I slumped against the doorframe of the shed. I had one cat that could walk through walls and another that could disappear—and also seemed to be developing into a kleptomaniac. My cat was turning into a cat burglar.
I rubbed the back of my neck. This would be funny if it were happening to someone else.
I was still holding on to Rebecca’s weights. I didn’t have time to obsess, figure out why my cats had superpowers and, in the case of Owen, flagrant disregard for the law. I didn’t even have time to figure out where Owen was. And any more deep breaths and I was going to hyperventilate and pass out on the floor of Rebecca’s shed. So I tucked my hair behind my ears and went back to the gazebo.
“You found them,” she said.
“I’ll fasten them for you,” I said. I dropped to one knee by the table. While I attached the fairies to the cloth I did a quick scan of what I could see of the yard beyond the steps to the gazebo. I didn’t catch so much as a glimpse of gray fur or even a piece of disembodied paper bouncing around the yard. I switched to the other side of the table and hung those weights, as well, before standing up to see if the cloth was hanging properly.
“That’s perfect. Thank you,” Rebecca said, smoothing out a small wrinkle in the cloth. “Why don’t you come over later and join us?” she asked. “I made lemon meringue pie.”
I sighed loudly, making my bangs flutter against my forehead. “I love your lemon meringue pie. But I have to be at the library early today.”
“Then at least take a piece home.”
How could I say no? “I’ll get a couple of chairs for you from the shed,” I said.
Rebecca made a dismissive gesture with her good hand. “You don’t have to do that,” she said.
“I don’t mind. And for a piece of your lemon pie, I’d walk down to the library to get you chairs.”
She laughed. “All right, then. I’ll go get you a piece of that pie.”
Owen wasn’t in the shed. At least I couldn’t see him. I did a quick check of the backyard. I didn’t see the cat anywhere, which, I realized, didn’t mean he wasn’t around.
Tucking a chair under each arm, I headed back to the gazebo, still watching for the cat. Maybe he’d gone home. I looked over into my own yard. I didn’t see Owen, but I did see Maggie. “Mags,” I called. She turned, grinning when she saw me and holding up a brown paper bag.
I was guessing she’d brought the blueberries she’d promised me. She ducked through the gap in the hedge and walked over to where I was standing.
“Blueberries?” I asked.
“Picked this morning.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I have muffins in the house. Just let me open up these chairs for Rebecca.”
“I’ll give you a hand,” Maggie said, setting the sack of berries above her on the wide gazebo railing and taking one of the folding wooden chairs from me.
We set the chairs on opposite sides of the table. Maggie stood, mesmerized, looking up at the cedar timbers above her head. “This is beautiful,” she said, continuing to stare at the gazebo roof. “Look at the joints, the symmetry.” Maggie tended to look at everything from the perspective of an artist.
She ran her hand down one of the long posts that supported the roof of the structure. “I bet Harry built this.”
“Actually, it was his father.” Rebecca spoke from behind us.
I hadn’t heard her come out of the house. She was holding a plastic food container. Based on the size, there had to be more than one piece of pie inside.
“Hello, Maggie,” Rebecca said. “It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?”
“It is beautiful. And so is your gazebo,” Maggie said.
Rebecca reached out to pat the railing with one hand. “Thank you. But Harrison—Old Harry—deserves the credit. I told him what I wanted and he built it.”
“No plan?” I asked.
Rebecca shook her head. “He said he could see the gazebo in his mind’s eye and all he had to do was put the pieces together.”
Maggie was looking up again. “Incredible,” she murmured. Then she looked down at Rebecca. Her face grew serious and she pressed her lips together. “Rebecca, I owe you an apology,” she began. “I was rude to you at the last class, asking personal questions about your herbal remedies.” Her cheeks were tinged with pink and she clasped her hands in front of her like a child.
“And I acted like a sour, suspicious old woman,” Rebecca said. “I’d be happy to tell you more about my mother and her medicines . . . if you’re still interested.”
Maggie’s face lit up. “Yes, I’m interested.”
“Mother’s notebooks are in the attic.” Rebecca looked back at the house. “If you don’t mind some dust and cobwebs, you can look around up there for them.”
“Dust, cobwebs, giant spiders—I don’t mind,” Maggie said eagerly.
They put their heads together and quickly agreed on Sunday afternoon. I heard Maggie mention blueberries and Rebecca say something about pie. Neither of them noticed a floating piece of paper go bobbing by the gazebo steps.
Owen.
I leaned over and grabbed the paper bag of berries as a cover, so I could make shooing gestures in the direction of the fold of paper, now hanging immobile about six inches off the ground.
“Go!” I whispered.
The paper started around the side of the gazebo, and, I hoped, toward the gap in the hedge. It occurred to me that maybe I should have said, “Appear” instead.
I leaned over the railing. The paper wasn’t moving very fast. “Go!” I whispered again.
“Did you say something, Kathleen?” Rebecca said behind me. Both she and Maggie were looking at me.
I crossed my fingers that Owen was out of sight and then realized that was the problem. “I, uh, just that I have to go,” I stammered. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“You’ve done more than enough, Kathleen. Thank you.” She held out the plastic container. “Don’t forget your pie.”
“Never,” I said, taking the box with my free hand and hugging it against my chest. “If you need anything, if Ami isn’t around”—I pointed at my house—“you know where I am.”
She nodded.
“I’ll see you Sunday,” Maggie said over her shoulder, as she followed me down the steps. Rebecca gave a little wave of acknowledgment.
“What kind of pie?” Maggie asked, eyeing the container as we cut through the hedge.
I was busy scanning the yard for a small gray tabby or a small piece of paper that seemed to be self-propelled.
Nothing.
“What?” I said, then remembered what she’d asked. “Oh. Lemon meringue.”
“I like lemon meringue,” she said.
“Yeah, everyone does,” I said distractedly. Where was Owen? Maybe by the back door, and, I hoped, three-dimensional.
Maggie had been talking and I hadn’t been paying attention, I realized.
“So, you’ll help me?” she said, looking expectantly at me.
“Umm, yeah, of course I will.” I wondered what I’d just agreed to.
Maggie burst out laughing.
“What? What’s so funny?” I asked.
“I just told you that I’m giving up art to become an exotic dancer in Vegas, and you agreed to help me make a costume out of pigeon feathers.”
I felt my face redden.
“What’s with you this morning?”
What could I say? One of my cats is adding new meaning to the term “cat burglar,” Everett mistook my cat for his dead mother’s cat, and, oh, yeah, the police were still asking questions and trying to seduce Owen over to the dark side. Plus, I’d had way, way more caffeine than I should have. I decided just to share the last two things on that list.
Maggie stared at me, decidedly dumbfounded. “The police were here and you gave them breakfast? Again?”
I tried not to cringe. “It was just one police—Detective Gordon—and I didn’t give him breakfast, I gave him coffee.”