Danger in Cat World (Shawn Danger Mysteries Book 1)

by Nina Post

  “Print this painting, then take it as evidence.”

  Shawn left the tech and went over to a stunningly beautiful chest of drawers, made with birdseye maple, maple, and cherry. He knew his different woods – hardwoods, especially — thanks to his father, and marveled over the artistry for a moment, especially the eyes and swirls in the birdseye, which always made him think of tapioca. He opened every drawer in the chest and noted every pair of underwear, every pair of socks, every set of clothes, in a list in his notepad.

  He looked under everything that had space underneath. He opened every jewelry box and noted their contents. He noted every item in the laundry hamper, ignoring the patrol officers chortling in the background at him, and in the closet. He noted the teddy bear in the fireplace and everything in the bathroom, in the drawers or on the counters or the tub. None of the containers were full-sized, only travel-sized. He made a note of that on his pad.

  He specifically noted anything that had been damaged or disturbed, but really, he was looking for absolutely anything at all. He wanted an exhaustively thorough accounting of every single item, because it could turn out to be important later. You never knew.

  The master bed, within a four-post walnut canopy frame, had been slashed across the mattress with a knife. He made a note to check for a knife, as well, and to ask the techs if they could tell what size knife had been used (he expected their look to say Duh, but didn’t know if that would mean yes, of course, or no, that’s impossible). He checked the cherrywood side table on the right side of the bed. It had a beautiful glass lampshade with a dragonfly motif. Art nouveau style. He surprised himself, remembering that scrap of art history from college. Tiffany Studios?

  There were pieces of a small electronic object on the table. Shreds of paper from a gutted book were sprinkled over the table and floor. He would have one of the techs collect both of those things.

  A needlepoint table, probably antique, had been kicked over, one of the legs broken. There wasn’t anything on it. The table was for show, not use, or the heiress did needlepoint but had nothing in progress. Or there had been something on the table and taken. He made a note of that, too.

  He found passports and some papers in a slit in the bottom of the mattress. The passports — there were four of them with her name — were filled with stamps. The most recent stamp in the unexpired passport, dated two years earlier, was for Norway.

  When he finished there, he had the techs collect his list of things and double-check the bed. He made sure they had thoroughly checked the room for prints and fluids. Then he had one of the patrol officers bring him a large trash bag, which he used to collect all of the trash on the second floor.

  “Hey, Detective — you don’t have to do the housekeeping,” one of the patrol officers joked.

  Shawn went downstairs with the one bag filled with smaller bags, left it with one of the officers down on the first floor, who looked askance at it, then headed out to the side of the house to check the rubber bins. He took the full trash bag there and tied it.

  “Sir?” One of the patrol officers, Mitchell, seemed a little taken aback to find the lead detective pawing through the trash. “I found something in the backyard. Though it’s probably not called a backyard, house this big.”

  “What was it?” Shawn asked.

  “Well, I think it’s a tortoise.”

  “A tortoise. A real one?”

  Shawn waited for the smart-ass response, but the patrol officer didn’t look like he thought much of it and merely said, “Yeah, I found it by a little pond. Think you ought to come take a look yourself.”

  Shawn went out to the back field of trees, thickets of gardens, topiary in odd shapes, and a statue that looked similar to the little mermaid sculpture in Copenhagen. The patrol officer shined his flashlight at a bulky object near a small, fenced-in pond about the diameter of Shawn’s trampoline. Its legs were covered with stubby scales. Its mouth or beak was open. Shawn crouched down and touched it, then shook it slightly. He was no tortoise expert, but it seemed dead.

  “I want photo and video. Right now.”

  Mitchell spoke into his walkie and asked for someone with a camera and video. One of the techs ran out to them a minute later with the requested equipment.

  Shawn waited until he was happy with the amount of footage, and had the tech stay until he was sure he didn’t need him. He put on a pair of rubber gloves that he kept in his pocket, took out his penlight and held the beak — did you call it a beak? — as he reached into its mouth and felt around.

  After some dexterous manipulation that reminded him of the game Operation, Shawn slowly pulled out a wad of fabric and stared at it, working his tongue along the back of his teeth.

  “Found something else, sir.” Mitchell held up an object. Shawn looked up and saw a jacket, the sleeves ripped off, a gold school crest on the chest. He didn’t recognize the school. It must be in a different part of the state, or a different state.

  “I think I found one of its sleeves.” Shawn examined the damp, crusty, wrinkled fabric.

  “Was this the tortoise’s jacket?” Mitchell put his hands on his hips and looked around the expansive backyard. “Or,” he let out a breath through his mouth, “we got a missing kid on our hands, too?”

  Shawn shone the light on the crest. “It says Lyle. You ask me, though, this jacket belonged to the tortoise. Don’t ask me why.”

  “Ah, that’s a relief. Rich people, right?”

  “But I’ll have to have this tested right away to be sure.”

  “You think the animal was killed by the same person?”

  Shawn considered it. “Whoever did in this tortoise, if that was the case, was pissed off. Look at how the sleeves were ripped, and how one was stuffed down the beak. Seems to match the rage we saw in the bedroom, so there’s a pretty good chance it was the same person.”

  He felt a surge of excitement. It was entirely possible that if the same person had also killed this tortoise he had been lazy, and hadn’t bothered to cover his tracks as meticulously as he did at the house. This could be a good break.

  Shawn got to his feet. “Okay, let’s get a couple of techs down here. And the ME. She’s probably back at the office now, but maybe we can get her back here.”

  “Why?” Mitchell winced and rotated his arm, then rubbed his upper back.

  Shawn knew the feeling. Crime scene investigation didn’t tend to be ergonomic on the body. “She’s the ME. She knows everything about everything. Request the honor of her presence, please. And I want this pond dragged in case our perp tossed the weapon in there.”

  Mitchell nodded and radioed in. When the techs arrived, they grumbled, but took fiber samples from the jacket, both the vest section and the one sleeve.

  Shawn pointed. “Swab him. Or her.”

  “Seriously?” One of the techs looked up from his crouch.

  Shawn made a subtle change in expression that made the tech shut up and swab the inside of the tortoise’s mouth.

  Almost fifteen minutes later, the ME approached from the house.

  Shawn nodded to her. “Thanks for coming back. Can you sex this tortoise?”

  One of the techs gasped, but Dr. Evans smiled and strapped on a new pair of gloves as though she relished the opportunity. “Absolutely.” She crouched down by the tortoise and ran a hand over its shell. “Beautiful shell. This one has been tended by an owner its entire natural life — you can tell by the lack of rings.”

  Shawn made eye contact with the patrol officer as though to say, ‘See? She knows everything.’

  “As for the sex.” She felt around the neck. “Male tortoises’ neck plates tend to protrude, but the most straightforward way of sexing the tortoise is to just check its tail.” She moved her hand. “If it’s longer and to the side of the shell, it’s probably a male.” She felt around. “I’d say it’s a male, around fifty years old,” everyone raised an eyebrow, “and that he suffered a non-natural death, but I’d have to do an autopsy to b
e sure.”

  “You can autopsy a tortoise?” Shawn asked.

  “Yep. It’s called a necropsy. That makes you happy, doesn’t it?” The ME grinned, then fixed her eyes back on the tortoise and made a sympathetic expression. “Poor thing. It must have been her pet.”

  “Whose pet?”

  “The woman who lives here. The paper heiress.”

  “Paper. Huh. What else do you know about it?”

  She shrugged. “Not a lot. Husband’s family, goes back a long time. She had millions at one point, after the husband died. I don’t mean a few million, which is nothing to sneeze at, but many millions. Still had it, far as I know.” She flashed a bemused expression at the mansion looming in front of them. “Don’t know why she stayed here, when she could have lived anywhere in the world. The house is in good condition, so she must have been able to sustain the upkeep. It’s an unusual house, from, I believe, 1891, and built somewhat in the Richardsonian Romanesque style, but in a peculiar, arguably unique way.”

  Sounded like a good match for his victim, the paper heiress. “Did the husband get autopsied?”

  “Yes, but it wasn’t me. That was right before I took the job, probably.”

  “Would she have given the tortoise his own room?”

  The ME tilted her head. “A house this gargantuan? That’s very possible. A tortoise would have to be outside most of the time, for the vitamin B, and it must have had a burrow here somewhere,” she did a quick visual sweep of the back gardens, “but yes, it’s possible. Why?”

  “That kid’s room, with the green wallpaper. Maybe that’s actually the tortoise’s room.”

  The morgue assistants came down and took the tortoise’s body out to the van, and Shawn walked the ME out to her car. “We’ll get the tortoise over to the vet and I’ll see if I can get the necropsy scheduled right after our lady’s autopsy.”

  A lot of his time was spent observing autopsies, but this would be his first necropsy, and to have both in one day? He was one lucky detective.

  When he got back in the house through those massive front doors, he headed left, first through a blue, gray, and white room with polished oak floors, a black grand piano in the right corner, an elaborately handcarved fireplace with a cast iron interior, a candelabrum, and large windows with shutters. On a rosewood center table was a silver and gold tea caddy, along with a pitcher, which also had a little copper in it. All this, right in the middle of a little town. The patrol officers and techs were scattered through the rooms.

  The next room was a huge library, all high ceilings, dark wood, and dark red, gold, and blue leather book spines, with rolling ladders and balconies. At his left was a huge stone fireplace with brass andirons. In the domed ceiling was a hand-painted orrery, which must have cost an eviscerating fortune, and in the center of the room was a mind-blowing round table, expertly crafted by what looked like a thousand elves, with several types of inlaid wood.

  Ahead of him between shelves was a tall, leaded glass memorial window, with lilies and a tortoise. Underneath the window was an oak table with a carved flower motif.

  Next was what looked like a den, and a bathroom off to the side, both with fireplaces. There were mosaics and woodwork, crystal decanters, brass and silver. Gleaming, burnished surfaces. Hand-painted ceilings with detail plasterwork.

  Was she here by herself? It was palatial. And it must have kept at least several people busy as bees. People he needed to speak to, and soon.

  They had a fireplace in his house, growing up. His father chopped the wood outside, then made him come and take over while he watched, arms crossed, seeming to enjoy how terrified Shawn was, at nine or ten years old. Then his old man would build the fire and stab the iron poker at the embers, making the fire sizzle and pop while he yelled at Shawn’s mother about how he kept the family clothed and fed (barely) so he could stay out as late as he wanted, drink how much he wanted, play as much cards as he wanted. Et cetera, et cetera. Basically, he did what he wanted, everyone else be damned.

  Shawn stopped and turned back, crossing back over the front hall and through a dining room, which had a long mahogany table with perfectly aligned chairs made of carved ebony and mahogany, and a serving table, made of — he leaned down for a closer look — ebony, mahogany, copper, and silver inlaid throughout. The wood in the house was incredible. The Sylvains had kept mahogany loggers in business, that was for sure.

  The frieze, etched lamp globes, and two big stained glass window panels all had a tortoise motif. A silver serving set rested on a burled walnut cabinet with drawers for linens and silverware.

  The stone-floored kitchen featured double ranges, ample cooking surfaces, a butcher block island and copper pans in a circle of iron hanging above it. Shawn remembered his father grabbing a frying pan like one of those — though theirs weren’t copper — and chasing him around their kitchen with it. But he was one of the luckier ones of some kids he knew— his Dad just liked to threaten them, for the most part. Shawn stepped around the island then crouched down to look at some things on the floor. A magnetic notepad, a few basic round magnets. He checked the refrigerator. No magnets, but there was a long knife magnet on the counter. Odd — like they all fell off.

  Off the kitchen was a large pantry and storage room, where he took a few clear plastic sandwich bags and put them in his pocket in case he saw anything the techs had missed. A small mudroom was off to the side, and a door leading to the carriage house on the right, on the south end of the house.

  Shawn stepped outside again, crossing the stone path to the carriage house, which was of the same brownstone material as the house, and had the same tile roof. It was like a miniature version of the main house. The early morning air was gentler now, not as bracing. A robin was going nuts, singing, trying to find a mate.

  The first floor of the carriage house had been converted into a tidy apartment, with a bedroom, a bathroom, and a small sitting area. All throughout the second floor was bulky furniture and equipment covered with canvas. Shawn lifted up a couple of the covers and felt like he was peeking under women’s skirts.

  He looked out the window toward the main house and the back acreage and gardens, and wondered why the tortoise was in the place they had found him. Had he been outside already? Didn’t they sleep in a burrow, like the ME said? Or was the tortoise in his room, then carried out? No, they wouldn’t carry a tortoise. Wouldn’t they have to put it in something first? He pictured a tortoise driving a little car, then pictured it driving into a tiny garage.

  Shawn returned to the main house and went up to what he previously thought was a child’s room on the second floor, passing a few patrol officers and techs. Upon a second inspection of the room, he confirmed that there were no clothes in the closet other than four matches of the jacket they found at the pond.

  The bathroom had an extra-large, round ceramic tub, with a scrubbing brush and a hot water bottle on the side. A water-resistant radio hung from a hook in the wall, and on the sink were a nail brush and soap and moisturizing lotion dispensers. He dropped the nail brush in one of the sandwich bags and labeled it with a Sharpie pen.

  He looked through the tall oak bureau in the bedroom. In the top drawer were two slim leather photo albums, each with an embossed tortoise in the center — man, these people really had a thing with tortoises. Every single photo in the book was of the tortoise, from when it was the size of a quarter to its current full size. When it was small, the style of the photographer was completely different, then someone else took over. The film changed, too — from the sharp black-and white photos taken in the early sixties to the faded pink-and-orange Kodak film of the seventies and on through part of the twenty-first century.

  Eventually, the heiress started to appear in the photos with the tortoise, which made sense. The tortoise was fifty, so of course the heiress wasn’t the tortoise’s only owner through its whole life up to its demise near one of the back gardens.

  He flipped through the rigid pages. In some, the tor
toise was outside, dandelion weeds sticking out of its beak. In others, he was in the house, on the limestone or oak floors. In one, the heiress was wearing a lab coat, big black glasses on, hair tied back. She was crouched down, knees together, one slim arm out, her palm placed on the tortoise’s shell. In that one, she was actually smiling, revealing even white teeth. A nice smile. Shawn lingered on it for a moment.

  In another, she was in one of the gardens, wearing jeans, tall rubber boots, and a cream-colored honeycomb wool sweater. She was photographed mid-laugh, holding a fistful of weeds by the tortoise’s open beak. She seemed carefree, like she was truly enjoying herself. Almost a different person from the one he saw in photos with her husband.

  There were three photos of the tortoise with a man in his thirties, crouched beside Lyle outside, a tight look around the eyes and bow-shaped mouth as he looked into the camera and smiled slightly, reluctantly.

  He would find out who this was.

  Shawn put the album back in the drawer the way he found it. On his way out, his attention was caught on a TV set in the corner. He knelt in front of it. The TV was small, fifties style, bulbous gray glass in a square wood cabinet. It had an attached device, an old cartridge system. Shawn pressed the power button on the TV and it took a while to warm up, so long that he checked his watch.

  A few minutes later, the screen glowed with faint light. Nothing appeared. He took one of the cartridges from a basket and pushed it into the slot on the console. The screen changed to a scene of birds in a verdant garden. And that was it. Birds flying around in a garden, with sound. Comet would sniff at this, given the picture. Comet was spoiled with watching birds on a flat-screen LCD HDTV, with LED backlighting.

  Shawn knew that if anyone on the squad or any of the patrol officers or the techs were watching him right now, he would never hear the end of it.

  Shawn Danger, being weird again. If weird was responsible for his high solve rate, he didn’t care. He would do whatever it took to get a solve. And that always required more work, on top of the weird. More looking, more digging, more talking. He would use his own money if he had to. He would drive out of state if necessary. He would turn on a weird fifties TV. He would ask the ME to sex a tortoise. He would itemize dirty laundry. He would paw through trash.