Black Cat White Paws_A Maggie Dahl Mystery

by Mark McNease

  She stole another glance at Gerri, who was doing a very good job of ignoring her. If Maggie didn’t know better, she would think Gerri hadn’t seen her come in. The man continued to read his novel. There was a young couple holding hands and talking excitedly at one table, and an older woman at another who was dressed in a woolen overcoat, with glasses on a gold necklace, blowing steam across the top of a tea cup. She smiled at Maggie.

  Maggie smiled back.

  They locked eyes a moment, then two, then three … and it hit Maggie: It’s the old woman.

  “Excuse me?” the boy said behind her. Maggie did not hear him. She stared at the woman who’d met her gaze, then added a smile.

  Maggie pointed at her, as if to say, “You?”

  The woman nodded, smiled again and motioned to the chair across from her.

  “Excuse me?” the boy repeated, this time slightly irritated.

  “Oh, yes, I’m sorry,” Maggie said, turning back around. She quickly paid for the muffin and cappuccino, then took them to the table where the woman was waiting.

  “May I sit here?” Maggie asked.

  “Please do, Mrs. Dahl.” She added bluntly, “Who’s the other woman? Is that your sister?”

  Maggie blushed, feeling her face go hot. “How did you …”

  “I make it my business to know who I’m dealing with,” the woman said. “Let’s just say we have a mutual source.”

  Chip, thought Maggie. Of course he would tell this woman he’d given Maggie the number to call.

  “My name’s Dahlia, by the way,” the woman said, offering her hand as Maggie sat down. “Dahlia Getty.”

  Maggie looked at her curiously.

  “What, you were expecting someone Italian? This isn’t the movies.”

  “I was expecting someone male,” Maggie said. “The man I spoke to on the phone.”

  “He works for me. Quite a few people do. Someone in my position has to be careful. Now, enjoy your muffin, then we’ll talk … in very broad terms, you never know who’s listening anymore.”

  “Oh,” said Maggie, surprised. “I’m not wired, if that’s what you mean.”

  “I don’t mean anything, Mrs. Dahl. Now please, you paid for your treat, have a few bites and we’ll talk.”

  Maggie nodded. She wanted to glance at Gerri but knew there was no point in it. Dahlia Getty, if that was her name, already knew who Gerri was. Maggie had the sinking feeling she’d been had. Now she just wanted to get whatever information she could from this woman and go home. She was feeling unsafe and unprepared, exposed in the light of the coffee shop. She looked out the window as she took a bite of her muffin, wondering if someone was out there watching them. The man who’d told her to come here? Someone else who worked for Dahlia Getty? She suddenly felt as if she could not trust reality itself, it has shifted and swirled and taken her by surprise so completely the last few days.

  She washed a bite of muffin down with a sip from her cappuccino, then wiped her fingers on a napkin and looked directly at the woman across from her. It was time to talk.

  “I know quite a bit about you already,” Dahlia Getty said. Whatever herbal tea she had was cool enough now for her to take a sip. She let some rest in her mouth, then swallowed and placed the cup back on its saucer.

  “And how do you know all this?” Maggie asked.

  “I’m a businesswoman. And a smart one.”

  “You’re a loan shark.”

  Getty smiled at her. “I help people in difficult situations. What concerns me is that given what I’ve learned about you, you just don’t seem like someone who would use my services.”

  “And you,” Maggie said, returning the smile, “don’t seem like someone who offers them.”

  The woman laughed, and Maggie got the impression it was sincere. There was something admittedly absurd about the whole thing. They were in a coffee shop in an upscale artists’ haven known for a few restaurants and a playhouse. They were sitting at a table near a window, looking for all the world like two old friends getting caught up after a day of shopping. The setting itself was ridiculous, and to be meeting about something as shady as a cash loan made outside the law was laughable.

  They had not kept their voices down, but no one in the shop appeared to hear them or want to—except Gerri, who Maggie imagined was frustrated by the turn of events. Whatever her sister had expected, this was not it.

  “I took over for my father,” Getty said. “If that helps support your stereotypes, although he didn’t look any more like a … loan officer … than I do.

  “Now let’s get to the truth of it, Mrs. Dahl. You’re not here to borrow money, are you?”

  “No, I’m not. And if I had to I would go to a bank, I can assure you that.”

  “No need to.”

  “I’m here because my neighbor was murdered.”

  “Alice Drapier.”

  Maggie started to ask how she knew, then realized it was pointless. Dahlia Getty would have known two days ago that Alice was dead. Possibly even before the rest of the town, given the sort of underworld network she must be part of.

  “I understand you found her,” Getty said.

  Maggie stared at her. Was there anything she didn’t know? And if that was the case, what sort of game were they playing?

  “I did,” said Maggie. “And I found her cat, and I found her debt, and I found you. So … since you know everything, I’m hoping you can tell me who would want her dead.”

  “Certainly not me.”

  “But she owed you money.”

  Getty sipped her tea again. “First, I would have no reason to kill someone who owed me money, even if that was something I had an interest in doing. Remember, Mrs. Dahl, I’m a financier, not a murderer. It’s not a very good business plan to end the lives of people before they pay you back, and once they have there’s no reason to. Secondly, she didn’t owe me any money.”

  Maggie was surprised. “But I thought …”

  “You didn’t think. You made assumptions, the first one being that Alice Drapier borrowed money from me.”

  She was right, Maggie thought. Chip had simply connected her with the man on the phone. He had said nothing about Alice borrowing money, let alone from the woman she was speaking to.

  “You’re clever, I’ll give you that,” Dahlia continued. “But you were only half right. Heather McGill settled Mrs. Drapier’s account. I’m not owed anything, and had I not been intrigued by you we wouldn’t be sitting here.”

  Maggie watched her, confused.

  “Don’t you want the rest of your muffin?”

  “No, I’m not hungry. I just … why would Chip’s daughter buy Alice’s debt?”

  “You’d have to ask her that,” Dahlia said. “And I’m sure you will. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m feeling overexposed here.”

  Getty stood up, taking a five dollar bill from her wallet and leaving it on the table.

  “If you knew I didn’t want to borrow money from you, why risk coming here?” Maggie asked. “It couldn’t be just to meet me.”

  Getty glanced around the coffee shop. “I liked Alice. She didn’t deserve to die like that. But I’m not a sleuth, I don’t go chasing killers … or loan sharks. Partly because they might chase you back. Take that as a warning, Mrs. Dahl. Now I really must go.”

  The Getty woman said nothing more, walking to the door. She gave a quick wave to the woman behind the counter, who nodded back at her. As soon as she left, the young couple and the old man who’d been the only other people in the shop got up and left also, leaving just Maggie, the baristas, and a dumbfounded Gerri.

  Did they all work for her? Maggie wondered, stunned. Maybe the shop itself was a front of some kind.

  She had just met one of the strangest people she’d ever encountered, possibly one of the most dangerous, yet she was relieved. Whatever her motive, Dahlia Getty had done a good deed for poor, dead Alice. She had given Maggie a clue and left. What Maggie did with it was up to her.

&nb
sp; “What just happened?” Gerri said. She was standing now, waiting for them to leave.

  “I’m not sure,” Maggie said. “But I won’t soon forget it. Now let’s go. I’m tired, I’m hungry, and I have to speak to someone tomorrow I’ve never met before.”

  “You ladies have a good night,” the young counterman said, stepping around from behind the cash register to clear the tables.

  Maggie thanked him and held the door for Gerri. She was ready to be gone from New Hope’s version of the Twilight Zone.

  CHAPTER Eighteen

  WHAT STARTED OUT AS A strange evening ended plainly. Maggie and Gerri split a mushroom pizza while they watched reruns of Dateline and talked about everything except what had happened the past forty-eight hours. Gerri had pried at first, trying to get Maggie to tell her what she’d discussed with the odd woman at the coffee shop. All the way back in the car she’d peppered Maggie with questions: what was the woman’s name? Was she really a loan shark? What did she say that had them leaving so abruptly?

  Maggie told her the basics. The conversation with Dahlia Getty had not lasted long, so retelling it took barely more time than crossing the bridge back into New Jersey. She did not speculate about Heather McGill, mostly because knew nothing about the woman, what sort of relationship she had with her father, or why she would pay off Alice’s gambling debt. She wanted to let it all sit in her mind until morning. Then, when she’d woken up with a clear head and a good night’s sleep, she would tell Gerri their next destination: an art gallery in Lambertville to talk to the daughter of a handyman who might just be the key to it all. Or not. She was prepared for any eventuality on a road that had already surprised her with its twists and turns.

  By the time the 11:00 o’clock news came on, Maggie had had enough. She was usually in bed by 10:00 and had only stayed up later because she’d been excited and agitated about the trip to New Hope, and because her sister was an insomniac who’d wanted company.

  They said good night, and Maggie left Gerri sitting on the couch watching news from Philadelphia while she went upstairs to bed. She hadn’t seen Checks since they’d come home but wasn’t concerned about it. He was clearly a cat of independent means and might have found a way out of the house, even though Maggie was sure there was none. She’d taken a liking to the animal. A house that had been empty, lonely and sometimes haunted without David, had become full and active the last few days. She paused on her way upstairs and looked around, wondering if David’s spirit was amused. So you thought you’d spend the rest of your life alone, Maggie? Think again.

  She situated herself in bed with her head propped on two pillows. She’d been reading a book of essays by a local writer named Shanna Delaney about life in small town New Jersey and the many insights it provided into the human condition. The book was a minor sensation and had made the author a local celebrity. Maggie had seen Delaney in town. She’d often noticed her sitting at the Beanery coffee shop on Bridge Street in the early mornings, with a laptop and cup of coffee at a small table in the corner as she worked on her book. Maggie sometimes went there for coffee and muffins for the office. Once the book came out, Delaney was more likely to be seen at the center of a small group of fans stroking the author’s ego or offering their own pearls of wisdom gained from life along the river.

  Maggie wasn’t sure how deep the writer’s insights were or how much of the book was manufactured hype, but she’d liked the half dozen pieces she’d read so far. Each one was just long enough to put her to sleep. She’d used the book instead of chamomile tea or, God forbid, a sleeping pill to help her drift off. By the time she got to the last sentence of a piece about local eating habits, her eyes were heavy and she’d slipped into that state where sleep had more sway than wakefulness. She glanced at the clock as she set the book on her nightstand and turned off the light: 11:45 p.m. Within two minutes she was asleep.

  David was pouting again. He got that way when they argued. Conflict between them was rare and had amounted to little more than forceful opposition when one of them wanted one thing and the other wanted something else. The move to New Jersey had been an example: David had wanted to pack their belongings into a U-Haul and leave New York the day after they’d come back from their second trip to Lambertville. Maggie had been hesitant, stressing that they needed to think things through—everything—including the impact a move would have on their son, as well as what it meant for their financial future. The biggest bone of contention had been the apartment in Manhattan. Maggie wanted to rent it out, just in case they weren’t as happy in Lambertville as they imagined they would be. David was firmly for selling. So they’d compromised and offered the apartment to Wynn. He’d declined, having no interest in living in the same apartment he’d grown up in. Maggie had finally agreed with David: it was highly unlikely they would return to the city, but if they did, they’d be ready to downsize anyway. And they needed the money. Dahl House Jams needed the money. The sale of the apartment was about financing their dreams, so they put it on the block and sold it within two months. Neither of them looked back—David because he was ready to move forward, and Maggie because she didn’t want to deal with the emotions she’d find there.

  He was sitting on the edge of the bed again, where he usually was in her dreams. His back was to her and she kept calling his name, “David … David, look at me when I’m talking to you.” She reached out and put her hand on his naked shoulder. He’d slept nude all his life, and he’d been naked when he died. It had added to Maggie’s horror when she’d shaken his corpse, trying to wake him from an eternal sleep.

  “What did I say wrong this time?” she asked. “What did I do? I’m trying so hard, David. My sister’s here now. And I have a cat. A cat! You didn’t like cats. Is that it? You’re upset that I have a cat?”

  She heard meowing, as if mentioning cats to her dead husband had set one crying. The more she tried to pay attention to the sound in her dream, the more the dream began to tumble away from her. The meowing became yowling, and she swam as quickly as she could to the surface of consciousness. David vanished. The dream vanished. Maggie opened her eyes and gasped: Checks was pawing the pillow by her head, crying loudly and urgently.

  “What is wrong with you, cat?”

  She shoved Checks away from her and sat up in bed. She peered into the darkness of the bedroom. And then she heard it. Movement downstairs. She thought at first it must be Gerri, sleepless and raiding the kitchen for a midnight snack. She glanced at the clock: 2:45 a.m. Gerri’s insomnia wasn’t that bad. She would have gone to her bedroom an hour or two earlier. And then there was Checks, who’d lowered his meowing but persisted in pawing at the mattress. She heard it again—a creaking sound from downstairs. She thanked God it was an old house, the kind with floorboards and stairs that made lots of noise when you moved on them. She petted Checks, as much to silence him as to calm him. Then she quickly sat on the edge of the bed and reached for the nightstand drawer.

  She’d kept David’s gun. One of their pleasures as a couple was shooting—a pastime they did not discuss with most of their friends, unless those friends also had memberships to the Amsterdam Rifle and Pistol Range, located across town on Amsterdam Avenue just a few blocks from Lincoln Center. They’d enjoyed going for a night of theater, jazz or opera, followed by an hour of target practice. It wasn’t something most of their friends would appreciate, so they’d kept that particular passion to themselves. After David died Maggie sold her gun, not because she suddenly didn’t like guns, but because it was something they’d done together. The thought of firing a gun, or even holding one without David, had been too much for her. But for safety’s sake, and because it had been his, she’d kept his Glock 17 9mm handgun. The first commercial model offered by Glock, it remained popular and David had chosen it the first time he’d seen it. That had been fifteen years ago. Now David was gone but the gun was still there. Maggie leaned down, took the grip and lifted it out of the drawer.

  Unlike David, she did not sleep
naked. Wearing her nightgown, she slid her feet onto the floor, held the Glock at her side, and carefully tiptoed to the bedroom door.

  Checks stopped moving, as if he knew it was time to be quiet.

  Maggie said a silent prayer to the god of hinges, turned the knob and opened her door. It squeaked only a little as she swung it open and stepped halfway into the hallway.

  She could see Gerri’s bedroom door. It was closed, and the light from a television cast moving shadows on the floor beneath it. Maggie knew Gerri slept with the TV on and the volume turned down.

  She heard another sound—distinctly downstairs, and not her sister.

  “I’m armed!” she called out. “If someone’s in this house, leave now. I have a right to shoot you.”

  She waited and listened. Whoever was downstairs, if anyone was and it hadn’t been the house settling or her imagination, stopped moving.

  Maggie carefully walked into the hallway, making her way to the top of the stairs. She peered over the railing and saw nothing: the house was in darkness. She raised the gun in both hands and headed down.

  She felt cold air. She could see the front door as she slowly descended one stair at a time. The door was closed: the air was not coming from there.

  She considered calling out again but decided not to. If there was an intruder, it would announce her position and make her an easier target.

  She nearly fell when Checks came barreling past her, jumping down the stairs ahead of her. She wondered if this crazed cat was trying to protect her. He sped around the main floor and into the kitchen.

  Maggie took the last step down and stood still, listening. There were no more sounds, no more indications of movement. Still keeping the gun raised, she made her way into the kitchen and was hit by a blast of cold October air.

  The back door stood open. She stared past it into the darkness of her backyard. She knew she’d locked it—she rarely used the back entrance and had been sure everything was locked since Alice had wandered into the house.