Shades of Wrath

by Karen Rose Smith

  Today she pulled on wide-legged cocoa-colored pants, like Katharine Hepburn might wear, adding a cream Oxford shirt and a boxy forest green jacket. Her suede saddle shoes were reminiscent of the fifties but were back in style now. She picked up her fringed leather purse with the jangling peace sign charm and hefted the strap over her shoulder. After a look in the mirror, and a quick flick of her brush through her straight, long brown hair, she was ready to go.

  Her cats had already settled on the turquoise-carpeted cat tree in the living room. She quickly filled Lady’s toy with kibble and tossed it into the kitchen. Lady chased after it and rolled it around. After Caprice set the house alarm, she said good-bye, blew everyone a kiss, and went out her back door.

  Last evening, she’d placed everything in her van that she’d need to show Wendy—from fabric samples to furniture catalogs. She had an itemized sheet printed out, as well as a copy on her electronic tablet. All she needed was Wendy’s approval to get started.

  This time when she headed to the Wyatt estate, she realized she was driving toward Country Squire Golf and Recreation Club. There were plenty of twisting back roads in this area, and she imagined that the estate, if the driver took a back road, wasn’t that far from the housing development where Wendy and Sebastian lived. It was all in your perspective, and from which direction you drove.

  It was five of ten when Caprice rounded a bend, passed a small church, and then veered right to head up the hill to the property. But as she turned to go up the hill, as she saw the Tudor mansion and the black wrought-iron gate surrounding it, she also spotted that something was definitely wrong. Police cars were parked haphazardly all along the curb! She noted two patrol cars, a rescue van, the coroner’s van, and a forensic unit van. Yellow crime scene tape surrounded the whole property. Did they even have enough of it to go around? She’d heard sirens earlier but hadn’t paid much attention to them. What was going on?

  Her heart began thumping now as she parked across the street from it all. When she spotted Detective Carstead, she wasn’t sure whether she should exit her car and approach him or not. After all, he’d warned her to stay away from crime scene banners before. Usually he didn’t want her anywhere nearby. But this time, he saw her and soberly waved to her. She parked, exited her van, and met him at the crime scene tape that led up the steps to the front door.

  “What happened?” Caprice asked, her voice coming out shaky. With all these law enforcement officials here, and their vans, she was afraid she knew.

  He managed to hold the crime scene tape over his head as he ducked under it. He looked her straight in the eye and asked, “Will you talk to me?”

  “Why me?”

  “Because you’re on the list of people to call next. Wendy Newcomb is dead, and I believe you know why.”

  Chapter Four

  Caprice had come to know Detective Brett Carstead because of her involvement in murder investigations. On a more personal level, however, he’d recently taken her sister Nikki out on a few dates. He was in his official capacity today and she read that in his expression. But she also knew he wouldn’t bite her head off or suspect her of murder as Detective Jones was wont to do.

  “Come sit in my car and talk to me,” he suggested. “Soon the press will be here. I’m sure someone with a cell phone took a picture of all this commotion and the word will get out.”

  She felt as if she’d been sucker punched and could hardly catch her breath. She was having trouble believing that Wendy Newcomb was dead. It wasn’t so long ago she’d been up for the same award Wendy had. Wendy had won and Caprice had sincerely congratulated her because she deserved it for her work at the shelter. Caprice just hated the idea that that work could have brought her life to an end. What else could it have been?

  “All right. Let’s go to your car,” she agreed.

  The detective led the way to his black sedan. As she slipped into the passenger side, she took a few deep breaths. She felt quivery inside. No, this wasn’t her first crime scene, but a life being snuffed out could never be a common occurrence for her. Then again, maybe it hadn’t been murder. Maybe it had been a horrible accident. That was a possibility, wasn’t it?

  The detective studied her, and asked, “Are you okay?”

  “Just shaken up. Why did you want to talk to me?”

  “Because Wendy Newcomb left me a message yesterday. I was out of town at a conference. I was going to get in touch with her this morning.”

  “What was the message?”

  “She said you had given her my number. Why did you do that?”

  Brett Carstead didn’t dole out information unless it could help his investigation.

  “I didn’t do it easily,” she admitted. “But Wendy did serious work. When she called me yesterday for your number, she said she was going to talk to you about a matter that had to do with blackmail. I thought it sounded serious enough to give her your cell number.”

  “Blackmail?” he asked. “She didn’t mention that in her message or I might have called her back last night. She just said it was a matter of vital importance. I was beat. I’d been driving all day.” He ran his hand through his hair.

  “Don’t beat yourself up,” Caprice said. “You didn’t know.”

  Without responding to that conclusion, he asked, “Why did you come to the Wyatt property this morning?”

  “You know the house is being renovated to use as a transitional shelter for domestic violence victims, don’t you?”

  “The workmen told me that.”

  “I had put together a proposal this week and given it to Wendy. She approved it and gave me a contract for the decorating work. I was going to meet with her this morning to go over purchases I was ready to make.”

  “Purchases like furniture?” he clarified.

  “Exactly. I was going to have her choose materials too.”

  He took a small notebook out of his inside jacket pocket and a pen from the same pocket. Clicking it on, he rested the notebook on his steering wheel and jotted down a few things.

  “So the workmen found her?” she asked.

  “I’m interviewing you, remember, Caprice.”

  Oh, she remembered. “Right,” she muttered. “You’re interviewing me. You’re in the middle of an investigation. You can’t give out any information. I’ve got it, Detective. This isn’t my first rodeo.”

  He arched his brows at that. Then he asked, “Do you know anything about the bequest and the money that went with it?”

  “You mean the legacy that Sunrise Tomorrow received?”

  “Yes, that one.”

  “No, I mean Wendy mentioned that Leona Wyatt’s children inherited trust funds and that the rest of the money and the estate went to Sunrise Tomorrow. She also said Leona’s children were squabbling about it, but there were no grounds to contest the will.”

  “So you do know something about it.”

  “My guess is anyone who belongs to the Country Squire Golf and Recreation Club heard the same gossip. News like that gets around.”

  He nodded as if he agreed.

  “I don’t know any more than that.” She added, “But I might know who a couple of the suspects are . . . if this is a suspicious death.”

  He gave her his full attention. “Who?”

  She told him about Warren Shaeffer’s meeting with Wendy and what she’d overheard. She ended with, “I never realized Wendy might be putting herself in danger by doing this work. When I stopped in at Sunrise Tomorrow the other day, another man was shouting at her over the phone and she hung up without even talking to him. I have no idea who that might have been.”

  Carstead was writing again.

  “Have you ever been to the development Wendy’s significant other lives in?” she asked him.

  “Development? You mean like a housing development?”

  “Yes.”

  He checked his notes. “Her significant other is Sebastian Thompson.”

  “Right. He owns the house in Poplar Grove. It
’s a co-housing development.”

  “And that means?”

  “It means everyone cooperates with everyone else. They interact. They share meals and have meetings.”

  “Like a neighborhood with a home association?”

  “More than that. These neighbors are interconnected. Grant and I had dinner with Wendy and Sebastian and his kids. I got the feeling that maybe the neighborhood could be involved in the work Wendy did. Grant thinks that I’m stretching, but I just got this feeling that it could be a network to help abused women find new lives.”

  “As soon as I’m finished talking to you, I’ll be driving to Sebastian Thompson’s to tell him about Wendy’s death. I understand he’s an architect and works from home.”

  After a moment, Caprice asked, “How did Wendy die?”

  Brett Carstead never gave her any information. The last time she’d solved a murder, she’d given him some.

  However, he studied her now, seeming to make a decision. “The whole work crew found her. The word’s going to get out soon enough. That balustrade that looked down over the foyer gave way. She fell and broke her neck.”

  Caprice remembered how Wendy had mentioned the balustrade would soon be replaced and how she’d warned her against going near it.

  “Wendy warned me about that balustrade, and she was smart enough not to go anywhere near it herself. What aren’t you telling me? Is there something else that makes you think this is more than an accident?”

  Again he stopped, hesitated, and cut her a probing glance. “It wasn’t an accident. On preliminary examination, the coroner thinks someone hit Wendy Newcomb on the side of her head, possibly with one or more rolled-up window shades, and that’s probably why she fell. We couldn’t find the shade or shades in question, but the stack of them looked disturbed. Do you remember how many might have been stacked in that area?”

  Caprice swallowed hard and felt her head spin a little.

  “Caprice?”

  “I’m fine,” she insisted, yet she knew she wasn’t. Tears were close to the surface. “There were probably sixteen or eighteen shades stacked there from the upstairs rooms. If you count the windows on that floor, you’ll have a fairly accurate number.”

  He made a note of that, then studied her again. “I need your help with something else.”

  His words gave her focus, and she swallowed back her emotions. “What?”

  “We have a cat trapped in one of the rooms—a yellow one. I can’t have him roaming over the crime scene. Can you help me with him, or should I just call animal control?”

  “No, don’t do that,” she protested at once. “I saw him here when I met with Wendy. He’s friendly.”

  “Yes, he is. He was rubbing against one of the officer’s legs. But I don’t want you going inside. Maybe you could go to Perky Paws and get one of those pet carriers for us.”

  “I can do that. Or . . . I have Lady’s crate in the back of my van. It’s bigger than we need, but if you need to remove him sooner rather than later, one of your men can use that. I’ll call Marcus Reed at Furry Friends clinic and see if he can fit in an examination.”

  “Then what?” Brett asked.

  “Then I’ll have to find him a home.”

  “Do you think you can?”

  “I can try.”

  * * *

  Caprice waited with Sunnybud in one of the exam rooms at Furry Friends Veterinary Clinic. He was sitting on the exam table in what she called the “breadloaf” position, his front paws tucked under him.

  He lifted his head and meowed at her.

  “If I can’t find you a home, I’ll take you home with me. I have an idea of someone to call. It depends on how good my powers of persuasion are. But we have to get your health status first.”

  Sunnybud meowed again, obviously not pleased at being examined, as well as poked for a blood test. Marcus had guessed he was two or three years old.

  The door to the room opened and Marcus came in. He was a burly African-American with a buzz cut and a wide smile. “His tests were clear. No FIV or feline leukemia. We can give him a flea treatment and other vaccines.”

  “Great,” Caprice responded, blowing out a relieved breath. “Do you need the room right away? I want to call Bella and see if she’ll take him.”

  “Bella? Are you kidding?” he asked with a grin, knowing from what Caprice had told him how meticulous her sister was about everything in her life.

  “She has a new house now and more room. Her attitude is mellower since she had Benny. I’m going to give it a try.”

  “And plan B?”

  Marcus understood her well enough to recognize the fact that she usually had an alternate plan. “Mom,” she simply said.

  He laughed.

  The phone call was rocky to start. Explaining a possible murder was never easy. Then when Caprice suggested Bella take in a stray cat—

  “A cat?” Bella squeaked. “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m not. Think about it, Bee. All you need is a litter box and cat food. Sunnybud can teach Megan and Timmy responsibility. You know they’ve been begging you for a pet every time they visit me.”

  When Bella just remained silent and didn’t squawk again, Caprice pushed on. “He’s two or three, which means he’ll sleep a lot, yet he’ll still be playful. All you have to do is keep him in the basement for two days to make sure the flea treatment has worked.”

  Now Bella protested again. “Fleas?”

  “Marcus says he looks clean, but we want to make sure. After two days, just wash up the basement and let him upstairs.”

  “I don’t know, Caprice.”

  “Timmy and Megan can keep him company down there. It’s heated. Old towels make a great bed and you can wash them. He’s been sleeping in an empty house. He won’t expect much.”

  Again Bella was silent.

  “I’ll wash the basement for you after two days.”

  After a few moments, Bella said, “And if this doesn’t work out, Mom will take him?”

  Caprice crossed her fingers. “Sure.”

  “What do I need?”

  “I can get you a litter pan, litter, and food from Marcus. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  “Wait! I should call Joe first. This should be his decision too.”

  Bella was right. “Go ahead and call him now. Then call me back.”

  Joe must have taken to the idea of taking in Sunnybud because Bella called back within five minutes with a “We’ll try it.”

  That was all Caprice needed. She spent the next hour transporting Sunnybud to Bella’s, introducing them, and helping Bella arrange towels in a cardboard box for Sunnybud’s bed.

  Her sister had looked Sunnybud in the eyes and said, “I’ll take care of you. If you’re a good fit, you can join our family.”

  Sunnybud blinked, then proceeded to sniff every foot of the basement, including the new litter box, water bowl, and dish with cat food that Bella had set on a plastic placemat.

  When he began to eat, she said, “I can bring my sketchbook down here for a while and keep him company.”

  Caprice hoped her sister and Sunnybud would bond. That was possible, wasn’t it?

  * * *

  After Caprice left Bella’s house, she switched on her ignition and just sat there. She didn’t know what to do next. That wasn’t like her at all. But the shock of what happened to Wendy rattled her all over again. She respected Grant’s work time and didn’t want to barge in on him. But more than anything, she’d like to talk to him.

  Taking out her phone, she texted him. Are you at home? Can you talk if I come over?

  He must have had his phone nearby because he texted right back. At home working on a brief. Come on over.

  Climbing into her car, she glanced over her shoulder into the back of her van where she’d stacked her sample books and catalogs all ready for Wendy’s appraisal. What would happen to Sunrise Tomorrow now?

  She felt as if she drove to Grant’s in a trance state,
cruising along his street before she knew it. His townhouse was one in a row of them, not too far from Nikki’s condo.

  Before she could even ring the bell, he opened the door. He took one look at her and opened his arms. After a long, strong hug, he shut the door against the September breeze and led her inside.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “How do you know something’s going on? Maybe I just wanted to kiss you.”

  He gave her a crooked smile. “That’s a possibility. But there was urgency in that text and I heard it without even speaking to you.”

  Patches ran over to her, sat at her feet, and looked up at her, tail wagging. Although he was Lady’s brother, Patches looked nothing like her. His fur was curlier. He was cream-colored with brown patches on his face and flanks. His ears were shorter too.

  She stooped over and gave the dog a good rubdown before she went to the sofa and plopped on it.

  Grant made himself comfortable beside her. “Do you want coffee?”

  “Maybe in a little. I had an appointment with Wendy Newcomb this morning at the Wyatt estate. When I got there, there were police all over the place and crime scene tape. Wendy’s dead.”

  Grant’s gray eyes went dark and his mouth tightened into a taut line. Without expression in his voice, he asked, “What happened?”

  “Do you know the Wyatt estate at all?”

  He shook his head. “Only from the outside.”

  “When you go up the stairway from the foyer, there’s a balustrade across the hallway on the second floor. If you stand at it, you look down into the grand foyer.”

  Grant nodded as if he understood.

  “When I toured the house with Wendy at the beginning of the week, she told me to stay away from it. Repairs hadn’t been done on that house for years, and she said they were going to replace the balustrade because it was wobbly. Before I arrived, workmen had cleaned and were painting. Blinds, those old roller shades with the scallop and the fringe on the hem and a wooden bar across the shade, had been stacked near the balustrade. I don’t think this is for public consumption, but Brett told me someone used one or more of those shades to hit Wendy and she fell through the balustrade. She broke her neck on her fall.”