by Eileen Brady
Glad to have Mari be the social one, I stared at an avocado-green refrigerator, a matching electric stove with coil burners, and a brand-new stainless-steel countertop microwave. The countertop itself was made of one of those plastic materials best forgotten—with a prominent burn mark from a pan right in the middle.
At the kitchen table a middle-aged woman with a kind but tired face packed an assorted pile of stacked dishes and platters. On the floor around her stood several taped-up boxes marked Goodwill.
“Find anything else?” asked a man with his back to us who seemed in charge.
“Nope. We already packed her good china and silverware for you to keep. This is the everyday stuff. No hidden treasures. Most of it is from the dollar stores.” She made a mark in a red notebook before wrapping each plate in newspaper.
When he turned toward us, I realized it was Joe Rieven.
Karen interrupted them. “Here are the people from the animal hospital. Where is the dog stuff?”
“On the covered porch,” Joe answered, bending down to try and open a cabinet door that didn’t want to open.
“Follow me,” Karen said, walking at a quick pace. “Did you bring any bags or anything?”
Mari and I looked at each other.
“There’s a bunch of plastic garbage bags out there,” the woman who was wrapping plates said. “Let me know if you need more.”
In single file we moved through a large attached pantry area to another door that led to the back porch.
“They used to call these summer sleeping porches,” Karen mentioned, looking for the light switch.
Maybe thirty boxes stood piled in one corner, all neatly labeled. Some dining room chairs stacked against each other took up the other corner. Pale light filtered in through dirty glass panels. Here and there clusters of spider webs attested to no recent use.
Mari put her hand to her mouth. “Last time I was here she’d just put those glass panels up for the winter. In springtime when the weather turned warm, Eloise would put in the screen ones. One year she hired my cousin to do it for her. This porch is where all the houseplants were kept and where she started the vegetables for the garden. I hate seeing it like this.”
“All the plants got thrown out the first day,” Karen said. “Anyway, here’s the animal stuff.” She pointed to a pile of dog beds and collapsible crates. “Take whatever you want. I’ll be in the kitchen.”
When she left Mari glanced out into the backyard and said, “It used to be beautiful out here with all the flowers blooming and her wicker furniture.”
“Well, let’s get going and pack these things up.”
Joe Rieven popped his head in. “Need any help?” He caught my eye then frowned in recognition. “Dr. Kate? Is that you?”
Bundled up with a fake fur cap jammed on my head, I was surprised he’d noticed. “Yes. Hi there.” I thought about shaking his hand but felt too awkward. “Thank you so much for donating to us.”
“No problem. Mom always bought the best for her dogs. Of course, once she got down to just Queenie, she didn’t need most of this, but she never got rid of anything.”
I saw what he meant. There must have been ten good- quality dog beds, barely used, in the pile of stuff.
“We put the leashes and collars and small things in a separate bag. Can you use the dog crates?”
“Absolutely,” Mari said, already packing loose items in a plastic garbage bag. “Don’t worry. Nothing will go to waste. We regularly bring things down to the shelter, too.”
“Good,” he commented. “That’s what I hoped for.”
Since he was here, I decided to take a chance. “Do you know a Babs Vanderbilt-Hayes?”
His mild round face tensed up. “Why do you ask?”
“She came by our office and she was…distressed by your mother’s death. Cindy told me she mentioned it to you?”
Joe took a moment to compose his answer. “Babs was an old and very dear friend of my mother. They often met for lunch in Kingston or Rhinebeck.”
I nodded and waited to see if he’d volunteer anything more.
“For some reason Babs has gotten it into her head that mom’s death is suspicious. She asked for a copy of the medical records. I didn’t see any problem at the time with giving them to her.” He rubbed his eyes. “Now it’s led to an ugly disagreement between pathologists. Mother would have hated having her death become fodder for the public.”
“So stressful,” Mari agreed, checking for more small items before we tackled the dog beds.
“Yes, it is.” He appeared overwhelmed. “You know, I took Mom to church on Sunday and lunch afterward just about every week. She always met me in the front parlor, wouldn’t let me in the rest of the house. Said it needed cleaning. I had no idea everything had gone downhill.” Joe rubbed his eyes again. “Mom was very proud. Wouldn’t take any help. Said she was perfectly capable of living her own life and making her own decisions.”
That sounded like the Eloise I knew.
* * *
We began to ferry the bulky items out to the SUV through that narrow hallway. Trying to maneuver the largest pet bed past everything, I knocked two low-hanging pictures off the wall.
“Shoot.” Nothing appeared damaged when I picked them up. I didn’t know much about art, but I did realize these oil paintings were incredibly dirty, probably from years of woodstove smoke and general grime. One showed a large-headed woman, hands folded in her lap at an odd angle, staring balefully at the viewer. The other captured a typical Hudson Valley vista along the river, but the film of grease gave it a yellowish muddied look.
“You’re holding Great-aunt Harriet,” Eloise’s son said as he and Mari came toward me, arms full of dog stuff.
I almost dropped the painting.
“Joe here has been reminding me about all the champion bulldogs his mom owned.” Mari, an aficionado of dog shows and agility trials, loved to talk dog.
“Let me show you her trophy wall,” he said, carefully inching past me.
We all trooped over to a study off the main parlor crammed with old black-and-white pictures of a younger, happier Eloise. Several captured various events at the Westminster Dog Show, the Academy Awards of the dog world.
I suddenly realized I still held Great-aunt Harriet and the dirty landscape in my hands, having abandoned the dog bed in the hall.
“When are you selling the house?” Mari asked him.
“I’m not sure. I asked the local real estate agency to give me an idea of its value. They aren’t very optimistic. It needs a lot of work. We found out today that the heat isn’t working that well. Part of the house never got hooked up. I had to get a plumber to come in and drain the pipes so they wouldn’t freeze.”
That wasn’t a big surprise. Without gloves on, my hands were cold. “Too bad it’s the wrong season for a yard sale.”
Joe continued to stare at the photos.
We waited, not wanting to intrude on his memories. After a moment he sighed and turned toward us.
“Already had an auction house come in to appraise the good stuff. I kept most of the personal items, but the rest is being donated or sold. The real estate people recommended Clutterbusters to come in and help.” Joe picked up a paperweight and shook it. Snow swirled around in the glass globe. “I’m keeping all her trophies.”
“Winning them meant a lot to her,” Mari agreed.
We continued out toward the front door, past the real estate agents, when Joe asked me, “Sorry. Did you want to buy those? Great-aunt Harriet isn’t for sale, but I can give you that landscape for twenty bucks.”
Embarrassed to be standing there with my fingers clutching a family picture, I shrugged my shoulders and said, “Sure.”
Joe and Mari headed out to her truck while I hung Great-aunt Harriet’s portrait back up. She stared at me, annoyance forever frozen on her face.
>
* * *
“Boy that thing is dirty,” Mari said, taking a quick look at the painting I put in the back seat. Cushioned between two old dog beds, it looked right at home. “Hey, maybe it’s painted by some famous artist and is worth a million dollars.”
“Doubtful. Remember, an auction house already checked the entire contents. I imagine those guys look very carefully at paintings.”
A more pressing problem was the driveway. Only the width of one car, it didn’t leave us with much room.
“Thank goodness Joe didn’t mention that video,” I said as I buckled up. “That was very nice of him considering I wished his mom would disappear.” Out of habit I pulled up YouTube and checked the number of views. “Do you believe we have more than thirty-two thousand views?”
Mari backed out of the driveway then performed a skillful U-turn at the base. “Sorry, Kate. That video is going to haunt us forever. And so will my litter box cake.”
* * *
By the time we got back and unloaded all the donations, the temperature had started dropping. With the phones silent, Cindy decided to close early—great news for all of us. I had a ton of laundry to do and more cleaning than usual, thanks to Jeremy. I’d told him not to do any housework because of his wrist and shoulder injuries, and he’d done just that. Nothing.
Not sure where to store my new painting, I decided to hang it on the wall. I’d deal with restoring it later. Seen in the light, it had a certain rustic charm. Maybe I would ask Lark, my artist client, for a cleaning recommendation.
Buddy happily followed me around until he realized I wasn’t going to give him any extra food. His brown eyes took on a look not unlike Great-aunt Harriet’s. Chagrined, I handed him a bone from the pantry, and he retired in ecstasy.
A glance at the dry-erase board reminded me of an abstract painting, a series of brightly colored arrows and names that led the eye to nowhere.
* * *
With the final load in the dryer, I rewarded myself. Glass of wine in hand, I curled up on the sofa and turned on HGTV. Predictable as my habits might be, they were very comforting. Buddy’s head rested on my foot for extra warmth.
A rumbling noise became louder as headlights swept across the window. From the scraping noise, I suspected Pinky had started working on the parking lot. All my lights were out except for the glow of the television. I didn’t pay much attention until I realized the noise had stopped but the headlights still glowed.
Pinky remained parked outside my front door.
* * *
I held my breath, even though he obviously couldn’t hear me. The semicircular glass panel at the top of my front door let in a beam of light. I secretly thanked Jeremy, who had hung new blackout curtains on the big window facing the neighbor’s house for privacy, after I’d noticed Pinky watching us when he walked Princess.
My phone lay on the coffee table a foot away. By the time I reached it, the lights had swept past and he had driven away.
Chapter Thirty
“Don’t all single girls spend Saturday nights trying to solve murders?” That joke barely rated a smile as Luke and I sat at my kitchen table eating Chinese takeout.
“You and your family know all the gossip going on in town and at the station,” I said between bites of mu shu shrimp. “Haven’t you unearthed something?”
“Not yet.” He munched an egg roll. “I’m still mining my cousins for dirt.”
“All thirty-seven million of them?” Come to think of it, Luke and I had most of our conversations over takeout. In a sneak attack, I stole the last remaining pancake, dipped it in hoisin sauce, and bade goodbye to the last of the mu shu.
“You know,” he told me, hunting for the duck sauce, “that’s one of the things my cousin Rosie likes most about you, your prodigious appetite.”
“Thank you,” I said with a bow.
Returning the bow, he said, “Hey, a good appetite means everything in a restaurant family. You’ll be happy to know that your pie habit also has my grandmother’s stamp of approval.”
His dumb comment made me inordinately happy.
* * *
An hour later we sat frustrated in front of the whiteboard, our brains temporarily tapped out.
“Alright,” I said to him, “let’s start with the basics.”
“More from your fictional murder mystery plots?”
“Based on real life,” the sleuth inside me countered. “Except for the surprise ending where an evil twin shows up and confesses.”
“Let’s agree to rule that one out.” Luke chewed on the end of his marker, staring at the ceiling. “Basics. What do you mean by that?”
The furnace kicked in with a low hum, pushing a blast of warm air into the room. Outside the temperature continued to fall with no snow forecast until tomorrow night.
The warm air and background humming made me want to close my eyes, but I fought the urge. With Pinky and Devin both persons of interest and Christmas around the corner, I needed to stop wondering if one or more of my clients were killers.
“Love or money,” I blurted out. “Those are the two most common reasons to kill someone, right?”
Luke continued to look up at the ceiling. “Statistically, I believe you’re right. That’s lumping jealousy, possessiveness, and control freak in under love. It’s a warped individual who kills what they love.”
“I agree.”
Luke jumped up and wrote Woman or Man? next to Killer. “I agree with you. No particular strength was necessary in any of these deaths. I also think the killer brought the gun with him or her during every assault, just in case it started to go wrong. Something went very wrong with Raeleen.”
“Agreed.”
“Why would Raeleen walk into a stand of trees behind the dumpster?” He tapped his hand on the chair in frustration.
A lightning bolt hit. Why would anyone walk behind a dumpster? Well, an animal lover would if they heard a cat crying.
“I’ve got it. The murderer pretended to be a kitten.”
His high five caught me off guard. It felt good. “Of course. She walked into the trees to investigate meowing.”
“She told her friend about a plan to rescue some feral kittens living by that dumpster.”
“Now we’re getting someplace.”
* * *
I got up to pace around the room and sneak a spoonful of ice cream. Buddy followed me around, but I didn’t fall for it. Luke had already stuffed him with orange chicken under the kitchen table. Since he had some arthritis from an old injury, I tried to keep his weight stable, but if my pet had his way, he’d be blimp-shaped.
Luke stood at the board with a fistful of markers, making notes. “It’s a toss-up who had more people annoyed at them, but Raeleen’s confrontations are the ones that became physical. Quite a few reported shoving and screaming, and one complainant is sure that Raeleen keyed his vehicle.”
“What?” With sticky hands I headed for the sink.
“She took her car key and scratched the side of someone’s truck. They filed a report about it over a year ago, while I still was on the force.”
I had no doubt the impulsive Raeleen was capable of all kinds of mischief.
“It was mostly nuisance stuff, as I recall. Threatening to take their pet…”
“Like she did with Pinky.”
“Right.” He walked over and sat opposite me. “Accusing people without knowing the facts. One person complained Raeleen screamed at him and his wife for starving their dog—when the dog had cancer and was undergoing chemotherapy.”
Those dog owners were probably horrified and resentful. But murderers? I didn’t think so. “All these scenarios are interesting, but they don’t add up to much, certainly not any suspects as strong as Pinky.”
Luke went over the evidence. “Pinky had access to all the crime scenes a
nd can be put in the vicinity of each one. You told me the guy said he’d kill anybody who hurt you—and he had a very public fight with Raeleen over the only thing he loves better than his truck. Princess.” Absentmindedly, he arranged the markers in a box shape on the coffee table. “If I were the lead detective on the case, that would be enough for me.”
“But Luke,” I said, “I know he didn’t do it.”
This time he stopped fiddling around and stared straight at me. “I have my doubts, too, believe me. But I’m not that sure he’s completely innocent.”
“Well, I am.” There was more bravura than truth to my statement. Did Luke realize that? On the day Pinky cried and told me he killed Raeleen I had tried to comfort him, but afterward, when he talked more calmly about the deceased animal rights activist, his eyes were cold.
Cold enough to murder someone?
* * *
We sat staring at the board a few minutes until I suggested, “Why don’t we go and ask him?”
The simplicity of the idea was a hit with Luke. Was he afraid of Pinky? Not really. Did he expect a confession? No. What we did expect were some answers to our questions. Since we knew Pinky had been at all the victims’ homes or workplace, maybe he saw something?
“Kate, you ask the questions. I’ll try and check out his guns.”
We took Luke’s truck and drove next door. I alerted Cindy in case we ran into trouble. She thought it was a stupid idea but promised to call us in ten minutes.
“Remember, Pinky was brought up by a much older mom, and one of the things she stressed was good manners. You can remind him about manners if he gets out of hand. Call me if you need to.”
“Will do.”
“Kate, promise me you and Luke will be gentle with him. He’s much more fragile than he looks.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Luke’s truck made its way slowly down the meticulously plowed driveway. I’d texted Pinky to tell him we were stopping by. We’d seen his truck pull into the garage about ten minutes ago, so he couldn’t pretend not to be home.
So far no one had returned our text.
