Faux Paw - Couverture souple

Kelly, Sofie

Couverture souple

ISBN 10 : 0451472152 ISBN 13 : 9780451472151

Editeur : Berkley, 2015

A propos du livre

Extrait :

1

There was a severed head on the blue patterned quilt folded at the bottom of the bed. I turned my head slowly and looked into the eyes of a killer. He stared unblinkingly at me. It would have been terrifying if the head hadn’t been from a yellow catnip Fred the Funky Chicken and the eyes hadn’t belonged to my little black-and-white cat, Hercules.

“What did you do?” I asked, frowning at him.

“Merow,” he said, looking from the disembodied chicken head to me. If the cat had been a person I would have said that there was a touch of righteous indignation in his tone.

Hercules’s brother, Owen, had a thing for catnip chickens. My neighbor Rebecca and my best friend, Maggie, were always buying them for Owen, much to his delight.

Hercules didn’t see the appeal of catnip at all, and he especially didn’t like dried bits of it in his things. For the past few months Owen’s chickens had been turning up in his brother’s territory: upside down in Hercules’s dinner dish, making a lump in the middle of his favorite blanket and sitting in what he considered to be his spot on the bench in the sun porch. As far-fetched as it seemed, I knew something was going on. It was almost as if Hercules was doing this on purpose, although I didn’t quite see why.

I stretched, slid my feet into my slippers and stood up. “Owen is not going to take this well,” I said to Hercules.

“Murp,” he replied, dropping back to the floor. He looked up at me, green eyes narrowed, furry chin jutting out.

“This isn’t going to fix anything,” I said, heading for the bathroom. Hercules trailed me, making little noises as though he were trying to justify swiping the catnip toy and decapitating it.

Just then I heard a loud, furious yowl from downstairs. Herc’s furry head swiveled at the sound. I leaned down and gave the top of his head a quick scratch. “You’re on your own,” I said. Then I darted into the bathroom and closed the door.

Of course that was pointless. If Hercules had been an ordinary cat he would have stayed on the other side of the door, in the hallway. But he wasn’t. So he didn’t.

Hercules had a . . . unique ability. He could walk through walls—and closed bathroom doors. Which he did. An area on the wood panel door seemed to shimmer for a moment and then the cat was standing at my feet. I had no idea how he did it. And it wasn’t like I could ask anyone. Walking though walls defied the laws of physics, not to mention logic. I didn’t want Hercules to end up in a research lab with electrodes stuck to his head—or worse. And I didn’t really want to end up there myself, either.

“You can’t hide in here forever,” I told him.

He half turned to look at the bathroom door he’d just come through. Then he began to wash his face. Translation: “I can for now.”

Unlike his brother, Owen didn’t have the walking-through-walls skill, but he did have the ability to become invisible, which meant he could lurk in wait for Hercules anywhere in the house. And he would.

“I’m having a shower,” I warned, leaning over to turn on the water.

Hercules took several steps backward. Among his many little quirks was an intense aversion to getting his feet wet, more so than the average cat. A heavy dew on the lawn in the backyard would make him hold up a paw and give me his best pathetic look in a calculated scheme to get me to carry him—which most of the time I did.

The first week of April had been rainy in Mayville Heights and there were only a few patches of snow left on the grass behind the house, but the ground was still soggy, which meant that for the last week I’d been carrying Hercules though our yard into Rebecca’s so he could have coffee with Everett Henderson, Rebecca’s new husband. Everett had funded the renovations to the Mayville Heights Free Public Library for its centennial and had hired me to oversee everything as head librarian. In eighteen months I’d fallen in love with the town, and when Everett offered me a permanent job I’d said yes.

When I got out of the shower Hercules was gone. I dressed, dried my hair and went downstairs to see what returning salvo Owen was going to fire in this little war.

Owen was in the kitchen, sitting next to the refrigerator, the picture of innocence, with a little smug thrown in. The headless body of Fred the Funky Chicken was dumped in his bowl. Why wasn’t he yowling his frustration at me or prowling around the house looking for his brother?

I leaned over to stroke the top of his gray head. “You’re taking this very well,” I said, narrowing my eyes at him. “Don’t think I don’t know you’re up to something.”

He gave me his best “Who, me?,” which didn’t fool me for a minute. I started the coffee, put my bowl of oatmeal in the microwave and then got the cats’ breakfast.

Hercules appeared in the living room doorway. He looked warily toward Owen. The small gray tabby already had his head bent over his bowl. Herc started for his dish, moving slowly, his eyes locked on his brother. Owen gave no sign that he was interested; in fact, he shifted his body sideways a bit so Hercules was out of his line of sight.

I gave a sigh of relief. Maybe Owen didn’t care about the decapitated chicken. Maybe he’d finally had his fill of them. Maybe he had no retaliation planned.

Maybe by now I’d know better.

Owen shifted again. I saw a flash of gray paw. Then his water dish upended and a puddle of water spread across the floor . . . in front of Hercules’s food bowl. Owen shook his foot and continued to eat. Damp feet were not an issue for him.

Hercules howled in anger. Then he looked at me.

I shook my head. “You knew when you went all Ozzy Osbourne on the chicken that it would be a declaration of war as far as Owen is concerned.” I reached for the coffeepot. “I’m staying out of it.”

Hercules’s green eyes narrowed to two slits. He moved around the pool of water, looking for some way to get to his dish. There wasn’t one. Somehow, Owen had managed to tip his water bowl in just the right spot so that Hercules’s breakfast was marooned.

Had he planned it that way? Was he capable of planning it?

Oh yes.

Hercules made a noise that sounded a lot like a sigh. The only indication Owen gave that he’d heard anything was a slight twitch of his left ear.

Herc dipped his head and sniffed the floor. It was clean. I’d scrubbed it on my hands and knees with a scrub brush just the night before, my way of working off a frustrating day at the library. The cat’s pink tongue darted out and he began to lap at the water. Owen’s head came up.

“Touché,” I said, holding up my coffee cup.

He made grumbling sound low in his throat. I didn’t need to speak cat to know that he was probably telling me where I could go.

I ate my oatmeal while Hercules lapped his way to his dish. As soon as he could reach, he stretched out one white-tipped paw and pulled the bowl closer. He made a dramatic show of shaking both paws before bending his head to eat.

Owen had finished breakfast by then. He made an equally dramatic exit, picking up the remains of the yellow catnip chicken and making a wide circle around his brother before disappearing—literally—into the living room.

I finished breakfast and cleaned up the kitchen. By then Hercules had eaten his breakfast. He started a meticulous face-washing routine while I wiped up the last of the spilled water. I moved his dishes over by the coat hooks on the wall by the back door and left Owen’s beside the refrigerator, giving both cats some fresh water and a tiny pile of sardine cat crackers.

By the time I was ready for work there was still no sign of Owen. “I’m leaving,” I called. After a moment there was an answering meow.

Hercules was in “his” spot on the bench in the porch. He went ahead of me out the door—waiting for me to open it this time—and waited at the edge of the lawn.

I looked across into Rebecca’s backyard. I still thought of the small blue house as Rebecca’s, even though she and Everett were married now. Rebecca was one of the first people I’d met when I’d arrived in Mayville Heights, and I admit I’d been happy when she’d told me that she and Everett had decided to live in her little house after the wedding.

I could see Everett in the gazebo, seated at the table with his coffee and the newspaper. I knew there would be a treat for Hercules as well.

“Merow,” the cat said, winding around my ankles.

I bent down and scooped him up. He nuzzled my chin.

“You’re such a suck-up,” I said.

He licked my chin and looked up at me as if to say, “Is it working?”

“You’re spoiled,” I told him as we headed across the grass.

Everett smiled and got to his feet. “Good morning, Kathleen. Good morning, Hercules.” He was wearing a crisp white shirt with a navy-and-red-striped tie, along with the trousers and vest of a gray suit. His beard and what little white hair he had were closely cropped and he looked every inch the successful—and self-made—businessman that he was, with a bit of the sex appeal of actor Sean Connery thrown in.

Hercules jumped up onto the wide railing of the gazebo. Everett took a tiny container of cat kibble from the table and set it next to Herc. “All-natural ingredients,” he said to me.

“You’ve been talking to Roma,” I said with a grin.

Roma Davidson was the town veterinarian as well as one of my closest friends. She’d decided that the boys had been eating way too much people food and she’d made it her mission to get people to stop sneaking them toast and peanut butter (me) or pie (Rebecca).

He nodded. “I have my orders.” He gestured at the stainless steel coffee carafe on the round metal table. There was a second stoneware mug next to it. “Do you have time to join me for a cup of coffee? I’d like to discuss something.”

I glanced at my watch. “I have a few minutes.”

“Good,” he said. “Have a seat.” He indicated the other chair at the table and reached for the carafe. Hercules already had his head in the little dish.

I gestured in the cat’s direction. “If he becomes a bother, let me know.”

Hercules turned his head to look at me, his green eyes wide.

Everett set the mug of coffee in front of me. “Hercules is good company. He has some interesting insights on what the town council has been up to.” A smile pulled at the corners of his mouth and was reflected in his dark eyes.

The cat made a soft murp of self-satisfaction and went back to his treat.

I reached for the small pitcher of cream. “I’ll be sure to get his input before the next council elections,” I said with a completely straight face.

Everett leaned back in his seat and straightened the crease in his trousers. “You could do worse,” he said. He regarded me over the top of his cup. “How are things going at the library?”

I knew he didn’t mean in general. Patron visits were up, so was borrowing, and Lita—Everett’s executive assistant—and I had just recently secured a grant to add more books to the children’s department. In recent months we’d hosted several workshops and talks that had brought people all the way from Minneapolis. The most recent special event at the library was a traveling exhibit of museum art from the 1800s. I knew that’s what Everett was referring to.

“We’ve had some . . .” I hesitated, searching for the right word “. . . challenges.”

Everett gave a snort of laughter. “In less politically correct terms, Margo Walsh is a pain in the ass.”

“She’s not that bad,” I said with a smile.

He shook his head. “You’re probably the only person who’s worked with the woman who would say that.”

Margo Walsh was the curator of the exhibit. Its focal point was a detailed drawing of a Dakota encampment by military artist Sam Weston, who had lived in Minnesota early in his career. The drawing belonged to Marshall and Diana Holmes. The brother and sister had inherited it, along with other artwork, after the recent death of their father. The Weston sketch, as well as several other pieces in the show, were on long-term loan to the museum, but somehow the siblings were very involved in every aspect of the exhibit, probably because their late father’s money was funding it.

I’d watched Margo with both of them and I got the feeling from her body language that she would have been happier if they’d been a lot less involved. According to my friend Maggie, who was an artist herself, when someone loaned a piece from their collection to a museum, that was generally the end of their involvement. Marshall and Diana Holmes didn’t seem to know that.

At each stop on the exhibit’s tour Margo was featuring artwork from local artists. Maggie, who had two pieces of her art in the show, had been impressed with how much the curator had known about the local art scene and how positive she’d been.

Margo might have been enthusiastic about the artists who were part of the Mayville Heights artists’ co-op, but she was decidedly unenthusiastic and vocal about the exhibit’s delicate paintings and sketches, some of which were more than two hundred years old, being out of a climate-controlled museum setting.

I took another sip of my coffee as I tried to think of the best way to explain Margo Walsh to Everett. “Margo is very, very good at what she does,” I said. “She and Maggie have spent hours finding just the right frames and mats for the local pieces that are in the show. She’s studied the way the light comes in through the windows at different times of day just to make sure they’re shown at their best.”

One of Everett’s eyebrows went up, but he didn’t say anything.

“She’s picky,” I admitted, fingering the rim of my cup. I could have used a less diplomatic word. Or told Everett that more than once I’d had the urge to brain the woman with my briefcase. But I didn’t. I set down my coffee and leaned forward. “Everett, this exhibit is going to bring a lot of people into the library, into Mayville Heights. It’s going to showcase some very talented people—Maggie, Ruby, Nic Sutton. I can handle Margo Walsh. Don’t worry about it.”

He studied my face for a moment and seemed to be satisfied with my response. “If there’s anything I can do—” he began.

“I know—call Lita,” I said. The exhibit had come with grant money to install a temporary security system at the library. I was already talking to Lita several times a day. “You could give her a bonus when this is over,” I added with a smile. “I couldn’t do it without her.”

That was true. Lita was related to at least half the town and it seemed as if she’d gone to school with or babysat pretty much everyone else.

Everett took half a piece of bacon from his plate, turned and offered it to Hercules. The cat took it from him, bobbed his head in thanks and dropped it into his now-empty dish. I refrained from pointing out that bacon was not on Roma’s list of approved cat treats.

“Thank you for the coffee,” I said, getting to my feet, “and for your support.”

Everett stood up as well. “I’m very glad I hired you,” he said.

“I told you Kathleen was the best choice,” a voice said behind us. It was Rebecca, carrying the coffeepot in one hand and a small waxed-paper-wrapped package in the other.

Présentation de l'éditeur :

Fantastical felines Owen and Hercules are ready to help librarian Kathleen Paulson pounce on a killer art thief in this novel in the Magical Cats Mystery series.

Normally, the arrival of an art exhibition at the Mayville Heights library would be cause for celebration. But thanks to the overbearing curator and high-tech security system that comes with it, Kathleen’s life has been completely disrupted. Even Owen and Hercules have been affected, since their favorite human doesn’t seem to have a spare moment to make their favorite fish crackers or listen to Barry Manilow.

But when Kathleen stops by the library late one night and finds the curator sprawled on the floor—and the exhibition’s most valuable sketch missing—it’s suddenly time to canvass a crime scene. Now Kathleen, her detective boyfriend Marcus, and her clever cats have to sniff out a murderous thief, before anyone else has a brush with death...

À propos de cette édition

• Éditeur: Berkley
• Date d'édition: 2015
• ISBN 10: 0451472152
• ISBN 13: 9780451472151
• Reliure: Poche
• Nombre de pages: 336