The Dead-End Job Mysteries Box Set 2

by Elaine Viets

  “And they have green eyes,” Nancie said. “Justine’s eyes are copper. Now get this cat out of here, will you? Cat pee stinks. I have to clean up my desk. I’ll deduct the new desk pad from your bill.”

  Phil shoved the snarling, hissing kitten back into the carrier and earned another vicious scratch. “Ow!”

  “Hurry!” Nancie said. “Get him back home before I have to bail you two out of jail.”

  As they ran for the Igloo with the furious feline, Phil said, “Don’t say it.”

  “Say what?” Helen asked.

  “I told you so.”

  “Don’t have to,” Helen said. “You just did.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Wednesday

  “So far, the police have made no arrests in the brutal murder of Peerless Point financial advisor Mortimer Barrymore,” said Channel 77 investigative reporter Valerie Cannata.

  Helen and Phil had flipped on the TV in Phil’s living room to catch the morning news over a hasty breakfast. Mort’s murder was still the lead local story.

  “Damn, she looks good at seven in the morning,” Phil said.

  Helen felt a sharp sting of jealousy. Phil and Valerie had had a fling years ago. Helen knew it was over. She also knew Valerie was exceptionally well turned out. The reporter’s yellow dress hugged her curves, and her dark red hair glowed in the morning sun.

  Helen felt frumpy in shorts and a T-shirt that would soon be covered with cat hair.

  “Full makeup,” Helen said. “I’m impressed.”

  Lock away the green-eyed monster, she thought. Phil’s no hound, and Valerie brings Coronado Investigations lots of business when she covers your cases.

  Onscreen, Valerie was standing outside Mort’s wrought-iron gate. The TV camera panned the marble statues and the bougainvillea-draped mansion, then focused on the front door. “Mr. Barrymore was battered to death inside this historic mansion, where he had been living since separating from his estranged wife,” the reporter said. “We are expecting a development later today. Peerless Point Crimes Against Persons detective Lester V. Boland has called a press conference for three o’clock this afternoon, and reliable sources say an arrest may be imminent.”

  “What do you bet that reliable source is Detective Boland himself?” Helen asked.

  “You’re so cynical,” Phil said. “And so right.” He kissed her, a lingering kiss that made Helen wish they could go back to bed.

  “To be continued,” she said. “I have to run to work or I’ll be late.”

  She fished her tennies out from under the couch and the phone rang. “It’s Nancie,” Phil said, and put the phone on speaker.

  The lawyer sounded clipped, quick and urgent. “I only have a minute,” she said. “Trish is being arrested this morning. They’re charging her with first-degree murder.”

  “We just saw Valerie’s story on TV,” Phil said. “Does Boland have a case?”

  “If he wore anything that flimsy, he’d be arrested for indecent exposure,” Nancie said. “He says Trish’s DNA and prints are all over Mort’s front door and the murder weapon, and Trish’s tire tracks are in the driveway.”

  “So?” Phil said. “She used to live there and still visits regularly. She has a key.”

  “That’s what I said. Boland said only someone Mort knew—or someone with a key and the security code—could get through the gate, and he says that’s Trish. They found hair and fibers from the pantsuit Trish said she wore the night of the murder in the hall, but she wears it all the time.”

  “Any blood on it?” Phil asked.

  “Boland says she got rid of the outfit she really wore.”

  “Can’t have it both ways,” Phil said. “What about bloody fingerprints? Blood on her shoes? Any witnesses see her at the scene?”

  “No, no and no,” Nancie said. “But the cops did find out she’d been to the Coventry cat show with Arthur. They made the same connection about the cat medallion that you did, Phil.”

  “Clever,” Helen said.

  “Not really,” Nancie said. “A uniform worked security at the Lauderdale cat show when he was off duty. He remembered the cougar.”

  “Trish never told me she went to the Coventry show with Arthur,” Phil said.

  “Me, either,” Nancie said. “When the cops told me, I chewed her out. Trish said she was embarrassed because Mort hadn’t moved out of the house when she went to the UK with Arthur.”

  “If she’s worried about embarrassment,” Phil said, “wait till she’s strip-searched in jail.”

  Helen shuddered. Fragile, elegant Trish had some ugly shocks waiting.

  “So, Trish was cheating on Mort?” Phil asked.

  “It was mutual. I think they were both seeing other people before they called it quits,” Nancie said. “Mort had two girlfriends, and Trish has Arthur. She’s the kind who won’t leave a man unless she has another waiting for her.”

  “Did Trish have a Coventry cat medallion?” Phil asked.

  “She says she has no idea what that is,” the lawyer said. “She swears there were only show cats, not cougars, panthers or wild cats, at the Coventry cat show. But since she lied, the cops don’t believe her.”

  “Are Trish’s fingerprints on the medallion?”

  “No,” Nancie said.

  “Someone else’s prints?”

  “I won’t find that out until discovery,” Nancie said.

  “So why are they arresting her?” Helen asked.

  “She’s rich, she lied about a silly nothing and here’s her real crime: She tried to pull rank and get the Peerless Point police to find her cat,” Nancie said. “I told her to be brave and get through this. When I finish with Peerless Point, Trish will own the city.”

  That wasn’t an idle threat. Nancie had taken on a bumbling detective and the town that hired him. By the time the town settled, she’d nearly bankrupted it, and the detective took early retirement.

  “I’m surprised the DA is going ahead with it,” Phil said.

  “He was Mort’s golfing buddy,” Nancie said. “Mort filled his ear with anti-Trish propaganda every Wednesday afternoon.”

  “And left out his own transgressions,” Helen said, tying her tennies.

  “Old boys will be old boys,” Nancie said. “I’ve warned Trish she probably won’t get bail with murder one, even with these trumped-up charges. With her money, she’ll be considered a flight risk.”

  “But she’d never leave Florida,” Phil said. “Not without Justine.”

  “I know that, but these cops don’t get cat lovers,” Nancie said. “I worked out a deal to take Trish to the police station at eight this morning. That’s all I can do—save her the shame of a public arrest. She wants you to do two things.”

  “Name them,” Phil said.

  “Handle the kidnapping negotiations for Justine,” Nancie said. “She’s worried sick about her cat.”

  “I’m on the case,” Phil said.

  “And find the catnapper.”

  “I got the job at Chatwood’s Champions,” Helen said. “I’ll be working with Mort’s fiancée, Jan Kurtz. There’s a cat show Saturday and we’ll be working overtime. Lots of opportunity to talk.”

  “Good. Report as soon as you learn something,” Nancie said. “Phil, I need you to contact someone at the Coventry show and find out about that medallion.”

  “Will do,” he said.

  “And call me the moment you hear from the kidnapper,” Nancie said. “When you find him, we’ll have the killer, and Trish will go free. Gotta run.” She hung up.

  “Me, too,” Helen said. “I’m going to be late.” She kissed Phil good-bye. “Love you.” Thumbs stood in her way, demanding a scratch. She gave him a quick pat and bolted for the Igloo.

  She would have made it, except for a traffic accident on Federal Highway. Helen was five minutes late when she knocked on Dee’s front door. Gabby Garcia met her and said, “Mrs. Chatwood wants to speak with you in her office.”

  “Is something w
rong?” Helen asked.

  “Not sure,” Gabby said. She seemed reluctant to say more. Helen followed the slender Latina maid to Dee’s office on the east side of the pool, with another stunning view of the Intracoastal.

  “She’s in there,” Gabby said, and nearly ran back down the hall.

  Helen was mesmerized by the majestic white yachts churning past the window. They were much better-looking than the tiger-striped wallpaper. Midnight, the Persian stud, lounged on Dee’s black marble desk. Dee paced her office in a black halter and tiger-print clam diggers, her bloody claws clenched.

  Uh-oh, Helen thought. She’s ticked. She could almost see the frown trying to burst through her boss’s Botoxed forehead, like a newly hatched alien.

  “You wanted to see me?” Helen asked.

  “Five minutes ago,” Dee said. “You’re late.”

  “I—”

  “Don’t waste my time with explanations. I’m docking you a day’s pay. I’m doing this for your own good. It’s not about the money.”

  It’s always about the money, Helen thought, as resentment burned through her like a lightning strike. I’d love to tell you what to do with this job, but I need it.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, forcing herself to sound contrite.

  “Next time, you’re fired. And from now on, use the servants’ entrance on the side, behind the travelers palm. That’s the tree shaped like a fan.”

  Helen nodded, too angry to speak. The servants’ entrance. A day’s pay docked. Welcome to your new workplace.

  Dee pressed an intercom button and shouted, “Gabby, come here. I need you to witness a contract.”

  “Right away, Mrs. Chatwood,” Gabby said.

  Gabby didn’t seem surprised by the request. She reappeared, slightly out of breath, and stood near the desk, head down and hands folded in front of her. Her forehead was smoother than Dee’s and her natural beauty made Dee look grotesque.

  “Helen, you must sign this employment agreement to work for Chatwood’s Champions,” Dee said. “I want to make sure you understand the noncompete clause.”

  While Helen scanned the one-page agreement, Dee brought out a small recorder. She recited the date and time, then said, “I’m speaking with my new employee, Helen Hawthorne, in my office at Chatwood’s Champions. Ms. Hawthorne, do you know you’re being recorded?”

  She stuck the recorder in Helen’s face. “Yes,” Helen said.

  “In your own words, can you tell me what the noncompete clause says?”

  “I cannot show or breed pedigreed cats of any variety for five years in the state of Florida after I leave this job.”

  “Or?” Dee demanded.

  “Or I’ll have to pay all your associated legal costs plus fifty thousand dollars.”

  “Are you signing this of your own free will?” Dee asked.

  “Yes. Right now,” Helen said, and signed the paper with a flourish. She wondered if the recorder picked up the pen scratches.

  “Gabby, you sign, too, as a witness.” Gabby did.

  “You can leave now,” she said. “You, too, Helen. Jan’s going to show you how to bathe Red. That old sweetie is one of my favorites.”

  I bet, Helen thought. Two cannibal queens.

  She fumed all the way to the cattery, but her anger melted when she heard giggles and meows. She stood in the doorway and watched Jan play with three Persians. She waved a long, flexible wand with feathers on the end. Chocolate, a glossy swoop of deliciously dark fur, stood up on her hind legs and batted at it. Chessie, the snowy contender for national winner, chased the feathers as fast as her short, sturdy legs could move. Red bounded over Chessie, chomped the feathers and pulled one out. She triumphantly chased her prize across the white tile floor.

  Helen enjoyed the three show cats and the showy, dark-haired Jan.

  Jan saw Mystery lounging on a carpeted window shelf, watching the fluttering, feeding birds on cat TV. “You need your exercise, too, lazybones,” she said, and shook the wand at the fluffy pale gray cat. Mystery took a lazy swipe, then yawned.

  The other three cats, looking like conspirators, gathered at Jan’s feet. “Merorower,” they said.

  “Sorry, kitties,” she said. “Playtime’s over. Red needs her bath.” She scooped up the flame-colored Persian and saw Helen.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” Helen said.

  “Dee chewed you out, didn’t she?”

  “I was five minutes late,” Helen said. “I got caught in traffic. She docked me a day.”

  “I should have warned you,” Jan said. “She’s a stickler about time. I bet she also told you to use the servants’ entrance.”

  “She did,” Helen said.

  “She should install a revolving door for that entrance. Gabby and I have stayed the longest. I hope I don’t lose you. I’m taking off for my fiancé’s funeral, even if she fires me.”

  “When is it?” Helen said.

  “I don’t know yet. The story has been splashed all over the media, but so far I haven’t heard anything about the funeral. I only took this job to help Mort. He had big plans for his cat, Justine. I wanted to know the important players in the show world.”

  “What kind of cat is Justine?” Helen asked, proud she remembered she wasn’t supposed to know about the kidnapped cat.

  “A pedigreed Chartreux,” Jan said. “French cats with copper eyes, round bodies and short legs. Some call them potatoes on toothpicks, but their eyes are hypnotic and they’re so lovable. They’re thick-coated shorthairs with smoky blue fur. Mort is—was—in the middle of a divorce. He and his wife, Trish Barrymore, disagreed about everything, but they worked out joint custody of Justine. Trish believes her cat will be a national winner.”

  “Do you?” Helen asked.

  “She has the potential,” Jan said. “She’s beautiful, sweet and has great conformation. But Trish treats her like an only child. Kittens need to get used to the noise and smells and commotion of a show hall. Trish doesn’t understand that show cats need to be around other cats and other people, or they can come to hate the show scene.

  “Trish keeps Justine in her own room and caters to her every whim. I warned Mort and Trish that Justine is too isolated, but Trish won’t listen to me. I’m just the Other Woman.

  “Well, not my problem. Not anymore. Not with Mort gone.”

  She buried her head in Red’s soft fiery fur. “I miss him,” she said, hugging the cat. Red patted her with a velvet paw.

  “Who do you think killed him?” Helen asked.

  “I don’t know. Mort was a financial adviser and a good one. A real people person. He made you feel he was genuinely interested in you. It wasn’t an act, either. It’s one reason why I loved him.”

  “Ever hear of Amber Waves?” Helen said, tossing out the name of Mort’s pole-dancing lover.

  “The TV movie with Kurt Russell?” Jan asked.

  Did she know about Mort’s other girlfriend? Helen wondered. Is Jan lying? She has her head buried in Red’s fur and I can’t see her eyes.

  Jan lifted her face, and Helen saw that she’d been crying again. Her blue eyes were almost as red as the cat’s fur. “I’m supposed to show you how to wash this beauty,” she said, sniffling. “I feel better talking to you about Mort, but we have to get to work, or Dee will have a fit.”

  “Right,” Helen said.

  “I’ll tell you who I think did it,” Jan said. “Trish. She’d do anything to get control of that cat.”

  “The socialite?” Helen said.

  “Wouldn’t be the first woman to think she can buy her way out of trouble. There was also something funny going on with Mort and a Gold Cup judge.”

  “Funny how?” Helen asked.

  “I’ll tell you after we start the cat bath,” Jan said.

  CHAPTER 10

  Wednesday

  There was also something funny going on with Mort and a Gold Cup judge, Jan had told Helen. Then, as if she were waving the cat teaser at Helen
, she dropped the subject and prepped Red for her bath.

  Jan carried the Persian to a grooming table next to a deep, double stainless-steel sink, filled one side with warm water, then plunked a plastic gallon jar labeled ORVUS into it.

  “I’m warming the shampoo,” she said. “No cold soap on that pretty coat, right, Red?”

  Helen struggled to pay attention, but her mind was racing. She knew the Gold Cup Cat Fanciers’ Association was a prestigious cat registry, on a par with CFA, the Cat Fanciers’ Association, and TICA, The International Cat Association.

  The associations recognized and set the breed standards. Cat shows don’t have big-money prizes like horse races, but grand champions or national winners would produce kittens worth hundreds or even thousands of dollars. As for the male cats, boy toys would envy their stud fees.

  So what was Mort doing with that Gold Cup judge? Helen wondered. Giving her financial advice? Or something more personal?

  Jan was cooing to the big orange cat. “We’ll need lots of towels and a washcloth for her face,” she told Helen.

  “First, we comb Red. Unlike ordinary Persians, Dee’s show cats get combed daily. You have to groom longhairs every single day. When I worked at a grooming salon, I’d see Persians who didn’t get combed by their lazy owners. Their poor hair was so matted, I’d have to cut it and risk a hole in those gorgeous coats.”

  “Don’t you brush the cats, too?” Helen asked.

  “Never. A brush doesn’t do a darn thing for long hair. We use metal combs. This wide, long-toothed comb is for her coat, and this smaller one is for her head, legs and feet. You start at the head and neck and work down the body.”

  Red stretched out perfectly still as Jan combed her thick, glossy coat into a rippling river of fire. Then the cat rolled over and presented her tummy.

  “Good girl,” Jan said. “The belly and under the legs are the most sensitive spots, and most cats hate that part. But you’re no ordinary cat, are you, gorgeous? The fur is fine here and tangles easily.”

  Helen could almost see Red’s long, silky hair tying itself into knots.

  Jan kissed the cat on her broad head, and Red nuzzled her. “Pretty girl,” she crooned.