by Delia James
“This is a potential crime scene! You do not move,” she growled. I nodded. I did, however, set my foot down, carefully.
“Now, what is it?” Kenisha asked through gritted teeth.
“Ruby,” I told her, which only made her frown harder. “Attitude Cat. Dr. Forsythe was watching her while her owner is out of town.”
“Wait.” Kenisha made the time out sign with both hands. “Dr. Forsythe was babysitting Attitude Cat? The Attitude Cat?” And that made it official. Absolutely everybody knew about Attitude Cat.
“Her real name is Ruby and her owner, Kristen Summers, had a family emergency. Her mother was in the hospital for surgery. Dr. Forsythe was boarding her . . .”
“Merow!” agreed Alistair.
“And now she’s missing?” If Kenisha asked this question a little more to Alistair than to me, that was perfectly understandable.
“Who’s missing?” asked a man’s voice.
Kenisha and I both turned to see Detective Pete Simmons standing on the condo threshold, with a trio of uniformed cops right behind him.
Alistair vanished. For once, I couldn’t blame him.
• • •
WHAT FOLLOWED WAS a whole lot of hustle and bustle.
I was hustled down to where the police cars and the ambulance were pulled up in the parking lot, their red and blue lights flashing. A lot of people in blue uniforms, both cops and EMTs, bustled up the stairs and around the building. They unrolled spools of yellow tape or stood and talked with the people bundled in parkas and pajamas who gathered around holding cell phones up to their ears, or over their heads. A lot of different people were both hustling and bustling around between them, writing a lot of different things down. Everybody’s breath steamed in the sodium lights.
Including Pete Simmons’s. Pete stood with me and Kenisha by his unmarked car, completely ignoring the freezing wind. I’m sure the huge, furry, Russian-style hat pulled down over his thinning hair helped. I wished I had one.
Kenisha told Pete how we had been let into the building, complete with a description of the young man with his black-rimmed glasses, his striped scarf and his cardboard box. She went on to say how we’d found the condo door unlocked (she discreetly omitted my Vibe) and walked in to find Dr. Forsythe dead beneath her balcony and Ruby missing.
When we explained who Ruby was, Pete let out a long, low whistle.
“Were there any signs of a struggle?” he asked. “Human or animal?”
I glanced down. Alistair had reappeared under the yew bushes outside the condo building and was now watching me with almost as much skepticism as was the detective in the furry hat.
“No,” I said.
“Not that I was able to ascertain,” agreed Kenisha.
Alistair blinked and vanished. I suppressed a grumble of irritation, but not fast enough. Pete saw and decided to go from studying Kenisha to studying me.
“I’m sorry about this, Ms. Britton.” Pete had the kind of dark and drooping eyes you normally saw in a middle-aged basset hound. It made you inclined to think he was perpetually anxious and mostly harmless. This was a mistake. “I know you’ve just had a shock, but I have to ask. Why did you come out here tonight?”
“Dr. Forsythe was watching Anna’s cat, Alistair,” said Kenisha before I could get my mouth open. “She was giving me a lift home from the bookstore, and we’d stopped to pick him up.”
Pete nodded and noted this down, somehow without once looking away from me. “Where is your cat now?”
I swallowed. “He’s in my Jeep.” I had to work to keep this from sounding like a question. “I didn’t want him to get in the way,” I added.
Pete looked at Kenisha, who nodded. He glanced at my Jeep. I looked too, but not before I mentally crossed my fingers.
Alistair, bless his furry little familiar heart, lay curled up on the dashboard, clearly visible in the blinking blue and red lights from the surrounding emergency vehicles. I hoped Pete didn’t notice me let out the breath I’d been holding.
Pete wrote something else down, carefully. I tried not to squirm.
“So, Ms. Britton, your cat was fine but you saw no sign of the other one . . . what did you call him?”
“Her. Ruby. Attitude Cat is a stage name.” Yes, we were having this conversation. Pete didn’t even pause in his note taking.
“And how did you know Ruby was supposed to be there?”
“I met her owner, Kristen Summers, when I took Alistair to the vet.”
“The balcony doors were open when we entered the premises,” said Kenisha briskly. She was entirely back on duty. “The cat might have gotten out that way.”
“Sure, sure, sure,” murmured Pete. “I’m just wondering. Probably a cat with that kind of . . . what would you even call it?”
“Star power?” I suggested.
Pete shrugged. “I’ll go with that. It’s going to make her valuable.”
“You think somebody stole Ruby?”
Pete considered what he’d just written. “Probably not. Probably she just got out the open doors and went home. But . . .” He paused and shrugged.
He didn’t need to finish. But, he was thinking, if somebody had wanted to steal Ruby, they might have had to do it over Ramona’s dead body.
I glanced down toward the bushes again. Alistair was back, hunkered down flat against the frozen ground, claws out, tail lashing back and forth.
Oh. No.
I gave Kenisha the tiniest possible nod and her face clouded over. I knew what she was thinking. We should let Pete know he was on the right track, but how? You can’t tell a detective you might have a witness to the theft and the murder when that witness is a magical cat.
I was beginning to sympathize with Kenisha’s resistance to mixing magic and law enforcement.
Fortunately, neither one of us had to come up with an answer right away, because just then a tiny blue Miata barreled into the parking lot and stopped an inch shy of hitting my Jeep’s bumper. Before I had time to do more than wince, a woman jumped out.
“What is going on here?” she shouted.
I was half expecting Cheryl Bell, but this woman was much taller and professionally tanned. Her long neck was wrapped in a shimmering patterned scarf, and a felt cloche hat covered her blond hair. She wore a fur coat that, to my eye at least, looked real. A purse with clunky gold hardware bounced on her shoulder, and black leather boots encased her fashionably slender calves.
She strode right up to Pete. “I was told something was wrong and I needed to get over here.”
Pete nodded as if this was only to be expected. “And you are?”
“Pamela Abernathy, Abernathy & Walsh, and . . .” She dug into her purse, probably looking for a business card and probably on reflex.
“Is that a law firm?” Pete asked.
“No, we’re public relations.” The wind gusted hard and she slapped one leather-gloved hand over her cloche before it tumbled sideways. “Please, Officer . . . ?”
“Detective,” Pete corrected her. “Peter Simmons. Is your firm connected with the Attitude Cat campaign?”
“That’s right. I . . .” She stopped rummaging and lifted her gaze, taking in the lights and the cops and the EMTs fully. “What is going on here?”
Pete didn’t answer. Instead, he asked, “It’s not exactly office hours. Do you live here?”
“I got a phone call. I was told something might be wrong with Ruby—that is, Attitude Cat—and that I should check in on her.”
Pete’s notebook was back out and his pencil was poised for action. “Who told you this, Ms. Abernathy?”
“It was a voice mail,” she said softly. “I didn’t recognize the number.”
“May I see your phone?”
Ms. Abernathy reached into a side pocket on her designer purse and started to hand over her phone
but at the last minute snatched it back.
“I . . . um . . . no,” she said quickly. “I think I’ll need to talk to our attorney first.”
“Oh, sure, sure, sure,” said Pete. “And of course normally, I’d agree that would be a smart move, and perfectly within your rights. But just now, it might hamper our ability to find her.”
“Find who?”
“Ruby,” said Kenisha. “I’m sorry to tell you this, Ms. Abernathy, but Attitude Cat is missing.”
Pamela Abernathy blinked at Kenisha and Pete and me. Then, without a noise, she crumpled to the ground.
8
THE LAST TIME somebody passed out in front of me was in college, and then there had been an injudicious amount of alcohol involved. Somehow I doubted that was the case this time. Pam Abernathy had heard Attitude Cat was missing and fainted from the shock.
Wow.
Fortunately, we had a raft of EMTs right on the spot. With professional speed, they bundled Ms. Abernathy into the back of the ambulance and did . . . emergency medical things. I couldn’t see exactly what, because of the shifting crowd of blue backs and shoulders around her and because I stepped (okay, jumped) back to get out of the way.
While I was getting myself out of the way, though, I noticed Pamela’s phone lying on the frost-browned grass where she’d dropped it. Nobody, not even Pete or Kenisha, seemed to be coming back to pick it up.
I bit my lip. I looked toward my Jeep. Alistair was nowhere to be seen. I hoped Pete didn’t take it into his head to check up on the whereabouts of my cat.
I looked down again. The phone, which Ms. Abernathy did not want the police looking at, was still there. Right on the grass, where somebody might step on it. Which would be a shame. It was a nice phone. Brand-new, slender, with a big screen.
I stretched out the toe of my impractical black pump and nudged the phone a little farther back from the sidewalk. It was also a little closer to me. This, of course, was pure coincidence.
I looked around for Pete and Kenisha. They were both talking with other officers near the open back of the ambulance where the EMTs were helping Pam Abernathy.
I looked at the phone.
I didn’t really plan on touching it. And I wouldn’t have. Except it buzzed. And buzzed again.
It was too much. I stripped off my glove, snatched a Kleenex out of my purse, used it to carefully pick the phone up and touched the Accept button. Because you can’t get smartphone buttons to work through gloves, but you can through a Kleenex. No, I won’t tell you how I found that out, and no, I don’t recommend this as a lifestyle choice. Especially when it’s not your phone and there are police around.
“Hello?” I whispered.
“Thank God!” shouted the voice on the other end. The connection snapped and sizzled so badly, I couldn’t even be sure if I was hearing a man or a woman. “Pam . . . hear me now? . . . the heck . . . are you . . . out there?” I was getting only about every third word. “What happened . . . the vet? All good?”
“What?” I croaked.
“The vet! The vet!” Silence cut in and cut out again. “. . . happened with the vet?”
“Um . . . ,” I breathed. “There’s a problem.”
“What? We gotta bad connection! I . . . Damn. That’s mine. Call you back.” The call and the voice cut off.
I looked up. Kenisha was looking right at me. Now Pete was standing at the back of the ambulance, saying something to the revived Pamela Abernathy. I couldn’t hear Pete, but I did hear Pam’s response.
“Where’s my phone?” she demanded. “Where is my phone!”
Kenisha very deliberately turned her back on me. I very deliberately let the phone slip out of my fingers.
“Where did you have it last, Ms. Abernathy?” Pete asked.
I raised my hand like I was in third grade and wanted a turn to speak. With my other, I pointed to the ground. Kenisha hurried over and scooped the phone up. Our eyes met. It will come as no surprise to anybody that I looked away first.
“It’s right here, ma’am.” Kenisha handed the phone to Pamela, who snatched it and shoved it back into her purse without even looking at it.
Somewhere, something else was ringing. I pulled my phone out just long enough to see that (a) it wasn’t mine and (b) it was midnight. The witching hour. Just a couple of weeks earlier, I’d stayed up late with my coven to celebrate this exact time. It had been beautiful under the bright full moon and I’d felt filled with wonder. Tonight, the moon was hidden behind heavy clouds, and all I felt was that this particular hour had really gotten away from me.
I shoved my phone back into my purse and my hands back into my pockets. I probably could wait in the Jeep. Start the engine and turn on the heater. Call Julia. And Sean, I added, feeling a little guilty.
Kenisha walked over to stand beside me. She looked tired. But then, I’m sure I did too.
“Okay,” she said, sighing. “Looks like we can—”
Before she got any further, a uniformed officer pushed open the condo building’s door. “Detective! We need you up here.”
Pete hurried to the door. Kenisha muttered something under her breath.
“We can what?” I asked.
Kenisha set her jaw. “The only reason you get to stick around here is that I need a ride home.”
Because none of the police officers—who were all her friends and colleagues—could give her one? In a surprising display of common sense, however, I kept this question to myself.
I eased myself back into my Jeep and started the engine to get it warmed up. Alistair was definitely gone. I couldn’t see him or sense him.
“Where are you, big guy?” I whispered, but this time I got no answer.
I drummed my fingers impatiently against the steering wheel and thought about the phone call and that frantic voice exclaiming about the vet. I thought about Dr. Forsythe and how instantly I’d liked her when I met her (just this morning? really?) and how good she’d been at handling Alistair. I closed my eyes because I didn’t want to remember everything I’d felt in Ramona’s apartment. I also didn’t want to be so certain that whatever had happened to Ramona, it wasn’t just an unlucky fall. But there was no getting away from it. Ramona Forsythe had been killed. Her murderer had been filled with so much anger and so much greed, he or she had left some of it behind in the apartment.
And now Ruby was missing. And there was that phone call.
A sketchbook and pencil lay on the passenger seat, because I always have a sketchbook and pencil with me somewhere. I flipped open a fresh page and scribbled down what I could remember of that brief phone conversation I wasn’t meant to hear. I was putting down the final period when Kenisha yanked open the door, sending a fresh blast of cold air into the Jeep.
I looked at her grim expression. “Should I ask?”
“No,” she answered as she climbed inside and slammed the door. “And you know you shouldn’t.”
“Right,” I agreed. “And I know I shouldn’t show you what I wrote down on this sketch pad that I am asking you to hold, because I don’t want to toss it in the backseat, because some very valuable drawings might get wrinkled.”
“Just so we’re clear on that.” Kenisha finished buckling her seat belt and took the pad. But she didn’t look at it.
“Are we going home now?” I asked.
“Yeah. We are.”
“Okay.” I buckled up, put the car in gear and eased us out onto the street. Kenisha drummed her fingers on the pad.
“I don’t suppose you remembered to write down the phone number?” she asked.
I winced. “No. Sorry. But it was a New York City area code. I recognized it.”
“Well, that’s gonna narrow it down,” she muttered.
“Sorry.” I stopped at the red light and wished I had something more I could say.
“This is
going to be in the papers tomorrow,” she said. “And all over the Internet.”
“Yeah, well, that happens with a murder,” I answered, and wished I didn’t feel quite so queasy.
Kenisha worked her jaw back and forth a few times. I watched the debate going on inside her. Was she going to ask or not? She knew I’d gotten a very strong Vibe. The problem was, asking about it would run up against the line Kenisha drew between her job and her magic.
“You’re sure it was a murder?” she said finally.
“Yes. I am.”
She nodded. “So am I.”
I kept my eyes on the road, and I waited. I knew what I wanted to say, but none of it would make things any better. Kenisha clearly needed some space to make up her mind.
Eventually, she did. “There was something wrong in there.”
“You mean besides—”
“Besides the obvious, yeah.” She stared straight ahead, but I could tell she wasn’t seeing anything through the windshield. “There was something wrong in that apartment, but I didn’t have time to figure out what it was.” She drummed her fingers on the sketch pad again. “And before we left, Dr. Forsythe’s phone rang.”
I waited.
“It was Kristen Summers.”
“Kristen?”
“Yeah. She says she was checking her voice mail and she’d gotten a call saying she ought to call Ramona and check on Ruby.”
“What?” I am very proud of the fact that I did not jerk the wheel or slam on the brakes or do anything else stupid right at that moment.
“She said it came while she was on the plane, so she had her phone turned off and didn’t get it until she landed.”
“Did she say who it was from?”
“She said she didn’t recognize the number or the voice. So,” Kenisha went on grimly, “that’s two phone calls, both saying that people should check on Attitude Cat.”
“Is it just me, or does that sound like . . . ?”
“We got a cat-napping as well as a murder?” said Kenisha. “Oh, yeah, it sure as heck does.”