by Niecey Roy
“And let’s not forget the fifteen thousand dollars,” Gen said.
“And alien thongs,” Lindsey said.
“Shame on you.” I narrowed my eyes at her as I picked up the X-files I’d set down on her desk when Linda and Beverly arrived. There were still a ton of notes to go through.
“Really, think about Pretzels.” Gen shook her head and pursed her lips.
My eyes widened. “Wait—don’t tell me you hate animals.”
Lindsey laughed. “No, I don’t hate animals. I have a cat. But a fifteen thousand dollar reward? That’s a little out there, don’t you think?”
It really is a lot of money . . .
Then a thought occurred. “Maybe Pretzels is one of those prize-winning cats or something?”
“Maybe.” Lindsey sounded doubtful.
“If an alien did abduct the cat—”
“And it sounds like it.” Gen’s eyes shone with excitement.
“—and we don’t get the reward, then I’ll just keep the alien detail to myself. No big deal. And if I do find the cat and score fifteen grand for the office, we can all laugh about the aliens. But for now, I’m treating this as a missing person . . . er . . . missing cat case.”
“I think that’s a great idea,” Gen said.
“Of course it is.” I hooked my arm through Gen’s. “Now, let’s go get something to eat. I’m famished.”
Who knew alien-talk would make me so hungry?
Chapter Four
Gen chatted beside me while I drove through the retirement community where Beverly lived. She described how boring Bradshaw Insurance Company was now that I was gone. We’d both worked in little gray cubicles typing in medical claims. The work was monotonous and a mind-blowing bore—not my kind of scene.
When Leo asked me to work part time for LM Security running background checks, I raised a few martinis in cheers. When he asked me to join the firm full time, the celebration was a bottle of wine and an awkward booty dance.
Gen was still at Bradshaw Insurance Company, but wouldn’t be for long. She was in the process of remodeling space for an art gallery. At twenty-three, she couldn’t afford to do it on her own; she planned to cash in all of her 401K and she’d already taken out a loan. The decision wasn’t a rash one, though. Matt, her boyfriend, was a financial advisor. They went over the numbers so many times, wrote and then rewrote her business plan, that she probably had them memorized. The paintings she displayed in an Omaha gallery were selling like hotcakes and she saved every penny. Before Matt came around, she was horrible with money, living paycheck to paycheck. Soon she’d have a gallery of her own. I couldn’t think of anyone who deserved it more.
Hillside Meadows was a retirement community not far from my home, and I had no trouble finding it. An iron gate at the front entrance was merely for aesthetics. It was left open, inviting people in. Or aliens.
The duplexes and one-story condos were all similar in beige, brick red, and cobblestone siding. What set the homes apart were the gardens in the front lawns and the potted plants on the front porches.
The park and gardens bustled with color, with sidewalks winding through it and around a small clear pond. Willow trees hung over the sparkling water, their weeping branches dipping to skim the surface. Three old men sat in folding chairs, decked out in beige fishing vests. They sat in the shade of a tree with their lines cast, waiting for the fish to bite.
I slowed my SUV as we neared Beverly’s condo. The quiet was broken by two women bickering across the waist-high fence. Beverly’s wide brimmed sunhat drooped over her face as she waved a pair of pruning shears at the woman across from her. Linda was nowhere in sight.
“I’m telling you, Meredith, if you cross onto my property again, I’m going to hit you with a shovel,” Beverly said. “My roses do not need your meddling hands on them. Do you hear me?”
“And I’m telling you that whoever taught you to prune roses was a dimwit.” The other woman wore a similar sunhat, though not as large as Beverly’s.
“A dimwit? My mother taught me how to prune, you old bag.”
Gen and I exchanged a wide-eyed glance.
“Retirement community drama?” I parked at the end of the driveway and shut the vehicle off.
“Old bag? Old bag?” Meredith said, her eyes wild. “You have just been disinvited to the bridge party, Beverly.”
“You can’t disinvite me. It’s a block party.” Beverly sounded exasperated.
“Need I remind you that I’m the—”
“The event organizer for the block,” Beverly said, articulating every word. “Yes, yes, as you’ve been reminding me for months now.” She sniffed. “It’s a title you made up, Meredith, and no one takes it seriously but you.”
Meredith bristled. “Everyone takes it seriously.”
“No, they don’t,” Beverly insisted.
“And no one cares that you’re a washed up entertainer who married into money,” Meredith countered.
I glanced at Gen. “Entertainer?”
Gen already had her cell phone out. “I’ll Google her.”
“That’s wonderful,” Beverly said, “because everyone cares that you’re a bossy old bag.”
Meredith aimed the garden hose she held at Beverly.
“You wouldn’t dare squirt me with that hose. I’m wearing silk.” Beverly drew up to her full height.
“I do dare,” Meredith spat.
I worried she might throw down her hat and get serious about her threat. I pushed the driver’s door open. “Let’s go break up the cat fight. You can look her up later.”
“Beverly!” I picked up pace and hurried across the driveway.
Beverly and her hostile neighbor turned to face us. They’d been so focused on each other that neither noticed they had an audience. Meredith lowered the garden hose, but she didn’t look happy about it.
“Hello girls,” Beverly said. She lowered the shears and stepped away from the fence. “I apologize for the ruckus.” She threw an annoyed glance over her shoulder at Meredith. “Not all of my neighbors have good manners.”
Meredith harrumphed. She walked away, carrying her garden hose with her.
“Come.” Beverly waved the shears. “We’ll sit on the patio.”
Gen and I fell into step behind her. I glanced over to Gen when she poked me in the arm, and she nodded to the neighboring yard. Meredith sprayed her knockout rose bushes while keeping her gaze on the three of us, making no attempt to hide her interest.
Yikes, I mouthed to Gen. To Beverly I said, “Your neighbor seems like a pleasant woman.”
“Menace to society, more like it.” Beverly glared across the fence at her neighbor’s yard. “I went snooping around her yard this morning for signs of Pretzels. She threatened to call the cops, the old bag. Linda found us arguing when she came out for her morning paper.”
I pictured Linda in her neon jumpsuit and visor and grinned. “How’d that end up?”
Beverly chuckled. “Linda told Meredith to get her panties out of a bunch. She threatened to pull out all of Meredith’s geraniums if she called the cops on me.”
We stepped around the side of the house and onto the back patio. My breath caught when we stepped onto the back patio and into an oasis of flowers. Butterflies danced around shrubs at the edge of the patio near the table Beverly stood beside. The tiny lilac-like blossoms smelled of honey.
“Oh!” Gen pointed to a little hummingbird that darted into view. Its little wings fluttered so fast they were only a blur against the flowers.
“I see a lot of them back here.” Beverly gestured to the table. “Please, sit.”
“You have a beautiful garden.” I pulled a chair out and sat down on the cushions covered in beige embroidery. They were elegant like the garden and the subtle perfume that surrounded us.
“Thank you.” Beverly removed her gardening gloves one finger at a time. “I missed my old gardens so much.” She glanced around the yard with a slight smile, as if she were im
agining another place. “I hired a landscaper to come in and replicate it. A smaller version, of course, but it feels more like home now.”
“How long have you been here?” Gen sat down across from me and set her purse on the table.
The umbrella above us blocked the sun and I took off my sunglasses.
“Just over a year now.” She set her gloves on the table and sat down. “Everyone’s been so friendly.” She waved a hand in a flippant gesture. “Except for Meredith. For some reason she’s decided she doesn’t care for me.”
On my notepad, I wrote: Meredith—menace to society neighbor. I glanced up at Beverly. “Why do you think that is?”
“We got along fine for the first six months. Visited over coffee, organized activities at the community center together.” She let out a sigh and then pressed her lips together, as if she were mulling over the facts. After a moment, she shook her head. “I have no idea what changed. One day she woke up and I was no longer her friend. She’s been unbearable to live beside for months now.”
I set the pen down on the pad of paper and asked, “Do you think she stole your cat?”
She shook her head. “Meredith is many things—a pain my rear, number one—but she’d never do something so horrible. Despite her open distaste for me, she loves animals and has a cat, herself. And she was fond of Pretzels.”
“Where is Linda?” I asked. She was so excited about the matter I assumed she’d be hovering around Beverly’s property, waiting for us to arrive.
Beverly’s lips curled into an amused smile. “Her daughter picked her up about thirty minutes ago. She had a dress fitting for a great-niece’s wedding. Linda wasn’t happy about it. She wanted to be here.” Beverly stood and said, “Come inside. I’ll show you a picture of Pretzels. She’s a very unique cat—beautiful.”
The furnishings indoors were simple but elegant, the mahogany a dark contrast to the beige and cream upholstery. There were framed pictures propped up on surfaces throughout the breakfast nook that opened into the living room. Beverly walked through to a sofa table against the wall. She picked up a picture and turned to me with it.
“This is Pretzels.” She handed the picture to me.
Pretzels looked like a leopard covered in black, brown, and tan spots. The cat sat in Beverly’s lap—she was the biggest cat I’d ever seen. I took my eyes off the beautiful animal to Beverly. “She’s a house cat?”
“She’s a Savannah. A cross-breed.” Her eyes brimmed with tears and when she spoke again, her lips trembled. “She was a gift from my late husband, just before he died.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.” Gen’s eyes were watery—she was a sympathetic crier.
“Beverly, I don’t mean to sound crass, but it’s important I ask these details.” I handed the photograph to Gen. “Pretzels looks like an expensive breed. Is she valuable? I know what she means to you, but if someone wanted to buy Pretzels, what is she worth?”
“She was purchased from one of the top breeders in the States. Henry paid fifteen thousand dollars for her.”
And now the reward amount made sense. “Ah,” I said.
“I would pay ten times that to get her back. She means that much to me.” Her voice was strained with suppressed tears. I followed her gaze to the cat bed beside the couch—empty. Her eyes still shimmered with tears, but her shoulders were set in rigid determination. “I will make this matter worth your time, Roxanna. I will pay your hourly fee on top of the reward.”
I placed a hand on Beverly’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I’ll do everything I can to find Pretzels.”
She reached up to pat my hand. “You have no idea how relieved I am to hear you say that. Thank you, dear.”
“Beverly, is it possible she might have run away?” Gen asked, and we all turned to look back at the patio door across the room.
“No. Absolutely not. Pretzels was trained by a professional.” She pointed to a black leather leash hanging from a hook beside the patio door. “When she wants to be walked, she waits right there at the door for me.”
“You walk her on a leash.” It wasn’t a question. I pictured it—Beverly would appear as if she were walking a small leopard.
“I put her on a leash for the neighbors’ comfort. People are often startled when they first see her.”
A photograph hanging on the wall above the fireplace caught my eye. I crossed the room to the stunning black and white image of a horse-drawn carriage in front of a mansion. But it wasn’t the antique car that had my attention.
“That’s the Garrett Mansion,” I said.
“Yes. My husband is—was—Henry Garrett,” Beverly said from behind me.
The Garretts were a piece of Nebraska history. The first Garrett to arrive in Lincoln was Harrison Garrett, a wealthy businessman who relocated his family from the East Coast to invest in the railroad and trade. There was scandal surrounding the mysterious death of his young bride and the murder was never solved. The first time I heard the Garrett name I was in the seventh grade. At that time I was engrossed in the Goosebumps series, so I was obsessed with seeing the inside of the mansion that a classmate claimed was haunted.
“This is Henry,” Beverly said.
I tore my attention from the mansion’s photograph to one below it, sitting on the marble mantle. In the image, a smiling Beverly stood beside a man who had his arm around her. He wore a panama fedora on his head, the chin leather strap hung loose around his neck.
“You kept your maiden name when you married?” Gen asked.
“When I met Henry, I had dreams of becoming a movie star.” She chuckled, her eyes shimmering with memory. “I was only nineteen and acting for a small theater in New York, and he was just a man in the audience who had stepped in out of the rain.” Her eyes warmed at her husband’s photograph on the mantle. “I didn’t take him seriously when he took me aside after the show and told me he would come back every night until I agreed to let him take me to dinner. He was a stubborn man, my Henry; he wouldn’t give up. We married soon after. I kept my maiden name because a part of me worried our marriage wouldn't last—it all happened so fast. I always thought I’d go back to acting someday.”
“Did you?” I asked. “Return to acting, I mean?”
She pressed her fingers together then touched her pointer fingers to her lip with a chuckle. “Oh, no. Henry kept me so busy traveling. We saw the world together. Being a Garrett meant parties and social events every time I turned around.” She sucked in a breath of nostalgia, the corners of her lips turned up into a small smile. “Coming from a poor Polish family and stepping into pearls with riches and privilege—it was the biggest role of my life. It took a very long time for me to get used to wearing silk.”
“That’s so romantic,” Gen breathed. She wasn’t the fairytale romantic that her twin Lexie was, but Gen had found her prince charming last year and everything was rainbows and cupcakes for her. They were still in the mushy-love stage, something I didn’t understand because I’d never been there before. At twenty-three, I’d never been in love. Teenage girl crushes didn’t count, and neither did my obsession with a certain sexy actor who played my favorite bad-boy vamp in a television series. That was my secret guilty pleasure. If my friends knew I had a stomach-flutter crush for the guy, they’d think there was hope yet for my cynical mind. But even I knew the character was fictitious, which made that crush safe.
Beside the photograph of Beverly and Henry was another of Henry and a man standing in suits beside a long white limousine. The second man was maybe in his fifties. His dark hair combed back, the sideburns peppered with grey. He leaned back against the door, looking confident and carefree. Money had that effect on some people. My dad owned a culinary empire, and though I didn’t grow up with him, when I did visit I spent a lot of time in his restaurants in Vegas. When I got older, I went along to penthouse dinner parties and charity events dressed to the nines in the kind of dress a woman only wore once.
“Who is this man beside H
enry?” I asked, pointing to the photograph.
“That’s Matthew, his son.”
“Your stepson?” I glanced sideways to Beverly, whose eyes were on the photograph. She nodded.
“He was eight years old when I met his father. Henry and his wife were separated and talking divorce then. The circumstance made it difficult for Matthew and me to bond.” Her smile was shadowed with sorrow.
“How is your relationship with him now?” I asked.
“He blamed me for his parents not reconciling. It took many years for him to accept me. But, I think even he knew that his mother and father were toxic together. She was in and out of rehab for alcohol abuse—the whole thing was a mess. That woman never was able to clean herself up.” Beverly’s frown deepened. “From what Matthew’s wife told me a few months ago, his mother was on a transplant list for a liver. She’ll never get one, not with her history of alcohol abuse, and the stage of her disease.”
“Where does Matthew live?” I jotted his name down on the notepad, right under Meredith’s name. Resentful millionaire stepson and bitter old bag neighbor were both more likely suspects than an alien.
“He lives here in town. I see him even less now that Henry is gone.” She waved her hand. “The two got along like cats and dogs. They weren’t on speaking terms toward the end. I never did know what their last big fight was about, but when the family business is involved, it always seems to be a big feud. I stay out of it. I have a silent stake in the company.”
“Did they always get along poorly?” I asked.
“Oh, yes. When Matthew was a teenager, he was a rebellious boy. When he was in college, he didn’t take his studies seriously and was always in trouble. It embarrassed Henry, especially when he was kicked out of Columbia, and then two other universities. Finally, Henry threatened to take away his trust fund and he settled down a bit. It wasn’t until Matthew was in his forties that he asked to join the company. Henry didn’t make it easy for him. He believed in working hard, and that was something Matthew had refused to do for most of his adult life. He wanted an executive position, but Henry refused. Sometimes they wouldn’t speak for months. It broke my heart to see them disagree so much.” She gestured toward the patio door. “But isn’t that the way of things? There’s nothing more complicated than family.”
