Sleight Of Paw

23

Owen at least looked guilty; he hung his head and slunk over to me. I crouched down and he looked up at me, a cute-guilty combo.

“Why did you do that?” I asked him. “The first time Marcus came here you all but climbed onto his lap. What’s wrong with Justin?”

His gold eyes narrowed and his ears went back again. “I get that you don’t like him,” I said, patting the top of his head. “But why?”

Of course, since he couldn’t talk, he couldn’t exactly tell me.

I turned to Hercules, who was still washing his face and studiously ignoring me. “You didn’t like Justin, either.”

Lick, lick, lick, and then the paw wiped the face.

“He’s intense—I’ll give you that—and self-absorbed, but that whole show with the ears back and the hissing was a bit over-the-top. If you didn’t like the guy, couldn’t you just, I don’t know, ignore him? Like you’re doing to me right now?”

The phone rang then and I went to answer it.

“Hey,” Maggie said. “You disappeared so fast I didn’t get a chance to ask if you wanted to walk down and catch the end of the all-star game.”

“Sorry,” I said. “Ruby and Justin offered me a ride.”

“She seems more like herself, doesn’t she?” Maggie said.

“Yeah, she does.” I hesitated for a second. If I was going to check out drinking establishments I didn’t want to go by myself, and this wasn’t really the type of road trip I could take Hercules or Owen on. Plus, I needed a car. “Hey, Mags, do you feel like going out?” I asked.

“The game’s probably close to over.”

“I was thinking more like going out for a drink,” I said.

For a moment there was only silence. Then Maggie said, “A drink?”

“Uh-huh.”

“At a bar?”

“Why not? Why not try something new? Meet some new people.”

Another silence. Then Maggie spoke again. “Kathleen, if you’re being held captive by some freak, winter-loving terrorist, say ‘avocado’ and I’ll hang up and call the police.”

I laughed. “I haven’t been kidnapped and I haven’t lost my mind. I want to check out some of the bars up on the highway. It’s something that might help Ruby.”

“Why didn’t you say so? I’m on my way.”

I was so surprised for a moment, I didn’t speak.

“You thought I’d say no.” Maggie chortled.

“I thought you’d at least want more of an explanation.”

“Oh, I do,” she said. “You can tell me on the way. Right now go put on some lipstick and wear something feminine.”

I looked down at my comfortable exercise pants and long-sleeved T-shirt. “You mean, don’t dress like a librarian.”

“I didn’t say that,” Maggie countered. “But yes. You have fifteen minutes.” With that she hung up.

Owen and Hercules were both sitting by the footstool. “Maggie and I are going barhopping,” I told them. I looked down at Owen. “Your girlfriend wants me to dress cute.” He turned and headed for the stairs. I looked at Hercules and shrugged, and we followed Owen up to the bedroom.

I pulled a pair of khaki pants out of the closet. I might have imagined it—he might just have been taking a swipe at something stuck to his fur—but it almost seemed as if Owen put a paw over his face. I took out my favorite black trousers. He sneezed. “There’s nothing wrong with those black pants,” I said. He disappeared into the far left end of the closet.

“There’s nothing back there,” I said. I heard an answering meow. I looked at Hercules, who was just sitting and watching the two of us.

Owen meowed again. I started flipping through the hangers. I had two more pairs of black trousers, the gray pants with the cuffs I’ve been wearing the morning Ruby had found Agatha’s body, and way at the back, a pair of slim jeans. I could see Owen’s golden eyes gleaming up at me.

“Those don’t fit.”

He meowed his dissent. I took the hanger off the rod. “Maggie’s going to be here in ten minutes,” I said. “I’m going to try these on just to show you you’re wrong and then I’m going to pick out my own clothes, because last time I checked you didn’t have a subscription to Vogue.”

I tugged on the jeans. The first surprise was that I could get them on. The second was that I could zip them up. They were snug, but not skintight. Hercules walked around me. Owen poked his head out of the closet door.

“Fine. I’ll wear them,” I said. The last time I’d fit into those jeans was probably more than a year ago. My sister, Sara, had talked me into them. I couldn’t help checking out the rear view in the mirror. Maybe all that walking up and down Mountain Road was paying dividends—which still didn’t mean I didn’t need a car.

I rifled through my tops and found a cranberry sweater. Sara had bought that for me. It had a deep V-neck and the soft knit hugged me all over. It wasn’t me at all. Which probably meant I should wear it.

I put on lipstick and dangling earrings and tousled my hair. Not only did I not look like myself, but I didn’t feel like myself, which probably indicated I was on the right track.

I was ready when Maggie tapped on the porch door and came in. I held up my arms and did a little twirl.

“Not bad,” she said approvingly.

Owen walked in as I got my coat. Maggie bent down and he stopped maybe three feet from her. “Hey, Fur Ball,” she said. He got all squirmy but didn’t get any closer. Maggie kept talking softly to him, and I grabbed my purse and boots.

“Hey, do you have any other boots?” she said over her shoulder.

“What’s wrong with my boots?”

“Well, they’re kind of . . . sensible.”

“You think they’re ugly.” She was wearing brown suede boots that molded to her legs. I swear my first thought was that they probably didn’t have a very warm lining.

Maggie looked me up and down. “I don’t think they go with your outfit.” She turned back to Owen and gave him a conspiratorial grin.

I went fishing in the living room closet and pulled out a pair of black dress boots with heels. I’d bought them in Boston and brought them with me when I moved to Mayville. The first time it had snowed here, I’d worn them to work. I didn’t make that mistake the second time it snowed.

Maggie said good-bye to Owen. I locked up and we got in Maggie’s bug. Before she had even fastened her seat belt she turned to me. “Before we go, where are we going and why are we going?”

I handed her a piece of paper on which I’d copied the names of the bars I wanted to check out.

Maggie’s face was unreadable as she scanned the list. She looked at me again. “Now I know where we’re going. Why are we going?”

“You know Eric doesn’t drink?” I said.

“Uh-huh.” She nodded and gave a slight shrug.

I hated violating Eric’s privacy, but there wasn’t any way around it that I could see. “He was drinking Wednesday night.”

Maggie blinked a couple of times, then frowned. “Are you sure?”

I picked at loose thread on my glove. “I’m sure.”

She began to slowly shake her head. “Kathleen, no. I’m sorry. You’re wrong.”

I held up a hand. “Maggie, I don’t think Eric ran over Agatha. Wherever he was, he walked home. But he definitely drank. What I want to know is where he was and, more important, who he was with.”

She exhaled slowly. “Why don’t you ask him . . . or Susan?”

“I did,” I said. “Whoever this person is, Eric used to be his sponsor. He won’t violate that relationship for anything.”

“You think the person Eric was with might have hit Agatha.”

I nodded.

“Kathleen, that’s a real long shot.”

I peeled off my glove before I picked that loose thread into a hole. “I know,” I said. “It’s not the only thing I have to go on. I found out that there may be as many as three trucks identical to Ruby’s on the road.”

“So who owns them?”

“Roma is checking that out for me.”

Maggie stared out the windshield. “Kath, what about talking to Marcus?”

“I already did.”

That got her full attention.

“I bumped into him on the way to class.”

“And?”

“And he didn’t exactly do a Perry Mason and declare it was clear that Ruby was innocent.”

Maggie opened her mouth, but I spoke before she could. “Look, I know you think Marcus and I would make a great couple, and I do think he’s a decent cop, but he thinks he has the person who ran down Agatha—Ruby. I could find all of those trucks and line them up in front of the police station, and unless I had the person who really killed Agatha trussed up with duct tape in the back of one of them, I don’t see him changing his mind.”

Maggie looked thoughtfully at me. “So, you want to do this alphabetically or by location?”

“You’re not going to argue with me?”

She stuck the key in the ignition and started the car. “Nope.”

I was at a loss for words.

Maggie smiled as she backed out of the driveway. “Look. You’re right,” she said. “I think Marcus is an excellent detective, but he’s probably already handed the file on Ruby’s case on to the county attorney. It’s going to take more than just the possibility of there being another truck or even three to get Ruby out of this mess. This is a long shot, but it’s better than no shot.”

She glanced at my list on the dashboard. “We may as well go to the Brick first,” she said. “Did you bring a picture of Eric?”

I pulled a snapshot out of my purse. It had been taken at the library picnic. Eric was at the grill, squinting into the sun. I held it up and Maggie glanced at it briefly. “That’s good,” she said.

I’d heard that tone in her voice before. “You have a plan, don’t you?” I asked. Watching her, I could feel the energy as all the neurons fired in her brain.

“I have a couple of ideas.”

That wasn’t good. The last time Maggie had one of her ideas we’d ended up hijacking Roma and her SUV. Part of Maggie was laid-back and Zen. She truly believed that what you put out into the world would come back to you, positive or negative. She thought Matt Lauer from the Today show was sexy.

On the other hand, she could keep a secret better than anyone I’d ever met. And she’d seen every Dirty Harry movie Clint Eastwood had ever made, more times than even she could remember.

“Watch for the sign,” Maggie said once we were on the highway out of town, headed for Minneapolis–St. Paul. “The last time I was by, the B and the R were burned out in the sign.”

“So what I’m really looking for is the Ick,” I said.

“Probably in more ways than one.”

The Brick was a strip club. It was dark and loud and we had to pay a cover charge to get inside. Maggie put her mouth close to my ear. “Follow my lead and try to look uncomfortable.”

I was uncomfortable. There was a woman dancing on the T-shaped stage. At least she had all her clothes on—“all” being a hot pink, feather-trimmed bikini top and matching bottom. She actually looked like she was having fun. She did a slow twirl around the pole, and I caught sight of her face.

“I know her,” I said, grabbing Maggie’s arm. “She brings her little boy to story time.”

Maggie looked past me. “Yeah, that’s Jenna. She’s in my yoga class.”

“I didn’t know she was an exotic dancer.”

“She’s not,” Maggie said. “It’s amateur night. If we’re here very long you’ll probably see some other people you know.” She climbed on a stool and smiled down the bar at the female bartender.

I took the stool next to her and turned my back to the stage. There was a long list of people I had no interest in seeing in feathers and spike heels.

It wasn’t at all hard to follow Maggie’s instructions to look embarrassed. I kept picturing people I knew in town up on the small stage. Abigail. Lita. Rebecca. How would you look someone in the eye after seeing her swing around a pole while wearing next to nothing?

“You want wine,” Maggie whispered as the bartender approached.

“Hi. What can I get you?” she asked. She was about Maggie’s age, blond hair in a ponytail, serious dark-framed glasses, and arms that suggested a regular workout with weights.

“I’ll just have coffee,” Maggie said. “I’m driving.”

“I’ll have a glass of red wine,” I said.

“No problem,” the bartender, whose name was Zoe, said. She put a basket of pretzels between us. I grabbed one and popped it in my mouth. If I was going to have to drink, I wanted to eat something.

The pretzel was good, crisp and lightly salted. The wine was not good. I had another pretzel.

Maggie had paid for our drinks and was talking to the bartender, leaning forward, elbows on the bar. I saw her eyes flick sideways a couple of times at my glass. I was guessing she wanted me to drink a little more or at least look like I was. I took a swallow and chased the taste with a couple of pretzels.

I wasn’t sure what Maggie’s plan was, but it didn’t seem to be working. I was tired, the music was too loud and I was afraid of what I might see if I turned in the direction of the stage. I was about to tell her this had all been a bad idea when she looked at me and said, “You got his picture?”

The picture. I’d put it back in my purse. I pulled it out. Maggie took the photo from me and slid it across the bar. “Were you working last Wednesday night? Did you see this guy?”

The bartender studied the picture, then looked up at Maggie. “What did he do?”

“Well,” Maggie said, holding out both hands. She looked at me and raised her eyebrows.

I felt my face getting red. I ducked my head, took another drink and followed it with pretzel.

Zoe smiled knowingly and looked at Eric’s photograph again. “No, he wasn’t here. It was very quiet last Wednesday night because of that auction.”

She gave me a look of . . . pity? Sympathy? I wasn’t sure which. Then she turned to Maggie. “He wasn’t here. Is that a good thing?”

“Maybe,” Maggie said. “But everybody has to be somewhere, so maybe not. Thank you for your help.”

“No problem,” she said. There were a couple of guys at the far end of the bar, trying to get her attention. She grabbed another basket of pretzels and headed toward them.

Maggie picked up her coffee cup, drained it and set it down again. She looked at my wineglass. “You want one for the road?”

I grimaced. “No. I think the windshield-washer fluid would taste better.”

“Let’s go, then,” she said, slipping out of her seat.

We were halfway to the door when Maggie caught my arm and said, “Please tell me that’s not who I think it is.” She was gurgling with laughter.

I put a hand up to the side of my face. “I’m not looking.”

She grabbed my wrist and pulled my arm away from my cheek. “If you don’t look I’m going to describe what I just saw in teeny, tiny detail.”

I took a quick look at the stage. Then a longer one. Then I grabbed Maggie’s sleeve and dragged her out of the Brick so fast she tripped over a step and almost landed in a heap of snow in front of the building.

“So was it?” she asked, one arm wrapped around a railing post so she could get her balance.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe. Probably. I think so.”

She started to laugh. She laughed so hard her feet started to slide on the icy parking lot and she had to wrap her other arm around the stair post. From a distance she looked drunk.

I glanced back at the building. I could hear the music—Bon Jovi belting out “You Give Love a Bad Name”—and I could still see the dancer in my mind’s eye. A black corset, fishnets, heels and a harlequin feather-trimmed mask, all worn by Mary, the kickboxing grandmother who worked at the library and hand-made all those luscious pies for the Winterfest supper.

Because it was her. The mask didn’t hide enough of her face. Maggie was still laughing, hugging the stair post like it was a giant teddy bear.

“It’s not funny,” I said. “I work with Mary. What am I supposed to say when I see her tomorrow? Nice corset?”

“Well, it was a very nice corset,” Maggie laughed. “Where do you think she got it? Not around here.”

I started for the car. “I’m not asking her, so don’t even think about it.”

“I didn’t think you were such a prude, Kathleen,” Maggie said as we got in the bug.

“I’m not a prude,” I said. “And what people do for fun is their own business. It’s just that Mary was the last person I expected to see in a strip club. She’s someone’s grandmother.”

“She looked hot,” Maggie said. “All the kickboxing means she’s in great shape. Why shouldn’t she flaunt her booty once in a while?”

I glared at her. “Thanks for putting that image in my mind.”

One thing was for sure: When I saw Mary at the library tomorrow I wasn’t going to ask her how her evening went.