Copycat Killing: A Magical Cats Mystery

by Sofie Kelly

  “I have cinnamon coffee cake,” I said. Sitting down with a cup of coffee and a slice of coffee cake seemed like a pretty good idea to me. Even just sitting down would be good. I shifted my weight onto my “good” leg.

  Roma noticed the movement. “Your leg hurts,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

  “Just my ankle. It’s a bit stiff,” I said, tucking my hands in the front pocket of my sweatshirt.

  Roma’s gaze darted sideways again for a brief moment. Then she exhaled slowly and turned her full attention to me. “Let’s go,” she said. “You should get off that leg and I could use a cup of coffee.”

  We walked to our vehicles. Roma frowned as I pulled my keys out of my pocket. “Are you sure you’re okay to drive?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I swear.”

  She gave me a half smile. “I know. Librarian’s honor.” She fished her own keys out of her pocket. “I’ll follow you. If you feel sick, pull over.”

  “I will.”

  I climbed into the truck as Roma walked over to her SUV. I’d been hurt a couple of times last summer—accidents that turned out not to be so accidental after all. Roma had thought I wasn’t taking those “accidents” seriously enough, and I’d thought she was taking them a bit too seriously. Right now she was fussing over me a little more than was typical for her. Maybe it was a way to distract herself from thinking about that old high school ring.

  We lurched our way down the driveway and I turned onto the road, Roma close behind me. Except for my bruised hip and my slightly swollen ankle—that felt a little better now that I was sitting down—I really was okay. Seeing the sheared off bank had made me realize just how lucky I had been to walk away with just some aches and scrapes.

  There was no sign of either Owen or Hercules when we got to the house—no surprise given that Roma was probably their least favorite person.

  “I’ll start the coffee,” Roma said. “Why don’t you sit?”

  I was about to start my umpteenth recitation of the “I’m all right” speech when it occurred to me that maybe she needed to be busy, maybe she needed to keep her hands moving while she sorted out what had happened up at Wisteria Hill.

  So I said, “Okay,” and sank onto one of the kitchen chairs, propping my foot up on another. Roma started the coffee pot, found cream and sugar, cut the coffee cake and got plates for both of us. The entire time she talked about the Wisteria Hill cats, the kind of aimless chitchat I’d never heard Roma make before. She didn’t sit down until the coffee was poured and we each had a mug. She looked at me across the table and all at once pressed her hand to her mouth.

  I reached over and put my hand on her arm. She blinked hard and swallowed a couple of times before dropping her hand and wrapping her arm around her body.

  “That’s my father, Kathleen,” she said. “Those pieces of bone that were…lying…on that tarp, they…they’re my father.” She closed her eyes for a moment. I wasn’t sure if she was picturing what we’d seen at Wisteria Hill, or trying to banish the image.

  I gave her arm a squeeze and she opened her eyes again. “I didn’t realize your dad—Neil—isn’t your biological father.”

  Roma traced the inside loop of the cup handle with one finger, around and around and around. “No he’s not. He married my mother when I was five. He’s been my father in every way that matters, but he’s not my birth father.”

  “Thomas Karlsson was.”

  She nodded.

  I folded my hands around my own mug. “Roma, you said he left when you were little.” I flashed to the skull in the dirt. “Where did you think he’s been?”

  She shrugged. “He was just…gone. He and my mother were kids when they had me, right out of high school—kids when they got married, which I’m pretty sure was because they were having me, by the way.”

  I nodded but didn’t say anything. My brother and sister—Ethan and Sara—had been guests at my parents’ wedding—their second try at marriage.

  Roma took a sip of her coffee and set the mug on the table again. “My mother always said he just got overwhelmed by the responsibility of having a family when he was really just a kid himself.” She sighed. “She said he was probably ashamed that he had taken off, but the longer he stayed away from Mayville the harder it was to face people.”

  “And maybe that is what happened,” I said. “Those…remains, they may not be him at all.”

  She shook her head, the movement almost imperceptible. “That’s his ring, Kathleen. It’s the right year and the right initials.”

  “That doesn’t mean he was wearing it. Maybe he lost it. Maybe he gave it to someone else to wear.” I was trying to be the voice of reason.

  “You heard me tell Marcus that I have a picture of my father—Thomas—wearing that ring?”

  I nodded.

  “It’s a newspaper clipping. He played baseball. They were state champions his senior year in high school.” Her mouth twisted into a wry smile. “I suspect that I was the result of the celebrations.” She leaned back in her chair. “The seniors on the team got their class rings early. It was a big deal. They were big shots in school. Heck, they were big shots all over town.”

  “Glory days,” I said softly.

  “The photograph is Tom being presented with his ring. And there’s another shot, a close-up of the ring itself.”

  She stumbled a bit over his name, I noticed. I took another drink of my coffee and waited while she collected her thoughts.

  “And you’re right, those were his glory days, his shining moment in the spotlight. Then it was gone. Like that.” Roma snapped her fingers. “It was diapers and bottles and bills.” There was an edge of hurt to her voice that sharpened her words.

  I reached across the table and gave her arm a squeeze again.

  “My mother told me once that he never took that ring off. He didn’t wear a wedding ring but he always, always wore his class ring.” Her eyes met mine and I could see the pain in them as well. “Those…” She cleared her throat. “It’s him, Kathleen.”

  “I think you should call your mother and let her know what’s happened,” I said. “Marcus is going to want to talk to her.”

  “You’re right. I’d rather her hear about this first from me.” She looked at her watch. “I need to get back to the clinic.”

  We both got to our feet. “Roma are you going to be all right?” I asked.

  That got me a smile, albeit a small one. “I’m supposed to be asking you that,” she said.

  I smiled back at her. “I’m fine, just some scrapes and my dignity’s a little banged up.”

  “Don’t overdo it. Okay?” she said.

  “I promise,” I said. “You do the same. If you need anything, if you just want to talk, call me. Anytime. Please.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “I’ll probably be taking you up on that.” She hesitated for a moment, and then wrapped her arms around me in a quick hug.

  “Marcus will figure this out,” I said.

  She nodded. “It’s funny. I’m always telling you what a great guy and a great police officer he is. I guess now I’m going to find out.”

  I walked her to the back door. She turned on the top step. “There were always two versions of my father—Tom—what my mother said about him and all the gossip whispered around town. I wanted to believe that he was a decent guy, that he was just young and scared and stupid. Now, I just want the truth, whatever it is.”

  I waited until I heard her SUV start in the driveway before I went back into the kitchen. Hercules and Owen were sitting in front of the refrigerator.

  “You could have come out and said hello,” I told them as I got myself a fresh cup of coffee. They stared at me, steady and unblinking.

  I sat down again at the table. Owen’s whiskers were twitching. He could smell the coffee cake. I broke off a bite and set it down on the floor for him. He scooted over and began sniffing it. “It’s not hemlock, Socrates,” I said. He ignored me.

  I broke off anothe
r piece of cake for Hercules and held it out to him. Being a lot less finicky than his brother, he just ate the food from my fingers.

  I took a long drink from my coffee and propped my leg on the chair again. “Marcus has an anthropologist out at Wisteria Hill, looking at the bones that were unearthed when the hill collapsed,” I said to the cats.

  Owen had finally finished checking out his food. He didn’t even look up at me. Hercules was sniffing around to see if there was any more, so all I got from him was an offhand glance.

  I speared a piece of cake with my fork. That got both cats’ attention. “This is mine,” I said. They gave me their best pathetic kitty looks. They shouldn’t have worked on me, but they usually did.

  “That’s enough,” I said. “Roma is right, you know. I give you two way too much people food.”

  When I said Roma’s name they exchanged glances. I took another sip from my mug.

  Poor Roma. It really did look like the ring belonged to her biological father. And if it was his…it raised the question: what had happened to him and why had he ended up buried out at Wisteria Hill?

  5

  Later that afternoon I drove down to the library to check on things. The street and the parking lot were still flooded but the water barely came to the top of my boots—a good sign. Just a couple of days previously it had been knee-level. The building itself was still dry.

  I spent the rest of the afternoon working at home, at the kitchen table with Owen and Hercules wandering in from time to time to see if I had anything good to mooch. The library board was planning a huge party to celebrate the building’s one hundredth “birthday” in June. As part of that celebration I had a number of displays planned, showcasing some of the history of Mayville Heights, and the different groups that had used the library over the years. Everyone on staff was working on some kind of project. Maggie had volunteered her services, and several people had promised photos and other memorabilia. My neighbor, Rebecca, had offered to lend me some of her mother’s old journals and drawings. Rebecca’s mother, Ellen Montgomery, had been an expert on herbal remedies, and had taught more than one workshop on the subject at the library.

  I soaked for a long time in the bathtub after supper and went to bed before ten o’clock. I was stiff and sore when I woke up the next morning, so I was still drinking my first cup of coffee when the phone rang. I got to my feet and limped into the living room to answer it. It was Maggie.

  “Hi,” I said. “I thought you had an artists’ meeting this morning.”

  “We’re finished. It didn’t take very long.” she said. She blew out a breath. “I was going to go over to the studio and do some work, but we have orders from the store’s Web site that I really need to get mailed. Plus there’s one package that I need to get from Ruby plus another from Jaeger of all people and I have no idea where all the packing supplies are, and I just heard the forecast. It’s going to rain again tonight.”

  I eased down onto the footstool. “What can I do?” I asked. She sounded frazzled so I decided not to tell her what had happened to me out at Wisteria Hill. At least not on the phone.

  If she’d heard the details via the Mayville Heights grapevine, “What happened?” would have been the first question out of her mouth. I knew that the downtown business owners had had a meeting of their own and another with the town council. It had probably taken all of yesterday afternoon, which was probably why Maggie wasn’t up on the latest scuttlebutt.

  “Do you know any anti-rain dances? Or maybe where there might be a volcano that we could throw a sacrifice, say—I don’t know—Jaeger Merrill into?”

  “Sorry,” I said. “But I do have a big roll of bubble wrap and lots of tape at the library.”

  “Does that mean the volcano thing is off the table?”

  “I take it the meeting this morning didn’t go well?”

  “It’s more that Jaeger’s timing on this whole corporate sponsor thing just stinks,” she said. “I’m tired. I need a shower. I’ve been moving boxes and shelving for days now. I’ve been slinging sandbags and bailing the basement and it’s probably all been for nothing because it going to rain. Again.” I could hear the frustration in her voice. “And all Jaeger wants to do is push his agenda to turn the co-op into the Acme Widget Artists’ Co-op, like that’s somehow going to make the rain and the four feet of water in the basement and his leaky window just disappear.”

  “So what happened?”

  “We took a vote.”

  “And?”

  “And I knew there were enough people who like things the way they are.” She took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. I pictured her with her hand pressed against her chest, eyes closed. “But I don’t think Jaeger’s done. All I did was buy some time.”

  “Maybe a bit of time is all you need,” I said. Owen wandered in and sat at my feet. “Once the rain stops, once things dry out a little, everyone’s going to be in a better mood.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Maggie said. “With the store closed, Jaeger’s guardian angel with a checkbook idea seems pretty good to at least a couple of people.”

  “It’s what my dad calls selling smoke in a jar,” I said, reaching down to lift Owen onto my lap. He rubbed the side of his face against the telephone receiver. “Owen sends his love.”

  “Give Fuzz Face a scratch for me,” she said. Owen must have heard her voice because he started purring.

  “Mags, why don’t I bring the truck down? We can take whatever you need over to your studio and at least get those orders sent.”

  “Yeah, that’s a good idea. If I can keep up with orders from the Web site, that’s one less thing for Jaeger to complain about.”

  “I’ll meet you at the shop in about fifteen minutes.”

  “Thanks,” she said. I could hear the smile in her voice. “Hey, Kath, I forgot to ask you. Did you try the boots on Hercules? Did he like them?”

  “He was…speechless…meowless,” I said, cringing at how lame I sounded.

  “I’m glad. I know he hates getting his feet wet.”

  “I’ll see you shortly,” I said.

  I hung up. Owen looked at me, narrowing his golden eyes. “I didn’t lie,” I said. He continued to stare, not even a whisker twitching.

  I bent my face close to his. “Remember what I said,” I whispered. “We can always put those boots on you.”

  He blinked, gave his head a shake and jumped down to the floor. Then he disappeared.

  Literally.

  “I hate it when you do that,” I muttered, heading back to the kitchen. I had no idea how he did it or why. It wasn’t exactly the kind of thing I could ask Roma about when I took the cats for their shots. And Owen’s little vanishing act had come in handy on occasion. Over time I’d just learned to accept it, kind of like Maggie’s inexplicable love for the Today show’s Matt Lauer. Some things defy rational explanation.

  At least Hercules couldn’t spontaneously become invisible. Nope. All he could do was walk through walls. Again, it sometimes had its uses.

  I took a couple of aspirin. Then I pulled on my sweatshirt and rubber boots and made my way out to the truck.

  Maggie was waiting on the sidewalk in front of the co-op store. Her eyes widened when she saw me. “Good goddess, Kathleen, what happened?” she said.

  I held up a hand. “I’m okay. It’s not as bad as it looks.” It probably would have been better if I hadn’t held up the hand with the big bandage on it.

  She shot a quick glance at the front of the truck. “Did you have an accident?”

  “No.” I shook my head. “The embankment behind the carriage house collapsed out from underneath me yesterday. The ground is completely saturated with water.”

  “Why didn’t you call me?”

  “Because I’m okay.”

  “You could have broken your neck.”

  “But I didn’t,” I said. “I’ve got some scrapes and some bruises and I twisted my ankle, but that’s pretty much it. Marcus called the paramedi
cs. Trust me, I wouldn’t be walking around if he thought I wasn’t okay. You know what he’s like.”

  Maggie folded her arms across her chest. “I know what you’re like too.”

  “Would it make you feel better to know Roma gave me the once over as well?”

  “It would,” she said. “If you were a horse, or a German shepherd.”

  “Roma has said I’m as stubborn as a mule,” I said. “Does that count?”

  Maggie didn’t want to smile, but she couldn’t help it.

  “I swear I’m all right, Mags,” I said. “But the thing is, when the hill collapsed there were some…remains that were unearthed.”

  “Remains?” she repeated. “You mean human remains?”

  I nodded, shifting my weight more onto my right leg. If I stayed in one position too long the throbbing in my ankle got more insistent, as though it were doing the percussion intro to the Hawaii Five-0 theme song.

  Quickly, I filled in the rest of the story.

  “This doesn’t make any sense.” Maggie shook her head. “How could a ring that belonged to Roma’s father end up buried with some old bones out at Wisteria Hill?”

  “They may not be old bones,” I said.

  “No.” She made a dismissive gesture as though she were flicking away a bug. “You don’t think that’s Roma’s biological father, do you?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. Roma insists that he never took his ring off.”

  “Town gossip was always that Tom ran out on Roma and Pearl.” Maggie gave me a wry smile. “I spent a lot of time with my grandmother when I was a kid. She knew everyone’s secrets.” She stuffed her hands in the front pocket of her hoodie. “How is Roma handling things?”

  “She’s in shock, I think,” I said.

  “The Wild are in the playoffs and Eddie’s on the road.”

  Roma’s relationship with Eddie Sweeney, star player for the Minnesota Wild hockey team, was only a couple of months old. I had no idea how much he knew about her family.

  “I know,” I said. “I’m going to call her later.”

  “I will, too,” Maggie said.

  “Okay, there’s nothing we can do right now so let’s get your stuff,” I said, dipping my head in the direction of the building.