The Pawful Truth

by Miranda James

  I had little to go on, because I’d seen them together only twice. But a man in love, unless he has superhuman control, betrays himself in small ways when he is with the object of his passion. I hadn’t seen any of those small giveaways when Dan was with Irene Warriner. I might have missed a tender look, a sudden touch, or a stolen caress, but I didn’t think so.

  Then there was his former sister-in-law, Dixie Compton. Why would he have wanted to murder her? He had seemed genuinely stunned by the news of her death. He hadn’t appeared to be mourning her particularly, but when he talked about her, he hadn’t given the impression that they had been all that close. She had been his half brother’s wife.

  The still-unknown factor in this, at least for me, was Armand d’Arcy. I decided to check to see if the music department had pictures of their faculty on their website. I turned to my computer, and it took me only about five clicks to find Mr. d’Arcy. There was indeed a picture of him, and if the picture did him justice, he was a handsome man, with the sort of dark, brooding looks that made for romantic heroes in books and films. Black hair slicked down, a little long and curling at the back, a strong aquiline nose, and an enigmatic smile. Yes, he was attractive.

  But was he attractive enough to tempt Irene Warriner to cast aside her marriage vows?

  Carey Warriner had obviously thought so, otherwise, I had to assume, he wouldn’t have behaved so violently in public toward this man. But why this one man? Was there something in particular about d’Arcy that elicited this behavior in Warriner? Or had he always been this possessive where his wife was concerned? I had a feeling Viccy Kemp might be able to tell me. What reason could I use for going back to talk to her again? Or could I find someone else who knew Carey Warriner fairly well?

  I wanted to meet Armand d’Arcy myself. Helen Louise had seen him, but not in a situation in which she could judge whether Irene Warriner was involved with him. Would he now hover around the widow to offer comfort? And would he be welcome? I decided that when Dan Bellamy was ready to talk about the whole matter with me, I would try, as tactfully as possible, to find answers to at least some of my questions. If he couldn’t answer them, I would have to look elsewhere.

  Melba.

  Of course. Why hadn’t I already thought of her? Melba knew both Viccy Kemp and the woman Jeanette—I was getting really bad at remembering complete names these days—from the English department. I was sure Melba would be more than willing to get the two women to lunch with her and discreetly try to find out what they knew. Maybe I could be there as well. I’d have to think about this a bit more before I broached the idea to Melba.

  A ping from my computer alerted me to the fact that I had an incoming message. Time to pay attention to actual work. I turned to the computer and focused on my job.

  I managed to work steadily until lunchtime, with only a couple of brief, abortive lapses into speculation about the murders. Melba wasn’t in her office when we came down. I would have to talk to her later about my idea to approach her friends for more information.

  Diesel and I walked home, and we found Azalea and Ramses in the kitchen as usual. After greeting them, I asked Azalea whether she had seen Dan Bellamy this morning.

  “Yes, he came down about nine,” she said. “I fixed him a little something for breakfast. He wasn’t looking too good. Real pale and tired, like he wasn’t sleeping much. I didn’t say anything, though.”

  “Did he talk at all about what’s happened?”

  “Just to say that he’s real sorry for Mrs. Warriner,” Azalea replied. “Says she’s a good friend, and he wants to do what he can to help her. Told me he thought he’d be here for dinner tonight.”

  “Good, I’d really like to talk to him,” I said.

  “Lunch is ready whenever you want it.” Azalea nodded at the stove.

  “I’ll run and wash my hands and be right back,” I said.

  Diesel was busy fending off Ramses’s playful attacks, and I had to chuckle at the kitten’s antics and his seemingly boundless energy.

  When I returned from the first-floor washroom, I found my food at my place at the table. For today’s lunch Azalea had prepared baked chicken, mashed potatoes, and salad. Added to that were Azalea’s homemade yeast rolls and Thousand Island dressing. I settled in for a satisfying meal.

  Diesel and Ramses took up spots on either side of my chair, both of them hopeful for chicken. I doled out three tidbits each as I ate. I noticed that Ramses was getting rather plump. He needed to be on a diet. I really would have to force myself to talk to Azalea about overfeeding him. She had left the kitchen to do some chore elsewhere while I ate, but I resolved I would broach the subject with her when she returned.

  “That’s all you’re getting,” I told the cats. Ramses tried to climb my leg but I dissuaded him. Then he jumped into my lap. I put him down and told him firmly not to do that. He still hadn’t learned what the word no meant, but not from lack of hearing it from me.

  Azalea had not returned to the kitchen by the time I finished my lunch. I needed to get back to work, so I decided to postpone my talk with her about Ramses and his food intake. I would do it this afternoon when I came home again, provided there were no distractions.

  I went out into the hallway to the foot of the stairs and called out her name. No response. I moved up several steps and tried again, raising my voice. This time I heard a response. She appeared at the head of the stairs after a moment.

  “Just letting you know that Diesel and I are heading back to the library,” I said.

  She nodded, and I left her to resume whatever she’d been doing.

  Back in the kitchen I found Ramses on the table licking my plate. I should have known better than to have left anything on the table. I picked him up, held him so that his face was close to mine, and said, “Bad Ramses, bad kitten. No.”

  He licked the tip of my nose, incorrigible as ever. I sighed and put him on the floor. I put my dishes in the sink and ran water over them so that if Ramses managed to get to them, he’d have nothing but water to lick.

  “Come on, Diesel, back to work.” Ramses tried to follow us out the door, but I prevented that. I hoped he would go find Azalea once we were gone. Surely she would come check on him now that she knew we were leaving.

  We found Melba in her office this time, and I walked in with Diesel. “Good afternoon,” I said. “Good lunch?” Diesel ran up to her.

  Melba nodded. “Tolerable. How about you?” She patted Diesel’s head and cooed to him.

  “Excellent, thanks to Azalea,” I said.

  Melba snorted. “You’re spoiled rotten. I wish I had someone cooking for me the way she does for you.”

  “I have tried to tell her many times I’d be happy with a sandwich for lunch,” I said. “She simply ignores that and cooks for me. I feel like I have to go home most days to eat, or I’d be in trouble.”

  “You’re afraid of her.” Melba laughed.

  “Darn tootin’, I am,” I said ruefully. “I’ve learned not to get crossways of strong women. It just doesn’t pay.”

  “That’s good to know,” Melba said, a wicked glint in her eye.

  “Don’t go getting ideas,” I retorted. “Look, I want to talk to you about something to do with these murders.”

  “It’s about time,” Melba said unexpectedly. “Do I get to play Nancy Drew now?”

  NINETEEN

  I had to laugh at a sudden vision of Melba tooling around in her blue roadster, magnifying glass at the ready, looking for a mystery to solve.

  “What’s so funny?” she demanded.

  “You as Nancy Drew.” I described the picture she had conjured up in my mind with her words, and she grinned.

  “I always did want that roadster,” she said. “I could have done without that sappy Bess, always more interested in food than in adventure. George was fun, though.”

  “She was,
” I agreed. “Yes, I want you to do a little investigating. You have to be discreet, and so do I. I talked to Viccy Kemp this morning, but I didn’t really find out anything useful. Now that Warriner is dead, she isn’t talking about his running around on his wife. At least, not to me. I want you to find out whether what she told you before is simply gossip or whether there was anything to the rumors.”

  Melba nodded. “I can do that. What else?”

  “Your other friend, Jeanette. What’s her last name?” I asked.

  “Larson,” Melba said.

  “Right, Larson. I’ll try to remember that. I want you to talk to her also, maybe the two of them together. See if you can find out anything about Irene Warriner and whether she was really running around on her husband. I think Armand d’Arcy is the most likely candidate.”

  “Who?” Melba asked.

  “He’s the other man she’s been seen with,” I said. “Music professor. Look him up on the department website.”

  “Hang on.” Melba turned to her computer and a few seconds later she whistled. “I’d run around with him any day. Talk about romantic.” She stared intently at the picture. “I’ve seen him a couple times around town. Never knew who he was before.”

  “He’s the one Warriner went after in the bistro and at the book signing Saturday night,” I said.

  “I’ll be more than happy to investigate him,” Melba said.

  “Don’t get carried away because he’s handsome,” I said. “Remember that he could be a murderer. What if he killed Carey Warriner so Irene would be free to marry again?”

  “Good point,” Melba said. “Maybe I’ll wait until we know who the murderer is before I try to cozy up to him.”

  “That would be a better plan,” I said wryly. “Now, back to your friends. When do you think you can get together with them again? Soon, I hope.”

  Melba said, “Normally, we get together for lunch about once a month, and we’ve already done that this month.” She thought for a moment. “We take turns paying for lunch. It’s my turn next. I’m sure if I invite them to lunch at a nice place tomorrow, instead of in the student union grill where we usually meet, they’ll jump at the chance.”

  “Would that make them suspicious?” I asked.

  “What if they are?” Melba said. “It’s not going to stop them from talking, believe you me. Those girls like to gossip, and I’m sure I can get what you need to know from them.”

  “What about the bistro?” I asked.

  Melba shook her head. “It’s nice enough, but the tables are all pretty close together. I think I’d do better to ask them to the Farrington House restaurant. The atmosphere is quieter there, not so busy.”

  “Good point,” I said. “So tomorrow?”

  “I’ll e-mail them right now,” Melba said. “I’ll tell them it’s a special occasion.”

  “Excellent,” I said, and Diesel meowed. Melba laughed as she tapped at the keys.

  “There, it’s done,” she said. “Are you free for lunch tomorrow?”

  “I can be. Why? To join the three of you?” I asked. “Wouldn’t that inhibit them from gossiping?”

  “It probably would. I want you to be there, but not at the table with us,” Melba said. “You know the dining room as well as I do. Remember that one section where the booths are divided by ledges with plants on them?”

  “Yes, I do,” I said. “So the plan is, I get there ahead of you and get seated in the next booth, and I’ll be able to listen in on what you talk about.”

  “Exactly,” Melba said. “I know the hostess there, and as soon as I hear back from Jeanette and Viccy, I’ll get in touch with Marlene and get her to hold those tables for us.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” I looked down at Diesel. “He’s not going to be happy with being left at home tomorrow morning, though.”

  Melba stroked his head. “It’s all for a good cause, isn’t it, you handsome boy? You won’t mind, just this once, will you?”

  Although I was certain that for once Diesel really didn’t understand what we were talking about, he replied to Melba’s words with a happy-sounding chirp and meow.

  Melba’s computer pinged, and she glanced at the screen. She opened the message. “Jeanette. She says she’d love to. Oh, and there’s Viccy. Same from her. So we’re all set.”

  “Thanks for setting this up,” I said. “What time?”

  “Why don’t you get there around noon,” Melba said, “and I’ll time it so we get there a few minutes later. I’ll tell Marlene to be on the lookout for you.”

  I nodded. “Come on, Diesel, let’s get upstairs to work. See you later.”

  Melba nodded, in the act of reaching for the phone on her desk. I figured she was probably calling her friend Marlene. Diesel and I left her office and climbed the stairs.

  I managed to keep my mind on my work that afternoon, and I felt happy with what I’d accomplished by the time I was ready to go home for the day.

  When I unlocked the front door, I heard a kitten yowling. I knew what that meant. Azalea had probably gone to the grocery store, and when she had to leave the house, she put Ramses in his crate. He did not like the crate, but there was no telling what kind of mischief he would get into if left on his own, freely roaming the house. Azalea didn’t like having to put him in the crate, but I had persuaded her that it was for his safety.

  Diesel hurried to the kitchen ahead of me, anxious to check on his little playmate. After I hung up my jacket on the coatrack in the hallway, I followed Diesel and found him sitting in front of the crate. Ramses had ceased his racket when he saw the bigger cat. When he saw me, though, he started crying again. I let him out, and he tried to swarm up my leg.

  I grabbed him before those little needle claws could dig into my flesh. I held him up close to my face, and as he usually did, he tried to lick my nose. I held him a little farther away. “It’s for your own good,” I said. “I know you don’t understand that, but you’ll just have to get used to it.” I set him down, and he jumped at Diesel. The bigger cat swatted him down, and Ramses backed off.

  “Do you always talk to your cats?”

  I turned to see Dan Bellamy in the doorway to the kitchen. I offered him an embarrassed smile. “Yes, I’m afraid I do. I know some people think it’s strange, but it’s a habit you get into.”

  Dan shrugged. “We never had pets around when I was growing up. We couldn’t afford to feed them, my father said.” Ramses ran to him and sat looking up at him.

  “That’s too bad,” I said. “They can be wonderful companions.”

  “These two sure seem to be.” Dan picked up Ramses and stroked his head. “This little fellow sure is friendly. What’s his name again?”

  “Ramses,” I said, and Dan laughed.

  “Ramses the Great,” he said. “Ambitious name for a small cat.”

  “He doesn’t think he’s small,” I said.

  “Compared to Diesel, he looks like a dwarf.” Dan put Ramses on the floor again, and the kitten commenced to rubbing himself against Dan’s legs.

  “Diesel is large, even for his breed.” I told him a bit more about Maine Coons. While I talked, I covertly examined him for signs of distress. He no longer looked tired, and I presumed he had managed to catch up on his sleep. He appeared to have recovered from his initial horror over the death of Carey Warriner. I wondered if I could get him to talk.

  “Would you like something to drink?” I asked. “There’s usually sweet tea in the fridge, or I could make some coffee.”

  “Coffee would be good, if you really don’t mind,” Dan said.

  “Not at all. Have a seat, and I’ll get a pot going. How many cups do you think you’d like?”

  “Two ought to do me fine,” Dan said as he took a place at the table.

  I decided to go ahead and make a full pot. Stewart would probably be home soo
n, and he often had a cup or two in the afternoon. When I finished with the coffeemaker, I went to the fridge and looked inside. Not spotting anything of edible interest for an afternoon snack, I checked the counter and found a covered cake plate. Lifting the lid, I discovered a fresh pound cake. I leaned forward to sniff it. Lemon, my favorite.

  “There’s fresh lemon pound cake,” I said. “Would you like some? Azalea made it.”

  “That sounds good,” Dan said. “Thank you.”

  I got out a couple of dessert plates and cut pieces of cake for both of us. When I put his on the table in front of him, I noticed that Ramses had climbed into his lap and was curled up, napping.

  “If he bothers you,” I said, indicating the kitten, “put him down. He’s incorrigible.”

  Dan shook his head. “He’s fine. He’s not bothering me. First time I’ve had an animal take to me. It’s a nice change.”

  Not for the first time I realized that Diesel hadn’t really taken to Dan. I wasn’t sure why. Usually that meant the big cat didn’t like someone, but he hadn’t exhibited the signs he usually did in such cases. He didn’t seem to be bothered by Dan’s presence. Perhaps he had sensed that Dan wasn’t as comfortable around pets the way most of the people he encountered were. Ramses obviously had no such problem.

  “Coffee’s about ready,” I said as I took forks from the drawer. “How do you take it?” I handed him a fork and a napkin.

  “Black is fine,” Dan said.

  I nodded and didn’t speak again until we were both seated with our coffee and cake. “I don’t want to be intrusive, but I do want you to know that I’ve been concerned about you. You’ve had some terrible shocks the last few days.”