Copycat Killing

7

I ended up having to park the truck on a side street near the library. Even though that whole block of Old Main Street was on higher ground than where the artists’ co-op was located, because of the slope of the land and drainage problems, the section of street in front of the library was still covered with water, blocked off by three town sawhorses and a large yellow caution sign, but at least the level had dropped a couple more inches.

Inside the library, the pump Oren Kenyon had installed the previous fall seemed to be easily handling what little water had seeped into the basement. I went down the steps only as far as I needed to see that the cellar was staying dry. And I held on to the railing with both hands.

The main floor of the building was eerily quiet without Abigail leading story time and Susan shelving books, her dark hair up on her head with a couple of pencils or a crochet hook stuck in the topknot, steering readers to the latest science fiction as well as her favorite classics from Ray Bradbury and John Wyndham.

I emptied the book drop, checked in the returned books and reshelved everything. Then I called Lita, Everett Henderson’s assistant.

Everett had funded the library renovations—his gift to Mayville Heights—and he was president of the library board. I knew Lita would be able to find out when the building could reopen a lot faster than I would. It seemed as though she knew every single person in Mayville Heights, plus she was related in one way or another to most of the town as well.

“It’s going to be another day at least, Kathleen,” Lita said. “Probably two. Right now it all depends on how much rain we get. I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know.”

I thanked her and hung up. Everything in Mayville depended on how much rain we got. I rubbed my left wrist. It was a bit sore from falling down the embankment, but it didn’t have the bone-deep ache that usually meant rain.

I turned on the computer at the front desk and signed in to the system. I’d been keeping up with e-mail from my laptop at home so there wasn’t much to deal with. Then, because I was curious, I pulled up the archives for the Mayville Heights Chronicle and read the article about the disappearance of Roma’s father.

It wasn’t much of a story. Thomas Karlsson’s car had been found abandoned and out of gas. There was no sign of foul play. There were more lines in the brief article about his glory days playing high school baseball than there were about him going missing.

Since there wasn’t really anything else I needed to do at the library, I decided to walk over to Eric’s Place and get some coffee and something to eat. Breakfast had been a long time ago.

There was a black, extended cab pickup truck parked parallel to the yellow sawhorses out on the street when I came down the library steps. As I got closer to it the driver’s window rolled down and Burtis Chapman stuck his head out.

“Morning,” he said. “I’m lookin’ for Harry Junior. Don’t suppose he’s at the library?”

I shook my head. “I’m sorry. I haven’t seen him.”

Burtis was a big block of a man—with wide shoulders and a barrel chest. I had no idea how old he was; his face was lined and weathered and the few tufts of hair sticking out from under his Minnesota Twins cap were snow white. He was whip smart and extremely well read I knew. But he wasn’t above playing the hick from rural Minnesota if it suited his purposes.

“What happened to your head?” he asked, tipping his at mine.

Without thinking I put my hand up to my forehead and winced. When was I going to learn to not do that? “I was out at Wisteria Hill,” I said. “The bank let go underneath me.”

“Out behind the old carriage house, I’ll bet.”

I nodded. “How did you know?”

He gave a snort of laughter. “Spent some time in those woods in my younger days. Whole area’s swampy. Never did drain well. You’re lucky you didn’t break your neck.”

He reached over and started the truck. “Well, if you see Harry, tell him I’m lookin’ for him.”

“I will,” I said.

“You be careful out at the old house,” he said. “Real easy to get hurt in those woods.” He put the truck in gear, backed up and pulled away. I headed for the café.

I wondered why Burtis was looking for Harry Junior. Burtis was the kind of person who was always looking to make a deal of some kind. I’d heard hints that at one time he’d worked for Idris Blackthorne, Ruby’s grandfather who’d been the area bootlegger. He had at least half a dozen little businesses, everything from selling hardwood to renting commercial tents for weddings and parties. In another week or two Burtis would be selling fiddleheads out of the back of that truck of his.

Eric was in his usual spot behind the counter at the restaurant. The place was almost empty. Having half of the downtown blocked off couldn’t be good for his business. He picked up the coffeepot when he saw me come in and reached for a cup. I slid onto a stool and he set the mug in front of me.

“You read my mind, Eric,” I said. “Thank you.” I added cream and sugar. The coffee was hot and strong, just the way I liked it.

Eric studied my scabby forehead. “Have you been doing more rodent tossing or have you moved on to some other sport?”

I gave him a wry smile. “I was out at Wisteria Hill yesterday and the slope up behind the carriage house let go. The ground’s just so wet the water’s not draining away.”

“You’re okay?”

I nodded. “I am, thanks. I’m probably going to be one giant bruise for a while, though.”

“How about a brownie?” Eric asked. “Chocolate has medicinal qualities.”

I leaned my elbows on the counter. “Tempting. But I was thinking about a breakfast sandwich.” I looked at my watch. “Even though it’s not exactly breakfast time.”

He held up a finger. “Are you feeling adventurous?”

I smiled sweetly at him. “No.”

He gave me a bemused look and headed for the kitchen.

“What if I don’t like whatever you’re thinking about making?” I teased. There wasn’t much chance of that happening. Eric was an excellent cook.

“You will,” he said as the door swung shut behind him.

And I did. By the time I’d finished the sandwich Eric had made for me—fried tomatoes and bacon on toasted homemade sourdough bread—and had another cup of coffee I felt better. I wasn’t as damp, as sore, or as tired.

“That was good,” I said, pushing my plate away.

“I’m thinking of adding it to the menu,” Eric said. “Susan gave it a thumbs-up. Now you.”

Eric liked to tinker with the menu at the café. His wife, Susan, was always his first tester, and because she worked at the library, sometimes the rest of us were as well.

“Would you tell Susan it looks like at least another day before we reopen?” I said.

He nodded. “I will. The boys aren’t happy about the library being closed. So Abigail promised to come over and give them their own private story time.”

That sounded like Abigail, and it reminded me that I needed to call the rest of the staff and let them know we were going to be closed a little longer.

I paid Eric for my sandwich and coffee, getting a cup to go for myself and after a moment’s hesitation, one for Marcus.

I figured there would be an officer at the door to the co-op, but as I got closer I saw Marcus himself, on the sidewalk beside his vehicle.

I held up the coffee and he smiled. “This is getting to be a habit,” he said, as I reached the SUV and handed him the paper cup.

When conductor Gregor Easton had been killed, Marcus and I had had more than one cup of coffee as he tried to figure out if I was involved in the conductor’s death. And we’d shared a fair number of thermoses of coffee and hot chocolate out at Wisteria Hill while feeding the cats.

He took a long drink. “A good habit, by the way. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” I said.

“You didn’t come to check up on things, did you?” he asked, gesturing at the building.

“Me?” I said, giving him a look that was all wide-eyed innocence. I took a sip from my own coffee.

He let that pass with nothing more than slightly raised eyebrows. “Since you’re here, you could answer a few questions for me,” he said.

“All right.” I shifted from one foot to the other.

Marcus’s eyes flicked down to my ankle. “Did you call your doctor yet?” he asked.

“Not yet. I will,” I said.

He exhaled a lot more loudly than he needed to. It sounded like a low growl in the back of his throat. Then he said, “Tell me about finding the body.”

I didn’t mind the change of subject. I closed my eyes for a moment and pulled out the image of the basement stairs and Jaeger’s partly submerged body. “Maggie unlocked the door. She saw him first. She started down the steps. They were wet. She slipped partway down. I grabbed her.”

“Then what?”

I explained about making my way down the stairs, feeling for a pulse, leaving the basement and calling 911.

“What time did you get down here?” Marcus asked.

I glanced at my watch and calculated backward in my head. “After ten thirty,” I said. “Probably more like ten forty-five.”

He nodded, sipping his coffee. Out of the corner of my eye I could see people moving around inside the co-op store. I couldn’t tell what they were doing.

“When did you pick up Maggie?” he said.

I gave my head a little shake and focused all my attention on Marcus again. “I didn’t. The co-op members had a meeting first thing this morning. She was already here.”

“By herself.”

He said the words so casually, looking at his cup instead of at me, but I saw the slight tightening of his jaw.

“I don’t know,” I said, keeping my own voice equally casual. “You should ask her.”

“Did you see anyone when you got here?”

I took a long drink before I answered. I could feel a lump of annoyance pressing up in my chest and I couldn’t seem to swallow it down. “No I didn’t. The only person I saw was Maggie.” I pointed to a spot on the sidewalk a few feet away. “She was standing right there.”

“She wasn’t inside?”

“No.” Why did I feel that I’d said the wrong thing? I studied his face. There were no clues in his blue eyes to what he was thinking.

He drank the last of his coffee and set the empty takeout cup on the hood of the car, his hand over the top. “Okay. Maggie was waiting out here. You went inside. Then what?”

“Actually, we stood here talking for a minute,” I said. “Maggie noticed my head.” I lifted my hand toward my forehead, but didn’t actually touch it this time. “She wanted to know what happened. I told her. Then we went inside.”

I held up a finger before he had a chance to say anything. “We went upstairs. We loaded some boxes in my truck. Maggie wanted to check the basement. We found Jaeger. I called 911. That’s it.”

“Did she say why she wanted to check the basement?” Marcus asked, frowning.

“She just wanted to take one more look before we went down to River Arts.” I couldn’t keep the defensive tone out of my voice. It was as though Marcus and I were a couple of sumo wrestlers, circling, each waiting for the other to make a move. I reminded myself that he was just doing his job. He knew Maggie. He knew she wouldn’t push Jaeger or anyone else down those basement steps.

Still, I felt I had to say it out loud. “Maggie didn’t push Jaeger Merrill down the stairs.” I put a hand to my mouth to stifle a yawn. I was tired. My head ached. My jeans were damp from being down in the co-op basement, and what I really needed was to go soak in the bathtub for a while.

“I didn’t say she did. I didn’t say anyone did. I just want to know what happened, Kathleen,” he said. “That’s all.” He looked over at the building, then back at me.

Just the facts. It frustrated me that when he was working on a case, all Marcus seemed to be concerned about were the facts, not what he knew about the people involved. On the other hand, I knew it frustrated him that whatever was going on, I was going to filter the facts through what I knew about the people.

“Is there anything else you need to know?” I asked. I wanted to go home, spend some time with Hercules and Owen and soak up some kitty sympathy.

Marcus shook his head. “That’s it for now.” He studied my face for a moment. Then he reached over and very gently tucked a loose tendril of hair behind my ear.

All at once I didn’t see the tall, intimidating police detective with the serious, almost stern expression standing in front of me. I saw the man in the waiting room at Roma’s veterinary clinic just last week, sneaking little fish-shaped crackers to Desmond, the clinic cat, when he thought no one was looking.

The moment stretched between us just a shade too long.

He looked away first, taking a step backward. “You uh, should go home and get off your feet.”

I nodded, and shifted my take-out cup from one hand to the other. “I am. Call me if…if there’s anything else.” I turned and started back up the street.

“Kathleen,” Marcus called out as I reached the corner. I stopped and after a moment’s hesitation, turned around.

He held up the empty take-out cup. “Thank you for the coffee,” he said.

“You’re welcome,” I said. I turned and just as I was about to step off the curb to cross the street my cell phone rang. It was Ruby.

“Hey, Kathleen,” she said. “Where are you?” She was talking faster than usual.

“I’m walking back to the library. Why?”

“Are you close enough to come down to River Arts?”

“Why?” I asked. “Is something wrong? Is Maggie okay?”

“Yeah. She’s fine,” Ruby said. “She went home to change. It’s just”—she paused for a moment—“I figured out where I’d seen Jaeger.” There was an edge of excitement to her voice. “I know who he is, Kathleen. Or I guess I should say, who he really was.”