Cat Trick

I pulled out a chair and sat down while he made short work of the rest of the zucchini. “Marcus, could we talk about this morning and get that out of the way?” I asked. It wasn’t exactly the Sword of Damocles, but I didn’t want Owen’s sleuthing hanging over us all evening.

“Sure,” he said, wiping his hands and turning around.

“I’m sorry that Owen trespassed on your crime scene.”

Marcus leaned back against the edge of the counter, braced his hands on either side of his body and smiled at me. “Kathleen, I do know you didn’t send Owen into the tent on purpose.”

No, I hadn’t sent Owen across the street, but I was certain he’d headed for the tent deliberately. Just the same way that he’d prowled through a pile of recycling when Gregor Easton had been killed. And discovered a puzzle box and a piece of paper—hidden in a stack of cartons at River Arts—that turned out to be the key to the scam that artist Jaeger Merrill had been running. Both Owen and Hercules seemed to have a nose for sleuthing.

“Maybe I could teach Owen to at least bring you a cup of coffee if he’s going to stick his whiskers in your case,” I said, trying to keep my tone light.

“I think I’d rather have coffee with you,” Marcus said.

His deep blue eyes met mine, and for a moment what I’d been going to say next fell right out of my head. If the timer on his stove hadn’t started buzzing just then, I think I would have just kept staring at him.

“I have to check dessert,” Marcus said, gesturing in the direction of the oven with his eyes still glued to my face.

Was it my imagination, or was he flustered, too?

I waited while he looked at Eric’s pudding cake and adjusted the oven temperature before I said anything else. I liked watching him move, and it took me that long to get my train of thought back on the rails.

“Do you think that button Owen found had anything to do with Mike Glazer’s killer?” I asked finally. “And yes, I know it doesn’t sound like I’m staying out of things.”

“No, it doesn’t,” he said, turning the heat on under the wok that was sitting on one of the stove’s front burners.

“Would you believe I’m only asking because Owen wants to know?”

“Given that Owen isn’t like any other cat I’ve ever been around . . .” He shook his head and laughed. Then his expression grew serious. “What makes you think someone killed Mike Glazer?”

“The petechiae—those pinpoints of bleeding under his skin. I saw them when I checked to see if he was still alive. I think he was asphyxiated somehow.”

“You’re really observant.”

Maybe we really had changed our past pattern. I frowned at him. “No, you see, that wasn’t your line. You were supposed to say, ‘Stay out of my case, Kathleen.’” I made my voice low and gruff and my expression stern.

“I do not look like that, and I don’t sound like that, either.” He frowned. I wasn’t sure if the expression was meant for me or the wok.

I leaned back in the chair and laced my fingers over my middle. “Yes, you do,” I said.

He dumped a plate of chicken into the wok. It sizzled as it hit the hot oil. I waited.

Finally, he nodded. “We’re not going to be able to keep it quiet much longer. You’re right. It doesn’t look like Mike Glazer’s death was an accident. For now we’re just calling it suspicious.”

“Does that mean the whole pitch to Legacy will be off again?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

I watched him cook for a couple of minutes. I knew how hard Liam and Maggie and a lot of other people in town had worked to make the food tasting and art show come together. If Legacy did decide to base a fall tour package around Mayville Heights, it could be very good for the local economy. But would they really want to bring their clients to a place where one of their partners had been murdered? I didn’t think so.

“I don’t suppose you could figure out who killed Mike Glazer and prove that it was no one from Mayville Heights in, say, the next forty-eight hours?” I asked.

He shot me an amused look. “Sorry,” he said, pouring a small dish of sauce over the chicken and vegetables in the wok. “It doesn’t quite work that way. The investigation’s just getting started.”

“Owen already found a clue for you,” I teased. “That button.”

“I didn’t say that was a clue,” he countered. “I didn’t even say it was a button.”

“But it was.” The conversation was beginning to feel a little like a volleyball match. Every time I spiked, Marcus managed a return.