Cat Trick

Maggie’s life-size Eddie Sweeney had been part of last winter’s Winterfest display at the community center. And he’d indirectly been the reason Roma and the real Eddie had started going out. The last time I’d been at Maggie’s apartment, Eddie had been sitting in her living room with his skates propped on a footstool.

Maggie grinned and gave her head a little shake. “Don’t tell Roma, but I’m actually working on Eddie. He needs a little bodywork”—she patted her hips with both hands—“if you know what I mean. Eddie—the real one—wants stuffed Eddie as a housewarming gift for Roma.”

“Aww, that’s so romantic,” I said, using the sleeve of my shirt to wipe sweat off the side of my neck.

“It is, isn’t it?” Maggie said as we started for her office. She bumped me with her hip. “Kind of like offering to put the pieces of an old rocking chair together for someone.”

I shot her a daggers look. She held up both hands as though she were surrendering. “I’m just saying,” she said.

We carried the three bags of cotton stuffing out to the truck. Mags put two of them in the middle of the bench seat and fastened the lap belt around them. The third bag she jammed down by her feet.

Maggie’s apartment was on the top floor of an old brick building that had been a corset factory at one time. The stairs came out onto a landing with a huge window that flooded the space with light. To the left was a small bathroom and an equally small bedroom.

Straight ahead, down two steps, was the living space, dark hardwood stretching all the way to the other end of the long room. Maggie’s dark chocolate dining room table and chairs were in the area next to the stairs where the wall jutted inward to make room for a small roof terrace outside.

An old Oriental rug, which Mags had confided she’d scavenged from the dump and half carried, half dragged home, marked the living room space. There were two deep blue sofas and a square-shaped leather chair in front of the built-in bookshelves with their beveled glass doors. Faux Eddie was in the chair, skates up on the dark blue footstool. Maggie had somehow fastened a copy of the

Wall Street Journal

to his hockey gloves. From the front it actually looked like a real person sitting there reading the financial news in skates and full hockey gear.

At the end of the long room there was a small galley kitchen with a dropped hammered-tin ceiling.

“How about some hot chocolate?” Maggie asked, setting the two bags of stuffing she’d been carrying on one of the sofas and heading for the little kitchen. She set Liam’s coffee mug on the counter.

“Sounds good,” I said. I put the bag of stuffing I’d been holding next to the other two, sat on the empty sofa and studied Eddie. He really did look like the real thing.

I watched Maggie move around the tiny kitchen, shifting her weight instead of stretching and overreaching. It made me wonder if eventually all the tai chi practice would have me moving like that. “That’s really nice of you to let Eddie have Eddie,” I said. “I had lunch with Roma out at Wisteria Hill today.”

Maggie turned from the refrigerator, a container of milk in her hand. “I know,” she said. “Roma called me—before she called Marcus.”

“She told you about seeing Liam arguing with Mike Glazer.” So she knew after all. I kicked off my shoes and curled my feet up under me.

“She did. I know he was angry about the way things were working out. Mike was driving everyone crazy.” She shot me a sidelong glance. “That’s why he left his mug at Eric’s, isn’t it?”

I nodded. “Claire said he just tossed some money on the table and left before she could catch him.”

She sighed. “Kath, Liam’s not the kind of person who would hurt someone, let alone kill anyone. People say a lot of things they don’t mean when they’re angry.” She got the marshmallows out of the cupboard over her head. “I got mad at Jimmy Harrison in third grade and told him I was going to stuff him in the toilet and flush him to China.”

“You didn’t, did you?”

“Of course not,” she said. “You can’t flush someone to China. And anyway, eight-year-old boys don’t fit in elementary school toilets.”

“I’m not going to ask how you know that,” I said.

Maggie just laughed.