by Clea Simon
But “quickly” proved to be relative. By the time I was booked and fingerprinted, my car keys and cell phone confiscated, it was past one and I was past exhausted. I was taken, finally, to a phone, where I had to beg my cell back.
“Just let me look at the numbers, okay? I just don’t want to risk not reaching my boyfriend. You might know him, Bill Sherman?”
The officer on duty smiled. He didn’t respond to Bill’s name, but he heard the other question in my voice. “Don’t worry, honey. We’ll let you make a few calls if you don’t reach someone the first time around.”
Still, I tried Bill’s cell first. He might still be at the gym. I got his voice mail. “Sweetie? There’s been a terrible mistake. Horrible. Rachel is—Rachel is dead.” There, I’d said it. “And I’m in jail. Would you, um, come bail me out? And pick up Musetta?” I rushed that in, but the phone went dead. I looked up at the gray-haired officer. He nodded, but I hesitated. Bill’s apartment or the club? I really didn’t want to explain all of this to Piers or even Reed.
“Bill?” His home machine had answered. “I’m at the Boston police headquarters. South Street station. There’s been a huge mistake, but I need you to come bail me out.” Short and simple. I was getting this down to a science. “And if there’s going to be any delay, would you go to the city shelter and pick up Musetta?”
I hung up and looked over. The smile was gone, but the officer nodded once again. I dialed the Helmhold House and got another recorded message. Wasn’t anyone at home?
“Vi, I’m being held by the Boston police and I need to be bailed out. Also, Musetta is at Rach—, I mean, the city shelter. I’ve called Bill, but only gotten his voice mail. Can you—?”
“What? Theda?” Thank God, a real person.
“Hey, Vi. It’s, well, it’s complicated. But someone hurt Rachel.” That was easier to say. “And the police took me in. So, I’m here and Musetta is still at the shelter. I called Bill, but—”
“Hang in there, Theda. I’m going to make some calls and get you out. Pronto!”
“Thanks, Vi.” Suddenly, I was very, very tired, and when the officer walked me back to the holding cell, I collapsed on the bench. This was all a huge mistake. Maybe if I took a nap, it would all be over. Rachel would be fine, Musetta would be on her way home, and I’d be facing nothing worse than a Boston tow yard.
***
In the end, it was Bill who bailed me out. Literally, with a bond that put his condo at risk, and figuratively because he was able to arrange for the calendar judge to take my plea that afternoon. For the second time that day, I realized how grateful I was for his ties to law enforcement. Capital cases don’t often get bail, he told me, as we waited for some harried public defender to hustle up the paperwork. Hearing the charges was hard. but if it hadn’t been for Bill, I’d haven been facing days in that basement cell before an arraignment. I might have been stuck there until my trial.
But Bill had been a cop long enough for some of his colleagues across the river to recognize him, and he called in some favors. Plus, my name wasn’t completely unknown in either city. So when the PD pointed out my complete lack of a criminal history, combined with my “strong ties to the community,” making a big deal about my help in the previous January’s drug case, the judge seemed to buy it, at least to the point of letting me free for now. The numbers floored me. Bill would lose his place if this went bad, but by the end of the day we were out. I couldn’t speak, but he drove me to the tow lot and paid to have my car freed from its temporary detention. At least the car’s bail was more reasonable than mine.
“You okay to drive home?” His tone made me wonder how bad I looked.
“I think so.” The shock had left me drained, and at some level I wanted him to drop everything and take care of me. But, no, he had come through when I needed him. He had a business to run, and I had to stand on my own two feet. “I am.” I stood up straighter, shaking off the slump, and reached for my keys.
“Okay.” He still looked doubtful. “I should get to the club, but I’m going to check in on you later.”
“Maybe I’ll come by.” I was trying for cocky.
“Maybe you should get a good night’s sleep tonight. We’re going to have to start talking to lawyers tomorrow. I’ll make some calls from the club.”
That took the wind out of me, and I nodded, not really aware as he kissed me goodbye.
“Wait, Bill!” He’d begun to head toward his own car. “Did you get Musetta?”
“Violet did,” he called back. “We coordinated to free both our girls!” With a smile, he turned and walked off. If he was smiling, my situation couldn’t be that bad, could it? I’d already heard what had happened. He’d been at the gym and was picking up his messages when Violet had reached him, frantic and angry. But he’d calmed her down, promising to defend me against the “fascist city-state regime,” if she would pick up Musetta and take her to the shelter. I’d been hoping that she’d taken my cat to my apartment, but I guess this way made sense. She couldn’t tell if I’d get out today, and I was sure her distrust of law enforcement had made her fear the worst.
Still, it was with a heavy heart that I drove over to the Helmhold House. She would have heard what had happened, when she’d gone to pick up Musetta, and although I knew she’d believe me, I didn’t want to talk about it. I didn’t want to talk, period. What I did want was to pick up my cat, crawl under the covers, and press my face into the soft, warm fur of her back and hold her there till we both fell asleep.
***
“Yo!” Violet must have been watching for me. She had the front door open as I beeped my car. “Come on in.”
Walking into the little shelter’s front door just added to my disorientation, though, and Violet had to beckon me into the small room off the kitchen that Caro used as an office. “Here she is.” I started to respond when I realized my petite friend wasn’t talking to me. Nestled onto a worn recliner, sat Musetta. She was glaring at me.
“Kitty!” She only flinched a little as I raced over and picked her up for a good squeeze. One small mew and she struggled free to retreat into the corner. “Sorry, Musetta. We’ll go home soon.” But not just yet. I collapsed into a chair, wondering where I’d get the energy to move again. “Thanks so much, Vi.”
“De nada.” Violet pulled up Caro’s desk chair. “Sorry about the isolation treatment. I didn’t want to leave her in her box, but I thought she’d had enough of a shock for one day.”
I nodded, looking around. A disposable litterbox had been tucked underneath the desk, a water bowl near my feet. “I owe Caro, too.” This wasn’t that big an office to begin with.
“You can tell her yourself. “ As if on cue, Caro walked in holding a plate with what looked like a cheese sandwich on it. A really good cheese sandwich. One look at my face and she placed the plate in front of me, retreating to the kitchen to fix more. “So, what happened?”
The sandwich was history by the time I finished, and I was halfway through a second, Caro having wisely returned with two plates, both stacked high. “I don’t know, I still don’t know.” I was ravenous, and the combination of eating and talking helped keep the images at bay. “So, well, I guess it looked bad. It all seems unreal to me. I’m just glad you were able to get Musetta.”
“I wasn’t sure I’d be able to. They were talking about holding her.” Violet was finishing up her own second sandwich, cheddar cheese and chutney, and she licked some of the chutney from her fingers. “I guess they weren’t sure if she was evidence or not. I don’t know, like, maybe she got splattered with blood or something.”
“Spattered.” I’d learned that much from Bill. The word made me pause. The room spun. Rachel. But another thought was trying to get through. Blood! I didn’t want to think about it. Couldn’t, but there was something…“Wait a minute, Musetta did have blood on her paws. That’s why I went charging into Rachel’s office.”
“But she was in her carrier, in the cat ward, you said.” Violet
looked at me, puzzled, a smear of chutney on her cheek. Caro reached over with a napkin to wipe it off. They both waited for me to explain.
“I know. At first, I thought she’d been cut or injured, but she didn’t seem hurt. I couldn’t find any tender spots under her fur or anything, so I thought Rachel had just been careless, not cleaned up her surgery or something. But maybe it was her blood.”
“You mean, Rachel’s?” Caro asked. “Like, Musetta was a witness?
I nodded. “And whoever stabbed Rachel put Musetta back into her carrier before fleeing.” It didn’t make much sense, even in my current state. I saw Violet about to comment and held up my hand. “But, wait, that meant the murderer and I probably missed each other by seconds. Minutes, anyway. And why would a murderer move a cat?”
“Maybe it wasn’t Rachel’s blood?” Violet and I turned in unison toward Caro. She shrugged. “Just saying. I mean, the cops didn’t check it out, right?”
“Maybe they just missed it. I mean, she was in her carrier by the time—when they came in.” The same thought hit us all: that blood would have to be tested. Violet grabbed a scissor off the desk and saw me recoil. “To take a bit of the bloody fur.”
I nodded. I wasn’t going to be good around sharp objects for a while. But I gathered myself and went to pick up my cat. Her smooth black head was damp, but my hands came away clean. Her paws, too, were spotless white. She’d already groomed.
“She must have licked the blood off.” Vi lowered the scissor.
I sighed. This was so disheartening. Musetta looked up at me, quizzically.
“You know what they say.” I’d almost forgotten Caro, sitting in the corner. “Once they get a taste for human blood—”
“Caroline Williams!” Violet was on her feet.
“Sorry! I just meant, well…”
“I know what you meant.” Vi slipped the scissor into a desk drawer and sat back down. “And I know you were just trying to lift the mood. But this is no joking matter. There was evidence on that cat. Evidence that could have shown that the murder had already happened before Theda got there.”
I sat back. Evidence. Murder. My cat. Rachel was dead, my cat had destroyed the only proof I had that she had been attacked before I found her. No wonder none of this felt real. I had problems, big problems. But what I needed to do before anything else was sleep.
***
I must have looked like a wreck, because Violet wouldn’t let me—us—go until I promised to touch base. But once I got home and freed Musetta from her carrier, I didn’t feel capable of speech. Still, I didn’t need her, or more likely Caro, breaking down my door. Ignoring the blinking light on my own machine, I was grateful to hear her voice mail pick up.
“Hey, Vi. It’s me. I made it home. I’m going to unplug the phone now.”
“Theda, wait!” I sighed and took the phone over to the sofa. Musetta jumped up beside me and began kneading my side. “You there?”
“Yeah, I’m here.” I moved Musetta’s paws down to my leg. Denim was a little less easy for her claws to pierce.
“You’ll never guess who just came by.” In the background, I could hear Caro.
“Vi, I’m not really up to surprises right now.” Musetta, annoyed, turned away and began washing her tail.
“Patti!” I tried to picture the coifed and manicured realtor in Vi’s house. They were neighbors, but I couldn’t conjure the image, much less imagine why such a visit was relevant. “She wants an estimate from Caro. Something with her kitchen.”
Patti cooked? I thought she barely ate. “Let me guess, she’s selling.” We’d had enough properties flipped in our neighborhood, and despite her prim demeanor, I’d counted Patti as one of the good guys. No bad news would surprise me today.
“No. I asked her straight out. Turns out, our preppy Patti is getting all domestic. Some new man has entered the picture.” That’s right; I’d never let her tell me. “He was a client and after the closing he asked her out. He’s the one who likes to cook, I bet, but she’s trying to play wifey.”
“Well, bully for her.” My eyes were closing. Musetta collapsed onto her side with a grunt.
“No, no, I’m missing the point. I’ve got to tell you who her new guy is.” I waited with what I hoped sounded like baited breath. “It’s Andy Pilchard!”
“Uh huh.” Could I hang up soon?
“Andy Pilchard, Theda. Andrew M. Pilchard, of Pilchard and Cohen?” For some reason, that name made me think of the entrance to the Pike.
“Are they over in Allston?” I really needed to get off the phone.
“That’s their billboard, Theda! They’ve got that big sign right by the tolls. You know, ‘Heading to Court? On the Run? Call Pilchard and Cohen.’ He’s the biggest defense lawyer in town. I’ve told Patti everything that’s going on and she wants you to meet him. She was talking about a dinner party, but now I think she’s going to ask him to defend you.”
I know I groaned, because Vi asked me what was wrong. But she accepted my explanation that Musetta had dug her claws into me and we signed off. I looked longingly at my cat, who was curled up for her own nap.
“Why can’t I just forget everything and go to sleep?” She didn’t respond, so I reached over and hit the “play” button.
“Theda, you are just the hardest person to reach.” Patti. Well, I had her news, and she had mine. I’d call her back in a few.
“Hey babe, just checking in. Did you get Musetta? Are you home now? I’ve got some ideas about, well, how to proceed with all this.” Bill was trying to be delicate, but he didn’t have to be. I was grateful for the support and knew that his years as a homicide detective made him an invaluable resource. “I’m making some calls, too.” Bless him. “Let me know when you’re up and around.”
Maybe I could get him to come with me to check out Patti’s new beau. The thought made me smile. He tolerated her well enough, but how would a former cop feel about a shyster like Pilchard? I shook my head. Maybe he wasn’t a shyster. Maybe he was a good lawyer, who just happened to advertise on billboards. And maybe he was just what I needed. I began to punch in Patti’s number, but there was one more message waiting.
“Krakow? Where the hell are you? I can’t believe you did this to me.” I put the receiver down to listen. “Call me, Krakow. Call me. Now.” It was Tim, and I was in the doghouse, and I had absolutely no idea why.
Chapter Thirteen
I crawled into bed, drained by the effort necessary to brush my teeth. Musetta must have known something was off because she jumped up to join me almost immediately and stayed snuggled tight against me until I fell asleep. But I must have started flailing at some point, because I remember her struggling free, the thud as she hit the floor. She’d become Rachel in my dreams, her beautiful eyes glazing over. The spark fading. Maybe I grabbed her, more likely I scared us both with those visions—memories—of death.
“Kitty?” I wanted the comfort of her presence. But unlike her, my night vision sucks, and only the faintest gray showed around the edge of the windowshade. “Musetta?”
Cats, unlike their people, are not sentimental. She’d done her duty by me, and maybe even gotten some necessary comforting of her own. Now she was off about her own business. And I, still bone tired, was wide awake. I shook my head to clear it of those last images. Better not to sleep, perhaps, if it meant to dream.
“Kitty…” I made a singsong out of it as I heaved my aching body out of bed. The last thing I needed was to be freaked out by a movement in the dark. I opened my closet, reaching for my robe. “You there?” A soft head butt reassured me that, in fact, she was, and so I scooped her up and took her with me into my tiny office. Thank God for the Internet, the insomniac’s best friend. The Internet and work.
“Let’s see what Tim was on about, shall we?” I pulled my seat in and deposited the cat onto my lap. She started kneading immediately, making me grateful for the heavy terrycloth of my robe, as I woke up the sleeping machine. I hadn’t had the ene
rgy to call my irate editor back, not after what I’d been through. But the idea that I’d gotten something wrong was bothering me. “Clubland” was supposed to be an area where I had control, my safe zone, and when I’d read it, I hadn’t seen any mistakes, despite the lousy editing. Still, accidents did happen. As the machine hummed, I stroked Musetta’s velvet head. “What did I misspell this time?”
I pulled up the day’s paper online. If Tim had entered a correction, it should already be appended to the file. Another plus of online publishing. But no, there was no addendum attached to the story. No “reporter’s error.” I went through it again, opening my files of notes to doublecheck the spellings, the song titles. They all looked right to me.
“What do you think got Tim so angry, Musetta?” She rested her chin on the edge of my desk, not saying anything. Cats have a knack for comfort, so the position couldn’t have felt as awkward as it looked. She was purring, too, which was both a giveaway and an incentive for me to stay where I was. Besides, bed wasn’t too tempting an alternative.
“Anything you want me to look up?” She didn’t respond to that question either, so I browsed the front page headlines. Nothing there, and I exhaled. I hadn’t even noticed I was holding my breath. But I’ve been in newspapers too long to leave it at that. Metro, that was the ticket, and there it was. Not twenty-four hours had passed, but that was long enough for a news brief, already online and undoubtedly going into the Friday paper. “Vet killed at shelter.” I closed my eyes, a flood of dizziness making me grab the edge of the desk. Startled by the sudden movement, Musetta jumped down, and I forced myself to read on. Dr. Rachel Weingarten, 36, had been killed at Boston City Shelter yesterday, the victim of an apparent stabbing. A suspect had been taken into custody, charged, and released on bail, but at least that suspect was not named. I read it again, trying to see through the scant lines to find something I could hold on to.
Rachel was dead on the scene. That wasn’t news, though she had been alive, barely, when I’d found her. The “apparent,” I knew, was journalese. It meant that no autopsy had been performed yet, although one would be. Maybe they’d find some other cause of death, something beyond those awful wounds.