An appointment? Is that what they were calling it? But then, perhaps they hadn’t picked up the newspaper and had no idea a man’s body had been found inside that house. “I’m sure they’re anxious to speak with your mother.” I rested my arm over the newspaper Emily had left behind so he couldn’t see the glaring headline.
“My mother’s been upset, as you can imagine. Uncle Norm was her closest relative besides me. It’s taken her a few days to wrap her head around his being gone.”
More like a week, I thought. “Let’s rewind. You saw the crime scene tape and left. Where did you go?”
He seemed surprised by my question. “We went back to the bed-and-breakfast where we’re staying—the Pink House. Quaint, nice accommodations. But about this reporter. Can you tell me—”
I held up a hand. “Sorry. Hang on.” I’d just seen Tom return and he headed straight for the counter. Had he come back for a take-out coffee? Forgotten to tell me something? When he glanced my way, I smiled big and gestured for him to join us. He was about to get one of the witnesses on his wish list handed to him and he’d be a happy camper.
I saw the Belle of the Day give him his forgotten credit card before he came toward us. So that was why he returned. Nancy-slash-Belle had probably called him.
“Who’s that?” Dirk asked.
But Tom reached us before I could answer.
He offered his hand. “Tom Stewart. Don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”
“This is Dirk Boatman,” I said. “Mr. Jeffrey’s nephew.”
A slow smile brightened Tom’s expression. “Really? Mind if I visit with you for a second?”
Dirk stood. “I believe I need to get back to the Pink House. We only rented one car and my mother—”
Tom pressed a hand on Dirk’s shoulder. “You can spare a minute or two. See, I need to talk to you.”
Dirk eased back into his chair, looking guarded and a little stunned. “Why would you need to talk to me?”
Tom sat opposite me and adjacent to Dirk. “I’m a PI contracted to work with the police on this case. Are you aware there was a homicide in your uncle’s house last night?”
The man paled. “Is that what all the crime scene tape was about? A murder?”
Tom nodded. “Did you know a person named Buford Miller?”
Dirk’s eyes widened in surprise. “Yes. I hired him to take care of my uncle. He’s a home health aide.”
“So you understand Buford Miller made regular visits to your uncle’s house. Your dying uncle’s house.” Tom had rested his arms on the table and was focused in on Dirk Boatman. “And now he’s been found dead there.”
Dirk sat back. “Buford’s the victim? You’re kidding. What the heck happened? Was there a break-in?” He shook his head, seemingly confused. “But no, that doesn’t make sense. What was he doing at my uncle’s house? I mean, my uncle passed days ago.”
“Good question. I assume he had keys?” Tom asked.
“Of course. I hadn’t even given a thought to getting the keys back. They were the last thing on my mind, as you can imagine.”
“I need to talk to both you and your mother, Dirk. Can you make that happen today—in private?” Tom probably sounded polite to this man who didn’t know him as well as I did. But I heard the edge in his voice.
“My mother will be at the police station later today, but she’s understandably distraught. This new information sure won’t help. Can you meet up with her there at three this afternoon?”
Tom checked the wall clock. “That’ll work. What about you?”
“I’m here,” he replied. “Ask me anything.”
“This isn’t exactly a private place and I’m headed out, but I do have a few pressing questions,” Tom said. “Tell me again what you thought when you saw the crime scene tape.”
“We thought there’d simply been a break-in and since as far as we knew, Uncle Norm didn’t have much of anything of value in the house, I figured thieves wouldn’t have gotten much.”
Nothing of value in the house? I thought. How connected was he to his uncle that he knew this?
Tom continued. “That’s why you haven’t returned my calls? Because you assumed nothing more serious was going on than a dead senior’s house being broken into?” His tone was more stern than I’d heard in a long time.
Dirk, looking flustered, reached in his jeans pocket and pulled out his cell phone. He tapped and a screen appeared. “Oh, you’re Tom Stewart, the one who’s been calling?”
“Yes. Three times today. Didn’t you think, with a death in the family and this area code showing up on your phone, that someone in Mercy might need to talk to you?”
Tom sounded so intense. I decided I would never have wanted to be interviewed by him when he’d been a cop.
Dirk must have felt it, too, because his face reddened. “Here’s what I thought—and I’m embarrassed to admit it now. Your name didn’t register when you introduced yourself a minute ago. Earlier, I’d decided you were a casket salesman, or a funeral home director looking for our business. I mean, all you left me on my voice mail was your name and number. We came here to arrange Uncle Norm’s funeral, put his affairs in order, and since we’ve already contacted a local mortician—”
“You just decided to ignore me,” Tom finished.
I cleared my throat. Tom’s sarcasm was making me uncomfortable. “Dirk, I can understand your concern about any unwanted intrusions at a time like this.” I glanced at Tom while I spoke, hoping he’d take the hint and cut this guy a little slack. He had just lost his uncle, after all. “But this terrible event on the heels of your uncle’s passing makes it important to communicate with Tom and the police.”
Dirk’s features relaxed. “You’re absolutely right. What else can I do to help you, Tom?”
“I’m running late because there are other relatives I have to find. I believe there’s a cousin here in town? A few more in Woodcrest? Seems to be a shared family trait not to return phone calls. LouAnn Rafferty is the one who lives in Mercy, correct?”
“Yes. She’s kind of a recluse since her husband died. I’ve reached out to her, visited when I was in town, but she doesn’t seem to trust anyone. Your local coroner—Miss Monk, I believe? Anyway, she told us she’d made the death notification to LouAnn and to our family in Woodcrest.”
“Miss Monk’s not the coroner, Dirk,” I said. “But she does help grieving relatives with the paperwork after a death. If you need death certificates for the mortician and any documents sent to insurance companies, she’ll help you.”
“Thanks for clarifying. I was pretty upset when she called and was just grateful she’d notified the rest of the family.”
Tom’s eyebrows rose. “Are you saying you haven’t spoken with any of your local relatives since your uncle died?”
Dirk shifted uncomfortably. “We’re not exactly a close family.” He checked his watch. “I should be getting back to the B and B where we’re staying. My mother wanted to check with the funeral director before she went to the police station. And I guess now we’ll have to get these death certificate copies from Miss Monk. I never knew there were so many details to attend to when there’s a death in the family.”
“What time did you say your mother will be talking to Deputy Carson?” Tom asked.
“Three this afternoon.” Dirk stood.
Tom did the same. “Thanks. And I have more questions for you and I’m sure Deputy Carson has plenty of her own. Can you verify the addresses I have for your relatives before you go?” Tom pulled out his pocket notebook, flipped a few pages and showed it to Dirk.
After glancing at what was written, Dirk confirmed the addresses were correct. The two men exchanged a brief handshake. Dirk nodded at me with a smile and left.
“Thanks for reining me in,” Tom said once the man was gone. “I pressed too hard, but something about that guy feels . . . wrong.”
“He’s different, but I wouldn’t use wrong to describe him. A little distrustful,
perhaps? From what little he told me, I believe you’ll soon find out the entire family is different.” I quickly summarized what Dirk had said before Tom left to hunt down anyone who could help him understand the family dynamics better.
Shawn came rushing in five minutes after Tom’s departure, full of apologies for making me wait so long. He placed the locator collar for Clyde on the table between us. It was a thick fabric collar with a techie-looking oval contraption attached. My own cats would throw a fit if they had to wear something like this.
As it turned out, I needed another cup of coffee to understand how to set up this GPS system for Clyde. Thank goodness Shawn brought the directions and had added notes to make them easier for me to understand. I’m the kind of person who has trouble with written directions. This might not be difficult at all—once I convinced Clyde he had to wear this collar.
Indeed, putting this thing on a cat? That would be the real challenge.
Ten
I’m not sure what it is about felines, but they know when their world is about to change. Clyde, sitting at the back door waiting with my three amigos, took off the minute he saw my face. For a big cat, he sure could move. No wonder he’d made good time returning to Mr. Jeffrey’s house.
With help from Syrah, I found him hiding under the computer desk in my office. I thanked my lucky stars he was too big to squeeze behind the bookcase, because I would have had a major problem extricating him from there.
I carried Clyde into the living room—thank goodness he didn’t resist—and we sat on the floor. I spent time stroking and talking to him while Chablis, Merlot and Syrah watched with great interest. They all knew something was about to go down. Maybe they even thought they’d be next. After Clyde had calmed enough to purr and nestle into my crossed legs, I put the collar on. Although he let me fasten it on without a fight, he got up immediately once I’d finished and shook his head, hoping to rid himself of the contraption.
But the head shaking and pacing stopped once I rattled the treat container. Since his visit to his old home, his interest in food had returned and especially his fondness for kitty junk food. He liked treats almost as much as my Chablis. While all four enjoyed my offering of tuna-flavored crunchies, I synced the GPS monitoring system with my computer network and with my phone, amazed that I got it right without a glitch. Tom, you’ll be so proud of me, I thought as I smiled at the TV display showing Clyde’s exact location—my house.
But my good mood didn’t last because a knock on the door and the people I saw through the peephole standing outside changed everything in an instant. Not only Emily Nguyen, but Lydia Monk had come calling. I stepped back and closed my eyes as the doorbell rang this time. Syrah sat at the edge of the foyer, waiting patiently for me to answer, as he always did when someone came to the front door. Lydia had to be his least favorite human ever and I wondered what damage he’d do to her shoes or whatever she might be wearing that would be close enough to the floor for him to attach onto with his claws.
I sighed heavily and let them in, trying my best to sound polite when I greeted them. “Hello, ladies. What can I do for you?”
Lydia, wearing a subdued outfit for her—a zebra print wraparound dress and shiny black sandals—marched right past me into my living room, her bleached hair held back with a large rhinestone-studded clip. On her way, she said, “I heard something I didn’t like from my friend Emily. We need to talk, Jillian.”
Syrah skulked behind her, his eyes on the charm dangling from Lydia’s toe ring.
Uh-oh. That could be a problem.
Emily followed all of us into the room and sat next to Lydia on the couch. She looked childlike as always in a short red skirt and lacy white tank top. But at least she appeared professional. Lydia, on the other hand, never seemed to manage any semblance of professional style. A toe ring? Really?
I sat on the edge of the overstuffed chair across from them, knowing I should offer them iced tea or a soft drink, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I didn’t want them here. I’d rather be hiding under the bed like Merlot and Chablis liked to do when Lydia showed up—as she often did when I was connected to one of Candace’s cases. Clyde, on the other hand, sat out of their view at the kitchen entry, his gaze trained more on Syrah than on the women who’d come calling. I guessed he wanted to take a cue from Syrah on how he should respond to these folks before he joined us. If he was smart, he’d head for cover.
My hands clasped in my lap, I said, “What do we need to talk about, Lydia?”
“Emily tells me you were at that crime scene last night. Is that true?” Lydia smiled, maybe trying to show she could be nice. But her latest round of Botox wouldn’t quite allow her lips to move that much.
“I was there. We were searching for a cat,” I replied.
“We meaning you and Candace Carson?”
“That’s right.” I looked at Emily. “Um, how did you two meet, by the way?”
“Since you decided to renege on the exclusive I was promised, I decided the county coroner might be a more . . . reliable source of information. The coroner, in turn, referred me to Miss Monk since she is the investigator.”
I plastered on my best polite smile. “Yes. That is her title. Lydia, perhaps you should explain to Emily who does most of the investigating when there’s a suspicious death in Mercy?”
Lydia crossed her leg and bobbed her foot. I caught Syrah out of the corner of my eye. He was homed in on that dancing toe-ring charm. “We always defer to the locals, but I am in charge of death certificates, talking with families, being at crime scenes to—”
“Ah,” I interrupted. “You gather information from the pathologist’s reports and the coroner himself and disseminate it to the police and to the families. Maybe take a few pictures at the scene to show to your boss—but you don’t actually determine cause of death or regularly interrogate suspects, right?”
Emily turned to Lydia and from her confused expression, I got the sense she’d been given an inflated description of Lydia’s job, just as Dirk Boatman had.
“You know I interview suspects, Jillian,” Lydia said through clenched teeth.
“After the police have done so first—and I do know they appreciate your presence at the scene representing the coroner.” I tried to sound pleasant. The last thing I wanted was for her to go all, well, Lydia on me.
Emily said, “I have to say Miss Monk’s been more forthcoming with the press than that policewoman has. Deputy Carson won’t even return my calls. No one in that police station aside from the sweet dispatcher—B.J., I think—would give me the time of day. But he told me how to find the coroner, thank goodness.”
I nodded, still wearing a forced smile. “B.J. is a kind young man. But I’m still not sure why either of you are here.” Meanwhile, I noted Syrah was getting ever closer to Lydia’s foot. He wanted to play with that charm in the worst way—and she was tempting him by continually moving her foot.
Lydia cleared her throat. “Then let me be clear. I’m here because Emily tells me you promised her information about this cat that was found wandering around the crime scene. You understand cats leave hair all over the place and that this animal might have seriously compromised—”
Syrah pounced on that foot and it was all I could do to keep from laughing out loud when Lydia jumped straight up off the sofa and nearly tripped over Emily’s legs as she backed away from Syrah. I didn’t see any blood, so he hadn’t scratched her. He just wanted that shiny object.
Lydia pointed a magenta-painted nail at me. “How many times have I told you to keep that cat away from me?”
Emily reached around and offered the back of her hand so Syrah could sniff her. “But he’s so gorgeous, Lydia. I mean, look at those ears. He’s almost regal looking.”
“He’s an Abyssinian,” I said. “An ancient breed and from the name, you can surmise he’s an ancestor to the Egyptian cats worshipped in ancient times.”
Emily left her seat and knelt down so Syrah could approach he
r. One dose of Clyde last night and she’d become a cat lover, it would seem.
But Syrah still eyed Lydia’s foot jewelry.
“Can’t you put him up in a bedroom for now?” Lydia asked, bending over to examine her toes for any injury.
“This is his house, Lydia. As I’ve told you before, if you want to talk to me, you have to talk to my cats, too.”
“Talk to your cats? Really?”
She glared at me, something I was used to from her. Did she believe angry looks would ever make me change my mind about where my cats belonged? I nodded at her feet. “I suggest you remove your toe ring. He might leave you alone, then.”
But Syrah, I knew, took great delight in annoying Lydia. He might find another dangling object to attack—like her long beaded earrings.
“If that’s the only thing that will move this discussion along,” she replied impatiently.
While she struggled to get the toe ring off, Emily and Syrah greeted each other, and soon he was rubbing up against her. As she petted him, she said, “What’s his name?” I told her and then she asked, “Boy? Girl?”
“Neutered male.”
“How do he and Clyde get along? Because I would love to get a shot of them together for my piece.”
Lydia held out her foot to get our attention. “There. Happy?” She pulled out her dress at the top and dropped the ring into her bra.
I smiled. “Thank you, Lydia.”
Emily reclaimed her spot on the sofa and pulled a camera out of her oversize tote. “I’ve never photographed any animals before but—”
“Hang on,” Lydia said. “First, we deal with my questions. Do you honestly expect me to believe the only reason you went to Mr. Norman Jeffrey’s home last evening was because you guessed a cat that didn’t even belong to him anymore ended up there?”
“First of all, Clyde will never forget the man who rescued him. Cats and dogs have memories, just like people. Second, you understand I was with a police officer?” I kept my tone even. Would Lydia ever tire of questioning my relationship with Morris and Candace and my other friends at Mercy PD?
The Cat, the Vagabond and the Victim: A Cats in Trouble Mystery Page 8