by Nina Post
“Yes, I am.” He had blue eyes, a round face, and a slight bow shape to his lips. Hiswas the one from Lyle’s photo album.
“Shawn Danger, Jamesville County Police Detective. Mind if we talk for a few minutes?”
“What’s this about?” Eyes narrowed in concern.
“I just have a few questions. Met your landlady, but I had to turn down her pumpkin bread.”
“Oh? That was surprisingly perspicacious of you. Unless you like spending a lot of time in the bathroom.”
Shawn chuckled and Vincent opened the door wider. His place was small: a kitchenette down at the far right, a twin bed behind a folding screen on the far left by a large plant and a double window with a built-in seat, a wheeled rack of clothes, and a chair next to a short bookshelf. A door half-open by the kitchenette, probably a bathroom. Behind Vincent was a small square table with two chairs against the wall. He gestured to one of them and took the other.
Shawn sat down in the chair facing the kitchen and noticed the row of party-size Doritos bags on top of the fridge, and an empty white cardboard box on the counter.
“How long have you lived here?” Shawn asked, affably.
“Two years,” Vincent spoke in a modulated, almost soft voice.
“The woman with the pumpkin bread, is this her place?”
“Mrs. Ross. Yes. She’s very nice.”
“I’m here to ask you some questions about Haviland Sylvain.”
“Ms. Sylvain? What about her?” Brows furrowing slightly.
“You work at her house, is that right?”
“Yes. Two years. Has something happened?”
“Two years? Where did you live before?”
“I lived up in Syracuse for a while.”
“Never been,” Shawn put his arm on the table, elbow down. Vincent would perceive it as a vulnerability and trust him more. He hoped. “How did you come to work for Ms. Sylvain?”
Vincent scratched his neck. “I just wanted a change of scenery and saw the job in the paper.”
“What was the job?”
“Mainly to read to her pet tortoise, Lyle.”
“That was your job,” Shawn said, “to read to the tortoise?”
Vincent nodded and crossed a leg. “And oversee his general care. Take him to the veterinarian. Give him baths. Order the salads with the food purchases, extricate him when he got stuck, which was pretty frequent – “
Shawn pictured the TV and console in the tortoise’s bedroom. “Tell me about the TV in the room.”
“In which room?” Head tilted, brow tight again.
“Lyle’s room.”
“The TV with the attached console?”
Shawn nodded once, got up as though to stretch, then wandered around the apartment.
“That’s for Lyle to watch when he’s in there.”
Shawn could sense Vincent’s anxiety. He didn’t want Shawn looking around his place. “You know, to keep him entertained. Ms. Sylvain didn’t want him to be bored.”
“And why is the TV so old?” Shawn peered out the window, like he was just restless. “She has money. Why wouldn’t she update the equipment?”
Vincent gave Shawn a quizzical look. “I don’t know. I guess she didn’t feel that newer equipment would be necessary for a tortoise. I’m sorry, why are you here?”
Shawn ignored that, and paused in front of an inexpensive wood folding table. “But the tortoise had its own room. Its own bathroom. Its own bed.” On top of the table was a wood music box. He raised the top. Inside was the music box assembly and a ring. He took out the opal ring inside.
“Yes.” Shawn could tell from the tightness in Vincent’s voice that he desperately wanted to ask what Shawn was doing but didn’t want to call attention to it.
“Since Ms. Sylvain went to that extent to care for the tortoise, why wouldn’t she want a better TV screen for him, too? Only the best for Lyle, right?”
Shawn put the ring back and closed the box. It was a beautifully crafted piece of work, with tongue-in-groove construction and inlaid mother-of-pearl, ebony, copper, and silver. Another early twentieth-century piece. It didn’t belong in the apartment any more than that slim chair and silver tea caddy belonged in Carolyn’s place.
“I have no idea.” Shawn knew he was driving his host nuts. He came back to the table to calm Vincent down, waited a moment, then asked, “What were you doing last night?”
“When last night?”
“Between,” Shawn pretended to think about it, “one a.m. to four a.m.?”
“Sleeping, of course.”
“Here?”
“Yes. Where else would I sleep?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Shuttle. Let’s go back a little. How about, say, nine p.m. to four a.m.?
He sighed. “After nine, I was here, watching some TV. Until I went to bed.”
“Can anyone else speak for your whereabouts? Mrs. Ross, perhaps?”
Vincent smiled shyly and lowered his eyes for a second. “No, I’m afraid not. I usually don’t worry about having proof of sleeping alone. Imagine the effort it would take us singles to corroborate our sleep every night.”
“And when did you last see Haviland Sylvain?”
“What? Why?”
“Just answer the question, please?”
“Has something happened? Why are you asking me that?”
Shawn just looked at him.
Vincent took a breath and gathered himself. “Um…early yesterday morning.”
“Wednesday.”
“Yes. Ms. Sylvain came down for her breakfast in the dining room.”
“Did you see Carolyn Lewis?”
Vincent switched legs and leaned back in the chair. “Yes, she was in the kitchen. I went out to the back and found Lyle stuck in the garden shed again, behind a plant pot.”
“Did you speak to either Ms. Sylvain or Ms. Lewis? Or anyone else?”
“Briefly, to Ms. Lewis. Ms. Sylvain and I just exchanged good mornings.”
Was that a euphemism?
“Did you get along with Ms. Sylvain?”
“Yes, we got along very well. As far as I know, she was happy with my work.”
Shawn noted he hadn’t asked Vincent if she was happy with his work.
“With your work. With reading to the tortoise.”
“Et cetera,” Vincent said a little snottily. “But yes.”
“What did you read to him?”
“Some children’s books, especially those with turtles or tortoises in them. Or birds. But I also read whatever I happened to be reading. Ms. Sylvain wasn’t terribly picky about it. There wasn’t an approved reading list.”
For some reason, Shawn doubted that. If Haviland had an approved list for her personal-care consumables, why wouldn’t she have one for the thing she loved most in the world?
“What was your work schedule at the Sylvain house?”
“Every day, from morning, maybe seven a.m., to about seven p.m. at the latest.”
“Excepting the weekends?”
“No, including the weekends.”
“You worked at Ms. Sylvain’s house every single day of the week from seven to seven, taking care of a tortoise?”
A flash of indignation. “Tortoises are much more work to care for than pets like dogs or cats.” Shawn thought of Comet’s insistence on a six-part petting schedule. “But I do read a lot, around the house.”
“So you’re in the Sylvain house almost all the time.”
“I guess it sounds like a lot.”
“What time did you go home yesterday night?”
“Around quarter to seven, I think.”
“Anything unusual going on in the house?” Shawn asked. “Any visitors?”
“No, it was status quo.” Vincent played with a corner of the placemat. “We rarely receive visitors.”
“You haven’t seen Ms. Sylvain since that morning?”
“That’s right.” He rolled up the mat then flattened it out.
“Did you
see Robert Westrom?”
“Him neither. But I know he served Ms. Sylvain her breakfast, as usual.”
“Did they argue? Ms. Sylvain and Mr. Westrom?”
Vincent worked his tongue around his mouth. “Yes. They argued all the time.”
“Oh?’ Shawn said. “About what?”
“Bills. His work performance. Decisions he made.”
Carolyn Lewis had said Haviland and Robert didn’t argue over those things. But you take someone whose house is their whole world, and someone as punctilious as Westrom who treats the house as their territory, there would have to be conflict.
“What about Mr. Westrom’s work performance?”
Vincent chewed his upper lip. “She didn’t think he did enough. I did what I could to fill in, but he’s the house manager. He should be on top of everything.”
“Such as?”
“Cleaning. Vendors. Things like that. She thought he spent too much money.”
“Did you argue with her? With anyone?”
“No.” Exasperated. “Why would we argue?”
“How did you feel about Ms. Sylvain?”
“How did I feel about her?” Vincent repeated.
Shawn raised his eyebrow slightly to indicate yes, he had heard correctly.
“She’s a good employer.”
“How is she a good employer?”
“She pays promptly. She gets food for us. I know she’s paid for various medical conditions and emergencies for other employees before.”
“But not you.”
“No. I’m in good health.” Vincent hesitated. “Did I mention that I also check the house for sharp edges?”
“No, you did not.” Shawn suddenly realized that he was ravenously hungry. He hadn’t had breakfast, then grabbed an apple, a yogurt, and a bag of pretzels from the vending machines about an hour before. He should start microwaving those frozen sausages before he left in the morning, get some protein. You had to take care of yourself during an investigation.
Vincent traced a finger on the table and looked down. “If I find any sharp edges — on cabinets, drawers, doorjambs, anywhere — I sand them down or cover them with something smoother. That’s just one of the things I do for her.”
“Anything else?”
Vincent looked out the window. “Hard to say. Just little things around the house that I notice while walking with Lyle or taking him out to the back gardens. Maybe a plant that needs watering, or a pillow that needs mending.”
Shawn looked over the kitchenette, behind Vincent. It was obviously dated from or last renovated in the seventies; the finish was a rich avocado green. Fridge, sink, small range. It reminded him a little of Kendall’s basement kitchenette. Skitch, on the other hand, had just a room and a small bathroom, but no kitchen facilities.
“Any personal issues with Ms. Sylvain?” Shawn asked.
“What do you mean by that?”
“Did you ever fight? Or maybe she mistreated Lyle —”
Vincent laughed, a genuine belly laugh. “Oh no, she would never mistreat Lyle. She would throw her own body over his in a shoot-out.”
“Why?”
“She loves animals.” The slightest emphasis on the last word.
“But not people?”
Vincent smiled and shrugged. “She keeps to herself.”
“Did you go directly home after work at a quarter to seven last night?”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t go out again up until four a.m.? Maybe you went out for dinner?”
“I was here the whole time. Watched a little TV, read my book.”
“But you didn’t go to work today?”
“I tried, this morning. The driveway was taped off. I assumed there was something going on, got no answer when I called Ms. Sylvain. So I decided to stay here until I received a call back from her or from Robert.”
“And did you?”
“No.”
“Have you been trying to reach Robert?”
“No.”
Shawn pushed off the chair. “Okay, I think I have all I need for now. But please don’t leave town — we’ll need to talk to you again.”
Vincent got the door for him and nodded a goodbye. Shawn went back to his Acura and sat in the driver’s seat for a moment, looking at the house. Then he backed up and pulled away.
He stopped by Robert Westrom’s house again. Still no one there. The mansion had five employees, and Shawn had talked to four of them. He would need to verify Skitch’s alibi with the hostess at The Buckhead restaurant, talk to all of the businesses around the mansion, the delivery people, and check on his own cat situation. On the way to his house, he called the pizza restaurant and the supermarket that regularly delivered to the house. They said that their credit card receipts were all paid for and signed by Robert Westrom. The majordomo.
Where the hell was Westrom?
Shawn made a quick stop at his house, closed the door behind him, and counted the cats. Earlier, there were twelve.
Now, at five-thirty in the evening, there were fourteen.
He shook his head then filled the bowls again. He would run out of cat food very soon. He made a quick call to Sarah from the phone in the kitchen.
“Hello?”
“It’s Shawn Danger. We met this morning.”
“The repo man with the parrot.”
“No.”
“The sheriff with the pot-belly pig?”
“How many people did you meet today?”
“The police detective with the cats.”
“That’s kind of why I’m calling. I stopped at home and there are two more cats.” Four or five of them roamed the kitchen floor, making unsettling growls low in their throat.
“Two more? So now you have fifteen?”
“I’m not counting Comet. Fourteen new cats.” They liked the trampoline, and a half-dozen were weighing it down.
“Do the new cats look the same as the others?”
“Exactly the same. So, listen, I have zero free time right now, and I have this weird situation.” He felt a fluttering in his stomach going up to his heart, quickening his pulse. “And I was wondering if – “
“You need more cat food. You want me to get it for you?”
“No, I want you to go with me to get it. If you don’t mind me being on the phone virtually the entire time.” One of the cats hopped gracefully up on the counter. Shawn wrapped an arm around it and tried to take it off and set it on the floor, which proved more difficult than he expected.
“Why would I want to go with you, then?”
“Because I’m charming company and easy on the eyes.” The cat stared at him balefully with its mis-matching eyes, muscled Shawn off, then in his – her? – own good time, jumped to the floor.
Sarah laughed. “No, really. Why?”
“Because this is the only way a homicide detective can find time for a date.” He brushed cat hair off his jacket. His lint roller was upstairs, though he needed one in every room.
“A date?”
“The most awful, boring date you’ll ever go on. Everything will seem like a huge improvement from there.”
“I was led to believe that you were charming company.”
“We’ll be buying big bags of cat food and litter while I keep working on the phone most of the time, and all of it in a huge rush.”
“Why don’t you just get someone to do it for you? One of your patrol guys?”
Because he wanted to be with her, even if it was only for minutes at a time. He had gone on many dates in the past few years, but hadn’t felt connected to any of them. He just clashed with one woman after the other – they were awkward together physically, verbally, you name it – it just didn’t feel right, or comfortable. Sarah did, and he was old enough now to know how rare that was.
“But this way I have to do less, so it’s somewhere in between doing it myself and having someone else do it for me.”
“Aren’t I a suspect?”
�
��You’re a person of interest.”
“Can’t you get in trouble for taking me on a wretched, terrible date?”
“The department doesn’t have rules in place for date quality. We’re free to go on whatever quality of date we like.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes, if anyone found out, I could get in trouble,” Shawn said in a serious tone.
“Okay.”
“Really?”
“Call me when you’re ready.”
Shawn hung up the phone and looked at his cats. “You aren’t going to congratulate me?” The new cats looked at him neutrally. Shawn put a hand to his ear. “What’s that? Get back to work, indolent human, or you’re no good to anyone? I hear ya.”
Shawn went to The Buckhead and talked to Monica, Skitch’s booty call. She confirmed that she was, indeed, with Skitch from ten or so until sunrise.
He stopped at every gas station, grocery, and fast food place in a five-mile radius of the Sylvain mansion. Places the patrol officers already canvassed, and places he would go back to again after twenty-four hours had passed. He showed the employees photos of each person who worked at the mansion. No one had remembered seeing them the previous night.
He also got the names, home numbers, and home addresses of the other shift employees who were working that night so he could contact them.
And he felt the excited, warm, anxious anticipation of seeing someone he liked.
Back at the squad office, Shawn put Comet’s carrier on his desk, opened the tuna and put it into a rubber bowl. Comet started in on it right away.
His captain strode through the squad room and stopped by Shawn’s desk. “Are cats allowed in here?”
“Yes, sir. Original charter.” Then, “You’re here late.”
“Paperwork.”
Shawn had to constantly deal with mountains of paperwork, which he tried to do in small increments when he could. The captain probably had even more.
“You know, that’s what I like about you, Danger. Your confidence. Say it like it’s true and others will believe you. I spoke with Andy,” the captain said, referring to the department’s public information officer. “You realize this case you’re on is going to attract the press.”
“Not the first time.”
“No. But I want to make sure you’re ready for it. Haviland Sylvain was filthy rich and she lived in this two-stoplight town, like some holdover from the nineteenth century, back when people who weren’t in Silicon Valley made fortunes and lived in rural northeast towns like this. Paper, wasn’t it? Paper and lumber?”
