Cat Trick

Maggie rubbed her hands on the front of her gray yoga pants. “If this all works out, it could bring a lot of money here every fall. Assuming somebody doesn’t lose it with Mike. You know what I heard Burtis say when Mike was yelling at Liam?”

“What?”

“He said, ‘Someday, somebody’s gonna turn that boy into a license plate.’”

“That sounds like Burtis,” I said.

She nodded. “I know. And I’m afraid that before we’re finished, Burtis—or someone else—is going to do it. Mike puts so much negative energy out into the world. Eventually it’s all going to come back to him and more.” She shook her head. “Okay, I’m done complaining. C’mon. I’ll show you what the tents will look like when we’re done.”

Maggie walked me around, pointing out where the second tent was going to be set up and how the booths would be arranged. Marcus came back after a few more minutes with a huge turkey sandwich, a take-out container of soup, and tea for her supper. We walked across to the community center, where we found Ruby Blackthorne hanging one of her oversized abstract paintings.

Like Maggie, Ruby was an artist. She was also a lot more flamboyant. Her hair was currently red on one side of her head and blue on the other, and she was wearing a T-shirt that read Ginger Did It Backward in High Heels. She smiled at me but only nodded at Marcus. Last winter Marcus had arrested Ruby for the murder of Agatha Shepherd. Even though he’d kept working on the case and ultimately caught the real killer, Ruby was still a little cool with him.

“We’re on for the morning?” Ruby asked as she pulled a couple of chairs over to a folding table pushed against the end wall of the long room. Maggie had offered to share her supper.

“Absolutely,” I said. “Hercules is looking forward to it.”

We said good-bye and headed back up the street to Marcus’s SUV.

“What’s Hercules looking forward to?” Marcus asked. “Is Ruby going to give him art lessons?”

I laughed. “No. He doesn’t do anything that might get him wet or dirty. Although now I have a mental picture of him wearing a little beret with a paintbrush in his mouth.” And standing next to his brother decked out in a Maggie T-shirt.

“Don’t laugh,” Marcus said, twisting his watch around his wrist. “I’ve seen video on the news of a beagle that paints with watercolors. And I think there was a story last winter about a cockatiel that did something artistic as well.”

“I remember that. It sang opera,” I said. “You have a better chance of getting Hercules to sing than you do getting him to paint. He does love Barry Manilow.”

Marcus grinned down at me. “Barry Manilow? You can’t be serious.”

I stopped, hands on my hips in mock indignation. “Are you suggesting there’s something wrong with loving Barry Manilow music?”

“No?” he said. “That is the right answer, isn’t it?”

“Unless you’re talking to Owen, yes,” I said, as we started walking again.

“He’s not a fan?”

“The fastest way to get Owen out of a room is to start playing ‘Mandy’ or ‘Copacabana.’” I touched his arm. “You might want to remember that in case he ever decides to visit you again.”

“Consider it filed away for future reference.” He looked both ways and we crossed at the corner. “So if Hercules isn’t going to take painting lessons from Ruby, what is he doing tomorrow morning?”

“He’s posing for her,” I said. “Last spring, Ruby took some photos and then did a pop art painting of Hercules for a workshop she was teaching. He was lime green and Big Bird yellow. Maggie convinced her to hang the painting in the co-op store and someone bought it. For a lot of money. Now Ruby wants to do another painting of Hercules to donate to a fund-raiser for a cat rescue group. So she’s taking more pictures tomorrow morning.”

“That’s really nice,” he said.

“Ruby’s a nice person.”

There was a clunky silence. Then Marcus spoke. “I arrested Ruby based on the evidence.”

“I know you did,” I said. The SUV was just ahead.

He stepped in front of me and stopped. “Wait a second. You just agreed with me.”

“I did.”

“You aren’t going to argue?”

I shook my head. “Nope.”

He pulled his mouth to one side. “What am I missing?”

I held up my index finger. “Number one, I don’t want to argue with you because I’m having a good time.”

“So am I,” he said.

I raised a second finger. “Number two, I know you have to look at facts and evidence. You can’t make decisions based on emotion.”

He opened his mouth to say something, and I raised my other hand in warning. “That doesn’t mean I like it.”