and a postcard for the James Hotel. And he collected and sold vintage ink bottles. He even used some of the old ink in his art. I’d seen him completely engrossed by the contents of an old rolltop desk at an estate sale I’d gone to a couple of weeks previously with Abigail.
Along with working at the library, Abigail also wrote children’s books and she’d wanted my opinion of several of the old picture books in the sale. She’d gotten interested in collecting books after she’d found a box of old, and it turned out valuable, books at the library the previous summer.
Ray slid a hand back and forth over his smooth scalp. “So that means the co-op is pretty much off limits, I’m guessing,” he said. Then he made a face. “I’m sorry. That was insensitive.”
I held up a hand. “It’s okay. And you’re right, the co-op is off limits for the moment.”
“What about Jaeger’s stuff?”
Ruby looked at me. “I don’t know. Kathleen?”
“I can’t see any reason why the police would need to go through his studio,” I said. “I don’t think this building is going to be off limits.”
“That’s good,” Ray said. “All this rain has put me behind.” He looked at Ruby. “If I can help with anything, let me know.” He moved past us and went up the stairs.
“Same here, Ruby,” I said. “If there’s anything I can do, call me.”
“I will,” she said.
I cut through the parking lot, got in the truck and started up the hill.
So Jaeger Merrill was really Christian Ellis, a convicted forger. He’d gone to a lot of trouble to create a new life for himself. Was Ruby right? Had he been working on another scam?
9
H ercules was sitting by the back steps when I came around the corner of the house, one paw on a black feather, with an iridescent purple sheen to it. He looked up at me and if a cat could look self-satisfied—and this cat certainly seemed to be able to—he did.
“Score one for the cat,” I said, bending down to pick him up. He nuzzled the side of my face and then looked down at the feather. Hercules was having a little war with, as far as I could tell, one lone grackle. Up until now the grackle had been winning.
“Have you thought about what you’d do with that bird if you actually caught it?” I asked as I unlocked the back door.
Herc tipped his head to one side and seemed to be considering my question. Then he licked his lips.
“Oh sure, you’re going to eat it,” I said, setting him down on the kitchen floor. “You? Mr. I-Don’t-Eat-On-Sale-Cat-Food?”
That got me a snippy meow.
I folded my arms and looked down at him. “Do I have to remind you about the caterpillar?”
Hercules immediately turned away and hung his head. I got the feeling he would have blushed if he could have. He may not have understood all of what I’d said, but he knew the word, caterpillar.
Of the two cats, Owen was the hunter, not Hercules. It’s hard to stalk anything when you don’t like getting your paws wet. One day, early last summer, Owen had caught a fuzzy black-and-yellow caterpillar out in the backyard—mostly because it crawled over a cracker he was sniffing at the time.
Hercules, who had already finished his own food because he doesn’t have to inspect every bite first, poked his head in to take a look at his brother’s prey. First he just sniffed the caterpillar. Then he rolled it over with a swipe of his paw.
Owen tended to see himself like a lion prowling a dusty savannah on an African plain. Which meant the caterpillar was the equivalent of a downed wildebeest—not for sharing.
Paws were raised. Yowls were exchanged. Before I could step in, Hercules swallowed the caterpillar.
And promptly hacked it up again. Because, number one: it was like eating a piece of shag carpeting. Nothing that fuzzy is ever going to taste good. And number two: The caterpillar wasn’t exactly dead.
“You think having caterpillar fluff stuck in your teeth is bad,” I warned Herc, “try
Along with working at the library, Abigail also wrote children’s books and she’d wanted my opinion of several of the old picture books in the sale. She’d gotten interested in collecting books after she’d found a box of old, and it turned out valuable, books at the library the previous summer.
Ray slid a hand back and forth over his smooth scalp. “So that means the co-op is pretty much off limits, I’m guessing,” he said. Then he made a face. “I’m sorry. That was insensitive.”
I held up a hand. “It’s okay. And you’re right, the co-op is off limits for the moment.”
“What about Jaeger’s stuff?”
Ruby looked at me. “I don’t know. Kathleen?”
“I can’t see any reason why the police would need to go through his studio,” I said. “I don’t think this building is going to be off limits.”
“That’s good,” Ray said. “All this rain has put me behind.” He looked at Ruby. “If I can help with anything, let me know.” He moved past us and went up the stairs.
“Same here, Ruby,” I said. “If there’s anything I can do, call me.”
“I will,” she said.
I cut through the parking lot, got in the truck and started up the hill.
So Jaeger Merrill was really Christian Ellis, a convicted forger. He’d gone to a lot of trouble to create a new life for himself. Was Ruby right? Had he been working on another scam?
9
H ercules was sitting by the back steps when I came around the corner of the house, one paw on a black feather, with an iridescent purple sheen to it. He looked up at me and if a cat could look self-satisfied—and this cat certainly seemed to be able to—he did.
“Score one for the cat,” I said, bending down to pick him up. He nuzzled the side of my face and then looked down at the feather. Hercules was having a little war with, as far as I could tell, one lone grackle. Up until now the grackle had been winning.
“Have you thought about what you’d do with that bird if you actually caught it?” I asked as I unlocked the back door.
Herc tipped his head to one side and seemed to be considering my question. Then he licked his lips.
“Oh sure, you’re going to eat it,” I said, setting him down on the kitchen floor. “You? Mr. I-Don’t-Eat-On-Sale-Cat-Food?”
That got me a snippy meow.
I folded my arms and looked down at him. “Do I have to remind you about the caterpillar?”
Hercules immediately turned away and hung his head. I got the feeling he would have blushed if he could have. He may not have understood all of what I’d said, but he knew the word, caterpillar.
Of the two cats, Owen was the hunter, not Hercules. It’s hard to stalk anything when you don’t like getting your paws wet. One day, early last summer, Owen had caught a fuzzy black-and-yellow caterpillar out in the backyard—mostly because it crawled over a cracker he was sniffing at the time.
Hercules, who had already finished his own food because he doesn’t have to inspect every bite first, poked his head in to take a look at his brother’s prey. First he just sniffed the caterpillar. Then he rolled it over with a swipe of his paw.
Owen tended to see himself like a lion prowling a dusty savannah on an African plain. Which meant the caterpillar was the equivalent of a downed wildebeest—not for sharing.
Paws were raised. Yowls were exchanged. Before I could step in, Hercules swallowed the caterpillar.
And promptly hacked it up again. Because, number one: it was like eating a piece of shag carpeting. Nothing that fuzzy is ever going to taste good. And number two: The caterpillar wasn’t exactly dead.
“You think having caterpillar fluff stuck in your teeth is bad,” I warned Herc, “try
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