4
Repulse Monkey
Blood in the library and Gregor Easton’s body at the Stratton. It wasn’t a coincidence. I wanted it to be, but it wasn’t.
I could see Detective Gordon’s blurry shape moving on the other side of the heavy plastic. Any minute now he was going to come out and tell me again that I had to leave the building. I hurried up to my office and collected my bag, sweater and laptop, because it seemed pretty clear I wouldn’t be getting any work done there, and locked the door.
I headed for the front entrance. The sky had darkened and spits of rain hit the glass. Now what? I didn’t want to walk home in the rain. I had an umbrella in my office. Then I remembered. No, I didn’t. I’d used it the last time I’d been caught at the library in the rain.
I stood in the entryway and looked through the wavy glass in the old wooden doors. The wind was pushing heavy gray clouds across the sky. It was probably only going to be a shower. I could wait here, out of Detective Gordon’s way, until the rain stopped, and then go.
I heard the murmur of his voice then. I leaned sideways, just far enough to look through the ironwork gate. He was standing by the temporary circulation desk, back to me, talking on his cell phone. His voice seemed to bounce off the library’s high ceiling all the way across to where I was standing.
I couldn’t help hearing what he was saying. Well, maybe I could have, but I would have had to stuff my fingers in my ears and start humming the “Battle Hymn of the Republic” to do it, and I was trying to stay unobtrusive. After all, Detective Gordon had asked me to leave the building and he already seemed to think I was mixed up in all of this. It was better if I just waited quietly until the rain stopped, and then left.
“. . . found the primary crime scene,” I heard him say into his phone. He listened. “No. Now would be better . . . Fine.” He snapped his cell shut, and I stepped back out of his line of sight.
Which didn’t do me any good, because instead of going back to his “primary crime scene” he walked across to the entrance. I stood to one side of the heavy doors and tried to look as though I wasn’t doing anything wrong. Which, really, I wasn’t.
“Ms. Paulson, why are you still here?” he said.
I gestured at the glass. “It’s raining.”
“I see that. You can’t make it from here to the parking lot?”
“I don’t have a car.” And this was the first time I’d regretted that since I’d arrived in Mayville. “I don’t have an umbrella, either,” I added.
Just then a young man came dashing across the grass, holding a giant golf umbrella—alternating red, green, and blue sections—and a large black case. Detective Gordon unlocked the door for him. The man shook his umbrella, stepped inside and handed it to the detective, who immediately handed it to me.
“Now you have an umbrella,” he said.
It looked like a circus umbrella, or, more accurately, like a circus tent. There was a logo for spiced Jamaican rum on one panel. The other police officer opened his mouth, looked from me to Detective Gordon and closed it again. “I’ll make sure you get this back,” I told him. I pulled my key ring out of my pocket and unsnapped the library keys from the rest. “Silver one is for this door,” I said, holding them out to the detective. “Brass one is for the security gate. The other key is the master for all the inside locks.”
“Thank you,” he said. He leaned in front of me to open the door.
I ducked under his arm, then turned on the top step. “There are two more muffins and half a pot of coffee in the staff room. Please help yourself.” I popped open the umbrella and headed down the steps, waggling it at the bottom to let him know that I’d heard his surprised thank-you.
The rain stopped about halfway up Mountain Road, and by the time I was walking up the driveway I could see a patch of blue sky over the left corner of Rebecca’s house. I left my wet shoes and socks and the dripping umbrella on the porch and stepped into the kitchen.
Owen was sprawled on one side by the table, chewing on something. He looked up, startled, with a What are you doing home? expression on his furry gray face.
“What are you eating?” I asked, and I swear he put both paws on top of whatever it was he’d been gnawing on. “Oh, like that’s going to work,” I said, crossing the kitchen floor. “Let me see.”
The cat looked up at me with big golden eyes. “Let me see,” I said again.
He dropped his head and lifted one paw. A mangled piece of what had to be part of a Fred the Funky Chicken carcass lay on the floor.
“Owen! Where did you get that?” I said.
He made a rumbling merow sound.
“Do you have Fred the Funky Chicken parts stashed all over the house?”
Nothing.
I crouched down next to the cat. “Owen, look at me,” I said.
He slowly lifted his head. If a cat could look guilty, he did.
He leaned forward and gave me a head butt. Sighing, I scratched behind his left ear and Owen began to purr. “You are such a suck-up,” I told him.
Hercules came in from the living room and stopped when he saw us. He tipped his head to one side and looked up at me.
“Yes, I know I’m not supposed to be home.” I gave Owen one last scratch. “I need more coffee,” I told the cats. “And I have to make a couple of phone calls.”
I started the coffeemaker, and while it did its thing I called Mary, who was one of my full-time staff members, to tell her not to come to work. Luckily, her husband answered the phone, so I didn’t have to get into any details on the why. I left a message for Jason, our summer student, on his voice mail. Then I called Everett Henderson’s office and briefly explained what was going on to his secretary, Lita.
When the coffee was made I poured a cup and padded, barefoot, out to the porch, with the cats trailing behind me. The stretch of blue sky above the roofline of Rebecca’s house was getting bigger. I slid my feet into a pair of rubber clogs and went out into the yard.
Rebecca waved from her back step. I set my mug on the landing by the screen door and headed across the grass toward the gap in the lilac hedge. Owen moved ahead of me, stalking like some sleek jungle cat on the prowl—probably hoping Rebecca had a treat for him.
I glanced back over my shoulder. Hercules was coming, too, stopping every few steps to shake the damp from his feet. Herc was a bit of a fussbudget, a cat version of Goldilocks. He didn’t like anything to be too hot, too cold, or wet at all.
He gave me his I am such a poor pathetic kitty look.
“It’s a little rain on the grass, you wuss,” I said. “I’m not carrying you.” He shook his right front paw and gave me the look again. “I have a blister on my foot from walking up the hill in those canvas flats, and you don’t hear me complaining,” I said. Herc just stood there, paw in the air. He didn’t move, didn’t blink. I waited another twenty seconds or so to save face before going back to pick him up.
Ahead of us, Owen had climbed onto the railing of Rebecca’s gazebo, pointedly ignoring Rebecca, who was calling to him and holding out her hand. I set Hercules on the gazebo steps and walked over to Rebecca. Like me, she was wearing rubber clogs. She had a gardening glove on one hand and she was holding a bouquet of lavender mums. Should I tell her about finding Gregor Easton’s body? I wondered. No. I didn’t want to be one of those people who couldn’t wait to spread bad news, and it wasn’t as though Rebecca would have known Easton.
“Good morning, Kathleen,” she said. “How are the cats?”
“Hi, Rebecca,” I said. “The cats are fine.”
“Do you think Owen would like another catnip chicken?”