Cat Trick

“There was something Marcus needed him to take care of,” Maggie said. “It couldn’t wait, so I offered to meet Alex and show him around.”

Maybe I was wrong. Maybe Alex wasn’t going to plant something to throw suspicion on Georgia. Or maybe he hadn’t had a chance with Maggie right beside him. Maybe I could walk around with the two of them and everything would be fine.

I took a few steps backward and gestured at the Sweet Things booth. “Maggie, who did the sign for Sweet Things?” I asked. “It’s wonderful.”

It actually was. The artist had created a stylized line drawing of a cupcake with a cherry on top, the bottom edge of the cupcake turning into the words “Sweet Things,” written in pink script.

“Ruby did that,” Maggie said. “She did the signs we’re going to use outside and over at the art show too.”

“Ruby is the artist with the rainbow-sherbet-colored hair, isn’t she?” Alex asked. When he smiled, I noticed it didn’t go as far as his eyes.

“That’s right,” Mags said. The smile she gave Alex was much warmer. “Guess what? Alex is going to take four dozen of Georgia’s cupcakes with him for a meeting tomorrow morning in Minneapolis.”

“That’s wonderful,” I said.

I moved closer to the front of the kiosk, eyeing the pale varnished wood and the area around it while I pretended to look at Ruby’s work. You’re just being paranoid, I told myself. Then I saw it: a tiny corner of cream-colored paper. It looked as though a business card had been slipped in between a side support and the flat front counter of the booth.

I swallowed, hoping no reaction showed on my face. All I had to do was keep an eye on the booth and wait to hear from Marcus.

Maggie came to stand beside me. She pointed up at the sign. “See how Ruby has the letters coming out of the line of the cupcake? For outside, she did an outline of Wild Rose Bluff, which turns into the words ‘A Taste of Mayville Heights,’ and then into a wild rose.”

“I can’t wait to see it,” I said.

I was about to suggest that she finish showing Alex around when suddenly she frowned and leaned forward. “Wait a second. What’s that?” She was pointing at that little corner of card stock. “I thought Burtis said all the booths had been cleaned.”

As an artist, Maggie was incredibly observant. This time I wished she hadn’t been.

“I think it’s just a bit of cardboard,” I said. “Burtis probably had cardboard and plastic around all of these booths to keep them from getting banged up when they’re not being used.”

Before I could say anything else, she leaned over, caught the edge of the card with a nail—it was a business card—and pulled it free. She looked at me, giving her head a little shake. “How the heck did that get there?” she said. She studied the heavy off-white card stock. “I wonder who Victor Wyler is.”

Alex shrugged. “Probably the last person who rented the tent and the booths.” He looked around. “Maggie, I think everything is fine. I appreciate you coming to let me look things over, but you have a lot to do. I’m just going to go. Tell Liam I’ll see him tomorrow.”

“Are you sure?” Maggie asked.

He nodded. “It looks fantastic. I need to head back to Minneapolis anyway. I have that meeting in the morning. I should be here before lunch tomorrow, though.”

He’d ordered four dozen of Georgia’s cupcakes to take to that meeting. Was he going to plant something at her house, too? I couldn’t take the chance.

“Victor Wyler is Georgia’s father-in-law,” I said. “Former father-in-law, actually.”

Maggie looked from the card to me. “He is?”

“She probably just dropped it, then,” Alex said, pulling his keys from the pocket of his jacket.

In a moment, he was going to be past me and I wouldn’t be able to stop him from leaving. I pressed my hand against my leg, hoping he wouldn’t see the tiny tremble in my fingers.

“She didn’t drop it,” I said. “You put it there.”

“Sorry,” he said. “I don’t know anyone by the name of—what was it? Wyler?” He didn’t seem the least bit uncomfortable. He gave Maggie that polite, practiced smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I didn’t want to do the big melodramatic moment, like we were playing a game of Clue—the killer was Mr. Scott in the tent with the curtain—but I couldn’t think of any other way to keep him from going. And suddenly it seemed like a very bad idea to let him leave.

“Did you plan on killing Mike from the beginning?” I asked. “Or were you hoping somehow that you could convince him to just go away quietly?”