"I made peace with Mert," I said.
"Honestly? That's great!" Clancy whooped with joy. "I know it had been bothering you because you two weren't speaking to each other."
"This is good," said Margit. "Zeige mir Deine Freunde und ich sage Dir wer Du bist."
"Translation, please," I said.
"Show me who you are friends with, and I will tell you who you are."
I wasn't exactly sure what my friendship with my former cleaning lady said about me, but considering how much Margit valued neatness and Clancy craved clean, I suppose it was all good.
"More to the point, Mert and I brainstormed who might have stabbed Laurel. See, Detweiler and Hadcho can't investigate. It didn't happen in their jurisdiction, and no one called for the Major Case Squad to be put together. Worse news, because Johnny's had run-ins with the law, and because they know Johnny is Laurel's uncle, the local authorities near Laurel’s apartment aren't inclined to make sure she's safe."
"Wait a minute," interjected Clancy. "How do they know that Johnny is her uncle? We didn't know that Mert was her mother until recently."
"Good question. I assume that just because we didn't know, it doesn't follow that they didn't know."
"Ja," said Margit, "that would make sense. They might even have looked up personal records that we don't have access to."
"And that reminds me," I said to her, "When Hadcho was here, I realized I don't have adequate paperwork on any of us. None of the typical forms were in Laurel's file. I realize that this wasn't your responsibility; most of us were hired before you were put in charge of the paperwork, but would you see to it that all of us have filled in typical employment forms? Just in case there's ever a question again?"
"I will," said Margit.
"Back to Laurel," said Clancy. "So what did you learn? What do you know? Any good leads?"
She was really getting into this whole amateur snoop business. I laughed. "Sort of. I learned that Laurel and another dancer were up for the same job and Laurel got it. I also heard that she'd received an inappropriate email from someone at the community college. That's about it."
Because I wasn't sure whom I'd told what, or what Clancy had shared with Margit, I went over my visit to the church. "Father Joe wants to marry Laurel. Mert was surprised to hear that. Naturally she's worried about how Laurel will fit in as a priest's wife, but the Episcopalian Church has a long history of believing that human sexuality is a gift, not a sin."
"Just because you think they'll be accepting and because the church hierarchy will be accepting, doesn't mean the congregation will be. I'm Episcopalian, and I can promise you that some of the members of my church would foam at the mouth if they heard our priest was marrying a belly dancer," said Clancy.
"She wasn't only worried about the dancing," I said. "She was also concerned that Laurel was illegitimate."
"Who cares about that in this day and age?" Clancy threw up her hands. "My mother used to say there are no illegitimate children, only illegitimate relationships."
"I agree that her worries are silly, but she is Laurel's mother. I imagine Mert’s overly protective because she couldn't protect Laurel when she was young. When they were both young, actually," I amended.
Margit adjusted her glasses and tapped a pencil on the folder. "You were late because you were talking to Mert?"
I explained about visiting the Star Bright Talent Agency. "Margit, would you please email them a copy of our crop participants?"
Clancy opened her mouth to protest, but I waved her to silence. "I know, I know. But Elise promised to compare any attendees on our list with their clients. If you have a better idea, let me know."
She didn't.
"Then let’s go over the crop forms and get that done. Because afterwards, I better get to work on a make-and-take for next week," I said.
Chapter 63
The rest of the work day passed quickly. Since Brawny was assigned carpool duties, I worked until five, texting her to say that I had our main dish covered. Detweiler messaged me that he'd be working late. At ten after five, we locked the doors on Time in a Bottle, and my friends and I drove off in three different directions.
Gracie did her usual graceful leap from the car when I parked it in my gravel drive. How I'd miss this place! I loved the trees, the shrubbery, and the bounteous flowers that Leighton took so much pride in. He'd been nipping back the mums all summer, and now they exploded with spicy fragrance into huge pillows of autumnal colors, pink against maroon, yellow next to burnt orange.
Anya came out of the house to meet me. "Mom, I'm worried about Monroe."
"Why?" I asked, as I handed her Gracie's leash.
"Yesterday when I fed him an apple, he nearly took my fingers off. I noticed his feed pail was empty. Today it's still empty and his water was empty too. I would have fed him, but the grain bin doesn't have any feed in it. All the pellets are gone."
I walked slowly to our back door. A part of me wanted to shout, "That's not my problem!" I was so angry with Leighton, and Monroe is his pet. But I'd never willingly hurt an animal. Or leave one neglected.
"Have you seen Leighton?" I asked.
"Nope."
"Okay. Take Gracie and my bag into the house. Be careful with it because Margit made dinner for us. I'll go knock on Leighton's door and tell him that Monroe is without food. You did give him water, didn't you?"
"Of course."
She and I went our separate ways. I took my time walking the paving stones that led to Leighton's door. Fussing at him wasn't likely to change our situation. I supposed that if I'd been a negligent father, and suddenly I had the opportunity to fix my relationship with my daughter, I'd do the same thing he was doing. Yes, it stunk for us. But I was gladder that we'd been allowed to live on this lovely piece of land than I was sad to be moving away from it.
With that attitude of gratitude uppermost in my mind, I knocked on his door.
Since his house is big, I always give Leighton a long time to answer. Today my wait seemed particularly lengthy. I could hear Petunia barking and carrying on. I knocked again, rang the doorbell, and waited. Since Leighton keeps his trash can next to the back door, waiting there is never very pleasant. This time there wasn't much of a smell. So far, so good.
A red-gold leaf drifted down from the sugar maple overhanging Leighton's house. I tried to remember the last time I'd spoken to him. A week before he'd met with Detweiler? Usually if Leighton was going on tour, he'd ask me to watch Petunia. Maybe he'd gone touring and left Melissa in charge. I wondered. Maybe she didn't know how often Monroe needed to be fed.
Stepping away from the stoop, I cranked my neck to an unnatural degree and stared up at the third floor, the level on which Leighton had finally found his dream office space. The blinds were pinched together, top and bottom, to form a peephole. Was he afraid to face me?
I pulled out my cellphone and called him. "Look, Leighton, I just wanted to tell you that Monroe is out of—"
The back door opened. Melissa stood there, balanced on one leg with her arms crossed over her chest in a defensive posture. Her hair hung in greasy hanks around her face. She was wearing a man's muscle tee and a baggy pair of pants. "What do you want?"
Lovely.
"Monroe is out of food."
She stared at me. "So?"
"May I speak to your father?"
"No."
"Does he know that Monroe is out of food? Does he plan to buy more? The donkey was also out of water. My daughter—"
"Keep your kids out of the shed, do you hear me? This isn't your property. You're squatting. You're lucky that Dad gave you a week to move out. Don't press your luck!" And she slammed the door in my face.
Chapter 64
Detweiler came home after the kids were in bed. "How're they doing?" he asked as he pulled up a chair at the kitchen table. Since Brawny now slept in our living room, he and I didn't have a place to hang out except for our bedroom or the kitchen. While she watched television, I often
sat at the kitchen table with paperwork, crafts, or a book. That way I could greet Detweiler as he walked in the door.
"Erik brought home his work with two stars on it. Maggie sent me a message that he seems to be adjusting well. She and I are having lunch together next Monday at school. I've asked her for a list of names of other boys who might make good play buddies for Erik," I said. "Anya is hating French. She did get a good grade on her art project, and she's fine with going to the Moores' house Friday after school."
I asked him about his day, but he didn't feel like talking about the case at hand. Although I wanted to know what was bothering him, I had learned to give him his space. Especially when he first came home. Instead of pressing him for details, I told him about my meeting with Mert.
"I'm glad you two have made up," he said, taking my hand in his and kissing my fingers. "You two have been friends for too long to let all that go to waste."
"I wouldn't exactly say that we've made up. I'd say she's willing to tolerate me if I can help find out something that will protect Laurel," and then I told him about my visit to Star Bright Talent Agency.
"Kiki, I wish you wouldn't do things like that. It's not safe and it's not wise."
"Being downtown in the West End in broad daylight isn't exactly risky behavior," I said, although I knew what he meant. I proceeded to tell him what I'd learned from Elise. "See? Nothing really. Nothing at all."
I neglected to mention that Margit had forwarded our customer list to Elise. Oops.
"Have you seen Leighton?" I asked, trying to change the subject. I explained what Anya had told me about Monroe being without food. Then I told him about knocking on the back door, and how charming Melissa wasn't.
"I can go feed him some of those carrots we have in the refrigerator," said Detweiler, "but we have to be careful. If we feed him too many raw veggies, he might get sick."
I nodded. "But how long can he go without grain? It's not like he can graze in his pen. There's not enough vegetation there to fill his tummy."
"I don't know," said Detweiler. "I'll call Dad and ask. Did Leighton respond to your text messages?"
"No." I shared with him what Jennifer Moore had told me about Melissa Haversham and then I added, "She didn't seem at all concerned about Monroe. She was too busy warning me that our kids shouldn't be in his shed."
"I guess maybe she doesn't care about him the way we do. We've known Monroe for a while," said Detweiler. He rubbed his hand across his mouth, a gesture that told me he was picking his words carefully. "Although I admit I'm not inclined to like the woman, it's possible she's right. Anya's old enough to handle herself around Monroe but Erik isn't."
"Spill it, buddy," I said, shaking his shoulder. "What aren't you saying that you're thinking?"
He laughed and leaned in for a kiss. "You know me too well. I was thinking that I wish I knew more about Melissa Haversham. Especially after that litany that Jennifer gave you. But I'm reminding myself that it doesn't matter. Even if I found out that she's an axe murderer, it's not like Leighton is going to change his mind. This about feeling guilty, not about being guilty."
Chapter 65
Wednesday morning…
Brawny promised to stop by and get more boxes for us from the U-Haul place on her way home from dropping Erik and Anya off at school. Since I didn't need to go into the store until noon, I opened a few closets and tried to sort items. Anya had outgrown a lot of her clothes. Many of them I could safely toss into a black garbage bag. I planned to take them to Plato's Closet and see if we could get credit against future gently worn merchandise. My daughter and I both were big fans of the chain. I'd found a few nice men's flannel shirts that I planned to wear as the weather got nippy. Anya liked the jeans and since she's so small, she often found a nice outfit or blouse.
After about an hour, my lower back started aching. I decided Gracie needed a potty break. Besides, I wanted to see if Monroe had been fed. Grabbing an apple from my cooler drawer, I snapped the leash on my dog and stepped outside.
The air promised a chill was coming. There was a cold undertone to the ground as I walked from our converted garage to the shed. Monroe saw me coming and brayed loudly. That's unusual. He's typically pretty quiet.
The apple disappeared in an eye-blink. His feed pail was empty. I checked the bin where Leighton kept a bag of horse kibble. That was empty, too. In fact, Monroe was out of water. I grabbed his bucket and took it to the faucet at the side of the shed, but when I turned on the tap, nothing came out.
"Must be a break in the water main," I told the donkey, as he watched me carefully. Since Webster Groves is an older area, this wasn't totally unexpected, but it was rare. Especially since I'd showered earlier and hadn't had any problems. I took the bucket to my house and turned on the tap. It ran clear and clean and crisp. After filling the bucket, I lugged it back to Monroe's shed and hung it on its hook. He drank thirstily.
I text-messaged Leighton again. I figured there must be some way to tell if he was getting my messages, but I wasn't sure how.
That got me thinking…
How on earth could I get Leighton's attention?
I remember that he had an author's website. Could I go through that? How about an author's Facebook page? He had once told me that was the best route for readers to "talk" with him.
"Not by going through your publisher?" I asked.
"Heavens no. It takes forever for mail to get through their system and back to me," he had explained.
Putting on my thinking cap, I came up with a plan. First I’d try once more to talk to him face-to-face. If that didn’t work, I’d go online to contact him. He could run but he couldn’t hide from me.
But he had been hiding. He’d been watching out his window and pretending to not be at home. Well, I knew how to foil that little trick. I decided to check to see if his car was in his garage. I walked around the back of his house to the detached garage that he'd added when he converted the original detached garage into what was now my living quarters.
Sure enough, his beautiful black antique Jaguar was there, snug as could be. Walking from one window to another and shading my eyes with my hand, I stared at it. Something wasn't quite right. But what?
Leighton was incredibly fussy about where he parked the Jag. He'd not only hung a tennis ball from a string to help him center the car, he'd also purchased small bumpers that sat on the floor of his garage. These helped him line up his tires.
But the Jag wasn't resting on the tire bumpers. It had been parked off center, missing them entirely. That's not anything he would have ever done! He was totally paranoid about banging his car doors on anything. Those floor bumpers were his salvation.
Why wasn't his car parked properly?
There could be only one answer: Melissa. She must have driven it.
Leighton never let anybody drive his Jag.
Once I was back inside my house, I turned on the computer in Anya's bedroom. I tried one social media site after the other. Leighton’s website hadn't been updated in a while. That didn't surprise me. Websites are like kitchen remodeling projects. They go on and on and on. Leighton's Facebook page had seen activity recently as recently as ten days ago. That was when he made his last post. By my calculations, that would have been right around the time that he heard from Melissa, when he'd gotten her request to move in. I turned off the computer and grabbed my keys.
Was it possible that he was having so much fun with his daughter that he was letting everything go? Could it be that he'd given up his prissy ways? His self-discipline? That didn't seem like Leighton. He was incredibly focused on his writing. I heard him speak about his work at the Webster Groves Library. He told the crowd that he wrote every day without fail. "If a writer doesn't write, how can he call himself a writer?" he'd asked to the general merriment of all in attendance.
Even if he was worried that I'd be angry with him, why go to such lengths to avoid me? It wasn't like I'd spoken to him since had told Detweiler he wanted us out of
the little house. Leighton had no reason to think I'd yell at him. I'd never said a cross word to the man. Not ever. Was he really such a coward?
Wednesdays are trash days. Ours had been sitting by the curb when I backed my car out of the drive this morning. Usually, Leighton's bin sat right next to ours, looking like two soldiers at attention. But today, his bin remained beside his backdoor. Because he traveled so frequently, Leighton sometimes forgot Wednesday was the day.
Should I be a good neighbor or not?
With a sigh of disgust, I put my car into park and hopped out. I ran to Leighton's back door, grabbed the wheeled bin, and rolled it to the curb. The whole contraption was surprisingly lightweight. In fact, too lightweight. Maybe I was hauling a bin that didn't have any trash in it. Maybe that's why Leighton and Melissa hadn't bothered with taking it to the curb.
I plucked the lid off and stared deep inside. At the bottom was one small white bag. On top of it were four pill bottles. I tipped the bin over so I could reach inside.
All four were for OxyContin. None of them had Melissa's name on them. Or Leighton's. Instead, they'd been prescribed for another woman, Melinda P. Haviland.
Chapter 66
After tossing the empty vials in my purse, I climbed back into the car and started toward the store. Ever since Brawny's arrival I've felt a delicious sense of freedom, simply because I don't have to rush from one place to another. Even though our living quarters have been more cramped since her arrival, Brawny was a godsend.
I called Detweiler from the road, as I was eager to tell him about my discovery. I don't know much about drugs, or drug addiction, but I did recall that Rush Limbaugh had a rough time shaking his dependency on OxyContin.
My sweetie didn't answer, so I left him a message to call me back. When I got to the junction of Highway 40 and Lindbergh, the steering wheel turned east as usual. But I passed my usual exit. Instead, I got off at the Big Bend and headed north toward Prairie Central Community College.
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