Her question revived mixed feelings of elation and frustration as I remembered how vaguely the evening had ended. I carried our new boarder to an extra-tall cage with a perch that gave him a view of the whole room before I answered. “It went well, I think. As you can imagine, Mark and I have a lot in common, and the more we talked the better I liked him. He did warn me, though, that he just came out of a long-term relationship and wants to take things slow. I told him I was pretty much in the same place.”
Peeling off her vinyl gloves, my assistant nodded. “That’s fine. You’re both young; you’ve got time.”
“As long as it’s not his way of letting me down easy. Could be code for saying he’s just not that into me.”
“Not necessarily. Some people find it hard to jump from one relationship right into another one. Didn’t you feel that way yourself, after the problems you had with . . . what’s his name, Andy?”
That was true, I thought. And I’d certainly prefer to be with someone who took his relationships seriously rather than hopping from partner to partner. With a shrug, I concluded, “I guess I’ll know better if he actually calls me again.” Pulling off my own gloves and tossing them into the trash can, I changed the subject. “It was a weird night all around. As I was ready to leave the diner, I saw I had a phone message from Nick’s son, Dion, saying his dad was in the hospital.”
Sarah and I took a lunch break while I told her about that crisis. “When I left Saint Catherine’s, everyone there seemed to feel Nick would be all right. So far I haven’t heard anything different, but I’ll check with Dion today.”
We were just about to get back to work when the front-desk phone rang. Though I’d given Mark my cell number, I still hoped it might be him. Or possibly Dion, with an update on his father.
A less welcome thought struck me. Or, God forbid, Andy!
With all of those possibilities looming, the last voice I expected to hear on the line was Detective Angela Bonelli’s.
“Cassie McGlone?” she said. “You and I need to talk.”
* * *
At least I didn’t have to go back down to Chadwick’s depressingly sterile police station. It was a warm day, so Bonelli suggested we meet in the recently upgraded Riverside Park. To get on the detective’s good side, I offered to bring coffee from Starbucks. When she requested nothing fancier in hers than cream and sugar, it did not surprise me, and I got the same.
We sat on one of the wrought-iron-and-oak benches—Victorian in style but only a couple of years old—facing the river. A running path crossed behind us, but in midafternoon few passersby came near enough to eavesdrop on our conversation. The flock of Canada geese browsing on the shore, a few yards away, couldn’t have cared less.
Bonelli wore tailored pants and an L.L.Bean rain jacket that made me wonder if she owned anything that wasn’t navy blue. Her sunglasses hid her eyes as she sipped her coffee and faced the serene glittering river. “I understand you went to DeLeuw’s house this morning.”
“That’s right. I got permission from his lawyer to board his cat. Anita told me Harpo was going crazy, closed up all alone in that house. I figured if the investigation dragged on much longer, he might end up in a shelter.”
“And this is your concern because?”
“Hey, I’m an animal lover. Besides, from what I could see, George doted on his Harpo. If only for his sake, I didn’t want to see his cat come to a bad end. At least now he’ll have a safe home, until someone else volunteers to take him or until George’s will is made public.” I was tempted to ask if the police had any inside knowledge about the terms of the will, but that probably also fell into the range of things that were not my concern. So I tried a more roundabout approach. “How much longer do you think that will take?”
“We’re working on it. I guess that’s why you attended the viewing at the funeral home? I heard you asked a lot of questions of the other mourners there. Did you discuss anything with them besides the cat?”
“I didn’t ask them about the murder, but a lot of them give me their opinions anyway. George’s sister from California, Danielle, suspects the landscaper, Louis. The ex-wife, Marjorie, thinks it was an art thief or an enemy he made through his business. Jerry Ross, the assistant, thinks Dion Janos did it. All of this without me asking any questions on the subject, swear to God!”
Bonelli slipped me a grudging smile. “I guessed that any possible suspects might talk more freely to a civilian than to a police officer.”
I remembered what Nick had said about Bonelli being new on the force. Was she hinting that I might be able to help her? “I figure, either they were angry about George’s murder and looking for someone to blame, or at least one of them is guilty and trying to throw suspicion onto somebody else.”
A cloud passed over the river, and the detective removed her sunglasses—all the better to pin me with her stern, heavy-lidded gaze. “This is what I was afraid of, Cassie. You’re getting too involved.”
“Sorry. I majored in psychology in college. And I read a lot of murder mysteries.”
“A dangerous habit.”
I noted that, behind her intimidating façade, Detective Bonelli at least had a sense of humor. “Since George’s cat will be taking up condo space at my shop until this case is solved, I’d like to ask if you guys are making any progress. But I figure you probably won’t tell me.”
She took another swallow of the coffee. “You figure right.”
“On the other hand, I imagine your forensics team went through all of DeLeuw’s stuff before it was put into storage. If they found any fingerprints that didn’t belong, you’d probably be closing in on somebody by now.”
Bonelli’s eyes narrowed as if she was losing patience with my prying. “Who says we aren’t?”
“You questioned Dion, but let him go, so I’m betting you didn’t find his prints. Of course the killer might’ve worn gloves . . . but on a warm spring day, that would mean premeditation. More likely, he wiped off the fingerprints—”
“Enough!” Bonelli snapped. “Keep on like this, Cassie, and you’ll convince me that you did it.”
“Except I had absolutely no motive.” I chuckled weakly. “Grooming George’s cat was helping to keep my business afloat. Now that he’s gone, I need to find more clients, fast. And if you think I wanted to steal his cat, George already explained to me that Harpo isn’t show quality—he’s worth a few hundred dollars, at most. Hardly enough to make me murder my best client.”
“Is someone paying you now to board the cat?”
“Only because the lawyer insisted, and at a reduced rate. I’d still rather have George as a live customer.”
The detective leaned back on the bench and crumpled her empty cup with an amused expression. “Maybe I should ask who you think murdered DeLeuw.”
“Sorry, I have no idea. I’d rule out Anita, because she seemed totally horrified when she saw him lying dead. She told me he was a good boss, so like me, she probably was better off when he was alive. And I don’t want to suspect Dion, because his father is a really nice guy and my handyman.”
Bonelli looked alert. “You know Dion Janos?”
“I know his dad well, but I only met Dion for the first time last night.” I explained about Nick’s angina attack, and what Dion had told me about his encryption system. “Is it true that George’s electronic files included some that were encrypted using that method?” When Bonelli’s lips thinned as if she wouldn’t confirm this, I simply pressed on. “If it is, your guys probably looked for the key already. But if DeLeuw hid it before he died, it could be anywhere. You’d have to go through all of those artworks in the storage unit with a fine-tooth comb.”
“More like a handheld scanner,” the detective said. “The FBI found one in DeLeuw’s office that looks like it was specially designed to read the chip. At least, that’s what Dion told them, if he can be trusted.”
That was interesting news, I thought. If both a key and a chip existed, they must have been
manufactured somewhere. By Encyte? If DeLeuw already had prototypes created, why hadn’t he told Dion that? Could it be true that he was shopping the product around behind its inventor’s back?
“Did George have a bank safe-deposit box?” I asked.
She nodded. “The FBI has checked that, and all the other obvious places such as locked desk drawers, file cabinets, and a wall safe. After they found nothing resembling the chip in any of those places, they moved the rest of his stuff out of the house so they could take their time searching it. And to reduce the chances that someone else might find the key before they do.”
I could see the wisdom of this approach. “I still have my doubts, though, about Dion as a killer. If you questioned him, you must have noticed that he’s a serious nerd. I can picture him maybe getting worked up during a World of Warcraft game, but not clobbering someone in real life.”
“No telling what someone will do if he thinks he’s been cheated out of a fortune,” the detective said.
True, I supposed, since Nick and his son lived a very modest, working-class lifestyle. Still, I hoped to deflect suspicion from them. “Of all the people I met at the viewing, only Marjorie seemed really hostile toward George. Did you know their only daughter died of a heroin overdose about four years ago?”
“We questioned his ex about that. As you say, she didn’t speak very kindly about DeLeuw. But she can prove she was in New York at the time of the murder.”
“She might’ve paid someone to do it.”
“But a hit would be premeditated, wouldn’t it?” Bonelli reminded me. She sounded as if, against her better judgment, she was enjoying our brainstorming session. “Besides, the woman had been divorced from George for years and was getting alimony. So why kill him now?”
With no answer for that, I fell to watching the action at the small playground a few hundred feet away. A young mother mediated between a couple of toddlers, no doubt brother and sister, who squabbled over the swings.
“Is Danielle his only living relative?” I asked Bonelli. “If so, she’ll probably inherit everything. Though, at the viewing, she acted as if she couldn’t imagine anyone killing George over something as petty as an inheritance.”
The detective scoffed. “I have a feeling DeLeuw’s inheritance will be anything but petty. Those artworks alone have to be worth . . . Well, I’m no expert, but—”
“A whole lot,” I finished. “Speaking of his collection, Anita and I have a theory about the murder weapon. Was it that abstract stone sculpture from the front hall?”
Bonelli locked those dark eyes on me until I suspected handcuffs would come next.
“I’m interested in art, so I noticed it before,” I explained. “Dion said you questioned him about that piece. And I saw that strange, ragged wound on George’s head. The stone had a kind of sharp edge.”
“Cassie . . .” She shook her head, maybe at the futility of keeping any police information confidential in a small town. “Yes, we found traces of his blood on that piece.”
“Just traces? Any fingerprints?”
“It had been wiped down with some kind of cloth.”
Ah, I thought. So the killer did act on impulse, but took enough time afterward to try to erase the evidence. “Fibers?”
“A few. They didn’t match any items that we could find in the house.”
Finishing my lukewarm coffee, I reflected on that for a minute. “Did anyone see a visitor come to DeLeuw’s house around that time? One of the suspects, or even a stranger? After all, it was the middle of the day.”
“The middle of a workday, when his nearest neighbors weren’t home. The landscaper claims to have been working at the back of the property, with noisy equipment and ear protection, all afternoon. The maid says she was cleaning upstairs. She did hear DeLeuw talking now and then, but assumed he was on his speakerphone. She said she’d been told not to eavesdrop, so she deliberately tuned that out.”
I put all this together. “So it sounds as if someone parked on the street—instead of in the driveway—and came up the front walk. George willingly let him or her in. They talked but didn’t get into an obvious shouting match. That person killed him, then left the same way, without being seen.”
Bonelli nodded. “That’s the most likely scenario. So you see why we’re looking at people he knew well.”
The sunlight slanted lower through the park’s trees now. Three teenage boys with backpacks approached down the path, ribbing one another and guffawing loudly. If the high school had let out, I thought, it must be after three o’clock.
The same idea probably occurred to Bonelli, because she uncrossed her legs and leaned forward on the bench.
“You’re pretty good at this, Cassie, but you need to back off now.”
“Was any of the stuff I heard from the people at the viewing helpful to you?”
“Not really. I interviewed all the same people you talked to. The difference is, I didn’t take what they said at face value. I dug a little deeper.”
“And?”
“Nick Janos probably didn’t tell you that he went over to DeLeuw’s house himself, the day before the murder, and accused George of cheating Dion.”
That threw me. “No, he didn’t.”
“And no matter how blasé Danielle acted about her possible inheritance, she needs money very much right now. She’s invested more in her line of shops than she can ever hope to make back. She admitted that last month she asked George for a loan, to help keep the business afloat, but he turned her down.”
I had to appreciate the detective’s investigative skills. Of course, she must have resources far beyond my puny Internet access.
“Anything else?” I asked.
“Louis Monroe, the landscaper, has a juvenile record for shoplifting. Nothing violent and no arrests since then. Still, he could have been pocketing some valuable knickknack when DeLeuw walked in. If George threatened to call the cops, maybe Louis panicked.”
I remembered Marjorie saying she suspected Louis. Could she have known about his record, or was it just her knee-jerk reaction to suspect “the help”?
Bonelli handed me her card. “If you do hear or see anything genuinely suspicious, let me know.” She stood up then, and zipped her rain jacket higher against the late-afternoon breeze. “But as for the folks you’ve talked to so far, take it from me. Every one of them probably lied to you . . . about something.”
Chapter 12
Sarah greeted my return with a worried frown, as if she’d expected Bonelli to haul me away in the back of a squad car.
“Everything’s fine,” I reassured my assistant. “She just wanted to know why I was questioning people at the funeral home. And after I explained, she wanted to know what I found out.”
“That’s a relief!” Sarah pressed a hand to her chest.
“Bet you thought you might be stuck running this place by yourself, eh?” I teased.
“Where I come from, people do get put in jail for crimes they didn’t commit,” she said soberly. “Especially in something like a high-profile murder, when the cops are in a hurry to make an arrest.”
I’d never pried into Sarah’s personal background, and from her mailing address I knew she lived in a nice enough area these days. But she’d mentioned having taught in a couple of inner-city schools, so this hint that she’d also grown up in a tough neighborhood didn’t surprise me.
“And of course, they always look hard at the person who reported finding the body,” I added. “Guess I managed to convince Bonelli that of all the possible suspects, I had the least to gain. Plus, they know I wasn’t trying to make off with any artworks—at least, not that day—because they searched my pockets, my duffle bag, and my car.”
“Glad you’re in the clear.” Sarah shouldered her satchel-style purse. “Well, if you don’t need me for anything else tonight, I have a committee meeting at my church. . . .”
I glanced at the clock. It was already past five, so she was legitimately done for the da
y. “No problem. Thanks again for staffing the counter while I was gone. I’ll do my level best to spend more time here in the shop from now on!”
“Not exactly your fault, when a policewoman takes you off for questioning.” She smiled and wiggled her fingers in good-bye. “Have a nice, uneventful evening.”
“I’ll try.”
Left alone, I checked on the boarder cats again. Satisfaction warmed me when I saw that Harpo had eaten all of his supper—his regular food, supplied by Anita—and now settled in on the perch of his condo to groom himself. For a creature who had been through so much—and downsized from a McMansion to a closet-sized enclosure—he looked fairly serene. Everyone should roll with life’s changes so well.
Upstairs, I fed my own cats and nuked a frozen dinner for myself. While the microwave was counting down, I called Nick’s home phone to check on his status. Foolishly, I hadn’t gotten a cell number for Dion, and absentmindedly he hadn’t offered it, so I got an answering machine. I left a message to say I hoped his dad was on the mend and asked Dion to keep me posted.
After dinner, I sank down on the slipcovered sofa. It was only around seven, but once again I felt exhausted too early by all of the tense situations I’d navigated that day. And I’d thought boarding and grooming cats would be an easy, no-drama way to make a living! Of course, I’d never expected to get involved in a client’s murder.
You’re not involved, Cassie. Bonelli warned you to stay out of it, and you should listen to her. All you need to do now is wait and see if anyone wants to adopt Harpo.
Of course, it will have to be someone who’s sincerely interested in his well-being, not someone who’ll abuse him or neglect him. I realized that, from what I knew of DeLeuw’s inner circle, I didn’t really trust any of them to have the cat’s best interests at heart. That could complicate the issue for me if one or more of them did come forward.
If George actually left the cat to one of them in his will, though, I may just have to hand Harpo over. That would be tough, but I don’t have any legal right to refuse.
The Persian Always Meows Twice Page 11