“I’m sorry about the Weston drawing being stolen,” I said.
She nodded. “So am I. It was my father’s favorite piece in his collection.”
It seemed to me I could see a glimpse of real sadness in her expression for a moment.
“I’m trying not to lose sight of what’s really important,” she continued. “The drawing is . . . a thing. And it was insured. I just want the police to find whoever killed Margo Walsh.”
“So do I,” I said.
“Have you heard anything?” she asked.
I shook my head. “No. But Mayville Heights has an excellent police department. They’ll find whoever did this.”
“That’s good to hear.” She gave me the polite smile again. “It was nice to see you, Kathleen,” she said. “Enjoy your weekend.”
I walked back to the truck, wondering what kind of business Everett was doing with Marshall Holmes.
I put the shopping bags on the floor of the passenger side. Hercules leaned over to sniff each one and then straightened up and looked at me.
“Yes, we’re going to Tubby’s,” I said.
I parked by the waterfront and Hercules and I sat in the truck with the windows rolled partway down and enjoyed a small cup of creamy, icy strawberry frozen yogurt. I got Hercules his own flat-paddle wooden spoon and gave him a couple of tastes. Then he curled up on the seat next to me with a sigh of contentment. He was so relaxed that when my phone buzzed on the seat next to him he started and almost fell onto the floor.
I put one hand on his back and picked up the cell with the other. It was Marcus.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“I’m at Tubby’s, sitting in the truck with Hercules eating frozen yogurt.”
“Why? Was Owen busy?”
“As a matter of fact, he was,” I said. Hercules turned his head to lick a tiny smear of yogurt off the side of my thumb.
Marcus laughed, the sound tickling my ear as it came through the phone. “Do you still want to clear the book drop?” he asked.
“Please,” I said.
“I can meet you at the library in about fifteen minutes.”
That didn’t give me time to take Hercules home. “The only problem is, like I said, I have Hercules with me.” The cat looked up at me and narrowed his green eyes as though he didn’t like be referred to as a problem.
“That’s not a problem,” Marcus said. “He can’t hurt anything. We’ve wrapped up everything we want to do in the building. We’re releasing it back to you. You could probably reopen on Monday.”
I leaned against the back of the seat as relief flooded my body. “I’m going to need to get the cleaners in, and there are stacks of books to reshelve. And I’ll have to call Gavin to see if we can get the artwork moved on Monday. Maybe we should wait and reopen Tuesday.” I rummaged in my purse, looking for a pen and the notebook I usually carried.
“Kathleen, take a breath,” Marcus said.
“What?” I said.
“Take a breath,” he repeated. “You don’t have to do everything at once.”
“You’re right,” I said. “How about Hercules and I come and meet you and we’ll go from there?”
“I’ll see you in a few minutes,” he said.
Hercules sat up, took a couple of passes at his face with a paw and then looked expectantly at me.
Marcus was waiting by his SUV in the library parking lot. I popped Hercules into the spare shopping bag I’d brought with me and got out of the truck. I knew there was no point in leaving him in the truck when he didn’t want to stay there. He’d just climb out through the door—literally—and how would I explain that to Marcus?
“Hi,” I said as we walked over to him.
“Hi,” he said, leaning down to kiss me. “Hey, Hercules,” he said to the little black-and-white cat, who was poking his head out of the top of the bag.
“Merow,” the cat said.
Marcus let us into the building, and before I could take more than a few steps toward the checkout desk, Hercules jumped out of the bag, shook himself and looked around. “No, no, no,” I said, reaching for him. “You need to stay with me.”
Marcus turned to look at me. “It’s okay, Kathleen,” he said. “We’re finished in here. He can’t hurt anything.”
The cat gave me a look and headed straight for Curtis, who was in his usual spot.
“Is this your cat?” the guard asked.
I started toward them. “Yes. This is Hercules. Please don’t try to pet him. He was feral. He doesn’t have the best people skills.”
Curtis laughed. “Yeah, people say that about me, too.” He looked at the cat. “Hello, Hercules,” he said.
“Merow,” the cat answered. He considered the security guard for a moment and then moved around the circulation desk.
I handed a take-out container of coffee to Curtis. I’d gotten it from Tubby’s before we left. “I thought you might like a cup,” I said. The creamer and a couple of sugar packets were on top.
Curtis smiled at me. With his bushy eyebrows and nose that looked as though it had been broken at least once, he was an imposing man—a good trait for a security guard—but when he smiled his expression was transformed.
“Thank you, Ms. Paulson,” he said. “I was a bit late getting started this morning, so I’m like my old truck that leaks oil; I’m down a quart.”
Hercules was still prowling around, checking everything out. Marcus was doing the same, I realized, minus the whisker twitching.
“What are you looking for?” I asked. Marcus turned to look at me. Hercules kept nosing around.
“Are you talking to me or him?” Marcus asked, gesturing to the cat, who was sniffing the edge of one of the metal pylons that was restricting access to the exhibit area.
“You,” I said.
He shrugged. “I don’t know, exactly. Something, anything that we might have missed.”
“You’ll figure this out,” I said. “You always do.”
Hercules was still sniffing the pylon. His pink tongue came out and he gave the shiny metal surface a tentative lick. “Leave that alone,” I called to him.
He gave a sharp meow but otherwise ignored me.
I walked over to the cat. “Don’t lick that,” I said firmly. “You don’t know what’s on it.”
Of the two cats, Owen was the one who had finicky little quirks about his food, but I’d never seen Hercules do something as undignified as lick a metal post.
He looked up at me, put a paw on the base of the metal pylon, and meowed again. I knew that insistent tone. It meant, “Look at this.”
I leaned over to look at the spot he’d licked. “Move your foot,” I said.
He obligingly lifted his white-tipped paw. There was a tiny smear of what looked like blue paint on the shiny metal.
Curtis joined me. “That’s paint,” he said.
“Don’t eat that,” I said to Hercules.
His green eyes met mine and he licked his lips.
“What is it?” Marcus asked. He’d walked over and was standing behind Hercules. The cat looked up at him and then back at the pylon. As far-fetched as it seemed, I knew there was some connection he was waiting for me to make.
“I’m not sure,” I said slowly. I scraped a tiny speck of the paint off the pylon with a nail and then sniffed the end of my finger, hoping that I wasn’t inhaling some obscure, drug-resistant bacteria.
“What are you doing?” Marcus said, pulling a face like I’d just scraped a piece of gum off my shoe and started chewing it.
Herc’s green gaze was fixed on my face, and even though no one else would have believed it, I could see a gleam of expectation in his eyes.
“It smells like egg,” I said, more to the cat than to Marcus, wondering at the same time if it was just my imagination at work.
Hercules sat back on his haunches then, seemingly satisfied that he’d made his point.
“No one was in here eating eggs,” Curtis said.
The cat shot him a look of disdain as only a cat could do.
Hercules had been having a sardine and a slice of hard-boiled egg every Sunday since the weather got warmer. We’d sit in the backyard and I’d have coffee while the boys had their Sunday treat. Hercules had developed a fondness for the hard-boiled egg. It really wasn’t that big a surprise that his nose had discovered the small splotch of paint.