The Black Cat

by Martha Grimes

  By now, Edna Cox had the handkerchief she’d pulled from her sleeve wadded against her mouth and shook her head. “I can’t believe it.”

  But she did. She had. Jury sat back, giving the poor woman some space. He looked around, struck by the room’s insipidity—its mushroom browns, its rainy-day grays. It fit the girl in the photo on the table. No, that was wrong: the girl was not insipid at all. And the room was more sad than insipid. The air around them seemed weighted with sadness. Or perhaps it was his. He was sorry he couldn’t leave Edna Cox with her fantasy and her denial.

  There were ample means to establish the two women were one: DNA, dental work, fingerprints.

  “You mentioned the London friend. Do you know her name?”

  “Oh, dear, I just can’t get my mind round all this. Angela, I think . . . Adele—the last name, I think it’s Astaire. It’s like the dancer, I think. Yes, that’s what she calls herself. Silly of her.”

  “Then that’s not her real name?”

  “No. Mariah said it was just her business name. Whatever that means.”

  Jury took out his small notebook, wrote down the name. “I don’t imagine you have the address, do you?”

  “I don’t, no.”

  “Any idea what part of London it is?”

  Mrs. Cox put her fingers to her temples, massaging them. “Parsons Green, it could be. Or Fulham. Well, somewhere around that part of London. There might be something in Mariah’s room, an address book or letters or something—”

  “Yes, I’d appreciate it if you’d let police go over the room. Not now, of course, if you don’t want us bumbling round the house. Detective Sergeant Cummins might do this later, when it won’t be so disturbing for you.”

  Sadly, she nodded. “If you’re right, then what was it she was doing dressed like that? Her face made over? Her hair that color?” She wadded the handkerchief in her hands. “She worked at the little library, you know. I always thought it was the perfect job for Mariah.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “She was such a quiet person, and she liked being around books. It’s the kind of job that’s not such a strain if you have to deal with the public. You don’t have them complaining a lot or demanding too much. Checking out books, they’re contented, somehow. Mariah didn’t like dealing with the wide world. She kept herself to herself.”

  Like bandages coming off a patient’s eyes, sighted or blind; or unwound from a burn victim’s ruined face, Edna Cox’s defensive covering unwound more and more. Jury felt very sorry for her.

  “I know all of this must be a terrible mystery to you, but anything you can tell us would help. Things that might not have signified at the time.” He paused, thinking. “Why did you report her missing, Mrs. Cox? I mean, she went off any number of times, yet those other times didn’t appear to worry you.”

  She looked puzzled, as if this hadn’t occurred to her before Jury said it. She sat thinking and worrying her handkerchief. “It was because she would have let me know, and she didn’t.” More pulling at the handkerchief, as if it were a knob of taffy. “I mean, Mariah would never just not come back on the Sunday without letting me know. And there was work, too. She worked on Monday at the library. You’d have to know her, how dependable, how considerate she is.” She looked away. “Was.”

  “How long had she lived with you, Mrs. Cox?”

  “Ten years, about. She came to me after her mother died—my sister. Mariah had been taking care of her; it was a long illness. Lungs. Emphysema. They lived up north in Tyne and Wear. Old Washington, where George was born. You probably don’t know it. . . .”

  Indeed he did; he knew it well.

  “Her dad worked in Newcastle. You know, it’s always been hard up there, jobs, I mean, and money tight. First her da died and then her mum. We didn’t see each other often, well, hardly ever, really. Christmas and the long school holiday, that was about all.”

  “Did Mariah look then as she does in this photo?” He tapped the silver frame.

  She frowned. “Not really. When she was younger, she was prettier. She seemed to just grow plainer, though usually it’s the other way round, isn’t it? I don’t understand it; I don’t understand any of it.” She started crying in earnest now.

  Jury moved over to the small sofa, put his arm round her shoulders, said, “I’m truly sorry for your loss, Edna.”

  He was beginning to feel sorry for his own, too.

  8

  “This Devlin, the fiance. You know him?” Jury asked as they pulled away from the terraced house.

  DS Cummins nodded. “A bit. Bobby’s the flower guy.” “Sweet. But what does it mean?”

  “He grows flowers and sells them. He’s got a fabulous garden—a few acres outside of town.”

  Jury powered up his window; it was getting into evening and much cooler. “Any joy there? With Devlin?”

  Cummins shook his head. “I’d guess not. I mean, if you’re asking whether Bobby’s a suspect. I know well enough he’d never have hurt Mariah. Never.”

  “Where can I find him?”

  “Bobby? He’ll be in Market Square. Tuesdays and Fridays he keeps a stall. I can take you there. Do you want me along?”

  “No. That’s okay. Just drop me there.”

  Cummins was pulling up by a curb outside of the square that had been marked off for pedestrian shopping. He told Jury where he’d find the flower stall, adding, “Listen, if you’ve nothing better going, come round to our place for a drink. Chris’d be glad for the company. Seriously.”

  Jury didn’t feel like it, wanted to get back to London, but he hated turning David Cummins down for the second time. “That’d be nice, David. Can you pick me up back here in an hour?”

  Looking pleased, Cummins nodded. “Right here, and if you’re not, I’ll wait. You can always call me on my mobile.”

  Jury inspected the sky. “Yes, well, let’s just say an hour, okay?”

  Cummins drove away.

  Jury assumed it was Devlin, the intense, dark-haired young man with an armful of daisies and purple irises, talking to an elderly woman, apparently giving her advice about the care of a plant she was holding. She thanked him and left.

  “Mr. Devlin?” said Jury.

  He turned, still holding the shock of flowers.

  “You’re Robert Devlin?”

  “Bobby. What can I do for you?” He submerged the flowers in a tub holding several inches of water.

  “My name’s Richard Jury. I’m with Scotland Yard CID.” He held out his ID.

  “Oh.” The syllable was weighted with sadness.

  He was pale and handsome and so wistful-looking, Jury wanted to clap him on the shoulder and tell him to buck up. Jury had never told anyone to buck up in his life.

  Bobby Devlin looked down, up, down again. “It’s Mariah, isn’t it?” He pulled over an old crate and sat down, hard. His face was drawn, his body strained. “Sorry. There were two detectives just here....” He shook his head.

  “This must be hard for you. I understand you and Mariah Cox were engaged.”

  Bobby nodded. Then, becoming aware that Jury still stood while he sat, Bobby rose and pulled out one of the folding chairs leaning against the side of the stall. He opened it up, set it down for Jury, and sat back down again.

  Jury thought it was an uncommonly thoughtful thing to do, in the circumstances. He sat down between daylilies and floribunda roses.

  Bobby said, “We were going to get married in the fall, probably, and were going to live in my house. It’s small, but fine for a couple. I bought it because of the gardens. There’s over three acres. The old woman who lived there finally had to go into a nursing home. I felt really sorry for her because she loved the gardens. I told her—” He looked up. “Sorry. I’m talking to fill up space, I guess.”

  “Go on. I want to hear it.”

  Bobby sat back and relaxed a little. “I told her I loved flowers and plants and all that, that I did it for a living. She asked me if I knew anything a
bout primulas, and I told her I know everything.” He looked at Jury and smiled slightly. “Sounds conceited, but I do know an awful lot. When she took me out to the back, to the gardens, I was stunned by the variety of plants. Camellias dripping over old stone walls, a blue forest of hydrangeas and lavender and bluebells, even a rock garden. You don’t see those much because they take such a lot of work. A huge spread of bright orange poppies. Even some mother-of-pearl poppies—a long sweep of them; it was lustrous.

  “The thing was I’d visit her a couple of times a week for a few months, and she said it was such a relief knowing the house would be in my hands. I took flowers to her in the nursing home until she died. It was only a few months later that she died. I felt awful when she did. And I know I’m talking too much, but it keeps me from thinking.” He stopped and regarded Jury.

  “Where are you from, Bobby?”

  “County Kerry. When my parents died I came to England. I worked at this and that, finally for a nursery, and then a series of nurseries. The last was in High Wycombe. I seem to have a natural bent for this kind of thing. I seem to speak the language of flowers, if that doesn’t sound too sentimental.”

  Looking at all of these glowing colors and green leaves that seemed to want to burst beyond their crate and bucket boundaries, Jury believed it. “Did Mariah share your love of all this?” His gesture took in the stall.

  “Yes, very much so. She knew a lot about flowers—” He stopped suddenly. The dead Mariah blotted out memory of the living one.

  “You didn’t know anything about a double life that Mariah might have been leading?”

  “Double life?” He leaned down to reposition a large pot of hydrangeas and didn’t look at Jury.

  “Wouldn’t you describe it that way? She was gone regularly to London and . . .”

  Bobby put his hand on his forehead and pushed back his hair, as if he had a raging headache he couldn’t get rid of. Probably he did. “The woman police found . . . she’s just not like Mariah.” He shook his head. “Mariah was so ... retiring, that’s the word I think of.” He picked a few yellowing leaves from the stem of a lavender rose. “Funny about Edna. I would have known.”

  “Mrs. Cox? You mean you could have made the identification?”

  He nodded. “I’d have known,” he said again. “I know I just said she wasn’t Mariah; I meant the idea of it. If I’d seen her, without hearing any of this, I’d have known her.”

  “Her aunt did know, on some level. It was a case of denial. I expect Mariah looked quite different, with that ginger hair, to allow anyone who didn’t want to believe it, not to believe it.”

  Bobby nodded again. “Well, then, maybe I’d have done the same as Edna; I don’t know. Nobody I know wanted to hurt Mariah, but the thing is, it might not be Mariah they wanted dead.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You spoke of a double life. It might’ve been the other one—that other self—the one you found. It could be the person who killed her didn’t even know Mariah existed. Because I can’t imagine anyone would want to hurt Mariah. That’s it, plain and simple.” He sat forward, elbows on knees, hands limply clasped, staring at the little bit of pavement not taken up by flower containers. He opened his mouth to say something but said nothing.

  He looked helplessly at the big container of blue hydrangeas near his leg, as if their language had finally failed him.

  9

  Prada, Valentino, Fendi—Jury found himself in DS Cummins’s house holding a whiskey and looking at a wall of shoes, cubbyhole after cubbyhole, designer after designer. In the corner beside this collection was a wooden coatrack holding a short red jacket (hers), a down-to-the-ground black wool coat (hers), and a rather worn-looking raincoat (either hers or his)—and all of them decidedly undesigner.

  The shoes, though, would cover a painter’s palette: rose red, blues that ran the gamut from cerulean to sapphire, silver straps of snakeskin, carmine straps of satin. There must have been a hundred pairs.

  “It’s an obsession, I expect you could say,” said Chris Cummins with a good-natured laugh at herself.

  David Cummins rolled his eyes. “It’s her obsession all right.”

  But it can’t be your money, thought Jury. If Mariah Cox’s one pair of Jimmy Choos had been six or seven hundred, what must this collection be worth? DS Cummins couldn’t afford this on his detective sergeant’s salary; perhaps he was independently wealthy. Or she was. That was more likely.

  Their modest cottage and its fittings were nowhere in line with Chris Cummins’s shoes. The three-piece suite in front of the tile fireplace in the living room was covered with the rather clammy feel of microsuede. The curtains at the front windows were cotton splashed about with dahlias, gray blue on blue. Stuck about like matchstick displays were specimens of old reed chairs with turned or spindle legs that might have been antiques and possibly valuable.

  That had been the front room—parlor (to the husband) or living room (to the wife). Jury detected the south of England in her speech, the north in his. Pretty far north, Newcastle north, possibly. He sounded much like Jury’s cousin by marriage, Brendan. Someone here had money, he thought.

  The shoes were in a small sitting room containing a large round table and four maple captain’s chairs. It might have doubled as a dining room, with a wall of shoes in place of a wall of wine. Jury smiled.

  “I knew it was Jimmy Choo,” she said, “without seeing the label.”

  It was hard for Jury to fault Cummins’s taking a police photograph out of the station, seeing that Chris would never wear any of these shoes to a policeman’s hip-hop, or to tea at the Ritz, or on the Eurostar to Paris. Or skiing in the Alps. Chris was in a wheelchair. In the corner of the room, where those skis might have been leaning against the wall, were crutches instead.

  She saw his look, looked herself at the crutches, and said, “I’m afraid I haven’t mastered those. But I will.” Her tone was exceptionally sad, but she quickly short-circuited this by wheeling over to the shoe collection. From her chair, she reached midway up the wall and took down a high-heeled shoe, a glittering nude-colored extravaganza, sequined and peep-toed. “Christian Louboutin. He’s my favorite designer.” It was actually quite beautiful, thought Jury.

  “See the sole?” Her forefinger tapped it. She pulled down another, this one of black suede, its vamp consisting of a twist of material running like a lattice up and above the ankle. “Red, always red,” she said. “I think that’s clever. It’s his signature—Louboutin’s.”

  “They look pretty pricey.”

  “They’re pricey all right.” She shoved back the black-and-sequined numbers and dragged out another, a jeweled slingback. “Over a thousand pounds, this one.”

  Her husband winced. “Hell, Chris, the superintendent’s going to think I’ve been on the take.”

  “What take? Is there anything around Chesham worth taking? There’s nothing to take.” As she pushed the red-soled shoe back, she sighed. “That murder is the most excitement we’ve had all the time we’ve been here.”

  “How long have you?”

  David Cummins stretched out his long legs and then pulled them quickly back. It was as if he didn’t want to call attention to his perfectly workable legs in front of his wife.

  She hadn’t noticed anyway, sitting in her wheelchair, drinking her tea.

  “Just three years. I was with uniform before. South Ken. I expect I liked London a lot more than Chris—”

  “I expect you did,” said Chris with a small laugh. “It was never much good for a wheelchair.”

  There was no rancor in her voice, but there was still a message there.

  And the expression on his face was oddly like that on Bobby Devlin’s, as if David Cummins, too, missed a language that had meant a lot to him.

  The cabbie who’d picked up Mariah Cox at the station told Jury no more than Cummins himself. Cummins had organized a meeting at the police station in Chesham.

  “All dressed up like a
dog’s dinner, why, right off I thought she was headed to that swank party at Deer Park House. Took several fares there from other parts of town. So I was a mite s‘prised when she said the Black Cat. Course, like I tol’ ’er, I couldn’t get to the pub’s door. There’s that roadworks out in front. Gone now, but it was a mess for a couple days, cars detourin’ and business at the pub a shambles, and how she could walk in them high heels—” He shook his head, and that was all.

  It was on the way to the train that Cummins told Jury about Chris. “It happened in London, Sloane Square. There are a lot of zebra crossings there, and drivers just bloody hate them. You can’t assume they’re going to stop. Chris doesn’t assume, she insists. Pedestrians have the right of way, after all, so Chris just walks right on. Well, she did it this time, and the car didn’t or maybe couldn’t stop. It was going at a good clip. He hit Chris. But he did stop and call for an ambulance, so it wasn’t a hit-and-run. He got nicked for it, huge fine and served some time. The thing is, Chris was pregnant and she had a miscarriage.”

  “God. How awful.”

  “Worse, we can’t have kids now.” He sighed and pulled up to the station. “Why can’t drivers see that car crashes can be absolute bloody hell?”

  Jury thought of Lu.

  “We got a fairly hefty settlement out of it.” Wanly, he smiled.

  “Does that explain the shoe collection?”

  “Oh, no. Or not wholly. Chris’s family had money, quite a bit. She was always indulged, being the only child: nannies, good schools—that pricey one on the coast—and when she left there she could have gone to Oxford, Cambridge, you name it, but she chose not to. Instead, she married me.” Bleakly, he smiled. “Some trade-off, right?”