by Cate Conte
When we got in Grandpa’s truck, we both turned and looked at each other. “That was easy,” I said.
Grandpa shrugged. “The minutes are public record. And it’s the Audubon Society, not the U.S. Department of Defense.”
We continued to look at each other.
I said, “He knows something. And he was awfully glad that I didn’t ask him about anything that would specifically lead to it.”
Grandpa nodded approvingly. “See, I told you. You should’ve been a cop. Although your parents wouldn’t have forgiven me if you had.” He lifted his chin when I looked at him questioningly. “They told me early on. I think they could see it themselves. Short-sighted of them. You are a natural. Anyway. I think you’re absolutely right. So whaddaya say we get an early dinner, go over these minutes, and see what we can decipher on our own? I’m starving.”
I brightened. Food sounded like a fabulous idea. The muffin just hadn’t done the trick. And a drink sounded even better. “Me too. That sounds great. Where do you want to go?”
“I know just the place,” Grandpa said.
Chapter 29
Tuesday, December 29: seven days after the murder
5:30 p.m.
“Has this always been here?” I asked as we walked into the Blue Heaven Café. I didn’t remember ever seeing it before. Granted, I’d been away from home for a decade, but I felt like I would’ve totally remembered a place as adorable as this. It was on the water—let’s face it, most places were out here on the island—but it didn’t have all the trappings of a regular, waterfront place. Meaning, it wasn’t full of lobsters or boat paraphernalia. Rather, it had an eclectic, Mediterranean/Spanish vibe that reminded me of a place Ethan and I used to hang out in San Francisco, making me miss my “other” home for a minute.
Grandpa nodded. “It was always a place for the older folks,” he said with a wink.
I took in the different-colored walls, the jazz posters hung around the dining room, and the live band setting up in the adjacent bar space, and shot him a disbelieving look. “Really?”
We followed the hostess to a table in the back near the fireplace. A waiter immediately arrived with two waters and a scotch for Grandpa. I eyed it. “Guess you’ve been coming here for a while,” I said with a chuckle.
“Chief Leo is our favorite,” the waiter said proudly. “And for you, miss?”
I ordered a martini and we got a Mediterranean sampler to start, with all kinds of goodies from hummus to olives to grape leaves. I pulled out the pages of minutes and divided them up, taking the first half of the year and giving Grandpa the most recent ones, and dove in.
The first thing I noticed was that Virgil had attended only one meeting out of the six that I had. The very first one of the year, where new members were sworn in. I didn’t recognize any of those names, so I skimmed that part. The meeting was short, without a lot of business aside from new members. I paused to pop an olive in my mouth and glance at Grandpa, who was intently reading. The room was filling up now. In the bar area, the band started playing reggae music. I hid a smile.
He saw me grinning and frowned. “What?”
“Nothing. Just didn’t know you were a reggae guy.”
He seemed indifferent to my observation. “The music is different all the time,” he said. “Besides, reggae is great music. Very uplifting. Your friend Cass comes here often,” he added.
“Cass does? Really?” I guessed it didn’t surprise me, even if reggae was on the menu. Cass loved anything feel-good. Something else I didn’t know about a good friend. It seemed I needed to start paying more attention to the people in my life.
The waiter reappeared to take our orders. We decided to split the seafood paella. “This place is awesome,” I said happily, scooping some hummus onto a grape leaf and popping it into my mouth. “Maybe we should bring Katrina some takeout to cheer her up?”
Grandpa pointed to the papers. “Yes. Or we could find the real killer. That would cheer her up more.”
He was right. I was getting distracted. I went back to the next month—no Virgil—and skimmed the rest of the topics. A discussion about whether to charge for admission to the sanctuary, which I thought was a little much and was glad to see they voted it down. The most recent “State of the Birds” research report took up the rest of that meeting.
I flipped the pages and started on the next one. No Virgil, again. We were in March now. I glanced at Grandpa. “So far he’s been to one meeting. The first one.”
Grandpa nodded. “He hasn’t been to any that I’ve reviewed yet. But I’ve only done two.”
“These meetings are boring,” I said.
He half smiled. “I have a feeling they’re about to pick up.” He tapped the paper in front of him. “Mr. Harvey Hackett just introduced the problem with the Sea Spray feral colony.”
My eyes widened. “You’re kidding.” I grabbed the paper and skimmed, my eyes sliding back up to Grandpa’s. “Harvey? Why would he do that? He and his wife are cool with the cats. I thought he was on the board to help them.”
“I didn’t get to see it all, since someone snatched the paper away,” Grandpa said pointedly.
Sheepishly I handed it back. “What month is that?”
“September.”
“What did he say about it?”
“I’ll tell you once I finish reading,” Grandpa said.
I sighed. “Fine. But hurry.”
He gave me one of his looks and went back to the papers.
Now I was impatient to get to October, but Grandpa didn’t do well with being rushed. I went back to April and May. No Virgil at either, and no topic that had anything to do with Sea Spray or its people.
Finally Grandpa finished with September and picked up October. I tried to concentrate on my stuff but wasn’t succeeding. I resorted to eating more of the appetizer platter to keep occupied.
“Well,” he said finally, just as the waiter arrived with the paella. “Harvey brought up the cats and said it was becoming a problem in the neighborhood. That he’s been noticing a lot more bird carcasses than usual, and the neighbors were getting very upset about it.”
My spoon stilled halfway to my plate, paella sauce dripping onto the tablecloth. “Why would Harvey say that if he and his wife are advocates for the cats?”
“I have no idea,” Grandpa said. “But Virgil showed up to the next meeting in October.”
“He did?”
Grandpa nodded. “And when the Sea Spray colony came up, he admonished the group for diverting their attention from the bigger picture and advised them to stay out of it.”
My mind was in overdrive trying to process this. I’d already known that Virgil—for some odd reason—had tried to divert the attention from the cats. But Harvey was the one who’d brought the issue up in the first place? That seemed … out of character. Especially since Monica was such a cat person. “So Harvey stirred this pot?”
“Seems so. And Virgil Proust told them to stand down, basically.”
“Even though in public, Harvey is a friend of the cats and Virgil and his wife are calling the cops on a volunteer?”
Grandpa lifted his hands, palms up, in a Don’t ask me to explain it, I’m just telling you what I read gesture.
“Huh.” I sat back in my seat, my paella forgotten. Why would Harvey do that when he claimed to want to help the cats? And why would he lie about it?
Grandpa, however, dug in. “Still got November and December to go,” he said with a mouthful. “Who knows what kind of turn this’ll take?”
I wasn’t sure I wanted to know, at this point. I excused myself to go to the ladies room. Not quite sure where it was, I headed into the bar area where the band was in full swing and the crowd was getting happy. I had to walk by a small group of people dancing up a storm in the middle of the room and I paused for a second to watch. I love music and I love to sing, but dancing had never been my forte. I’d rather watch people dance—they always looked like they were having so much fun
.
Especially one woman in particular. She wore an outfit that would make a belly dancer envious, and she was really getting into it. She had moves too. I watched as her partner, a handsome dark-haired man, spun her around until she landed right smack in front of me.
And my jaw dropped.
It was Whitney Piasecki. Of Sea Spray Lane. Whitney with the “bad” leg who used a cane to walk everywhere. Unless, of course, I was crazy. Or she had a twin. But if she didn’t, her cane was nowhere in sight and she looked like she would have no need for it anyway.
The way her eyes widened when she saw me, I knew I wasn’t wrong.
“Maddie!” she exclaimed, her eyes darting around in that panicked way people had when they were cornered. “What are you doing here?”
“Having dinner with my grandpa,” I shouted over the loud music. “What about you?”
The guy she’d been dancing with was still trying to dance, but eventually realized she’d stopped and stepped over to us as the song ended.
“Hello,” he said, giving me a big smile. “I’m—”
“This is Dominic,” Whitney broke in. “My physical therapist.”
I saw his eyes flick to her, but to his credit, he said nothing and shook my hand.
“Maddie,” I said. I resisted the urge to comment on how much physical therapy seemed to have changed since Ethan broke his leg a couple of years ago and I took him to therapy until he could drive again. At a facility. With machines and other therapists and patients. We’d never once been to a dance club in that capacity.
Whitney took my arm and pulled me away from the dance floor, exaggerating her walk again to a limp, as if I hadn’t just seen her shaking her tail feathers with some handsome guy. “So crazy to bump into you! But lovely to see you. How are you?”
“I’m fine,” I said. “It is crazy, isn’t it? I didn’t mean to interrupt your … session.” I waved at the dance floor.
“You’re not interrupting at all! Dominic is such a dear, he’s agreed to use alternative therapies to get my leg back into shape again. Dancing is just such a wonderful way to feel better! So much different than walking or those strength exercises they’re always making me do. I’m so tired of this injury,” she said, reaching down to rub the offending limb for effect. “And it’s so lovely the hospital lets him use the training he feels is right instead of forcing him into some protocol.” She laughed nervously, waiting for my response.
Honestly, I didn’t know what to say. I wasn’t about to call her out in the middle of a dance party. Whitney’s leg injury—or seeming lack thereof—was really none of my business. “That’s great,” I said. “I hope it continues to improve. Listen, I was actually on my way to the bathroom so I’ll see you later, okay?”
“Okay, honey. Have a good time with Grandpa.” She gave me a hug. “I’ll have more cat food waiting when you come tomorrow. How’s Katrina? Poor thing!”
I assured her Katrina was much better since getting out of jail, then extracted myself and went to the ladies’ room. As I washed my hands, though, I wondered why Whitney would pretend to have a bad leg. I remembered seeing her at June Proust’s door the day I was out with my mom, and how angry she’d been at them before storming off with her cane.
Whitney hated the Prousts. And she loved the cats. At least, all her actions pointed toward that conclusion. So what if she was faking a leg injury so people wouldn’t give her a second look? Could she have killed Virgil in a fit of rage and then pretended to be the weak, injured neighbor who couldn’t even put up her own Christmas lights?
I hated the way I was thinking, but I couldn’t help it. Between her and Harvey, I felt like nothing was what it seemed. Kind of like what Cass has said the other day. Shaken, I finished up and headed back out to Grandpa, avoiding eye contact with anyone in the bar. When I sat down, he glanced up from his reading.
“What happened?”
I smiled, trying to keep everything I was thinking off my face in case Whitney was watching. “Why do you think something happened?”
“Because I know you,” Grandpa responded patiently. “So what is it?”
I sighed. It was never any use trying to hide anything from Grandpa. “One of the Sea Spray neighbors is here. The one with the leg injury. She’s dancing.” I filled him in on what I’d seen, and my potentially crazy thought process.
He listened, then made a note. “Okay, now we’re getting somewhere. In the meantime,” he tapped the paper in front of him, “something else interesting in here from the December meeting.”
The last meeting before the murder. I leaned forward eagerly. “What?”
“The poison petition,” he said. “Harvey suggested it.”
I stared at him, stunned. “You’re sure? It’s not a typo?”
“Unless someone is doctoring the minutes, it says it in plain English.”
I sank back in my chair. This whole exercise just reinforced that idea that you never really know anyone. “You think Monica knows?”
“I don’t know, doll,” Grandpa said. “But at least we have some options for Katrina.”
Chapter 30
Wednesday, December 30: eight days after the murder
7:30 a.m.
Wednesday morning. The day of Virgil Proust’s funeral. I woke up to Katrina shaking me. When I opened my eyes, she loomed over me, looking very serious. Startled, I jumped up. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Well, everything.” She covered her face with her hands. “I just got a call from Mick. He’s got a dog that needs help and he’s tied up with something at the station. He can’t leave. Can you call Craig for me and see if he can help?”
I rubbed my eyes, trying to focus, pressing my hand against my chest. “You scared the crap out of me. What can Craig do?”
“He can get me the address and I can go get the dog?”
I gave her a look. “Because you never want your job back?”
She sighed. “Fine. Can he at least go get the dog? Maybe you can go with him? I’ll take care of the café. He’ll just need to get the keys from Mick.”
I couldn’t say no to a dog in trouble. I reached over, grabbed my cell phone off the nightstand, and texted Craig.
Help.
He responded back nearly immediately.
What happened? Are you okay?
Come over and I’ll explain, I replied.
So you’re okay?
I’m fine but I need your help.
This better be good.
I tossed the phone on the bed. “He’s coming. Now can I please go to the bathroom?”
I barely had time to wash my face, brush my teeth, and throw some clothes on before Craig was at the door. When he saw Katrina and me standing there, he frowned.
“What’s the emergency?”
“Come on in and we’ll tell you.” I tugged his sleeve until he came inside, then handed him some coffee. He wasn’t wearing his uniform. “Are you off today?”
He nodded. “I did a double yesterday.”
“And we woke you. Sorry,” I said, wincing.
“It’s fine.” He regarded Katrina. “How are you doing?”
“Crappy,” she answered. “But you can help me feel a little better.”
We gave him a quick rundown. I could tell he wasn’t thrilled about this, but he agreed to help.
“Thank you so much,” Katrina said, giving him a hug. “Maddie will go with you and get the dog settled.”
I nodded. “You don’t have to stay. I just need to be able to get into the center.”
“Okay, let’s go.” He finished his coffee and handed me the mug. “And then you can buy me breakfast.”
* * *
He was true to his word. We picked up the keys from Sergeant Ellory—well, Craig did, I waited in the car—then picked up the dog, a poor stray black lab who was extremely friendly. After we got the dog set up in an empty kennel and gave him food and water, I left a note for the volunteers to scan him for a microchip and then we headed
to the diner on Bicycle Street, where I bought Craig the breakfast he’d very much earned.
I was happy to do it and thankful he’d helped us with the dog. While we waited for our food, I told him so.
He waved me off. “No problem. How is Katrina?”
“You heard her. She’s crappy.” I sipped my orange juice. “But she told us the story about that thing in college.”
“She did?”
I nodded and gave him the abridged version, pausing only when the waitress came by with our food.
He listened to the whole thing without a word. When I was done, he ate a few more bites then said, “It sounds like an awful experience. I hope that it doesn’t come up in front of a jury.”
“Me too. God, Craig. The cops have to find out who really did this. Isn’t there someone there who you can talk to?” I stabbed my omelet in frustration.
Craig polished off his pumpkin pancake. “What is it you think I can do, Maddie? I can’t tell them how to run their investigation.” He took a sip of his coffee.
“No, but you can tell them about the other suspicious people who could’ve done this.”
“I think they know enough to check out the spouse. It’s usually the first place cops look.”
I rolled my eyes. “I watch Law and Order. I know that. But how seriously would they look at her? She’s a lifer there, she’s got money, I’m sure she’s got something on someone on the force. They probably did the bare minimum questioning and that’s it. In fact, I know that’s it. Lilah Gilmore told them about seeing Virgil having an argument with someone and they still arrested Katrina.”
Craig didn’t look impressed.
“Craig.” I leaned forward, pushing my plate aside. “His wife is nuts. She smashed his phone into pieces during a public meeting.”
Craig took the last bite of pancake and tossed his napkin over his empty plate. “But so what? Husbands and wives fight all the time. It doesn’t mean they kill each other in most cases.”
“No, but in some cases they do.”
He sighed. “Okay. You’re right. In some cases they do.”