“Ha, ha, ha. Stop it and listen. Have you come across any cat food cans?”
“Nope.”
“Or bags of food.”
“Nope.”
“What was Marla feeding all those cats?”
Mert stared at me. “Who cares? That’s the point, ain’t it? She wasn’t feeding them. They was fending for themselves. I heard tell that six of them cats had given birth in the past month and, shucks, how many kittens did we find? One. That one of yours. The Animal Control person stopped by this morning to see if we’d uncovered any more cat bodies. When I said we hadn’t, he told me he thinks the adult cats ate the babies.”
I frowned. That was too gross for words. “Even if they did, they must have been eating something besides their own young. Think about it, Mert. There’s not a can or a bag of chow in sight. Sure, the cats were hungry and they were thin, but Marla didn’t throw anything away! If there’d been a can or bag in the last year, we would have seen it. The cats weren’t that skinny. Not really. It wasn’t like you could see their ribs.”
“Maybe she fed them that hamburger you found in the refrigerator.”
I thought about that. “I guess. Maybe she mixed that with the rice I found in the pantry. But isn’t that an expensive way to feed so many cats?”
Mert shrugged. “Beats me. I cain’t afford beef more than twice a week. So, yeah, I think it is. Who knows? Maybe it ain’t beef. Maybe it’s venison and a hunter supplies her with it. That way she don’t have to pay nothing.”
“That’s more likely. If it had been butchered, it would have been wrapped in white paper. If it came from a grocery store, it would have been shrink-wrapped, the way they do. But this was frozen directly in baggies.”
“Probably a do-it-yourself job. Probably got a hunter friend who field-dresses the deer and grinds it up himself. Sticks it in baggies and gives it to Marla.”
“I saw on her calendar the notation ‘Call Devon—cat food.’ That mean anything to you? Devon?”
“I think that’s her son-in-law. Devon Timmons. He’s Ali’s husband.”
“You don’t suppose he was secretly helping Marla?”
“Who knows? Who cares? It’s over now, unless she makes a miraculous, saints-be-praised recovery—and I doubt that’ll happen. Ready to go back to work? I want this job over and the money in my pocket.”
I agreed with her. I went back and started packing up plates and glasses in paper and settling them into heavy duty dish boxes.
Chapter 20
“A kitten! Oh, Mom! Is this one from that animal hoarder?” Anya nearly shrieked with joy when I brought her home from school.
I explained about Martin. “We’ll have to go slowly introducing him to Seymour. That’s why your cat’s in your bathroom. Don’t let him out yet, okay? Right now I need to help Martin get his insides moving.” I dampened the cotton ball.
“He’s so cute!” cooed Anya. My daughter stroked the kitten and told me about her day at school, and the cool black and white drawings they were doing in art class. “I showed the teacher your Zentangle, Mom. Could you come to our class and teach us how to do that?”
“Of course.”
“Can you make a fruit salad for me to take to school tomorrow? I don’t like what they have on the menu. I’d make it myself but I have to go to the field hockey practice tonight, remember?”
“I can do that for you, honey while you change.”
Detweiler showed up at the practice field with two cups of tea from Bread Co. and a couple of pumpkin muffies for us to share.
“How was your day?” I asked.
“This cold case work is slow going,” he said. “I’ve listed all the traits the women have in common. Dark hair, same general body type, about the same age. Otherwise I can’t find any common denominators. I re-interviewed one victim’s best friend. You can read the report. Maybe you’ll see something I’ve missed.” He pulled it out of his briefcase.
I read about Julianna Rossini, a forty-four-year-old teacher. She could have been any one of my scrapbookers. Newly single. Divorced. Mom of two. Loved line-dancing and country western music. Had two cats. Liked mysteries and romances. Went to the movies every Saturday with a friend.
Detweiler handed me a stapled sheath of papers. “Here’s the interview that Hadcho did with another victim’s sister.”
I learned about Leesa Gainer, a thirty-nine-year-old secretary. Married. Three kids, a dog and a cat. Worked downtown. Liked to knit. Taught Sunday School. And then one day she was gone, baby, gone.
“You haven’t found any sign of them?”
“Nada. It’s like—poof—they disappeared into thin air.” He shook his head.
That made me ineffably sad. I felt a lump form in my throat. It would be horrid to miss the chance to tell your loved ones goodbye—and worse yet to be the one left behind, wondering if that other person was somewhere, hurt or suffering, and you couldn’t help them.
The next morning while Anya and I ate breakfast, Seymour cautiously approached the cardboard cat carrier where Martin slept quietly. I rewarded Seymour for his calm demeanor by giving him a pea-sized piece of scrambled egg.
After dropping Anya off at CALA, I drove to the Lever house. Mert had already arrived. Johnny pulled up after me with Laurel in the passenger seat. We suited up but kept our head gear off to hear Mert’s instructions.
“I was on the phone with Ali last night for an hour.” Mert sounded weary. “Her mom still is unconscious, so she’s footing the bill for this clean up. I promised her if we found anything worth anything, we’d set it aside. She’s hoping to have an estate sale, thinking that might help offset what I’ll charge her.”
“Doubtful,” Johnny shook his head. “The tools might bring something. I’ll keep working my way through the garage.”
Laurel nodded. “I’ll start in the upstairs bedroom.” She tucked her new iPhone into a pocket of her pants and finished closing her biohazard suit.
“Kiki, I want you to clear the rest of those newspapers out of the first floor. Can you keep working your way from the kitchen to the living room? I know your back is hurting you, but I’m hoping there’s stuff of value behind those walls of paper. I’ll start at the front of the house and do the same.”
I nodded. It was hard to tell whether the papers filled the entire space or whether they simply formed an impenetrable wall around other items.
We set to work.
Around ten a.m., a silver Toyota Avalon pulled up. We were finishing up our mandatory water break under the maple tree where the shade felt delicious. A nicely dressed man wearing a blue sports coat and a silk tie hopped out of the Avalon and started toward us. As he walked, he straightened his tie self-consciously, before adjusting his cuffs. There was an air of prissiness about him, a sense that he liked everything just so.
“Hello. I’m Devon Timmons.”
“I’m Mert Chambers. Your wife hired me to clean out her mother’s house. This is my crew.”
We nodded and Mert stepped forward to shake his hand. Timmons reached forward and took it between two fingers.
Pardon me while I rant: There are three kinds of male handshaking techniques. One is to squeeze your hand hard, which digs the rings into your skin and hurts like crazy. The second is to touch you as if your flesh was packed with cooties, and that’s downright insulting. The third is the proper way, which is to grasp a hand with no more and no less pressure than one might use to pick up a glass of water.
I knew Mert, and I could see her stiffen. I knew she often encountered derision because of her job. People were always surprised to learn that she held a degree in history from Southern Missouri. She has made a very good living from her cleaning business. Even if she hadn’t, she deserved better than Devon Timmons showed her.
Johnny walked up behind his sister, in a gesture of solidarity. After years in prison, he had a way of sizing up a situation, a survival instinct. When a situation got dicey, he changed his stance. I wouldn’t say he was th
reatening, a hair short of that, but he definitely took on a command posture that announced, “I don’t take any guff from anyone.”
“Well.” Timmons looked us over, and clearly found us wanting. “Well,” he repeated. “Good to have you here. Big job, huh? Nasty. I don’t envy you.”
I bet he didn’t. I doubted that he had worked a day of physical labor in his life.
“How may I help you, Mr. Timmons?” Mert’s voice was cool, professional, and her enunciation clean and crisp.
“You can’t. I dropped by to pick up my lawn mower and a few other tools.”
Mert nodded. “I see. Unfortunately, I can’t allow that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Mrs. Timmons hired me. I am responsible to her for everything on this property. If she tells me you can take your tools, that’s fine, but otherwise, I can’t allow it.”
“That’s…that’s…” and he cursed. “Look, I don’t have time to call Ali about every little thing I do. I’m a busy man.”
Huh. “Busy” and “unemployed” usually don’t appear in the same sentence.
“I am sorry for the inconvenience.” Mert actually sounded regretful.
“It shouldn’t be an inconvenience. I came to haul away my things and I plan to do exactly that.” I swear he stamped his foot. It sure looks silly when a grown man does it. And when that grown man is wearing a tie and jacket, oooo-wee, did he ever look like an immature idiot.
“Sir, I’d hate to have press the point. Honest I would. But I’ll call the authorities if you persist.”
“You try that. You just try that,” he said and he tried to push his way past Mert, but Laurel and I stepped next to Johnny to form an impenetrable line with our bodies.
I pulled out my cell phone and said, “Mert? You want me to make the call?”
Devon Timmons cursed but stepped back. “You?” He pointed at me. “What’s your name?”
“Kiki Lowenstein.” I returned his stare. I was not about to back down.
“You haven’t heard the last of me.” Devon pointed a finger at me and pretended to shoot me.
“She’s Police Chief Robbie Holmes’ stepdaughter,” Johnny said, exaggerating my status a little since the police chief and my mother-in-law hadn’t married yet. “Just saying,” and Johnny added a shrug. “You ought to know who you’re dealing with.”
“She’ll learn who she’s dealing with. I’m not done with her or her or her,” he pointed to me, Laurel and Mert. “Or you, hotshot boy.”
Devon raised one side of his upper lip in an ugly snarl. He hopped into the car and threw it in reverse with wheels spinning so they threw up grass and rocks. Moving backwards far too fast to be safe, he barely missed Mert’s candy apple red Chevy S10.
“Show’s over, folks,” said Mert. “Back to work.”
Chapter 21
By six o’clock we were staggering around the yard and house. Mert whistled us to the gathering spot. “Quitting time. You’re all so tired you’re liable to get hurt. I cain’t have that. We’ll start tomorrow at eight.”
My hair was soaked with perspiration and glued to my head. Laurel, who normally could double for a Victoria’s Secret model, also suffered from an advanced case of hood-hair. Her eye makeup smeared into dark rings under her eyes. Johnny’s forehead was dotted with sweat, and Mert couldn’t have seemed more tuckered out. Her shoulders slumped and her head drooped.
“You’ve done great work. At least now, we have a path cleared through the house.”
Laurel had hung all Marla’s clothes in wardrobe boxes to be taken to a laundry facility. Every piece of fabric in the house stunk of cat pee. After consulting with Mert, who then called Ali, Laurel tossed all Marla’s shoes into boxes to be burned because most of them had been used as litter boxes. Laurel’d worked steadily all afternoon to sort through the huge stack of jewelry boxes, mainly filled with junk like plastic bangles.
Johnny had cleaned out the first third of the garage. Sagging cardboard boxes had been stacked high around Marla’s car, and each of these was stuffed to the brim with rags, tools, pieces of wood, and so on. All of that had to be sorted. Who knew what might be sitting at the bottom of a box?
Mert had picked up where I left off wrapping and boxing up glasses, dishes, bowls and cutlery. She’d also boxed up all the canned goods.
“We’re making progress. Slowly and steady,” Mert said as a bronze Jeep pulled into the driveway.
The man who climbed out was obviously Ali Timmons’ brother Allen. Change his hairstyle and he could have taken her place, except that he was smaller than his sister. He had that angry red undertone to his complexion that you see when someone works outside. He stood with his hands on the hips of his Wrangler jeans as he surveyed the Dumpster, recycling bins, and trash bags. With a shake of his head, he came closer to us, giving a small tug on the neck of his tee shirt to let a little air in next to his skin. “Which of you is Mert Chambers?”
Mert introduced herself to him.
“I thought I’d poke around. See if Mom kept my old vinyl records.”
“I am sorry, sir, but I cain’t allow that.” For the second time that day, Mert explained her responsibility to Ali Timmons.
“I’ve got my own key to Mom’s house.”
“Your sister changed the locks,” Mert said quietly. “Did that first thing after your mom was taken to the hospital, and the police checked out the premises.”
“Shoot.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Ali thinks of everything, doesn’t she?”
None of us responded. What could we say?
“You can call her. If she gives me permission, you can have access,” said Mert.
“What are you doing with the stuff you find?” Allen Lever sounded conciliatory. “I mean, I assume you’re sifting through all the trash.”
Mert explained how she logged anything that could possibly be of value. She explained that she’d double-locked those items, first in a chest and then inside the storage area in the back of her trunk. I don’t know what you call it, but it’s an area formed by a lid that’s snapped down over the bed so stuff can be locked inside. (I don’t speak “truck.”)
Allen nodded. “Granddad owned a bunch of woodworking tools that I’d like to have.”
“I haven’t come across those yet. I mean, are they in the garage?” Johnny asked.
“They could be. Or in the basement,” Allen Lever said.
“I’ll keep an eye out for them.” Johnny didn’t flinch and Allen Lever finally nodded.
“How is your mother?” Mert asked, as she offered the man a bottle of water.
“It doesn’t look good. The doctors started draining fluid from her brain today.” His voice grew rough with emotion. “I guess all we can do is pray. I mean, she’s been off her nut for years. We cut off contact, trying to make her get help. She told me she was seeing someone, but I’m not sure I believe that. I wasn’t supposed to call her—Ali said if we both backed off maybe she’d come around—but I did. I’d come by once in a blue moon and take her to lunch. Bring her bags of cat food and kitty litter. Try to talk sense into her. I mean, Ali said we needed to take a stand, but still…” He shrugged.
“She was your mother,” Mert filled in for him.
“That’s right. Now we’ve got cops hovering over her, suggesting she killed that woman. Totally ridiculous. Mom wouldn’t hurt a fly. I mean that literally. That’s how she got in this mess. She never met an animal she didn’t love. A few of those cats were wild and would just as soon attack you as look at you, but Mom couldn’t stand the idea of them being homeless.”
Mert nodded. “Your brother-in-law stopped by earlier.”
She was fishing, trying to see how Allen Lever would react. I knew that; we all did, but he didn’t.
“What’d he want?”
“Same as you.”
“Except he doesn’t have any right to any of this. I do. Especially my granddad’s tools.”
“Same as I told you, I expla
ined to him that he needed to call Mrs. Timmons. If she gives me a release, I’ll follow her instructions.”
“That sounds fair, except part of this is mine,” and Allen seemed to grow angry. “My sister had no right to hire you without my consent. She can’t keep me off this property or away from Mom’s stuff.”
Mert sighed. “That’s something for you to take up with her.”
“Believe me, I will. Look, since you know who I am, why not help me out here?”
“You are welcome to phone your sister and have her release the items,” Mert spoke very calmly.
“Yeah, well, I’m not going to beg Ali for anything. Everything on this property is mine as much as hers. She had no right to hire you.”
He was just repeating himself, the way people do when they get frustrated.
Mert stuck to her message. “I understand, and I am sorry.”
“If you understand, why can’t you at least let me look in the garage?” Allen advanced on Mert, his hands clenched into tight balls.
“I need Mrs. Timmons’ permission,” Mert repeated.
“And I said it’s part mine! I shouldn’t have to ask permission when stuff is mine!” Allen Lever raised his voice to a shout.
Mert didn’t flinch. “I am sorry.”
“I’ll just bet you are. Not half as sorry as you will be!”With a last glance at all of us, he stomped off to his car. When he reached the handle of his Jeep, he stopped and yelled, “When I come back I plan to kick you all off her property. Including you, scrapbook girl.”
“Huh?” I was shocked that he’d singled me out.
“Yeah, you! What’s your name? Lowenstein? You think I don’t know you’re the one who first called the cops and started all this mess?”
Chapter 22
Ink, Red, Dead (A Kiki Lowenstein Scrap-N-Craft Mystery) Page 7