by Delia James
Cheryl wasn’t likely to talk to me again either, and if she did, she might lie. I’d called Frank last night, but he still hadn’t gotten an answer from his friend at the accounting office about whether that five thousand dollars had shown up in Ramona’s account. I’d told him that the money might have gone to Wendy rather than Ramona. He said he’d do what he could, but he did not sound hopeful.
Rachael’s phone had been sending calls to voice mail since she’d called me the night before to tell me that Mittens had been given some of the Ultrapremium food. Which probably meant she was still frantically collecting the lab results and other information. So there was no talking to her yet.
But Pam was another story. Pam didn’t have to talk to me. She had an office, and that office had files. If Abernathy & Walsh depended on Attitude Cat as much as I thought they did, there’d be signs of it in their files. If I was lucky and had been living right (a big “if” right now), there might be signs of whether Pam knew there were severe problems with the new Ultrapremium cat-food line. There might even be a memo or an angry e-mail from Ramona or from Kris somewhere. If I was really, really lucky, there’d be something indicating a connection between Pam and Cheryl Bell. Because the more I thought about Val’s theory that Cheryl had killed Ramona to preserve the Attitude Cat brand, and its potential earnings, the more sense it made.
Now I just had to prove it. And ignore the little voice in the back of my mind that said if this very simple, very straightforward theory had any chance of being true, Kenisha and Pete would have worked it out already and arrested Cheryl.
That same little voice also pointed out that even if I could find a connection between Pam and Cheryl, I’d still have to find a connection between Pam, Cheryl, and some witch or witches unknown to make sense of all the questions swirling around Ramona’s death.
I sighed, picked at the crumbs of the corn muffin I’d bought to go with my coffee and wondered why I didn’t get the helpful kind of little voices.
What I did have, however, was a surefire way to get Pam out of the office so I could get a look at those files.
My phone made the little whooshing noise that indicated a text message had arrived. I checked the screen.
SHE’S CALLING NOW. V.
I looked up at the door to Pam’s building.
Okay, countdown. Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . .
I’d just reached four when the building’s door flew open and Pam Abernathy emerged. She hadn’t even bothered to put on a coat, never mind a hat or gloves. I ducked down in my seat, but I needn’t have bothered. Pam just jogged carefully down the sidewalk in her high-heeled boots with her phone pressed tight against her ear, not paying attention to the cold or anything else around her. Which wasn’t at all surprising when you knew that Pam was talking to Kristen Summers, and that Kristen was saying Attitude Cat had been found, and that Pam should come to McDermott’s B and B right away.
I grabbed my portfolio off the passenger seat and headed up the stairs. The next step in my master plan involved getting inside Pam’s private office without anybody getting suspicious.
Now, despite what you may think, I have only minimal experience breaking into places where I’m not invited. So I’d done what any girl would in this situation. I’d turned to my older brother for advice.
He’d answered on the first ring.
Ted installs home security systems. He’s also going to night school to finish his degree in something called “security design.” When I asked him—hypothetically, of course—about breaking into somebody’s office, he gave me a whole series of expert opinions. Including:
1) Don’t do it.
2) No, really, sis, don’t.
3) You get caught, and I am not bailing you out.
4) You better not mention this conversation over Thanksgiving dinner. Grandma B.B. will kill us both.
Once we got through several variations on this list, however, Ted did have a few practical things to say. They included the fact that you can almost always talk your way into a place, if you really try. So, my plan for this morning involved a little fast talking, the contents of my portfolio, and a fair amount of luck.
I won’t say I missed Julia’s spell right then, but I did feel a little nostalgia as I climbed out of my car and climbed the stairs.
• • •
“GOOD MORNING, ZACH.”
“Huh? What? Oh.” Zach looked up from the sheaf of papers clutched in his fist. More papers were scattered across his desk and half the floor. He was the only one in the front office. Today’s shirt was a bright green, or maybe it was yesterday’s shirt, because Zach had that rumpled and wild-eyed look you get when you haven’t been to bed in a long time. “Anna Britton, right?”
“Right. I had an appointment with Pam?” This was not true, but I had been rehearsing my casual tone and look in the Jeep’s rearview mirror. “About an Attitude Cat coloring book?”
“Really? I’m sorry . . .” Zach grabbed for a black engagement book, sending a fresh shower of papers down onto the carpet. “It’s been . . . a little crazy here . . . some news came in about . . . well . . . about a client last night . . .”
Zach flipped nervously through the planner. I couldn’t tell if it was lack of sleep making his hands shake like that or too much caffeine. There were at least four large paper coffee cups mixed in with the crumpled sandwich wrappers in the wire wastebasket by his desk. “I’ve got nothing here . . . Maybe you can reschedule?” The phone was ringing. “Hang on.” He picked up the receiver. “Abernathy & Walsh, can you hold? Yes, no, yes . . . please, can you . . .”
“How about I just go drop the samples on her desk?” I pointed toward Pam’s office. Zach waved vaguely in response. I took this as permission, slipped inside and closed the door.
The last time I’d been in this office, there’d been a table filled with samples and mock-ups for Best Petz’s new Ultrapremium product line. Now that table was completely empty. All signs of the new campaign had been tidied—or swept—away.
“Merow?”
I jumped and spun, which is a neat trick, and I don’t recommend you try it, especially in heels, because the only reason I didn’t end up down on the floor was that I banged up against Pam’s desk. I also had to slap my hand over my mouth to keep from shouting.
Alistair watched all this from his position on Pam’s much-scribbled-on desk blotter, lashing his tail back and forth. Human acrobatics did not impress him.
“What are you doing here?” I whispered fiercely. “Shouldn’t you be helping keep an eye on Ruby and Kris?”
“Merow,” he said noncommittally.
“Okay, then, you can watch the door.” I scooted around the desk. Alistair turned in a full circle and sat down again, facing the door. On the other side, Zach’s voice rose and fell unevenly. It did not sound like his conversation was going well.
I just had to hope that meant it was going to be a nice, long call.
Pam did not, unfortunately, do anything really helpful like leave her laptop open so that I could get in without knowing the pass code. She also did not conveniently leave her personal appointment book lying on the desk blotter with all those hastily written notes (I had to move my cat to check), or anything like that. And she locked her desk.
I glanced at the office door. I should not do this. But then, I shouldn’t be in here at all.
I fished the sample coloring book pages (yes, I actually had some; it had been a very late night) and cover letter out of my portfolio and laid them on the desk, except for the one I dropped on the rug. Then I crouched down behind the desk and pulled my nail file out of my pocket.
These days, when people think about office security, they worry about their e-mails and their computers. Desk locks, according to Ted, are like window latches—they get taken for granted and are a lot easier to get into than they should be. I let out a long breat
h, mentally crossed my fingers, slid my file into the gap between drawer and desk frame and worked it back and forth, very, very carefully.
If there was a clock, it would have been ticking, but not as loudly as my heart was pounding. I was sure the door was going to open any second now. Kris hadn’t been able keep Pam at the B and B, and she was coming back now. Or Zach was going to wonder why it was taking me so long to drop off a few pieces of paper. This was a bad idea. I needed to stop this. Right now.
“Merow,” Alistair said. I gritted my teeth and wiggled my file.
The latch snapped back and the file drawer slid open. I swallowed a big lump of fear.
Zach’s voice paused for three frantic heartbeats before it started up again.
Pam’s files were as tidy as the rest of her office. Carefully labeled manila folders filled color-coded hanging files. A good half of the files were related to Attitude Cat. There were invoices, proposals, spreadsheets and memos going back at least seven years. Another fat set of files was devoted to Best Petz. On the surface, these looked like more of the same, until I pulled one invoice out to take a better look and saw the big red note written in stiff block capital letters.
OVERDUE!
There were more of these notes, on more invoices. A lot more.
Out in the front office, Zach’s voice had dropped away.
“Merow,” said Alistair, which I assumed meant Hurry up, human!
I flipped faster. Pam filed her invoices according to date. The most recent ones were not overdue. They were marked PAID IN FULL (in black ink).
Okay. Okay. That told the story of the income for Abernathy & Walsh. Bills submitted to Best Petz had not been getting paid about a year ago. Now they were getting paid. Right about the time Pam started billing for the development of the Ultrapremium campaign. Which spoke volumes about how important this new line was, not only to Abernathy & Walsh but to Best Petz itself.
Expenses were (of course) in a separate set of files. I pulled one out. I flipped. Pages of multicolored receipts for office supplies, phone bills, bills from hotels and restaurants and . . .
And Dr. Ramona Forsythe.
“Merow!” Alistair told me again. Zach was talking again, more slowly. Things were winding down out there.
The file had at least five invoices to be paid to Dr. Ramona Forsythe for “consulting.” And they were not small. Abernathy & Walsh had paid Ramona at least seventy thousand dollars over the past year.
This was what Ramona was going to give up to blow the whistle on Best Petz. Wendy would not be happy. But did I honestly believe she was willing to let innocent animals get sick and die so her sister could keep a lucrative consulting gig? I pictured Wendy’s eyes as she stared Julia down. I remembered the greed I’d felt ringing so loud and clear around Ramona’s apartment. I heard Val’s voice neatly laying out all the reasons it was Wendy, not Ramona, who was behind the plan to sell Ruby. Which would, incidentally, bring Cheryl to Ramona’s apartment at the perfect time to make her look guilty of murder.
I shuddered.
A quick shuffle through the rest of the folders failed to turn up any paper copies of e-mails. There were letters from law firms, copies of contracts, and endless, endless eight-by-ten glossy color photos of aspiring cats.
And finally, way toward the back, there was a fat folder labeled ACE/CB.
I yanked it out and flipped it open.
But this was not more invoices or receipts. This was a whole sheaf of densely written legal papers. If the print had been any finer I would have needed a microscope. As it was, I practically had to put my nose to the paper.
“Me-er-ow,” muttered Alistair.
“Yes, yes, I know,” I muttered back. I couldn’t hear Zach, but I was never getting another chance. I had to keep reading.
Since I make most of my money freelancing, I’ve seen a lot of contracts. These, though, were really different from the ones I was used to, and a lot more complicated.
I should have brought Enoch with me.
“Maow!”
“I am hurrying!” I hissed back.
These weren’t contracts for services or consulting. This was a purchase agreement. Specifically, it was an offer from Best Petz to buy Attitude Cat Enterprises for . . . my eyes bulged in their sockets as they skimmed over all the zeros, including the ones on the commission that was going to Abernathy & Walsh for brokering the deal.
Kristen had said she wanted to get out of the Attitude Cat business. These papers said she was doing it in the most direct way possible. She was selling the brand.
It was a great solution. Kristen got to keep her cat, and she made enough money that she was set for life and didn’t have to work in a business that didn’t make her happy anymore.
At least, it would be a great solution, if a scandal about tainted cat food didn’t interrupt the deal.
On the other side of the door, Zach’s voice paused again, and my heart thumped. But the tenor rumble started up again. Alistair’s ear twitched.
There was one other bundle of papers in the folder. I bit my lip and lifted up the cover sheet.
This I recognized right away. This was a consulting contract, with the new Attitude Cat Brandz, LLC (a wholly owned subsidiary of Best Petz Worldwide). I even recognized the name on it.
That’s because the name was Cheryl Bell.
I sucked in a long breath. Okay. I’d come in hoping to find a connection between Pam and Cheryl. Here it was.
Pam had two problems after all. The first was Kristen, who was burning out on being the owner of a celebrity cat. The second was Cheryl. Pam must have realized that even if Cheryl Bell lost her lawsuits, she still could find new ways to make trouble. These contracts were an attempt to kill two birds with one stone. Yeah, I winced at the metaphor too, but it was accurate. As soon as Kristen sold Attitude Cat Enterprises, Pam and Best Petz could turn right around and put Cheryl on the payroll. I bet there was a nice little fee hidden in all these closely written clauses for Abernathy & Walsh’s part in negotiating the deal.
One very important detail remained, though. These contracts were originals, not copies, and they were unsigned. The deal hadn’t gone through yet.
And now it might not. Ever.
“Merow!” Alistair vanished.
I slammed the drawer shut and dove under the desk. The doorknob turned. I snatched my sample page off the carpet.
“Everything all right, Anna?” Zach leaned in at the same moment I straightened up with the sample page I’d “dropped” in my hands. All as innocent as Alistair over an unattended slice of salmon.
“Yes, sorry, loitering.” I laid the page on the desk with the others. “I was hoping Pam might be back by now.”
“She might be a while,” said Zach. “It’s a very important client.”
No kidding. I hoped he didn’t notice how tightly I clutched my portfolio to my chest, or that my voice was maybe just a little too bright as I asked the next question. “Bet there’ve been a lot of late nights?”
Zach rolled his eyes. “You have no idea. Even the night Ramona died. We were right here, trying to get the final print and media budgets sorted out.”
“That’s for the new Ultrapremium line, right? That’s a pretty big deal.”
“It’s an enormous deal. Boss was a little nuts about it. I bet she sent me and Damon out ninety different times for sandwiches and coffee. We even ran out of dry-erase markers at one point.” He chuckled. “I’ve never seen her so worked up. So, you know, you might not be hearing from her about those samples for a while. Are these them?” He picked up a page and squinted at it absently, but his attention was really on the rest of the office. “They’re really good.”
“Thanks.” I made myself keep my eyes on him and keep smiling. At the same time, I had a death grip on my portfolio. Had I left a drawer open? Dropped an invoice? I didn�
��t know. I didn’t dare look.
Zach was still looking around. “Something wrong?” I asked, hoping he didn’t hear the hitch in my voice.
“No . . . no . . . only I think the job is getting to me. For a second I could have sworn I heard a cat.”
43
“SEEMS TO ME we’ve been here before,” said Kenisha.
“Here” was the private dining room at the Pale Ale. I owed Martine big-time. I kept monopolizing her space. And her bartender. Sean was standing beside the table, pouring out coffee and more of the mulled cider.
“Well, you said you didn’t want us holding any more secret meetings,” I reminded her.
“Me and my big mouth.” Kenisha nodded hello to Val and Roger (and Melissa). The Clan McDermott had arrived shortly after I had texted them the all clear from Abernathy & Walsh.
Rachael Forsythe was there too, huddled in her chair, a stack of printouts and faxes on the table and a tote bag resting on the chair beside her.
Kristen, of course, was not there. She was still with Pam, presumably crafting the announcement that Attitude Cat had been found. Frank Hawthorne was not there either. He was at the paper, probably with his hand hovering over the Send key. Because some anonymous source might just possibly have given him the heads-up that Ruby was back safe and sound.
But while Frank was not physically with us, his presence was going to make itself felt. Because just as I stepped out onto the sidewalk, fresh from my little bout of breaking and entering Pam’s desk, I’d gotten a phone call.
“Anna?” Frank said. “I’ve got something you’re going to want to hear.”
“What is it?”
“That five thousand that Cheryl told you about? That she was supposed to have paid to Ramona? According to my source at the accounting firm, there’s no sign of it anywhere in Ramona’s bank records.” He paused and I heard the sound of rustling paper. “Looks like Mrs. Bell went and lied. Again.”
Yes. I had to agree that it did look that way.
