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The Persian Always Meows Twice

Page 19

by Eileen Watkins


  At first I assumed she was simply gearing up for an even more aggressive attempt to wrest Harpo away from me, and I was ready to call her back and tell her not to bother. But her last line gave the message a different spin.

  She sounded as if she might actually know what was going on, and might be ready to tell me. If that was the case, you bet I’d meet with her!

  Somewhere private but also public, though. And somewhere I couldn’t be bludgeoned with any heavy objects.

  Chapter 20

  The Marjorie who sat a couple of feet away from me, in the shadows of the park gazebo, was a different woman from the one who had stormed into my shop days before.

  Her makeup and clothes were more subdued, her manner less arrogant. I realized that she might have meant her phone message as more of a warning than a threat. But I still wondered if she was just hoping to make me a coconspirator in some new scheme.

  She’d first suggested walking in the park, but lowering clouds made us retreat to the park’s quaint shelter for what promised to be a long talk.

  Hands folded in her lap, Marjorie began with an apology for her high-handed attitude when she’d last visited my shop. “You’ve probably suspected, by now, that my interest in Harpo had very little to do with the cat himself.”

  I nodded, playing my cards carefully. “You were hoping that whoever took the cat might also inherit some money from George’s will.”

  Her alert reaction told me I’d guessed right. “That was my reasoning at first. The way George felt about me in recent years, I have no expectations of any inheritance. And maybe it’s my own fault, because during our divorce I treated him pretty badly too. But it occurred to me that, the way he felt about his cat, he might have tied some bequest to whoever gave it a good home. I’ve been receiving a decent alimony check from George for years, and it will be hard to get by without it.” She offered a thin smile. “If that sounds shallow and mercenary, at least you should see that I had no motive to kill him.”

  “None involving money, anyway,” I said.

  She sniffed. “What else? Jealousy? It’s not as if I’ve kept tabs on his love life since we split. If there was another woman, which I doubt, she was welcome to him. We didn’t break up over an infidelity.”

  “No. It was your daughter’s death, I would imagine.”

  Her clear hazel eyes, rimmed in dark liner, locked on my face. “You know about Renée?”

  “George once mentioned she had died young, and you commented on the lack of any photos of her in the slideshow at the funeral home. Later I searched online and found an article about her death in a Philadelphia newspaper. I know it was a drug overdose.”

  Sharply, Marjorie turned her gaze out across the park, where some Canada geese grazed in a peaceful herd. “I could never forgive him for that.”

  “You felt she got into drugs because he was so absorbed in his work and didn’t pay her enough attention?”

  Another sour smile. “If it were only that, I might have gotten past it . . . eventually. But then there was the FBI investigation of Redmond & Fowler.”

  I’d almost forgotten about that. Could there be a connection? “The firm was accused of laundering drug money. But they were cleared, right?”

  “Because no hard evidence could be found. The FBI turned R&F’s files inside out but couldn’t find proof of any illegal transactions.”

  A high-pitched scream made us both jump. A light rain had begun, and a couple of giggling preteen girls sprinted across the playground with their sweaters pulled over their heads. Marjorie let out a long breath, as if feeling foolish. I guessed our secretive conversation was making us both paranoid.

  She waited until the girls had moved on before she continued. “I’m sure any records R&F had of those transactions were whitewashed, hidden, or destroyed. Probably, the cash was moved around through wire transfers, loans, and other methods that looked totally legitimate. Some of the most damning files may just have been conveniently misplaced.”

  “George told you that?”

  “Not in so many words, but from what he did say, I could read between the lines. I’ll give him credit; he never wanted any part of that scheme. I think he got pressured, maybe even threatened, to go along. That’s why, once the dust settled, he all but retired from the firm.”

  She didn’t need to connect any more of the dots for me. Renée DeLeuw had died of a heroin overdose. Shortly afterward, George’s own firm was accused of laundering drug money from Central Asia by way of European banks. Even if there might be no direct connection, Marjorie must have seen it as the height of hypocrisy, the ultimate betrayal of their daughter.

  “I can understand why that destroyed your marriage.” I wondered if the damage done had ended, though, with Renée’s death. “Could the company still be laundering money? Did that have something to do with George’s murder?”

  Marjorie shook her head. “With the scrutiny they’ve been under since then, it’s hard to believe they’d dare. Certainly, George put pressure on the other managing directors and even the CEOs to clean up their act. But . . . I think he might also have hung on to a little insurance.” In case I wasn’t keeping up, she sketched it out for me. “I think he copied the incriminating files before they were destroyed. And I think he at least told Chuck Schroeder—whom he thought he could trust—that if R&F ever dabbled in the drug business again, he’d send the ‘missing’ files to the FBI.”

  I sat back on my bench to absorb this news. “Then, when Dion Janos came along with his encryption system, George saw a way of protecting those files so no one else would have access to them. It was a way of ‘testing’ the security of the system, but it also gave him more leverage over the decision-makers at his company. Even if one of them hacked into his computer and found those files, they wouldn’t be able to open them. Maybe they couldn’t even destroy them!”

  “That’s probably what happened, yes. Of course, a lot of this is guesswork on my part, because nobody’s talking. After the funeral, I had dinner with Jerry Ross and tried, subtly, to find out how much he knew. He claimed George told him nothing about the will, except that one existed. When I poked around the subject of the old scandal, he got nervous and evasive. Loyal to George to the end, I suppose—although these days he’s working for Schroeder, too.”

  I nodded. “Jerry mentioned that when he came by the shop yesterday.”

  She stiffened her spine against the back of the wooden seat. “Trying to get Harpo?”

  “No, just delivering more cat food. Though he made an odd comment, that my shop was the ‘safest place’ for Harpo right now.” I paused. “Danielle did make a pitch for the cat, every bit as forceful as yours was.” I told her how George’s sister had approached me at the Firehouse.

  Marjorie rolled her eyes toward the gazebo ceiling. “Of course she would have caught on by now. George introduced her to the people at Encyte years ago, and after the funeral she was palling around with the Schroeders. Danielle’s no bubble-headed California girl. I’ll bet she knows more about what’s going on than anyone. The legit stuff and the nonlegit—”

  She broke off at the sound of feet running in our direction. A lean, elderly man jogged past in the drizzle, shooting us a friendly smile. We waited until he’d passed out of earshot. Even the park gazebo wasn’t quite deserted enough today for our conversation.

  Speaking softly, I picked up the thread again. “Danielle could be concerned about keeping everything under wraps to protect her brother’s reputation . . . and the company’s.”

  “Very likely. Maybe she set your shop on fire, or hired someone to do it.”

  “Well, until fifteen minutes ago, you and she were running neck and neck as my main suspects. But if you were behind it, I can’t believe you’d go out of your way to explain this whole complicated mess to me.” I scrutinized her face, the worry lines more visible today. “But why are you telling me all this? With what you know, you could have gone to the police as soon as George was murdered.” />
  She shook her head. “I didn’t want to believe there was any connection. It wasn’t until word got out about those encrypted files that I put it all together. Even then I thought if I could find the key myself, I could use it the same way George must have done . . . to keep R&F from repeating its past mistakes.”

  “A dangerous game,” I reminded her. “Look how he ended up.”

  “I see that now. The point is, if Danielle also wants Harpo, I must have been right—the cat has something to do with the key. If you want, I’ll go with you to the police right now and tell them.”

  I finally admitted to Marjorie that the situation was under control. “My handyman, Dion’s father, guessed that it might be hidden in one of the collar tags. I gave them to Detective Bonelli, and she’s already handed them over to the FBI. So if somebody wanted to keep those files secret, just by chasing after the key, they’ve brought about their worst nightmare.”

  Only after the words were out of my mouth did I remember that Bonelli had said not to tell anyone else that the FBI was checking out the collar. But really, at this point, what harm could it do?

  Marjorie sagged against the back of the bench, looking both defeated and relieved by this news. “Those files may contain all the evidence anyone needs to reopen the case against R&F. So if George was killed over this business, at least he’ll have his revenge in the end. I can’t wait to see those bastards get what’s coming to them!”

  * * *

  I got back to my shop just before Bear’s owner, Cindy Reynolds, arrived to pick him up. Figuring that the tall, outdoorsy-looking woman might have read or heard about last night’s fire, I explained that our sprinkler system had kicked in to protect the cats. I added, “We gave Bear an extra grooming this morning—no charge—to get any leftover traces of the smoke out of his fur.”

  Cindy still looked disturbed by what had happened, so I assured her that the firefighters had discovered the cause and it was being taken care of. She thanked me for my honesty and for the extra grooming. By the time she left, I had reason to hope that I would keep her as a customer.

  “The cause of the fire ‘is being taken care of ’?” Sarah asked me slyly after the customer had gone.

  “In the sense that Bonelli is trying to track down the arsonist and throw his or her ass in jail.” Silently, I hoped I wasn’t being overconfident by staying open for business. Was I risking not just the safety of all the cats, but possibly my life and Sarah’s?

  My assistant took her usual seat behind the sales counter. “Speaking of suspects, what did the former Mrs. DeLeuw have to say?”

  I let out a long breath. “What didn’t she have to say? She pretty much explained everything to me—not who killed George; she doesn’t know that—but the probable motive. It turns out, she’s sort of on our side now and was very glad to hear that Harpo’s collar and tags are with the feds.” I grabbed the last brownie and poured myself a half cup of coffee to wash it down. “This is a lot more complicated than any of us thought, except possibly Bonelli. I’ll tell you later—it’s too much to go into now. We still have four other cats to clean up before the end of the day. And don’t forget, one of them is the infamous Stormy!”

  “Oh Lord, that’s right.” My assistant winced. “Good thing my medical insurance is paid up.”

  Giving the pale-gray creature a bath proved to be such an ordeal that several times I wanted to literally throw in the towel and let the little monster just lick himself clean. But even though he wasn’t very sooty, I knew there might have been unhealthy substances in the smoke that could make him sick. At least his mostly shaved coat made our job easier.

  Sarah and I wrestled him into a harness and secured its leash to a metal arm above the tub. While she squeezed liquid soap all over him, I massaged it into his fur; then I held him as she used the sprayer to rinse him off, staying close to his skin so the water wouldn’t strike him too forcefully. Still, from his wails, growls, and hisses, you’d have thought we were tearing him limb from limb. We both tried to stay cool and talk to him in soft, reassuring voices, but at that same time I kept a firm grip. Neither of us got too close to his face, and while I always held his front paws, Sarah kept an eye out for slashes from his powerful hind legs.

  After a while he quieted a little and seemed resigned to his undignified fate. But when I tried to stretch him on his back so Sarah could rinse his belly, he convulsed in a suddenly howling frenzy and slashed me across the wrist. I didn’t often curse at my clients’ cats—or in front of my churchgoing assistant—but that was enough to break my resolution.

  Sarah’s jaw sagged. “Cassie, are you all right? You’re bleeding!”

  “I’ll be okay.” I grabbed Stormy by the scruff of his neck and stood him up on his hind legs in the tub. “Just rinse him off as quick as you can.”

  After that we wrapped our miniature lion in a bath towel, which at least kept him from using his claws on us, and blotted him dry. By now I trusted the hair dryer again, and Sarah turned it on low while I brushed and fluffed the fur around Stormy’s face and paws and at the tip of his tail. I then deposited him in the drying cage, with a low-heat blower mounted outside but aimed in toward him, to finish the job.

  Meanwhile, I noticed the towel from around his body was streaked with blood—mine. The inside of my lower right arm looked like someone had been playing tic-tac-toe with a razor blade.

  “Gosh, you should see a doctor for that!” Sarah told me. “You might need stitches, or even a shot.”

  It stung like hell, but I could see the scratches didn’t go very deep. “Looks worse than it is, I think. I’ll just rinse it with peroxide and stick a gauze patch on it. At least it’s not a bite!”

  We continued with our grooming assembly line for a couple more hours, and I wore long gloves for protection. Most of the other boarders were shorthairs, which had pros and cons. They weren’t as accustomed to being bathed and groomed, so they complained a lot, but with less fur to wash and dry, the whole process went quicker. Sarah and I got a rhythm going, and by five o’clock we had almost finished.

  Both of us brushed airborne tufts of damp, wispy fur from our noses and lips. Our aprons and slacks of course, were covered with the stuff.

  “You go on home,” I told my assistant. “I can’t thank you enough for your help today. I never imagined we’d ever have a marathon session like this one.”

  “It was kind of fun,” she insisted, with a tired grin. “Of course, I wasn’t the one who got slashed. You take care of that arm, and go to a doctor if it starts to look infected.”

  “I promise.” Sarah had a tendency to mother me, but in a way that annoyed me less than my own mother’s nagging.

  I saw her out and locked the front door of the shop. Passing the coffeemaker, I decided I could use another cup before I started on Harpo. I’d left him for last, because unlike the others, he probably wasn’t going anywhere too soon.

  As I settled on a stool near the front counter with my mug, my phone rang.

  Bonelli! That gave me a jolt of hopeful energy.

  “Hi,” I said brightly. “What’s up?”

  She sighed on the line. “Bad news, I’m afraid. They used DeLeuw’s special scanner on both tags and even X-rayed them. They’re solid tin. Nothing inside either one that could possibly be a chip.”

  “Damn.” I slumped over the counter. “That’s so weird, though. Marjorie was here this afternoon, and even she thought we were on the right track.” I filled the detective in on what George’s ex-wife had to say. Though Bonelli didn’t comment much, I got the sense none of it surprised her. Probably the FBI had suspected all along that the encrypted files might relate to R&F’s money-laundering shenanigans.

  I didn’t admit that I’d blabbed to Marjorie about turning over the collar to the authorities, but what did that matter now? It had been a false lead anyway.

  “Guess it’s back to square one,” said Bonelli. “If there’s anybody more disappointed than you or me, it’ll be tho
se guys who are still combing through all that stuff in the warehouse.”

  “I bet. Thanks for the call anyway.”

  Now I felt not only exhausted, but deflated. I’d been so sure we’d found the answer! There was no guarantee, of course, but it did seem likely that unlocking those files would help solve George’s murder.

  I recalled what Marjorie had said about Danielle. What was her interest in this? Did she want to bring her brother’s killer to justice? Or was she his killer? She was most likely to inherit everything from him, but for that very reason it would be stupid of her to commit the crime herself. And from what Marjorie had said, Danielle didn’t seem like a stupid woman.

  On the other hand, for her to try to recover Harpo and the chip made more sense. She might just want to cover up anything that could tarnish George’s memory and his company’s reputation. I could see her forming an alliance with his colleague Chuck Schroeder to accomplish that. How far would she go, though? Douse a towel in nail polish remover, push it through my back window, and set it on fire? Or hire somebody to do that for her?

  My right arm throbbed beneath the gauze bandage, my lungs still tickled from smoke and cat dander, and I felt a headache coming on. I decided I’d racked my brain and body enough for one day. I’d clean up Harpo before he ingested too much smoke from his fur, then call it quits. At least I knew I could handle him all by myself.

  I went through the same routine as with Stormy, but far more peacefully. The cream-colored Persian was so starved for attention by now that he even purred during my quick prebath combing. I bathed and rinsed him off at a brisk pace, eager to be finished for the day. Unfortunately, now that his collar was off, the area around his neck had more of a tendency to mat. While I was drying him, I used thinning scissors on one spot and worked carefully to loosen the knot.

 

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