the library board and stay in Mayville Heights, or go back to Boston when my contract expired in about six months. I had until the end of the month to give the board my answer. I fiddled with the strap of my purse to buy a little time. “I’m not sure,” I said finally.

  His eyes stayed focused on the road ahead.

  “I didn’t think I’d miss my family so much.” I cleared my throat. “One of the reasons I came here was to get some breathing room.”

  Marcus nodded without speaking.

  “My mother and father, and Sara and Ethan, they sometimes tend to suck all the air out of the room.”

  My parents were both actors. My sister, Sara, was an aspiring filmmaker. Her twin, Ethan, was a musician. They were all dramatic people. I’d always been the practical, responsible one in the family. Moving to Mayville Heights to supervise the refurbishment of the library had been the first impulsive thing I’d done in my life.

  “When I went back to Boston to see everyone last month . . .” I let the end of the sentence trail away.

  “It made the decision more complicated,” Marcus finished.

  “It did.”

  It had felt so good to be in the middle of my crazy, infuriating family again; to watch my mother and father rehearse, to see Ethan and his band play to an enthusiastic crowd in a little club in downtown Boston, and to play assistant to Sara as she worked out the details for a music video she was shooting for the group. But I couldn’t imagine saying good-bye to Maggie and Roma and Rebecca. And Marcus. I couldn’t see Owen and Hercules living in an apartment in Boston. But I couldn’t leave them behind, either.

  Marcus came to a stop at the bottom of the hill and waited for a couple of cars to go by. “I’d miss you,” he said lightly, looking over at me as he made a right turn toward the diner.

  “Really?” I said, giving him my Mr.-Spock-from-Star-Trek raised eyebrow.

  He nodded. “Who would bring me coffee when I’m working on a case?”

  “And who would you tell to stay out of your case?”

  “That too,” he said, scanning the street for somewhere to park.

  A red pickup pulled out of a spot in front of the bookstore, and Marcus expertly backed into the space. He turned to me as he pulled the key out of the ignition. “You should do what makes you happy,” he said. “But I really would miss you.”

  I didn’t know what to say. Marcus was already getting out of the SUV, so I did the same.

  Eric’s Place was about half-full, mostly of people I recognized, but a few tourists, too. Claire, my favorite waitress, showed us to a table by the window. Eric raised a hand in hello from behind the counter. His wife, Susan, worked at the library with me. They had twin boys, almost five, with genius level IQs. Susan’s stories about their latest schemes always made me laugh. She claimed they were either going to become criminal masterminds or the first president/vice president twins.

  Claire’s eyes flicked over to Marcus as she handed me a menu, and she gave me a knowing smile. I knew that the two of us having dinner together would be all over town in no time. The Mayville Heights gossip grapevine could spread information faster than a fiber-optic Internet connection.

  After we’d both ordered and Claire had headed back to the kitchen, I leaned sideways to look out the window.

  “You won’t be able to see the tents from here, but we can walk down after we eat,” Marcus said.

  I felt my cheeks get warm as I straightened in my chair. “I’m sorry,” I said, realizing I’d been caught out with my attention away from my dinner companion. “That was rude.”

  He smiled. “No, it wasn’t. And I’d like to see what’s going on myself.”

  I put my napkin in my lap. “I was talking to Maggie when Burtis arrived. He started unloading the truck, and it made me think of one of those little cars at the circus that some implausible number of clowns gets out of. There was so much stuff. It looked as though he were going to set up something big enough to hold a circus.”

  “You think it’ll work?”

  “You mean the tents or the food tasting?” I asked.

  “The food tasting,” Marcus said, shifting in his chair so he could stretch out his jeans-clad legs. “I know Burtis will make the tents work. He’s very . . . resourceful.”

  “That he is,” I said with a grin. Among other things, Burtis Chapman was allegedly the town bootlegger. Allegedly, because it wasn’t something he admitted to and he’d never been caught. “I don’t know about the whole food tasting thing. I like the idea, but it’s turned out to be a lot of work. And Maggie says Mike Glazer is”—I struggled for a moment to come up with the appropriate words—“challenging to work with.”

  “Challenging?” Marcus raised his eyebrows.

  “Actually, she called him a festering boil. I was paraphrasing.”

  He was nodding like he agreed. “I probably wouldn’t have called Glazer a festering boil,” he said, “but from what I’ve heard, he has been challenging to work with.”

  Mike Glazer was a partner in Legacy Tours, a company out of Chicago that put together small, exclusive travel packages for its upscale clients. Several businesspeople in Mayville Heights were trying to entice Legacy to base a package around the town; the foliage was gorgeous in Minnesota in the fall, we had a thriving artists’ community here—thanks to Maggie—and the food was terrific.

  Mike had grown up in Mayville Heights, then moved away and eventually gone to law school. He hadn’t been back in years, according to Maggie. He was in town for a few days now, listening to the pitch for the tour. Part of that pitch was a food tasting and small art show.

  I was about to ask Marcus what he’d heard about the man when Claire came back with our food. We’d both ordered the same thing—Mediterranean fish stew—something Eric had just added to the café’s menu. Claire set the steaming bowls in front of us and placed a basket of corn bread in the middle of the table. I breathed in the scent of tomatoes and onions and picked up my spoon.

  I was down to the last spoonful of fragrant broth when Claire came back to the table. “Dessert?” she asked. “There’s chocolate pudding cake in the kitchen.”

  “None for me,” I said, wondering if there was a polite way to get the last bits of corn bread and cheese from the bottom of my bowl.

  “I’ll try some, please,” Marcus said.

  Claire smiled at him. “I’ll be right back.”

  When she set the heavy stoneware bow
l in front of Marcus, the scent of warm chocolate reached across the table like a finger beckoning me to lean over for a taste. He picked up the spoon and held it out to me without saying a word, but a smile pulled at his mouth and the corners of his eyes.

  I thought about just shaking my head. After all, it was his dessert, not mine. I thought about signaling to Claire for a dish of my own. I could see from the corner of my eye that she was watching us, even as she seemed to be giving directions to a tall man in jeans and a black and red jacket whom I remembered talking to earlier at the library. But I had a feeling from the smile that Marcus had been unable to stifle that sharing dessert had been his plan all along. So I smiled back at him and took the spoon. The man in the plaid jacket nodded at me as he passed us on his way out. “It’s delicious,” he said, gesturing at the bowl.

  He was right. But I’d already known that.

  “Who’s that?” Marcus asked, giving the man an appraising look as he went out the door. Some small part of him was always in police officer mode.

  “A tourist, I think,” I said. “He came into the library this afternoon looking to use one of the public access computers and a printer. Then he asked me if I could recommend somewhere good for supper.” I reached across the table and scooped up a spoonful of cake and warm chocolate sauce.

  “And you said Eric’s, of course.”

  I nodded. My mouth was too full of chocolate bliss to answer.

  “Thank you for sharing,” I said when we’d finished the pudding cake and our coffee refills.

  “You’re welcome.” Marcus leaned one arm on the back of his chair. “Are you ready to walk up and take a look at the tents?”

  I pushed back from the table. “Yes. I could use some exercise.”

  He got to his feet. “I have this,” he said.

  I opened my mouth to argue that I could pay for my dinner, but he was already halfway to the counter.

  The sun was just going down and the sky over the river was streaked with red and gold when we stepped outside. I stopped on the sidewalk for a moment to take in the view.