Hooked on a Feline Page 4

  “Yes, he was,” Harrison said, a huge smile splitting his face.

  “Did you know?” I asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

  “I knew something was up. All of a sudden the boy was never around.” Harrison gave a snort of laughter. “To tell the truth, I thought he was seeing someone and didn’t want me to know.”

  Harrison had been pushing his son—who had been divorced for years—to, as he put it, get a mitt and get back in the game. If Harry had met someone, he probably would be pretty closemouthed about it.

  “I had no idea Harry was that good,” I said. “I knew he’d been in a band but . . .” I shrugged.

  “Harry’s not the kind of person to blow his own horn,” Peggy said with a smile.

  Harrison set the shopping bag on the ground between his feet. “I remember when he got his first guitar and I’m kind of ashamed to say I told him it was a waste of money. He taught himself to play. Just sat there night after night in his room until the ends of his fingers cracked.” He gave his head a little shake. “It’s not a word of a lie. The dog wouldn’t come in the house for six months. But that son of mine is stubborn.”

  “I wonder where that came from,” Peggy said, almost under her breath.

  Harrison shot her a look. “There’s nothing wrong with my hearing, you know.”

  She leaned against his arm and smiled. “I know.”

  “Well, wherever his persistence came from, it paid off and I couldn’t be prouder,” the old man said. “I’ve been smiling since he started playin’ and I don’t think I’ll be stopping anytime soon.” His pride was evident in that smile and the sparkle in his blue eyes.

  I spent a few more minutes catching up with Harrison and Peggy. Elizabeth, Harrison’s youngest child, was coming for a visit in August and they were already planning a family barbecue.

  “You’re coming,” he said. It wasn’t a question. Harrison’s definition of family was a wide one.

  “I wouldn’t miss it,” I promised, standing on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.

  I rejoined Marcus to discover that he’d bought the jam and the pear butter and a jar of the Jam Lady’s marmalade, which was my favorite. We wandered around the market a while longer and then drove out to Marcus’s house. I curled up on the swing on his back deck. Micah, Marcus’s little ginger tabby, climbed up onto my lap, swatting me twice with her tail as she got settled. Marcus set up the ice cream maker for peach ice cream and grilled spicy sausage and corn on the barbecue. It had been pretty much the perfect weekend.

  * * *

  Monday morning I set out the census documents I’d told Mike about in our workroom so everything would be ready when he arrived in the afternoon. Considering their age and the fact that for a long time they’d been stuffed, forgotten, in an old filing cabinet in the library basement, the pages weren’t in awful shape. Like the rest of our old documents, they would eventually be scanned and added to our digital database.

  I relocked the workroom door and went into the staff room for a cup of coffee, taking it back to my office, where I stood by the window looking out at the gazebo. It was another beautiful day. Marcus was bringing lunch later and I thought how nice it would be to eat outside. It was good to see things looking quiet out there. In the spring the gazebo had been targeted by a practical joker who had—among other things—left an inflatable pool full of Jell-O in it. Black raspberry to be specific. It had been several weeks since the last stunt and I was hoping our prankster had gotten bored and moved on. Both Mary and Harry were convinced this was just a temporary respite from Jell-O, stacks of hay bales and a full-sized Grim Reaper with a broom instead of a scythe.

  “Get it? It’s the Grim Sweeper!” Susan, who had worked at the library long enough to have seen her share of stunts and pranks, had crowed with delight over that last one.

  I was downstairs about an hour later, trying to fix a broken wheel on one of our book carts when Abigail called to me from the front desk.

  “It’s Marcus,” she said, gesturing at the phone that I hadn’t even heard ring.

  “Thanks,” I said as I got to my feet, brushing off the front of my flowered skirt. I walked over and picked up the receiver.

  “Hi,” Marcus said. He blew out a breath. “I’m not going to be able to make lunch.” There was a flatness to his voice that told me he was in full police-detective mode.

  “A case.”

  “Yes.” He hesitated.

  My stomach clutched. This was something bad.

  “I’m sorry, Kathleen,” he finally said. “There’s no good way to say this. Mike Bishop is dead.”

  chapter 3

  No,” I whispered. I closed my eyes for a moment and swallowed against the lump in my throat, which seemed to be stopping me from getting words out. “Are you . . . are you positive?”

  “Yes. I wish I wasn’t,” Marcus said, “and I’m sorry but I have to go. I should make it for supper. I mean, if you still want to cook.”

  I nodded even though he couldn’t see me. “I do.” And because it suddenly seemed important, I added, “Stay safe.”

  “Always,” he replied.

  I hung up the phone and stood there, not moving, as Marcus’s words began to sink in.

  “Kathleen, what’s wrong?” Abigail asked, coming around the side of the circulation desk. A frown creased her forehead and her eyes were narrowed in concern.

  “It’s, uh, it’s Mike Bishop,” I said slowly.

  “What happened? Was he in some kind of accident?” She put a hand on my arm. Abigail had helped Mike with a lot of the research into his family tree. They’d gotten to be friends.

  “I don’t know what happened but . . .” I let the end of the sentence trail away. I didn’t want to say the words out loud.

  Abigail pressed her lips together and gave her head a little shake.

  I swallowed again. It didn’t seem to do anything for that lump in the back of my throat. “He’s . . . dead.”

  A tear slid down her cheek and she swiped at it with one hand. “Are you sure?” she asked, looking away. “Maybe Marcus made a mistake. Maybe it was someone else.”

  I shook my head. “He doesn’t make those kind of mistakes.”

  “I know,” she said softly.

  Neither one of us spoke for a moment. Then Abigail looked at me. “What do they give the dentist of the year?” she asked in a shaky voice.

  I frowned at her, not really understanding the question. “I . . . I don’t know.”

  “A little plaque.” She laughed and then hiccupped. “Mike always had some awful dental joke to tell me when he came in and I’d always laugh because they were so bad.” She wiped away another tear. “Why did the dental assistant refuse to date the dentist?”

  I shook my head.

  “He was already taking out a tooth.”

  I laughed then in spite of myself. “You’re right,” I said. “Those are terrible jokes.”

  “And remember how he hated it when someone called him a dentist?” Abigail asked. “Mary would do it just to tease him. He’d give her that look.” She pushed her glasses down her nose and looked over the top of them at me. “And he’d say, ‘Endodontist.’ Then Mary would say something about how barbers used to do all that stuff and give you a shave and a haircut.” She blinked away tears. “Oh, Kathleen, how can it be true?” Her shoulders sagged.

  I didn’t have an answer to her question. All I could do was give her a hug and blink back my own tears.

  “You know Mike was genuinely excited about tracing his family tree,” she said. “He told me that his cousin had warned him that he might find nothing but criminals and con men back there. He told me that he kind of hoped he would. That would be way more interesting than a family full of straitlaced rule followers.”

  “That sounds like Mike.”

  She gave me a small smile. “He looked l
ike he was having so much fun being back onstage again. You could see it.” She started to say something else and then stopped.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I was going to say that there’s never going to be a night like that again, and then it hit me that now that Mike is . . . gone, there really isn’t.”

  “We went to Eric’s after the concert and they came in,” I said. “Mike, Johnny, Harry—all of them. I told Mike about those census documents you found. He was coming in this afternoon to take a look at them. I set everything out in the workroom. I should go put things away again.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Abigail said. “I mean, if it’s all right with you. I could use a couple of minutes by myself.”

  “It’s fine with me,” I said. “Give me a minute to get Levi to keep an eye on the desk.”

  She nodded. “Thanks.” She glanced over at the books she’d been sorting. “So Marcus didn’t say anything about what happened? If it was a car accident or a heart attack.”

  “All he said was Mike was gone. He had to go and he didn’t give me any details.” I looked around for Levi, our summer student. “I’ll be right back,” I said.

  I headed for the stacks where Levi was shelving books. The fact that Marcus hadn’t said what had happened to Mike Bishop bothered me and I hoped Abigail hadn’t noticed my discomfort at her question. He could have easily said Mike had had a heart attack or been in a car accident if either of those things had occurred. But he hadn’t and I couldn’t shake the feeling that something a lot worse had happened. I hoped I was wrong.

  * * *

  When the library closed for the day, I drove out to Marcus’s house to make supper. Rebecca was checking in on Owen and Hercules, who I knew would be fine, but who were also more than a little spoiled. Marcus and I had talked about introducing his Micah to the boys. All three cats had been found out at Wisteria Hill—the old Henderson estate—and all three were far from typical cats, so I was hoping they’d get along.

  Micah was waiting for me on the back deck. The little ginger tabby meowed hello and then jumped down to stand by the door and look expectantly at me. I let us both into the kitchen, set my bag on the table and dropped into one of the chairs.

  Micah immediately launched herself onto my lap. She seemed to study me for a moment and then, as if sensing I was upset, she leaned her body against my chest with a soft “mrr.” I stroked her fur and felt a little of the day’s stress subsiding. The news about Mike had spread quickly and everyone who had come into the library seemed to want to talk about him. While it had been good to hear more stories about his sense of humor and quiet generosity, it had also been painful to realize that a good man was gone and wasn’t coming back.

  After a few minutes, I gave Micah one last scratch under her chin and set her on the floor. “Want to help me get supper?” I asked.

  “Merow,” she said, whiskers twitching.

  That seemed to be a yes.

  As I stood up, I realized that there were two physics textbooks on the chair next to mine. I leaned down and opened the cover of the top book. It had come from the library in Minneapolis. There was a piece of paper poking out from between two pages just beyond the midpoint of the text.

  These two books were the fifth and sixth books on theoretical physics Marcus had requested via interlibrary loan. Since he had found out about the special “skills” that Owen and Hercules and Micah had, he’d been looking for some sort of logical explanation. I’d struggled with telling him that all three cats had abilities that seemed to violate the laws of physics, at least as we knew them at this point in time. I’d put it off longer than I should have. I knew it had been hard for him to accept that Hercules had the ability to walk through any solid object, while both Owen and Micah could literally disappear at will—and usually at the most inconvenient times. Even when Marcus actually saw it happen, it was hard to believe it wasn’t some kind of trick. I understood how he felt. It had taken me a little time to accept that I wasn’t hallucinating, that I didn’t have a brain tumor.

  The first time I’d seen Owen disappear, I’d been able to convince myself it was just a trick of the light and my own overtired brain. When Hercules walked through a closed door after hours at the library, I’d thought that maybe I’d had a stroke. I had long suspected Micah had the same skill as Owen, so it wasn’t as much of a surprise the first time she vanished, although the knowledge had come with the added worry that now I had to stop putting off telling Marcus just exactly how smart all three cats were.

  I closed the cover of the book and straightened up. Micah was watching me, her head cocked to one side in curiosity. “He’s persistent,” I said.

  “Mrr,” she agreed.

  I didn’t think Marcus was going to give up until he found something that explained how the cats could do what they could do. That determined streak was one of the things that helped make him a good detective. Still, sometimes I thought he just needed to accept how things were and stop trying to find answers for questions that just might not have answers.

  I washed my hands and set a pot of water on the stove to boil for the pasta. The cat watched and made little murping comments as I got out the rest of the ingredients for pasta salad.

  “Should we eat in here or out on the deck?” I asked.

  She immediately looked at the back door.

  “Deck, it is,” I said. “Excellent choice.”

  I moved the little round table Marcus kept out on the deck so it was in front of the swing and set it with place mats, napkins and silverware. While the pasta cooked, I put together a quick marinade for the chicken. Then I made the pasta salad, adding cucumber, celery, black olives and plump cherry tomatoes and radishes that Marcus had grown himself.

  I’d just poured a glass of iced tea and stepped out onto the deck when Marcus came around the side of the house. “It’s so good to see you,” he said, wrapping his long arms around me and giving me a kiss.

  “It’s good to see you, too,” I said. He looked tired. There was dark stubble on his chin, his pale yellow shirt was creased and I could see that he’d been raking his hands through his hair, something he did when he was stressed.

  He reached up and brushed a stray bit of hair off my face. “Are you all right? I know the news about Mike was a shock.”

  “It’s all anyone who came into the library was talking about. Do you know what happened yet?”

  A shadow seemed to flit across his face. “Could I have a shower first?” He glanced over at the grill. “Do I have time?”

  I nodded. “Go ahead. The salad’s made and I’ll start the chicken.”

  He blew out a breath. “Thanks,” he said. He stopped to give Micah a scratch on the top of her head and went into the house.

  The chicken was just about done when Marcus came out, wearing a pair of gray shorts and a red T-shirt, his hair damp from the shower. “Is that mine?” he asked, gesturing at the frosty glass of beer on the table.

  “Yes, it is,” I said. My iced tea was sitting to the left of the grill.

  Micah was perched in the middle of the swing. “Get down,” Marcus said, making a move-along gesture with one hand.

  She wrinkled her whiskers at him and, instead of jumping down, moved to the left and then looked at him. It seemed to me there was a challenge in her eyes.

  Marcus shook his head. “Fine. Close enough,” he said. He sat down next to the cat and reached over to stroke her fur.

  I took the plate of chicken over to the table and joined them on the swing. “That smells great,” Marcus said as he reached for the tongs I’d set on the table. “What did you put on the chicken?”

  “Eddie’s marinade and Harry’s barbecue sauce,” I said. I shook my head and sighed. Saying Harry’s name made me realize how much he must be grieving right now.

  Marcus put a hand on my shoulder. “I saw Harry a little whi
le ago. He’s okay. At least as okay as he can be under the circumstances.”

  “I can’t believe Mike is dead,” I said, dishing some of the salad onto my plate. “He was one of those people who just seemed so . . . alive.” I looked at Marcus. “I know that doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Yes, it does,” he said.

  I leaned back, balancing the plate on my lap as the swing began to gently move. “Marcus, what on earth happened? Mary said Mike died from a head injury. That doesn’t sound like an accident.”

  Mary Lowe had come in to work at lunchtime. Her daughter, Bridget, was the publisher of the Mayville Heights Chronicle. Bridget always seemed to know the details of any police investigation long before they made any statements on a case.

  Marcus swiped a hand over his face. “I don’t know why I’m surprised to hear that,” he said. “I swear, sometimes it seems like Bridget has the station bugged.” Micah put a paw on his leg. He cut a sliver of chicken with the edge of his fork and gave it to her. She murped a thank-you. “It’s way too soon for anyone to know the exact cause of death until the medical examiner finishes his work,” he continued. “Bridget shouldn’t speculate and spread rumors.”

  I noticed he hadn’t said that what Mary had told me wasn’t true. “Did someone break into his house?” I asked.

  “Well, what’s Bridget saying?” His voice was laced with sarcasm, which he seemed to realize the moment the words were out. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It just . . . hasn’t been a very good day.”

  I put my hand on his leg and gave it a squeeze. “I know,” I said.

  “At this point we don’t know for certain what happened,” he said after a brief silence. “Mike was found inside his house. If I had to guess, I’d say he died sometime Sunday night. Beyond that, I just don’t know.”

  “Maybe it was an accident,” I offered. “Maybe he tripped over something on the floor and hit his head. Maybe he had a seizure or a stroke.”