Sleight Of Paw Part 32

"He was cute." A guy two tables away snapped his fingers at her. "Yeah, yeah, I'm coming," she called. She turned back to us. "Like I said, cute. Bit of stubble, dark hair all slicked back in a ponytail and one of those jackets sailors wear."

Maggie looked blankly at me.

"A peacoat?" I asked.

"Yeah, that's it. But he was a jerk. Figured he knew way more than me because I'm just a dumb waitress. And he stiffed me on a tip."

"Thanks, Jamie," Maggie said. "Any time you want to come for a few cla.s.ses, they're on me."

She gave Maggie a one-armed hug. "Thanks. I might do that."

Finger-Snapping Guy was at it again. Jamie made a face. "Your guy's nice, you know, for what it's worth."

"I'll keep that in mind," I said. "Thanks."

We elbowed our way back out and slid across the parking lot to the car.

"How do you know her?" I asked Maggie.

"Jamie? She was in my tai chi cla.s.s last winter. She has great balance. I think her hair was blue then, though."

I waited while she negotiated the car out of the cramped parking spot before I said anything else. "Any idea who the other guy was?" I asked.

"No," Maggie said. "I was hoping you did."

"Problem is, whoever it was doesn't even have to live in Mayville anymore. All Susan knew was that Eric used to be our mystery guy's sponsor."

Maggie nodded. "Stubble, a ponytail and a peacoat isn't much to go on."

"Maybe Roma will come up with something as far as the trucks," I said.

"What if you just laid it all out for Eric?"

"He won't tell Susan who he was with," I said. "What makes you think he'll tell me? And when I did talk to him I didn't get anywhere."

"What kind of support group is this where you can cover for someone who's committed a crime?" Maggie asked, flicking the switch for the heater up a notch. The inside of the car began to get warmer.

"I think it's more Eric's thing than any group's thing," I said thoughtfully. "Have you noticed how important loyalty seems to be to him?"

"What do you mean?" she asked, eyes glued to the road. A few flakes of snow were blowing around.

"Look at the staff of the cafe. He hires the same students in the summer. His regular staff's been there for years. He's done the library barbecue forever, according to Abigail. Even the year Susan was pregnant with the twins and couldn't get out of bed."

"Good point," Maggie said.

I sighed and shifted in the seat. I couldn't wait for Susan to talk to Eric. "Maybe if he understands this is going to help Ruby . . ."

We talked about Winterfest the rest of the way home and how the rumors about Roma and Eddie Sweeney wouldn't die. But I was really giving the conversation only half my attention. I kept rolling Jamie's description of Eric's friend around in my mind. It could have been anyone. Anyone.

So why couldn't I shake the feeling that I should know exactly who it was?

25.

The next morning I was at the table, feeding Owen crunchy peanut b.u.t.ter, when Harry Taylor-the younger Harry-knocked on the back door. Owen was in an extra-good mood because Rebecca had stopped in for a minute to bring my newspaper, which had somehow ended up at her house instead of mine.

"Hi," I said to Harry. "I was going to call you this morning." I'd changed shifts with Abigail, so I wasn't due at the library until lunchtime.

"Is something wrong?" he asked.

"No. Something might be right. Hang on a second." I hustled into the living room for the baby-picture fragment. I'd put it in a small envelope. I handed it to Harry. "This is for your father. There's no way to know for sure, but it's possible this is a picture of his and Agatha's child."

He swallowed a couple of times. Slowly he slid the image from the envelope. "Where did you get this?"

"Ruby ended up with a bag of Agatha's things. It was inside. It doesn't seem to be a picture of her son, David; it's not that old. I asked Rebecca"-I held up a hand-"without telling her why, and she didn't recognize the child. Maybe-and it's a big maybe-it's the baby."

"Thank you, Kathleen," Harry said, his voice suddenly husky. "Dad will . . ." He stopped and cleared his throat, then looked at me. "Thanks."

"You're welcome," I said, suddenly feeling my own throat tighten.

Harry shook his head. "I almost forgot myself." He held out a set of keys. "These are for you."

"For what?"

"For the truck sitting in your driveway."

"Harry, I can't take a truck from you."

"First of all, it's not from me; it's from the old man. And second of all, if you really don't want it you're going to have to tell him, because there's no way I'm doing it." He swung the keys back and forth. "He wants to do this for you. Do you really want to tell him he can't?"

"I . . ." I looked at him helplessly. "All right," I said, holding out my hands in surrender. "But only until I find something for myself." I took the keys.

"It's not fancy," Harry said. "But it runs well and has new tires. You'll have to call Gunnar about insurance."

I nodded. "Okay."

Carefully he slid the envelope with the baby picture into an inside pocket of his jacket. "Thank you for the picture."

"I hope it helps," I said. "Thank you for the truck."

"I hope it helps," Harry said with a smile.

After he'd gone I pulled on my jacket and boots. I didn't have to coax either cat to come with me. We walked around the house, and there was the truck in the driveway. It was identical to Ruby's, sort of an ugly brown color. The only difference was that the right front fender had been replaced and it was primer red. I opened the driver's door. The inside was sparkling clean-no surprise, since the truck came from Harry's.

Both cats were craning their necks to see. I bent down and picked up Owen and set him on the seat. When I reached for Hercules he wrinkled his nose. "It's clean," I told him. "No Boris cooties."

I set Hercules on the seat next to Owen, who was alternately sniffing and poking a paw into everything. Then I leaned in and studied the dashboard. What I really wanted to do was dance around the truck, squealing. The truck was a wonderful gift.

I pulled my head out of the inside and checked the tires. They were big with heavy, k.n.o.bby treads. More than enough for Mountain Road in the snow. Harrison's generosity made me even more determined to help the old man find out about his child.

"Let's go," I said to the boys. Owen came to the edge of the seat, looked at the ground and jumped. "Nice," I said.

Hercules came to the end of the seat, looked down and looked at me, meowing pitifully. I scooped him up in my arms and shut the door with my hip just as Roma pulled into the driveway.

She got out of the SUV and pushed her sungla.s.ses up on her head.

"Why do you have my old truck?" she asked. Then she stopped, studied the old Ford and said, "It's not mine, is it?"

"Nope," I said. "For now it's mine. Want a cup of coffee?"

"Please."

We walked around the house. Owen was on the top step. There was no sign of Hercules, which meant he'd decided not to wait. Why wait to be let in when you can just walk through the door?

Inside I poured a cup of coffee for Roma and another for myself and we sat at the table. Owen had disappeared but I could see Hercules' whiskers as he lurked by the living room doorway.

"So, how do you have one of the trucks like my old one?" Roma asked.

"Harry Taylor. It's his. He loaned it to me." I ran my finger around the rim of my cup. "Tell me you found something useful," I said, although I knew she hadn't. If she had, she would've said so the minute she saw me in the driveway.

Roma shook her head, confirming what I'd suspected. "Nothing. Truck number one is out of state. Truck number two is driven only in the summer-trust me, I saw it. It's covered in bird droppings. And truck number three has been cut down to drive in the woods. It doesn't have a roof anymore." She leaned back in the chair. "It's covered with a tarp, sitting in a s...o...b..nk."

I squeezed my forehead with my thumb and two fingers. I was so sure I'd been on to something.

"For what it's worth, I thought we were going to find something."

"Me, too."

"Maybe there was another truck?"

"Do you really think so?" I sighed, which sent my bangs airborne.

"Not really."

I raked my fingers through my hair.

"Rebecca did a great job with your hair," Roma said.

"Yeah, she did. I can finally get it back into a ponytail. And I admit I've eaten the occasional sardine with the cats. Susan claims sardines will make their fur shiny. Maybe it works for my hair."

Roma made a face.

"Well, I wouldn't expect you to eat sardines," I said. "Especially since you're so hot and heavy with Eddie Sweeney."

Her face turned a cute shade of pink. "I don't think there's a single person in Mayville Heights who hasn't heard the story of my torrid affair with Eddie Sweeney, the famous hockey player." She shook her head, drained her cup and set it on the table.

"Winterfest is almost over," I said. "As soon as Fake Eddie is out of the community center, gossip about you and the real Eddie will stop."

Roma stood up. "I need to get to the clinic," she said. "Call me if there's anything else I can do to help Ruby."

I promised I would and thanked her for the help. As soon as she was out the door Hercules stuck his head all the way around the living room trim.

"She's gone," I said. He walked over to me. "We're back to square one."

I pulled my hands through my hair again. Roma was right. Rebecca was a great hairdresser. All I had to do most days was wash my hair and put a little gel in it.

And then it was as though all the little pieces fell into the proper slots. What had the waitress said about Eric's friend? He was cute. He needed a shave. He was wearing a peacoat and his dark hair was slicked back in a ponytail.

I knew who it was.

I grabbed the edge of the table. I knew who Eric had been with. I knew who'd killed Agatha.

A feeling of dread, like I'd swallowed a concrete block, settled in my stomach.

Not only did I know who'd killed Agatha. I was fairly sure I even knew why.

26.

I drove to the cafe. I was a little rusty shifting gears, but I only ground the transmission once and got safely through all the stop signs. I left the truck at the corner, near the alley where Agatha had died, so I wouldn't have to ease my way out of a tight parking spot when my clutch skills were still rusty.

I'd seen Peter having breakfast a fair number of times at the cafe. If I was lucky, he'd be there and I could talk to him before I spoke to Eric.

Luck was on my side. Peter was sitting at the same table he'd been at the night Agatha had come into the restaurant. I shook my head at Claire and walked over to him. The leather aviator jacket was hanging on the back of his chair. I wasn't wrong. It was definitely the jacket I'd seen at Agatha's house.

"Why did Agatha fire you?" I asked. I probably should have at least said h.e.l.lo, but I was in a hurry.

He looked up at me. "Why would that be any of your business, a.s.suming she did fire me?"

"Was it because you tried to talk her out of leaving all her money to Ruby's boyfriend?"

"Again, why would that be any of your business?" he said. The only thing that gave him away was the briefest twitch at one corner of his mouth.

"It isn't," I said. "But I don't want to see Ruby go to jail for something she didn't do, and since I can't come up with any other reason for you to have been at her get-out-of-jail lunch, I don't think you do, either."