by Elaine Viets
“Yes, Austin?” the teacher said.
“How much money do you make breeding cats?” he asked.
“You win,” Helen said to Jan.
“The little darlings ask it at every assembly,” Jan said.
Helen could pick out the boy’s teacher. She rolled her eyes, then looked mortified. The other teachers smiled knowingly.
“How much do I make? Nothing!” Dee said. “Not one cent. You don’t go into the fancy for money. I do this because I love cats and want to better the breed.”
Another hand went up. “Yes, Paige?” the teacher said.
The producer’s daughter, a blonde in skinny jeans, a coral shirt and a long yellow scarf, asked, “How much does that white cat cost?”
Paige’s teacher stifled a groan.
“Chessie’s not for sale,” Dee said. Now her fear was gone. “But she will be having kittens later this year, and those will be for sale. I don’t sell my kittens to just anyone. I have to meet you and your parents. I want to know if you have other pets and if you take care of them. Most important, I have to see you with my kittens. If you and my kitten are not a good match—if you don’t hit it off—you don’t get to adopt one.”
This news created another buzz.
“Adopting a cat is a big responsibility,” Dee said. “Not everyone wants to care for a longhair cat. Persians have to be combed every day and bathed once a week.”
“Every day!” The phrase ping-ponged through the cafeteria.
“That’s right,” Dee said. “Their fur mats. If you don’t comb them, it mats when they sit. Longhairs are beautiful, but if you don’t want the work, you can adopt a shorthair from the Humane Society.”
“More questions?” the teacher asked. “No? Thank you, Mrs. Chatwood.” The teachers applauded as Dee fled the stage. Helen and Jan carried the cat cages to a side table as Judge Lexie Deener strutted onstage.
The older girls studied her hair and her outrageously expensive outfit. Is her suit this season’s style? Helen wondered. Carol Berman, Mort’s assistant, said Lexie was furious when the moneyman’s bad advice ruined her financially. The cat-show judge had screamed she’d have to work till she dropped.
Was Lexie angry enough to kill Mort? Helen flashed on Mort’s blood-soaked body and the red medallion with the unknown fingerprint. Phil said that print could belong to “a jeweler, a parking valet, even a bumbling Peerless Point cop.” How about a cat-show judge? The police wouldn’t have Lexie’s fingerprints.
As she passed Helen, Lexie tossed her water bottle in the trash. Helen picked it out with a pen through the mouth and slid it into a plastic bag in her purse.
Lexie was not afraid of the students. She held their attention with a short, concise talk about a judge’s duties, schooling and cat shows.
At question time, a tall boy in a gray hoodie raised his hand.
“Derek?” the teacher said.
“Do you own that awesome black Jaguar?”
“I do,” the judge said, basking in the praise and forgetting about four-legged felines.
“Can we like go out and look at it?”
“Can they?” the judge asked.
“It’s like a history lesson,” Derek said. “We’ll never see a car like that up close. Even at a car show, it would be behind a velvet rope or something. Please? It’s right outside the door.”
Some sixty pairs of eyes turned toward the teacher. Even the judge seemed to be begging permission to show off her car.
The teacher caved. “Okay, but make it quick.”
Outside, Judge Lexie’s car was surrounded by admirers. Like the Persian cats, Judge Lexie seemed to expand and glow in the students’ praise.
“It’s perfect,” Derek said. “This is like the most beautiful Jaguar ever made, except for the E-Type.”
“The E-Type was certainly handsome,” Judge Lexie said. “But it wasn’t a good road car. That long nose had a tendency to spin out at high speeds. I still drive my Jaguar. I brought it here all the way from North Carolina.”
Judge Lexie opened the car’s doors so the students could see the shining red leather interior, burled oak dashboard and leather steering wheel.
She shut the doors and the students went back to praising the exterior. “I like the silver cat on the hood,” Paige said.
“The cat is a Jaguar,” Lexie said. “That’s Blackie’s hood ornament. It’s called a leaper.”
Blackie? Helen wondered. Why was that name familiar?
“Is Blackie your car’s name?” Derek asked. “My mom calls her beater the Blue Bomber.”
“Blackie is short for Black Beauty,” Judge Lexie said.
Helen felt suddenly alert, energized. Her mind was sparking, making connections. She remembered the conversation Jan had overheard between Mort and Lexie at the pet store. “It’s serious,” Lexie said. “I need at least five thousand dollars to save Blackie.”
“I can make you a lot more than that,” Mort said. “You’ll be able to keep him in style.”
“You’d better be right,” Lexie said. “I love him. He’s part of my image.”
Jan had thought the judge was talking about a sick cat. But Jan cared about cats. Lexie wanted a major repair for her Jaguar, Blackie.
The Hasher School students were still admiring Blackie while Lexie drank in their praise like a life-giving fluid.
“Look at the snarling cats on the hubcaps,” Austin said.
Ping! Another connection. That phrase—“snarling cats”—set off a sunburst in Helen’s brain. She bent closer for a look at the cat face in the center of the closest hubcap. She’d seen that cat before.
“That’s why this car is so awesome,” Derek said. “Everything works. What year is it? A ’ninety-five?”
“Absolutely not,” the judge said. Her smile vanished. “Jaguars were made by Ford in the nineties. I wouldn’t own a Ford. My Jaguar is the real thing, made in Coventry when Jaguar was British owned.”
Coventry! Helen thought. She stared at the snarling cat face on the hubcap. The same cat was on the bloodred medallion by Mort. She remembered the brass loop at the top. Was the medallion part of a key chain or key ring celebrating a genuine British Jaguar?
Only a true car snob would know or care if she had a Coventry Jaguar. Helen’s brain made rapid-fire connections about cats, blood, medallions and murder.
“It was Lexie! She killed Mort!” Helen said softly.
“What?” Jan said. A few minutes ago, she’d been giggling with Helen. Now the blood drained from her face. She was deadly serious. “Helen, what are you talking about?”
“Lexie Deener killed Mort,” Helen whispered. “He lost her money and she killed him out of revenge. She dropped her Jaguar medallion by his body. I saw it.”
“No!” Jan screamed, as if she’d been stabbed in the heart. “Not my Mort.”
As soon as she heard Jan’s scream, Helen knew she’d made a mistake. She was supposed to be undercover, but she’d gone too deep. She forgot that Jan was not a trusted colleague but part of the case.
“I beg your pardon!” The judge’s voice was frosty but equally loud. “If you ladies have something to say, share it with everyone.”
Jan collapsed against the pillar, sobbing as if she’d just heard Mort was dead.
Dee abandoned her cats and ran over to her assistants. “Helen Hawthorne,” she said, “why are you making a scene? Jan, what did she say?”
“Tell us what you said,” Judge Lexie commanded. “What did you do to that woman? Why is she crying? You’ve interrupted my presentation and I demand to know why.”
“So do I,” Dee said.
“Uh.” Helen stalled for time, trying to find a way past her blunder. The Hasher School students were silent. The only sound was Jan’s heartbroken weeping. Helen could see Valerie and her photographer edging closer to video the scene.
“Tell me or you’re fired,” Dee said.
Helen saw Jan’s desolate figure and took a deep breath. She’d wounded a good woma
n with her careless words. She was going to be fired anyway. Might as well go public. Maybe she could get justice for Mort and Jan.
“You killed Mort Barrymore,” Helen said, her voice faltering. The crowd strained to hear. Several people said, “What?” and “Louder.”
Helen raised her voice and said, “Lexie Deener, you killed Mort Barrymore, your financial advisor. I found him. That was your key chain medallion with the roaring Jaguar on the floor by his body.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” the judge said.
“Yes, you do,” Helen said. “You killed Mort because he gave you a bad tip and lost all your money. You can’t retire because his advice wiped out your account.”
“You’re crazy! I’ll sue you for slander!” Judge Lexie said.
“Go ahead,” Helen said. “You lost your key-chain medallion when you killed Mort at his house. You bashed in his head with a mahogany cat tower. That’s your fingerprint on the medallion! I have your prints from your water bottle in my purse. I can prove you did it.”
“Call the police,” someone yelled.
“Shut up, Helen,” Dee snarled.
Jan had stopped crying and stared at Lexie. Helen saw Valerie and the photographer shooting this heated exchange. Lexie stayed rooted to the parking lot.
“Valerie, here’s your third story,” Helen said. “Lexie Deener killed Mortimer Barrymore.”
CHAPTER 24
Monday
It was a dog fight. A cat-tastrophe. The Hasher School Pet Appreciation Day was chaos and Helen caused it.
After Lexie Deener demanded a lawyer, she didn’t say another word. But everyone else was shouting.
Several people called the police and the Broward Sheriff’s Office. Or maybe the BSO heard the chatter on the radio about a ruckus at the school.
The school parking lot was flooded with dancing light bars and sirens, which made poor Barney the pug howl. Red and Chessie prowled restlessly in their cages, mewing unhappily.
In the confusion, Helen slipped out and called Phil and Nancie. She met Phil a block from the school and handed off Lexie’s water bottle in a plastic bag. He promised to check it for prints. Nancie said she’d wait in her office until Phil confirmed the fingerprint was Lexie’s before she acted.
The lawyer congratulated and chewed out Helen at the same time. “You’d better pray that’s Lexie Deener’s print on the medallion,” she said. “Otherwise you’ve slandered her in front of witnesses. If Valerie runs with that story, it’s libel. Either way, Deener can sue for defamation.”
“Valerie won’t run the story until it’s confirmed,” Helen said.
“Good,” Nancie said. “Warn her anyway.”
When Helen snuck back into the cafeteria, the school was on lockdown. The teachers had quickly herded the students into the closest room. The little darlings texted Mom or called Daddy, and panicked parents materialized to carry away their children. Law enforcement determined that Lexie was not an immediate danger to the students and the lockdown order was lifted. The parents pushed their way into the building, ignoring the principal’s protests that no murder or violent act had occurred. The parents wanted their children and they wanted them immediately.
None of the Pet Day presenters were allowed to leave until the police figured out what was going on. They waited glumly, tantalized by the smell of pizza and cheeseburger sliders. Helen tried to tamp down her hunger with memories of her school’s mystery meat.
Everyone glared at Helen, and she wished she could disappear. She was relieved when Jan, her eyes red from crying, pulled her behind a pillar near the stage. “I am so sorry,” Helen said. “I shouldn’t have surprised you with that information.” She felt like something scraped out of a litter box.
“Who are you?” Jan asked. “How could you spring this information about Mort’s murder like this? It’s so cruel.”
“It is. I’m so sorry,” Helen said. “I realized what Lexie did while she was talking to the students. I was wrong to blurt it out, but it may be the only way to catch Mort’s killer.”
Jan looked at Helen, her blue eyes filling with tears again. “Did that cat-show judge really kill my Mort?”
“Yes,” Helen said. “You might as well know I’m a private detective investigating Mort’s death. I went to work at Dee’s to find out more about you. I also talked to Mort’s office assistant, Carol Berman. She said Mort gave Lexie bad financial advice and she lost her retirement money.”
Jan’s smooth, pretty face was twisted with hate. “I hope Lexie fries,” she said. “I hope she spends the rest of her life in prison. I hope—I hope she loses her damn Jaguar.”
“That will probably hurt worse than prison,” Helen said. “Lexie’s nuts about that car.”
“Dee’s furious at you,” Jan said. “If this cafeteria wasn’t wall-to-wall cops, she’d strangle you. The cats are going crazy with the noise and we need to take them home.”
“I’ll help pack,” Helen said.
“No, Dee’s going to fire you.”
“I expected that,” Helen said, hoping she hid her glee. She’d miss Jan and the cats, but not the work.
“One more thing,” Jan said. “A BSO deputy is looking for you. He wants to know why you caused this. That’s him.”
A lanky man about thirty-five approached them. His dark blond hair was threaded with silver, but he had cop’s eyes, shrewd and alert.
“Are you Helen Hawthorne?” he asked.
She nodded.
“I’m Deputy Webster Maddow. You care to explain why you caused this circus? Your stupid remarks endangered those children. I should arrest you.”
“I’m sorry,” Helen said. “But I’m a private eye with Coronado Investigations, working on the Mort Barrymore murder.” She brought out her credentials.
“The big-deal financial guy?” he asked.
“Right. He was bludgeoned in his home. A Peerless Point detective arrested the wrong person. I have proof.”
Helen told the deputy what she had: the soda bottle with Lexie’s prints, the medallion, the executive assistant who heard Lexie’s angry words with Mort the Friday before he died.
“That’s all?” Deputy Maddow asked. “Sounds weak to me. You may not even have a usable print. It’s tricky comparing a latent print from a plastic bottle to a latent from that medallion.”
“Can’t you take Lexie’s prints?” Helen asked.
“Not without her consent,” he said. “You think she’s in a mood to cooperate?”
Lexie sat near the steam table, silent and scowling like a cornered cat.
“But what about the shouting match at Mort’s office?” she asked. “Carol Berman, his assistant, heard it.”
“So they yelled at each other,” the deputy said, and shrugged. “His assistant told you Ms. Deener was angry. She swore his cat would never win a ribbon. That’s hardly a death threat.”
“But she was furious,” Helen said. “My partner and I discovered Mort’s body. Someone who was really angry beat him to death. The killer would have blood on her—probably on her shoes or clothes. You could spray her car with luminol and get it off the car seat, the gas pedal or the carpet.”
“Luminol isn’t like what you see on TV, Ms. Hawthorne,” the deputy said. “It doesn’t light up like Times Square. The glow isn’t much more than a watch dial. We’d have to tow her car to a garage, and a search warrant would be in order. Even if we did that, all we’d know was there’s blood in the car. We’d need a DNA test to prove it was the victim’s.”
Helen’s heart was thudding with fear. She was in trouble. Big trouble. She’d shot off her mouth in front of dozens of witnesses. Angry witnesses trapped in a school cafeteria. They’d happily testify that she’d defamed Lexie Deener. She glimpsed a grim future of disgrace and bankruptcy.
While she was contemplating her ruined future, Deputy Maddow said, “Wait a minute. Peerless Point. They just got police cameras.”
“You mean the red-light c
ameras that give you tickets?”
“No, more than that,” he said. “Police cameras are a couple dozen cams throughout their little belt that capture tag numbers and instantly check the tag against wanted vehicles. The town keeps a record of the tags. This kind of camera shows the date and time of travel to and from.
“Peerless Point is real proud of that new technology. They’ve made four arrests with their new cameras.”
“Do they even have crime?” Helen said.
“In a rich area like that? You bet. Break-ins, especially after the economy tanked. Somebody comes back from vacation and says their home was robbed. The police-cam database can help. The cam system also caught a stolen car driving through their town.”
Helen felt a slight flutter of hope. “It would help if we could prove Lexie Deener was at Mort’s,” she said.
“The system cost more than a quarter of a million dollars, and the vendor charges another nine or ten thousand a year to maintain it,” the deputy said. “Right now, the DEA is picking up the tab, but eventually the force is going to have to pay for its new toy with city money.”
“I really want this to work,” Helen said. “But Peerless Point has already arrested Mort’s estranged wife for his murder. If you say you’re looking for another suspect in a cleared case, will the police help you reopen that investigation?”
“No, but they don’t need to know,” Maddow said. “The little towns often don’t do their own investigations. They have to ask the sheriff for help, but for whatever reason this time Peerless didn’t. We have powers countywide so we can start a parallel investigation. This would be a perfect gateway.”
“I don’t think the Peerless Point detective ever looked at anyone but Mort’s wife, Trish,” Helen said. “She really ticked them off.”
“What did she do?” the deputy asked.
“Wanted them to put out an Amber Alert on her cat,” Helen said. “When the officer refused, she did the ‘Do you know who I am?’ routine.”
“That’ll do it,” he said. “I know someone there I can ask to have that license plate traced for me. Do you remember the date and approximate time of the crime?”
“Sure,” Helen said. “It was Sunday night. Mort held up his arm to defend himself, and his watch took a direct hit at six p.m. I don’t know Lexie’s tag number, though.”
