I couldn’t have said it better myself.
Sixteen
I wished Scarlett luck with her life and her new book and beat feet out of there before either Bonnie or Milton could pin me down. After all, I had a return engagement there at seven with Sable St. John. Hopefully by then both of them would be off shift and not around. Running into Bonnie again would definitely be awkward.
I mentally reviewed what I’d learned on the ride back to Cruz. I found myself believing the girl when she said she hadn’t killed Marlene, no matter how desperately I might want not to. She just didn’t strike me as the murdering kind, although from her story, she’d have plenty of reason to.
I didn’t know what Desiree’s secret was and I didn’t want to. I found myself thinking not so kindly thoughts about the late Marlene McCambridge. How could she do this to people she’d befriended, and who’d trusted her?
If I could get my hands on that manuscript, I’d burn it myself. Better that than to have it fall into the hands of that publishing house who would, no doubt, milk it, and Marlene’s death, for all it was worth.
I switched off the radio and drummed my fingers on the steering wheel. “One suspect down. Two , maybe three to go.”
“Merow.”
I gripped the wheel and turned my head, very slowly. Nick was sitting up straight in the backseat, his tail fanned out like a black plume. He flicked it slowly back and forth as our eyes met in my rearview mirror.
“How on earth did you get back there?”
“Yowl—yurgle!”
I noticed something else too. A circle of red, white and blue crystals hung around Nick’s neck. One of Chantal’s newest creations, no doubt. I inclined my head toward his neck. “Very patriotic.”
A loud hiss was his response, and then he launched himself gracefully over the console and arranged himself in my passenger seat. He lay down, head on paws, blinked twice at me, and then closed his eyes.
I’d long since given up on figuring out how Nick did the things he did. For that matter, I’d long since given up on thinking that Nick was an ordinary cat. There was clearly a lot more going on with him than met the eye, and I had the feeling I was better off not knowing just exactly what that might be.
“So you got tired of trying on collars and thought you’d track me down? I’m actually kinda glad you’re here,” I told the cat. “Mind if I bounce some theories off you?”
He winked one eye open.
“Good. I just interviewed Scarlett Vandevere. She seems like a very nice person, and apparently she’s not our Miss Anne Onymous. She’s been staying with a friend. They even watched Rear Window on late-night TV.”
Nick snorted.
“Yeah, I tend to doubt alibis that depend on another person’s corroboration, but apparently Samms went to see her earlier today, and apparently hers passed muster.”
Nick’s eyes closed. Apparently if Samms was satisfied, he was too.
“Scarlett said there wasn’t any love lost between Marlene and Sable St. John, and Morley Carruthers, either. Scarlett said Marlene accused St. John of conspiring with her agent against her. I wonder what that was all about.”
Nick rearranged himself on the seat and started to purr.
“Well, maybe we’ll find out soon. That’s why we’re meeting Jenks at the stucco house.”
At the mention of Jenks’s name, Nick made a growly sound in his throat. Then he gave his head a vigorous shake and thumped his tail twice against the leather upholstery.
“Yes, I know Jenks isn’t your favorite person. What can I say, Nick. Some people just don’t get cats. To be honest, he doesn’t impress me much either. But he’s a pretty resourceful guy. I’m hoping he can figure out a way to charm our mysterious inhabitant into letting us in. It’s starting to look to me that Ms. Onymous is Anabel Leedson.”
Nick sneezed.
I wondered briefly what Daniel and Samms would think if they could hear me carrying on a conversation with my cat. Probably that I’d gone batshit crazy. Ollie and Chantal, now, were a different story. In fact, I’d heard Chantal remark on more than one occasion that Nick seemed to be following our conversations. Whether he did or not, I often found it helped me to sort things out, particularly when I was dealing with dead bodies.
Both Nick and I could claim a certain amount of expertise in that area.
I made the turn onto the road and a few minutes later the roof of the stucco house came into view. I glided the SUV to a stop about fifty yards from the house. Jenks was nowhere in sight. I sighed as I realized I hadn’t asked him what type of car he drove. Not that it would matter much, as there was little or no traffic down this road anyway.
I reached over to absently stroke the top of Nick’s head. “Maybe we should have called Ollie,” I murmured. “He came in handy the last time.”
Nick moved closer to me and rubbed his furry black-and-white face against my arm. “Errrup.”
“Yes, I’d rather have Ollie here too. For all I know, Simon Gladstone could show up here. He’s not someone to fool around with. If Daniel had his photo, you can bet there’s a lot more going on there than meets the eye.”
Nick put his paw on my leg, stretched and gave me a head butt on the chin. Then he started to purr.
I gave him a quick scratch behind one ear, then switched the car off and leaned my head back against the rest. Simon Gladstone had been hired by someone to steal those appointment pages. And even though Samms would never admit it, I was relatively certain the second appointment book had been intended as a trap. Simon was undoubtedly working for someone. I felt safe crossing Scarlett off that list. That left Morley Carruthers, Dooley/Sable, and . . . whoever’s initials had been erased from the original book.
The sound of my phone chirping cut into my thoughts. I dug the phone out, glanced at the caller ID, and clicked Accept. Before I even spoke I heard Hank’s deep voice rumble over the line. “Hey, Nora. What have you been up to?”
“Deep in a mystery, as usual,” I said and laughed. “I’m assuming you have some news for me?”
“Ah, gone are the days when we’d just call to chat.” He chuckled. “Although I must say, at least the assignments you give me are interesting. That one was no piece of cake.”
“I know. The photo was dark. I’m sorry.”
“Fortunately, my contact at the lab was able to rise to the occasion. I’m emailing you a copy of the altered photo, but I can tell you that your hunch was spot-on. There was something erased under that DS.”
Bingo. “Could you make out what was written there?”
“Nora, Nora, I told you, I only deal with the cream of the crop. Of course he could. It was another set of initials.”
I was fully expecting to hear him say AL—so I gasped when he added, “NE.”
“NE, huh.” My head was spinning. None of my current suspects had those initials. “I owe you big-time, as usual.”
“You certainly do and one day I might even collect.”
“So can I press my luck and ask for one more favor? Can you check with one of your contacts in the Boston area for any crime families who might possibly have some sort of tie to a hit man who goes by the name of Simon Gladstone—not his real name, I’m sure—and possibly Marlene McCambridge as well?”
I explained about Simon, the address book, and Daniel’s showing me the photo. “I’m thinking someone sent Simon Gladstone here on a mission, and even though Daniel couldn’t come right out and say it . . .”
“You’re certain it’s someone of interest to the FBI.” Hank let out a low whistle. “A photo would be best, but text me a detailed description of the guy and I’ll see what I can come up with.”
“I know you will. I’ve missed working with you, Hank.”
“And I you. Any chance you’ll give up your new profession and come back to Chicago?”
I laughed. “About as much chance of me doing that as you winning the lottery. Do you still buy a dozen tickets each week?”
“I’v
e cut back to a half dozen.”
“Well, you need to come to Cruz and visit me. I’ll even make up a special sandwich in your honor. A nice steak sub.”
“You sure know how to tempt a man.” He chuckled. “Maybe in the summer. Crime takes a bit of a break then.”
“Does it really?”
“No,” he admitted. “But I sounded convincing, didn’t I?”
We exchanged a few more pleasantries and then I ended the call, and texted him as detailed a description as I could remember. When I’d finished, I glanced at my watch.
Five fifteen. I drummed my fingers impatiently against the armrest.
Jenks was late.
I dialed the Cruz Sun and was told he’d left for the day. The girl who’d answered the phone seemed in a talkative mood. She was glad to impart the information that he’d said something about running “an errand of mercy,” which I assumed was me. Since he’d never given me a cell number there was no way for me to contact him, so . . . I slid the phone back into my bag and looked at Nick.
“Guess he found himself a hot story. Oh, well, that means it’s you and me, big fella.”
He sat straight up, and I could swear the corners of his lips tipped up, just a tad, the equivalent of a kitty smile.
“We should be okay, just as long as we don’t run into Simon Gladstone. Come on, let’s move.”
We exited the car and trudged up the long driveway to the front door. Once again, I rang the bell. Once again, the sounds of a dove cooing, a donkey braying and a tiger snarling met my ears.
Once again, no one answered.
“This time, we’re not taking no for an answer,” I muttered. I wasn’t as adept with a credit card as Ollie was, but I was certain I could manage in a pinch. I motioned to Nick and the two of us circled the house. It seemed to be shut up tighter than a drum; no curtains moved at all. I pressed my ear to the back door and stood for a few minutes, listening.
Nothing. No sounds of life anywhere.
I was just about to admit defeat for the third time when Nick suddenly took off like a shot across the yard. It took me a minute to realize he was heading for the garage.
“Nick, come back,” I shouted. When he kept on running, I gave up and started after him. When he was about twenty feet away, he suddenly hurled himself like a missile through the air and landed on the windowsill. He stretched his forepaws up and started to paw at the glass.
“Nick,” I cried. “Stop that. What are you doing?”
As I drew closer, I saw smoke coming out of the top of the garage door. I started to choke. The stench of gasoline was unmistakable. I hurried over to the window, pushed Nick aside, and peered inside.
The garage had been empty on my previous visit with Ollie. That wasn’t the case now.
A white BMW sat square in the middle, and the door on the driver’s side was open. A woman lay, one arm extended, half in and half out of the car.
And she wasn’t moving.
Seventeen
“Oh my God.”
It seemed pretty clear that the woman was dead, but I still felt the need to check. I circled around to the garage door and gave it a tug, but it wouldn’t budge. Apparently something was blocking it. There was another door, off to the left. I tried that, but it wouldn’t open either. Where was Ollie and his credit cards when you needed them?
I looked around. My best bet seemed to be the window, but one swift tug assured me this was locked tight as well. I looked around, searching for something, anything, I could use to break in, and spied a large rock. I hefted it up, hurried back to the window, and hurled the rock through the glass, holding my breath as gas fumes came rushing out. I fumbled in my pocket for a Kleenex, then took a deep gulp of fresh air before placing the tissue over my nose and mouth. Then, being very careful not to cut myself on any of the jagged slivers of glass, I unlocked the window and raised it, then lowered myself through the opening feet-first. Once inside, I moved swiftly to the door, curious as to what might be blocking it, and saw a doorstop wedged underneath. I thought about removing it, then changed my mind. The police would have to be called, and they wouldn’t be happy with the broken window. Why compound it?
The fumes stung my eyes, and I could feel them start to tear. I blinked the moisture away and hurried over to the car. I reached inside and shut the engine off, then knelt beside the woman. Her eyes were open, staring sightlessly ahead, her lips frozen in an O of surprise. Her skin was pale, except for two bright spots of pink on each cheek, and there was a slight bluish ring around her lips. I put my fingers to the pulse at her neck.
Nothing.
I saw a purse lying a few feet away from the body. It was open, the contents scattered. I saw a wallet and reached for it. I opened it and the first thing I saw was a driver’s license. I glanced at the photo and then at the name printed next to it.
Just as I suspected. The woman was Anabel Leedson.
I scratched thoughtfully at my ear. It was fairly evident she’d died from carbon monoxide poisoning. Add in the fact the window had been locked and the garage door jammed and it seemed to indicate she’d taken her own life. What would have made her want to commit suicide?
Or had she?
I glanced around the small building. Over to the right was another window. Granted, you’d have to climb up on the ledge to reach that one, but . . . it could be done, if someone were pretty agile.
Simon Gladstone was thin, wiry, and a fast runner. He fit the bill by my standards. It looked as if my theory about Anabel seeing the murderer might hold water, after all.
I started to cough and my eyes started to sting. I dropped the wallet, hurried over and stuck my head out the window, breathing in the fresh air. Once my eyes stopped tearing, I walked back over and picked up the wallet again. I opened the billfold. There were quite a few bills tucked in there, all twenties. I did a quick calculation. There was four hundred dollars in cash in the wallet. Well, rule out a robbery. I examined the other items, which consisted of a few business cards all from bookstores in the area. Each had a contact’s name and phone number written there.
Well, that would substantiate that she’d come to California intending to set up a book tour for Marlene. My gut was telling me, though, that the tour was only a cover for some other, possibly sinister, purpose.
As I started to replace the cards I noticed one was stuck to the back of another. I pulled them apart and glanced at the bottom card. It was for a beauty supply store in Marina, about fifteen minutes away. On the back was a number. I pulled my phone out of my pocket, snapped a quick photo of the front and back of the card, then stuck it back in the wallet.
Next I opened the zippered compartment. Inside was a small cardboard square and a slip of pink paper. I unfolded the pink paper first. It was a rental receipt from Century 21, signed by Joannie Adams and Rita Robillard, for the sum of eighteen thousand dollars for two months’ rental of the brown stucco house. I let out a low whistle. Nine thousand dollars a month seemed an obscene amount for a rental to me, but in this hoity-toity area of Cruz it was most likely a bargain. I wondered what Marlene had paid for hers. If it was anywhere near that amount, no wonder Rita had been so desperate to close the deal.
I glanced at the name scrawled on the bottom. Anne Onymous. Well, that certainly seemed to cinch the fact she and Anabel Leedson were one and the same. I looked at the date. She’d signed it two weeks before Marlene had come to town. Three weeks after she’d been fired.
My brow puckered in thought. Why had she signed the rental before she knew what house Marlene had been going to rent? How had she known Marlene would choose the Porter house? I remembered Scarlett’s assertion that Marlene had believed Anabel and Sable St. John were plotting against her. Could St. John have known Marlene’s plans and tipped Anabel off? Were they in league, plotting Marlene’s demise together?
I picked up the cardboard square. It looked like what was left of a business card; however, all the important information had been ripped off. There wa
s a large staple in its center, and I turned it over. Stapled to the back was a small square of paper bearing the number: N657. There was some writing on the back.
“Marowl!”
My head snapped up and the papers fluttered to the ground. I’d forgotten all about Nick. I glanced around for a sign of the tubby tuxedo. He was squatting low, right next to the body. He put a paw out, rested it on the dead woman’s chest.
“Nick!” I hurried over to him. “What in the world are you doing! Get off that body this instant.”
He removed his paw and backed up, all the while watching me with his wide gold eyes. I started to walk back toward him, and his back arched, his tail fluffed, and he opened his mouth wide, showing me a generous expanse of fang.
“Ya-rowl!”
I took a step backward, and Nick’s stance relaxed. I started to move toward him again, and got the same reaction.
“What? You want me to look at the body again?”
It seemed to me he inclined his head. I went back to the body and knelt down. Anabel’s left arm was extended out, her hand open, fingertips brushing the concrete floor. Her other arm was twisted at her side, her hand inverted toward her stomach, almost as if she’d been trying to hide something. I leaned a bit closer and caught a glint of something twined between her fingers. I started to back away from the body, and then I caught Nick’s eye. He was staring steadily at me, his tail thumping up and down against the concrete. His whiskers twitched, his rear end wiggled, and in the next second he was squatting next to me, his gaze focused on the object in Anabel’s hand.
“Ma-row! E-ower.”
I sighed, then moved closer and squatted down for a better look at the object entwined in Anabel’s clutching fingers. It was a small initial E on a silver chain. The points of the letter were dotted with tiny diamond chips. As I stared at it, I heard Desiree’s voice in my head:
“One day I saw her with a necklace. It was a pretty thing, a silver initial surrounded by a few diamonds. And when she saw me looking at her, she hid it right away in a pouch. Funny thing, though. You’d have thought it’d be an M, right? For Marlene or McCambridge? Nope. It was an E.”
Hiss H for Homicide Page 14
