by Angie Cabot
Why was a valuable first edition just sitting there on a shelf like that as if it were just another book?
I moved around the shelf to another alcove. Zen stood there, flipping through a book of maps.
“Hello there,” I said.
Zen jumped, nearly dropping the book.
“You scared me,” she said. “I didn’t hear you come in.” She shoved the book back onto the shelf, but it wouldn’t go in easily. She gave up and slid it horizontally on top of the other books.
“Sorry about that,” I said. “I used to spend hours in here reading. This was my favorite room in the entire mansion.”
“Most of these are boring old history books,” Zen said.
I guided her to another section. “This was my go-to shelf,” I said. “Anne of Green Gables, The Secret Garden, and of course, Nancy Drew. These,” I pointed to a run of blue hardcovers with orange lettering, “are first editions, and I loved reading them to compare them with the yellow books I had at home.”
“They were different?”
“Oh yeah,” I said. “The copies I had were essentially white-washed. I remember sitting in here reading about Beulah, who insisted on cooking things the old-fashioned way. But in the version I had at home, there was just a plump housekeeper named Anna.”
“Fascinating,” Zen said, bored.
“Sorry,” I said. “This room is full of childhood memories, but I’ll keep them to myself.”
“I never much cared for Nancy Drew. She was too goody-goody for me.”
“Not in the original versions,” I said. “She used to talk back to the police, and I can see you have zero interest in any of that. What did you like to read?”
“Madame Blavatsky.”
“Oh,” I said. “Theosophy.”
“She died of the flu,” Zen said. “Can you imagine?”
“Lots of people died of the flu back then.”
“I suppose they did. These days, they get murdered.”
“Like my aunt,” I said.
“Well, most people get shot. The winner in that category is handguns by a long-shot.”
“So to speak,” I said.
She grinned. “I guess it would be a shorter shot. Don’t get me wrong. Lots of people get stabbed, too.”
“I’m sure they do.”
She gave me a lopsided grin. “Don’t worry, I’m not into all that. I dated a guy who loved his guns. Women are more likely to use poison. It’s a kinder way to do the dastardly deed.”
“Unless you’re on the receiving end.”
“True that,” she said. “I need a cigarette. You’re welcome to join me.”
She moved toward the foyer, but I touched her shoulder.
“There’s another patio through the game room,” I said.
“Is there?”
“Follow me.”
I led her through the library into the large game room. A pool table took up the center of the room, with a few tables and chairs along the back wall, and an old-fashioned jukebox that played 45 rpm records taking up the center of the opposite wall.
A short hallway with a men’s room and a ladies room ended with a door leading to a large patio.
I pushed the door open, and met with resistance. I pushed harder to plow the snow out of the way.
“At least it’s not very deep here,” I said.
“It stopped snowing,” Zen said. “And the sun is out.”
“Don’t like Colorado weather?” I asked. “Wait ten minutes.”
“Still cold, though. We should go get our coats.”
“How long does it take to smoke a cigarette?” I asked.
She wore blue jeans and her black leather jacket over a blue T-shirt. She glanced down at her boots, and shrugged. “Maybe half a cigarette will do.”
We stepped into the snow, and I let the door close behind us, making sure it still opened. I didn’t want to get locked out.
Zen pulled a pack of cigarettes from her pocket. She offered one to me.
“I’ll pass.”
“These are specially made with natural ingredients.”
I bit my lip, but couldn’t help myself. “Zen, there’s no such thing as a cigarette that’s good for you.”
She lit up and blew a plume of smoke into the air. “I know. Your aunt was mighty proud of telling me the same thing. ‘Eat lots of red meat,’ she always says, ‘it’s better for you than those stupid cancer sticks.’ And it’s hard to argue with her about that. The truth is, I like to smoke. So sue me.”
I didn’t correct her tense. “You two didn’t get along well.” I said it as a statement, not a question.
She shrugged and took a drag. “Your aunt doesn’t get along with anyone. Didn’t get along, I mean. Wow, it’s hard to get it through my head that she’s gone.”
The wind kicked up and I wished I’d grabbed my coat. I pulled my arms in close and tried to think warm thoughts. I turned away from the wind, to take it on my back.
In the distance, around the corner, I watched as Carl and Balthazar rocked the Jeep back and forth. They weren’t even close to getting it to go over onto its wheels.
I turned back to Zen when the wind died down. “What was the problem between you?” I asked.
“You’d have to ask her, only you can’t now. She said I caused too much drama. People talk. Rumors fly. Most of them are nonsense, but, well, a few of them are true. But it’s nobody’s business what I do on my off time. She was mostly cool with that, I think.”
“Any idea who killed her?” I asked.
She put out the cigarette by tucking the ash under her shoe. Then she pinched the end, and stuck it back in the pack for later.
“Let’s go back inside.”
“So you don’t have any idea?”
“I’ve worked with everyone here for years. Before this morning, I wouldn’t have thought any of them capable of murder.”
“Well, someone did it. I know it wasn’t me.”
“And I know it wasn’t me,” she said.
“Emma and Jenn didn’t really know her, and didn’t have access to any of the knives.”
“Athames.”
“Yes, knives.”
“They’re ceremonial, but sharp, of course. They aren’t for killing people.”
“The one in Aunt Liz’s chest sure did a good job of it,” I said.
“Okay, I’m freezing.”
“Me, too.”
I tugged the door open.
As she stepped through, Zen said, “I’d look at Sandra for the murder.”
“Why?”
“Two reasons. They had a major argument on Wednesday afternoon, and Sandra was still upset about it on Thursday.”
“That sounds like one reason.”
Zen grinned. “The second reason is that it’s always the quiet ones.”
Chapter Eleven
Sandra Quentin sat in her room tapping away on her MacBook Air when I knocked on the doorjamb.
She looked up. “Hi,” she said.
“Got a few minutes?” I asked.
“We’re stuck here for the weekend, so I guess I have to say yes.”
I entered her room, and sat on the bed beside her. “What are you working on?”
“A novel.”
“I didn’t know you were a writer.”
She closed the laptop. “You still don’t. I could be lying.”
“I once read that writing fiction is using lies to tell the truth,” I said.
Sandra chuckled and set the laptop on the nightstand. The black case holding her athame sat on the edge of the stand. “You’re not likely to find much truth in my books.”
“Books plural?”
She shrugged. “I self-publish a series of sexy intergalactic adventures under the name Rowena Blackstone. They earn a fair amount of money, but I spend most of it promoting them. Still, you’d be surprised how many women want to read about heroines falling in love with aliens.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
“It’s like Star Trek with sex.”
“As I recall, Captain Kirk had his fair share of alien lovers. Green alien women.”
“I prefer Captain Archer.”
“I don’t know who that is,” I said.
“Doesn’t matter. What did you want to talk about?”
“Word on the street is that you and my aunt had a bit of a row the other day.”
“Before we go any further, I didn’t kill her,” Sandra said.
My instinct was to believe her, but I needed to remind myself that’s exactly what a murderer would say.
“I’m not saying you did,” I said.
“Who’s accusing me?”
“Nobody is accusing you.”
“Blame it on the new girl.”
“I’m the new girl,” I said
“You’re part of the family so you don’t count. Who’s talking about me?”
“Look,” I said.
“Who’s talking about me?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me. Why do they all hate me so much?”
“Who says they hate you?”
“I do.”
“Maybe it’s your imagination,” I said.
“Really. You’re going with that old chestnut?”
“Your imagination is clearly strong,” I said, pointing at her laptop. “Alien lovers in space and all. What did you say the title was?”
“I didn’t.”
“Okay, so what is the title?”
“It’s a working title.”
I waited. People will often feel the need to fill a prolonged silence. Sandra wasn’t any different.
She sighed. “The Tempting Tentacles of Tyrion Tryst.”
I just stared at her.
She tilted her head. “As I said, it’s a working title.”
“I’m sure you know your audience. Can we talk about your argument with my aunt the other day?”
“There’s nothing to it. Elizabeth caught me writing my book at work, but all the bookkeeping was done, so she shouldn’t have been so upset.”
“There are always things that need done at a store. Cleaning, organizing.”
“Oh, you’re one of those type managers.”
I raised an eyebrow. “One who expects people to work while they’re on the clock? Yes, I am.”
“So you’re questioning my work ethic? What about Balthazar and Zen making out in the classroom? What about Morgan getting high in the restroom? What about Carl leaving early?”
“And the accusations fly,” I said. “What time did you go to sleep last night?”
“I didn’t check the time.”
“You can guess.”
“What difference does that make? I didn’t kill your aunt. I would never hurt another living being.”
“But if you were awake, you might have heard something.”
“Just Morgan making trips to the bathroom every few hours. She kept waking me up. And the toilet kept running after each flush. Why she couldn’t shake the handle is beyond me.”
For someone who spoke quietly, she sure had a lot of pent up anger inside. Could that anger have boiled up and overflowed to lead her to drive a dagger into my aunt’s heart?
I didn’t know.
“Speaking of bathrooms,” I said. “I need to go.”
“I’m sorry if I got snippy,” Sandra said. “It’s not every day someone accuses me of murder.”
“For the record, I didn’t accuse you.”
“You were thinking it.”
I got up. “Feel free to turn me into a character in your book to have me killed in some godawful way.”
“You’ll have to get in line for that. Morgan is top of the list right now.”
She opened her laptop again.
I left the room thinking Sandra was more upset about me challenging her work ethic than asking questions about the murder.
As it happened, I did need to make use of the facilities. The restroom was across the hall, and the door stood open.
Sure enough, the toilet was still running.
I gave the handle a shake and it stopped.
Chapter Twelve
Morgan’s eyes were glassy, and she had a silly grin on her face when I found her in the kitchen waving her hands over a glass of water.
Nico sat on the counter watching her, head tilted to the side as if wondering what was wrong with the human.
I leaned against the wall at the doorway into the kitchen. My aunt’s chalk outline stretched out before me like some New Yorker cartoon that nobody could understand.
Nico hopped off the counter, raced over, and wound her way around my legs, brushing up against me and meowing with persistence.
“I already fed you,” I said.
Nico meowed to tell me that was irrelevant because she was hungry again.
Morgan slowly turned her head toward me, and her mouth opened in a broad exaggerated smile.
“Hello, new manager,” she said.
“Hello, Morgan. Are you trying out a new magic trick?”
She furrowed her brow. “Magic is as magic does.”
“Thank you, Forrest Gump.” Nico stretched up and dug her claws into my leg—not deep enough to break the skin, but definitely hard enough to get my attention. “Careful, Nico. That hurts.”
She meowed.
Morgan meowed back at her.
I bent and lifted Nico into my arms. She rubbed her head against my chin, and slightly dug her claws into my shoulder.
“Don’t worry, Nico,” I said. “I’ve got you.”
I stroked Nico’s fur.
The front door opened, so I stepped out and watched as Balthazar entered, carrying a snow shovel. Carl was right behind him, looking exhausted.
“Success?” I asked Balthazar.
He leaned the shovel against the wall, and shrugged out of his coat. “Finally,” he said. “We had to dig out enough from under the Jeep to be able to push it back over.”
“Congratulations.”
“Don’t congratulate me yet. Stupid thing wouldn’t start.”
“I’m whooped,” Carl said, taking off his coat. “I’m gonna go take a nap.”
“Thanks for the help.”
“You bet.”
Balthazar joined us in the kitchen. He reached out and scratched Nico under the chin.
“What’s up, cat?”
Nico meowed at him.
He looked over at the counter where a half-eaten can of cat foot sat.
“You’re lying, Nico. You have food.”
Nico meowed again.
“I don’t care if it’s crusty. Eat it anyway.”
Nico turned her head away from him.
“I need coffee,” he said. “Anyone else want some?”
“Sure,” I said.
“Morgan?” he asked.
“Air molecules dance in light beams,” she said.
“I’ll take that as a no.”
Balthazar walked around the chalk outline to get to the counter. He grabbed the coffee pot, one of those old chrome percolator machines with strainers and such. He put it together, filled it with water, and plugged it in. Then he searched the cabinets for some coffee.
“Folgers okay?”
“Sure,” I said.
“Cool.” He scooped some coffee into the machine, and pushed a button to get it percolating. Then he turned, looked at the chalk outline, then back to me. “How are you feeling?”
He was the first of the employees to show any empathy toward me, and it caught me off guard. Most of the employees seemed to be off in their own little worlds.
“I’m okay,” I said.
“If you want to talk about it, Diana and I are both good listeners.”
“I…”
He touched my elbow. “I know all of this has to be shocking. And we’ve all been focused on what it means for our jobs. But you lost a family member, and we’ve all been remiss in not being better to you about it.”
&
nbsp; “I hadn’t seen Aunt Liz in years,” I said.
“That doesn’t excuse our behavior. Diana is in the drawing room. Go in there and have a seat. I’ll bring the coffee when it’s ready.”
“Why the sudden change?”
“Something Carl said when we were digging out the Jeep. It doesn’t matter.”
“Nothing matters,” Morgan said, staring into space. “And what if it did?”
We ignored her.
“It matters to me,” I said. “What did Carl say?”
“He said death either brings people together, or drives them apart.”
I kept petting the cat. “I’m not sure I follow.”
“You’ve had a lot of death around you, Kathy. Clara told Carl about your boss. And about the divorce, which is a different kind of death.”
“Oh, trust me,” I said. “The marriage died long before we pronounced it.”
“Look at the coffee percolating like it’s trying to escape the pot,” Morgan said, staring at the coffee maker. “Pop! Pop! Pop!”
“And I think I will go sit with Diana,” I said.
Balthazar laughed. “I’ll be there in a few minutes. Do you like your coffee black, or with cream and sugar?”
“Cream and sugar, please,” I said.
“Got it.”
“Look at it go,” Morgan said, studying the coffee pot.
I carried Nico into the drawing room.
Diana sat on the sofa reading a Nora Roberts novel—one of the In Death books she wrote as J.D. Robb. I thought about my aunt’s body out back, and thought a J.D. Robb book about her would be called Refrigerated in Death.
“Good book?” I asked, taking a seat in one of the chairs. Nico didn’t want to lie in my lap, so she hopped down and stretched out in the middle of the floor.
Diana put a finger in the book to hold her place, and looked over at me. “It’s very good, actually. Eve Dallas is hunting a killer.”
Me, too, I thought, but I didn’t say anything.
She watched me for a moment, and sat up. “You look pale. Are you feeling all right?”