Their entrance drew applause, but much of it could have been for their singer. She sashayed onto the small stage like a retro pinup girl, in a cherry-printed halter top, tight black Capri pants and red platform sandals. She must have been around my age, but had styled her hair like a forties vamp, in platinum waves that cascaded to her shoulders. Her eye makeup could have been seen from space, and her scarlet lipstick matched her shoes.
At the microphone, she introduced the band by their first names—Kenny, Herb, Nash and Stan—and herself as Tracy, all in a breathy, Marilyn Monroe voice. They began their first number, “I’ve Got You Under My Skin,” which started out slow and dreamy but then shifted to up-tempo. I was relieved to hear that Tracy actually held in reserve a stronger, earthier tone that came through when she sang.
Then I stole a glance at Mark, who leaned forward in his seat, bright blue eyes riveted to the small stage. What the heck was going on here? Could sexy Tracy have been the reason he was so intent on coming out tonight to see Quintessence?
We finished our dinners while listening to the group’s first set. To me, all of the musicians sounded very good, and different numbers gave each of them some solo time. Tracy had a decent voice, too, but when she went into that breathy mode it got on my nerves. I also didn’t care for her suggestive patter with the two younger guys in the band, and occasionally even comments about men seated at the front of the audience. The feminist in me wondered why she couldn’t concentrate on the music, instead of falling back on some trite sex-kitten act.
Quintessence took a short break just as our college-age waiter removed our empty plates and took our orders for coffee. After he’d left, Mark asked me, “So, how do you like the band?”
I opted for honesty with a dash of tact. “I think the guys sound great, and they’ve got a nice, versatile repertoire. The singer’s talented, but she seems to be trying too hard.”
He grinned. “Well, I understand she’s only been working with them for a couple of months, so maybe she’s still finding her stride. She’s the niece of the keyboard guy.” Before I could ask how he knew all of this, he posed another question. “What did you think of the guitarist?”
That confused me a bit. “He’s good. I really liked his solo on ‘My Favorite Things.’ He’s got kind of a Wes Montgomery style.” When I spotted a twinkle in Mark’s eye, things finally came together for me. “He’s the one giving you lessons, right?”
“Ah, you guessed!”
The waiter brought our coffees and tried to interest us in dessert. We passed on any of the flaming Firehouse specialties, Mark ordering a slice of cheesecake and I the flan. Satisfied, the waiter bustled off again.
Mark added milk to his coffee and stirred it thoughtfully. “Think I’ll ever be able to play like that?”
This time I needed an even more skillful blend of tact and candor. Mark’s playing was fine, for someone who’d only been back at the guitar for a little over a month. Bushy-haired Stan obviously had developed his finesse over the better part of a lifetime.
“I don’t think he got to sound like that in just a few months, or even a few years,” I said gently, “so I wouldn’t expect you to, either. I think you’ve made a fine start, though, and he must be a good teacher.”
Basically a realist, Mark nodded, with a self-deprecating smile. “Maybe after I’ve been at it for another twenty years or so?”
“Well, I’m sure this is his life’s work. If it’s any consolation, I doubt that Stan could pin together a broken leg on a Great Dane, either.”
“Probably not.”
When Quintessence finally took a break, Stan chugged from a bottle of water and gave Mark a little wave. Then he left the platform to say hi to both of us. Mark introduced me, mentioning what I did for a living. Stan enthused about the cleverness and charm of cats in general, and reminisced about a few he’d had as pets.
“Mark surprised me just a few days ago by playing a couple of songs,” I told Stan. “He was always too self-conscious before, but he must have learned a lot from his lessons with you.”
The older man clapped his student on the shoulder. “He’s coming along fast, for somebody who was so rusty.”
Mark dropped his gaze modestly. “Hearing you guys tonight reminded me how much further I have to go!”
“Ah, not really. Once you get the basics down, you’ll just have to learn to riff and improvise. That’s a matter of personal style, and it takes time to develop.”
“I tried to remind him that you’ve probably been at it for a long while,” I said, then hoped Stan didn’t think I was calling him an old fossil.
“I have,” he agreed. “And even though when I first started gigging I also held down other jobs, they weren’t very demanding ones. Mark’s a partner in a busy clinic, where sometimes he has to work late and even has emergencies. I’m sure that doesn’t give him a lot of spare time to practice.”
“True,” Mark admitted, with a disheartened air.
“But you’re also a smart guy, and you’re motivated. It shouldn’t be too long before you’re ready for prime time, as they say.” Stan gulped the last of his water. “Let’s see where you are in another month or two. You might even be ready to sit in with us for a couple of numbers.”
Mark’s chiseled jaw dropped in panic. “Oh, I don’t know. . . .”
“Well, we’ll see. Meanwhile, gives you something to shoot for, right?” With a broad wink, the older man bid us goodbye and headed back to the stage.
The rest of the band members had been relaxing and chatting up there, and now I noticed that Tracy had fixed her bedroom eyes on my boyfriend. When he watched Stan return to the platform, she intercepted Mark’s gaze with a wink of her own. He quickly broke the connection, and I also shot her an icy glare that I hoped would freeze Tracy’s libido in its tracks.
Much as I’d have liked to see Mark fulfill his dream of playing with a real jazz combo, did it have to be this one? I didn’t relish the idea of him spending any time in closer proximity to the flashy blonde, especially if she acted like a sexpot offstage as well as on.
During the music and our conversation with Stan, I had silenced my phone but felt it buzz. Now I checked the screen and was surprised that Sarah had called. She usually didn’t contact me on my cell after hours unless it was important. I explained this to Mark before I listened to her message.
“Cassie, I’m sorry to bother you after hours, but I just got off the phone with Robin. The M.E. finished the preliminary autopsy on Bernice. Sounds like she didn’t die just from the asthma, though I’m sure that didn’t help. They found cat hairs in her lungs—no big surprise—and also pillow fibers. The Dalton police think Chester smothered her!”
Mark must have heard me gasp, because he shot me a concerned look. Briefly, I explained the situation. “I should call her back. Do you mind?”
He patted the air. “No, no. Go ahead.”
I hit speed dial for her number. When Sarah heard the background noise on my end, she caught on that I must be in a public place. “Oh, dear, are you out with Mark? I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“That’s okay. I won’t be able to talk too long, though, because we’re at the Firehouse and the music will be starting again. What makes the cops think Chester killed Bernice?”
“She definitely suffocated. The only other explanation might be that one of the pillows fell over her face while she slept, and maybe a cat or two laid on top of it. But I think that would be kind of a long shot, don’t you?”
“It’s no crazier than the idea of Chester murdering her. Why would he do that?”
“I can’t imagine. She was his lifeline to the world, almost—he depended on her to survive.” Sarah sighed deeply. “But Robin said the M.E. found signs that she struggled. Something about her eyes . . .”
My heart sank. “Hemorrhaging? Yes, Mark also said that would be present, if she tried to fight someone off.”
“Really? Oh, dear.” Sarah fell silent for a few seconds. �
�And you know how cops are, hardheaded and practical. When they came to the house and talked to Chester, they could tell he was kind of confused. Robin says they think maybe he didn’t realize what he was doing. That Bernice was snoring too loud, or something, and he was just trying to keep her quiet.”
“They didn’t arrest him, did they?”
“Not yet. Guess they don’t have any real evidence so far. But they took the bed linens and all of her medications for analysis. I still don’t know what that will prove. Even if Chester’s prints or his DNA are on the pillow, he could have touched it at some other time, for another reason.”
True enough, I thought. “How can I help?”
“I don’t know. Robin’s planning to go over there again tomorrow, hoping Chester may have calmed down a little. But she doesn’t know how to handle the police—she gets angry, and that’s not the best approach—and she’s never dealt with a situation like this before. She knows you have, and . . .”
I filled the pause. “And she wants me to sleuth around a little? I don’t know what good it’ll do, but I can try.”
“Would you? I know we have a light schedule at the shop tomorrow, so I can cover it for the half day. Robin plans to go to Chester’s around ten.”
“Okay, tell her I’ll meet her there.”
By the time I hung up, I could feel Mark’s look of alarm even before I met his eyes. “You’re going over there tonight?”
“No, no, of course not.” I rested a hand on his arm. “Tomorrow morning . . . and not too early.”
He gave his head a slow shake. “Cassie, what are you getting into now?”
“Just trying to help a harmless old man beat a murder rap that I’m sure he doesn’t deserve. Nothing remotely dangerous, unless I get crushed by a falling stack of old newspapers.”
“Um-hmm,” Mark commented, skeptically. “I’ve heard that song before.”
Chapter 6
The next morning, I arrived at Chester’s house to find him and Robin attempting to feed the five indoor cats. Chester wore a faded green T-shirt with his chinos and slippers, and different eyeglasses—maybe the new ones she’d picked up for him? He smoothed out a long, crumpled strip of paper with his shaky hands and squinted to make out the handwriting, probably his late wife’s.
“No, wait, wait!” he ordered Robin.
Dressed in biking shorts and a T-back top, which hugged her slim figure while no doubt keeping her cool, Robin paused; she held an open can of cat food in midair.
Chester read directions from his list. “Minnie and Candy can eat together, ’cause they’re both gobblers. Sugarman has to go in a room by himself, ’cause he’s poky. Otherwise, the fast ones will eat all their food and then his, and he’ll get nothin’.”
After waving hello to me, Robin split a five-ounce can of food into two bowls. Most of the cats already were winding around our legs and singing for their breakfast. She asked me, “Cassie, can you grab the black-and-white one and the calico?”
I did this without too much trouble. We parked them in Bernice’s bedroom, put their bowls on the floor, and shut the door.
Chester nodded, as if impressed by our efficiency. “Sugarman eats the senior feed . . . if we still got any.”
I found one last can in their cupboard, and made a mental note to pick some up the next time I swung by the PetMart out on the highway. I scooped some into a dish for the mostly white cat and enticed him toward the hall bathroom. Using my foot to gently stave off the three others, I closed Sugarman in with his meal. Meanwhile I heard Robin ask Chester, “Which one gets urinary care?”
“That’s Autumn,” he said. “We put her stuff up on the island, to keep it away from Winky. She’ll jump up there, but he won’t.”
Returning to the kitchen, I marveled that any cat would be brave enough to jump onto that island; even from the floor, Autumn had to be able to see that it was cluttered with junk. But she leaped up gracefully, landing in the one spot about five inches square that could accommodate all of her paws. Robin shoved some more things out of the way and set a dish in front of the tortoiseshell longhair.
Winky, the silver tabby, watched all of this activity with wistful patience, so I asked what food he ate.
Chester didn’t even have to check the list. “He’s young, got no problems yet. Regular dry kibble.”
Finally, all the indoor cats were happily chomping away in their respective spaces. For the time being, I didn’t ask Chester if he and Bernice normally put out any provisions for the ferals.
I turned to see him slowly stroking Winky as the cat ate. A tear rolled down the older man’s dark cheek.
“Chester . . .” I touched his sleeve.
“She knew all about them,” he murmured, a tremor in his voice. “All their little tricks and habits, who got along with who. If she didn’t leave this list, I might not know how to feed them. Maybe once I would have, but these days?” He shrugged helplessly.
This man couldn’t have killed his wife, I thought, unless he absolutely had no idea what he was doing. And was that even possible?
Robin washed up some used, dirty cat dishes at the sink, dried her hands with a paper towel, and rejoined us. “Chester, Cassie’s real good at solving mysteries. Why don’t you tell her what you told me and the police? About what you heard the night Bernice died?”
He sank into one of the chairs that went with the sturdy, colonial-style kitchen table; it almost looked like a mass-produced, 1980s version of one of Gillian Foster’s antiques. I removed a bag of cat food from one of the other chairs to sit opposite him.
“I dunno . . .” he began. “I might’ve been dreaming.”
“The cops put that idea in your head,” Robin reminded him. “Go on, explain to Cassie.”
His eyes met mine, behind their thick glasses. “Bernice and I had taken to sleeping in different bedrooms. Partly because she had trouble breathing at night, but also because of the cats. Sugarman, Autumn, Winky and sometimes even Candy would pile on the bed toward evening, while she was reading or watching TV. Took up as much space as I would have! Even if she put them out of the room and shut the door, they’d whine and scratch all night to get in. Got so it wasn’t worth the trouble to keep ’em out.” His slight smile showed amusement, rather than annoyance. “At our age, though, that wasn’t a big deal. The cats kept her company, and I was right across the hall, in Jimmy’s room.”
Robin leaned against a nearby wall that still held a landline telephone. “And you heard something, right?”
“I heard her get up during the night. But that wasn’t unusual. The bathroom’s down the hall, and once in a while she goes to the kitchen at night, too. She’s got some medicine she’s supposed to take with food, so she’ll eat some crackers. The thing is, that night she was real quiet about it.”
I cocked my head and waited for him to explain.
“Bernice usually makes . . . made . . . some noise when she got up. Sometimes brushed against the boxes and bags in the hall. Lately I could hear her breathing when she passed by, too, from the asthma. That night I heard steps, but they were quiet, careful. No breathing, either.” He glanced up at Robin. “But you been clearing a lot of stuff out of the hall, so I guess there wasn’t as much for her to brush against.”
“You heard something else, though, didn’t you?” Robin reminded him.
Chester pursed his lips in thought. “I heard one of the cats in her room yowl, angry-like. But that doesn’t mean too much, either. Sometimes they squabbled with each other on the bed, all wanting . . . to be next to her.”
“Do you think someone from outside could have gotten into the house?” I asked gently.
“They could have, easy,” he said. “I always leave that back door propped open so these cats can go out, and the strays can come inside if it rains. It’s not wide open, but I stick a little rock in there. That morning, though, the door was still just the way I left it.”
Robin and I made eye contact. A clever intruder might have t
hought of that—putting everything back in place to cover his or her tracks.
“Bernice usually gets up . . . got up . . . earlier than me,” he went on, “so I was surprised she didn’t that morning. I looked in on her, but I didn’t see anything wrong. I thought she was just sleeping in. Autumn and Sugarman, though, came right up to me, meowed and pawed my legs. I figured they was just hungry.” Chester straightened in his chair, as if struck by a sudden insight, and glanced toward Robin. “You know how that doctor said she must’ve had a pillow over her face? Wasn’t any sign of that when I looked in! She was on her side, facing the window. Had one pillow under her head and the other next to her. I think Winky was lying on it.”
That would be something, I thought, if Chester’s memory was reliable. And, of course, if he were telling the truth. If he’d killed her accidentally, then felt guilty, he could have rearranged the pillows before the paramedics arrived. Or if he’d been half-asleep, he might have done all that and not even remembered.
“How long after that did you realize . . .”
His posture sagged again. “Not too long. I made myself some cereal and went to ask Bernice if she wanted any. When I shook her shoulder, she was cold. So I called her doctor—his number was on her medicine bottle. Good thing I got these new glasses, or I might not’ve been able to read it.”
“The doctor was in his office?”
Chester nodded. “By then it was about nine, I guess. He sent the ambulance.”
Robin stepped behind his chair and put a hand on his thin shoulder. “That must have been awful for you, Chester. I’m so sorry.”
“Y’know what’s awful?” His voice rose in anger. “If somebody did come in and hurt Bernice, it’s still my fault. I left that door open, didn’t I? An’ when I heard somebody in the hall that didn’t sound like her, I should’ve checked. Some husband I am, half-blind and muzzy-headed. Couldn’t even protect my wife!”
Claw & Disorder Page 6