by Cassie Miles
“The only major change is that I’ve converted Agatha’s old bedroom into a computer room.” She shuddered delicately and touched her fluffy red hair. “I simply couldn’t stand to leave it the same. She died in that room, you know.”
“You nursed her for a long time,” he said.
“Forever.”
There was a flicker of sadness in her eyes, and Dash couldn’t tell if Sarah was mourning her late aunt’s death or if she was regretting the time she spent in caretaking.
He knew one thing for certain. Agatha had left a clue in her room. She’d told him about the object. And now it was gone.
Dash knew it was gone because his first order of business when he took on this case was to venture into this house, invisibly, to search. There wasn’t a trace of the little statue Agatha had described.
“Did Agatha have antiques in her room?” he asked.
“Nothing of real value. The knickknacks were sentimental and practically worthless. Gifts from her late husband. Little presents that Jack had given her when he was a child. Photos. That sort of thing. I had to sort through all of it and decide where it would go.”
Dash pretended confusion. “What do you mean?”
“Well, I couldn’t very well sell it. Much of the stuff I boxed up and put into storage in the attic. Then I parceled out several items to people who were close to her. As remembrances. You know, to friends and family.”
Internally, Dash groaned. The statue could be anywhere.
Sarah continued, “I was amazed by the number of people who wanted a memento. Agatha was more well-loved than I ever realized. I’m ashamed to say that I’d always thought of her as being difficult, extremely impatient.”
“The kind of lady who knew her own mind,” Dash suggested.
“Absolutely. And woe to him who disagreed with her.” She leaned toward him and touched his arm conspiratorially. “We had arguments. I was frankly astonished when she left me this house.”
Dash sensed that she was lying. “Not even a hint, huh?”
“Well, maybe a hint. We talked a lot about the battered women’s shelter. I must have told her a hundred times that the people in this neighborhood would never allow this house to be used that way.”
“Why not?”
“Well, it’s not that these people aren’t concerned about society’s ills. They’d be delighted to contribute to a shelter in downtown Denver. But nobody in this neighborhood believes that charity begins at home—or even in the house down the street.” She shook her head. “It’s as if they believe battering is solely the problem of the poor.”
“And how do you feel about that?”
“Oh, let’s not chat about this. It’s such negative energy. You know what they say. Never mix dinner with politics or religion.” Sarah drew back into her role as proper hostess. “How long have you and Liz been dating?”
“Less than two hours.”
“Lovely.” Her gaze encompassed the whole long table, and Sarah seemed satisfied that her party was going well. “Liz is a charming person.”
“Precious,” he concurred. Unfortunately, Liz was taking her self-appointed mission as a detective too seriously. From snatches of her conversation with Hector, who was seated at her right, he heard a number of blatantly leading questions.
After she served dessert, Sarah stood at the head of the table and cleared her throat. “I have an announcement. Would you all please listen.”
Liz leaned toward Dash and whispered, “Here it comes.”
“Gary and I…” She paused. “Well, I guess there’s no good way to say this but to come right out and say it. Gary and I are getting married.”
Jack’s heavy silver fork clattered onto his dessert plate. He looked like he was going to choke on his key lime pie. “What?”
“We’ve been dating for over a year. It’s not like this is a total surprise, Jack.”
He pushed away from the table, scraping the bottom of his chair legs on the hardwood floor, and he glowered at Gary Gregory, who remained seated, peering through his thick white-blond eyebrows.
As she watched, Liz had no idea what was going to happen next. She’d known these people for ten years, but they were like strangers to her. Though Jack had been drinking wine with dinner, he’d had enough time to sober up. His behavior couldn’t be blamed on alcohol.
“That’s very interesting,” Jack said. “Congratulations, Gary. You’ve finally figured out a way to get your hands on all my money.”
“Don’t, Jack,” Sarah pleaded. “Try to be a good cousin for me, okay? This isn’t about money.”
“Then what is it? True love? Don’t make me laugh.” He stalked away from the table. “Well, I guess I’d better start claiming the stuff around here that belongs to me.”
“But, Jack, I want you to be happy for me.”
“Shut up, Sarah!” He was standing by the mantel, staring at the Gregory rose. “I want this pot back.”
“Don’t be silly. It’s not valuable.”
“It belonged to my mother, and it’s mine. Bad enough that you got the house and the furniture. The rest of this stuff belongs to me.”
“Well, all right.” Sarah bobbed her head docilely. “Whatever you say.”
“I want it now,” Jack demanded.
He grabbed the pot from the mantel. With one yank, he pulled out the rose by its roots and flung it against the fire screen.
“No!” Sarah cried.
Gary was out of his chair. “You bastard!”
Without another word, Jack tucked the white china planter under his arm and strode through the door, leaving it open.
Hector followed, mouthing his thanks for a delicious dinner to Sarah, who had collapsed in a sobbing heap at the head of the table. To Liz, Hector said, “I’d better catch him. He’s in no condition to drive.”
Liz wouldn’t have cared if her boss crashed himself into a tree and died in a flaming gasoline explosion. But Hector was right. Jack could endanger other motorists. “See you tomorrow.”
Gary was the next to depart. He’d gathered up the battered rosebush in a piece of plastic and was heading for the door. “Maybe I can save it. I’ve got to repot immediately.”
“What about me?” Sarah peered through wet eyelashes. Her mascara was running. She looked dreadful. “My heart is breaking. Jack’s the only family I’m close to.”
“We knew he wasn’t going to take it well. But he’ll get over it,” Gary predicted. “And so will you.”
“Hold me!” She reached toward him.
“Sorry, hon. I have my hands full. I have to take care of this little plant. It was one of my best specimens, you know.”
He whipped out the door and pulled it shut behind him.
Liz and Dash were left with the weeping Sarah. An uncomfortable situation, at best. Liz took a deep breath. “I’m really sorry. Can I do anything to help?”
“No.”
Beneath the blue caftan, Sarah’s shoulders were shaking.
“A cup of tea? Or coffee?” Liz offered.
“I never want to see coffee again. I hate OrbenCorp and everybody in it.” She lifted her head. “Just get out. Both of you.”
“I’ll call tomorrow,” Liz promised as they stepped out into the cool September night.
On the porch, Dash paused to light a cigarette, and she didn’t even think of objecting. Liz almost wished she had a smoke of her own, something to calm the nerves.
“That was fun,” Dash said. “What do you people do at company picnics? Line up and throw knives at each other?”
“I never would have expected these kinds of outbursts.” She shook her head. “I really miss Agatha. If she’d been here, the whole thing would have been different. Damn, this really makes me want to catch the person who murdered her.”
“Forget it,” he said. “You got me introduced to these people, and that’s all you need to do, sweetheart. Now you’re off the case.”
“No way. You really need my help.”
He looked into her shining blue eyes. It was a temptation to agree, to give himself a reason to spend more hours in her company. But he said, “No.”
“But I have a perfect in. They all know me. They won’t think I’m investigating.
“Seems to me that I’ve solved a lot of cases.” Hundreds of crimes over many, many years. “And I never needed help before.”
“But this is different. Agatha died over a year ago. The trail is cold.”
“You don’t get it,” he said. “This isn’t a parlor game. Somebody here committed murder. And they’ll kill again to save their worthless hide.”
“I can take care of myself.”
She sounded like she was pretty sure of herself, but Dash knew she’d never really been threatened. A karate chop and a tough attitude wouldn’t stop a bullet.
He exhaled a breath of smoke and looked around the neighborhood. The cul-de-sac was silent. The houses were graciously separated with spreading lawns that had begun to lose their green for winter.
And he wondered. Why had Agatha wanted to place her battered women’s shelter here? Why had she left Sarah in charge of the house and therefore in charge of the project? He wondered aloud, “You think Sarah is going ahead with the shelter?”
“I thought you didn’t want my help.”
“You’re right. Forget I said anything.”
“Before tonight, I would have said yes. Sarah seemed committed to fulfilling Agatha’s wishes. But with Gary in the picture, I’m not so sure.”
He wanted to ask her opinion of Hector. Dash liked the way Liz thought. But he kept his silence.
When she opened the driver’s side door to her car and slid behind the steering wheel, he kept an eye on her long, graceful legs, which were well displayed beneath her short skirt. Long stems, he thought, like a rose. He admired the way she looked. His feelings weren’t lust, he rationalized. He was merely appreciating a specimen of feminine beauty.
He climbed into the passenger seat and turned toward her.
Liz stared at him with wide eyes. “I’m afraid the decision has been taken out of our hands. I’ll have to be in on this case with you, Dash. There’s no choice.”
“What are you talking about, sweetheart?”
“My list of suspects, the notes I made on that yellow legal pad.”
“Yeah? What about it?”
“Somebody took it out of the car. It’s gone.”
Chapter Six
Dash was seriously rattled. He slouched in the passenger seat, not noticing the high-class suburb or scenery as they drove toward the main streets that led to town and Liz’s apartment.
He’d blown it. These were the kind of cheesy mistakes a rookie would make. Not him. Not a seasoned pro like Dash. How could he have messed up so badly? Not only had he alerted Agatha’s murderer to his investigation, but he’d put Liz in danger, set her up in front of the killer like a duck in a shooting gallery.
“Lighten up, Dash. At least we’re on the right track.”
“What?” He stared at her elegant profile, noticing the way her nose turned up prettily at the tip and hating himself for noticing. His admiration for her had blinded him, causing him to botch this case. “What are you talking about?”
“The murderer must be one of the people at the dinner party. Like my list. Jack, Hector, Gary or Sarah.” She pulled up at a stoplight and glanced at him with dancing eyes. “It’s one of them. I can’t think of any other reason they’d steal the tablet from my car.”
“Let me get this straight, precious. You think this is good news?”
She replied, “You bet. In one day, we’ve limited the suspects to four. That’s pretty good.”
He couldn’t believe her enthusiastic tone. When she grinned, she looked ten years younger, and she was grinning right now. She was as perky as Nancy Drew in her red roadster.
He spoke slowly, weighing every word with ponderous gravity. “This is dangerous.”
“I know. I understand.” She chuckled. Actually chuckled! “But it is kind of exciting.”
He flung himself back in the bucket seat and folded his arms across his chest to keep from grabbing her and shaking her until she comprehended. This wasn’t funny. She could be the murderer’s next target.
“The question is,” she said, “who stole my list?”
“No questions, Liz. You’re off the case.”
“Here’s what I think,” she blithely continued. “The person who took the notebook had to be somebody who was parked outside. And that eliminates Sarah. It was somebody—Hector or Jack or Gary—who happened to notice his name on the pad while he was walking to his own car.”
“A coincidence?” He shook his head. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned in this business, there are no coincidences.”
“What other explanation could there be?”
“Don’t take Sarah off the list. She and Gary could be in it together.”
“Okay.” She nodded.
“And it could be somebody, anybody, else. They could have followed us, waited until we went inside and searched the car.”
“Like who? Dr. Clark, maybe?”
“I don’t know.”
Dash hated to admit how badly he’d mangled this case. All he had wanted from her was an introduction to the main suspects. Instead, he’d dragged her into the spotlight.
He took a deep breath and laid out the most likely scenario. “Here’s what probably happened. Tonight, at dinner, we did something or said something to trigger the killer’s suspicions. The killer went to your car—on purpose—to look for a clue that might tell them that you and I were investigating.”
“And they found the notebook.”
“Bingo.”
“Why take it? Wouldn’t it be smarter not to let us know?”
“Pride.” How could he explain the arrogance of evil? “After somebody successfully commits a crime, they’re proud for being so smart. But they can’t tell anybody. So they drop hints, give warnings.”
“Like when a criminal returns to the scene of the crime?”
“You got it, sweetheart. They took the notebook as a threat. When we came to this dinner party, it was like we’d laid out a chessboard with a lot of clues. Now the murderer is sitting on the other side, his face in shadow, making his moves.”
“Or her moves,” she corrected. “Sarah might be the murderer.”
“Given the method of the poisoning, she’s the most obvious choice.”
“And what exactly was this method?”
Dash uncoiled his arms and gestured emphatically. “I can’t tell you that!”
“Well, I don’t see why not.”
“I work alone.”
“Not this time, Dash. Whoever picked up that notebook knows me, knows my handwriting. They’ll assume I’m investigating, whether I am or not.”
“So?”
“So I might as well investigate.”
She guided her little car into the parking space behind the Victorian mansion where she had her apartment on the third floor. Earlier tonight, Dash had noticed the charm of the place. Now he saw the shadows and the danger. “What kind of security have you got in this joint?”
“The front and back doors lock automatically when closed, and only the people who live here have keys. There are eight of us in the house. The front entry is, as you know, an open foyer to the street, then there’s a buzzer system to let people through the locked door to the main house.”
“So, anybody can buzz the door open?”
“Unfortunately, yes. We try to check, but sometimes people get careless.”
Plus, Dash noted, there was a cellar with windows behind bars that looked impressive but could be removed with a Phillips screwdriver. And there was a trellis that climbed to a second-floor balcony. The trim around the windows and the fancy brickwork at the corners of the house offered handholds and footholds for a climber. He muttered, “Might as well be living in a treehouse. Would it scare you if I said somebody could get in
here easy?”
She pondered for a moment, then shook her head. “I wouldn’t be frightened. I have a gun.”
“That’s just swell,” he said tersely. “Ever fired it?”
“I’ve done target practice. I bought the gun about five years ago when we were having a lot of robberies in the neighborhood.”
“Ever fired at another human being?”
“Of course not.” She slipped out of the car and hurried toward the rear entrance, flipping her keys to find the right one. She fitted it into the lock and opened the door before she turned to him. “Good night, Dash.”
“I’m coming upstairs with you. I want to make sure there’s nobody hanging around in your apartment.”
Though she muttered about his being overprotective and not needing his help, she didn’t refuse. Briskly, she walked down the hall to the front stairs, then up to the third floor where she unlocked her door. Dash stepped in front of her. “I’ll go first.”
She rolled her eyes. “Is this precaution really necessary?”
“I hope not.”
He eased inside and turned on the overhead lights. Her apartment was quiet, empty. Though his angel sensitivity told him that no one was there, he made a show of checking the kitchen, bathroom and bedroom before returning to her. “It’s clear.”
She stepped across her threshold, but left the door open. “Thanks for seeing me in. And now, good night. It’s after eleven, and I need to be at work tomorrow by nine.”
“I’m staying.”
“Don’t get any ideas. You’re not going to have a chance to take that condom out of your pocket. Not tonight.”
“Get your gat, sweetheart.”
“My what?”
“Your gat, your rod, your piece.”
She cocked her head to one side, obviously puzzled, and he clarified. “Your handgun?”
“Okay, sure.”
When she emerged from her bedroom, gun in hand, he was glad to see it was a thirty-eight caliber. At least she wasn’t running around with a little derringer popgun. He snapped, “Point it at me.”
“Why?”
“I want you to see what it feels like. Aim at my heart. Come on, do it like you mean it.”
Though her hand held steady, her eyes flicked nervously. “I don’t like this.”