by Paige Sleuth
Clover trotted into view. He paused in the middle of the living room, craning his neck to peer at them in the foyer. When he spotted Imogene, he let out a trill, his fluffy white tail sweeping back and forth.
“Yes, yes, I know, Clover,” Imogene told him with a sigh.
“Is it his lunchtime?” Kat guessed.
“No, he’s telling me he’s disgusted by how I’ve been moping around and I need to buck up and get on with things.”
Kat didn’t see how Imogene had gathered all that from one tiny chirrup, but she wasn’t in any position to question the communication methods between pets and their humans. She often carried on whole conversations with Matty and Tom, although usually only Tom could be bothered to reply.
Imogene’s eyes drifted to her home office. “We usually spend Sunday mornings in there together, Clover curled up in his armchair and me attending to business.”
Kat saw that the office door was still closed, and an ache bloomed in her chest. Imogene was no stranger to violent crime after several unfortunate incidences had occurred around town in the past year, but having her home serve as the scene of the offense had clearly gotten to her.
“The thought of going anywhere near that room gives me the heebie-jeebies,” Imogene said. “Can you imagine? Afraid to enter my own office—my sanctuary!” She shook her head in disgust. “It’s an abomination.”
“Your feelings are only natural,” Kat told her gently. “A man did die in there, after all.”
Clover jumped onto the coffee table and glowered at Kat. Evidently the feline didn’t appreciate his human being coddled.
Kat’s eyes snagged on the sheet of paper poking out from beneath Clover’s hind paws. A familiar smiling fruit basket peeked at her from the top left corner of the page. It was the Easton’s Eats invoice Kat had passed on to Imogene before Imogene had left her apartment late last night.
Imogene heaved a sigh as she followed the direction of Kat’s gaze. “I know I should pay Sam for the wonderful job he did catering Kenny’s bash, but with my checkbook in my desk, and my desk being in my office . . .”
“I understand,” Kat said.
Clover hopped off the coffee table and stomped over to the closed office door. He planted his butt on the floor and looked at Imogene with icy blue eyes.
Imogene bit her lip. “I don’t know, Clover. Just the thought of peeking in there makes my stomach turn.”
Clover twisted around to stare at the door, his tail beating against the floor. He was obviously a proponent of tough love.
“You know what, you’re right.” Imogene squared her shoulders. “Enough excuses. I can’t put my life on hold forever, and Sam has a business to run. It’s not his fault Landon died. Why should he have to wait to get paid because of that?”
Her head held high, Imogene snatched up Sam Easton’s invoice and marched resolutely through the living room. She stopped to pat Clover on the head, then reached for the doorknob. He beat her into the room, squeezing through the opening as soon as it was wide enough to accommodate his body.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” Kat asked, following behind them.
Imogene dropped into the chair behind her desk, grabbed a pen, and clicked the ballpoint out. “Just your presence here is a help.”
Clover started sniffing the carpet. Kat’s stomach lurched when she saw the stain that had captured his attention. Was that Landon’s blood? No wonder Imogene hadn’t wanted to come in here.
“Kenny promised me he would see to getting that cleaned up,” Imogene said.
Kat tore her eyes away from the carpet and looked at her friend. She still had her pen in hand, her head trained resolutely forward.
“I saw you shudder,” Imogene explained. “Don’t worry, I had the same reaction.”
“Right.” Kat sucked air into her lungs and sat down in one of the room’s armchairs, reveling in the solid feel of it beneath her.
“Supposedly Kenny knows somebody who can wash that right out.” Imogene sniffed. “Of course, that’s not going to do me much good if he keeps dragging his feet.”
“Landon only died yesterday. I’m sure Chief Kenny has been busy trying to figure out who could have killed him.”
“He’s removed himself from the case, remember?”
Although Chief Kenny might not be officially investigating Landon’s death, after her talk with Marigold Kat was fairly certain he didn’t intend to stay out of it in the slightest. With both of his sisters as suspects, how could he not do a little snooping on his own?
Imogene dropped her pen onto the desk and clutched her temples. “I don’t know why I care about getting that cleaned up anyway. I’d be much better off having this carpet torn out and new one installed. Even the most skilled cleaner won’t be able to remove the . . . the . . .”
“Blood?” Kat ventured.
“Taint,” Imogene corrected with a shiver.
As if sensing Imogene’s need for comfort, Clover leaped onto the desk and padded over to her. He stretched out his neck to rub the top of his head against her chin.
Imogene hugged the cat to her chest. “I apologize for being such a downer. I don’t know what’s come over me.”
“It’s only natural to feel out of sorts after something like this.”
“I had hoped Landon’s killer would have been identified by now.”
Imogene peered at Kat, as though to give her a chance to confess she did indeed know who had murdered Landon Tabernathy. When Kat didn’t respond after an awkward moment, Imogene’s shoulders slumped. Her dejection was enough to spur Clover into action. He began pacing across the desk, making sure to head-bump Imogene each time he passed her. Kat wondered if he felt guilty for demanding that she come in here.
In his vigor, his hind foot kicked the Easton’s Eats invoice off the desk.
Imogene rubbed the scruff of Clover’s neck, chuckling as she watched the page float toward the floor. “This is why I have a paperweight.”
Kat surveyed Imogene’s desk. “Where is your paperweight anyway?”
Imogene stopped petting Clover to look around. After a moment, she frowned. “That’s bizarre. It should be here somewhere. Clover, did you move it?”
Imogene bent down to search around the base of her desk, but Kat wasn’t hopeful she would find what she was looking for. She was recalling what Marigold had told her about Landon receiving a blow to the head. Type of object used: unknown.
Except, Kat thought with a chill, now she had a pretty good idea what the object had been.
CHAPTER NINE
“Afternoon, Kat,” Sam Easton said, holding the glass door open.
“Hey.” Kat inhaled the delicious aroma of grease and sugar as she entered the small shop. “I never knew you had a bakery here.”
Sam closed the door. “Yeah, well, catering alone doesn’t pay the bills.”
“You don’t look like you’re open,” she commented, noting how the only lights turned on were coming from the back.
“I’m never open.”
Kat’s surprise must have shown on her face. Sam laughed as he led her toward the rear of the shop.
“Everything baked here is shipped elsewhere for sale,” he informed her. “Or used on catering jobs, obviously. I supply a few different restaurants and delis around town with pastries and desserts.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize.”
“It’s the only way I can afford to keep a commercial kitchen open.”
The kitchen in question was breathtaking. With two long, metal counters stretching down the middle and mixers and convection ovens lining opposite sides of the room, the place looked efficient and modern.
Sam stood by the end of one counter. “I could probably do a decent business if I ever decided to open up the front, but that would mean hiring more staff and establishing regular hours. This way, I’m open on my own terms. It suits my temperament better.”
“Whatever works for you,” Kat said, smiling.
He straig
htened. “So, Imogene said she was sending you to deliver me a check?”
“Yes.” Kat fished it out of her jeans pocket. “She’s sorry she didn’t pay you last night, when the party dispersed.”
“No worries.” Sam took the check from her. He gave it a cursory scan before tucking it into his breast pocket. “I’m sure she would have paid me if I had stuck around. But after what happened . . .”
“Right.” Kat experienced an unwelcome bout of dizziness as an image of Imogene’s blood-stained carpet popped into her head.
“Whoa.” Sam grabbed her arm. “You okay?”
Kat drew in a breath, managing to bob her head.
“Here, sit down.” He guided her over to a waist-high canister of flour, plopping her onto the lid. “Rest here for a moment while I write out Imogene’s receipt.”
“Okay.”
Sam walked down the aisle between the two counters. When he reached the end, a short young man with close-cropped black hair emerged from a nearby walk-in cooler, a box of apples in his hands. He carried the full box effortlessly, although his muscles bulged underneath his thin, black T-shirt.
“Rich,” Sam said, stopping to greet the young man. “Still working on the apple tarts, I see.”
“The first batch is in the oven,” Rich replied, setting the box on the counter.
“Good, good. I’ll be out to help in a minute.”
“Sure thing, boss.”
Sam gave him a nod before disappearing through a doorway on the far side of the room. Kat could see a desk and filing cabinets inside.
Rich started in Kat’s direction, but he came to a dead halt when he spotted her.
She smiled at him. “Hi. I’m Kat.”
Rich looked around as if something in the kitchen might explain her presence.
“I’m just waiting for Sam,” she told him.
He aimed a finger in her direction. “I need to get some flour.”
“Oh.” Kat scrambled off her perch, grateful that her dizzy spell had passed.
Rich flipped the lid to the flour container open. Although he didn’t make eye contact, Kat could tell he was still watching her as he reached for one of the glass measuring cups lined up along the back of the counter and dipped it into the flour.
Kat observed his movements, trying to work out why his name sounded familiar. Then it clicked. While she was waiting to be interviewed by Raoul, Sam Easton had mentioned a Rich had called in sick right before Imogene’s party. Except, with his rosy cheeks and bright eyes, this Rich certainly didn’t look sick.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
Rich’s head jerked up, a bemused slant to his lips. “Okay, I guess.”
“Sam mentioned you were under the weather. He said you called in sick yesterday.”
“Oh.” Rich flushed crimson. He turned his back to her and dragged an industrial-sized mixing bowl closer. “Yeah, I wasn’t feeling well. But I’m okay now.”
Kat studied him as he dumped the contents of the measuring cup into the bowl. His movements were jerky, and flour sprayed everywhere, coating the counter with a circle of white dust. It was clear he was nervous about something, but what? Had he called in sick simply because he hadn’t wanted to spend his Saturday working? Maybe Sam had yet to notice his curious overnight recovery, and he was worried she’d say something to him.
Rich paused to glance at her as he bent down to refill his measuring cup. She must have looked as suspicious as she felt because he quickly averted his eyes again.
“It must have been one of those twenty-four-hour things,” he said. “Or maybe allergies.”
“Or,” Kat said, measuring her words, “maybe you weren’t really sick at all.”
His hand froze inside the flour container.
Kat took a step closer and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Sam’s going to be back any minute now. I don’t want him to overhear us if it will get you in trouble, so if you want to come clean, now’s your chance to do so without having to answer to your boss.”
A muscle in Rich’s jaw twitched as he appeared to mull over her words. Then he released a long, slow breath, straightening away from the flour container.
“Okay, here’s the deal,” he said, his eyes darting toward the doorway where Sam had disappeared. “I wasn’t really sick. Deirdre called me up yesterday morning and asked if I’d let her work my shift.”
Kat conjured up an image of the brunette server. “Did she say why?”
“She needed the money. And I’m doing okay right now, so I figured why not help her out a little.”
“Why didn’t you just explain that to Sam?”
“Because he wouldn’t have agreed to switch us out. Working the party put Deirdre on overtime. He hates that.”
Kat nodded. Limiting overtime hours seemed like a valid goal for a small business owner.
“Don’t tell Sam, okay?” Rich whispered. “I don’t want him thinking I’m the type of guy who calls in sick when he’s not. This is a good job. I don’t want to lose it.”
Kat made a motion of zipping her lips. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
Rich looked relieved, offering her a soft smile.
“Here we are!” Sam called out.
The tension that had drained from Rich’s posture returned just as quickly. He twisted away from Kat, busying himself with measuring out more flour.
Sam waved a sheet of paper in front of Kat. “Here’s Imogene’s receipt, fresh off the printer.”
Kat took it from him. “Thanks.”
He headed toward the front. “I’ll show you out.”
Kat waited until they were at the door before she said, “I was wondering if you could help me reach one of your caterers.”
Sam paused with his hand on the door’s bar handle. “One of my caterers?”
“The brunette woman who was working Chief Kenny’s birthday party.”
“You mean Deirdre Solomon?”
Kat felt a frisson of electricity shoot through her. “Solomon?”
Sam looked at her funny. “Yeah.”
She thought back to Belinda and Colin’s exchange at Jessie’s Diner. Hadn’t they mentioned a Rita Solomon attending high school with them way back when? Was there a chance Deirdre was related to Rita?
“Do you know how I can reach her?” she asked Sam.
“I do.” He paused. “But, Kat, I’m not quite sure what you want with her. You don’t think she had anything to do with what happened to Chief Kenny’s brother-in-law, do you?”
“I’m not sure at this point,” Kat hedged, not wanting to reveal too much. “But with her circling through the crowd, she likely saw more than most of the guests. I was hoping maybe she noticed someone slipping inside Imogene’s office.”
“Wouldn’t she have told the police?”
“Maybe not.” Kat thought fast. “She seemed so distraught yesterday I doubt she could think straight. And Officer Leon can be a little intimidating. She might have been afraid to admit to anything for fear he would hold her there longer.”
Sam rubbed his chin. “You have a point there. Well, if you think it will help, Deirdre lives on Bermuda Avenue, in the apartment complex near the library. Just look for the unit with the green curtains.”
Kat grinned. “Thank you.”
She tried not to hurry as she exited the shop. Still, by the time she reached her car her heart was racing so fast she felt as though she’d run a marathon.
CHAPTER TEN
Deirdre Solomon lived in a drab apartment building sorely in need of renovation. When Deirdre opened her door, Kat could hear the hinges creaking.
“Oh, hello.” Deirdre kept one hand on the doorknob, a look of uncertainty on her face. “Are you at the right place?”
“I am.” Kat inched her foot forward, just in case Deirdre tried to slam the door in her face. “I’d like to talk to you about Imogene’s party yesterday.”
Deirdre tucked her hands inside her long-sleeved shirt, like a tu
rtle retreating into its shell. “What about it?”
“I have reason to believe you might know who killed Landon Tabernathy,” Kat said, watching Deirdre’s reaction carefully.
Deirdre scooted partway behind the door as if she might be able to hide there. “Why would I know anything?”
Kat shrugged, then took a step forward, treating Deirdre’s retreat as an invitation to enter. “Mind if we talk about this inside?”
Deirdre hesitated.
“Or I could ask Officer Leon to pay you an official visit,” Kat said.
The threat had the desired effect. Deirdre held the door open wider.
The living area was small and cramped, making Kat feel a little claustrophobic as she and Deirdre sat across from each other on mismatched armchairs.
“Did you know Landon?” Kat asked.
“No,” Deirdre said.
“Your mother did though, right?”
Deirdre stilled. When she spoke, her voice came out high and squeaky. “My mother?”
Kat nodded. “Your mother is Rita Solomon, right?”
Deirdre didn’t respond. She merely stared at Kat with those huge, brown eyes.
“I heard she and Landon both attended Cherry Hills High at the same time. That must have been around, oh . . .” Kat tapped her chin, pretending to do the mental math. “. . . around thirty-two years ago.”
“I—I guess that’s about right.”
Kat scrutinized Deirdre. “How old are you again?”
Deirdre squeezed her lips together until they turned white from the pressure.
“Deirdre,” Kat said softly, “was Landon your father?”
Deirdre looked down at her lap, picking imaginary lint off of her slacks. Then, finally, she offered up a tiny nod.
“Was your mother at the party yesterday?” Kat asked.
“Ma?” Deirdre looked surprised by the question. “No.”
Kat held her gaze. “Then it was you.”
Deirdre didn’t ask what she meant. It was clear she understood perfectly. The guilt was etched all over her face.
“I didn’t want anything from him,” she said, sounding like a lost little girl instead of a woman Kat’s age. “I just wanted to get to know him.”
