Fat Cat Takes the Cake

by Janet Cantrell

  She eyed the cup, but couldn’t tell what was inside, since it had a lid with a drink spout. “Okay. I love hot chocolate.” She was sure there wouldn’t be any marshmallows. She took a sip. There wasn’t any chocolate either. It was carob.

  “Thanks, Eddie.” She decided to hold the cup for a few minutes and pretend to sip. For her, a true chocolate lover, carob was nothing but a dirty trick. It was almost chocolate, but not quite. Your nose was fooled until your tongue got the full, deceptive impact.

  As they approached the corner before the diner, a familiar pickup truck drove past. It looked very much like Mike Ramos’s truck.

  Great. Now the morning was perfect. Her sleep-in was ruined, she was mocked by hot carob, and Mike had seen her taking a walk with Eddie Heath. She probably couldn’t pretend this was a business meeting.

  She was going to have to make up her mind. Either she kept seeing Eddie Heath or she didn’t. The trouble was, her brain knew which decision she should make. But here he was next to her, exuding a distinctly sexy aura, touching her hand when he handed her the cup and sending shock waves through her admittedly weak body. To make everything worse, when he trained those bedroom eyes on her, as he did now when he talked about how well Quincy was doing, she had trouble tearing her gaze away, even to check on her obedient (for a change) cat.

  “Hey, look where we are,” Eddie said as they approached the front of Meet N Eat.

  The morning was very cold and Chase was sorry the place wasn’t open yet so they could go in and warm up. They probably wouldn’t have let Quincy in, however.

  “We saw that drunk guy here,” Eddie went on. “Remember? Langton Hail. I wonder if he was ever sober before he started coming into my health bar.”

  “He visits your place?”

  “He started coming a few days ago. I think he’s serious about going straight. He’s talked to me about his addiction. People do that. They talk to me like I’m a bartender.”

  “So he’s an alcoholic?” Chase wondered if Ron North knew the man had an alcohol addiction. He was giving him shots from the flask. That seemed like cruelty to Chase, tempting the man with his vice. Did Langton Hail get angry about that and kill Ron North?

  “That’s what he says. He was drunk at the reunion, looked like he was still drunk the next morning, and then—”

  “What did you say? What next morning?”

  “After the reunion.”

  “You saw him? Where?”

  “I drive past the high school to get to work. I told you I saw a car there? I didn’t tell you this part. I didn’t know who he was then. But it was Hail in his car the next morning. It looked like he was just waking up, stretching and everything. Like he’d slept in his car there all night.”

  “You had time to see all that?”

  “I was at a red light. When I thought about it, it seemed funny he was still there. He got out and started clearing his windshield, full of snow, as the light turned.” Eddie thought for a half a second. “Maybe he wasn’t that drunk, then. He was moving well, standing up okay.”

  “We need to turn around here,” Chase said. She wanted to think this out. It wouldn’t be good for the detective to get wind of Eddie’s story. That would eliminate one more suspect and drive another nail into—not Julie’s coffin, exactly, but her murder charge. This was Tuesday and her hearing was Friday. There wasn’t much time left to figure out a way to save her best friend from a horrible ordeal, an indictment and a trial.

  Then another thought took her a different direction. Why on earth did Langton Hail and Van Snelson bother to alibi each other if they had actual alibis?

  “You on a tight schedule?” Eddie’s words dripped skepticism.

  “Not that. I just remembered something I need to do.”

  These two stood there talking. That’s not how you took a walk, the cat knew. Taking a walk meant moving. It was cold out here and the annoyed tabby wanted to go inside and curl up on the soft chair. He shook himself to keep warm. That was when he noticed that the harness wasn’t fastened all the way. He wondered if he could get it off again and return home. He worked at it with his left hind leg, then his right hind leg. It was coming undone. Another little bit and he could start moving.

  “Anyway, I think Hail is making a real effort to—” Eddie spun around at the same moment Chase felt the slack on the leash. “Your cat’s loose.”

  “Yes, he certainly is.” Chase sighed. “It looks like he might be headed home, at least.”

  “That would be a first, wouldn’t it?” Eddie said, taking off at full speed.

  Eddie and Chase scrambled after the fleeing Quincy. A flash of ginger fur disappeared around the corner and they both sped up.

  Chase started panting after half a block, but Eddie easily could run another twenty miles.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “I’ll be fine.” It was annoying that she was winded after less than a block.

  “You oughta join the gym I belong to. Working out is so good for your body.”

  Talking while running wasn’t helping her at all. They raced down the short end of the block, then rounded another corner.

  Chase held out her arm to bring Eddie to a halt. Quincy sat on his haunches half a block away, in front of an apartment building. She didn’t want to charge up and make him take off again. Chase held the empty harness tightly in her hand so that it wouldn’t jingle and walked slowly toward her cat. Eddie stayed a few steps behind her. She was relieved that he understood what she was doing and followed her lead.

  “Hi there, Quincy Wincy,” she crooned.

  He turned his head toward her, but stayed put.

  When she was two feet away, a door opened and he took off.

  “Well, hello. Charity Oliver, isn’t it?” Dickie Byrd said. He was coming from the apartments. With him was a much younger woman. Chase was pretty sure it was the person she’d seen him kissing a week ago. She was short, with ample curves. Chase hadn’t been able to tell how young she was last week at a distance. Dickie’s face turned red.

  “Hi, Dickie. I have to go get my cat.”

  “Dickie?” the woman said. “Really?” She looked at him. “Aren’t you going to introduce me, Richard?”

  Chase hesitated, curious about the two. Dickie didn’t say a word. After a brief glare at Chase and a glance at Eddie, he stared at the ground, his lips clamped tight.

  “Gotta run,” Chase said, and hurried off.

  Quincy came to a stop at the end of that block and let Chase put the harness back on. When she had to take off her gloves to make sure she got the harness fastened securely, she realized how cold it was. Her fingers were stiff as she pulled her holey gloves over them.

  “Why did he stop?” Eddie asked. Chase noticed that he still wasn’t breathing hard. She was panting so much she could barely speak. All that health food probably was good for a person. It just wasn’t . . . good.

  “Who knows why a cat does anything?” A couple more deep breaths, and she was back to normal.

  “I’m telling you, a gym membership is the way to go. You get muscles without that scary steroid bulk.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You know. People like Bart Fender. He’s got that look. Those lumps between his neck and his shoulders, know what I mean?”

  Yes, that’s what Bart was like. Lumpy. Very solid lumps, but unnatural.

  “What was that all about?” Eddie asked.

  “I think I didn’t get it fastened all the way. I was in a hurry—”

  “No, I meant that business with Dickie Byrd and . . . whoever that was with him.”

  “I’m not entirely sure.”

  “He wasn’t eager to introduce us, was he?”

  “Have you ever seen her before?”

  Eddie shook his head. “Maybe she’s his niece or something. Loo
ks like she lives in those apartments.”

  Or something. Chase was sure the voluptuous woman wasn’t Dickie Byrd’s niece.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Chase raised her face and closed her eyes, loving the baking aromas that always lingered in the Bar None. It was pleasant to be in the shop when no one else was there. She wandered through the kitchen into the salesroom. Even with the lights off, the clean glass in the display case glinted in the late afternoon light. The pink shelves held boxes of dessert bars, standing at attention and lined up like little pink-striped soldiers. Small round tables held stacked boxes, but the supplies there were low. She would have to remember to have either Inger or Mallory replenish them.

  Quincy wound through her legs on her slow amble. It was chilly in the shop with the heat turned down for the day, so his furry rubs felt warm and nice.

  She was at loose ends. Maybe she would get some work done in the office. Sitting at the computer, she pulled up the Bar None webpage to admire the handiwork of Tanner, then opened the screens she needed and got to work.

  Chase paused partway through going over her inventory to think about Van Snelson and Langton Hail, the men she had considered the two best suspects for Ron North’s murder. They both had perfectly good alibis. The principal, even though he was part of a shady real estate exercise and was being blackmailed by Ron, probably for the real estate swindle, was at the high school all night. Chase had less and less respect for the man. Learning that he actually disliked the students and couldn’t stand to be around them contributed to her negative feelings. He might also be skimming money from the school system. But it didn’t look like he had murdered Ron.

  Langton Hail, because he was also part of the real estate deal, and had probably roped Snelson into it with him, was such a good possibility. He, too, was being blackmailed, if they interpreted the notebook correctly. For the school funds or the real estate deals. But he had slept in his car that night.

  So why had they given each other false alibis? Even to the extent of involving Snelson’s wife? Chase’s best guess on that was because they were trying to keep their true whereabouts hidden for other reasons. Van Snelson didn’t want it known yet that he was leaving the high school job. How did that tie in, though? Maybe his marriage was in trouble even then? Divorce seemed to matter more for a school principal than for some other folks. Hail wouldn’t want everyone to know that he was an alcoholic and had drunk too much to drive. At least he had the good sense not to take to the road when he was inebriated. Maybe he had lost his license in the past. He was truly trying to fight his addiction, according to Eddie Heath.

  There was, she thought, still a slight chance that one of these two crooks had murdered Ron North, but it was becoming less and less likely. So who did that leave?

  The name in the notebook under PRINCE (Principal Van Snelson) and PHOTO (real estate developer Langton Hail) was BIRD. Richard “Dickie” Byrd. He hadn’t started giving Ron blackmail money yet, it appeared, since no numbers accompanied his code name, but he was on the list. Maybe he was determined not to let himself be blackmailed and refused to fork over money? At this stage of his political career, a mistress wouldn’t do him any good. What was Dickie Byrd’s alibi?

  Did his wife alibi him, too? Was Dickie with her? Would Detective Niles Olson tell her?

  There was one way to find out.

  He answered his cell phone on the first ring, for once.

  “Hi, Chase.” He sounded easy and friendly today, not uptight and official, as he sometimes did.

  “Detective Olson? Could I ask you a couple of questions?” Quincy, who had been dozing on the floor of the office, decided Chase’s lap was too empty. So he jumped into it and bumped his head against her arm, almost jostling the phone out of her hands.

  “You can always ask.”

  “I guess that’s right.” And he was free to not answer. “I just learned that it was Langton Hail’s car in the parking lot Sunday morning.”

  “Yes, we know that. He admitted leaving his car there when we asked him.”

  “He was in it.”

  “He was in the car? You saw him?”

  “No, Eddie Heath saw him waking up in his car, like he’d been there all night. He didn’t know who it was on Sunday. Now Mr. Hail has started going into Eddie’s shop and he recognized him.”

  There was a pause. That was a good sign, Chase thought. The detective was considering her information. “That doesn’t exactly jibe with his statement.” It sounded like he was talking to himself. “He and Snelson both said they spent the night together at Snelson’s house. Hail was too drunk to drive. Snelson’s wife backed him up at first, but both of their statements have fallen apart. I’ll be damned. I think you’ve got something there, Chase.”

  She grinned. She had given the detective something useful. He would soon find out Julie did not kill anyone. “I have another question. Does Dickie Byrd’s alibi stand up?”

  “Do you know what his alibi is?”

  “No, but if Mona says he was with her . . .”

  “I always take a spouse’s protection with a grain of salt.”

  “If Dickie wasn’t home all night, was he with his mistress?” Quincy became more insistent with his head-butting.

  “Why do you call him Dickie? Is that what most people call him?”

  “Probably not, nowadays. It’s a nickname from high school.”

  “Does he prefer it?”

  “I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure he dislikes it.”

  “Then why do you use it?”

  That was a good question. Maybe she shouldn’t. She had rarely called him anything else, but they weren’t kids anymore. He didn’t even remember her. “You’re right. I should call him Richard.” One more good bump from the cat and her phone flew to the floor.

  She dumped Quincy off her lap and snatched up her phone. “Are you still there?” The battery had fallen out and was on the floor. She put it back together, but the detective didn’t answer her call. She didn’t know much more about Dickie’s alibi now than before she called.

  “You little dickens,” she scolded, picking Quincy up and stroking his back. “You’ve had plenty of exercise. Why are you so feisty today?”

  A sudden sneeze sent the cat to the floor and Chase grabbing a tissue from the box on her desk.

  She abandoned her work on the inventory and took the cat upstairs so he could use up some of his energy batting a Go Go Ball around the apartment. It was her day off, after all, and she shouldn’t be working. She’d only been doing it to occupy her mind, since she wasn’t getting anywhere replacing Julie as the main murder suspect on Olson’s list.

  A gentle snowfall started. It was about three in the afternoon. Her throat felt a bit scratchy, so she made a cup of decaf English Breakfast tea and poured a generous amount of honey into it. She snuggled into the corner of her comfy chair, sipping her sweet home remedy, and watched the flakes, falling straight down in the absence of even a breath of wind.

  At four, she jerked her head up, suddenly awake. The doze had felt good. She was energized. But what had awakened her? Her doorbell sounded. That must have been what she had heard. Her cell phone signaled distress that the battery was low, too, so she plugged it in first.

  She stepped into her slippers and ran down the stairs. When she opened the door, Professor Anderson Fear stood there fidgeting, his shoulders frosted with snow. His fat-tire bicycle leaned against the wall behind him, which meant that he had pedaled over in the snow.

  “Ms. Oliver? Can I speak with you?” His pinched face showed worry.

  “Of course. Come on in.” As she spoke, she realized her throat didn’t feel much better. She had caught Grace Pilsen’s cold, curse the woman.

  She led him up the stairs to her apartment and pointed him to the leather couch. It would be less affected than her chair by the snow that would melt of
f him. After taking off his coat and draping it over the arm, he sat. Quincy eyed him, but didn’t jump up beside him. The cat very much disliked being wet.

  Professor Fear’s dark, disheveled hair was coated with white flakes as well. He took off his glasses and polished the thick lenses on the tail of his mud-brown sweater. “I’m worried about Hilda.”

  “Is she all right?” Chase also knew that her health wasn’t excellent.

  He drew a shaky breath. “Physically, yes. I’m not sure about her mind lately, though.”

  “What’s happened?” Chase unwrapped a cough drop and popped it into her mouth.

  “I went to check in on her this morning and a man was leaving her house. I’m certain he’s the one who was there before. The man she said looked like an egret.”

  “Van Snelson, the high school principal.”

  “Yes, yes. She calls him Nelson, but that’s the one. I ran right in and asked her what had happened.”

  “She did promise not to sign anything, right?”

  “That’s what she said.” His hair had dripped melted snow onto his glasses. He took them off again and rubbed them against the sleeve of his sweater, then stuck them back on his nose. “That’s what she agreed to then, when you were talking to her. But she said today the man had a paper she needed to sign immediately.”

  “She signed it?” Chase sat up straight, her eyes wide. “Did you see it?”

  “Yes, she signed. And no, she doesn’t have a copy.”

  “No copy. This is bad. I need to call Julie.” Chase jumped up and almost tripped over Quincy, who was curled at Professor Fear’s feet. Her cell phone was in the kitchen on the charger. She left it plugged in and stood beside the counter, since it probably didn’t have much charge on it yet. Her body thrummed as she listened to Julie’s phone ring and ring. And ring.

  As soon as Chase broke the connection, Julie returned her call, much to her relief.

  “Hi, I was on another call,” she said. “It was Gerry.”

  “Gerrold Gustafson?” Julie’s lawyer.