by Sofie Kelly
The stack of papers Hercules had been poking at fell over then. He jumped backward and then looked guiltily up at me. I glared at him.
I couldn’t exactly say I wanted to call the art dealer to find out what Devin Rossi looked like. Well, I could have, but I didn’t want to.
“Kathleen, are you still there?” Gavin asked.
I switched the phone to my other hand. Hercules was wisely still out of my reach. “I’m sorry, Gavin. One of my cats just knocked a pile of papers over.”
I could see my photo album on the bottom of the stack, the cover flipped open. Maggie had been looking at it the last time she’d been over, teasing me about my teenage tartan skirts and neon tights, and I hadn’t put the book away.
Suddenly, I knew how to answer Gavin’s question. “I have a photo of my mom onstage as Adelaide in Guys and Dolls. I thought maybe if Julian would like it, I’d send it to him as a thank-you for talking to us.”
“I know what you’re trying to do, Kathleen,” Gavin said, a knowing edge to his voice.
“You do?” I said.
“You think if you offer to send the picture it might motivate him to ask around, see if he can learn anything about the Weston drawing.”
“Something like that,” I said.
“All right, fine,” he finally said.
I reached down, grabbed a pad of paper from the floor and wrote down the number he gave me.
“Good luck, Kathleen,” Gavin said. I heard a woman’s voice in the background. “I have to go.”
“I’ll call you in the morning,” I said. “Good night.”
I set the phone down and looked at Hercules. He looked at me.
“I should be mad at you,” I said.
The cat didn’t so much as twitch a whisker.
“Between you and your brother I feel like all I do is pick up paper.”
Still no reaction.
I glanced down at the photo album on the floor. Thanks to Hercules knocking things over I’d come up with a plausible reason to call Julian McCrea. And I would send him the photo if he wanted it. In a moment of levity my mother had signed it before she’d given it to me.
“Well,” I said slowly. “You did help me. Indirectly. So I guess you’re off the hook.”
He blinked, turned and headed for the kitchen. He stopped in the doorway and looked expectantly back over his shoulder.
“Indirectly,” I repeated. “That doesn’t warrant a treat.”
“Murp,” he said, disappearing—not literally—around the doorway.
I padded out to the kitchen and gave Hercules a second tiny bite of sardine, because who was I kidding? We both knew I was going to. Owen wandered in, looked at his brother eating and then looked at me.
“What did you do to warrant a treat?” I asked.
He seemed to think for a minute, then tipped his head to one side and gave me his “I’m so adorable” look. “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” I said. Then I got him a chunk of the little fish.
“You’re both spoiled,” I said, leaning against the counter. “Your character has been weakened.”
They looked at each other. Something passed wordlessly between them and then they dropped their heads and went back to eating.
Since Owen and Hercules were having a treat I decided I’d have one as well. I made a cup of hot chocolate and took it to the table with the last cinnamon roll.
“Am I crazy?” I said.
Neither cat even bothered to look up at me.
My cell phone was sitting in the middle of the table. I had Julian McCrea’s number now. There was nothing to stop me from calling him and asking about Devin Rossi. Nothing except the fact that the more I thought about it, the more preposterous my idea seemed. An art thief who had been stealing from museums and galleries all over North America changes her name, retires to Red Wing, Minnesota, to live the quiet life of an artist, then comes out of retirement to steal a drawing from an exhibit in my library.
“I think it might have been an episode of Murder, She Wrote,” I muttered, mostly to myself.
On the other hand . . . “It’s better to do something and know than not do it and wonder.” How many times had I heard my mother say those words?
I got up and retrieved the piece of paper with Julian McCrea’s phone number. When I came back to the kitchen, both cats were sitting next to my chair and two furry faces were pointed in my direction. I took it as a vote of support.
Julian McCrea answered his phone on the fourth ring. “Good evening, Kathleen,” he said smoothly. He must have had caller ID.
I smiled, hoping it would come through in my voice. “Good evening, Julian,” I said. “I hope I haven’t taken you from anything important.”
“You haven’t,” he replied. “What can I do for you?”
“I have a photograph of my mother in character as Adelaide. It’s even signed. You mentioned you were a bit of a fan. I’d like to send it to you as a small thank-you for meeting with me. Is there an address I could use?”
“That’s very thoughtful,” he said. “Do you have a pen?”
I did. He gave me a post office box address and I wrote it underneath his phone number.
“I’m sorry that I don’t have any more information for you,” Julian said.
“It’s all right,” I said. “I understand. I don’t think this is going to be an easy case to solve.”
“The police aren’t any closer to figuring out who took the Weston drawing?”
I shifted in my chair, pulling one foot up underneath me. “Or who killed Margo Walsh. No.” I hesitated. “Do you remember we spoke about Devin Rossi?”
“Let me guess,” Julian said. “Gavin still thinks that perhaps she was the thief.” I could hear the amusement in his voice.
I tried to match his tone. “I know it’s kind of silly to think an art thief came to a small town in Minnesota to steal a drawing that isn’t even worth that much money.”
“No offense, Kathleen, but, yes, a little.”
“We’re all kind of grasping at straws,” I said. “So I hope you won’t think less of me if I ask if you know what Devin Rossi looks like. Is she possibly quite tall—over six feet, with an athletic frame? There was a woman like that in the library the day before the picture was stolen and Margo was killed.”
Rena Adler was probably a couple of inches shorter than I was. The person I’d described had been in the library the day before Margo’s murder. She was the women’s basketball coach at the high school.
I didn’t know if Julian McCrea’s business dealings were legitimate or not. I didn’t want anyone to know what I suspected, just in case.
“I’m sorry,” Julian said. “I met a woman I believe was Devin Rossi once at a party for the Antony Williams exhibit about three years ago at the Weyman Gallery in Chicago. Without heels I don’t think she’s as tall as you are. She had blond hair and, I think, blue eyes. I’m sorry, that’s all I can tell you.”
“I guess that would just be too easy an answer,” I said. “Again, thank you for talking to me. I’ll get the photo in the mail to you.”
“It was my pleasure, Kathleen,” he said. “Good night.”
I ended the call and set the phone back on the table. Then I got up and went into the living room for my laptop. Rena Adler had blue eyes. Except for the hair color—which could easily be changed—Julian’s description of Devin Rossi could easily have been Rena, or, I had to admit, a million other women. Julian had said he’d met Devin Rossi at a party in Chicago. Was it possible there were photos from that party online? There were. But I couldn’t find Rena Adler in any of them.
“It’s her,” I told the boys. “I know I’m right. So how am I going to convince Marcus?”
The cats exchanged glances. Then they looked at the refrigerator. Clearly this was going to take more thought. And more
sardines.
I warmed up my cocoa and went back to the table. I still had half a cinnamon roll on my plate. The idea of an art thief living in Red Wing and coming to Mayville Heights to steal the Sam Weston drawing might sound far-fetched, but I was starting to think it was possible. But how was I going to prove that Rena Adler was that art thief? And, as much as it made me uncomfortable to think about, Margo’s killer?
Owen came over to my chair. Without waiting for an invitation he launched himself onto my lap.
“Hello,” I said.
He nuzzled my cheek, then leaned around me and tried to lick my cup.
“Forget it,” I said. “Hot chocolate is not for cats.” I set the cup on the table and realized that it hadn’t been the hot chocolate Owen had been trying to get at. There was a smudge of icing from the roll on the side of the blue porcelain. I swiped it with my finger and licked off the icing.
Owen grumbled in protest.
“Cinnamon rolls are definitely not cat food,” I told him.
His expression said he wasn’t convinced.
I reached for my cup. I’d left a smear of icing behind on the blue porcelain. And my fingerprint in sugar, butter and vanilla.
I shook my finger at Owen. He followed it, looking almost cross-eyed. “That’s how we can prove who Rena Adler really is.”
Owen shook his head and focused on my face instead.
“Marcus said that there was one partial print from one of her robberies. All we need to do is get Rena’s fingerprints.”
The cat looked at me, almost as though he was wondering how I was going to do that. I looked over at the mixer sitting on the counter.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I have a plan.”
17
Marcus liked to tease that I thought pretty much any problem could be solved with a plate of brownies. That wasn’t true. I thought a blueberry muffin or a nice coffee cake would also work.
“This problem calls for a coffee cake,” I told Owen. He licked his whiskers.
I reached for my phone and called Maggie. “I didn’t take you away from some romantic moment, did I?” I asked.
She gave a snort of laughter. “Not unless you think snaking the toilets at the shop is romantic. What’s up?”
“It doesn’t look like the library is going to open for a few more days. I was thinking of making a coffee cake tomorrow and wondered if you were up for a coffee break Monday morning. You’re going to be in your studio, aren’t you?”
“Uh-huh,” she said. “I’d love some of your coffee cake.”
“Are Ruby and Rena going to be around?” I asked. “Maybe they could join us.”
“What are you up to?” Maggie said.
“I’m not up to anything.” I was glad that she couldn’t see my face.
Somehow Owen knew it was Maggie on the other end of the phone. He was trying to push his face in against it. “Owen’s trying to say hello,” I said.
“Hey fur ball,” she said.
He heard her. He leaned his head against my hand and started to purr.
“He’s purring,” I said.
“And you’re not being straight with me, Kath.”
I exhaled softly. “I just want to talk to Rena and I don’t want to make a big deal out of it.”
“Does this have to do with what happened at the library?” Maggie lowered her voice. That told me that someone probably was with her, most likely Brady Chapman.
I hesitated. I didn’t want Maggie mixed up in the middle of this.
“I won’t help you if you don’t tell me what you’re up to,” she said. I was surprised by the determination in her voice. “We could have lost you in that fire before Christmas.” She stopped and I heard her swallow.
Maggie, Owen and I had been caught in a burning building back in December in a fire started by the person who had killed Brady Chapman’s mother. Maggie had managed to get out, but Owen and I had been trapped for a while. Maggie still blamed herself for not being able to get us out.
“Mags, I’m fine. I’m not going to do anything dangerous or stupid.” I knew I had to tell her more. “I want to talk to Rena because I think maybe . . . maybe she hasn’t been completely honest about her background. Remember that art dealer Gavin and I went to Minneapolis to talk to?”
“Yes,” she said slowly.
“Not all of his business is legitimate, and I think Rena may know him.”
“Does Marcus know what you’re doing?” she asked.
For a moment I thought about lying. “No,” I said.
“Are you going to tell him?”
“If there’s anything to tell, I will.” I shifted Owen sideways a little so I could reach my cup. That meant he couldn’t keep his head next to the phone. He made a face at me.
“All right,” Maggie said. “It had better be a really good coffee cake.”
“Rhubarb streusel.”
“Give the furry one a kiss from me,” she said.
“Thanks, Mags,” I said.
I put the phone on the table. Then I picked up Owen and kissed the top of his head. “From Maggie,” I said. I knew he understood what I’d said because he started purring again.
• • •
I got to Riverarts at about five minutes to ten on Monday morning. I carried the coffee cake up to Maggie’s top-floor studio. She was standing in front of a large piece of particleboard propped on her easel. I tapped on the open door. “Good morning,” I said.
She turned around. “Hi, Kathleen,” she said. “Is it ten already?”
I nodded. “Uh-huh.”
She rolled her eyes. “That means I’ve been standing here staring at this for the last twenty minutes and I’m still no closer to figuring out what color I want to use on the background.”
“What are you working on?” I asked.
The piece of wood was at least two feet wide by three feet high.
“It’s a collage for Riverwatch, all things I found washed up on shore. They’re starting a public information campaign to make people aware of what’s ending up in the water.” She moved over to her sink and reached for the kettle. “And you wouldn’t believe what ends up in the water.”
“I hope it helps,” I said.
“Me too,” she said. “Sometimes it’s easier if people see what goes into the river instead of just hearing about it.”
She filled the kettle and plugged it in. I set my cake keeper on the counter. I knew Maggie had plates and forks, but I’d brought napkins.
She picked one up. “I like these,” she said with a grin. The design was cartoon cats on a dark blue background. “That one looks like Owen,” she said, pointing to a cat in the upper left corner. “Where did you get these?”
“My mother found them somewhere,” I said. “She thought that cat looked like Owen and the one just to the right of the middle could be Hercules.”
Maggie squinted at the paper square. “She’s right,” she said. “I forgot to tell you, she e-mailed me on Friday.”
I took off my heavy sweater and draped it over one of the stools at the work island in the middle of the room.
“My mother e-mailed you?”
Maggie nodded. “You know that she’s taking one of her classes to New York for a theater weekend.”
I nodded.
“She said she’s going to join the crowd outside the Today show and see if she can get Matt Lauer’s autograph for me.” Maggie’s blue eyes were sparkling.
“If anyone can do it, my mother can,” I said.
Ruby poked her head around the doorway then. “Are we having cake?” she asked. Her hair was mint green with a black streak at the front.
“Rhubarb streusel coffee cake,” I said, grinning at her.
“Is Rena around?” Maggie asked.
“She’s downstairs,” Rub
y said. “I saw her about fifteen minutes ago. You want me to ask her to join us?”
Maggie nodded. “I’ve been wanting to ask her about maybe doing a workshop when we get the new space finished at the shop.”
“Be right back,” Ruby said.
Maggie gave me a look and then went to get plates and forks from her storage cabinet. “Tea or hot chocolate?” she asked.
“Hot chocolate, please,” I said. Despite Maggie’s efforts, I wasn’t a big fan of herbal tea, but I liked cocoa almost as much as coffee.
Rena Adler paused in the doorway of the studio when Ruby returned with her. “Are you sure I’m not intruding on anything?” she asked. She was wearing gray yoga pants with her hair pulled back in a low ponytail.
“You’re not intruding on anything,” Maggie said. “Kathleen brought coffee cake.”
I turned from where I was slicing the cake and smiled. “Hi, Rena,” I said.
“Hi, Kathleen,” she said.
“Tea or cocoa?” Maggie asked.
“Cocoa, if it’s not too much trouble,” Rena said.
Ruby was already perched on a stool at the center workspace. “Hey, Kathleen, when is the library going to reopen?” she asked.
“It looks like the end of the week,” I said, handing her a piece of cake.
Rena took the seat beside her and I gave her the other plate I was holding.
“Does Marcus have any leads?” Maggie asked as she brought mugs to the table. She gave Rena a sideways glance. “Kathleen’s boyfriend is a detective.”
I turned to pick up the other two plates. “Nothing he’s telling me about,” I said.
“What happens to the rest of the artwork?” Rena asked. She ate a forkful of cake and then smiled. “Oh, Kathleen, this is good!”
“Thank you,” I said. I reached for the container of marshmallows Maggie had set in the middle of the table and dropped two into my cup. “The artwork is all going back to the museum. The rest of the stops for the exhibit have been called off.”
“That bites,” Ruby said around a mouthful of cake.
“It does,” I agreed. “And I’m sorry you all lost your chance to have your work be part of the exhibit here at the library.”
