Faux Paw: A Magical Cats Mystery Page 2

  I knew he didn’t mean in general. Patron visits were up, so was borrowing, and Lita—Everett’s executive assistant—and I had just recently secured a grant to add more books to the children’s department. In recent months we’d hosted several workshops and talks that had brought people all the way from Minneapolis. The most recent special event at the library was a traveling exhibit of museum art from the 1800s. I knew that’s what Everett was referring to.

  “We’ve had some . . .” I hesitated, searching for the right word “. . . challenges.”

  Everett gave a snort of laughter. “In less politically correct terms, Margo Walsh is a pain in the ass.”

  “She’s not that bad,” I said with a smile.

  He shook his head. “You’re probably the only person who’s worked with the woman who would say that.”

  Margo Walsh was the curator of the exhibit. Its focal point was a detailed drawing of a Dakota encampment by military artist Sam Weston, who had lived in Minnesota early in his career. The drawing belonged to Marshall and Diana Holmes. The brother and sister had inherited it, along with other artwork, after the recent death of their father. The Weston sketch, as well as several other pieces in the show, were on long-term loan to the museum, but somehow the siblings were very involved in every aspect of the exhibit, probably because their late father’s money was funding it.

  I’d watched Margo with both of them and I got the feeling from her body language that she would have been happier if they’d been a lot less involved. According to my friend Maggie, who was an artist herself, when someone loaned a piece from their collection to a museum, that was generally the end of their involvement. Marshall and Diana Holmes didn’t seem to know that.

  At each stop on the exhibit’s tour Margo was featuring artwork from local artists. Maggie, who had two pieces of her art in the show, had been impressed with how much the curator had known about the local art scene and how positive she’d been.

  Margo might have been enthusiastic about the artists who were part of the Mayville Heights artists’ co-op, but she was decidedly unenthusiastic and vocal about the exhibit’s delicate paintings and sketches, some of which were more than two hundred years old, being out of a climate-controlled museum setting.

  I took another sip of my coffee as I tried to think of the best way to explain Margo Walsh to Everett. “Margo is very, very good at what she does,” I said. “She and Maggie have spent hours finding just the right frames and mats for the local pieces that are in the show. She’s studied the way the light comes in through the windows at different times of day just to make sure they’re shown at their best.”

  One of Everett’s eyebrows went up, but he didn’t say anything.

  “She’s picky,” I admitted, fingering the rim of my cup. I could have used a less diplomatic word. Or told Everett that more than once I’d had the urge to brain the woman with my briefcase. But I didn’t. I set down my coffee and leaned forward. “Everett, this exhibit is going to bring a lot of people into the library, into Mayville Heights. It’s going to showcase some very talented people—Maggie, Ruby, Nic Sutton. I can handle Margo Walsh. Don’t worry about it.”

  He studied my face for a moment and seemed to be satisfied with my response. “If there’s anything I can do—” he began.

  “I know—call Lita,” I said. The exhibit had come with grant money to install a temporary security system at the library. I was already talking to Lita several times a day. “You could give her a bonus when this is over,” I added with a smile. “I couldn’t do it without her.”

  That was true. Lita was related to at least half the town and it seemed as if she’d gone to school with or babysat pretty much everyone else.

  Everett took half a piece of bacon from his plate, turned and offered it to Hercules. The cat took it from him, bobbed his head in thanks and dropped it into his now-empty dish. I refrained from pointing out that bacon was not on Roma’s list of approved cat treats.

  “Thank you for the coffee,” I said, getting to my feet, “and for your support.”

  Everett stood up as well. “I’m very glad I hired you,” he said.

  “I told you Kathleen was the best choice,” a voice said behind us. It was Rebecca, carrying the coffeepot in one hand and a small waxed-paper-wrapped package in the other.

  Hercules leaned around one of the gazebo uprights.

  “Good morning, Hercules,” she said with a smile. The cat seemed to smile back at her.

  She looked at me. “Your hair looks beautiful. Are you still happy with it?”

  Rebecca had been a hairdresser before she retired and she’d been cutting my hair since I’d arrived in Mayville Heights while I grew out a pixie cut that I’d gotten on impulse and immediately regretted. Unlike Maggie, whose close-cropped blond curls hugged her head and showed off her neck and gorgeous cheekbones, my hair when it was that short poked out in every direction. I looked like the scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz. Rebecca had layered my bangs and evened the ends of my hair on the weekend and I still felt a bit like a shampoo model when I tossed my head.

  I took the coffeepot from her and set it on the table. “I love it,” I said, leaning over to give her a hug.

  “I’m glad,” she said. She held out the paper-wrapped package. “This is for you.”

  I could smell cinnamon. I pulled out of the hug and narrowed my gaze at her. “Coffee cake?” I asked.

  “Cinnamon streusel muffins,” she said. “I know how hard you’ve been working. I thought you might like them for a break a little later this morning.”

  “You’re an angel,” I said.

  She gestured at the package. “There are two in case you wanted to share with anyone who might drop by the library.” Her expression was all innocence, but I knew she was talking about Detective Marcus Gordon. Ever since Rebecca and Everett had gotten their happy ending, she’d been gently nudging Marcus and me even closer together. At the wedding she’d even broken with tradition and handed me her bouquet of daisies, gently telling us not to wait too long for our happily ever after. Given how long it had taken the two of us to get past our differences, a few gentle nudges probably weren’t a bad idea.

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I said. I looked over at Hercules. “Are you coming?”

  He gave a soft “murp” then stretched and began to wash his face.

  “He’s fine, Kathleen,” Everett said.

  “They like to talk politics,” Rebecca said as though Hercules was a person and not a cat. She touched my arm. “I’ll see you this afternoon. Margo Walsh invited the board at two to see how the installation of the exhibit is going.” She frowned slightly. “It is all right, isn’t it?”

  “Of course,” I said. It would have been better if Margo had told me she’d invited the board for a look-see, but it wasn’t the first time she’d blindsided me like this.

  The day after the layout for the exhibit had finally been settled, Margo had decided to add an artist from Red Wing, Rena Adler, who worked with egg tempera. Larry Taylor, the electrician who had been wiring the new lights Margo felt she needed, had just laughed and shaken his head when I’d told him the final lighting plan was now the former lighting plan because the way the artwork was being displayed had changed. On the other hand, my parents were both actors, so Margo wasn’t the first temperamental person I’d had to deal with.

  “Have a good day,” I said to Everett. I turned to Rebecca. “I’ll see you this afternoon.” I took my muffins and started back to my own yard.

  • • •

  Mary Lowe was waiting by the library steps when I pulled into the parking lot. She was wearing a soft green sweater with yellow chickens dancing across the front. She had a big collection of sweaters to match the seasons, including a Christmas sweater with flashing lights and a Halloween cardigan with moaning sound effects. With her tiny stature, soft gray hair and sweet expressio
n, she looked like someone’s cookie-baking grandmother—which she was. And as state kickboxing champion for her age and gender, she could also kick your kidneys up behind your ears, as she liked to put it.

  I looked around as I walked over to Mary. There was no sign of Margo Walsh’s car, or of the woman herself. More than once in the past two weeks I’d arrived at the library to find her waiting at the top of the steps by the front door, impatiently tapping one elegant high-heeled foot on the landing.

  “No Margo?” I asked Mary, raising one eyebrow at her.

  “No sign of her,” she said, following me up the stairs to the entrance. “Thank heavens for small mercies.”

  I looked at her over my shoulder.

  She rolled her eyes. “Or in the case of Lady Margo, large mercies.”

  “She’s not that bad,” I chided as I stepped through the first set of doors and punched in the alarm code. Margo had gotten off on the wrong foot with Mary the day she’d arrived when she’d tried to send the older woman for coffee.

  Mary laughed and reached up to pat my cheek. “Do you ever say a negative word about anyone, Kathleen?” She moved ahead of me into the library and flipped on the overhead lights. “You don’t have to say anything because I already know the answer.”

  I held up one hand, fingers spread apart. “Five days, Mary. That’s it. If everything goes well—and it will—Margo will be finished on Friday. All we have to do is make it to the end of the week and things will get back to normal.”

  Mary shook her head and laughed. “Oh, Kathleen,” she said. “Just because you get the monkey off your back doesn’t mean the circus has left town.”

  2

  Abigail arrived about five minutes later, carrying a Sweet Thing box and a square stainless steel tin. She held them out to me. “One dozen of Georgia’s maple crème cupcakes and some Earl Grey tea bags,” she said with a smile.

  “You’re a lifesaver. Thank you,” I said. After I’d left Rebecca and Everett I’d called Abigail and asked her if she could bring some tea bags so we could at least offer the library board a cup after their tour. Abigail was friends with Georgia Tepper, who ran Sweet Thing, the cupcake bakery. She’d offered to stop in and bring a dozen of whatever cupcakes Georgia had on hand. I’d been happy to take her up on the offer.

  “Do we have enough cups in the lunchroom to give tea to the entire library board?” Abigail asked as she followed me up the stairs.

  “I brought cups and saucers from home,” I said.

  Mary had made coffee. The aroma drew me toward the small second-floor lunchroom.

  Mary had set two mugs on the counter. When she saw Abigail she grabbed a third. Once we all had coffee we sat around the small table and I went over the day’s activities.

  The art exhibit was using the open space overlooking the water that normally held our computers. The computers had taken over the magazine and reading area, which was now temporarily in the larger of our two meeting rooms. It wasn’t an ideal situation, but it was the only way to keep the computers in sight of the main desk so users could be supervised.

  We hadn’t really had much of a problem with our public-access computers—aside from the occasional teenage boy trying to access certain sites that our security software prevented him from getting to. Still, it didn’t hurt to have Mary, who knew all the kids’ parents and grandparents, at the circulation desk while they tried to work their way around the latest firewall I’d installed.

  “Larry should be here about nine thirty to do a test of the window alarms,” I reminded Mary and Abigail. They both made faces. The temporary security system that Larry Taylor was helping to install had an alarm that sounded like an air horn. “The board will be here at two for an update. And the quilters are using our meeting room because there’s water in the church basement.”

  Mary took off her glasses and began cleaning them with the end of her sweater. “Kathleen, where are we going to entertain the board if the quilters are in our only meeting room?”

  “I already thought of that,” I said. I held up a finger. “The quilters finish at one thirty. Give them fifteen minutes to gather their stuff.” I held up a second finger. “At one forty-five I give the room a quick vacuum and toss a cloth on the table. Mia will be here by then.” The teenager had started out as a co-op placement from the high school and now worked part-time for me. The little ones loved her Kool-Aid-colored hair and the seniors were charmed by her lovely manners.

  I added a third finger to the first two. “Mia sets the table while I run back upstairs to make the tea, and at five to two I will be waiting, graciously, by the front desk.” I extended both hands with a flourish. “Ta-da!”

  Abigail laughed. “All you need is one long-winded quilter and your whole plan falls apart.”

  I narrowed my gaze at her. “O ye of little faith,” I said. “Do you remember those boxes of books that Pete Simmons brought us when he cleared out his mother’s house?”

  She nodded.

  “Eva was a quilter. There were several books about quilting in one of the cartons. Mary is going to ask the ladies to come out to the desk and take a look at them so we can decide if we should add any of them to our collection.” I raised one eyebrow at her in classic Mr. Spock–from–Star Trek style. “As I said, ta and da.”

  “Very crafty of you,” Abigail countered with a grin.

  I made a face at her pun and got to my feet. “Let’s get started, then,” I said.

  It was a busy day. Rena Adler showed up just after we opened.

  “Hi, Kathleen,” she said. “Is Margo here?” She was carrying a blue file folder and she tapped one edge of it with her fingers.

  I shook my head. “Not yet.”

  Rena made a face. She was a bit shorter than me, maybe five-five, in her black Dr. Martens, with her black hair in a twist. “She asked for my bio.” She held up the folder. “Would you mind giving it to her for me? I’m meeting Ruby at the co-op store in a few minutes.”

  Rena had been staying in Mayville Heights all month. After they’d met, Ruby had recruited her for a painting workshop she was doing with a couple of art classes at the high school.

  “I don’t mind at all,” I said. “Does Margo have a number for you in case she wants to talk to you about it?”

  Rena smiled. Like Marcus, she had deep blue eyes and incredibly long eyelashes. “Yes, she does. She’s probably called me ten times just about the frames for my paintings.”

  “Margo is very . . . exacting. But she cares about every piece in the show.”

  She nodded. “You’re right about that.” She handed over the folder. “Thanks, Kathleen.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said.

  Rena left and I took the papers she’d given me upstairs. I’d meant what I’d said to her: Margo did care about every single painting and drawing in the exhibit. She wanted the local artwork to be seen at its best and she worried about what the change in conditions would do to the museum pieces. I felt certain that if the decision had been up to her, the library would never have been chosen as a venue.

  Margo Walsh walked in at nine thirty with Larry Taylor. I caught enough of their conversation to know she wanted to move some of the new lights he’d installed.

  Again.

  Luckily, Larry, the younger of Harrison Taylor’s sons, was one of the most laid-back people I’d ever met. He smiled at me over the top of Margo’s head.

  Margo Walsh was a tiny woman, five foot four or so only because of her four-inch heels. She wore her blond hair in a sleek bob with side-swept bangs.

  “Good morning, Kathleen,” she said as she passed me, her head bent over her phone.

  “Good morning,” I replied, but she was already past me, heels clicking on the mosaic tile floor. I walked over to Larry. “She wants to move those spotlights again,” I said.

  He pulled off his ball cap and s
moothed a hand over his blond hair. “That she does.”

  I shook my head. “I’m sorry. I know working with Margo has been a bit of a challenge.”

  Larry laughed. “The old man when he gets his shorts in a bunch over something—excuse my language—now, that’s a challenge.” He gestured toward the steps with one large hand. “Her, not so much.”

  Larry’s father, Harrison Taylor Senior, was one of my favorite people in town. He was also, to use an expression from his other son, Harry Junior, as stubborn as a bear with a closed picnic basket.

  I laid a hand on Larry’s arm. “How about a cup of Mary’s coffee in about half an hour?”

  “I wouldn’t say no to that,” he said. He had the same warm smile as his father and brother. He headed toward the exhibit area, and I went upstairs to talk to Margo.

  She was in the workroom that she’d taken over as a temporary office. She was dressed in slim black pants and one of her ubiquitous white shirts, the sleeves rolled back to her elbows. She turned when she heard me in the doorway. “Kathleen, I need a favor,” she said.

  That was a change. Usually Margo left out the word “favor.”

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Do you know Oren Kenyon?”

  I nodded. “Yes, I do. Oren did a lot of work on the restoration of this building.”

  Margo leaned back against the worktable that she was using as a desk. “Maggie Adams told me he made the sun that’s over the entrance.”

  “Yes, he did.”

  Our library, like many others of its vintage, was a Carnegie library, built with funds donated by Scottish American industrialist Andrew Carnegie. The carved wooden sun Oren had made for the entrance was a nod to the first Carnegie library in Dunfermline, Scotland.

  “The detail is incredible,” Margo said.

  I wondered how she knew that. The sun was twelve feet in the air over the main doors.

  She must have read the question on my face. “Lorenzo let me use his ladder.”