The Persian Always Meows Twice

by Eileen Watkins

  “That handkerchief could have been planted,” I pointed out.

  “Probably what the judge thought. The lab said it was a nice material—Irish linen. No stores in town carry anything like that, but it might have come from a mall on the highway or a catalog. I found a similar type online, sold as a set of three. Monogrammed, too.”

  Mark nailed it! I told her about his theory, and she agreed.

  “The fabric was pretty tough,” she added. “It wouldn’t have ripped easily. Our lab guy thinks the corner was actually cut off, then the edges were raveled to make them look torn.”

  That boggled my mind. Very clever—and premeditated.

  “The bigger question is,” Bonelli went on, “instead of just getting rid of it, why plant it in Janos’s truck? If someone did that, they’re sure trying hard to misdirect us.”

  I knew by “us” she meant the police department, but I liked to think I was also part of the investigative team by now. “There’s something big at stake, whatever it is.”

  Her phone rang; someone reminded her about an appointment. She said she was on her way and stood up, taking the folder from her desk.

  “Whether or not Dion or his father committed the murder,” she said to me, “this all started when he told DeLeuw about the encryption system. So the FBI is still pursuing that angle.”

  I also got to my feet. “From what Dion told me, they’re not going to get anywhere without George’s key.”

  “Yeah, and they’re searching for it in a warehouse full of art and other expensive knickknacks.” The detective shook her head. “Talk about hunting for a needle in a haystack!”

  * * *

  Back at the shop, Jerry had arrived and was chatting with Sarah. Whatever his plans were for the day, he wore his usual business-casual turnout of a collared shirt, a navy blazer, and khakis. His short, dark hair looked freshly trimmed. He had stacked two cases of the special cat food on my sales counter, and joked that he figured Harpo was in for a long stay.

  “I hope not,” I admitted. “I’d like to see him settled in a good home where he can roam around instead of being confined all the time. At least he has it better here, though, than at animal control. We let him out for at least a half hour every day, and Sarah loves to play with him.”

  My helper beamed like a doting mother. “He was shy the first few days, but he’s coming out of his shell now. He loves to chase toys and even play fetch with me!”

  Jerry’s smile was less enthusiastic. “I’ll take your word for it. With my allergy, I probably shouldn’t go past the front desk.”

  “Want me to bring him out and show him to you?” Sarah asked. “Just from a distance?” Before Jerry or I could respond, she darted into the back room.

  Meanwhile, I recalled seeing George’s assistant coming out of the Thai restaurant with Marjorie, and again wondered what that was about. Were they dating on the sly, or just thrown together by the circumstances of the funeral? Supposedly, Jerry knew all about George’s business affairs. Could he have said anything to spark her interest in taking ownership of Harpo?

  I offered the plate of brownies. “Have one of these—they’re wonderful! Sarah is turning out to be a woman of many talents.”

  “Umm, don’t mind if I do!” Jerry chose a corner square with ample chocolate icing.

  “Can I offer you coffee? It’s not Starbucks, but on the other hand, it’s free.”

  He laughed and accepted that, too. I started pouring some into a spare mug until he said, “Just a half cup. I’ve got a couple more errands to run before noon.”

  I passed it to him, then leaned across the sales counter on my elbows. “So, Jerry, what’s the scoop? Did DeLeuw make a will or not?”

  The boyish assistant glanced toward the ceiling—invoking his deceased boss, maybe, or just expressing the madness of it all. “Apparently he had one, but that’s all I know. He never discussed anything that personal with me. He got a private trust company to draft a will a few years back, and they’re also serving as executor of his estate. As long as half of his possessions are impounded in a warehouse, though, everything’s in limbo.”

  It seemed pretty crazy to me, too. “And after all this, they may never find that computer chip.”

  “Even if they do, what if it’s a waste of time? I’m betting those encrypted files are just something routine, like an inventory of his artworks.”

  “So you have no inkling of what could be on there?”

  He gave a palms-up shrug. “He told me he wanted to test Dion’s system. I think he still intended to present it to Encyte. But then the kid got all worked up because things weren’t moving fast enough.”

  “Dion told me a Chinese firm came out with the same idea, and he thought George had double-crossed him.”

  “Hey, I don’t know whether or not the Chinese system is exactly the same—I’m no expert on these things. But even if it’s close, they must have come up with it on their own. I can’t imagine George selling the system to anyone except Encyte, where he’s on the board.”

  Tempted beyond my ability to resist, I helped myself to a second brownie. “Detective Bonelli told me the cops found a special scanner among George’s things that might have been designed to read the missing chip.”

  Jerry snapped his fingers. “See? Who else would have made that for him except Encyte? He probably was already talking to them about the deal.”

  “Did he tell Dion that?” I asked.

  “I overheard him trying to explain to the kid a couple of times, but in the end Dion acted so paranoid that George gave up. Frankly, I think he felt insulted, with the son and even the father calling his house and accusing him. He probably figured, the hell with it. Why should he put up money for somebody who doesn’t trust him? Who doesn’t even know how the business works?”

  That sounded more like the DeLeuw I had known. I could see that he might resent being pressured by someone like Dion, maybe even to the point of passing on a lucrative deal.

  “How long did you work with George?” I asked.

  “Let’s see . . . about ten years. At Redmond & Fowler, I started as EA for a group of the MDs—that’s managing directors. Then, as the business expanded, each MD got his own assistant and George asked for me.”

  “After he started working from home, I guess you only helped him part-time.”

  Jerry nodded. “And I went back to doing some work for another of the MDs.”

  “Charles Schroeder?” When he looked surprised by my guess, I explained, “You were talking with him at the viewing.”

  “Oh, right . . . when you introduced yourself,” Jerry remembered.

  Sarah returned then from the boarding area, with Harpo in her arms, and announced with a lilt, “Here he is!” She held the Persian the way I’d taught her to, firmly against her body, but the cat could still look over his shoulder at us. “I won’t bring him too close.”

  Jerry responded with a kind of forced smile. “You’ve sure got him cleaned and fluffed up. Is that a new collar?”

  “Oh, no,” I said. “He’s had that blue one all along.”

  “Funny . . . never noticed it before. But then, I was probably keeping my distance. What are those silver tags?”

  This man really must never have owned a pet, I thought. “One’s his license and the other has his name and George’s phone number. In case he ever got lost. Which he could have the day that . . . that he got out.”

  Jerry turned pale. “Good ol’ George,” he said in a tight voice. “He thought of everything.”

  Maybe the sight of the cat brought it all back to him, I thought, even more than George’s funeral had. The violent death of a man he’d worked with for ten years. Arriving at DeLeuw’s house to find police everywhere, and being questioned by Bonelli, as we all were.

  What would be Jerry’s prospects now at Redmond & Fowler? If all the other partners already had assistants, would he become superfluous? Or would Schroeder find a spot for him?

  “George d
id seem like a very careful and thorough guy,” I agreed. “And he cared a lot about Harpo.”

  Sarah must have picked up on Jerry’s discomfort, and possibly thought he was worried about his allergy. “I’ll put him away now,” she said, and took the cat back to his condo.

  Seeing an opportunity, I added, “Actually, Danielle has developed an affection for Harpo too.” I explained that I’d seen her at the Firehouse, with the Schroeders, and she’d tried her best to persuade me to let her take the cat back to San Jose.

  Coolly, Jerry observed, “But you still have him.”

  “I said I’d been told to keep him until the will was probated and I intended to stick to that unless his lawyer advised me otherwise.”

  “Good for you,” Jerry said, with a brisk nod. “This is the safest place for him.” Checking his watch, he added, “Thanks for the brownie and the coffee. I gotta run! You need anything else for him, just call me.”

  “Will do.”

  As he closed the front door behind him, Sarah returned from the condo area. “Safest place? I guess he meant instead of the animal shelter.”

  I wondered too. “Yeah, that’s probably what he meant.”

  Chapter 17

  That evening, I actually had no plans and looked forward to the break—just me and my feline family again. Still, the DeLeuw murder was never far from my mind. I might have been willing to leave the investigation up to the professionals, but it was hard not to be curious—especially with George’s sister and ex-wife bugging me about his cat.

  Let’s face it. As long as I still had Harpo in my care, I was enmeshed in the whole drama too.

  Having been played with and fed, my own three cats now arranged themselves in decorative poses around my living room. This time shy Matisse had managed to beat the boys to the best seat in the house, cuddled up next to my thigh. Cole stretched out with his usual dignity along the sofa back, while Mango sat on one of the wall shelves to wash his face.

  Meanwhile, I used my laptop to find out everything I could about DeLeuw’s inner circle. I’m sure Bonelli had access to far more information through her law-enforcement channels. But she wasn’t about to share everything that she knew with me, and maybe I’d make some connections that she’d missed.

  She said everyone I talked to at the funeral home probably lied to me about something. So let’s explore that theory....

  I started with Danielle. Whether or not she’d ever married, apparently she still did business under her maiden name, since her California boutiques were called DeLeuw Designs. They offered clothing and jewelry in the same minimalist, ultramodern style that I’d seen her wearing—long, loose dresses, skirts, and pants in neutral tones, plus geometric metal and stone jewelry.

  An online magazine for women entrepreneurs had done a profile on her a few years back, when she’d opened her second store. The interviewer took a feminist slant, asking if Danielle had encountered any particular obstacles as a businesswoman.

  “Well, I had a brilliant brother almost ten years older,” she said, “so sometimes I got tagged as the ditzy little sister. My parents definitely took his accomplishments, in sports and in school, more seriously. He got an MBA from Columbia, which made my degree from the Fashion Institute of Technology look puny by comparison. But in the end, I think that just gave me more drive. I always felt I had something to prove.”

  A more recent financial story did indicate that Danielle’s stores were in trouble, along with some other high-end boutiques in the San Jose area. Maybe that was why she planned to expand farther south? I saw no mention of any dramatic downturn, such as filing for bankruptcy. But Bonelli said Danielle had asked George for a loan a month ago, to save her business, and he’d refused her. She also remained the most likely to inherit her brother’s estate. Could her financial woes have been so serious, and maybe her childhood resentments still so strong, that she’d want to hasten his demise?

  The only other place her name turned up was in a photo caption for a West Coast museum fund-raiser. She glowed on the arm of a handsome dark-skinned man in a tuxedo. The caption identified him as Deven Mehtar, chief technology officer for Encyte Cybersecurity.

  That was interesting. Was Danielle dating someone from the same security firm that used her brother as a consultant? Of course, maybe that was how they’d met. This picture was the latest reference to her that I could find, from about six months back.

  Not exactly a lie or a scandal. If they didn’t object to a photographer taking their picture, I assumed both of them were single and free to date anyone they wanted. But now I wondered how savvy Danielle might be about her brother’s business dealings with the high-tech firm. Had Mehtar known about the new encryption system that George intended to present to Encyte?

  My phone rang, forcing me to jostle Matisse by reaching into the pocket of my yoga pants. I recognized the number. “Hey, Nick. How are you holding up?”

  “I’m okay. No thanks to the cops in this town.”

  “I talked to Detective Bonelli today. If it’s any consolation, she also thinks someone’s trying to frame you. That’s the person you should probably be mad at.”

  “Maybe. Anyhow, I didn’t call to talk about that nonsense. I’m out of jail, feeling better, and I made the post for your steps. I can come over and replace it tomorrow morning if that’s okay with you.”

  Matisse stood up, arched her back, and tickled my chin with her tail, trying to distract me from the call. I moved her to one side. “That’s fine, Nick. Your timing couldn’t be better—I already did the demo work for you.” I didn’t explain, for the moment, that an unknown intruder had caused the damage.

  “That’s weird,” Nick said. “I thought I secured it pretty good.”

  “I thought so too. We’ll talk about it when you come tomorrow, okay?”

  “All right, Cassie. You have a good night.”

  Glad to hear my handyman had not suffered too badly from his brief incarceration, I returned to researching those near and not-so-dear to the late George DeLeuw.

  Background on his ex-wife was harder to come by.

  Marjorie seemed to have kept a low profile following the divorce. I found a brief interview with her from a different kind of charitable event, a Manhattan rally for a group called Mothers Against Drugs. The reporter noted that while most of those attending came from middle- or working-class backgrounds, Marjorie wanted to show that the scourge of hard drugs affected families in all strata of society.

  “My daughter had every advantage in life,” she was quoted as saying, “but we still lost her to this evil. There are people out there preying on our children. We have to band together and tell them, ‘No more!’ ”

  Again I wondered, did she still blame her ex-husband for making Renée feel unloved and driving her to seek comfort in heroin? From what I’d seen, DeLeuw was a restrained man but not a cold, unfeeling one. I might have preferred him as a parent, in fact, over Marjorie. But maybe I wasn’t seeing her at her best these days, if she was still so angry about her daughter’s death. Could she have been vengeful enough, after all this time, to have argued with George and killed him?

  I found a fair amount of material on Charles Schroeder. Most revealing, though, was a short squib in an article about business leaders who had graduated from West Point. Apparently Schroeder had come from a military family, went to the Point, and did a stint in the navy. He then attended Harvard Business School, got his MBA, and joined Redmond & Fowler. Schroeder was quoted as saying, “My West Point training and naval service taught me the value of hard work, discipline, and survival under pressure that have served me well on Wall Street.” This background fit well with what I remembered of him from our brief meeting at the funeral home—the athletic build, ramrod posture, and impression of stern control.

  I’d left my front window open to catch the evening breeze, and now the loud slam of a car door startled me. On full alert, I stole over to the window and peered outside. Several cars were parked at the curb along
my street, so I couldn’t tell where the noise had come from.

  What if Andy comes back now that I’m home? He might still find a way, even without his own car. I haven’t gotten the lock on the back door replaced yet. If he pounds on that door in a drunken rage, he could break his way in. . . .

  But minutes ticked by with no sight or sound of anyone approaching my house. I dared to relax again. All this speculating about DeLeuw’s murder is making me jumpy.

  My hypervigilant state even seemed to stir up the cats. I watched now as Mango oozed down the wall, from shelf to shelf, then trotted over to the sofa and stared up at Cole. The black cat took this as a challenge and sprang from the back of the sofa to chase the orange tabby. The two skirmished harmlessly underneath the kitchen table for a while, yowling now and then for effect. Matisse and I chose to ignore their boyish antics.

  I turned to my last subject, Jerry Ross. It was easier to find information on him than on the other two. Not only was he listed on LinkedIn and other executive search sites, but he had a Facebook page. That was dominated by postings about his family, which included his wholesomely pretty wife, Chloe, and their preteen children Alice and Ethan. Mostly, Jerry seemed to be the one taking the photos as Ethan made a soccer goal or Alice rode her pony in a lesson. From some of the school teams and locations mentioned, I guessed they lived fairly close by, probably in the next county.

  Funny. I’d have figured Ross for a workaholic, but it looks like he’s had more of a balance between work and family than DeLeuw ever did. Of course, if he’s seeing Marjorie on the side, maybe his suburban life isn’t as rosy as it looks on Facebook.

  From Jerry’s executive profiles, I gleaned that he’d earned an MBA from the University of Pennsylvania and worked as an assistant at another financial firm before joining Redmond & Fowler. He’d mentioned to me that he’d worked for George for ten years and at R&F for a little longer.