A Whisker of a Doubt

by Cate Conte

  “June is strong. She grabbed me the other day and man, she could hold on.” I rubbed my wrist just thinking about it.

  His eyes narrowed at that. “Why was she grabbing you?”

  “When she was accusing me and my friends of killing Virgil. The night it happened. The cops saw the whole thing.”

  “You’re kidding. What did they do?”

  “Finally they took her out of sight—once Ethan jumped in.” I smiled thinking about it, but he didn’t look amused.

  “That’s not cool,” he said. “They should’ve done something.”

  “Grieving widow and all that.” I made a face. “But seriously.” I ticked names off on my fingers. “There’s June. There’s Trey Barnes, the young guy who’s married to the old lady. Lilah said Virgil threatened to throw his friends out of the neighborhood or something. There’s Harvey Hackett, who threatened to tell June about Virgil not showing up at these meetings. Which apparently made Virgil really mad. And there’s something weird going on there—he and his wife have been really cool about the cats to our faces, but I found out he’s the one who started the whole poison petition thing. I didn’t tell Katrina,” I added hastily. “We don’t need her knowing who it was. Virgil, of all people, shot it down. And then there’s Whitney, who is really good to us and the cats, but she’s faking this leg injury. And she hates the Prousts.” I filled him in on that story too.

  “Jeez.” He rubbed his temples. “All this on that fancy-pants street, huh?”

  “Yep. You see what I mean? Someone needs to investigate them and all their secrets.”

  “I get the feeling someone already is,” Craig said dryly.

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “Grandpa and I are, yes. But we could use more help. Like someone who actually has an in with the police.”

  “And you think I do?”

  “You’re a cop!”

  “On another force. With a boss who doesn’t want to get involved.”

  We had a stare-off for a few seconds, then he sighed. “Come on. I have to bring you home. I have some stuff to do.”

  “Oooh, like what? Big date with Jade today?” I teased as we walked out the door.

  But he looked really uncomfortable. “No. We aren’t seeing each other much anymore.” He strode ahead of me so I couldn’t see his face.

  I rushed to catch up. “Oh no! Why not?” I was genuinely surprised to hear that. They’d looked so tight at Christmas. And although it was a little weird that they were dating, I really did want it to work out for them.

  Craig shrugged. “Just wasn’t working out. Look, I have to go.”

  “Craig.” I reached for his arm. “I’m sorry.”

  He returned my gaze. “Thanks.”

  At that exact moment, Lucas walked around the corner. He had a dog with him. That was a special service he offered—pick up and drop off for his grooming clients. This one was adorable. A squat little black-and-white pit bull that looked like he or she was smiling. I did love dogs—I just hadn’t thought about having one right now because, well, I had a house full of cats.

  My instinct was to drop down and say hello to the dog, who had seen us and was already wagging his or her tail. But I didn’t want to look like I was encouraging conversation. Especially in front of Craig, who watched with narrowed eyes.

  Then Lucas glanced up and realized we were there, and his entire face fell. For a split second. Then he replaced it with a carefully blank expression. I realized what it must look like, especially since I had been holding on to Craig’s arm when he came around the corner, and opened my mouth to explain.

  Then realized I didn’t need to explain. After all, this was the guy who had vanished on me for a month without a word.

  “Hey,” Lucas said, lifting his hand in a slight wave before awkwardly shoving it back in his pocket.

  “Hey,” I returned, because Craig said nothing and I didn’t want to be completely rude.

  Lucas tugged on the dog’s leash, but he (she?) had planted him or herself on the sidewalk, waiting for some love.

  I gave in and reached down to pet the dog. The animal sniffed me, tentatively at first, then began kissing my fingers in earnest. “Cutie pie. What’s his”—I glanced up for confirmation from Lucas—“name?”

  “Oliver.”

  “Hi, Oliver,” I said, scratching his ears. “You’re a doll.”

  I could feel Lucas watching me. I avoided his eyes as I stood up and turned to walk away.

  “Maddie,” he said, but I cut him off.

  “I have to go.” I followed Craig down the sidewalk. When I got a few feet I turned back. “Cute dog though.”

  He didn’t reply. I could feel his eyes on me as we hurried down the street to Craig’s car.

  Chapter 31

  Wednesday, December 30: eight days after the murder

  Virgil’s funeral 4:00 p.m.

  I pushed my parents’ doorbell and practiced my most innocent look. My dad opened the door a few minutes later, suit jacket in hand. When he saw me, he raised his eyebrows. “What are you doing here, hon?”

  “Hi, Dad.” I reached up and gave him a kiss, then stepped past him into the hallway. “I’m coming to the funeral.”

  “Madalyn. You know it’s not open to the public.”

  “I’m not the public,” I said. “I’m the girl who found his body. I kind of think I’ve earned it, no? Besides, who’s going to turn Brian James’s daughter away?”

  He gave me that look that said he desperately wanted to argue with me but knew he wasn’t going to win.

  “Brian, who was at the door?” My mother’s voice floated down from upstairs.

  “It’s Maddie,” he called up.

  “Maddie?” I heard her heels on the floor upstairs, then she appeared on the stairs, leaning over so she could see me. She’d been in the middle of putting her long curls in an up-do. One side still hung down, brushing her shoulder. “What are you doing here?”

  I was getting kind of sick of that greeting. “I’m coming to the funeral.”

  “Oh, Maddie.” My mother sighed. “Are you sure that’s the best idea? How did you know about it anyway?”

  “You told me,” I lied. “Plus you’re going, and you were right there with me sticking up for the cats.”

  “I know, but—”

  “And you’ve known Katrina forever. You totally vouched for her. So I’m not seeing a big difference here between you and me.” I crossed my arms and thrust my chin up defiantly. “I’m coming.”

  “I’ll get the car,” my dad said, and slipped outside.

  “He’s always hated conflict,” my mother mused. “Crazy, given his job.” She refocused on me. “Okay, well. You’re here, so you might as well come. Just behave, okay?”

  “Behave? What do you think I’m going to do?” I asked. “Accuse someone of murder? Oh, wait. That’s their MO.”

  She was already on her way back upstairs to finish pinning her hair up. I think she ignored me on purpose.

  * * *

  When we arrived at the church, there were only a handful of cars there. “Low turnout?” I said.

  “It is a private event,” my mother said.

  “Right, but I thought that just meant they wouldn’t let any gawkers in. I figured that meant that all the rich Turtle Point people could go.”

  I saw my dad and mom exchange a glance, but neither of them replied. My dad parked and went around to open my mother’s door. I thought it was so cute he still did that. We all went inside together and took a seat on the left side, a few pews back and across from the Prousts—the perfect angle for me to watch them.

  I surveyed the room. Most people were gathered up front. I could see June holding court, wearing a black dress that had as much style as a Hefty trash bag. I recognized a couple of people from the neighborhood. Lilah was right up front, as expected. I didn’t see Edie, though. I spotted Dr. Kelly and his wife.

  A young man with a ponytail that reminded a bit of Virgil’s sat in t
he front pew but didn’t speak to anyone. I recognized him as the scrawny guy who’d pulled June off of me at the courthouse. I poked my mother. “Who’s that?”

  “He must be their son,” she whispered. “I’d heard they had a child, but he doesn’t live around here.”

  That didn’t surprise me at all. Poor kid. I couldn’t imagine growing up with June as a mother. The church door opened again. I felt the rush of cold air and turned to look. The man who strode down the aisle looked familiar, but it took me a minute to place him.

  When I did, I frowned. It was the guy I’d seen dancing with Whitney Piasecki at Blue Heaven. The guy she’d tried to tell me was her physical therapist. Dominic. I remembered because anytime I met someone with that name I immediately thought of that stupid Christmas song “Dominick the Donkey,” and then I always associated that person with that song for the rest of their lives.

  But that aside, this made no sense. Whitney hated the Prousts because of their feral-hating ways. So why was her boyfriend—at least I assumed it was her boyfriend and for some reason she didn’t want anyone to know—here at Virgil’s private funeral?

  I leaned over to my mother and poked her. “Hey. Do you know that guy?”

  She followed my finger to where the guy had gone up to June and was speaking in a low voice. “No. Never seen him before. And don’t point, Maddie. It’s rude.”

  I watched the conversation unfold. Whatever he was saying to June, she looked like she had no interest in it. Or him. She finally said something and he gave up, going to sit next to the guy my parents thought was the Prousts’ son. I watched as they shook hands.

  I leaned over my mother to get my father’s attention and asked him the same question. “I can’t really see his face, but he doesn’t look familiar,” my father said. “I’ll look again when he gets up. Why?”

  I shrugged. “I’ve seen him before but I’m curious about why he’s here.”

  I could tell my father wanted to ask me about that, but whoever was playing the music for the funeral started, and a bunch of melancholy notes floated out of the eaves above us. It had been a long time since I’d been in a church. As a little girl, I always wanted to sit in the balcony where the music came from during mass. But since we usually only went for holidays, it was so full by the time we arrived that we never had a shot. I turned to look up there, and my eyes fell on an unexpected mourner in the back. Leopard Man.

  He didn’t see me watching him. He was engrossed in the music, singing along. Why on earth was he here? Especially given the scenario with Katrina? He didn’t seem like the type of company Virgil Proust would keep enough to secure an invite to a private event, although clearly there were a lot of secrets in this little community.

  I kept myself busy people watching during the service, which thankfully wasn’t terribly long. Near the end, the young man from the front row—who was, in fact, Virgil and June’s son, Virgil Junior—got up to do the eulogy. Everyone leaned forward a bit in their seats to hear what he was going to say.

  He stood there for a moment, surveying the crowd with a dour look on his face. His eyes were small like June’s, and he was tall and lanky like her. But when he spoke, I could hear the elder Virgil in his voice—that deep baritone and quiet confidence.

  “Thank you all for coming to remember my father,” he said. “I know there were a lot more people who wanted to come say goodbye, whose lives he touched in some way, but at his core my dad was a private person. He was never happier than when he was in his study reading, or painting, or doing his charity work.”

  Painting? Charity work? I was curious now. Did he mean the Audubon board? If so, he’d apparently kept his lack of enthusiasm to himself.

  Young Virgil went on for a few more moments, talking about memories from his childhood, holidays, and one particular memory where his dad had helped him rescue a squirrel who’d gotten his foot stuck in a crack in a wall behind their house. He didn’t mention any of the recent neighborhood unpleasantness, or the fact that someone had murdered his father. Which I suppose would’ve been inappropriate for a eulogy, but seemed odd just the same to ignore this giant elephant in the room. The whole time, June stared at her son like she’d never seen him before.

  When he sat back down, the priest went through the rest of the service. Finally, it was over. As people started to rise, the priest said, “Mrs. Proust wishes to invite everyone back to her home for a small celebration of Virgil’s life. Thank you all for coming.”

  I turned to my parents. “We going?”

  “Going where?” Dad asked.

  “To the Prousts’.”

  He looked at my mother, then back at me. I could see what he was thinking: If we don’t go, it’s one less way my daughter will be involved in this mess. “I don’t think so, Maddie—”

  “Oh, come on. It would be rude not to,” I said, looking at my mother for confirmation. “Right?”

  My mother chewed on her lip. “It might be a little rude, but I’m not sure if we—”

  “Sophie! Brian!” A woman walking past our pew bent over and clasped my father’s hand. “So lovely to see you. You’re coming to June’s, right?” She looked eagerly at my mother.

  “Um. Of course,” my mother said, pasting a smile on, avoiding my father’s eyes on her. “We can’t stay long—”

  The woman dismissed that with a wave of her hand. “Not to worry. I just think it’s important to be there to support our friends.” She squeezed my father’s hand again, then dropped it and headed to the front of the church.

  My dad looked at my mom. She shrugged. “Really, Brian. What was I supposed to say? These people want us there because of you, after all.”

  I hid a smile. My mother always knew the best way to rationalize things so my dad had to see it her way.

  He had nothing to say to that. With a sigh, he ushered us out of the pew. “Come on. We’re not staying long. And Maddie, you’re staying with me,” he instructed.

  “Jeez, Dad. What do you think I’m going to do?”

  “I have no idea. And that’s what worries me.”

  Victorious, I stepped out of the pew, scanning the back of the church for Leopard Man. I didn’t see him. He must’ve taken off right when it ended.

  Chapter 32

  Wednesday, December 30: eight days after the murder

  5:30 p.m.

  Truth be told, I was glad that woman had cornered my mother. I really wanted to go to this thing, as crazy as it sounded. I wanted a chance to talk to the people in Virgil’s life when they would, theoretically, have their guard down. And if they saw me at a function like this as a member of the prominent James-Mancini family rather than one of the wackadoodle cat ladies traipsing around the woods during a snowstorm, I’d probably have a better chance at finding something out. Like why Whitney’s “physical therapist” was here.

  I got in Grandma’s car and followed my parents the short distance from the church to the Prousts’ home. I looked at the houses as we drove by, observing them in this different light. I wasn’t here today to feed cats (although I would be later) so I tried to see if it felt any different as a “normal” visitor. Anyone driving by would probably think nothing except what a fancy neighborhood it was, with big, stately, sort-of pretty homes. A regular person might try to make up stories about the kinds of families who lived in these houses. They wouldn’t know that someone’s head had been bashed in with a Christmas gnome, and that there seemed to be more secrets along this street than in most teenaged-girls’ diaries. I did wonder about this gnome. Had it belonged to the Prousts? It seemed … less than classy by their standards. So had the killer brought it, or found it along the way?

  I was also dying to talk to Virgil Junior. I wondered if he’d talk to me, or if his mother would forbid it. Or if I should focus my attention on Whitney’s boyfriend.

  As if my father had read my mind, he materialized at my side when I was getting out of the car. “Listen, Maddie, I know you want to help Katrina. But please
don’t go in here asking these people a ton of questions and playing detective, okay?”

  “Brian, leave her be,” my mother said automatically. She’d walked over to us, no doubt to play peacekeeper if needed. “If Maddie talks to anyone I’m sure she’ll be discreet.”

  “Not the point, Sophie,” Dad said. “This is someone’s funeral and that kind of thing doesn’t have a place here.”

  “Then you should tell the police officer that.” My mother pointed.

  I followed her finger and sure enough, there was one of Turtle Point’s finest, a man I didn’t recognize. I wondered why they’d bothered to show up at all. I knew that as far as they were concerned they had their killer. They’d made that clear enough. Had June invited him?

  Impulsively, I hugged my dad. “Don’t worry. I promise I won’t embarrass you.”

  “That’s not what I was saying,” he began, but I silenced him with a wink.

  “Kidding. Let’s go.” I led the way to the Prousts’ front door, offering June a sympathetic smile when she let us in.

  I saw the initial flash of anger in her eyes before she dismissed me, turning her attention to my father. “Brian. How kind of you to come.” She sniffed and dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. “We lost a great man.”

  My mother and I exchanged an eye roll behind her back. Apparently June had forgotten how she’d hurled his phone at a wall in a fit of anger before he died. And the way she was so polite and deferential to my dad made me want to gag.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” my father said. He was the one truly polite person in the family.

  “Please, come in.” June pointed to the living room, where people were gathering. Someone had put out a food spread. There was even a little bar with a man standing behind it, ready to serve drinks.

  Even death was fancy in these parts.

  Someone approached my mother and began talking, so I used the opportunity to slip into the room and survey the small crowd. Still no sign of Edie or Trey Barnes, which was odd given that Edie and June were allegedly so close. Even if they’d had a falling out, wouldn’t such a tragic death have overridden that? I would think Edie would have wanted to be here for her friend.