I leaned over and carefully lifted him onto my lap. “You were very brave,” I told him, “and you didn’t try to bite Roma even once.”
He ducked his head and then looked up at me with his exotic golden eyes. It was Owen’s way of trying to seem modest.
“I have to go to the library,” I said. “You can stay in the truck or you can come inside if”—I narrowed my gaze at him—“if you stay in the bag.”
He seemed to consider my words. Then he reached out and put his uninjured paw on the take-out box.
“You can have a couple of pieces now and the rest after we’re done.”
That seemed to be okay with him. He climbed down off my lap and looked expectantly at me.
I fished two slices of grilled chicken out of the container and held them out to Owen. He took each piece from my hand and set it on the seat so he could go through the little ritual of sniffing and checking that he always followed before he ate anything. If there was anything to reincarnation, Owen had probably been some autocratic ruler poisoned by a cadre of disgruntled noblemen, with enough trace memory lingering that he wasn’t going to let it happen again even though in this life he was a small tabby cat.
“Gavin sent that, by the way,” I said as I pulled away from the curb.
Owen lifted his head, looked around and gave a loud meow. Sending a thank-you out into the universe perhaps?
Owen climbed into the cat carrier without objection when we got to the library. For a moment I debated leaving him in the truck, but I knew if he got pissed off he’d just render himself invisible and follow me anyway. An Owen I could see and hopefully corral to some degree was preferable to an unseen cat roaming around the building, poking his furry nose into whatever struck his fancy.
Hope was waiting for me.
“I have Owen,” I said, putting one hand on the side of the carrier bag. “I had to take him to Roma and I didn’t have time to take him home after that.”
“Is he all right?” she asked, eyeing the carrier.
An indignant “merow” came from inside before I could answer.
“He got a big splinter between two claws on his paw,” I said. “Roma came to the rescue.”
Hope made a face. “Sounds painful.”
Owen gave another loud meow.
Hope laughed. “I swear that cat knows what you say to him.” She leaned toward the bag. “I’m sorry about your paw,” she said. “I hope you’re feeling better soon.”
He gave a little murp of acknowledgment and shifted against my hip. It occurred to me that maybe I was worrying way too much about people finding out how much I talked to the cats.
The book drop was more than overflowing, if that was possible. Two sets of shelves to one side of the circulation desk had been turned sideways and there were bits of dirt and dried grass on the floors. By my standards things were a mess. Still, I felt a huge sense of relief now that I was inside again and could start dealing with it all.
The exhibit space looked pretty much the same as it had when I’d last been in the building on Thursday night, except that Gavin had created a half wall, maybe four feet high, of Plexiglas panels in metal frames, attached to temporary supports bolted to the walls at each end. I knew Harry Junior had put in the panels, which were actually part of a railing system, and Oren had already assured me he could fix the walls where the supports had been screwed in.
A middle-aged man in a dark blue uniform was sitting in front of the half wall. He got to his feet. “Good morning, Ms. Paulson, Detective,” he said.
“Good morning, Curtis,” Hope said, smiling across the room at him.
I raised a hand in acknowledgment. Curtis Holt was one of Gavin’s security guards. Gavin had e-mailed him my photo so he’d recognize me. The man sat back down and went back to whatever he was reading on his tablet.
“Did you manage to work anything out as far as reopening?” Hope asked, looking around the space.
I pushed a stray
He ducked his head and then looked up at me with his exotic golden eyes. It was Owen’s way of trying to seem modest.
“I have to go to the library,” I said. “You can stay in the truck or you can come inside if”—I narrowed my gaze at him—“if you stay in the bag.”
He seemed to consider my words. Then he reached out and put his uninjured paw on the take-out box.
“You can have a couple of pieces now and the rest after we’re done.”
That seemed to be okay with him. He climbed down off my lap and looked expectantly at me.
I fished two slices of grilled chicken out of the container and held them out to Owen. He took each piece from my hand and set it on the seat so he could go through the little ritual of sniffing and checking that he always followed before he ate anything. If there was anything to reincarnation, Owen had probably been some autocratic ruler poisoned by a cadre of disgruntled noblemen, with enough trace memory lingering that he wasn’t going to let it happen again even though in this life he was a small tabby cat.
“Gavin sent that, by the way,” I said as I pulled away from the curb.
Owen lifted his head, looked around and gave a loud meow. Sending a thank-you out into the universe perhaps?
Owen climbed into the cat carrier without objection when we got to the library. For a moment I debated leaving him in the truck, but I knew if he got pissed off he’d just render himself invisible and follow me anyway. An Owen I could see and hopefully corral to some degree was preferable to an unseen cat roaming around the building, poking his furry nose into whatever struck his fancy.
Hope was waiting for me.
“I have Owen,” I said, putting one hand on the side of the carrier bag. “I had to take him to Roma and I didn’t have time to take him home after that.”
“Is he all right?” she asked, eyeing the carrier.
An indignant “merow” came from inside before I could answer.
“He got a big splinter between two claws on his paw,” I said. “Roma came to the rescue.”
Hope made a face. “Sounds painful.”
Owen gave another loud meow.
Hope laughed. “I swear that cat knows what you say to him.” She leaned toward the bag. “I’m sorry about your paw,” she said. “I hope you’re feeling better soon.”
He gave a little murp of acknowledgment and shifted against my hip. It occurred to me that maybe I was worrying way too much about people finding out how much I talked to the cats.
The book drop was more than overflowing, if that was possible. Two sets of shelves to one side of the circulation desk had been turned sideways and there were bits of dirt and dried grass on the floors. By my standards things were a mess. Still, I felt a huge sense of relief now that I was inside again and could start dealing with it all.
The exhibit space looked pretty much the same as it had when I’d last been in the building on Thursday night, except that Gavin had created a half wall, maybe four feet high, of Plexiglas panels in metal frames, attached to temporary supports bolted to the walls at each end. I knew Harry Junior had put in the panels, which were actually part of a railing system, and Oren had already assured me he could fix the walls where the supports had been screwed in.
A middle-aged man in a dark blue uniform was sitting in front of the half wall. He got to his feet. “Good morning, Ms. Paulson, Detective,” he said.
“Good morning, Curtis,” Hope said, smiling across the room at him.
I raised a hand in acknowledgment. Curtis Holt was one of Gavin’s security guards. Gavin had e-mailed him my photo so he’d recognize me. The man sat back down and went back to whatever he was reading on his tablet.
“Did you manage to work anything out as far as reopening?” Hope asked, looking around the space.
I pushed a stray
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