Cat in a Bag

by Angela M. Sanders

  “Can’t be.” Gilda pushed the dessert plate to the table’s edge. “I’ve seen her paintings. They’re copies all right.”

  “Apparently the curator has found messages in them. It was by accident at first. He had one painting on its side, and the light was right. He examined both paintings and found insults about some man named Oliver.”

  Gilda’s laugh burst out so loudly that across the room Bobby dropped his deck of cards.

  “What’s so funny?” he asked.

  “Oh, my.” Gilda wiped a tear from one eye. “Adele—hee hee hee.” She snorted. “You tell him. I can’t.”

  “Adele apparently has something against someone named Oliver, and you can read her thoughts in her canvases, if you know where to look.”

  “No joke. Like what?”

  “I only remember one,” Claudine said. “It was something about ‘Oliver grows too much hair for his nostrils.’”

  Gilda’s laughter spiked again. “That’s my girl.” She blew her nose. “I heard a little about this fellow. He was her art professor. Took advantage of her, and, worse, told her she was no good as an artist. It really did a number on her self-esteem.”

  Claudine leaned back. “Go tell it to the Holgate. They’ve already settled on a date for an exhibition.”

  “She wouldn’t be able to go to any museum openings,” Gilda said. Adele was on the lam. The last thing she needed was her face in an art catalog.

  “I know. Too bad, though. She could make a bundle of money. Straight, too.”

  “Yeah,” Bobby said. “A straight ticket back to prison.”

  Claudine rose. “That’s all I have.”

  “You coming for Sunday dinner, Deanie?” Red asked.

  Gilda didn’t speak. She wanted to look at Claudine, but kept her gaze on her clasped hands instead.

  “Definitely. You mind if I bring a date?”

  Gilda let her breath out with a smile. “Please do. If you think it’s safe. I mean, yes, please come.”

  The Villa’s residents, except Grady, who had his hearing aid turned off, exchanged glances.

  “It’ll be all right.” Claudine picked up her notepad. “Say, we got notice this afternoon that the Marie Antoinette dog bed turned up. Apparently its owner sent it out for cleaning and forgot. You don’t know anything about that, do you?”

  A chorus of “no”s came from throughout the cafeteria.

  Claudine glanced toward the bed prototype back in its place on the table near the cafeteria window. “I didn’t think so. I’d better be going.” She turned toward the door.

  “Wait, Deanie,” Gilda said. “Remember how I was telling you about Ellie?”

  Claudine set down her notebook again. “Yes.”

  “It’s time for us to pay her a visit.”

  39

  “She’s in the school attic,” Gilda said. “I’m almost positive. I need you to come with me.”

  “Why me?” Claudine asked. She didn’t look afraid—or charged up to see Ellie, for that matter. Merely curious.

  “Because you understand her,” Gilda said. “If anyone can make her see the futility of trying to get revenge, you can. She failed against you and the Booster Club last time. Maybe talking with you will get her off this idea.”

  Claudine rested a hand on her hip. “It might fire her up more.”

  “By now, she has to be feeling defeated. She thinks the dog bed burned up at the hospital, but when she finds out it was a fake, she’ll lose it.”

  “All right. Say we talk with her. Say she agrees it’s best for everyone to give it up. Then what? You can’t expect she’ll voluntarily go back to the Bedlamton Arms.”

  “You think I care where she goes?” Gilda said. She pushed herself to standing and grabbed her cane. “Come on.”

  Claudine fidgeted with the catch on her purse. “All right. I guess so. Where to?”

  “The school. The kids are gone. I’m pretty sure she’s been watching us from the attic. It’s the only possible vantage point. You’ve got your tools, right?”

  Gilda knew she did. Hank had given Claudine a set of picklocks when she was a teenager. They rolled up into a packet the size of a manicure kit. They were likely in her purse right now.

  She sighed. “Of course I do.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  The day’s sun was waning, and crisp spring air chilled their short walk to the school’s side entrance.

  “You wait here,” Claudine said. “I’ll open up and make sure the place is empty.”

  “All right, but be snappy about it. I’m cold.” Gilda leaned her cane against the school’s brick wall and rubbed her shoulders.

  It took seconds for Claudine to break into the school. She disappeared down the dim hall, and the door, on a pneumatic hinge, shut slowly behind her.

  Gilda looked over at the Villa. The cafeteria lights came on. Bobby moved toward the television. Red was probably shaking up a post-dinner cocktail.

  Gilda had tried to make a confrontation with Ellie sound easy, but it was likely to be a lot more difficult—maybe even dangerous. She’d hidden a knife up her sleeve, and Claudine carried a concealed handgun for her job.

  After a few minutes, Claudine was back at the door. “All clear.”

  “Here are the stairs,” Gilda said, looking at the stairwell to the right of the door.

  “That one doesn’t go all the way up to the attic. We’ll have to take the far stairwell. Are you up to the walk?” she whispered.

  “I’m fine, as long as we’re not making it the Daytona 500.”

  They made their way down the waxed floors past open classrooms with impossibly tiny chairs and the alphabet pinned to the walls. The water fountains hung low.

  “Were we ever that small?” Claudine said.

  “You were. I remember.”

  “Come on. The staircase is here. When we get to the second floor, I’ll go up to the attic first and break in, if we need to. I should be able to do it without her knowing, even if she’s there. Then, when you arrive, we’ll be ready to go in. Sound good?”

  Gilda nodded. The stairs took a lot out of her. She was already breathless, and they were barely halfway up the first flight.

  At the second floor, Claudine nodded and, light as a panther, moved ahead. She had been a world-class thief, on par with the cat burglars who raided summer homes on the Riviera and stole jewels from the safe at the Paris Ritz. After Hank’s health started declining, she’d stayed in Carsonville. And now she was straight. Well, kind of. Hank had been so proud of her skills. Gilda thought he would have been proud of her now, too.

  At last, she arrived at the attic. Claudine already stood just to the door’s side.

  “Unlocked,” Claudine mouthed. “Ready?”

  Gilda nodded.

  Claudine drew a gun from her jacket and gestured for Gilda to move out of the doorway. In one swift motion, Claudine pushed the attic door open and swung to face the room, her gun leading the way. From where Gilda stood, she couldn’t see in the attic. She saw only Claudine. And what she saw was first focus, then surprise.

  Claudine dropped her arms. “She’s not here.”

  “What? She has to be. Where else could she be watching from?”

  The women stepped inside the attic and examined it first from the doorway. It was barely light enough now to see.

  Claudine nodded toward the furniture grouping in the middle of the room. “Looks like she used to be here.”

  “Or she’s out and is coming back.”

  “Possibly.” Claudine closed the door behind them. “Why don’t you look around? I’ll stay by the door just in case.”

  Gilda leaned on her cane as she walked to the couch. A lamp on a side table appeared to be plugged in, so she clicked it on, casting a warm pool of light. Ellie had been here, all right. She’d even done a little housework, from the look of the swept floor. Gilda picked up a rum bottle with half an inch of amber liquid sloshing at its bottom.

  She waved the
bottle at Claudine. “Ten to one it belongs to one of the teachers.”

  Then she saw it. Right there on the couch, leaning on a pile of folded children’s coats, was an envelope with “To Whom It May Concern” written on its front.

  “Deanie. She left us a letter.”

  Claudine hurried to Gilda’s side and examined the sealed envelope. “You think it’s to us?”

  “Who else could it be to? You read it. I don’t have my glasses.”

  Claudine pried the flap open as if it had never been sealed. A woman with her talents would never do anything as crass as rip open an envelope. She slipped out a sheet of wide, brown-tinted paper with pale blue lines meant to teach kids cursive.

  “To whom it may concern,” Claudine read in her low tones. “By now you know that I was here. If I’ve done my work right today, I destroyed the Marie Antoinette dog bed and unmasked the Villa Saint Nicholas’s residents as criminals. By the time you read this letter, I’ll be on my way to Africa to work for an international children’s hunger relief program.”

  “Africa? Hunger relief?” Gilda said. “This doesn’t sound like Ellie. Could someone else have been up here?”

  “There’s more,” Claudine said and continued to read. “In exchange for merely destroying the dog bed and not turning in the art forger, I request that you locate Josiah Townsend, a student at this school experiencing food insecurity, and connect him with services at the firehouse’s family shelter. Respectfully, Eleanor Whiteby.”

  “I’ll be danged.” Gilda sat on the couch, then rose to cram some of the children’s coats folded nearby under her posterior. She picked up a child’s telescope, examined it, then set it down on the end table.

  “I can’t figure it out, either. This is Ellie Whiteby?” Claudine went to the attic window and looked out. “There’s the Villa.”

  “Ellie Whiteby. Hunger relief activist.” Gilda rose and wiped her hands together. “So I guess that’s that.”

  40

  Adele rose the next morning at dawn. She wanted to leave the Villa before anyone was awake. Grady might be up, but he’d probably be in some chat room debating the merits of Practical Hospital soap opera with a hacker in Kosovo. Or trying to, at least.

  Last night, Uncle Larry had given her a wad of cash and his best wishes. They’d agreed that the Villa had done enough, and every day that Adele stayed was another day that put the residents at risk.

  She’d packed before bed, not that she had a lot to pack. She was taking her painting supplies, though. Somewhere down the road—maybe on the coast somewhere, she’d always wanted to be by the ocean—she’d dig out her fake ID and get a job. She could be a waitress. In her off hours, she’d paint.

  She took a last glance at Gilda’s portrait. Folks here had been kind. She opened her suitcase again and laid the dress she’d lent Gilda on the bed. They could keep the painting, too. If Claudine was right about her work, as Gilda had said, it might earn them some money someday.

  Her plan was to take a bus to the train station, then make up her mind from there. Cook would be in the kitchen prepping for breakfast. Maybe she’d give her a cup of coffee for the road.

  Father Vincent was in the cafeteria. “It’s time, isn’t it, child?”

  She nodded.

  “I thought so. Wait here a moment.” The priest disappeared into the kitchen and came back with a cup of coffee and a small brown bag. “I had Cook pack a lunch for you. She knows how you loved her coq au vin, so she used some of the leftovers for a nice chicken salad sandwich.”

  Adele swallowed the tears that threatened to rise. She hugged the priest. “Thank you so much. You’ve all been so kind.”

  “You’ve brought us a lot of excitement, Adele. A few scares, too. But you helped us remember what we’re good at and why we’re here. I thank you.”

  Pink—popsicle pink, the pink of a Cassat baby’s cheek—punctured the sky beyond the worn chairs and back issues of Banker’s Quarterly that had become so familiar to her over the past few days. A half-built replica of the Marie Antoinette dog bed sat on a side table. Ruby would like that.

  Adele rose. “I guess I’d better go. Thank you.” She kissed the priest’s cheek. “Tell everyone I love them.” The word “love” caught in her throat. Warren. She remembered the last time she saw him. It was yesterday afternoon when he’d listened at the room’s edge about her talk with Dr. Lancaster.

  She slipped the lunch into her tote bag and picked up her suitcase with her other hand. “Goodbye,” she said.

  “Goodbye, child.”

  When she reached the cafeteria door, she turned. “Bye,” she repeated.

  “Until we meet again.”

  “Goodbye,” she whispered as she passed Warren’s dark office and went out into the cold spring dawn. “Goodbye.”

  So, this was what they meant by a heavy heart.

  Orange infused the morning’s pink, and a robin’s song cut the silence. An old Volvo backed out of the carport at the parking lot’s edge. Its exhaust steamed white in the chill. The car pulled in front of the Villa, and the driver’s side window lowered.

  “Adele?” It was Warren.

  Her mouth formed the word “Yes?” but no sound came out. Her heart began to pound.

  “I’m ready for adventure. For real. With you. And I’m not just quoting romance novels, either. Will you come with me?”

  She couldn’t speak. She set down the suitcase.

  “Father Vincent checked out the car. He says we’re good to go for at least another hundred thousand miles.”

  “What about the Villa?” She searched her brain. “The relicensing? Don’t they need you?”

  “The license came in the mail on Friday.”

  Friday. The day she arrived at the Villa. She let that sink in. He might have kicked her out long ago. He hadn’t.

  When she still didn’t speak, he lowered his voice. “You were right, you know. Please. Let’s go together.”

  She drew a breath. “Pop the trunk.”

  * * *

  Afternoon sun filled the Villa’s cafeteria as Gilda slid a dead dahlia into an especially elaborate floral arrangement. Her portrait stared back at her with approval. Adele must have been up half the night finishing it. Gilda had moved the painting to the cafeteria for everyone to enjoy. Whether they liked it or not.

  Hank would have loved the portrait, Gilda thought. Strange, she couldn’t bring his face to mind like she used to, although she still felt him right in the old ticker. “It’s all good, honey. All good,” she seemed to hear him say.

  A handful of fried daisies added the perfect last touch to her bouquet. She loved how their leaves had dried thin and stiff like needles. Dr. Lancaster should appreciate this arrangement. At least, his wife hoped so. The accompanying card asked for a divorce. Gilda idly wondered how much it would cost to send an arrangement to Africa. She wiped off her hands and untied her apron, her gaze wandering again to the portrait.

  She raised an eyebrow. “Father Vincent?”

  “Hmm?” He was polishing his ratchet set near the fireplace.

  “Do you have a flashlight?”

  “Of course.”

  Together, they tipped the portrait on its side, and the priest shined the flashlight flat against the canvas. Gilda slipped on her glasses.

  “There it is.”

  It read, “Thank you, Booster Club.”

  * * *

  <<<<>>>>

  Afterword

  I’m a lucky writer to belong to three supportive author groups. My critique group—Cindy Brown, Doug Levin, Dave Lewis, Ann Littlewood, and Marilyn McFarlane—is an ongoing source of support and smarts. The Think and Drink group—Lisa Alber, Cindy Brown, and Holly Franko—are brainstorming whizzes. Not the Usual Suspects—Cindy Brown (again), Kate Dyer-Seeley, and Kelly Garrett—are my marketing compatriots.

  Debbie Guyol and Charlotte Rains Dixon contributed great feedback as first readers. Raina Glazener worked her usual hawk-eyed copy-editing magic. D
ane at ebooklaunch designed the cover.

  One more thing: I hope you’ll sign up for my monthly newsletters. They are full of good things: cocktail recipes, gorgeous old gowns, fashion advice from Edith Head, book reviews, and more. (Of course, I’ll throw in a short update on my novel-in-progress, too.) I’ll never share your email.

  Also by Angela M. Sanders

  The Booster Club Capers

  The Booster Club

  Cat in a Bag

  * * *

  The Joanna Hayworth Vintage Clothing Mysteries

  The Lanvin Murders

  Dior or Die

  Slain in Schiaparelli

  The Halston Hit

  * * *

  The Kite Shop Mysteries (writing as Clover Tate)

  Blown Away

  Live Free or Fly (coming December 2017)