Read Online Final Catcall: A Magical Cats Mystery by Sofie Kelly - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sofie Kelly
Ads: Link
inclined my head in the direction of the hallway. Once we were out there I flicked at the imaginary balloon with my finger and pictured it spiraling down the wide wooden steps to the main floor. The thought made me smile.
“What are you grinning at?” Susan asked, grabbing one end of the table. It was a lot lighter than the desk.
“Your ability to spin a line of you-know-what,” I said, taking hold of the other end of the table.
“I wasn’t spinning anything,” she said, squaring her shoulders. “Everything I said was the truth. The library is a hundred years old, F. Scott Fitzgerald was born in St. Paul, and we certainly have no idea what that old desk is worth. It could be a valuable antique.”
“And I could be a talking duck,” I countered, backing toward the door with my end of the table.
Susan wrinkled her nose at me. “I don’t think you’re a duck. Your feet aren’t big enough.”
We moved the folding table about an inch to the left and then forward and back until Hugh was happy with where it sat. Susan got him a cup of coffee—with cream and exactly half a packet of sweetener. I adjusted the blind at the window so there was no direct sunlight shining on his workspace. Then we left him alone.
Susan shook her head. “How do people work with him? He’s so picky.”
“He’s not that bad,” I said. “He’s just . . . creative.”
She slid her glasses down her nose with one finger, frowned at me over the top of them and then pushed them back up again. “Honestly, Kathleen, you’d try to find something nice to say about Attila the Hun.”
“All right, he might be a bit of a challenge.”
She gave a snort of derision and went back downstairs.
A group of kids from the after-school program came in around four to pick out some books and videos. By then I was so tired of being Hugh’s personal minion that I was entertaining the idea of taking my limited computer skills over to the Stratton and trying to fix the wi-fi myself.
He came down the stairs just as I was about to show the kids our newest DVDs. I sighed, a little louder than I’d intended to.
Susan smirked at me. “Remember, he’s creative.”
“What’s creative?” a little girl with brown pigtails and red-framed glasses asked me. She was probably about seven.
“‘Creative’ means you have a good imagination,” I said.
Hugh spotted us and walked over. The little girl looked at him, frowning. “Do you really have a good imagination?” She pointed at me. “
She
said you did.”
“Yes, I do,” he said, his expression serious.
She twisted her mouth to one side. “You’re kind of old.”
Hugh smiled then. “Old people can have good imaginations.”
The child shook her head. “You’re older than my dad, and my mom says he has no imagination.”
I struggled to keep a straight face. Hugh suddenly dropped down onto all fours, arched his back and stretched.
The little girl grinned with delight. “You’re a cat!” she said.
Hugh nodded. “Very good. I was using my imagination. Now you try it.”
She got down on her hands and knees and meowed at us. With some gentle nudges, Hugh soon had her stretching just the way Owen and Hercules did.
“Great,” Susan said against my ear. “Kind of makes it hard to dislike the guy when he’s good with kids.”
Hugh stood up and brushed bits of lint off his pants. The little girl—whose name was Ivy—went back to the rest of her group.
“You were great with her,” I said.
He ran a hand over his beard. “I like kids. They’re more enjoyable to spend time with than most adults.” He held up the sheaf of papers in his hands. “These need to be stapled.”
I smiled at him. “Mary has a stapler at the circulation desk.”
He nodded. “Good.” He handed me the papers and went back upstairs.
Susan smirked at me. “I was wrong,” she said, shaking her head so her topknot, secured with a red plastic pitchfork, bobbed at me. “It’s really not that hard to
“What are you grinning at?” Susan asked, grabbing one end of the table. It was a lot lighter than the desk.
“Your ability to spin a line of you-know-what,” I said, taking hold of the other end of the table.
“I wasn’t spinning anything,” she said, squaring her shoulders. “Everything I said was the truth. The library is a hundred years old, F. Scott Fitzgerald was born in St. Paul, and we certainly have no idea what that old desk is worth. It could be a valuable antique.”
“And I could be a talking duck,” I countered, backing toward the door with my end of the table.
Susan wrinkled her nose at me. “I don’t think you’re a duck. Your feet aren’t big enough.”
We moved the folding table about an inch to the left and then forward and back until Hugh was happy with where it sat. Susan got him a cup of coffee—with cream and exactly half a packet of sweetener. I adjusted the blind at the window so there was no direct sunlight shining on his workspace. Then we left him alone.
Susan shook her head. “How do people work with him? He’s so picky.”
“He’s not that bad,” I said. “He’s just . . . creative.”
She slid her glasses down her nose with one finger, frowned at me over the top of them and then pushed them back up again. “Honestly, Kathleen, you’d try to find something nice to say about Attila the Hun.”
“All right, he might be a bit of a challenge.”
She gave a snort of derision and went back downstairs.
A group of kids from the after-school program came in around four to pick out some books and videos. By then I was so tired of being Hugh’s personal minion that I was entertaining the idea of taking my limited computer skills over to the Stratton and trying to fix the wi-fi myself.
He came down the stairs just as I was about to show the kids our newest DVDs. I sighed, a little louder than I’d intended to.
Susan smirked at me. “Remember, he’s creative.”
“What’s creative?” a little girl with brown pigtails and red-framed glasses asked me. She was probably about seven.
“‘Creative’ means you have a good imagination,” I said.
Hugh spotted us and walked over. The little girl looked at him, frowning. “Do you really have a good imagination?” She pointed at me. “
She
said you did.”
“Yes, I do,” he said, his expression serious.
She twisted her mouth to one side. “You’re kind of old.”
Hugh smiled then. “Old people can have good imaginations.”
The child shook her head. “You’re older than my dad, and my mom says he has no imagination.”
I struggled to keep a straight face. Hugh suddenly dropped down onto all fours, arched his back and stretched.
The little girl grinned with delight. “You’re a cat!” she said.
Hugh nodded. “Very good. I was using my imagination. Now you try it.”
She got down on her hands and knees and meowed at us. With some gentle nudges, Hugh soon had her stretching just the way Owen and Hercules did.
“Great,” Susan said against my ear. “Kind of makes it hard to dislike the guy when he’s good with kids.”
Hugh stood up and brushed bits of lint off his pants. The little girl—whose name was Ivy—went back to the rest of her group.
“You were great with her,” I said.
He ran a hand over his beard. “I like kids. They’re more enjoyable to spend time with than most adults.” He held up the sheaf of papers in his hands. “These need to be stapled.”
I smiled at him. “Mary has a stapler at the circulation desk.”
He nodded. “Good.” He handed me the papers and went back upstairs.
Susan smirked at me. “I was wrong,” she said, shaking her head so her topknot, secured with a red plastic pitchfork, bobbed at me. “It’s really not that hard to
Similar Books
