I hung my head in shame. Here I was, supposedly the older, wiser one and yet Makayla was straightening me out. “You’re right. I’ll talk to him today.”
We both turned as the shop’s doorbells jingled. A middle-aged man wearing cutoffs and a short-sleeve T-shirt with paint stains blew in with the wind, a mix of the humid summer’s breath and angry ozone assaulting our noses. “Whew, sure is blowin’ up a storm out there,” he commented. “Weatherman says it’ll be short-lived, though. Thought I’d come in to get some coffee and ride it out before gettin’ back to work.”
Makayla jumped up and moved toward the counter. “I, for one, love a good hard rain. It always seems to cool things down and make everything seem new and fresh again,” she said to the man. Only I knew what she was really getting at: My friend was trying to tell me that every relationship has its cloudy days. I knew, however, that I was mostly to blame for this stormy patch in my relationship with Sean. I’d have to set things straight soon, before it was too late.
Chapter 10
Later that Tuesday, at five thirty sharp, Vicky and I pulled in front of Fannie’s house. Already the place had an empty feeling. The overgrown lawn was bending under the stress of the heat, neglected flowers drooped sadly, and lifeless windows stared out toward the street like grief-stricken eyes begging for Fannie to come back.
Vicky looked at the house and sighed. “Thanks for asking Detective Griffiths to meet us. I guess I do feel better knowing he’ll be here.”
“Me, too,” I agreed, turning my eyes from the gloomy house and focusing instead on the myriad of cat items that filled the backseat of Vicky’s Prius. “Did you get this stuff at All Creatures, Feathered and Furry?” The quaint pet shop had opened a couple of months ago just a few blocks down from the agency. What was once a dilapidated mechanic’s garage was fully renovated and housed over two thousand square feet of every pet item imaginable. The new owners had even put an adorable paw-print awning over the front entrance and stamped the floors with cat and dog paw prints. I didn’t own a pet, but I’d ducked in a few times on my lunch hour to play with the adorable puppies that frolicked in the back room.
Vicky’s eyes followed mine to the backseat. “Yes, I shopped there on my lunch break. Do you think I got enough? I want Eliot to feel comfortable in his new home.”
I eyed the three-story cat house that doubled as a scratching post, what must have been a fifty-pound bag of kitty kibble, and enough cat toys to stock Cats “R” Us, if such a store actually existed. “I think you’ve got it covered,” I assured her.
Just then, Sean’s dark blue Ford Explorer pulled in front of us. We exited Vicky’s car and joined him on the curb, exchanging a few pleasantries before tentatively following his lead up the walk. “How are you doing today, Ms. Crump?” he asked as he keyed into the front door. So far, he’d been playing it pretty cool with me.
“Better. Thank you, Detective,” she replied, shooting me a quizzical look. Apparently, the tension between Sean and me was noticeable.
“Eliot!” Vicky called as soon as we’d made our way inside. From where we stood in the foyer, I had a full view of the formal living room and admired its partially exposed beams, large sash windows, and a magnificent paneled fireplace. It was nicely decorated with heavy, upholstered, button-tufted furniture that seemed to suit the home’s style. Fannie’s house was a turn-of-the-century colonial, with clean simple lines and walls painted in soft colors that decorators would describe with fancy names like daffodil yellow, porcelain blue, and muted taupe.
“Eliot! Here kitty, kitty,” Sean echoed. When no response was heard, we moved down the hall and through a modern kitchen to a well-appointed formal dining room and a comfortable family room. This must have been Doc Walker’s favorite room; it was decorated with a masculine flair and lined with overstuffed bookshelves. Sets of bound books, in mahogany leather and gold lettering, their spines cracked with age, beckoned to me, when I heard something. If my ears were hearing correctly, it was also Eliot’s favorite spot in the house. I turned about, trying to pinpoint a faint rustling noise. Finally, a very robust, orange cat popped out from behind a navy blue leather recliner.
“Well, hello there,” I cooed. He was wide-eyed and twitchy-whiskered, probably scared to death after being alone for a couple of days. I bent and held out my hand and he immediately rubbed against it. “What a fine fellow,” I said, stroking his soft ginger-colored fur and admiring a bushy tail that reminded me of a feather duster. I scratched along his fat cheeks, noticing that the plush creamy tufts of fur under his chin coordinated perfectly with his cream-colored socks and stripes.
“Isn’t he a handsome guy?” Vicky said, tucking her skirt around her folded legs as she joined me on the floor. Eliot alternately rubbed against us, obviously enjoying the attention. “Fannie named him for the poet George Eliot. Who was really a woman, you know?”
I nodded, remembering that George Eliot was the pseudonym for Mary Ann Evans. “I love her work.”
Vicky sighed. “So did Fannie. Her favorite, of course, was her piece titled ‘Roses.’” She picked up Eliot, pulling him firmly against her chest and began uttering lines from the poem, “‘You love the roses—so do I. I wish / The sky would rain down roses …’” Her voice broke. “I miss her, too, Eliot,” I heard her whisper to the cat.
Sean cleared his throat. “We should be going,” he said, his eyes landing on mine for a second, but quickly moving away. Vicky stood, with a content Eliot in her arms, and started to follow Sean. I lingered for a second, taking one last look at the family room. Everything looked as if Fannie had left a few minutes ago: a throw blanket bunched on the end of the sofa, a cold cup of tea with a lipstick stain on the rim on the end table along with the television remote and a vase of browning flowers. Across the room, next to the fireplace, was a small card table set up with a jigsaw puzzle, the edge completed and one corner pieced together. A collection of framed photos on the fireplace mantel caught my eye and I crossed the room to inspect them closer.
“Lila,” Sean prodded. I looked over my shoulder to see him and Vicky waiting for me on the other side of the room.
“Just a sec,” I replied, squinting at the photos. Most of them were of young children, some smiling and waving to the camera, others with more sullen expressions. “Who are all these kids?” I asked Vicky.
“Those were Fannie’s kids,” she informed me.
I glanced back at the photos, noting that many were of different ethnic backgrounds. “Her kids?”
Vicky chuckled. “Well, that’s what she called them. Fannie never actually had children of her own. Instead she devoted her life to helping kids stuck in the foster care system find their forever families.”
“She was a social worker?”
“That’s right,” she affirmed. “And those are just a few of the kids she’s helped over the years.”
“Incredible.” I scanned the photos one more time. Somehow, seeing these photos put a face to something I’d thought about only abstractly. How rewarding—and heartbreaking—Fannie’s job must have been.
“Let’s go, Lila,” Sean called again from across the room.
“Okay,” I mumbled, picking up one of the frames for a closer look. A picture of a pigtailed girl with freckles and plump, pinch-worthy cheeks caught my attention. It was something about the eyes. I looked closer, noting her corduroy jumper and Peter Pan collar blouse meant the photo was taken sometime in the mid to late ’70s. Still, those eyes …
“We need to go now,” Sean repeated, impatience creeping into his tone.
Then it dawned on me. I was looking at a young version of Flora Merriweather! Stunned, I fumbled as I replaced the frame, knocking over several others. I quickly righted them before turning to follow Sean and Vicky back through the house.
I decided not to mention anything to Vicky or Sean. The photo could mean anything, after all. Still, was it possible that Flora had once been one of Fannie’s kids? If so, no wonder she’d been acti
ng so unlike her normal self. But why didn’t she mention anything about it after Fannie’s murder?
“Do you think you can get Eliot home okay on your own?” I asked Vicky once we were back outside.
“Of course. We’ll be just fine, won’t we, Eliot?” she said, snuggling him again before loading him into a plastic cat carrier and securing it in the passenger side of her car. She then scurried around and hopped in herself, seemingly eager to get the cat back to her apartment, or maybe just anxious to get away from the tension that still hovered between Sean and me.
I waved as she pulled away from the curb and then turned back to Sean. “My Vespa’s still at the agency. Give me a lift?” Ever since learning from Makayla about Sean and Trey’s argument, I’d been eager to set things straight. Now would be as good a time as any.
He nodded, his expression softening a bit as he motioned toward his SUV. Once inside, he turned the key, releasing a blast of cold air and deafening music into the vehicle. “Sorry,” he said, adjusting the volume of both before turning toward me. “I swear someone sneaks in here when it’s parked and turns up all the knobs. The radio never sounds that loud when I’m driving around.”
I giggled, glad for a little break in the unease between us. “I know what you mean. Must be mischievous fairies or something.”
“How about we pick up your Vespa and then I follow you home, we drop it off, then we go grab a bite to eat?”
My lips eased into a smile. I felt lighter than I had for days. “I’d like that.”
We rode the short distance back to Novel Idea in silence. I wanted to bring up the subject of Damian York, but I thought it better to hold off until we were actually at the restaurant. Safety in numbers, as they say.
After getting my Vespa at work, I drove back to my place, Sean following closely behind in his Explorer. While driving, I rehearsed a dozen different ways to bring up the touchy subject of Damian. By the time I reached my street, however, I decided honesty was the best approach. I’d simply reassure Sean that there was nothing between Damian and me, and hope for the best.
Only, those hopes were dashed when I pulled up to my house and found Damian’s sleek rental parked at my curb. I pulled in behind it, cut the engine to my scooter, and tentatively scanned the yard.
“Whose vehicle is this?” Sean asked the minute he climbed out of his own vehicle.
I stammered for a response, but his question was answered when Damian walked around the side of my house, looking exceptionally handsome in dark jeans and a simple button-down white shirt. Next to me, Sean tensed, his muscles balling up as if he was going to spring forward at any moment.
“There you are, Lila!” Damian said, joining us on the curb. “I hope you don’t mind my stopping by, but I got to thinking about all that you and Franklin are doing for my book launch and I wanted to do something to repay you.” He tapped the clipboard in his hand. “Thought I’d sketch out some easy landscaping ideas for you. After seeing your place the other night, I thought you might appreciate some help.”
Sean’s head snapped between Damian and me. “The other night?”
I cringed at Damian’s unfortunate choice of wording. “Damian, this is my boyfriend, Sean Griffiths. Sean, Damian York.”
They shook hands, sizing each other up. The little muscle in Sean’s jaw started twitching. Not a good sign. “Didn’t you notice the crime scene tape, buddy?”
Damian’s eyes slid toward the tape as he casually shrugged. “I only walked the edges and was careful not to disturb anything.”
A growl-like noise rumbled inside Sean’s throat.
“Hey, thanks for looking at my yard, Damian,” I said, grabbing Sean’s arm and steering him toward the Explorer. “I’d be happy to see your ideas later. Right now Sean and I have plans.”
“That’s okay, Lila,” Sean bit out. “You two go ahead. Discuss landscaping plans over dinner, why don’t you?” He shook off my hold and spun on his heel. “I’m heading back to the precinct. I’ve got work to do.”
“Sean, wait!” I called after him, but he kept going. Without looking back, he hopped into his Explorer and roared away.
Red-faced, I turned to Damian, trying to form an explanation for Sean’s irrational behavior. Surprisingly enough, there was no need. Damian, seemingly unfazed by Sean’s outburst and quick departure, launched into a spiel about sun and wind patterns and the advantage of indigenous plantings. He started walking the perimeter of the cordoned area as I took one last look at the now-empty street where Sean had blazed away. I sighed, then caught up with Damian, and we worked our way to the back of the house, where he paused to make a few planting suggestions. “As far as this area goes, I would start with a strong focal point, like maybe that maple there in the corner.” He pointed to the far end of the yard. “You could place a water feature, perhaps a small fountain, in front and surround it with a seasonal bed. Add a small table and chair and you’d have a great little outdoor reading nook.”
Damian’s suggestion brought a warm image to mind of me sitting with a book in hand and enjoying sounds of babbling water and buzzing bumblebees, finally pulling my heart away from the image of that empty street. I followed his gaze to the very spot where, just a few months ago, I’d started planting a few primroses before a trowel-wielding murderer threatened to deadhead me like a spent bloom. Perhaps converting the spot to something positive, like a mini reading retreat, would help erase those awful memories. “That would be perfect!”
“That’s what I’m all about—Perfect Outdoor Spaces.” He chuckled, then stopped and exhaled loudly. “That’s where the body was found, isn’t it?” He pointed toward the foundation of my home, where my hawthorn hedge had once concealed the remains of a forgotten young girl for over thirty years. A feeling of sadness settled between us.
“Yes, I’m afraid so.”
“So tragic. Do the police have any idea who she might be?”
I shook my head. “I don’t think so.” Truth was, if Sean hadn’t taken off like a wounded pup, I might have gotten a chance to ask him what progress had been made. Certainly since the status of the case had been updated to murder, they were investigating suspects. “My boyfriend’s on the case,” I explained. “But I haven’t had a chance to ask him about it. The only thing I know is that she’s been there for around thirty years.” Which reminded me that I still wanted to track down Peggy Cobb.
Damian’s shoulders sagged. “And all that time, no one knew.”
“Oh, someone knew, all right,” I corrected, a sense of injustice rising in me. “Her murderer.”
Chapter 11
I arrived late to the office Wednesday morning, wishing more than anything that I’d had time to pop into Espresso Yourself for my usual morning fix. After Damian finally left the evening before, I’d tried to call Sean, but was unable to reach him. I slept fitfully, tossing and turning through the night, only to fall into a sound sleep just before my alarm sounded. Now my brain felt as fuzzy as a midsummer peach.
Perhaps that’s why I hesitated in the reception area, blinking a few extra times, trying to decide if what I was seeing was real or simply a mirage induced by sleep deficiency. “There’s no way Bentley is going to let you keep him here,” I said, looking blurry-eyed at the sweet little bundle of orange fur curled on the reception room chair.
Vicky practically snorted from behind her desk. “I’ve already set her straight on the matter. And for your information, Ms. Burlington-Duke is quite enamored with our new agency mascot.”
“Mascot? Really?” It was difficult to see Bentley as a cat lover, considering she couldn’t even remember to water a houseplant let alone care for a pet. Then again, no doubt all duties involved in such care would fall to the ever-efficient Vicky anyway. Actually I loved the idea of the cute furry feline as a mascot for the agency. I bent over and ran my fingers between Eliot’s ears. There was something about books and cats that just seemed to go together in my mind. He stood and stretched, lifting his bushy tail high int
o the air and letting out a soft purr.
“Besides,” Vicky continued, “how could I leave Eliot alone after the loss he’s suffered?”
I nodded, remembering the semi-ruse I’d agreed on for Vicky: the three o’clock meeting with Damian and Franklin at Grant Walker’s place. There was also something else I wanted to do. “I’ll be leaving around eleven today, Vicky. I have an errand to run before my three o’clock with Franklin and Damian.” The night before, I’d popped in on one of my older neighbors, Mrs. Bailey, who’d lived on Walden Woods Circle since the early 1970s, and learned that Peggy Cobb was living in a residential home for seniors in Dunston. I wanted to stop by and pay Peggy a visit to see if she’d remembered any young women in the neighborhood years ago.
My mind flipped through my mental to-do list as I entered my office and settled in for work. I’d just turned on my computer when a soft knock sounded on my door. I looked up to find Franklin standing in my doorway. He appeared quite dapper in a lightweight blue and white striped seersucker suit, red dotted tie, and crisply ironed pinpoint shirt. What really caught my eye, though, was the Espresso Yourself cup in his hand. “I was just downstairs discussing decorating plans with Makayla. She sent this up. She was surprised you hadn’t stopped by yet, but thought you might need a little caramel fortitude to get you through the morning.”
I practically dove at the cup. “Bless her,” I mumbled before taking the first warm delicious sip.
“She is a wonderful girl, isn’t she?” Franklin commented, brushing at a few stray orange hairs that were clinging to his lapel. He must have already met the newest member of our literary team. “She and Jay have come up with a delightful decorating scheme for the signing and dinner. Damian is going to be so pleased. Speaking of which, will you need a ride this afternoon out to the Walker place?”
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