by Nina Post
“Ranunculus.”
“Aren’t those poppies?”
The ME gave him a knowing grin. “You told me you don’t know anything about horticulture.”
“I don’t.”
She crossed her arms. “I thought you called me in as a horticulture know-it-all.”
“I did.”
“Then shut up, Detective, because these are Persian buttercups. Same family, same effect on Lyle.”
He beamed at her. “Really?”
“Yes.” She plucked one of the yellow blooms and held it out in front of him. She ruffled the petals with a finger. “These are the same petals that Dr. Oliver found undigested in Lyle’s stomach. But we’ll test it.”
He took her shoulders and kissed her on the cheek. “Dr. Evans, that was incredibly helpful. Thank you for coming all the way out here.” He used his Swiss army knife to take off two of the flower heads. He put them in a plastic bag, sealed it, and put the bag in his coat pocket.
“Aw, it’s okay. I get to stop at The Barn Owl for their pistachio ice cream on the way back.”
She headed out the door of the greenhouse. He was about to ask her to pick up some extra for him, but didn’t want to eat ice cream that had been stored in the damn morgue freezer.
“I know what you’re thinking.” She turned and wagged her finger. “And I have my own freezer for those purposes.”
“I wasn’t – ” then he just shrugged. “I do like that ice cream.”
“I’ll get you a pint. You need to put some weight on, anyway.” She strode back to her car. He watched her go, wrapping her scarf around her hair and putting on her sunglasses, even though it was getting even darker.
Shawn headed back over to Vincent’s apartment.
The tortoise-tender answered the door wearing boxer shorts, a robe, and slippers. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair greasy and uncombed, and his facial hair was growing in. He had a small bandage on his face, but Shawn could see the end of a thin scratch. From a cat’s claw?
“Hello, Detective.”
Shawn looked around then edged in a little more. Vincent sat down at his table with a mug of coffee and listlessly gestured at the coffee maker.
“I’m good, thanks.” Shawn walked around the small apartment as Vincent stared at the steam rising off the coffee in his mug.
“You said that you were home the night that Haviland Sylvain was killed.”
“That’s right.”
“From, let’s say, eleven p.m. to four a.m.?”
“You already asked me this,” Vincent scratched his light beard growth. “Yes, I was home all night. Mrs. Ross can attest to that.”
“How? Did you see her that late?”
Vincent looked away from him, back at the mug. “We played a game of hearts.”
“When was that?”
Vincent tilted his head. “I don’t know. Around eleven to twelve, twelve-thirty. Then I watched TV at her place until three.”
“Three. Why so late?” Shawn gazed out the window at the driveway and the house.
“I have a hard time sleeping sometimes.” Vincent sipped at his coffee. “Isn’t it kind of early for you to be interviewing people?”
Shawn turned and stood in front of the table, facing Vincent. “It is kind of early. It’s about the time that Haviland Sylvain might be waking up and getting ready to have breakfast. But that won’t ever happen again. She’ll never have another cup of coffee, another breakfast. Another morning.”
Vincent looked around Shawn at the wall.
“Why?” Shawn continued. “Because someone murdered her. They killed her in her own house.”
Vincent fixated on his mug, a little glassy-eyed.
“Is Mrs. Ross the only friend you have?” Shawn asked, thinking of Comet.
“Mrs. Ross? She’s not my – I guess so. I guess she is.”
“Do you have any other friends? Family?” Shawn opened the music box again, seeing the opal ring.
“No. And I don’t really talk to my family. They don’t understand me at all.”
“Let me guess,” Shawn said, taking a chance. “It’s as though you live in a completely different world from them.”
“Yes!” Vincent’s eyes lit up for the first time.
“As though you can’t connect or communicate with them in any meaningful way.”
“Yes!” Vincent put his elbows on the table.
“Maybe with your parents?” Shawn asked, sitting in the chair across from Vincent and widening his eyes just a little, to look receptive, like he wanted to see if Vincent felt the same way as he did about his own parents. A little commiseration.
“They weren’t even around. Too busy working to raise a kid.”
“Your dad, too?”
Vincent’s face darkened. “Yes.”
“I always had to make my mother feel better,” Shawn said, lying. “It was hard being the strong one.” His mother was actually a ball-buster. A manipulative one. And his sisters were like little Lou Ferrignos. He was, by no stretch of the imagination, the strong one. But he would say whatever the hell it took. He would tell Vincent, ‘It’s hard when your mother and sisters are C.H.U.D.s’ if he had to.
Just a homicide cop and a murderer, having a little chat. Shawn appeared to absentmindedly scratch his forearm under his shirt cuff, as though he were really itchy there.
“Did you feel that way with Haviland?”
“Yes —” Vincent said, before catching himself.
“How so?”
Shawn knew that Vincent, like everyone else, wanted to be seen and acknowledged and understood. He wanted to talk about how he really felt about Haviland. If Shawn could just find that weak membrane, that spot where the light shone through a little more, he could poke right through it.
“I don’t know about you, but she seemed kind of distant to me.” Shawn examined his cuticles.
Vincent cocked his head. Shawn smiled in his head. He opened a kitchen cabinet. It was full of junk food.
“Really?” Vincent’s bow lips pursed a little. “Do you think so?”
“Oh, yeah.” Shawn took a chair and copied Vincent’s body placement, not exactly, but close. “I got the impression that she played her employees like puppets — pretending to be close to them, but then pulling away.”
“Go on,” Vincent narrowed his eyes with interest.
“I don’t want to get in trouble,” Shawn said, demurring. “But you noticed that, too?”
Vincent scratched at his arm. Shawn felt a surge of triumph. This tiny thing, a suspect scratching his arm, was better than Christmas at the squad room.
Just a little more.
“My family’s like that, too. You do so much for them, and do they appreciate it?” Using the word that Pamela Wang had told him Vincent had said. “Hell no. They barely even notice. But then someone else does the smallest thing and practically gets a ticker tape parade.”
Shawn looked away, shaking his head, as though he were so frustrated with his own situation that he barely knew he was talking to someone about it.
Vincent shifted in his seat. “It’s not fair. They depend on you and they don’t even know how much. Then someone else gets the credit. I did more than she both — more than she knew.”
Shawn noticed that Vincent used the past tense. More than she bothered to know?
“She owed me. She owed me for all those things I did for her.” Suddenly, Vincent lost his energy and slumped in his chair. “I think you should leave now, Detective.”
Shawn nodded and stood, and as he did, he spotted something on the windowsill by the chair that wasn’t there the last time. He would have to cross the room to get to it.
As though he were just making some parting conversation, he pulled his coat tighter to indicate his intent to leave, but walked towards the window instead. “Do you like living here at Mrs. Ross’s place?” Shawn looked down, his body covering what he was looking at. If Vincent were keenly aware of its location, then maybe he would be o
n edge. But why would he think Shawn knew what it was?
The object was a small, round needlepoint of a cat. The same cat that had appeared in his house more than forty times. One blue eye, one green eye. Maybe it was the needlepoint missing from the chair in Haviland Sylvain’s bedroom, the one with the kicked-in leg.
Shawn picked it up and looked over his shoulder. “Do you do needlepoint, Vincent? It strikes me as the hobby of a creative but precise person.”
“No.” Vincent flexed and clenched his hands at his sides.
“Is this your cat?”
Vincent went to the door and opened it. “No.”
“Mrs. Ross’s cat?” as though Shawn was guessing.
What theater. There he was, with the scumball he was pretty sure had wrecked his house and everything in it. And who took Comet – who wasn’t here, he could tell. And he had to be completely casual and seemingly ignorant of the whole thing, when he wanted nothing more than to maul him with his bare hands like a lion.
“Okay, then. Be sure to stay in town. Oh, by the way, how’d you get that scratch?”
“Shaving.” Vincent closed the door behind him with a bang.
Shawn went to his car and sat there for a moment. He took out the needlepoint and ran his thumb over the cloth. It was remarkable work. He put it in a gallon bag then stuck in in the glove compartment. Then he knocked on Mrs. Ross’s door to see what she had to say about Vincent’s claim that he was in her house until three a.m.
She said that he was, but when Shawn gave her that ‘I know the truth and I’m disappointed in you’ look, she seemed embarrassed.
“I’m sorry. He asked me to tell you that, and he’s been so nice.”
“I understand. Did you see Vincent at all on Wednesday night?”
She started to say something and took in a breath, then closed her mouth and shook her head with a sad smile. “Is he in trouble?”
“Thank you for your time, ma’am.”
Shawn returned to the extensively damaged squad room — why were all of his places so wrecked? — and started for the lab to check on the tests from his place, answering the phone on the way. It was Sarah asking if she could get in to pick up those eight cats for her great-aunt.
“The key is taped behind one of the house numbers,” Shawn told her. “Check for the loose one, a seven.” He paused for a second. “I have a favor to ask you, and I wish it had occurred to me to ask this earlier.” It was probably too late, but worth a try. “Would you mind checking every new cat’s front claws for blood?”
She laughed. “I’m sorry, what? Why? Only you would ask me that.”
That was fair.
“The new cats were protecting my telescope. Who knows why —” though he realized why as he was saying it — “but if the burglar tried to get at it, they could have swatted him.” On the cheek, for example. “Look closely. I only need a tiny amount.”
“Sure,” she said, slightly amused.
“And just so you know, this does not count as a date.”
“Oh, good — I’ve gone on enough dates where I’m by myself, checking cat’s claws for blood.”
Shawn pocketed the phone and went back into the lab, marveling at his gross ineptitude with women. She was probably only just tolerating him at this point.
The lab held up a print-out to him. They had a half shoe print, which apparently came from a boot.
“Looks like he was wearing booties the whole time,” the lab tech said, “but the cover must have slipped off in this one place.”
Or one of those cats snagged it. He requested a warrant to look for a match at Vincent’s apartment. After staying in the lab for a little while, he got caught up in another brief conversation with his captain and another detective, updated the murder book, and fielded more press calls while Andy, the PIO, curled up in a fetal position under his desk and rocked gently.
His phone rang again. Sarah.
“I ran into a small logistical problem,” she said in an even voice.
“Don’t tell me the house blew up. At least I still have a frame with a roof right now.”
“It’s not that,” Sarah said, in what Shawn knew was a deceptively casual tone. “I parked at your house to pick up the cats and then my company was urgently demanded in another vehicle.”
Shawn’s heart quickened. “Another vehicle? What do you mean?”
“And then,” Sarah said, terse, “I was kindly offered a shuttle service to the Sylvain mansion, where I am now comfortably ensconced in the mansion.”
He closed his eyes and breathed in. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
This totally blew their first actual date.
“Where are you, exactly?”
There was a pause. “I don’t think he wants to say.”
He. “What does he want?” Shawn asked.
“He requests the honor of your presence in the driveway.” He could hear the anger under the veneer of light-hearted banter.
“The driveway.”
“He would prefer that you stay on the driveway.”
“Where is Comet?”
“I haven’t seen him.” She sounded apologetic.
“I’ll be right there.”
He asked one of the techs to go to his house and check the cat’s front claws for any blood. Every single cat. He got a perplexed look in return — what, all two, maybe three cats, big deal (so the tech was probably thinking) — but at Shawn’s expression, he left in a hurry without another word.
Shawn did not stay on the driveway. He went to the second floor of the carriage house and looked for a telescope. He found one by the window, a more expensive model than his own, but compared to some of the other equipment he had seen under the canvas covers, this telescope was also a mere hobbyist model compared to the planetarium-quality ones deep in the corner of the carriage house.
He kept it in the same position and looked through it. It didn’t point at the stars, but looked straight into the second floor of the main house, through Lyle’s room and into the spacious hall and stair landing. You could also see Haviland Sylvain’s bedroom. Maybe he sat here, watching, then took the hidden staircase up to her room from the kitchen when the time was right.
His phone rang. Sarah’s number.
“Danger,” he answered.
“Where are you, Detective?” Vincent.
“Carriage house. Bring Sarah out by the kitchen door. I want proof that you haven’t hurt her. I promise not to shoot.”
“Fine.” A few minutes later, he came out to the space between the kitchen and the carriage house, by himself. Shawn noted he was wearing sneakers, not boots. He tossed up his arms and turned in a half-circle. “Happy now?” He went back through the kitchen door.
“Not really, Vincent,” Shawn said on the phone. “You have my girlfriend and my cat. Now bring Sarah out. I want to see her.”
Girlfriend was overstating it, though he wanted it to be true. It was easier than saying ‘the woman I envision a future with, but who I’m not sure feels the same way.’
“No.”
“If you don’t, I’m leaving right now, and I will bring back a legion of police.”
Vincent went back in, and a few minutes later, brought out Sarah. He was gripping her arm too hard, Shawn could tell, and was almost dragging her. Oh, he’d be happy when he saw Vincent Shuttle in prison without possibility of parole for a thousand years. At least grimly satisfied.
Who was he kidding. Happy.
“Did you hurt her?”
“Not yet.”
Shawn felt a stab of fury. “If you hurt her, this won’t go easy for you. Now where’s my cat?”
“Not here.”
“Is he alive?”
“Maybe.”
That meant yes. Relief flooded into him.
“Why are you in the carriage house?” Vincent sounded petulant. “I directed you to stay in the driveway.”
“I’ll be back down to the driveway in a minute. Thought I le
ft my roller skates here.”
“Your roller skates.”
“Yeah, they help me canvass faster.”
Vincent hung up.
“Like talking to my family,” Shawn muttered to an empty room, then looked up again at a commotion outside the window. “Shit.”
He scrambled out of the room and outside. Skitch was standing near Vincent, wearing the floor-length sable fur coat, open in the front to reveal, thankfully, a pair of boxer shorts and motorcycle boots.
“You over-eating, pill-popping, creepy turd!” Skitch yelled. “I should’ve gotten rid of you when you first showed up, you toxic, reeking pool of raccoon vomit. You Judas. I hope you’re brutally sodomized by the biggest tortoise in the world.” Skitch spat at Vincent’s feet, then walked away.
Vincent raised his right arm and shot Skitch, sending the coincidence-watcher to the ground clutching his arm. “You fucking shot me!”
As Skitch threatened very specific harm to each of Vincent’s body parts, and what he would do with them, Shawn called for an ambulance. Vincent took Sarah back inside.
“Wonderful,” Shawn muttered, and checked on Skitch. Vincent wasn’t a good shot; the bullet had just grazed him.
He left Skitch where he was, writhing and cursing, and called the lab to check on the shoe print as he went around to the front of the house. Then he checked on the warrant, which had gone through. Over Skitch’s screamed invectives, he called the squad room and asked another tech and a beat cop go to Vincent’s place to match it with a shoe. “The boots the print matches should be there,” Shawn told them. “He’s wearing sneakers right now.”
“What the heck is that noise in the background?” the beat cop asked on the phone.
“Oh, he was just shot. Listen, could you transfer me to the detective who was looking at the surveillance footage from the Mundo Mart?”
“I think I got what you were looking for,” the detective told him. “Kind of a thin guy, brown hair, driving a blue car. He was there about the time your contact estimated, two-thirty to two-forty-seven. And I got some good news for you: the camera captured the plate.”
“I could use good news like that.” Shawn wrote down the plate numbers. “And I’m pretty sure that’s a match.”
