No Cats Allowed

by Miranda James

  “Almost certainly,” I said, “if what I suspect is true. But I’ve got to keep digging.”

  “Dig away,” Stewart said. “And if there’s anything we can do to help, just name it.”

  “If you could keep Diesel entertained for the next three hours, that would help,” I said, eyeing the feline by my feet. Inevitably, when I tried my hardest to focus on something, he decided that was when he needed immediate attention. As much as I loved him, I could do without that kind of distraction for a while.

  “No problem,” Stewart said. “Dante will be ecstatic. We’ll take them both upstairs and let them play.”

  “Thanks.” I rose. “I’ll make it up to you later and clear the table before I go to bed, if you’ll leave it all for me.”

  “Don’t even think about it,” Haskell said. “I’m taking care of it tonight.”

  I didn’t protest any further, simply thanked them again, and hurried to the den. I got the laptop set up, pulled out the files and put them on the desk, and got to work.

  I went through the folders and pulled out the purchase orders and invoices for GER. I discovered that the original licensing of their products occurred thirteen years ago, under the tenure of the director before Peter. She had been the library director when I was in college, and by the time she retired, she had to be around eighty, I guessed. She was an institution in herself, but I had heard that the last few years she had only a slender grasp on things, and the associate director, long since departed for a job elsewhere, had actually run the library.

  There was no list of titles with the invoices, only a single line-item consisting of the name of the collection. The GER Science and Math Collection. The renewal date each year fell on December fifteenth. I paid particular attention to the most recent renewal and noted that the purchase order wasn’t actually submitted until the second week of January. It bore Peter’s signature, or to be more accurate, what looked like his signature, and a date of January thirteenth.

  It must have been one of the last items he approved before he left, I supposed.

  I went back through the folders and pulled out the purchase orders he had approved for the items that had put the library so overbudget.

  There were five in all, various collections of journal back files and one new e-book collection. The total was just over half a million dollars.

  Peter had scrawled his name on each one, and they all bore the same date, January thirteenth. I checked the calendar on my computer. January thirteenth was a Monday.

  Was that the last day Peter was in the office? I couldn’t remember.

  I knew who would, however. I picked up my cell phone and speed-dialed Melba.

  “Sorry to bother you at home,” I said. “I’ve got a question for you. Do you remember the last day you saw Peter in the office?”

  “I sure do,” she said. “It was a Friday, January tenth. I remember telling him to have a great weekend. He actually smiled at me and said he planned to. He said he’d tell me all about it on Monday, but then he never showed up again.” She paused. “Why did you need to know?”

  “Just curious,” I replied nonchalantly. “I was thinking about him, and I couldn’t remember exactly when it was he left. I took the first half of January off, as you recall.”

  “Yes, you missed all the excitement of those first few days,” she said. “I was never so surprised in all my life. Peter never seemed the kind to just up and vamoose like that.”

  “No, he didn’t,” I said. “I can’t remember, did he leave a note? Or an e-mail?”

  “E-mail,” she said. “To the president, and he copied me on it, too.”

  “Do you recall exactly what it said?”

  “Let me think.” Melba was quiet for a good twenty seconds. “Yes, he said, ‘Sorry I screwed things up, consider this my resignation.’”

  “That was it?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Melba said. “I was surprised there wasn’t more detail. He didn’t even leave me a forwarding address for his personal mail. I’ve actually got a handful of letters from friends of his, and I don’t know what to do with them. I keep thinking he might get in touch with me to ask me to send them on to him, but so far he hasn’t. I tried calling his cell phone, too, but he never answered. The most recent time, I got a message that it wasn’t a working number. Strange.”

  Definitely strange. I looked at the purchase orders Peter had supposedly signed three days after he left the library.

  I suddenly had a feeling that Peter might not have gone voluntarily.

  THIRTY-THREE

  “And you know another strange thing?” Melba said. “Well, not exactly strange, I guess, but a little unusual.”

  I wasn’t really paying attention. My mind was racing over the possibilities. Could Peter be dead?

  “. . . Margie at the grocery store on the way home, and you should have seen the ring she was wearing. I’ve never been so envious in my life. Gorgeous blue stone.”

  I knew if I didn’t get out of this conversation now, I’d be on the phone for a good twenty minutes.

  “Sorry, Melba, I heard a beep. Somebody’s trying to call me. I’d better take it.”

  “Okay, I’ll tell you the rest in the morning.”

  “Sure thing.” I ended the call and set the phone down.

  I heard Melba’s voice repeating Peter’s message: Sorry I screwed things up, consider this my resignation.

  Had it been Peter who caused the problems?

  I wondered.

  I looked through a year’s worth of purchase orders. Odd how Peter’s signature got so bad only within the last month or so before he left.

  What about the date under the signature?

  January thirteenth. Anybody could get confused and write the wrong date. I had done it often enough myself.

  But just as often I wrote the day’s date without even thinking about it. Especially if I were writing a number of checks, for example, or holiday cards. I didn’t think twice about it, simply wrote the date and went on.

  Perhaps the person who signed those purchase orders on Monday the thirteenth of January had done the same thing without realizing it.

  I had no real proof, but I was convinced that Peter had not signed those documents, not when he didn’t show up to work that day.

  What about the date the purchase orders were created?

  I picked up the documents in question and examined them.

  They all bore the same date, January twelfth. The day before Peter supposedly signed them. A Sunday.

  Peter didn’t create purchase orders that I was aware of. I would have to check that with Melba, but I was pretty sure I was correct in this. I found a notepad and jotted that down. I would probably have a number of questions for Melba before I was done thinking this through.

  Peter left in the middle of a pay period, I realized. What had happened to his final paycheck? He rarely took vacation time, so his final check would have included his regular salary along with payment for unused vacation. That would have been a pretty hefty check.

  Where was it sent? And was it ever cashed or deposited?

  More questions for my list, but how could I get answers? I couldn’t simply call the payroll office and ask.

  Perhaps Penny Sisson could find out the answers for me. Good idea, Charlie. I dashed off a quick e-mail to her, saying I was trying to tie up loose ends with the budget. Since Peter’s salary was part of the library budget, I thought it was a pretty legitimate request if I went through Penny. I also asked whether she had any kind of forwarding address for him, or the address of a next of kin. I mentioned personal mail that needed to be sent to him.

  What about Peter’s house? His car? Surely he wouldn’t have abandoned his house? He would want to sell it or at least rent it if he was leaving town for good.

  I found a popular real estate website an
d searched for houses for sale or rent in Athena. I remembered Peter’s address because I had been there several times for holiday parties.

  No listing for it on the real estate site. That didn’t mean it wasn’t for sale or rent, though. Peter could have handled it privately, or it could already have sold or been rented.

  One way to find out, but I felt slightly foolish. Should I jump in the car and drive to Peter’s house? What might I find? No, I shouldn’t do that. It was crazy. Exactly the kind of thing Helen Louise, Sean, and Laura would tell me not to do.

  You don’t have to go alone. There’s a sheriff’s deputy upstairs.

  Would Haskell and Stewart think I had lost my mind if I asked them to go with me?

  One way to find out.

  All the way up to the third floor I debated with myself. Had my imagination run completely away with me? Was I seeing murder where there was none?

  Peter was probably enjoying the sun in California right now. He had lived there for many years, and that would be where he’d want to go, I felt sure.

  If he isn’t dead.

  I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong.

  Could I convince Haskell and Stewart to go along with this?

  I paused on the third floor to catch my breath after my hurried climb. I almost turned back, feeling foolish again, but then I took a deep breath and approached Stewart’s door.

  I had to knock a couple of times, because it sounded like they were watching a movie with car crashes. Finally one of them heard, and Haskell came to open the door. He stood aside and motioned for me to enter the dim sitting room.

  Stewart turned down the volume on the television set and froze the movie mid-scene. He then rose from the sofa and turned on more lights.

  “Where are Diesel and Dante?” I asked when I realized I couldn’t see them.

  “They’re snuggled up on the bed,” Stewart said. “Neither one of them cares for action movies, and they wore themselves out playing earlier.”

  “I’ll get Diesel for you,” Haskell said.

  “No, not yet,” I said. “Actually, I need to talk to you both about something. Would you mind?”

  “Of course not,” Stewart said, and Haskell nodded. He pulled up a chair for me and then joined Stewart on the sofa. Stewart leaned against him.

  “I don’t want you to think I’m nuts,” I said, “but I think there might have been another murder, a couple of months ago.”

  “What? Who? Who was murdered?” Stewart jerked upright.

  “I think maybe Peter Vanderkeller,” I said.

  “Wasn’t he the head of the library?” Haskell said. “The one who just up and quit one day?”

  I nodded. “Yes. Except that I’m not so sure he left voluntarily. I’m afraid someone else arranged his departure.”

  “Why do you think so?” Haskell asked.

  After a moment to marshal my thoughts, I gave them a summary of what little evidence I had. It didn’t amount to a lot, except speculation, a series of ifs, but I couldn’t get over my uneasy feeling.

  “What are you going to do about it?” Stewart asked when I’d finished.

  “Go to Kanesha at some point,” I said. “I don’t want to talk to her about it yet, though, because it’s all rather tenuous.”

  “You have some plan in mind, though, don’t you?” Haskell asked.

  I nodded. “I thought about going to Peter’s house to see if it’s inhabited. If someone is living there, I can ask them if they bought it or are renting and see if they have any information on where Peter is now. If it’s empty, well, that could be evidence of a sort that I’m right.”

  “Or that he simply walked away from his life here and didn’t look back,” Stewart said.

  “No, I don’t think so,” I said. “Peter had a thing about money. He was frugal, and I can’t imagine him abandoning his house without trying to get at least some of his money back out of it.”

  “Good point. Since neither of us knew him, we’ll have to take your word for that.” Stewart rose from the sofa and tugged at Haskell’s arm.

  “Why are you doing that?” Haskell frowned.

  “Because you don’t think we’re going to let Charlie go by himself, do you? Come on, Mr. Deputy, and bring your gun.” Stewart grinned and batted his eyelashes at his partner.

  Haskell stared at him for a moment, and I thought he was going to refuse. Then he, too, rose. “What are we going to do with the kids?”

  “They can come with us,” I said. “Diesel is used to riding in the car.”

  “I’ll go get them.” Stewart left the room and came back moments later with Dante in his arms. Diesel yawned as he padded behind Stewart.

  Five minutes later we were all in my car. Stewart sat in the back with the animals, and Haskell was in the front passenger seat. He had strapped on his holster and gun, and I was glad he was with us.

  Peter’s house was in a neighborhood about a ten-minute drive away on the other side of town. A newer development, it had been built in the 1980s. The houses were large and on good-sized lots, though some had since been torn down and larger houses built in their place.

  Daylight saving time wasn’t for another week yet, and it was getting pretty dark by the time we reached Peter’s house. I parked on the street in front. I cracked the windows for Diesel and Dante, and we locked them in. Dante barked until Stewart shushed him. Diesel meowed along with the dog, but he quieted when Dante did.

  The house was set back from the street and obscured mostly from view by a high hedge and several trees. We walked up the driveway until we were even with the hedge, and I saw there were a couple of lights on inside. We paused but saw no signs of activity in the house.

  “Good evening,” a voice called from behind us. “If you’re looking for Mr. Vanderkeller, I haven’t seen him around lately.”

  We turned to see an older man, probably in his seventies, walking a large German shepherd on a leash.

  “Good evening,” I said, and introduced myself. “I used to work with Peter, and I hadn’t heard from him in a while. My friends and I thought we’d drop by and see how he’s doing.”

  The elderly man didn’t introduce himself. “He’s always kept to himself. Never has been much for talking to his neighbors.” The dog whined, no doubt having scented, or heard, Diesel and Dante in the car not far away. “Quiet, Schnitzel,” he said.

  “So you haven’t seen him lately?” Stewart asked.

  I looked around for Haskell and didn’t see him. Where had he got to? Then I spotted him lurking behind the hedge. I figured he didn’t want to risk the neighbor seeing his gun. Good idea. The old gentleman might go home and call the police if he saw a man with a gun.

  “No, sure haven’t.” The man scratched the side of his nose. “Reckon the last time wasn’t long after New Year’s Day. Saw him putting his garbage out one morning when Schnitzel and I were walking past.” He paused. “Come to think of it, haven’t even seen his car going in or out, either.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I said. “I guess we’ll go knock on the door and see if he’s home.”

  “I hope he’s all right,” the man said, suddenly sounding worried. “I guess I ought to’ve checked on him, but he’s always been so darn funny about that kind of thing.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Stewart said. “We’ll check on him. You and Schnitzel have a good evening.”

  We waited until he was about fifty feet down the walk before we joined Haskell on the other side of the hedge.

  “Were you checking out the house?” Stewart asked in a low tone.

  “Yes,” Haskell said, “and I’ve already called 911.”

  “Why?” Stewart and I asked in startled unison.

  “There’s a body hanging in the kitchen, and it’s been there for quite a while.”

  THIRTY
-FOUR

  Had I been a drinking man, I would have gone home that night and probably drunk an entire bottle of, well, something. As it was, I had to make do with a mug of warm milk and three aspirin.

  As I was the only person present who was acquainted well enough with Peter Vanderkeller, I was asked to provide a tentative identification.

  I say tentative because, well, Peter wasn’t in the best condition after hanging in the kitchen for two months. I was pretty sure it was him, but to be absolutely positive they would have to use his dental records, or something. There was a note with the words I’m sorry scrawled on them. Not much of a suicide note, and I didn’t believe it for a minute.

  For one thing, Peter wasn’t a tall man, and there was no chair or ladder anywhere close enough for him to stand on, in order to hang himself from the exposed beam like that. The killer hadn’t thought that one through.

  It would be a long time before I would be able to remember poor Peter without wanting to be ill in the bushes, the way I was that night.

  Last night, really, though mercifully it somehow seemed more distant this morning. I’d had only about five hours’ sleep, and I was up by five thirty trying to put the purchase orders and invoices back into their folders. I was going to hand them over to Kanesha later, along with a summary of my thoughts that led me to wonder about Peter and his whereabouts.

  The news of Peter’s death would not be released for several hours yet. Kanesha wanted time to investigate my suggested leads further before the announcement was made.

  I still wasn’t sure who had murdered Peter, or exactly why. Had he stumbled on the embezzlement and made the mistake of confronting the embezzler, who then decided the only way to avoid exposure was to kill Peter and make it look like he had committed suicide?

  I had another sip of coffee. One sticking point was the overspending. Those invoices, all from legitimate companies for legitimate resources—unlike those from Global Electronic Resources—were authentic, I felt sure. Checking with the companies concerned would show that, but the question was, who okayed the purchases and when had they asked for the invoices?