by Libby Howard
A black SUV pulled up to the curb. Henry jumped out and dashed through the maze of old appliances to the front door, while his mother took her time getting out of the vehicle. As she should. With a dress and sandals, there was a good chance she would trip and fall if she didn’t take care.
“How can I help?” Henry was breathless, his eyes sparkling with excitement. I was glad that Heather had brought him over with such little notice. I knew it was her week, but this was important stuff. We had a thief—and quite possibly a murderer—to catch.
“Do you remember the fish-shaped painted serving platters that Mr. Peter had on this shelf over here about a week ago? One with a lady holding a flower. One with a milkmaid. One with—”
“George Washington,” Henry interrupted. “I remember because I thought the fish-shape was really cool, and the portrait of George Washington was really weird.”
“Where did Mr. Peter put them when he took them off the shelf to put the knife rests on display?” I asked.
“In the kitchen.”
We all scooted aside and followed Henry as he squeezed through narrow passages toward the back of the house. I hesitated, not thrilled about being back in the room where I’d found Mr. Peter’s body. As if the thought summoned him, a shadow materialized off to the side. There wasn’t a pathway off to the side, so the shadow was overlaid on a stack of four boxes.
“That poor man.” Heather appeared at the doorway. For a second I thought she meant the ghost with the boxes through his torso, then I realized she meant the actual, living Mr. Peter. Poor man because he’d been murdered, or because his house looked like a neglected storage unit?
“Yes,” I replied, because either one elicited sympathy. “He was lonely. I’m glad Henry came over and spent time with him the last few months. I’m sure he loved having someone to share his interests.”
Heather nodded, but looked uneasy at the precariously stacked boxes. “I agree with Nate that he should have told one of us, or you, about coming over here, but I’m glad he did. Our parents don’t live close by. It was nice that Mr. Peter took on a sort of grandfather role for Henry.”
I heard a crash and a muffled curse and winced. Bert, Officer Adams, and Henry came back down the path. Henry was still practically vibrating with excitement.
“They’re gone! The whole box is gone. And I know what was in there, too.”
Officer Fischer nodded. “Your son was a huge help, Mrs. Beck. I’ll go talk to Bill at Swanson’s tomorrow, and update you in a few days.”
“You’ll also connect with the detective investigating Mr. Peter’s murder?” I asked. I’m was sure our local police were good enough at their job to connect the dots without a skip tracer reminding them, but I just wanted to make sure.
“Yep. The thefts might be connected, or they might not be. Lots of burglaries happen when someone dies. Thieves read the obituaries or death notices, and either rob the deceased’s house or the family members’ while they’re at the funeral. But just in case, we’ll coordinate.”
Officer Adams left, and the four of us walked out to the front porch where Bert had made more headway and there was actually room to stand in a group as opposed to single file.
“There’s one more thing I wanted to show you before you left,” I told Henry, reaching into my bag, pulling out and unwrapping the knife rests.
“Yeah. These were in the box with the fish-shaped plates and the other stuff,” he said. “Aren’t they pretty?”
“Yes.” I sighed, thinking that I was now out the equivalent of probably fifty bucks, and Daisy would have to wait for her knife rests. “I found them at Swanson’s. It’s probably premature, but I’m thinking we’ve found our thief.” And possibly our murderer.
“I’ll get some security cameras set up and additional door locks,” Bert said. “I haven’t seen any sign of a break-in in the last two days. No one has messed with the plywood I put over the broken window last night, or tried to cut the lock of the cellar door, but just in case, it won’t hurt to have some additional security.”
It was another thing that pointed to the thief being the murderer in my mind. If he was just stealing, Mr. Peter’s death would have been the perfect opportunity to come back and really clean the place out. But I’d think a murderer would be reluctant to return to the scene of the crime.
We waved Heather and Henry off, then I turned to Bert and handed him the knife rests.
“Oh no.” He handed them back. “You paid for those. I’m not going to take them.”
“They’re stolen property. You get them back. I try to get my money back from Swanson’s, and he has to try to get his money back from the thief. That’s how it works.”
“Not in my world,” he said, refusing to take the outstretched package. “Now, if you had that fifty-thousand-dollar soup tureen, that would be different. I’m not going to take those back, not when you’ve been so helpful. Not when you’re the one who put me in touch with Henry. If it hadn’t been for you, I wouldn’t even have known stuff was stolen.”
He had a point. “Okay. Thank you.”
“No, thank you. I owe you more than a few knife rests. Once I get this place cleaned out and organized, I’d like to offer you a few of the plates or vases.”
Oh, no way. I suddenly envisioned my house full of ugly pitchers such as the one I’d just gotten rid of. “Actually, I bought these for my friend Daisy. I’m not really into this china stuff myself. We’re all still eating off the set of dishes I bought thirty years ago.”
“Well, if you see something you like, let me know.” Bert’s smile crinkled up the corner of his eyes. “And hang onto those dishes of yours. Who knows? Some grandchild might treasure them after you’re gone.”
I had no children to have grandchildren for me, but for some reason my mind immediately envisioned Henry, remembering me fondly as he admired some item from my house and showed them to his kids. “Yes. You’re right. Who knows?”
Chapter 19
Judge Beck was home at a reasonable hour, once again spreading his papers all over the dining room table. I pulled the meatloaf out of the oven and fixed two plates, both with mashed potatoes, gravy, and green beans.
“Clear a space,” I announced, bringing both plates into the dining room.
Judge Beck looked up and blinked at me in surprise. “You didn’t have…is that meatloaf?”
“Comfort food. And you look like you could use some comfort.” I put the plate down on the cleared spot, then sat at the end of the table, carefully relocating a stack of papers.
He eyed the papers, then my plate. “I’m going to be the worst dinner companion ever. Three bail hearings, two motions, case law research. Oh, and two parole hearings tomorrow that I need to look over.”
“And a partridge in a pear tree?” I teased. “Don’t mind me. Read your paperwork. Try not to get gravy on your reports.”
He smiled over at me. “It’s nice not to eat alone. And to eat something home-cooked. I try so hard to prioritize family when I’ve got the kids, then the week they’re with Heather I feel like the wheels just came off the bus.”
He was juggling a lot, but soon the kids would be off to college and he’d be missing them. In the meantime, freeing up the weeks that he had custody meant loading double the work into the weeks that he didn’t.
“Did I just see Taco out there?” Judge Beck pointed a fork out my window. Dusk was slipping into night, but even with nothing but the pathway lights for illumination, I could clearly see a fluffy cat strolling toward the front yard.
“Oh, no. How did he get out there? All the doors are closed. Is he Houdini cat, or something?” I jumped up and looked around. Was it a different cat? Although with meatloaf on the table, Taco should be underfoot, begging. The fact that he wasn’t here made me pretty darned sure that the feline strolling down the pathway was mine.
I ran to the front door and to my porch just in time to see Taco at the curb, tail twitching as he carefully looked both ways.
That should get him to come. He’d already had dinner, but from experience I knew that the cat’s memory when it came to food was conveniently faulty.
The cat paused, even looking back at me for a moment. Then he took off across the street, disappearing into the maze of washing machines that dotted Mr. Peter’s front lawn. Dratted cat. There would be no chicken sandwiches for him across the street. He would have been better off coming to me. At least he would have gotten a bite or two of meatloaf from me.
“I’m going across the street to fetch Taco,” I called to Judge Beck before shutting the front door and heading across the street.
It was even darker in Mr. Peter’s yard with the light blocked by the Lars’s fencing. The old appliances cast deep shadows across the narrow pathways, tall weeds brushing against my ankles as I made my way to the front porch. Bert had left a light on in the living room, but no other ones were lit either in the house or on the outside, and I stumbled as I headed up the stairs. I’d expected to find Taco waiting at the front door, yowling like he always did when he wanted in at home. Instead I saw the swish of his tail as he disappeared through the front door—the open front door.
“Bert,” I called, peering through the narrow space into the living room. “Bert, Taco just snuck over here. I’m coming in.” I didn’t hear an answer. Was he still here? I couldn’t imagine Bert not locking up or even leaving the front door open, but I hadn’t noticed his sports car out front. Had he left, or was he upstairs where he either couldn’t hear me or where he’d take forever to wind his way downstairs?
“Bert?” I opened the door wide and stood in the entrance, looking for Mr. Peter’s nephew or my cat. I didn’t see either, but I heard a noise from over near the dining room. Darned cat. I was tempted to leave Taco here to be locked in for the night, but I worried about my cat, and I didn’t think Bert would appreciate finding that Taco had used the carpet as a litter box or that he’d amused himself by knocking breakable items onto the floor throughout the house.
“Here, kitty, kitty, kitty,” I called, making my way through the maze of boxes. The sound in the dining room abruptly stopped and I hesitated, expecting to see my cat come bounding toward me. Taco did appear in the kitchen doorway, but instead of rushing into my arms, the cat turned away once more. I imagined him in there, begging Mr. Peter’s ghost for chicken sandwiches.
In fact, I saw Mr. Peter, or rather, the specter I’d come to believe was Mr. Peter’s ghost. The shadow knelt down, his arms opened wide as Taco leapt toward him, giving a happy chirp. The fact that he sailed right through the ghost’s outstretched arms didn’t seem to bother either the cat or the ghost.
Changing course, I went past the dining room and into the kitchen where I found my cat on the counter, eyeing a cookie jar. The ghost had remained, and I’d felt an arctic chill as I’d walked through him, trying to concentrate on my cat. I scooped Taco up in my arms, murmuring a mix of scolding and affectionate statements. And when I turned around, I saw a man.
Not a ghost this time, but an actual living human.
I recognized the young man as the one from the ice cream place with the fancy new Mustang, the one who Henry had said was Sean’s sister’s boyfriend. Dillon Buckle. He had no weapon in hand, but there was a determined, somewhat resigned look on his face that told me I wasn’t getting by him. It also told me that there was a good chance I was going to end up like Mr. Peter, although not by a sword. Strangulation? Bludgeoning? I didn’t want to contemplate my probable demise in any detail.
He was in the kitchen doorway, blocking my exit. The door to the dining area and outside to the backyard was inaccessible. And this guy was clearly a trespasser. As was I, but I had come in through an open front door, and I was positive Bert wouldn’t have minded me coming in to retrieve my cat.
The burglar-most-likely-murderer took a step toward me, and tightened my grip around Taco. He yowled in protest, digging claws into my hands, and I reacted instinctively, throwing my cat at his face.
Poor Taco. Although, in the split second it took me to push past the man and run for the door, I realized I should be thinking ‘poor Dillon’. Taco latched on with claws, then jumped to the side before the man could hurt him, taking a good bit of skin with him on the way. The burglar screamed, swatting in vain at my cat and stumbling into a stack of boxes as I shoved past him. I heard a crash, but didn’t look back, my focus on getting out the front door. I knew Taco could take care of himself, both in the ability to hide in this over-stuffed house and to claw and bite anyone who wished him harm. I, on the other hand, was vulnerable.
How vulnerable was made clear to me when I felt someone tackle me not five feet from the door. I smashed into another tower of boxes, these holding heavy enough items that the wind was knocked out of me. A few fell, contents sliding across the open space that Bert had just cleared. I twisted around, trying to get out from under the intruder, only to find myself on my back, his hands coming around my neck.
Strangulation. Lovely. Although bludgeoning probably wasn’t preferable in the ways-to-die categories. I bucked and kicked, at first reaching up to grab the man’s wrists, then groping around beside me as I realized that I didn’t have the upper body strength to pull his hands away from my neck.
The pressure increased and my fingers gripped something smooth and cool, like a handle. Bringing it up, I slammed the teapot as hard as I could against the man’s head.
It must have been a very sturdy teapot because it didn’t break. It did cause the man’s head to jerk to the side. He cursed, his hands loosening on my neck, so I hit him again.
This time the teapot broke. I hit one more time with the chunk I still had in my hand, feeling it rip through the skin of his scalp. Blood poured into his eyes and onto me, and he pulled his fingers away from my neck to swipe at his face. I pushed him, jabbing with the broken piece of teapot as if it were a knife and saw him jerk backward to evade my strike. I kicked my legs up and he fell to the side, knocking yet another tower of boxes over.
Five feet to the door. Unfortunately, in our tussle he’d positioned himself between me and my escape. I prepared myself to act like a linebacker and try to shove past him when I saw two hands grab the intruder by the shoulder, spinning him around. A fist slammed into my attacker’s chin and the man went down in a shower of boxes and broken pieces of china.
And now the only person that stood between me and the doorway was Judge Beck.
He shook his hand, grimacing as he rubbed his knuckles. “That always looks so easy in the movies. I think I might have broken my fingers.” He extended his other hand down to me. “Are you okay?”
I nodded, letting him help me up. My throat hurt. My shoulder hurt where I’d hit the boxes. Once I was on my feet, the judge turned his attention to the intruder, hauling him to his feet, twisting his arm up behind his back and smashing him face first against the only wall space visible in the room.
“Do you have your phone? Mine’s in my back pocket. Call the police and I’ll hold this guy either until they get here or we can find something to restrain him with.”
I didn’t have my phone, and it was with extreme reluctance that I reached into Judge Beck’s back pocket to retrieve his phone.
Don’t squeeze his butt. Don’t squeeze his butt. He’s your tenant, and he’s twenty years younger than you. Don’t squeeze his butt.
I managed to pull the phone from his pants without any untoward sexual undertones and dialed 911, telling the operator in a shaky voice that I’d walked in on a burglary in progress, had been attacked, and that we had the assailant pinned against a wall.
Dillon Buckle squirmed and cursed, trying to get away, but Judge Beck was surprisingly buff for a lawyer. With a calm demeanor, he held the other man pressed against the wall, twisting his arm upward to still him when he struggled. I was impressed. He was a judge, an academic type, and although I thought he was very attractive, I’d never once consid
ered him the sort of man who would manhandle an intruder and restrain him until the police arrived.
It was Officer Adams who was first to the scene, his eyes bulging as he saw Judge Beck pinning a man against the wall. Once Dillon Buckle was cuffed and both the judge and I had given our statements, and once Bert had arrived and we’d once again explained what had happened, the house cleared out. Dillon Buckle was hauled away to be charged with attempted robbery, and most likely actual robbery, attempted murder, and most likely actual murder. Bert locked the door and after expressing his concern and thanks, left once more in his little sports car.
Which left Judge Beck and me in a front yard full of washing machines, directly across the street from my—our—house.
“When you didn’t come back right away and when Taco came tearing through the dining room with his fur all on end and his tail like a prickly brush straight up in the air, I worried.” He turned to me, but I couldn’t quite see his expression in the darkness of Mr. Peter’s front yard. What I could see was two shadows, one sitting on a chair, rocking slowly on my porch, the other standing in the glass-enclosed side porch of Mr. Peter’s house, his shadowy form partially inside the boxes of toilet paper.
“You saved my life. Thank you.” I didn’t know why it irritated me that my boss, J.T., had saved me from the mayor three months ago, and now Judge Beck had saved me from Mr. Peter’s killer. What was I, a damsel in distress?
He laughed. “Are you kidding? The guy was bleeding and concussed by the time I’d arrived. If someone had told me the first day I’d met you that you were someone who could take down a murderous mayor and a killer thief, I would have laughed at them. You’re an action hero with knitting needles, a cat, and silver in your hair, Kay. You’re smart and funny, laid back and cool. You have completely won over my two children. And you make a hella-good meatloaf. I’m pretty close to worshiping you at this point.”