Dying to Read (The Cate Kinkaid Files Book #1): A Novel

by McCourtney, Lorena

  Their conversation, about Uncle Joe’s condition, the weather, and the state of the economy, was a little stilted but not hostile, and the tightly reserved atmosphere between them loosened by small degrees. She asked for an address to send a donation to Helping Hands at his church and he said he’d check on it for her. He didn’t mention her working at Computer Solutions Dudes again, but he did offer to mow the yard, where yellow dandelion blooms already loomed over the grass. After they’d eaten, he presented the leftover bone from his steak to Octavia, who pounced on it as if she’d just captured dangerous prey. Cate showed him the mower in the garage, admitting she didn’t know anything about starting it, but a few minutes later he had it revved up.

  A handy kind of guy, Beverly had said. Cate watched him cut a smooth swath around the perimeter of the yard, carefully avoiding the daffodils Rebecca had planted at the edge of the grass. Beverly was right. Very handy. When he took a break from the mowing, they sat at the picnic table, drinking more iced tea, and he had her laughing about a handyman job he’d had as a kid, when he was supposed to build a doghouse for a neighbor’s dog named Maurice, but he got carried away and built what came to be known as Maurice’s Mansion.

  After he finished the mowing, he got his notes from the SUV on what he’d found on the internet.

  “My search was rather restricted, because I didn’t have that many names to work with, but on those I had, no one comes up with a rose-scented ‘I am innocent’ badge attached.” He spread the papers on the picnic table. He had, of course, been able to find information Cate hadn’t.

  The information he had on Radford Longstreet was similar to what Texie’s niece had found, except he’d turned up an additional marriage. The Radford name was a morph from Romar Lomax. There was an even greater difference than Cate had guessed between Radford’s and Amelia’s ages. There was some suspicion about him in the deaths of former wives, and he’d definitely come out a winner after each marriage, but no actual charges had ever been filed. The Mustang wasn’t paid for, but he had an impeccable credit record under the Longstreet name and no black marks on his Oregon driving record. He had a local address at an upscale condo complex, and Mitch had also found a cell phone number for him. No job record of any kind.

  “What do you think?” Cate asked.

  “He may have just had really bad luck with wives and wanted to start a new life with a new name here.” Mitch said. “He may have a comfortable income from investments that I couldn’t locate. And I guess a guy really can fall for a woman twenty years older than he is.”

  Mitch didn’t sound convinced Radford had changed from serial husband to solid citizen. Neither was Cate. A little gruffly, he added, “I don’t want to pull some big, strong man interfering act, but if you want to talk to him, I could come along.”

  “If I do decide to contact him, I’ll let you know. I appreciate the offer.”

  “Peace?” he said.

  She smiled. “Peace.”

  His findings showed that Doris McClelland lived frugally off Social Security. She’d formerly owned a hybrid Toyota Prius, but it hadn’t been paid for, and she’d recently traded her equity for a much older Ford Escort. She had some past-due bills, and she was behind on her property taxes. Which suggested she had, as Texie said, lost some sizable amount of money she’d had available when she bought the Prius. Cate remembered Doris saying that day at Amelia’s house that she could buy a new car with what Amelia had spent carpeting the place. The observation took on a more ominous meaning now.

  Cate pictured a scenario: Doris confronts Amelia at the top of the stairs. They argue. There’s an angry shove. All followed by a good acting job from Doris when she and Cate “discover” the body together later that day.

  But no, it couldn’t have been that way. Doris had said she’d never been upstairs before.

  Yeah, right. As if killers were bound by some vow of truth.

  Mitch had found that Willow’s legal name was Winona Bishop. She had traffic violations in Oregon, a shoplifting arrest in California, a bad credit rating, and an award of appreciation from Save Our Tree Friends. Mitch didn’t have a full name for Texie or Coop, or the names of the other Whodunit women, so he hadn’t been able to come up with anything there.

  But altogether, it was a rather impressive showing for a limited search time. A handy man indeed. Cate asked about two more names.

  “What about Cheryl and Scott Calhoun?”

  “Who are they?”

  Cate explained their part in her list of suspects, and he said he’d see what he could find out. The cell phone in Cate’s pocket jingled as she was gathering up his notes. He’d said she could keep them.

  “Cate?” The woman’s voice sounded vaguely familiar, but Cate couldn’t place it until she’d said, “Yes, this is Cate,” and the woman said, “I got your phone number from your mother. Am I calling at a bad time?”

  “Mrs. Collier?”

  Cate realized Mitch was looking at her, as if he heard something strange in her voice. As he definitely had. Kyle’s mother … calling her? She dropped back to the bench by the picnic table.

  “Yes, this is Emily. It’s been a long time, hasn’t it? Your mother told me you were in Eugene now. They sound happy with their retirement in Arizona. How are you doing?”

  “I’m fine.” A generic answer to a generic question. At one time she and Kyle’s mother had talked fairly often, but she surely hadn’t called after all this time to check on whether Cate was gainfully employed and getting her teeth cleaned regularly.

  “You’re probably wondering why I’m calling,” Mrs. Collier said, and Cate managed an ambiguous murmur. “Kyle asked me to.”

  “Kyle?”

  “He’s just moved to Portland to take a new position with a gourmet foods company. He’d like to drive down to Eugene to see you this coming weekend. Under the circumstances, he thought it would be best if I called first. To pave the way, I guess you might say.”

  “What about his fiancée?” Is she coming too?

  “Kyle and Melanie are no longer together. I think you know how sorry Doug and I were when you and he broke up. We’re hoping … Well, I’ll give you his number, and you can make arrangements with him about this weekend.”

  Cate picked up the ballpoint pen Mitch had been using when they’d looked at his notes. She hesitated when Mrs. Collier gave her the number. Kyle wasn’t calling her himself. He had his mother do it? She wasn’t sure what that said about him, but it made her uncomfortable. But when Mrs. Collier said, “Did you get that?” and repeated the number, Cate scribbled it on a corner of the notes.

  “He’s anxious to hear from you,” Mrs. Collier said. “I hope you’ll call him right away.”

  Cate stared uneasily at the number. So why wasn’t Kyle calling her, instead of asking that she call him? “I’m not sure this is a good idea. Things are different now …”

  “Your mother didn’t say anything about your being involved with anyone.” She sounded alarmed.

  “I’m not, but …” Cate glanced at Mitch. She’d been so startled by the call that she hadn’t even thought to move away to talk in private, but he’d taken care of that. He was on the other side of the yard now, laying the ladder down alongside the garage. They weren’t “involved.” They weren’t much more than acquaintances. He was heavy-handed with his “concern” over her. And yet …

  “I can call back later,” Mrs. Collier said quickly, as if she didn’t want to give Cate an opening to say no. “I know this comes as a complete surprise to you.”

  “Look, I just don’t know about this. It’s a …” More than a surprise. A shock. “I’ll call you back, okay?”

  “Thanks, Cate.”

  Cate dropped the phone back in her pocket. Kyle. After all this time. Was God sending him back to her as she’d once been so certain he would?

  Mitch came back to the picnic table. “There’s an expression: ‘She looked as if she’d seen a ghost.’ Now I know what it means.”


  “That was Kyle’s mother.”

  “Kyle, major player in the Cappuccino Conflict?”

  Cate nodded. “He’s just moved to Portland. He isn’t engaged now. He wants to come down and see me.”

  “But he had to have Mommy make the call for him?”

  Cate jumped to her feet. Octavia, startled, skedaddled away from under the table. “It was thoughtful of him! He didn’t want to—to put me in an awkward position by calling me himself.”

  Mitch gave a “whatever” shrug. “When’s he coming?”

  “I told her I’d have to think about it and call her back.”

  “Is this what you’ve been waiting for?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  At the beginning, she’d been so certain God had brought the two of them together. She usually went to the 9:00 service at that big church down in San Diego, but she happened to go at 11:00 that day. There was a big crowd coming and going between services, no reason for them to meet, and yet they’d bumped right into each other, almost falling into each other’s arms. After a moment of don’t-I-know-you-from-somewhere awkwardness, they’d shared startled recognition. Wasn’t that meeting a God thing? Eventually she’d been certain God intended them to spend their lives together. And now was he giving them another chance, because he had a plan to get them back together after they’d messed up before?

  Mitch waited a minute while she just stood there with thoughts racing and colliding like an emotional demolition derby inside her head. Then he came to some conclusion and nodded briskly.

  “Okay, I’ll be on my way then, so you can get on with your thinking.” He paused. “I apologize for the snarky remark about Kyle’s mother making the call. And any other uncalled-for snarkiness.”

  He grabbed the two big lawn bags as he went by the garage, one in each hand. She’d have had trouble dragging one bag off. She managed a moment of scorn. Showing off with the big, strong man stuff.

  But she had to resist an urge to run after him.

  By the next afternoon, after she’d thought her way through much of a sleepless night, Cate was still undecided. Thinking about Kyle. Thinking about Mitch. Wishing a big voice from God would boom out of the sky and tell her what to do.

  And now the bump on her head, which she’d almost forgotten for a while yesterday, throbbed again.

  She decided she should get away from thinking for a while. She had an address for Radford now. She could go see him. If he wasn’t guilty, maybe she could enlist him as an ally in finding Amelia’s murderer. If he was guilty, going to see him was about as smart as walking unarmed into a grizzly’s den. Where the bear was perhaps not sleeping but sharpening its claws.

  Okay, how about Doris? Ask her about the money connection. Cate couldn’t see her as being as dangerous as Radford, but the conclusion about charging in to question her was the same. Not smart. She might find herself smothered by something purple.

  But how could a PI get information, if she didn’t step into danger once in a while?

  Okay, she wasn’t ruling out danger indefinitely. But not today, while her head felt as if Octavia was batting beach rocks around inside it.

  She dug out the list of numbers she’d taken from Amelia’s little red book. She passed over Texie and Doris. Hannah. Who was she? Maybe the short one, with the squeaky voice? Or how about the next one, Emily? Cate frowned. She couldn’t even remember an Emily. Krystal. Yes, Krystal! The woman who did volunteer work at the hospital, the most sophisticated looking of the Whodunit gang. Cate grabbed her cell phone and had half the number punched in before she stopped, remembering something she’d read in one of Uncle Joe’s books. Often an investigator was better off surprising people and catching them off guard than setting up a formal appointment.

  She didn’t have either an address or a last name for Krystal, but a few minutes on the internet in a reverse phone directory provided both. After briefly wondering what was appropriate clothing for a prowling PI, she changed to conservative blue slacks, white blouse, and sandals, and headed out.

  2978 Vista View Drive turned out to be in an area of nicer older homes, a substantial brick with ivy climbing the walls, mature maples in the front yard, and two white columns flanking the entryway. A formal rose garden bordered a side fence, and a newer Cadillac stood in the driveway. Cate hesitated after she pulled up to the curb.

  She’d come close to getting hit by a bullet on Saturday. What would happen today? Maybe Krystal had a hidden arsenal of major assault weapons.

  Cate resolutely discarded that possibility. She slid out of her car, walked up to the double doors with leaded glass inserts, and pushed the doorbell. She halfway expected to encounter a barrier of household help, but Krystal Lorister opened the door herself. She was dressed in pink capri pants and a scoop-necked tee today, but she looked ready to step onto the runway of a fashion show of casual outfits for older women. Her white hair was as perfectly coifed as before, elegantly immovable.

  “I don’t know if you’ll remember me … ?”

  “Of course,” Krystal said. She eyed the bump on Cate’s head, her gaze curious, but she didn’t follow up with nosy questions. “The private investigator. The woman who was at Amelia’s that day looking for Willow and found a body instead.”

  Not necessarily the way Cate wanted to be remembered for posterity, but at least no assault weapons were in sight. “I’m wondering if you’d have time to talk with me for a few minutes?”

  “Concerning?”

  Cate started to toss out the names that interested her. Amelia. Doris. Texie. Willow. Cheryl. Radford. Instead, afraid of alarming Krystal, she said, “I won’t take much of your time.”

  “Are you here in a professional capacity?”

  “Well, I, um, have a client whose … future is involved in the situation.”

  “I see.” Krystal tilted her elegant head, but her reserved expression finally softened to a smile, and her tone even took on a touch of playfulness when she asked, “Anyone I know?”

  Cate tried to make her return smile both friendly and professionally mysterious. Somehow she doubted offering the information that her client was a deaf cat would enhance her PI status.

  Krystal seemed to be granting her professional status when she said, “I know. A client isn’t something you can discuss with me. I’ve encountered a good many private investigators in books and on TV, but I’ve never known one in person before. It must be a fascinating occupation.”

  “It’s just a job,” Cate said modestly. She refrained from using the “ma’am” that seemed to go with the line.

  “We can go back to my reading room to talk.”

  Cate followed her through an immaculate living room decorated in white and delicate coral and blue pastels. Coordinating fresh flowers stood on the coffee table and fireplace mantel. They passed several closed doors down a white-carpeted hallway. Krystal opened a door and stood aside to let Cate enter. The room held floor-to-ceiling bookcases, with books precisely aligned. A lamp on a white end table flanked a recliner, and two wing chairs were set at precise angles to it. Landscapes of serene meadows and flower gardens hung on the walls.

  “I spend a lot of time here,” Krystal said.

  Cate had never known anyone who had a room just for reading. It was a lovely room, serene and soothing. Although overly neat, by Cate’s standards. She’d have had books strewn all over, but here a lone book lay on the arm of a recliner. The paperback with a corpse on the cover made a lurid island in the tranquil room. Cate started to take a seat in a wing chair, but she stopped short when she saw a very pretty, dark-haired girl of seven or eight sitting in a child-sized rocking chair beside a floor lamp, a book open on her lap. Cate hadn’t expected anyone else to be here.

  “Oh, is this one of your—” Cate broke off before she got to the word grandchildren and did a double take. Not a little girl. A doll. A life-sized doll. In a demure blue dress with a white collar and cuffs, rather old-fashioned, and black shoes in a Mary Jane style.
r />   Krystal smiled, apparently pleased with Cate’s reaction. “Isn’t she realistic? Does she look familiar?”

  Familiar? Why would a doll in the reading room of a woman she barely knew look familiar?

  Krystal stroked the doll’s dark hair. “A woman who lives out south of town makes them. Face, arms, legs, everything. She’s very talented. She did Camille using this old photo for guidance.”

  Krystal picked up a silver-framed photo and handed it to Cate. The photo was black and white, but the resemblance to the doll was truly remarkable. The doll maker had caught the shape of face and ears, the round cheeks, the firm jaw, and wide-eyed gaze. The photo might have been taken of the doll, not the other way around.

  “She’s really beautiful.”

  Krystal knelt and put her face next to the doll’s. “Do you see it now?”

  Cate didn’t see anything except an extremely real-looking doll.

  “Camille is me, of course.” Krystal smiled again as she made a fractional adjustment of the old-fashioned locket hanging around the doll’s neck. “At eight years old.”

  Cate’s glance darted between doll and woman once more. No remarkable resemblance jumped out at her, but there could be a trace of Krystal’s seventies elegance in the face of the girl-sized doll.

  “That’s, uh, very nice,” she said.

  In a macabre kind of way. Sitting here reading with the company of a younger version of yourself in the chair beside you. Cate suddenly wondered if Krystal was perhaps a little odder than she appeared on the surface.

  Of course, there was nothing really odd about owning a single life-sized doll. Some women had collections of dozens, even hundreds of dolls. Beverly made teddy bears.

  Krystal motioned her to a wing chair, and Cate perched on the edge of it. Now she had the uneasy feeling the doll might lift its head and stare at her straight on, a maniacal gleam in its eyes. Or suddenly produce some Twilight Zone cackle of laughter.