Read Online Final Catcall: A Magical Cats Mystery by Sofie Kelly - Free Book Online
Authors: Sofie Kelly
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truth.
Hugh looked at us, his eyes narrowed in curiosity. “Excuse me—do you have a desk I could use or not?”
Susan made a face. “We do have a writing desk, but, well, it’s very old. I can’t even begin to tell you what it’s worth. This building is a hundred years old, so you can understand the desk isn’t something that gets used on a day-to-day basis.”
I still had no clue what desk she was referring to.
Susan let her gaze slide away from Hugh’s face as though she was uncertain about what she was going to say next. “You know that F. Scott Fitzgerald was born in St. Paul?” she blurted.
Whatever she was up to was going too far. “Susan,” I said warningly.
She nudged her cat-eye glasses up her nose. “I’m sorry, Kathleen,” she said. “I know I’m not supposed to talk about that.”
“If you have a desk somewhere here in the building, then let me see it,” Hugh demanded.
Susan looked at me.
I nodded. “Show him.” I was curious to see this “antique writing desk” myself.
Susan led the way downstairs and through the building to the larger of our two meeting rooms. “Do you have your keys?” she said to me.
I pulled them out of my pocket and handed them to her. She unlocked the door and as she did I suddenly figured out what she was up to.
There was no way it was going to work. But there was no stopping Susan now. For the first time I had a sense of where her twins got their fearless spirit.
She walked across the room and opened the door to a large storage closet. Packed carefully beside a pile of boxes there was in fact a small desk, wrapped in padded mover’s blankets.
It could have been an antique, although I doubted it. Harry Taylor Junior’s brother, Larry, had found the desk in the back corner of the basement. Susan wasn’t lying when she said that she had no idea of its value. What I did know was that no one had been willing to pay five dollars for the thing when we’d had the library’s yard sale.
Susan carefully removed the coverings. The old desk had been varnished at one time but more than half the finish had worn off. It had intricate turned legs, a small writing surface and a back that went up about two and a half feet. There were two rows of tiny drawers on the back unit and two small doors in the center.
The desk was dinged and battered and it wobbled, but Susan unwrapped the thing like it was a treasure.
Hugh Davis laid a hand on the worn desktop. “F. Scott Fitzgerald?” he said.
“I can’t in all good conscience tell you that I have proof that he used this desk,” Susan said. She ran one finger along the side of the banged-up writing surface and smiled. “But . . .” She let the end of the sentence trail off.
Hugh turned to me. “This will work.” He gestured at the desk. “We should get this upstairs. I’ve already wasted too much time today.”
Hugh’s “we” actually meant Susan and me. The desk may have been banged up, but it was likely made of black walnut, according to Larry Taylor, and it was heavy. Still, we managed to get it up the stairs and set it down in the center of the workroom.
Hugh pulled his chair over and sat down. He looked up at me. “My briefcase is in the hall.”
It took me a moment to realize he expected me to go out and get it.
His briefcase turned out to be a huge black leather pilot’s flight case. I set it beside his chair and realized that his chair was actually my office chair.
Hugh followed my gaze. “I had to switch chairs with you,” he said, with an offhand gesture. “The other one didn’t have the right support for my back.”
I took a deep breath, imagining my frustration filling a balloon coming out of the top of my head. It was a technique my mother used with her acting students.
Hugh leaned over to open his case. “I’m going to need that table in here,” he said without looking up. “I need to spread out my papers and I guess that’s going to have to do.”
I looked at Susan and
Hugh looked at us, his eyes narrowed in curiosity. “Excuse me—do you have a desk I could use or not?”
Susan made a face. “We do have a writing desk, but, well, it’s very old. I can’t even begin to tell you what it’s worth. This building is a hundred years old, so you can understand the desk isn’t something that gets used on a day-to-day basis.”
I still had no clue what desk she was referring to.
Susan let her gaze slide away from Hugh’s face as though she was uncertain about what she was going to say next. “You know that F. Scott Fitzgerald was born in St. Paul?” she blurted.
Whatever she was up to was going too far. “Susan,” I said warningly.
She nudged her cat-eye glasses up her nose. “I’m sorry, Kathleen,” she said. “I know I’m not supposed to talk about that.”
“If you have a desk somewhere here in the building, then let me see it,” Hugh demanded.
Susan looked at me.
I nodded. “Show him.” I was curious to see this “antique writing desk” myself.
Susan led the way downstairs and through the building to the larger of our two meeting rooms. “Do you have your keys?” she said to me.
I pulled them out of my pocket and handed them to her. She unlocked the door and as she did I suddenly figured out what she was up to.
There was no way it was going to work. But there was no stopping Susan now. For the first time I had a sense of where her twins got their fearless spirit.
She walked across the room and opened the door to a large storage closet. Packed carefully beside a pile of boxes there was in fact a small desk, wrapped in padded mover’s blankets.
It could have been an antique, although I doubted it. Harry Taylor Junior’s brother, Larry, had found the desk in the back corner of the basement. Susan wasn’t lying when she said that she had no idea of its value. What I did know was that no one had been willing to pay five dollars for the thing when we’d had the library’s yard sale.
Susan carefully removed the coverings. The old desk had been varnished at one time but more than half the finish had worn off. It had intricate turned legs, a small writing surface and a back that went up about two and a half feet. There were two rows of tiny drawers on the back unit and two small doors in the center.
The desk was dinged and battered and it wobbled, but Susan unwrapped the thing like it was a treasure.
Hugh Davis laid a hand on the worn desktop. “F. Scott Fitzgerald?” he said.
“I can’t in all good conscience tell you that I have proof that he used this desk,” Susan said. She ran one finger along the side of the banged-up writing surface and smiled. “But . . .” She let the end of the sentence trail off.
Hugh turned to me. “This will work.” He gestured at the desk. “We should get this upstairs. I’ve already wasted too much time today.”
Hugh’s “we” actually meant Susan and me. The desk may have been banged up, but it was likely made of black walnut, according to Larry Taylor, and it was heavy. Still, we managed to get it up the stairs and set it down in the center of the workroom.
Hugh pulled his chair over and sat down. He looked up at me. “My briefcase is in the hall.”
It took me a moment to realize he expected me to go out and get it.
His briefcase turned out to be a huge black leather pilot’s flight case. I set it beside his chair and realized that his chair was actually my office chair.
Hugh followed my gaze. “I had to switch chairs with you,” he said, with an offhand gesture. “The other one didn’t have the right support for my back.”
I took a deep breath, imagining my frustration filling a balloon coming out of the top of my head. It was a technique my mother used with her acting students.
Hugh leaned over to open his case. “I’m going to need that table in here,” he said without looking up. “I need to spread out my papers and I guess that’s going to have to do.”
I looked at Susan and
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