Cat Trick

“Thanks,” I said. “Owen’s fine. Ruby had some organic fish crackers for him.” I didn’t bother telling her I’d just recently learned that Owen apparently loved black olives.

Susan and I spent most of the morning unpacking two boxes of books that had been donated to the library—a mix of children’s picture books, graphic novels and reference books, including a huge atlas and a book of star charts—and entering them into our system. I called Abigail at home to talk about plans for a Halloween puppet show and installed a new math game on the two computers we kept reserved for kids.

As far as I could tell, Owen spent the morning napping in the sunshine on my desk chair. That’s where I found him after we’d closed down the library at one o’clock. I knew that didn’t mean he hadn’t nosed all over my office, just that he hadn’t left any obvious evidence. There was a good chance that sometime next week I’d find a clump of hair behind a book or in one of my desk drawers. I was glad that we closed early on Saturday. How much mischief would he have been able to get into if he’d spent the whole day alone in my office?

Hercules was waiting in the porch when we got home. He looked from me to Owen, wondering, maybe, if we’d been off somewhere having fun while he was stuck at home.

“If you’re wondering why I didn’t bring your brother back earlier, it’s because he decided it was a better idea to go digging around in a crime scene,” I said.

Herc murped at Owen, who murped back. I wondered what they were talking about. Were they discussing the button or whatever it was Owen had uncovered? Or were they plotting how to get me to open a can of sardines?

For lunch, I heated the last of the chicken soup I’d made earlier in the week with my Crock-Pot. Hercules trailed me, making little rumbles and meows from time to time. Every once in a while, he’d stop and look expectantly at me and I’d say, “Really?” or “I understand.”

I spent the afternoon doing laundry and cleaning the house. Hercules and I had recently discovered Nickelback. It turned out Owen didn’t like Chad Kroeger any more than he liked Barry Manilow. We didn’t even get to the chorus of “Never Gonna Be Alone” before Owen streaked through the kitchen like Boris the dog was on his tail, vaulting the mop in his haste to get to the porch door and the backyard.

It took me a ridiculously long time to get dressed and do my hair for supper with Marcus. I stood in front of the closet door with Owen on one side and Hercules on the other, pulling out things and putting them back on the rod. Finally, I settled on jeans and a lavender shirt my sister, Sara, had convinced me to buy when I was back in Boston. Neither cat yowled or hid under the bed, so I figured I looked okay.

I double-checked to make sure there was fresh water in the boys’ dishes and a clean litter box downstairs. “I’m leaving,” I called as I pulled on my jacket. Hercules poked his head around the living room doorway. “Don’t wait up,” I told him, waggling my eyebrows. That got no reaction.

After a moment, Owen’s gray tabby head appeared on the other side of the doorway. “Stay off the footstool,” I reminded him. I knew he wouldn’t.

It was a beautiful evening, with just a bit of a chill in the air, a reminder that fall was here. The leaves were starting to turn and I could see splashes of gold and red in the trees around Marcus’s little house.

I knocked on the back door, and after a moment he called, “Come in, Kathleen.”

I stepped into the kitchen and immediately smelled chocolate. That was a good sign. I breathed in deeply. I could also catch the scent of oranges and something spicy as well. Marcus was at the counter, slicing a zucchini.

“Hi.” He smiled at me over his shoulder. He was wearing a denim shirt and jeans. The hair at the nape of his neck was just a little damp.

“Hi,” I said, suddenly feeling a little awkward. “It smells wonderful in here.”

He set down the knife. “That’s probably Eric’s pudding cake.”

I took off my jacket and hung it over the back of one of the kitchen chairs. “You made Eric’s chocolate pudding cake?” I asked.

Marcus shook his head. “No. Eric made Eric’s chocolate pudding cake. I just brought it home and stuck it in the oven.” He reached for the knife again. “Are you hungry? I can start cooking in about five minutes.”

I nodded. “Great. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“I have it all under control,” he said, turning back to the counter. “Have a seat.”