The Pawful Truth

by Miranda James

She smiled and nodded, already looking toward the person behind me in line. As I walked along the line I saw Melba about five people back. She motioned for me to stop.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “Helen Louise has gone to the bistro,” she said. “She wants us to join her there. She has Barbara Lamont with her.”

  “Okay,” I said. “See you there.”

  The police officers had apparently departed with the two men, because the patrol car was gone when I stepped out of the bookstore. I walked to the bistro, wondering again whether Barbara Lamont was the woman who had accompanied Carey Warriner to the event.

  When I walked into the bistro, I looked for Helen Louise and spotted her, as I had expected, at our usual table. The woman with her was indeed the one I had seen tonight sitting next to Carey Warriner in the audience. As I approached them, I could see she appeared distraught.

  Helen Louise glanced up at my approach and smiled in welcome. “Hello, love, did you get all your books signed?”

  I pulled out a chair. “I did. Melba was in line when I left.” I glanced at Barbara Lamont. “We’ve not met before. I’m Charlie Harris.”

  She nodded, a faint smile flashing for a moment. “I’m Barbara Lamont, a friend of Helen Louise’s from church. I’ve heard about you and your cat. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

  “Thank you, it’s nice to meet you, too.” I smiled and waited for Helen Louise to enlighten me. I didn’t want to embarrass myself or Barbara Lamont by saying the wrong thing.

  “Have some wine.” Helen Louise lifted a bottle and poured some of the vintage into a glass. “Barb, how about a bit more?”

  “Thank you,” Barbara said. “I think I will.” She slid her glass toward her hostess.

  Helen Louise added wine to the glass and then looked at me with a smile. “Barb was just telling me that she’s a bridge player. I had no idea. I haven’t played in years.”

  “I haven’t, either,” I said. “Back in Houston, my wife and I used to play regularly with friends. I’m not sure I’d remember how after all this time.” I sipped my wine.

  “I’m sure it would come back to you pretty quickly. A good bridge player never forgets.” Barbara stared into her wineglass for a moment, then addressed me directly. “I was telling Helen Louise that I play regularly with Irene and Carey Warriner. Dan Bellamy is sometimes a fourth; other times we play with a professor from the music department. I’m not sure if you know him. His name is Armand d’Arcy. His specialty is Renaissance and early modern music.”

  I exchanged a quick glance with Helen Louise. At last, we knew who the mystery Mr. d’Arcy was. I didn’t say anything, however, because Barbara suddenly seemed diffident.

  “You might as well know,” she said in a rush, “that Armand was at the bookstore tonight, and it was he that Carey attacked.” She took a shaky breath. “I don’t know what’s wrong with Carey. Lately he’s been acting so peculiar. He’s become so possessive of Irene, and, well, I guess Helen Louise told you what happened here.”

  I nodded. “Yes, she did. It must have been horribly embarrassing for you.”

  “It’s awful,” Barbara whispered before taking a sip of her wine. “We were all pretty good friends, I thought, but the past few weeks, Carey has begun to change, and I don’t know why.”

  “Perhaps he’s ill,” Helen Louise suggested gently.

  “You mean mentally ill?” Barbara asked.

  “Possibly,” Helen Louise said. “If his personality has undergone such a radical change, there could be an organic cause.”

  “I don’t know,” Barbara said. “He hasn’t confided in me, and neither has Irene.” She paused. “Look, I know what people have been saying behind my back. I have not been having an affair with Carey. We’ve had a few meals together, but only as friends. I’ve been going through a rough patch with my career, and he’s been advising me. That’s all.”

  “I understand,” I said. “Are you going through the tenure process?”

  Barbara nodded. “I am, and it’s nerve-racking. Normally I would talk to Irene, but with her teaching schedule and her writing deadlines, she doesn’t often have time to talk. But Carey has been available, and he’s been really helpful. Until recently.”

  “Had he ever behaved violently before?” Helen Louise asked.

  “Not to my knowledge,” Barbara said. “I’ve known him and Irene ever since I came to Athena four years ago. Irene and I became friends right away.”

  “Do you think Carey Warriner has any reason to be jealous of Irene?” I asked.

  Barbara shook her head. “She adores him, but I know she’s been frightened by the change in him. Armand has helped her with the musical background for her books, and Dan Bellamy has advised her on history from time to time. That’s all there is to it.”

  “But Carey doesn’t believe so,” Helen Louise said.

  “No, not recently.” Barbara reached for her wineglass and drained it. Suddenly she pushed back her chair and stood. “Thank you for the wine, and the shoulder, Helen Louise. I needed to talk, and I appreciate you listening. I need to get home, though.”

  “Would you like us to see you home?” Helen Louise asked. I understood her concern. Barbara still appeared a bit shaken by the night’s events.

  “No, I’m fine,” Barbara insisted. “Please don’t worry. Good night.” She picked up her purse and hurried out of the bistro.

  “I feel like I should have insisted on taking her home,” Helen Louise said.

  “She seemed pretty adamant that she was fine,” I said. “I think she’ll be okay. She needs some time alone now. Do you think she’s in love with Carey Warriner?”

  Helen Louise nodded, her expression troubled. “Yes, I’m pretty sure she is. What made you think so?”

  I frowned. “I’m not really sure. Maybe it was the way she said his name. I don’t know, I simply had the feeling that she is.”

  “Same here.” Helen Louise sighed. “What a mess.”

  “Double triangle,” I said, pushing my wineglass forward for a bit more.

  “Would you care to explain that?” Helen Louise poured the last of the bottle into my glass.

  “Irene, Carey, and Armand. Carey, Irene, and Barbara. Two interlocking love triangles,” I said.

  “You don’t know that Armand is in love with Irene,” Helen Louise said. “We think Barbara is in love with Carey, but we don’t know that for certain. Maybe Barbara is in love with Armand, and vice versa.”

  “That would simplify matters, I suppose,” I said. “But I think we’re right about Barbara being in love with Carey Warriner.”

  “I feel sorry for her,” Helen Louise said. “It never pays to fall in love with a married man.”

  “If he keeps up this behavior,” I said, “he might not be married for much longer.”

  As it turned out, he wasn’t.

  SIXTEEN

  Dan Bellamy hadn’t returned by the time I was ready for bed that night. Probably just as well, I thought. I wasn’t up to dealing with any awkwardness either one of us might feel over what had happened at the bookstore. Time enough to deal with that after a good night’s sleep.

  I had picked up Diesel on the way home, after a late meal at the bistro with Helen Louise and Melba. Now he sat on the floor keeping a close watch on me while I fried strips of bacon for my breakfast. “There will be a few bites for you,” I assured him, but he remained vigilant.

  I put the bacon aside to drain and prepared my eggs. I decided on fried this morning, a bit of a change because Azalea almost always served them scrambled. I popped several slices of wheat bread in the toaster and went back to tending my eggs.

  A few minutes later, a full cup of coffee by my plate, I sat down to breakfast. I doled out pieces of bacon to Diesel, who wasn’t about to let me forget that he was on the point of starvation. He always was f
irst thing in the morning.

  “I don’t know how you make it through the night,” I told him. “The pangs of hunger must be terrible.”

  He meowed in agreement and tapped my thigh with one large paw.

  I heard the front door open while I was cleaning up after myself in the kitchen. I saw by the kitchen clock that it was 7:33. I wondered who was coming in this early, then figured it must be Stewart coming home from the gym.

  To my surprise, I saw Haskell in uniform, along with Dan Bellamy, still in Regency costume, stride wearily into the kitchen. Dan almost stumbled to the table, pulled out a chair, and dropped into it.

  “Morning, Charlie,” Haskell said. “Any coffee available?”

  “Yes, nearly a full pot.”

  Haskell went to the cabinet and extracted two mugs. He poured coffee in both and handed one to Dan, who accepted it in a rather dazed fashion. He looked utterly exhausted.

  “Dan, what’s happened? I thought you had come in long before now,” I said in concern.

  He stared at me, then at Haskell.

  “Rough night,” Haskell said.

  “Carey’s dead,” Dan said, his voice hoarse.

  I nearly dropped the plate I was drying. I set it down, my hands shaky. “What happened?”

  Dan shook his head and sipped his coffee.

  Haskell pulled out a chair and eased into it. “Guess I’d better explain.” He nodded to indicate Dan. “The professor here was at the police station late last night with Mr. Warriner and Mr. d’Arcy. Ms. Thompson agreed to drop the charges if Warriner agreed to pay for any damages. He did, so the PD released both men around one o’clock this morning.”

  “Irene was so upset,” Dan said. “She talked Jordan into dropping the charges. I drove her and Carey home in their car, but Carey walked out of the house after about five minutes. I stayed with Irene for a few minutes, and then I went out to look for him. I drove around for an hour or more. Never found him, so I went back to Irene.”

  “We got a call from the PD around three thirty,” Haskell said. “Someone reported a man lying on his lawn. Said he thought the man was dead drunk.” He sipped his coffee. “He was dead all right, but not drunk. Stab wound to the chest.”

  “Went with Irene to identify him.” Dan made a sudden retching sound, but he controlled himself. He shuddered. “Horrible. She collapsed in hysterics. Had to take her to the ER, she wouldn’t calm down. I was there until Haskell came to give me a ride here.”

  “Is she still in the hospital?” I felt so sorry for Irene Warriner. No wonder the poor woman broke down.

  Dan nodded. “Keeping her for observation. They had to sedate her. She was still sleeping when I left.” He suddenly pushed back his chair and stood. “I think I need to go to bed. Too exhausted to think about it anymore.” He stumbled again, but Haskell was there to catch him.

  “Come on,” Haskell said. “I’ll get you upstairs.” He glanced over his shoulder at me. “I’ll be back down in a minute.”

  Diesel, obviously disturbed, had gone under the table when Dan and Haskell arrived. Now he came out and rubbed against my leg. I rubbed his head to comfort him. I was shaken as well. The situation had become horribly worse. I had to wonder whether Armand d’Arcy had attacked Warriner. Had Warriner gone to confront him again, with the result that he ended up dead?

  I continued to speculate over what could have happened until Haskell rejoined me several minutes later. He had taken time to change out of his uniform into blue jeans and a T-shirt. He, too, looked weary.

  “Would you like breakfast?” I asked. “I’ll be happy to fix it for you. You look done in.”

  “I am,” Haskell said. “Stewart will be down in a minute to cook for both of us. Have a seat and relax.” He picked up his mug and drained it. Diesel went to him and rubbed against his leg. Haskell smiled down at the cat and patted his head.

  “Can you talk about it?” I asked after a brief silence.

  “Not much I can tell you,” he said. “Kanesha’s already working on it, but she sent me home with Bellamy.”

  “Is he a suspect?” I asked.

  Haskell shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. Until I know more, I couldn’t say. Why don’t you tell me what happened at the bookstore last night? Bellamy wasn’t in any condition to tell much by the time I picked him up and brought him home.”

  I filled Haskell in with what I knew, and Stewart and Dante appeared in the kitchen halfway through my recital.

  “Good morning, Charlie,” Stewart said. “I’m going to put Dante out in the backyard for a few minutes while I get started on breakfast.” He led the poodle out of the kitchen. When he returned I told him I’d let Dante in when he was ready.

  “Thanks.” Stewart refilled Haskell’s cup and offered to refill mine. I accepted. He then poured himself a cup before going to the fridge to pull out yogurt and fruit. I sometimes wondered whether Haskell enjoyed these breakfasts as much as Stewart did, but I’d never heard him complain.

  Stewart set bowls on the table, along with the large container of yogurt and the already prepared fruit. He retrieved spoons and granola from the cabinets and joined us at the table. Haskell began to serve himself, and Stewart waited until he finished to prepare his own bowl. “Would you like any toast?” he asked.

  “Wouldn’t mind a couple pieces,” Haskell said.

  Stewart got up to put bread in the toaster. Butter and jam were already on the table from my own breakfast.

  “So tell me what happened at the bookstore last night,” Stewart said. “I caught only the tail end of it.”

  I launched into my story again, and by the time I finished, Haskell’s toast was ready. He buttered both pieces and slathered them with Azalea’s homemade apricot jam.

  “I’ll go let Dante in,” I said.

  Stewart thanked me again. Diesel, hoping for a piece of toast, lingered behind. When I exited the kitchen, Stewart was pressing his partner for details of the murder.

  I stood on the back porch a minute and watched Dante busily investigating the yard. When I thought he had finished his business, I opened the screen door and called him to me. He came readily, and he pranced alongside me, happy as always, on the way back to the kitchen.

  Dante greeted his friend Diesel joyfully, and Diesel allowed the poodle to lick his face a couple of times. Then he meowed a warning, and Dante subsided. He knew what that meant.

  “Who do you think killed Carey Warriner?” Stewart asked me.

  I shrugged. “I would say the prime suspect must be Armand d’Arcy. He was apparently the man that Warriner attacked last night at the bookstore. Warriner also went after him at the bistro on Friday, if you’ll remember.”

  “I could see where d’Arcy might have had enough of him by the second attack last night,” Stewart said. “That doesn’t excuse murder, naturally, but maybe they started fighting again and things got out of hand.”

  “You could say that.” Haskell spooned more granola and yogurt into his mouth.

  “Helen Louise said she thought d’Arcy spoke with a bit of a French accent,” Stewart said. “With a name like that, he must be French, and they’re known for crimes of passion.”

  “The hot-blooded Continental type?” I asked.

  Stewart nodded. “Not like us rather cold-blooded Anglo-Saxons.”

  I laughed at that. “Your surname is Delacorte. I believe that’s French, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is,” Stewart said airily, “but anything French was long ago diluted by many generations of phlegmatic Anglo-Saxons.”

  “If you say so,” I replied, still amused.

  “The interesting thing about this is whether Carey Warriner was a murderer himself,” Stewart said.

  “You mean Dixie Compton,” I said. “Good point.”

  “If he was her killer, maybe someone killed him to avenge h
er death. Somebody we don’t know about yet.” He paused. “Though I suppose it’s possible that d’Arcy knew her. Maybe he was in love with her, even.”

  “You should be writing fiction,” Haskell said.

  “I’m sure Kanesha will sort out Dixie Compton’s death, and she’ll do the same for Carey Warriner’s. If the two are related, she’ll uncover the link,” I said.

  “Hasn’t failed to solve a murder yet,” Haskell said. “With or without help.” He shot me an amused look.

  “I don’t imagine I’m going to be much help on this one,” I said. “I really don’t know any of the people involved.”

  “That hasn’t stopped you before,” Stewart said with a grin.

  “Actually, Kanesha did tell me she’d appreciate it if I keep my ears open on campus for any tidbits I might hear that could be pertinent to Dixie Compton’s death,” I said somewhat defensively.

  “Keeping your ears open and actively looking for information aren’t quite the same thing.” Stewart spooned more yogurt and granola into his bowl.

  “No, they’re not,” I said. “But if I find myself in a position to ask a question and get an answer that helps, I’m not going to pass up the opportunity.”

  “Are you going to talk to Bellamy about all this?” Haskell asked.

  I shook my head. “Not outright. If he wants to talk to me, I’ll certainly listen. But I’m not going to sit him down and subject him to an interrogation. He’s a guest in my home. Well, a paying guest,” I amended.

  Haskell pushed back his chair. “I’m going up and try to catch a couple hours’ sleep. Have to be back at the department by eleven. See y’all later.”

  Stewart watched him go, frowning. He spoke in a low voice. “I hate it when he has to put in these strange hours. I worry about him not getting enough rest sometimes. Do you think he looked exhausted?”

  “He looked pretty tired,” I said, “but he’s tough. He’ll be fine.” Privately I, too, worried about Haskell occasionally, but I wasn’t going to let Stewart know that. He didn’t need any encouragement to worry even more.

  Stewart sighed. “I hope you’re right. He’ll be eligible for retirement in three years, but I don’t know whether he’ll retire. He loves his job.”