Paula’s eyes widened. “The dead man?”
“Yes. The terminally ill man Rick brought into our restaurant to try to talk me into selling my house.”
Paula frowned and set her glass on her nondescript coffee table beside a pile of colorful plastic blocks. “The man was terminally ill? What was wrong with him?”
“I don’t know, but he died. That sounds pretty terminal to me.”
“So you don’t know what caused his death?”
“Not yet. But I do know he got out of prison two months ago.” I repeated the story Fred had told me.
Paula gave a huge sigh and shook her head. “This gets worse all the time. An ex-con drops dead outside a place where people come to relax and eat.”
“Drops dead after a failed attempt to talk me into selling my house to him.”
“Do you think Rick knew about his client’s past?”
I thought about that for a moment. “It’s possible he didn’t know, but real estate agents do quite a bit of pre-qualifying before they spend any time working with a client. However, if Rick smelled money, he wouldn’t care if the guy was a mass murderer and escaped from prison the day before, killing two guards and seven inmates in the process. If he stood to get a big fee out of the deal, Rick wouldn’t give it a second thought before moving Ted Bundy in next door to any of us.”
“Well, I guess it doesn’t matter since the guy’s dead.” She picked up her glass and drained the contents.
“Yeah, and maybe nobody but us and that one couple saw it and it won’t affect our business.”
Paula nodded. “Everything will be back to normal tomorrow.”
I shuddered. Normal except for the memory of watching a man die in front of me. “I may have a hard time walking over that part of the sidewalk tomorrow,” I said.
“You’ll get over it. I shot my ex and thought he died. After that, I’m not squeamish about seeing somebody die from a problem I didn’t cause. In a couple of days, you’ll be fine.” She gave me a reassuring smile. For all her fragile appearance, Paula is one tough lady.
“If it ever gets to the point I have to shoot Rick, I’m calling you to help me hide the body.”
“No problem.”
I believed her.
I went home and climbed the stairs to bed. Henry followed close on my heels.
For the most part, Henry is an ideal sleeping partner. He stays at the foot of the bed, snores very softly and doesn’t hog the covers. When he first came to live with me, he had occasional moments of gratitude for a roof over his head and a full food bowl. I’d wake to the feel of a furry face rubbing on my cheek and the sound of purring that was so loud I’m surprised Fred didn’t hear it and complain. I’d pet him, say “You’re welcome,” and he’d go back to the foot of the bed. After a couple of months, however, he came to take his new home for granted, and the middle-of-the-night outbursts of gratitude stopped.
But that night I woke to the sound of what I thought was loud purring. Still half-asleep, I reached to pet him and mumbled, “You’re welcome.”
He wasn’t purring. He was growling deep in his throat. That was not a good sign.
Henry nudged my forehead, growled again then leapt to the floor.
The last time he went through this freak-out routine was a few months ago when Paula’s husband broke into my house and poisoned my chocolate pudding cake.
I sat up in bed, suddenly wide awake, heart pounding, adrenalin pumping as I surged into fight or flight mode. The numbers on the digital clock glowed brightly—1:30 a.m. “Henry,” I said softly, hopefully, “did you have a bad dream? Why don’t you come back to bed and we’ll cuddle?”
In the moonlight I could see his white form as he stretched up to bat at the knob of my closed bedroom door. He was not coming back to bed until he had a chance to check out whatever had disturbed him. A bad dream? A panic attack? Perhaps the sound of another cat outside, invading his territory? That was surely all it was. No big deal. No reason for me to get upset.
I was unable to reassure myself.
I got out of bed and went over to Henry. “Need a midnight snack?” I asked. “I get a little grumpy when my blood sugar gets low, too.”
He opened his large mouth, bared his half-inch fangs and let loose with a yowl that would have done his ancestors in the jungle proud. That should, I thought, scare off any usurpers of his territory. It certainly made my hair stand on end.
I opened the door, and Henry streaked across the hall then flowed down the stairs. I followed, though with much less haste and grace. I wasn’t all that eager to confront whatever Henry thought was downstairs.
My brain told me there could be nothing threatening in my house. The doors were locked securely. My only emotion should be annoyance at my cat for waking me in the middle of the night. But my gut had a completely different attitude. It conjured images of murderous lunatics, hideous monsters and bloodthirsty ghouls. Seeing a man die in front of me had probably given my imagination a huge boost.
Henry trotted quietly but determinedly through the living room and into the kitchen.
Please let him be hungry.
By the time I caught up with him, he was standing at the door to the basement, peering intently as if he could see through the wood.
A lot of people in the Kansas City area finish out their basements and put rec rooms or guest suites down there. Shoot a little pool while waiting out a tornado, stick your visiting relatives below ground so you can’t hear them yell at each other. Some people have windows and even a door in their basement.
Mine is old, built at a time when people used basements to shelter from tornadoes and store home-canned veggies, not to entertain. It has stone walls, a brick floor and lots of spiders. Maybe a ghost or two. I rarely go down there during the day. I had no intention of going in the middle of the night.
Henry did his stand-up-and-paw-the-knob routine then sat back and looked at me, waiting.
A thousand scenes raced through my head, all ending in my bloody demise. I tried to listen to see if I could hear any sounds from the basement. If my heart would just quit pounding so loudly, I might have been able to hear something or at least verify that there was nothing to be heard.
Henry’s ears pricked. He stood, back arched, tail curling high into the air, and scratched at the door.
My mouth went dry.
A mouse, I told myself. There was probably a mouse down there. Henry sometimes brought me a mouse for a gift. I always took it from him and disposed of it, though I told him I ate it and it was quite delicious. That’s what was happening here. A mouse in the basement had his attention, and he was determined to catch it for my breakfast.
Then I heard it. A scraping sound. Muffled by the closed door, but definitely a scraping sound.
Did mice scrape? They have claws, so it was possible.
I raced through the house, checking the front and back doors and all the windows. Everything was securely locked. Since the basement had no outside door, there could not be anyone down there…unless it was somebody who could walk through walls.
Not likely.
I picked up my marble rolling pin from my kitchen counter then returned to the basement door. Henry stretched upward and tried in vain to get that door open. He turned and glared at me, then went back to his efforts. That door has one of the original cut glass knobs, and Henry actually seemed to get some traction on the bevels of that knob. It turned a fraction of an inch.
I slammed my body against the door and pushed Henry away.
He gave me a disdainful look that clearly accused me of being a coward.
I groaned. There was no help for it. I had to go downstairs. I wouldn’t be able to sleep again until I made sure there was no boogey man in my basement. Besides, I couldn’t let my cat think I was a coward.
Against my better judgment, I fetched the flip flops I kept beside the kitchen door so the bricks of the basement floor wouldn’t rip up my feet. I saw no point in finding a robe to wear ov
er my tee-shirt. I was preparing to descend into a dark dungeon to confront a demon. Modesty was the least of my concerns.
I retrieved a flashlight from below the sink and tucked it under one arm, tightened my grip on my rolling pin, drew in a deep breath and took hold of that glass knob. I turned to look at Henry, hoping to find him yawning, bored with this game, ready to go back to bed. He stood on full alert, gaze fixed on the basement door.
Damn.
Like pulling a Band-aid off quickly to shorten the pain, I turned the knob, jerked the door open and braced myself for an attack.
Nothing but a hint of damp, musty air.
Nothing to be afraid of. But that didn’t stop the perspiration from popping out on my upper lip.
I flipped a switch just inside the door, and a bulb hanging from the ceiling at the bottom of the stairs flared, spreading light over the wooden steps and a portion of bare brick floor. Granted, that was only a small portion of the basement, but it was enough to satisfy me.
“Happy now?” I asked, hoping this view of emptiness would also satisfy my attack-cat.
He gave me one brief glance then streaked past me, down the steps, across the lighted area and into the darkness.
Double damn.
What if there really was somebody in the basement, somebody who could hurt Henry?
With long, sharp claws and teeth which he used at lightning speed, Henry was not defenseless.
But what if that mysterious person in the basement had a gun and shot my cat?
Oh, good grief. I was really letting my imagination run wild. There was no person in the basement. No monster, no ghoul. Just a mouse. Maybe a squirrel or chipmunk.
With flashlight in my left hand, rolling pin in my right and heart pounding loudly in my ears, I started down the stairs. One step at a time, I descended deeper and deeper into that spooky basement.
Spider webs decorated the corners of the lighted area. Shivers of movement indicated some of the spiders were at home and startled by my invasion. I’d cleaned the entire basement when I moved in a year before but hadn’t given much thought to it after that. Like the dandelions in my yard, the spiders were free to come and go so long as they stayed in their own domain.
Five doors opened off the main area. One was an old utility room, one held racks for wine, one was lined with shelves for canned goods, one was completely empty, and the last was an old furnace room that dated from the days when coal was the primary fuel source.
“Henry!” I whispered.
I aimed my flashlight into the utility room. A white, translucent form floated into the glare. I gasped, jumped backward and nearly dropped my light.
Another freaking spider web. I’d almost had a heart attack over a spider web.
I forced myself to walk past that web to the center of the small room and pull the chain to turn on the light. Nothing anywhere but dust.
I stepped back into the central area and called again, louder this time. It was my house. I didn’t have to whisper. “Henry! Get out here! Now!” My voice bounced back to me from the stone walls. I should have stuck to whispering.
Sometimes Henry comes when I call, like when I’m holding a can of tuna or some fresh catnip. Other times he seems to be deaf. They do not make cat hearing aids, though this appears to be a common problem with cats.
A low hiss drew me to the furnace room. I stepped to the entrance and directed the beam of my flashlight into the room. The blackness of the walls, stained from years of coal dust, swallowed my puny light.
Like a ghost-cat, Henry stood, back arched, tail erect, poised in battle-ready stance, glaring at the outside wall with its boarded-up coal chute. He’d probably chased a mouse who squirmed through the cracks and escaped. Nevertheless, his staring at the wall was spooky and did absolutely nothing to ease my sense of dread.
“Okay, buddy, no more catnip for you if you’re going to hallucinate.”
Abruptly he relaxed, turned and walked past me, rubbing against my leg and spreading coal dust as he went. Whatever had been upsetting him was gone, and he wasn’t one to dwell on the past.
“Henry! Come back here! Do not get in my bed!” I dashed upstairs after him.
He demanded to go outside, and I was happy to let him.
While he was…I hoped…taking a bath, I retrieved the basement door skeleton key from the top of the refrigerator. Skeleton key. The name itself gave me a creepy feeling under the present circumstances.
I closed the basement door securely, locked it and left the key in the keyhole. I saw an old movie at Fred’s house where they did that so the door couldn’t be unlocked from the other side. Of course, I saw another old movie where the person trapped in the room slid a newspaper under the door then poked the key out and retrieved it by pulling the newspaper holding the key inside. Not that a mouse was likely to bring a newspaper with him so I felt safe leaving the key in the door.
Henry’s face appeared at the screen door, and I let him in. He looked cleaner so I allowed him to join me in bed, though I did drape an old towel over his area just in case he was still hiding some of that coal dust in his thick fur.
Adrenalin does not leave as rapidly as it comes, and for the rest of the night I dozed in and out of sleep and was actually grateful when the alarm went off at 4:00 so I could stop trying so hard to sleep.
We went downstairs, and Henry trotted over to that blasted basement door again but gave it a quick sniff and continued on to his food bowl.
Must have been a mouse. Maybe I should think about getting an exterminator.
Chapter Four
In spite of Paula’s and my concerns about the dead man having an impact on business, Tuesday got off to a really good start. Nobody asked suspicious questions or carefully stepped around the part of the sidewalk where Bradford did the dead thing.
Our usual breakfast crowd, most still half-asleep, scarfed down rolls and pastries and drank gallons of Paula’s coffee and my tea. I don’t drink coffee and have been informed that my efforts to brew it rank right up there with swamp water that’s past its expiration date. Since coffee always tastes that way to me, I can’t judge, but I’m happy to let Paula take on that responsibility. I brew quite nice tea and open cans of Coke with panache. One cannot expect to be an expert at everything.
Around 9:00 we put up the Closed sign and began preparing for lunch. The special for the day would be Chicken Salad Sandwich with Chocolate Marble Cheesecake. We always have chocolate chip cookies, of course. Some people can’t get through the day without a couple. I’m one of those people.
As I worked on the cookies, something I’ve done so many times it doesn’t require a lot of attention, I told Paula about Henry’s episode in the middle of the night. Made a joke of it. Laughed about my big, macho cat charging down to the basement and being given the slip by a mouse covered in coal dust.
Paula didn’t laugh. “This is an odd time of year for mice to be getting into your house. They usually try to get inside during the fall when cold weather’s coming on, not in summer.”
I shrugged and added a few more chocolate chips to my cookie mixture. You can’t have too many chocolate chips. “I’ll go downstairs and have a closer look when I get home.” When it’s daylight.
Paula chopped chicken for her sandwiches. “Might be a raccoon or possum or some other kind of creature. These old houses have cracks you don’t always know about.”
Somehow the idea of cracks in my basement large enough to allow a raccoon or possum to come inside didn’t make me feel even a little bit better.
The phone rang, interrupting our conversation about nighttime visitors.
“Lindsay, it’s Adam Trent.” Detective Adam Trent. Could be My Boyfriend Adam Trent if Rick would sign those blasted divorce papers. I call him Trent, so when he used his full name, a chill darted down my spine. This must be business, and the only business I could think of was the guy who dropped dead outside my restaurant yesterday. I recalled Fred’s comment from last night, Maybe the
reason he wanted your house has something to do with the reason he was killed.
“Hello, Adam Trent. Can I interest you in a cookie?”
He ignored my suggestive comment. “I need you to come down to the station to give a statement about Rodney Bradford’s death.” He paused. “You could bring some cookies when you come.” The man has a chocolate tooth, especially where my desserts are concerned.
“I gave a statement to the cop who was here yesterday. I have nothing else to state.”
Trent let out a long slow sigh. “That was when we thought his death might be from natural causes, before we got the results of the autopsy.”
“And?” I prompted. He likes to do that cop thing of keeping everything a big secret. “It wasn’t natural causes?”
“No.”
“So it wasn’t from natural causes, and I’m pretty sure the guy wasn’t shot, stabbed or hanged.” I was getting a really bad feeling. There weren’t a lot of murder options left. “You can tell me. I won’t tell anybody.”
He hesitated. He really likes to keep his cop stuff a big secret.
“It’s going to be all over the news tonight. You might as well tell me.”
“Bradford was poisoned.”
That cold chill returned and brought some buddies with it. “Poisoned? What kind of poison? Please tell me he wasn’t allergic to nuts or chocolate or—”
Paula came up beside me, a questioning look on her face.
“No. Calm down,” Trent said. “He was poisoned with amoprine berries. It’s a plant in the deadly nightshade family.”
I quickly ran through everything we’d served in the restaurant yesterday. No berries. I had raspberries for the cheesecake today, but they’d arrived only a few hours ago. Whew! I was off the hook. I looked at Paula and shook my head.
“I don’t serve those,” I told Trent. “That’s my statement.”
Trent sighed again. “Of course you don’t. Nobody’s suggesting you poisoned him. It’s a slow-acting toxin. He had to consume it at least a couple of hours before he got to your place. You’re not under suspicion, but we still need you to come in. You were talking to him when he died.”
Sally Berneathy - Death by Chocolate 02 - Murder, Lies & Chocolate Page 3