Familiar Motives

by Delia James

  “You’d be amazed what people forget to mention when they’re stupid in love,” I said.

  “Speaking of in love . . .” Val leaned forward so her elbows were on her knees.

  “Which we weren’t,” I said quickly.

  “You brought it up.”

  “I was being reassuring!”

  “So we’re not going to talk about you and Sean?”

  “No, we are not,” I told her firmly. “We are going to talk about Kristen, Cheryl and Ruby and you.”

  “Oh, all right.” Val flopped back in the chair with an exaggerated sigh and a mischievous grin. I frowned at her. It had no visible effect whatsoever.

  I knew what she was doing, and I understood why. She was worried and she needed a distraction. I might even have humored her, if she’d picked some subject besides my social life.

  Fortunately, I wasn’t the only one who realized Val was having a rough time.

  “Knock, knock.” Roger shouldered his way through the living room door, carrying little Melissa, who was now wide-awake and thoroughly wriggly. “We thought you might need some cheering up.”

  “Awww! Come to Mama, sweetie.” Val cradled the baby in her arms, but she was looking at Roger. “What was the phone call? And don’t say ‘nothing,’” she added quickly.

  “Reporter,” Roger answered.

  Val blanched, which, considering how pale she is naturally, was a really impressive sight.

  “Someone’s found out I knew Kristen and Cheryl.”

  Roger nodded. “I told him where to go.”

  “You probably shouldn’t have done that.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m impulsive that way.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “We’re going to need to start that cuss jar. I’m afraid Missy may have heard some bad words from Daddy.”

  Missy blew a bubble. “Ahm-mmm-am,” she told us, and grabbed a fistful of Mommy’s T-shirt. Val adjusted her hold and extricated her shirt.

  “Have you thought about talking to Frank?” I asked them. “I mean, he is a journalist. He should be able to tell you what to expect from the reporters and how you can handle it.”

  “It’s not a bad idea,” said Val to Roger. But Roger waved this away.

  “It’ll blow over,” he said.

  “So will a hurricane,” she answered. “That doesn’t mean you don’t close the shutters and bring out the sandbags.”

  “Mh, ppbbbtt!” added Melissa, with a wave of her chubby fist for emphasis.

  Roger sighed. “Yes, dear,” he said as he leaned over to kiss his daughter and then his wife.

  “Love you too,” murmured Val.

  Probably there would have been more along those lines. Melissa, however, decided that this display of parental public affection had gone on long enough and let out a very healthy howl.

  “Oops.” Val gave me an apologetic glance. “Somebody’s hungry.”

  “I was just leaving. I need to get some work done.” I got to my feet. “Hang tight, Val. We’re all here for you.” I paused. “Um, I don’t suppose you’ve heard from Kenisha?”

  “Not yet.” Valerie hoisted Melissa onto her shoulder, which was not where she wanted to be, and to make sure we all knew that, she let out an earsplitting shriek. “I was going to wait until she was off shift to call.”

  “Good idea.”

  I gave Val a one-armed hug, which caused a delay Melissa most definitely did not appreciate. She turned bright red and wailed at the injustice of it all.

  I left to let Val get on with the important business of feeding her baby. But as I paused by the kitchen’s back door to gather up my coat and gloves, Roger stopped me.

  “Anna?”

  “Yeah?” I answered, tucking my hair into my knitted cap.

  “Val said . . .” He took a deep breath. “Val said there might be magic involved in this mess.”

  “No one knows anything for sure,” I told him. As reassurance went, it was pretty weak. Okay, it was very weak. I didn’t even need to see Roger’s expression to know that.

  “It’ll be okay,” I told him firmly. “Do you really think Julia would let anything bad happen to any of her people?”

  Roger chuckled. “No, I guess not.”

  I made myself smile and keep my mouth shut. Julia was shocked. Julia would calm down and be her normal self in no time. We’d gather the whole coven and we’d solve this like we always did—together. Roger did not need to hear about what had happened at the Pale Ale. He had enough to worry about.

  “When’s Kristen coming in?” I asked.

  “Tomorrow morning, early.”

  “You’ll let me know if there’s anything I can do to help, right?”

  “Of course. Oh, and this is for you.” He handed me a heavy cloth bag. The yeasty smell of fresh bread rose from inside. “Thanks, Anna.”

  We said good-bye and I headed off across the back lawn toward the gate in the fence. Just a few weeks earlier, our gardens had been a riot of fall color. Now that was all washed away. I trudged through a landscape of damp grays and browns, cradling the warm bread close to my chest. The wind blew hard around my ears. I was so lost in thought, I barely noticed.

  I’d promised to stay out of this. I was supposed to limit any poking around to figuring out if magic was involved in Ramona’s death, and, okay, hoping my familiar could play pet detective. But everything I’d just heard, in person and on-screen, had knocked me off-balance. If my friend’s past was dredged up, it could make real trouble for her and her family.

  How was I supposed to just stand back and let that happen?

  17

  THE OFFICES OF the Seacoast News took up the second floor of a converted warehouse near Market Square. It might be first thing on a Sunday morning, with the late November sun just starting to put in an appearance, but the sound of ringing phones filled the narrow stairway.

  Under normal circumstances, I would not expect to find Frank or anybody else in his office this early on a Sunday. But everything I’d seen on TV and on the news Web sites after I left Valerie’s the day before proved conclusively that these were no longer normal circumstances.

  Well, that and the fact that I’d been woken up at two a.m. by somebody cruising up and down the street out front with their high-beam headlights on and leaning out the window and hollering, “Ruuuubbbbyyyy! Heeeerree, kitty, kitty, kitty!”

  Alistair had attempted to burrow under my pillow. I had attempted to join him.

  When I pushed the door open onto the Seacoast News exposed-brick-and-scuffed-wood space, everybody was either on the phone or on their computers, flicking through Web sites and social media sites as fast as they could point and click.

  “Sorry, Anna.” Maria covered the mouthpiece on her phone to talk to me. “The chief’s in an interview.” When I’d first met Frank, Maria had been a summer intern. I guess that had worked out all right, because summer was a distant memory and she was still here.

  “Would it be okay if I waited by his desk?” I asked.

  The light on Maria’s old industrial beige phone flashed. At the same time, another phone on another desk rang. “Yeah, sure, I guess.” There was another flash and another ring. “Hey!” Maria shouted. “One of you big strong men could pick up a phone!” Before any of them could answer, she stabbed the button on her own phone. “Seacoast News, how can I help you?”

  I did my best to fade away. Clearly, it had already been a long morning for everybody.

  Frank did not have a corner office. He was the paper’s editor in chief, not to mention its publisher, and chief cook and bottle washer. All that power and responsibility earned him a space in the back of their open loft. His battered desk was piled with papers, leaving just enough space for the monitor, keyboard and another of the old office phones like the ones Maria and her coworkers were all talking into, that is, the ones who weren
’t on their own cell phones and headsets. A poster-sized black-and-white photo of legendary journalist Edward R. Murrow hung on the wall beside a framed copy of the front page of the first issue of the paper.

  I couldn’t see Frank, but I heard him. His voice drifted over the secondhand cubicle dividers that had been set up to create a kind of conference room.

  “. . . But do you have any evidence that Ms. Summers organized Ruby’s disappearance?”

  “Her record speaks for itself,” said a second, familiar voice.

  Cheryl Bell.

  My eyebrows shot up in surprise. Apparently Mrs. Bell had decided to leave no news outlet untapped.

  “Yes, we’ll be checking into that,” Frank answered patiently. “But it would be helpful if we had something more to go on. Any threats? E-mails? Any indications that she meant to pursue matters outside the lawsuit?”

  I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. Really. I just couldn’t help hearing. Okay, I could have stepped away, but Maria and the rest of the staff were clearly under a lot of strain, and I didn’t want to risk disturbing the office any more than I already had by getting in anybody’s way.

  Yes, that’s my story, and yes, I’m sticking to it.

  “Well, I’m sure I’m not supposed to say this.” Cheryl’s tone oozed with smooth confidentiality. In my mind’s eye, I saw her leaning forward, smiling to let Frank know she was giving him a scoop. “But if you contact Lieutenant Blanchard at your local police department, you’ll find that Kristen Summers is definitely on their radar screen.” There was a pause so pregnant it was going to have kittens any second now. “In fact, I’m surprised you haven’t already done so. It can’t be every day such a massive story like this lands right in your lap.”

  A phone rang. And another. A staffer rushed past. So, of course, I had to step a little closer to the divider to get out of the way.

  “You can be sure we’ll be following up from every legitimate angle,” said Frank. I could picture his polite, professional smile and his clenched jaw. “Again, it would help if you could provide some anecdote or incident, or actual evidence . . . ?”

  Which was just about enough for Mrs. Bell. “You’re the reporter; that’s your job!” she snapped. “I told you my story, and if you can’t be bothered . . . Well, I can see why this is such a small paper.” There was a rustle of cloth, and the crown of a black hat appeared over the top of the dividers. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Hawthorne, I have an important brunch meeting at the Harbor’s Rest I simply can’t be late for.”

  A split second later, Cheryl appeared in the doorway in all her black-and-white vintage glory. I smiled, and she frowned, clearly trying to place me. If she did, she gave no sign. She just lifted her chin and stalked right down the middle of the loft like she was walking down a very chilly catwalk.

  Frank also appeared in the doorway, watching her leave. He was definitely not a happy camper. I was used to Frank looking rumpled, but today he looked like he hadn’t been to bed at all. There were circles under his blue eyes, and his waving black hair stuck out in all directions. He dressed more like a college professor than anything else, favoring slightly worn sports jackets, some with patches on the elbows, and khaki pants and button-down shirts. Today’s jacket was corduroy of a cut and vintage that hadn’t been in style since I was in middle school, and it looked like it had been under his bed since then. He had a tie on too, but it hung loose around his neck.

  “Good morning, Anna.” Frank raked his fingers through his hair, making even more of it stand up on end. “I’ve been expecting you.”

  “Darn. I hate being predictable.”

  He flashed a small grin and gestured for me to follow him into the conference area, which I did. Frank dropped into a chair at the Ikea table and glowered into the empty paper cup that I was sure had once held coffee. Frank was an Olympic-level caffeinator.

  “Tough news day?” I asked.

  “You could say that.” Frank put the disappointing cup down next to his mechanical pencil and the yellow legal pad full of sprawling notes. Unfortunately, Frank’s handwriting is as bad as any doctor’s, even without his highly personal and eccentric abbreviation style, and I couldn’t read a darn thing. Not that I was trying. Really.

  I was in fact not trying so obviously that Frank flipped over to a blank page to remove all temptation. “Please tell me you haven’t come all the way across town to offer me fresh insight on the Attitude Cat disappearance.”

  “Um . . . no?”

  “Thank goodness for that, anyway.”

  From the other side of the dividers, a fresh chorus of telephone rings split the air. This time we heard some of those big strong men’s voices answering. Clearly, Maria had made her point.

  Frank tossed his cup into the wastepaper basket by the wall. “I’ve never heard it like this. We’ve got school board and zoning board and town council meetings going on right now. They’re discussing issues that are going to directly affect this city and people’s lives. On top of that, a genuinely nice person has been murdered, and what are people demanding to hear more about? The missing cat.”

  “Everybody loves a cat story,” I said.

  Frank’s face twisted. “And all of them think they know something. Half of those calls”—he waved toward the main office and the jangling telephones—“are going to be Attitude Cat sightings, with and without questions about a reward. The other half are going to be cable talk shows looking for local color and s . . . stuff. And Mrs. B . . . Bell there is sitting square in the middle looking to cash in.”

  I almost remarked that he seemed to be developing a serious stammer, but I decided against it. “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “It’s just that there’s no sense of proportion!” He looked over the divider toward Ed Murrow, presumably pleading for patience.

  “Maybe people get so worked up because it’s something they can care about that’s . . . uncomplicated.”

  “Maybe,” he muttered. “I don’t know. But. You are here and you want to talk.” He was clearly trying to rally both spirits and patience.

  “Erm . . .”

  “Not about the cat, right?”

  “Only kind of not about the cat.”

  “I should’ve known. Okay, what’s up?”

  “You know they’re treating Ramona Forsythe’s death as a murder.”

  “My money’s on Mrs. Bell.” He glowered at the chair I assumed Mrs. Bell had occupied. Then he rubbed his face. “Sorry, Anna. I didn’t mean that.”

  “I know,” I told him. “The thing is, I was there. When they found Ramona.”

  Frank sat up straight, as instantly alert as if he’d just gotten a fresh shot of espresso. “Nobody’s mentioned that.” He reached for his pencil.

  “Have they mentioned that Kristen Summers is an old friend of Valerie McDermott?”

  “Oh.” Frank flipped open a fresh page on his notebook but didn’t move to write anything. “Yeah. Well. That was going to come out. Not from me,” he added.

  “Val’s really worried,” I told him. “Her whole reputation is at stake, and the business with it. I was hoping you might be able to . . . give her some advice on how to handle the media?”

  Frank blew out a sigh. “Unfortunately, the media’s not all she’s got to worry about. I’m assuming you accidentally overheard my talk with Cheryl Bell there?” He didn’t bother to wait for my answer. “She was right about one thing. Lieutenant Blanchard is looking at Kristen Summers for theft, and maybe for murder.”

  “Theft? What does he think she stole?”

  “I haven’t found out yet, but apparently something’s gone missing from Ramona Forsythe’s apartment.”

  “And they think Kristen . . . how? She wasn’t even in town. She was on her way to see her mother in the hospital.”

  “In Minneapoplis. Yeah. At least, she was supposed to be,” Frank corre
cted me. “She says she was. But you know, people don’t always tell the truth.”

  “You can’t possibly think any friend of Valerie’s—” I began, but Frank cut me off.

  “You were the one who came in here worrying about her old record.”

  Yes, I was, wasn’t I? Darn me anyway. I folded my arms.

  “This is a mess.”

  “Yeah,” he agreed.

  “I don’t suppose there’s been a ransom demand yet?” I asked.

  “If there has, the police aren’t saying anything to us.” Frank looked at me, way too closely and way too carefully for comfort. “Why?”

  I shrugged casually. Okay, I jerked my shoulders up and down in an attempt to shrug casually. “It’s just that the only reason to steal Ruby would be for the money, right? So, either they’re going to hold on to her hoping for a reward, or they’re going to make a ransom demand.”

  Frank considered this. “And if there wasn’t one, either Ruby got away from the . . .”

  “Cat-nappers?” I said, so he wouldn’t have to. Frank was, after all, a serious journalist and clearly was not thrilled at the idea that he might be forced to put the term “cat-nappers” into print.

  “Yeah. Right. Them.”

  “Frank . . .” I hesitated. I told myself I wasn’t really interfering or going beyond my promise to Kenisha. I was just eliminating outside possibilities. I know. It sounded pretty lame to me, too, but I did it anyway. “You don’t really think Cheryl killed Ramona Forsythe over Ruby, do you?”

  He grimaced. “She’s definitely milking the disappearance for all it’s worth, and while she’s at it, she’s trying to paint Kristen Summers as some kind of menace to the feline population. That could be for the lawsuit, of course, but something is going on there. I’m just not sure what.”

  “But you’ll be looking?”

  “Oh, yes. Mrs. Bell has definitely put herself on my radar screen. What about you?” He cocked his head toward me. “What are you going to be doing?”

  “Looking at things from another angle.”