Sleight Of Paw

Read on for a special preview from Sofie Kelly’s next Magical Cats Mystery, coming soon from Obsidian.

I’d never heard a cat laugh before—I didn’t think they could—but that’s what Owen was clearly doing. He was behind the big chair in the living room, laughing. It sounded a little like hacking up a fur ball, if you could somehow add merriment to the sound.

I leaned over the back of the chair. “Okay, cut it out,” I said. “You’re being mean.”

He looked up at me, and it seemed as though the expression in his golden eyes was a mix of faux-innocence and mirth. “It’s not funny,” I hissed.

Okay, so it was kind of funny. Owen’s brother, Hercules, was sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor, wearing boots. Specifically, black and white boots, to match his black and white fur, in a kitty-paw-print design with fleece lining and antislip soles. They were a gift from my friend Maggie.

“Stick a paw in it,” I said to Owen. “You’re not helping.”

I went back into the kitchen. Hercules gave me a look that was part acute embarrassment and part annoyance.

“They are kind of cute,” I said. “You have to admit it was a very nice gesture on Maggie’s part.” That got me a glare that was all venom.

“I’ll take them off.” I crouched down in front of him. He held up one booted paw and I undid the strap. “You’re just not a clothes cat,” I told him. “You’re more of an au naturel cat.”

I heard a noise behind me in the doorway. “And Owen is very sorry he laughed at you. Aren’t you, Owen?” I added a little extra emphasis to the last words. After a moment’s silence there was a soft meow from the other side of the room.

I took the second boot off, and Hercules shook one paw and then the other. I stroked the fur on the top of his head. “Maggie was just trying to help,” I said. “She knows you don’t like getting your feet wet.”

Hercules was a total wuss about wet feet. He didn’t like going out in the rain. He didn’t like going out in the snow. He didn’t like walking across the grass in heavy dew. Maggie had seen the cat boots online and ordered them. I didn’t know how I was going to explain to her that boots just weren’t his thing.

I stood up, went over to the cupboard to get a handful of kitty crackers and made a little pile on the floor in front of Herc. “Here,” I said. “These’ll help.” Then I scooped up Owen. I could tell from the way his tail was twitching that he’d been thinking of swiping a cracker.

“Leave your brother alone,” I warned, carrying him upstairs with me. “Or I’ll put those boots on you and I’ll tell Maggie you like them.”

He made grumbling noises in his throat. I set him on the floor, and he disappeared into my closet to sulk. I pulled on an extra pair of heavy socks, brushed my hair back into a low ponytail and stuffed my wallet in my pocket.

Hercules had eaten the crackers and was carefully grooming his front paws. “I’m going to meet Maggie,” I told him, pulling my sweatshirt over my head. “I’ll figure out something to tell her.”

I locked the kitchen door behind me and walked around the side of the house to the truck—my truck. Sometimes I still got the urge to clap my hands and squeal when I saw it. It had started out as a loaner from Harry Taylor, Sr., and when I’d manage to retrieve some papers about Harry’s daughter’s adoption, he’d insisted on giving me the truck.

When I’d moved to Mayville Heights about a year ago to become head librarian and to oversee the renovations to the library building, I’d sold my car. The town was small enough that I could walk everywhere I wanted to go. But it was nice not to have to carry two bags of groceries up the hill. And with all the rain we’d had in the past week and all the flooding, I never would have been able to get to the library—or a lot of other places—without the old truck.

The morning sky was dull and the air was damp. We’d had a week of off-and-on rain—mostly on—and the downtown was at serious risk of major flooding. The retaining wall between Old Main Street and the river was strong, but it had been reinforced with sandbags just in case. We’d spent hours two nights ago moving those bags into place along a human chain of volunteers.

This was the second day the library was closed. The building was on relatively high ground, a rise where the street turned, and the pump Oren Kenyon had installed in the basement was handling what little water had come in, but both the parking lot and the street were flooded.

Maggie was waiting for me on the sidewalk in front of the artists’ co-op building. The old stone basement had several feet of water in it, and we’d spent most of the previous day moving things from the first-floor store into the second-floor tai chi studio, in case the water got any higher. There were still a couple of her large collage panels that needed to be carried upstairs.

“Hi,” I said. “How late did you stay here last night?”

“Not that late,” she said as she unlocked the front door.

I followed her inside. Mags and I had met at her tai chi class and bonded over our love of the cheesy reality show Gotta Dance. She was an artist, a tai chi instructor, and she ran the co-op store.

Her two collage panels were up on a table, carefully wrapped and padded. We carried them up the steps without any problems.

I was about to suggest that we walk over to Eric’s Place for coffee and one of his blueberry muffins, when we heard someone banging on the front door.

“Please tell me that isn’t who I think it is,” Maggie said. Before I could ask who she meant, she was on her way downstairs.

Jaeger Merrill was outside, his back to the door. Maggie let out a soft sigh and went to unlock it. He turned at the sound.

“Good morning,” she said.

Jaeger stepped inside. “The window in my studio is leaking,” he said. There were two deep frown lines between his eyebrows. Jaeger was a mask maker. He sold both his masks and some of the elaborate preliminary sketches he made for them in the store.

“Ruby told me,” Maggie said. “Someone’s coming to take a look at it this morning.”

“I wanted to get some work done and instead I had to waste a lot of time sticking my stuff in boxes. Again.” He dragged his fingers back through his blond hair. A couple of weeks ago he’d cut off a good six inches. It made him look more serious, less bohemian. “The building needs a manager.”

“River Arts does have a manager,” I said. “The town owns the building.”

“Too much bureaucracy and too little money,” Jaeger said derisively. “The center should have a corporate sponsor. So should the store.”

Maggie placed a loosely closed fist against her breastbone and took a slow deep breath. I knew that was her way of staying calm and in control. “The artists own and run the store,” she said, “so they can make the decisions.”

He gave his head a slight shake. “Like I said before, what the hell does the average artist know about running a business?”

Maggie was the current president of the co-op board. I thought about how hard she’d worked to promote the artwork and the artists at the shop in just the year I’d known her.

“I’m sorry about the leak,” she said. “There isn’t anything anyone can do about all the rain. Everyone is frustrated and tired, Jaeger.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “This is a ridiculous way to run a business,” he started.

“The weather and how we run the co-op are two different things,” Maggie said. Her tone hadn’t changed at all but there was something just a little intimidating about the way she stood there so perfectly straight and still. “If you have problems with River Arts, go to the town office, call public works, call the mayor. Save everything else for the meeting later this morning.”

She tipped her head to the side and looked at him. If it had been an old Western this would have been the point where the audience did a collective “Ohhh.” Maggie could outstare anyone, even my Owen and Hercules, who were masters of the unblinking glare.

Jaeger’s mouth opened and closed. He shook his head. “This is stupid,” he muttered. He pushed past us and headed upstairs.

“What was that?” I asked once he was out of sight.

Maggie gave me a wry smile. “Mostly Jaeger being Jaeger. Did you know he’s been pushing for the co-op to find a patron almost since he first got here?”

I nodded.

“With the flooding and having to move everything in the store, he’s just gotten worse.” She let out a breath, put one hand on the back of her head and stretched. Then she looked at me. “I should check the basement.”

“Okay,” I said. I followed her through the empty store to the back storage room. She flipped the light switch and unlocked the door. Three steps from the top of the basement stairs she stopped, sucking in a sharp breath.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Is he dead?” Maggie asked in a tight voice.

I leaned around her to get a better look at the body. “Yeah, he’s dead.”

“Are you sure?”

I moved past her on the steps so I could see better. The corpse of a large gray rodent was floating on its back near the stairs railing, in the four feet of muddy, smelly water that filled the basement. “He’s not doing the backstroke, Maggie,” I said. “He’s dead.”

She shivered and ran a hand through her short blond hair. “I’m not touching that thing.”

“I’ll get it,” I said. It wouldn’t be the oddest thing I’d ever done in the name of friendship. I grabbed the yellow plastic snow shovel that was hanging on a nail to the right of the cellar door and went down a couple more steps so I could scoop up the dead rat. Behind me I heard Maggie make a faint squeaky noise in her throat, probably afraid that it had just been floating, eyes closed, in the filthy water, like some rodent spa-goer, and was now going to roll over and run up the steps.

It didn’t.

I tightened my grip on the shovel handle and turned, swinging it in front of me. “I’m coming up,” I warned. Maggie took a step backward. I grabbed the railing and something sliced into my hand. “Ow!” I yelled, yanking my hand back. There was blood welling from a small gash on the fleshy part of my hand below my little finger.

The end of the shovel dipped like a teeter-totter, and the plastic blade banged hard against the wooden step. The rat corpse somersaulted into the air like a high diver coming off a tower. I swiped my bleeding hand on the leg of my jeans and lunged with the shovel, but the rat had gotten a surprising amount of height and distance. It arced through the air and landed with a soggy splat on Maggie’s foot.

She shrieked and jerked backward, banging into the doorframe. I scrambled up the stairs. “I got it. I got it,” I said. “It’s okay.” I scooped up the dead rodent and squeezed past Mags, keeping the shovel low to the ground.

Out in the hallway I looked around. Okay, so what was I going to do? I couldn’t exactly drop the rat in the metal garbage can in the corner.

Holding the shovel out in front of me, I cut through the empty store, opened the street door, and tossed the body of the rat out toward the street. It didn’t do any elegant somersaults this time. It hit the sidewalk with the same wet splat as when it had landed on Maggie’s foot. Except this time the rat rolled over, shook itself and scurried away. I said a word well-mannered librarians didn’t normally use and then realized that Ruby Blackthorne was standing by the streetlight. The rat had gone whizzing right by her head.

Crap on toast! “Ruby, I’m sorry,” I said, holding the door for her as she came across the sidewalk.

She looked at me. “Inventing a new sport?” she asked. “Because I don’t think it’s going to replace discus in the Olympics. And I’m pretty sure you just violated at least a couple of cruelty to animal laws.”

“It was floating in the basement.” I gestured behind me.

“And that was your version of rat CPR?”

I wasn’t sure if she was joking or serious. Then I noticed just a hint of a smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. She was growing out her usually spiked short hair and it stuck out from the sides of her head in two tiny pigtails, one turquoise, one pink.

“I really thought it was dead,” I said. “It was on its back in the water. It didn’t move.” I went to swipe my hand across my sweatshirt, which is when I remembered it was bleeding.

“Hey, are you okay?” Ruby asked. “It didn’t bite you, did it?”

I shook my head and felt in the pocket of my hoodie for a Kleenex. “No. I did that on the railing.”

Maggie came out through the store then, holding a length of old pipe like a club, scanning the space as though the rat might come walking by. It didn’t seem like a good plan to tell her it was possible it could.

“It’s okay, Mags,” I said. “It’s gone.” That much was true. “I put it outside.” Also true.

She looked around again, then tucked the piece of pipe between her knees.

I shot Ruby a warning look, hoping she remembered how Maggie felt about small furry things.

“Is Jaeger still here?” Maggie asked, glancing at the stairs.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“I just saw him putting boxes in his car,” Ruby offered. She rolled her eyes at Maggie. “So, what was it this time? The we-need-a-corporate-sponsor speech? Or the we-need-to-expand-our-horizons rant?”

“The first one,” Maggie said. Then she noticed my hand. “Did you do that on the railing?” She caught my wrist and rolled my palm over. “I think that needs stitches.”

“I don’t need stitches,” I said. “It isn’t even bleeding anymore. All I need is a Band-Aid.”

Maggie shook her head and mock glared at me. “C’mon upstairs. I’ll fix it.”

Ruby and I followed her up the steps. Mags knew I hated hospitals. It went back to when I was a kid. Blame it on a weak stomach, a dark examining room, an artificial leg and way too many cheese curls.

“So, it seems like Jaeger is really pushing this corporate sponsor idea,” I said to Ruby, while Maggie cleaned my cut.

Ruby made a face. “He thinks we should find some big business to subsidize the co-op, kind of like a patron of the arts.” Ruby painted huge abstracts and also taught art.

“What’s in it for the business?” I asked. “I’m guessing something more than just goodwill.”

“The use of our artwork for commercial purposes, among other things,” Maggie said, fastening a big bandage on my hand. “I’m not against that necessarily. But I’m not about to give up the right to choose how my art is used. Jaeger thinks I’m wrong.” She looked at me. “How’s that?”

I opened and closed my hand a few times. “Perfect,” I said. “Thank you.”

“He’s an asshat,” Ruby said.

“A what?” I asked.

“Asshat,” she repeated. “You know—someone whose head is so far up his . . . you know . . . that he’s wearing it for a hat.”

“Sounds uncomfortable,” Maggie said.

“Does Jaeger look like anyone else either of you have seen?” Ruby asked.

I shook my head. “No.”

“Uh-uh,” Maggie said. “Why?”

“I can’t shake the feeling I’ve seen him somewhere before, especially since he cut his hair.”

“Maybe a workshop or an exhibit,” I said.

“No, I don’t think that’s it.” She shook her head and all the little hoops in her left ear danced. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I just came to see if you guys wanted to go get something to eat at Eric’s.”

I glanced at my watch.

“Is this a cat morning?” Maggie asked.

“Uh-huh.” I was one of several volunteers who helped tend a feral cat colony at Wisteria Hill, the old abandoned Henderson estate just outside town.

“Going by yourself?” She was all innocent sweetness.

“Maybe,” I said. I knew where the conversation was headed.

For months Maggie had been trying to play matchmaker between Marcus Gordon and me. Marcus was a police detective, and we’d gotten off on the wrong foot the previous summer when he thought it was possible I had killed conductor Gregor Easton, or at the very least been involved in some intimate hanky-panky with the man who was twice my age and a . . . well . . . pretentious creep.

But last winter Marcus had rescued me when I was left dazed and wandering through the woods in the bitter cold after an explosion. We’d gotten closer since then, though not close enough to suit Maggie. She was indirectly responsible for our friend Roma’s relationship with hockey player Eddie Sweeney, and it had just made her worse where Marcus was concerned. Maggie believed in happily ever after and she had no problem with giving it a nudge, or even a big shove.

“Meeting anyone out there?” she continued.

“Don’t start,” I warned.

“Start what?”

Ruby grinned. She’d heard us do this before. “Start on Marcus and me getting together. We’re friends. That’s all. He’s not my type. He doesn’t—”

“Even have a library card,” Maggie finished. “Is that the only thing you can find wrong with him?”

Okay, so I had probably used that excuse too much. I thought about Marcus for a moment. He was tall, with dark wavy hair, blue eyes and a gorgeous smile that he didn’t use nearly often enough. He was kind to animals, children and old people.

I caught myself and shook my head. I was supposed to be thinking of what was wrong with the man, not what was right. Maggie was smirking at me as though she could read my mind. I stuck my tongue out at her.

“So, how about breakfast?” Ruby said.

Maggie nodded. “Sounds good to me.”

“I have to get out to Wisteria Hill,” I said. “But I’ll drive you two over and get a cup of coffee to go.”

Maggie picked up the length of old pipe again.

“Are you taking that with you?” I asked.

“Would it look stupid?”

“Well, not exactly stupid,” I said. “More like you’re about to start looting and pillaging.”

“You know, I really do believe every creature has a right to exist. It’s just . . .” She blew out a breath. “I don’t want some of them for roommates.” She set the pipe on the floor against the wall at the bottom of the stairs.

Maggie locked the building, and then we piled in the truck and headed for Eric’s Place, farther up Old Main Street. Even though I knew the town pretty well now, I still found the whole Main Street versus Old Main Street thing kind of confusing.

“Is it ever going to stop raining?” Ruby asked, looking skyward as we got closer to the café.

“There’s more rain in the forecast,” I said.

“It could be wrong.”

“It could.” I rubbed my left wrist. It had been aching for days, and not just from slinging sandbags. I’d broken it the previous summer and now it was pretty good at predicting bad weather. Maybe the fact that it didn’t hurt so much today meant the forecast was wrong.

The restaurant was warm and dry and smelled like coffee, a nice change from the scent of wet feet. Eric’s wife, Susan, worked for me at the library, and I knew they had a heavy-duty sump pump in the basement.

I crossed to the counter. “Hi, Kathleen,” Eric said with a smile. “What can I get you?”

“Just a large coffee to go. Thanks,” I said.

He reached for a take-out cup, poured the coffee and added just the right amount of cream and sugar. As he passed me the coffee, he noticed the overly large bandage with which Maggie had wrapped my hand. “That doesn’t look good,” he said. “How did you do that?”

“She was scooping up dead things with a shovel and throwing them at me,” Maggie said.

“New hobby?” Eric asked dryly.

“More like a side job,” Ruby said with a grin. “Rodent wrangler.”

Eric nodded. “Yeah, the rain’s driving them out of their hiding places.”

Maggie put her hands over her ears and started humming off-key.

“Maggie has a hear no rodents, see no rodents, speak of no rodents policy,” I said.

“We tried that with the twins when they went through their streaker stage,” Eric said.

I handed him the money for my coffee.

“How’d that work?” Ruby asked.

“About as well as you’d expect. They may be four, but they have the tactical skills of Hannibal getting those elephants across the Alps. They always managed to be stark naked at the most embarrassing moments.”

He handed me my change. “Thanks, Eric,” I said.

Maggie dropped her hands. “Have fun with . . . the cats,” she said. Her lips were twitching as she tried not to smirk at me.

“Nothing’s going to happen out there,” I hissed at her. “Nothing.”

Of course, I was wrong.