“Just Margot.”
The door opened behind them, and Margot turned.
“I got you two corned beef sandwiches,” Pamela was saying, but she fell silent the moment her gaze met Margot’s, and she ducked her head to almost run to the opening in the counter that would allow her to move behind it. She hadn’t moved fast enough though for Margot not to get a good look at her shoes.
An exact match from the look of them, no question about it. Pamela Olsen had been following Margot, and if Odds was to be believed, she was also the one to have broken into her apartment. Why?
“That’s great, baby,” Tom said, reaching for the bag she held, and Pamela turned beet red. Margot figured out that Tom was the boyfriend Peter had mentioned. “Stop being embarrassed. It’s not a big deal. Everybody knows by now we’re together.”
“It’s…” She let her voice trail off and shuffled out of sight to the back area of the center.
Tom shrugged. “Sorry, Margot. Pamela’s as shy as they come. Actually, it’s not so much being shy as Social Anxiety Disorder. She takes medication which helps her to work here.”
“That’s awful. I’m so sorry for the poor girl, but how can she stand it? This seems like it would be a very active place with many people coming and going to get pets and drop them off.”
“That’s just it. She can bury her face in soft fur and just let it all pass her by.” He demonstrated unnecessarily with Odds. “Most of the time Pamela works in the back, washing the animals, giving them their shots, playing with them. No social problems.”
“It’s in the water. Save yourselves, you who don’t live in New York.”
“Shh—” Margot broke off reprimanding Odds with a cough.
“Would you like some water?” Tom asked.
That made her cough harder to cover a laugh. “No, thank you, Tom.”
Recalling why she was there and what she suspected, Margot grew serious. She glanced at the pegboard and saw that her flyer was still there.
“Tom, this is my flyer. I walk dogs as one of my jobs.”
“One?” he emphasized. “Sounds like you’re a busy woman, Margot.”
“I am, but you see a couple of weeks ago, I had a bit of a problem while I was out walking in the park.”
She watched him closely, but he didn’t react in any obvious way like he knew what she alluded to. “You have to be careful. New York can be dangerous.”
“So I’ve heard,” she agreed. “This particular evening, I discovered a body. I literally fell over him.”
This time, Tom went pale. He placed Odds on the counter and moved around it toward her. Margot wasn’t sure if she should shout for help or run. Tom grasped her hand, concern in his expression. “You’re the one.”
“The one?” Her voice came out a little shaky.
He nodded. After a glance toward the door leading to the back, he lowered his voice. “The one that found Charles, Pamela’s brother. She and I haven’t been seeing each other long. In fact, I wondered if we ever would. For the first ten years I was here, she wouldn’t look me in the eye.”
Margot blinked, but he smiled.
“That’s a long time.”
“Well, Pamela has been at this job for twenty years, since she was twenty-two. I came much later, but I knew I wanted to be with her almost from the beginning. There was one problem.”
“The social anxiety?”
“That she had a deep hurt. She’s never admitted to it, but I can tell because I know her best now.”
Margot doubted he knew Pamela as well as he would like to think, but she didn’t tell him so. “Was she close to Charles?”
He shook his head. “No, I’m pretty sure they hadn’t spoken in all the time I have known her.”
“What about just before he died?”
Tom’s eyes glittered. At first Margot thought he figured out her theory concerning Pamela, but then he sniffed. “No. Isn’t that sad? Her only family, and now he’s gone before they patched up whatever kept them apart. I even encouraged her to leave the bakery open as a memorial to him. She refused, said it would be a drain financially. I had to agree. From what I’ve heard, it wasn’t very successful.”
“Indeed.” Margot came to the conclusion Tom didn’t know anything about the murder, but he did provide Pamela with an alibi, and if she had something to do with her brother’s death, then Tom had lied. “The night Charles died—”
The door opened, and Tom looked around. “Welcome! Are you here to meet your new friend?”
Margot recognized that her chance for conversation had passed when more visitors arrived. The time seemed convenient for those just getting off work. She said her good-byes to Tom and left the center with Odds in her bag. Once they were outside, she walked along deep in thought about what happened to Charles, and who the killer was.
“Odds, do you think Pamela had something to do with it?”
The cat said nothing. Margot stopped and faced him on the sidewalk.
“You’re being secretive again. I demand you tell me what it is this instant.”
Her demand went ignored.
“I will figure out the truth!”
They arrived home some time later, and Margot let Odds wander off. She went about making herself some dinner while she thought about the case. If a random thief didn’t kill Charles Olsen, someone he knew killed him. That someone, she suspected, was his sister, and after meeting Tom, Margot didn’t doubt even Pamela could convince him to cover for her.
“But why?” she said to the empty room.
A knock at her door took Margot away from the stove where she stirred beef stew in a saucepan. The meal wasn’t convenient to summer, but she loved stew, and Nancy had made her homemade biscuits she hadn’t finished yet.
Thinking of Nancy, she opened the door to find her friend on the other side. “When I saw Odds in the hall, I knew you were back. Why didn’t you stop by, dear? I wanted you to tell me all about your sleuthing.”
Margot sighed. “It didn’t go well. I lost Lara and spent all of my time at the animal center talking with Pamela’s boyfriend. He was a nice young man, but I’m not sure how much good it did.”
Nancy followed her to the kitchen and as was their routine, she began making coffee for the both of them as if she were in her own apartment. Margot had never minded because she was used to such things.
“No clues at all?” Nancy asked.
Margot stirred her stew, ignoring Nancy’s look of distaste when she peered into the pot. The stew was from a can after all. “Well maybe one clue.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m pretty sure it was Pamela in my apartment the other night.”
“No.”
“Yes, and she followed me in the park. What I don’t know is why, and that silly Odds is being well…odd about it.”
“Hmm.” Nancy poured coffee into two mugs. “Do you think Pamela used to own Odds and he knows her?”
Margot stilled, thinking about it. “No, Odds isn’t that old, and Tom has known her for at least ten years. He wouldn’t have been amazed at Odds’ coloring if he belonged to Pamela. Plus, I think either of them would have admitted it.”
Margot spoke with a bit of a bite to her tone and realized she didn’t like the thought of Pamela having owned Odds. She herself kept trying to get rid of him, but she was never too serious. He drove her batty, but he also entertained her, which was important.
“It’s something else, Nancy.”
“What about something Odds saw?”
“Saw?”
“Yes, he was there when you discovered the body, right? Maybe he saw the murderer.” Nancy’s eyes widened with this prospect, but Margot rushed to correct her.
“No, dear, Charles Olsen had been dead at least an hour and a half before I discovered him. Peter told me. Also, why would Pamela think Odds had seen her? Even if he did, she wouldn’t know he could tell me.”
Nancy patted her hand. “You’re openly admitting he talks to you now. I’m glad.”
Margot groaned. “Never mind that. I have to figure this out.”
“All right. Tell me everything.”
“What?”
“Tell me everything again. I’m not as clever as you are, Margot, but I just bet you telling me will help you figure it out.”
Margot smiled. “You don’t mind?”
“That’s what friends are for. Now go. I’m listening.”
Margot and Nancy discussed the case over and over, but Margot couldn’t figure out what she was missing. What she knew beyond a doubt was there was indeed something she couldn’t put her finger on.
A scratch at the door brought her out of her thoughts, and she walked to the living room to let Odds in. She waited for him to greet her, but he said nothing. Not that he ever greets me.
Margot returned to the kitchen. “I don’t know what to do with him.”
Nancy peered around her. “Where is he?”
Margot looked too and didn’t see the cat. They met each other’s gaze, and Margot tiptoed from the kitchen. She heard Nancy’s shoes squeaking behind her and made a mental note to do what she had intended before and that was to gift her friend with a new pair.
They reached the living room, and Margot surveyed the area. No cat. She touched a finger to her lips and waved for Nancy to follow. Nancy grasped her arm, grinning. “So exciting. I feel like we’re on a secret mission.”
“Shh, Nancy. He’s a cat. He can hear.”
“Oh, yes!”
Margot shook her head. She was pretty sure their detective skills were in sharp need of improvement. At her bedroom door, she stopped once again because her calves were burning from walking on tiptoe. She rubbed them and looked back to find Nancy doing the same. Yes, they were definite failures.
A shuffling sound reached her, and she stilled. Nancy’s eyes rounded, and her fingers dug into Margot’s arm. They inched into the bedroom, Margot praying the door wouldn’t creak. She had no idea why she was so darn nervous. This was Odds after all. Goodness knows he got up to no good, but he wasn’t dangerous.
After an eternity, they reached the closet to find Odds’ tiny head dipped inside of one of her shoes. Margot straightened and put a hand on her hip. “Odds Gardner, if you have chewed on my shoes or scratched them, I will skin you!”
He looked up, eyes as full of guilt. Margot clapped her hands.
“Go on from there. Shoo!”
He scampered out of the room, and she reached to pick up the shoe. These were a perfect pair for Nancy, flat, soft leather, and in her opinion stylish. She examined it to see if she could spot the damage.
“There’s something inside, Margot,” Nancy said. “Do you keep coupons there?”
“Of course not.” Margot peered inside and sure enough, a slip of paper had been stuffed into the toe. She reached in to pull it out, and both she and Nancy examined it.
“Oh, it’s a recipe,” Nancy exclaimed. “Banana Magic Dream Cake. Sounds delicious. I bet I could make that if you’ll let me try.”
“Nancy.” Margot’s hand shook as she grasped the sheet. “I left out a detail when I told you about the case earlier.”
“What detail, dear?”
Margot walked over to her bed and sank down on it because her legs would no longer hold her. Nancy moved to sit beside her and wrapped an arm about her shaking shoulders.
“I’ve heard of this dessert. It’s the one Charles Olsen intended to make for his interview with the New York Times.”
“How interesting. Why Odds must have taken it from him when you two stumbled over the body.” Nancy winced. “Maybe I shouldn’t make it. What do you think? Is it too creepy?”
“Nancy, listen to me,” Margot insisted. Her friend grew silent, and Margot held up the slip of paper. “This might have been with Charles the day he died. I don’t know. One thing is for sure. It’s not his handwriting.”
“So? Maybe Lara wrote it for him. He was clumsy.”
“Maybe. I can believe that, but I don’t think it’s true.” Margot swallowed. “I think Charles Olsen stole this recipe from someone else, and I think whosever handwriting this is, they are the killer.”
“Oh…heavens.”
Chapter Sixteen
Margot’s cell phone rang, and she looked at the display. Her heart hammered against her ribs at the name on the caller ID. The number was from the animal shelter. She glanced at Nancy as her friend’s chubby fingers clutched her arm like a vise. Margot’s thoughts were too jumbled to complain, not to mention the knots in her stomach.
“Don’t answer,” Nancy said.
“But it could be her.”
“Wait for Peter.”
Margot stared at the phone, undecided.
A knock on the front door made both of them jump. They stood from her bed and shuffled together toward the bedroom door as if joined at the hip.
“W-why are we so nervous?” Margot asked. “She’s just a little, shy thing.”
“Well, I for one remember that gun from last time.”
Margot moaned. “Why did you have to remind me, Nancy?”
“Don’t answer,” Nancy begged.
“It might be Peter.”
“Maybe. But what if he doesn’t come because we called him with a false alarm last time, and what if that’s not him?”
“Nancy! You are not helping.”
“Are you two going all the way to the door like that?”
Margot scowled at Odds. “This is your fault. You should have told me you stole that recipe.”
He walked beside them close to her ankle, and she had the distinct feeling the scamp did it to poke fun at them. Her annoyance at Odds made her snap out of the weird shuffling walk she did with Nancy. Somehow she broke free of Nancy’s hold and walked into the living room normally.
“Odds,” she whispered when the knock on the door came again, “why did you do it?”
“I forgot.”
“You did not!”
“There’s catnip on it.”
She thought that might be true. After all, the treats from the animal shelter were made with catnip.
“Hello, mind if I join you?”
The voice came through the door, deep and calm, but authoritative. Margot could have leaped for joy if her heart still didn’t feel like it would jump from her throat. She looked at Nancy, who peeked into the hall from the bedroom. Margot waved her forward.
“It’s Peter!” Margot scrambled to remove the chain from the door and undo the locks. When she swung the door wide, she looked past Pamela to the detective. “You came.”
Peter gestured for Pamela to precede him into the apartment, and he followed. “Of course. You called me, didn’t you, Margot?”
“Peter, dear,” Nancy chirped as she entered the room, and then she squeaked in alarm at spotting Pamela. Nancy might not have met her in person, but from what Margot had told her, she figured her friend knew right away who Pamela was.
The young woman clutched her hands together, shoulders hunched, and head down. So unassuming, she didn’t give off enough presence to appear to be a threat. Margot wondered how in the world she could accomplish killing her brother.
“I-I didn’t know,” Pamela muttered to Odds, who stood before her studying the woman, “you were close to the detective.”
Margot raised her chin. “Oh, yes, Peter is a dear friend.”
He smiled. “Thanks, Margot. Now, shall we begin?”
“I don’t know, Peter, maybe you should frisk her.”
“Don’t worry.” He patted his jacket pocket. “Ms. Olsen is being very cooperative, aren’t you?”
She said nothing.
Margot turned to Nancy. “Nancy, why don’t you get everyone something to drink? Please, take a seat, Peter, Pamela. I’m very interested in hearing why you would do such a thing to your own brother, Pamela. I don’t have any family, and well, Lou’s gone.”
“That’s her ex-husband,” Nancy provided. “He ran off.”
“Nancy!”
“Yes, all right. I’ll get the drinks.”
Peter remained standing, but Pamela sank onto an armchair. She hadn’t raised her eyes beyond floor level since she arrived, and when Odds stalked across the floor to jump to the couch, her gaze followed. Too bad for the poor woman when he moved to his favorite spot, which was on the back of the couch. Quite high for Pamela’s comfort.
Peter pulled a notebook from his pocket and a pen from another. “Why don’t we get started, Ms. Olsen. How about you share your motive for taking your brother’s life?”
Pamela’s fingers turned white, and her lips pursed.
“Ms. Olsen?”
“H-he stole my life.”
“How?”
Peter had no sympathy, and some sense of Pamela’s desperation and despair came through in her voice that touched Margot’s heart. She thought of how she would have liked to kill Lou after what he did. The reality of it made no sense.
“For my whole life, I knew I wanted to be a baker,” Pamela told Odds. She was a trooper, Margot acknowledged. Even as high as the chair back, he provided an easier focus. “I kept a notebook like that one you have. I wrote all of my recipes in it. I used to beg my mother to teach me everything she knew. I loved it so much. Other girls read romance books at the library while I read cookbooks. The dessert section.”
“Oh my.” Nancy strode into the room with a tray of drinks in time to hear what Pamela shared. Margot imagined it touched her too, being a baker herself. She handed out mugs of coffee. Peter took his with a muttered thanks, but he kept watching Pamela.
“I guess I was fourteen when I started making up my own recipes. I had probably three hundred of them, all detailed. They were perfect. I loved them, and I made them for Charles. He was my taster.”
Margot began to see where this was going, and she knew she was right when Pamela’s expression turned sour.
“Charles had no talents that I saw. He had no ambition. He was clumsy, but he was always popular. No one had more friends surrounding them, all of them willing to overlook his bumbling.”
The more she spoke, the deeper her voice seemed to grow, and Margot shivered with the first glimpse into the darkness that must have enabled Pamela to kill her brother.
Odds Against (Margot and Odds Cozy Mystery Book 2) Page 9