by Delia James
“What I would not give for five minutes’ peace and quiet,” she said to me and the ceiling.
“I’m sorry. I can see this isn’t a good time . . .”
“No, no, no.” She waved wearily in my direction. “There isn’t going to be a good time, at least not until we’ve found Ruby again.” She gestured toward the posters and bags and other ad material on the table. “Besides, I recognize you. You were there, that night.” There was no need to ask which night she was talking about, or where “there” was. “Are you . . . with the police?”
“Um, no,” I confessed, but probably a little more slowly than I should have. Yes, I did briefly entertain the thought of pretending I was with the cops. But I remembered in time that this would be a bad idea, if for no other reason that when Kenisha found out, she’d skin me alive.
I watched relief settle in behind Pamela’s gray eyes. “Well, thank goodness for that,” she said. “I’m sorry, no offense, I know everybody’s got a job to do, but I spent most of yesterday afternoon being talked at by this person . . . Lieutenant Blanchard. I don’t know when I’ve been so exhausted and confused, and with everything piling up . . . I didn’t even have a chance to get breakfast this morning.”
I winced in sympathy.
“But I’m sure I saw you talking with one of the officers.” She narrowed her eyes at me. “An African American woman, I think?”
“Officer Freeman,” I agreed. “She’s an . . . acquaintance of mine.”
“Well, then maybe you can tell me, have the police said anything about what they suspect? I’ve tried to get someone to talk to me, but I’ve had absolutely no luck.”
“As far as I know, they haven’t reached any definite conclusions yet.” Now, there was a nonanswer even Pete Simmons would have been proud of.
“And Ramona?” Pam leaned across the desk, her hands clasped so tightly I could see her knuckles start to turn white. “Do they know she was pushed? I mean, do they really know?”
What happened with the vet? The voice from the phone call echoed in my mind. “They think it must have been something like that, yes.”
A knock sounded on the door, and a split second later Damon leaned inside. “Sorry to interrupt, Pam. I got through to Oliver. He says he’s in an emergency meeting and can he call you back?”
Pam’s perfectly made-up face crumpled, but she rallied quickly. “Of course, but tell him I’ll expect to hear from him by tonight, or we’re going to have to consider a different strategy. Do it nicely.”
“Yes, boss.” Damon gave her a quick salute and ducked back out.
As soon as the door shut, Pam dropped her head into her hands. “Sorry. Sorry,” she mumbled. “I . . . just wasn’t expecting that. When people stop taking your calls . . . well.” She shook herself. “Never mind. Not your problem. What can I do for you? And would you be willing to do a walk-and-talk? If I don’t get something to eat, I’m going to fall apart, and that is not going to do anything for my image.” She smiled faintly.
“Sure,” I said. “Do you like Popovers on the Square? It’s not too far.”
“Everywhere’s too far in this weather. I’m a Virginia native. I’ve never gotten used to your Yankee climate.”
Actually, to be a true Yankee you have to be from Connecticut, or a member of that baseball team in the Bronx, but I didn’t point this out.
“Let me get my coat,” Pam said.
• • •
FIVE MINUTES LATER we were sitting in the back of Popovers with veggie scrambles and hot coffee, and a Danish for Pam, who really didn’t look like she had any more than a passing acquaintance with any kind of pastry. I tried to ignore the news vans cruising the square. Pam, however, stared at them as if fascinated.
“No such thing as bad publicity,” she murmured.
“Is that really true?” I asked as I tore my popover in half and scooped up a little veggie scramble.
“Most of the time.” She smiled. “But there are exceptions. We would all be much better off without everyone jumping to the conclusion that Ramona Forsythe had been murdered.” She scowled, and then she saw my face. “Sorry,” she said. “I seem to be saying ‘sorry’ to you a lot, don’t I?” she added ruefully. “But I know how I must sound.”
I gave her a weak smile because I really didn’t know how to answer.
“So, Anna.” Pam leaned forward and her smile broadened, but it did not reach her sharp gray eyes. “I hope you don’t mind my asking, if you aren’t with the police, what were you doing at Riverview Condominiums that night?”
“Ramona Forsythe was my cat’s vet,” I said. “Which is how I met Kris Summers.”
“Really?” Pam arched an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize you knew Kristen.”
“A little. We’ve got a mutual friend as well as a mutual veterinarian. Valerie McDermott.”
If I expected a reaction, I was disappointed. “Which just shows what a small town Portsmouth really is.” Pam tore off a piece of Danish and munched it thoughtfully.
“You’re not local? I think you said you were from Virginia?”
“And y’all are just charming up hey-ah,” she said, pouring on an accent as thick as butter. “Yes. I always wanted my own agency, so I decided to start somewhere small and work my way up.”
“It must have been a real coup to get the Best Petz business.”
“That was all Ruby’s doing.” She pushed some scramble around on her plate.
“Really? Were you and Kris friends?”
“Oh, no, I’d never met her. But she wasn’t the only one who went to that audition on a whim. Or perhaps I should say out of sheer desperation.” Pam paused and watched another news truck maneuver its way carefully through the square’s pedestrian traffic. “I had just started up Abernathy & Walsh, and at the time, it looked like we weren’t going to last out the year. We were literally looking under the cushions for spare change to pay for office supplies.”
“Ouch.”
“You can say that again. I was chasing after anything that might get us taken seriously, and, well, everybody loves cats, right? And when Kristen put Ruby through her paces at that audition, people were utterly charmed by her, her look, her presence, well, her attitude. They even had the camera crew in stitches. When she was done, I walked right up to Kristen and told her not to sign anything and not to take the money. I told her that she had the chance at something much, much bigger than a little penny-ante publicity-stunt prize.”
“And Attitude Cat was born?”
Pam nodded. “And Abernathy & Walsh found its niche in the world of animal publicity.” She stopped and set down the last bit of Danish. “But enough about me. You never told me what brings Anna Britton to Abernathy & Walsh this morning.”
I took a deep breath and screwed on my best professional smile. “I understand, Ms. Abernathy—”
“Pam.”
“I understand, Pam, that you are expanding the line of Attitude Cat branded products. I’m wondering if you have considered a coloring book.” Adult coloring books were an undeniable phenomenon, and these days it seemed like everybody and everything had one. Suggesting one for Attitude Cat would not be that much of a stretch, even if I hadn’t heard Kris mention that they were thinking about one.
Pam listened to my pitch about the reach and scope of the books, and about my personal experience, all with her head cocked to one side and a gleam in her eye that was close to a look of interest, but not quite there.
When I finished, Pam’s smile thinned.
“Well, Anna. That sounds very interesting,” she said. “However, the secret of the Attitude Cat brand is consistency and character development. With the rise of the Internet and social media, people expect a developing story and opportunities for interaction with their placed characters. Every aspect of Attitude Cat has to be synchronized, from the commercials to the T-shirts to
the social media feeds and even any potential coloring book. Attitude Cat has to be current and move smoothly through her world.” Pam stabbed her fork toward the window to emphasize the point.
“That must be a lot to keep track of,” I said, thinking of all the samples and mock-ups I’d seen in her office for the new “ultrapremium” products. “I imagine a whole lot of things have been put on hold until Ruby is found.”
“Actually, our timelines have all been accelerated.” There was an edge of satisfaction under those words that sent an uncomfortable shiver down my spine. “Attitude Cat’s brand recognition is through the roof. People are clamoring for her products as a way to show their support.”
“Really?” I pushed the last bit of my popover away.
“Really,” she said. “I know, it seems ghoulish, but, well, that’s the way of the world.”
“Still, it must have been a real shock when you heard Ruby disappeared,” I tried.
“Otherwise I wouldn’t have fainted on the spot like that, you mean? Oh, yes, it was a shock.” Pam folded her napkin and blotted her mouth carefully so as not to smudge her lipstick. “I’d come expecting trouble, but . . . nothing like that.”
“Oh, that’s right,” I said, trying to sound casual. “You said you got a phone call from Ramona saying something might be wrong.”
“Actually, I don’t think I said it was from Ramona,” she corrected me. “I’m pretty sure I told you what I told the police. I didn’t recognize the number or the voice.”
“Did you know Kristen was boarding Ruby with Ramona?”
“I did, because it was my idea.”
I must have looked startled, because Pam’s smile spread out even thinner. “Ramona is—or rather she was—our in-house vet. We kept her on retainer to help make sure that all our stars were healthy and happy and to ensure we’re following all the safety rules on the set.
“Now, Anna,” Pam said in a way that managed to be both smooth and pointed. “I’ve been straight with you. I need you to be straight with me, especially if we’re going to have any possibility of entering into a business agreement.” She leaned in close. “That night, in front of Ramona’s building, did you just happen to pick up my phone?”
23
UH-OH.
I looked at Pam. Pam looked at me. Her gray eyes glittered with a cold, hard light. She didn’t actually say Gotcha, but then, she didn’t have to.
For a split second, I considered lying. But just in time I heard the echo of all my friends telling me how I should never play poker. Besides, Pam Abernathy was a seasoned PR executive. She dealt in artfully decorated lies for a living.
“Ummm . . . yes,” I said. “It was ringing, and I picked it up.” I thought about adding something about force of habit or instinct but decided to quit while I was ahead.
Pam nodded as if she meant to be encouraging. “And exactly what did you hear?”
“A very upset person asking if everything was good with the vet.”
Pam frowned, hard. “A man or a woman?”
“I couldn’t tell for sure. We had a bad connection.”
“And they didn’t give you a name?
“No.”
“But you’re sure that’s what they said? They just asked about the vet; they didn’t drop any names or make any accusations, nothing like that?”
“No. Another call was coming in.”
To my surprise, Pam Abernathy started to laugh. It was so loud and so unexpected that I jerked backward in surprise. The laughter went on, long enough and hard enough that the people at the nearest tables turned their heads to stare. I shifted uncomfortably. I didn’t think I’d said anything that funny.
“So you . . . Oh my word! Don’t tell me you assumed . . . !” She stared at me. I don’t know for sure what she saw but it brought on a fresh bout of laughter. “Oh, you did! You imagined me running into the apartment, pushing Ramona off her balcony, running away, and running back so I could act all shocked and faint in front of the cops! That’s why you came snooping around this morning!” She gasped. “A few overheard words and you come snooping around . . . so I thought . . . oh, oh, I thought you’d actually . . .”
“I’d actually what?” I tried to force some steel into the question. It didn’t work. Pam just dabbed at the corners of her eyes with her knuckle.
“Oh, Anna. I’m sorry. It’s stress; that’s all.” She paused a minute and swallowed several deep breaths. When she was calm, she went on. “Oh, bless your heart. That call was from my partner, Milo Walsh. I tried to get hold of him immediately after I got the initial call about Ruby. The one I told the police about,” she added, in case I’d forgotten. “He was calling back to find out what happened. That’s all.”
“Oh.”
She smiled again, and it was not an entirely nice smile. “I’m sorry if you expected to have something more to tell your friend Officer Freeman. And in case you were working your way around to it, when poor Ramona died, I was at my office, cruelly keeping both Damon and Zach late working on the Ultrapremium campaign. A fact that they were both happy to confirm when Detective Simmons asked.”
I felt a flush creep across my cheeks. Not because I had in fact planned on telling Kenisha about what I learned today, if I learned anything, but because Pam Abernathy had clearly suspected that was why I’d shown up at her office from the beginning.
Somewhere, Nancy Drew was shaking her head at me.
“Never try to kid a kidder, Anna.” Pam’s smile remained plastered on her face, but any actual feeling behind it had long since evaporated. “But don’t worry. I won’t hold it against you.” Except I got the very strong feeling she already did. “Actually, I admire you for trying to seize the moment. It shows initiative.”
“Well, Pam . . .” I tried to muster my professional manners to make some kind of semigraceful exit, but Pam wasn’t looking at me anymore. She started to her feet and ducked around the corner of our table. I twisted in my seat and saw Kristen Summers threading her way toward us.
“Kristen!” Pam put her arms around the other woman and hugged her. Kris returned the embrace, stiffly and reluctantly. “What are you doing here!”
“I . . . Zach told me you were here.” Kris reached up and tucked back one lock of brown hair that had come loose under her braid.
“He sent you . . . ?” cried Pam. “I’ll be having a talk with him about that. He should have come to get me.”
“No, it was my idea.”
“Well, come and sit down anyway.” Pam sank back into her chair and patted the seat next to her.
Kris did sit down, but she didn’t take off her hat or her coat. “Hi, Anna,” she said, like she had just noticed I was there.
“Hi, Kristen,” I said. “I’m so sorry about what’s happened.”
“Yeah, me too.” She dug her hands into the pockets of her coat. “I keep telling myself we’ll get through it . . .”
“Of course we will!” announced Pam.
Kristen ignored her. “And I’m fine, in case you’re about to ask,” she said to me. “Just a little sleep deprived.”
“And of course you must be so worried about poor Ruby!” prompted Pam. “Honey, have you heard anything?”
Kristen shook her head and rubbed her eyes with the back of one mittened hand.
“Do you want some coffee or something?” I asked. “I’d ask if you want breakfast, but since you’re staying with Val and Roger, you’ve probably eaten enough for a week by now.”
Kristen’s mouth twitched into a small smile. “They’re so great.”
Pam seemed less sure about that. “I really don’t like you staying with them, Kristen. It looks like you’re hiding.”
Kristen just looked at her, and there was something well beyond a sleepless night in her face. The skin on the back of my neck bunched up. Something was wrong. There was somethin
g Kris wasn’t saying yet, but it sat behind her eyes like a wall of ice.
“Pam, we need to talk. I mean now.”
“Of course. We’re done here, right, Anna?”
Kristen didn’t give me a chance to answer. “The police are questioning me,” she told Pam.
Pam went white. For a second, I thought she might faint again.
“Oh, Kris,” she croaked. “Please, please, please tell me you didn’t talk to them without our lawyer.”
“I . . . yeah,” murmured Kristen to the tabletop. “I did. Yesterday.”
“What! You . . .” Pam’s jaw clamped down hard around whatever she was going to say. I watched her silently count to three. When she spoke again, her words were very even, and very strained. “That was not the best decision. We talked about this. You should not be meeting anyone alone, not the press and certainly not the police.” She unsnapped the pocket on the side of her shiny black purse and pulled out her phone. “I’m calling James, right now.” She worked her smartphone with one hand while gripping Kristen’s wrist with the other as she pulled her to her feet. “You’ll excuse us, Anna?” she said over her shoulder.
“Of course,” I murmured, but the pair of them were already out of earshot.
24
I SAT WHERE I was, with the remains of two breakfasts in front of me and the rest of the world going about its normal Tuesday morning routine.
Or seminormal anyway. Out on the square, a news crew was setting up and a blond man in a greatcoat was talking with a cluster of old women in black-and-white hats carrying a banner that read RUBY COME HOME.
I pulled my phone out and hit Val’s number and waited while it rang.
“Hi, you have reached the private voice mail of Valerie McDermott. To reach McDermott’s B and B . . .” I bit my lip while the message unspooled. “. . . But if you actually want to talk to me, leave a message.”