Maggie placed a loosely closed fist against her breastbone and took a slow deep breath. I knew that was her way of staying calm and in control. “The artists own and run the store,” she said, “so they can make the decisions.”
He gave his head a slight shake. “Like I said before, what the hell does the average artist know about running a business?”
Maggie was the current president of the co-op board. I thought about how hard she’d worked to promote the artwork and the artists at the shop in just the year I’d known her.
“I’m sorry about the leak,” she said. “There isn’t anything anyone can do about all the rain. Everyone is frustrated and tired, Jaeger.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “This is a ridiculous way to run a business,” he started.
“The weather and how we run the co-op are two different things,” Maggie said. Her tone hadn’t changed at all but there was something just a little intimidating about the way she stood there so perfectly straight and still. “If you have problems with River Arts, go to the town office, call public works, call the mayor. Save everything else for the meeting later this morning.”
She tipped her head to the side and looked at him. If it had been an old Western this would have been the point where the audience did a collective “Ohhh.” Maggie could outstare anyone, even my Owen and Hercules, who were masters of the unblinking glare.
Jaeger’s mouth opened and closed. He shook his head. “This is stupid,” he muttered. He pushed past us and headed upstairs.
“What was that?” I asked once he was out of sight.
Maggie gave me a wry smile. “Mostly Jaeger being Jaeger. Did you know he’s been pushing for the co-op to find a patron almost since he first got here?”
I nodded.
“With the flooding and having to move everything in the store, he’s just gotten worse.” She let out a breath, put one hand on the back of her head and stretched. Then she looked at me. “I should check the basement.”
“Okay,” I said. I followed her through the empty store to the back storage room. She flipped the light switch and unlocked the door. Three steps from the top of the basement stairs she stopped, sucking in a sharp breath.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Is he dead?” Maggie asked in a tight voice.
I leaned around her to get a better look at the body. “Yeah, he’s dead.”
“Are you sure?”
I moved past her on the steps so I could see better. The corpse of a large gray rodent was floating on its back near the stairs railing, in the four feet of muddy, smelly water that filled the basement. “He’s not doing the backstroke, Maggie,” I said. “He’s dead.”
She shivered and ran a hand through her short blond hair. “I’m not touching that thing.”
“I’ll get it,” I said. It wouldn’t be the oddest thing I’d ever done in the name of friendship. I grabbed the yellow plastic snow shovel that was hanging on a nail to the right of the cellar door and went down a couple more steps so I could scoop up the dead rat. Behind me I heard Maggie make a faint squeaky noise in her throat, probably afraid that it had just been floating, eyes closed, in the filthy water, like some rodent spa-goer, and was now going to roll over and run up the steps.
It didn’t.
I tightened my grip on the shovel handle and turned, swinging it in front of me. “I’m coming up,” I warned. Maggie took a step backward. I grabbed the railing and something sliced into my hand. “Ow!” I yelled, yanking my hand back. There was blood welling from a small gash on the fleshy part of my hand below my little finger.
The end of the shovel dipped like a teeter-totter, and the plastic blade banged hard against the wooden step. The rat corpse somersaulted into the air like a high diver coming off a tower. I swiped my bleeding hand on the leg of my jeans and lunged with the shovel, but the rat had gotten a surprising amount of height and distance. It arced through the air and landed with a soggy splat on Maggie’s foot.
She shrieked and jerked backward, banging into the doorframe. I scrambled up the stairs. “I got it. I got it,” I said. “It’s okay.” I scooped up the dead rodent and squeezed past Mags, keeping the shovel low to the ground.
Out in the hallway I looked around. Okay, so what was I going to do? I couldn’t exactly drop the rat in the metal garbage can in the corner.
Holding the shovel out in front of me, I cut through the empty store, opened the street door, and tossed the body of the rat out toward the street. It didn’t do any elegant somersaults this time. It hit the sidewalk with the same wet splat as when it had landed on Maggie’s foot. Except this time the rat rolled over, shook itself and scurried away. I said a word well-mannered librarians didn’t normally use and then realized that Ruby Blackthorne was standing by the streetlight. The rat had gone whizzing right by her head.
Crap on toast! “Ruby, I’m sorry,” I said, holding the door for her as she came across the sidewalk.
She looked at me. “Inventing a new sport?” she asked. “Because I don’t think it’s going to replace discus in the Olympics. And I’m pretty sure you just violated at least a couple of cruelty to animal laws.”
“It was floating in the basement.” I gestured behind me.
“And that was your version of rat CPR?”
I wasn’t sure if she was joking or serious. Then I noticed just a hint of a smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. She was growing out her usually spiked short hair and it stuck out from the sides of her head in two tiny pigtails, one turquoise, one pink.
“I really thought it was dead,” I said. “It was on its back in the water. It didn’t move.” I went to swipe my hand across my sweatshirt, which is when I remembered it was bleeding.
“Hey, are you okay?” Ruby asked. “It didn’t bite you, did it?”
I shook my head and felt in the pocket of my hoodie for a Kleenex. “No. I did that on the railing.”
Maggie came out through the store then, holding a length of old pipe like a club, scanning the space as though the rat might come walking by. It didn’t seem like a good plan to tell her it was possible it could.
“It’s okay, Mags,” I said. “It’s gone.” That much was true. “I put it outside.” Also true.
She looked around again, then tucked the piece of pipe between her knees.
I shot Ruby a warning look, hoping she remembered how Maggie felt about small furry things.
“Is Jaeger still here?” Maggie asked, glancing at the stairs.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“I just saw him putting boxes in his car,” Ruby offered. She rolled her eyes at Maggie. “So, what was it this time? The we-need-a-corporate-sponsor speech? Or the we-need-to-expand-our-horizons rant?”
“The first one,” Maggie said. Then she noticed my hand. “Did you do that on the railing?” She caught my wrist and rolled my palm over. “I think that needs stitches.”
“I don’t need stitches,” I said. “It isn’t even bleeding anymore. All I need is a Band-Aid.”
Maggie shook her head and mock glared at me. “C’mon upstairs. I’ll fix it.”
Ruby and I followed her up the steps. Mags knew I hated hospitals. It went back to when I was a kid. Blame it on a weak stomach, a dark examining room, an artificial leg and way too many cheese curls.
“So, it seems like Jaeger is really pushing this corporate sponsor idea,” I said to Ruby, while Maggie cleaned my cut.
Ruby made a face. “He thinks we should find some big business to subsidize the co-op, kind of like a patron of the arts.” Ruby painted huge abstracts and also taught art.
“What’s in it for the business?” I asked. “I’m guessing something more than just goodwill.”
“The use of our artwork for commercial purposes, among other things,” Maggie said, fastening a big bandage on my hand. “I’m not against that necessarily. But I’m not about to give up the right to choose how my art is used. Jaeger thinks I’m wrong.” She looked at me. “How’s that?”