“Robin brought that up, but James just shuddered at the idea. Said anything they’ve lived without this long, they obviously don’t need.” Sarah paused for a second on the line. “She and I have a plan, though.”
That sounded encouraging. “Yeah?”
“It’s going to be a while before they find a community around here to take Chester. In the meantime, he’s probably going to keep living in his house, with a caregiver to help with meals and cleaning. Robin and I will keep going through that junk and pull out a few things that are really meaningful to him—maybe tapes of his sports interviews, any scrapbooks he might have, his favorite music and photos. They say when someone has dementia, those things are important because they can spark the person’s memory.”
I’d known Sarah for a couple of years now, working with her five-and-a half days a week. We’d even helped each other through some frightening situations. But her sympathy for her elderly friend, and determination to help him, gave me an even deeper appreciation of her character.
“That’s a wonderful idea,” I told her. “Let me know if there’s any way I can help.”
“It would be great if FOCA could get at least some of those cats out of the house. If it’s left to Chester’s kids, they’ll all go to the county shelter and he’ll be heartbroken.”
“I hear you—we should try to do that soon. Maybe I can get Becky and Chris to go up there with me tomorrow.”
Sarah yawned on the line, then apologized. “Funerals take a lot out of me, especially now that I’m older. Maybe it’s psychological.”
“They are stressful,” I agreed. “Especially when they’re for someone you cared about.”
“I forgot to ask, how did the Fosters’ reception go?”
I answered with a dry laugh. “That also was ‘interesting.’ I won’t burden you with that story tonight, though—you’ve had enough family drama for one weekend. I’ll tell you at work on Monday.”
“Clever way to make sure I show up bright and early! See you then.”
Before turning in that night, I went down to the shop again and ran a quick check on my boarders. We had only five at the moment, and they all seemed fine. But as I returned to the second floor and passed through my kitchen, my orange tabby Mango whined at me for more food. He had cleaned up any leftovers left by the other two cats, but still acted hungry. And in spite of his gluttony, he looked a bit thinner than usual.
Might be a question to ask Dr. Coccia, when he returns to town. For now, I am absolutely not going to worry about it.
I had enough troublesome questions, regarding humans, roiling around in my brain to keep me from getting a good night’s sleep.
Chapter 10
Becky and Chris did coordinate with me to meet at Chester Tillman’s house on Sunday afternoon. I let the two volunteers pull FOCA’s good-size SUV into the driveway ahead of me and close to the garage. If all went smoothly today, they would be leaving with Autumn, Sugarman and Winky, lightening Chester’s pet-care responsibilities and costs by more than half. I only hoped he wouldn’t dig in his heels at the last minute and refuse to surrender the three cats.
When we rang the bell, Chester answered the door in clean, pressed clothes, and his hair looked freshly trimmed. Had the professional caretaker paid a visit already? He remembered me but raised an eyebrow at my two companions, the gamine young woman with short platinum hair and a boyishly handsome guy whose dark locks brushed his collar.
“Chester, this is Becky Newmeyer and Chris Eberhardt,” I said. “They’re from the animal shelter I told you about.”
The widower’s strong-boned, dignified face closed up a little. “Oh. You came to get some of the cats, huh?”
“To meet some of them, anyway,” said Chris gently. “If that’s okay with you.”
Chester responded to this low-key approach by inviting us into the living room, shuffling ahead of us in his leather bedroom slippers. I had tried to prepare Becky and Chris for the appearance of the house, but their heads still swiveled a bit to take in the junk on all sides. I hoped neither of them suffered from claustrophobia. They probably would have been more astonished if I’d told them that, thanks to the efforts of Sarah and Robin, the hallway and living room looked a lot more organized today than when I’d first visited.
We all sat anywhere we could, and at first the three of us made chitchat with Chester. I asked him how he was doing and said that I’d heard his son and daughter had come to town for Bernice’s funeral.
He sniffed. “First I’ve seen either of them in maybe seven years. Back then, my grandkids were little—now they’re in high school. Who knows if I’ll ever see any of ’em again?”
Though he had a right to be bitter, I tried to steer him onto a more positive topic. “I understand you’ve got someone coming by now to help you.”
“She was here this morning. Nice enough lady—Megan, her name is.” He turned his gaze out the living room window. “Haven’t seen Bob, the guy who lives across the way, in weeks. Maybe now that Bernice is gone, he’s afraid I’ll be an old pest and start askin’ him for favors.”
Possibly to bring up a more pleasant subject, Chris pointed at a box on the floor near the sofa, from which a strangely shaped, light gray object protruded. “Hey, is that a model of the Millennium Falcon from Star Wars? Cool!”
The widower glanced in that direction absently. “It’s one of Jimmy’s models. He was always putting things like that together when he was a kid.” Because Chris seemed so interested, Chester rose, fished the spaceship out of the carton and passed it to him.
“Gee, look at the detail.” Becky ran her finger over the intricate surface. “Must have taken a long time to make, even from a kit.”
Chris admired it, too. “I heard there was a model of this ship made by Lego that was, like, three feet long. It’s such a collector’s item these days, if you can even find one it’s worth thousands of dollars. I think this size is more common. Though if you had one mint in the box, it probably would still be pretty valuable.”
Chester returned to the sofa with a cynical sniff. “Only toy we ever bought our kids that never got used was a doll we got for Sylvia. Back when there were hardly any black dolls, Bernice found this really nice one with an old-fashioned dress and long curls. She was so excited to give it to Sylvia for her birthday, but that girl never played with it. I think because it was too old-fashioned.”
“That’s a shame,” I said. “Do you still have it?”
“No idea. It sat on the shelf in Bernice’s closet for years and years. I looked for it the other day after the funeral—thought my granddaughter might want it—but it wasn’t there anymore. Lotta things I can’t find these days.”
The calico cat I’d seen on a previous visit crept out from under the sofa. She eyed the three of us warily, then wound around Chester’s ankles. He lifted her onto his lap, his dark face finally creasing into a smile. “Therrre’s my girl Candy! Say hi to the folks.” He turned her toward us, though her golden-green eyes showed no enthusiasm for the strangers in her living room.
After asking permission, Becky leaned across to stroke the cat’s head. Candy took that calmly enough, as long as she felt secure on her master’s lap.
Suddenly Chester shot me a worried glance. “You’re not takin’ her from me, are you?”
“No,” I reassured him. “Remember, we talked about possibly taking Bernice’s three cats. You told me you wanted to keep Candy and Minnie.”
He nodded, though his eyes remained sad. “Be a shame even to lose the others. When I see them around now, they remind me of Bernie. But . . . five are a lot of work.”
“I’m sure they are,” I said. “Two will still be plenty for you to take care of. You’ll have three fewer dishes to wash and pans to scoop out, and you’ll spend a lot less money on food and litter.”
“I guess so.” His gaze turned to Becky. “They’ll be safe with you?”
“Cassie probably told you we’re a no-kill shelter,” she
said. “We try very hard to find new homes for all of our animals, and usually we place them in foster homes until we locate permanent ones.”
“We try to match up older cats with older adopters,” Chris added. “Mostly, they just want a quiet pet that already has manners—knows how to use the pan, sleeps through the night, stays out from underfoot, that kind of stuff.”
Since the ice had been broken, I thought we should let Becky and Chris move on to the day’s business. “Are Bernice’s pals still hanging out in her room most of the time?”
Chester nodded. “’Specially at night, they still sleep on her bed like they think she’s coming back. The cops stripped the bed and took the sheets, but they still hang out on the bare mattress.”
“Want to go have a look?” I asked the FOCA volunteers.
Becky and Chris headed down the hall, walking softly and toting two of the carriers. I kept the third one and told them I’d be along in a minute to help. First, I wanted to ask Chester some questions in private.
“You told Robin, too, that you found things missing from the house after the funeral. Anything else besides the doll?”
He clasped his hands on his lap and avoided my eyes. “So many people telling me I’m crazy, I’m starting to think I really am.”
“Any of your own things? Your mementos?”
“Had a baseball on top of the bookcase over there.” Chester glanced across the room. “Signed by Roger Maris. Put it under a little dome and everything.”
I got up and crossed to the wooden bookcase. On the dusty top, which came to about my shoulder height, I saw a clean, circular spot about five inches in diameter. I seriously doubted that Sarah or Robin would have tossed out this treasured memento, and even if they had moved it, they probably also would have dusted the top of the bookcase. This evidence certainly gave Chester’s story some credibility.
“Some of my records.” His voice gained energy, now that I appeared to be taking him seriously. “My Blue Notes.”
“Your what?”
“That’s the record label. My dad left me a bunch of their old albums, all the jazz classics. Wayne Shorter, John Coltrane, Art Blakey.” He crossed the room and pointed to a stained cardboard carton on the floor, loosely packed with old LPs. “They were in here. The morning after the funeral, I noticed the box was pulled out at an angle and wasn’t as full. I went through it and realized some of my Blue Notes were gone.”
“Just some, not all?” This new information started me thinking.
Chester must have heard my reaction as skepticism. “Yeah, the cops thought I was crazy, too. They almost believed me about the baseball. But who’d break into somebody’s house just to steal an old doll, they asked me, and a few old records that nobody can even play anymore?” He returned to his sofa and sank down on it again, heavily. “Oh, and a few old Nintendo games.”
Becky and Chris returned from Bernice’s bedroom, their cat carriers filled. “We got the gray one and the white one with the red spots,” Becky said.
“That’s Winky and Sugarman,” I told her, for Chester’s benefit. I wanted him to feel that we knew their names.
“The tortoiseshell gave us a hard time, though,” Chris told me. “She’s still under the bed.”
“Autumn. I’ll get her.”
I ventured alone into Bernice’s room, set the third carrier on the bed and shut the door behind me. Before taking on Autumn, I pulled some grooming gloves from my pocket—who could say how resistant she’d be? The clutter complicated things, since I could hardly even see the tortoiseshell longhair under the bed because of the junk stored there, and couldn’t pull the frame very far away from the wall without hitting some obstacle.
Eventually, though, Autumn retreated to a tight corner and got stuck long enough for me to grab her. I tried to cuddle and reassure her before slipping her into the carrier and securing the latches.
I was ready to leave Bernice’s room when I noticed that her sliding closet door stood ajar and succumbed to curiosity. I opened it far enough to peer at the top shelf. Sarah or Robin must have been at work in there, because not much clutter remained; the few hats, purses and folded sweaters had been stacked neatly. If this was where Bernice had stored the doll she’d bought for her daughter decades ago, Chester spoke the truth—it was gone.
On my way past the kitchen, another thought occurred to me, and I set Autumn down while I checked the back door. It looked closed, but I didn’t even have to turn the knob to open it. Someone had used a strip of duct tape to keep the bolt from sliding shut.
That didn’t make much sense to me. I thought Chester propped this open so the outdoor cats could slip in and be fed. But it’s a pretty heavy wooden door. If he closed it, even with the lock disabled, would a cat be strong enough to push it in?
Maybe Chester is losing it, after all . . .
By the time I got back to the living room, all three trapped felines were mewing in protest, probably not having spent much time in carriers over the years. Chester was baby-talking to Winky through the mesh window of his enclosure, with a catch in his voice and a tear in his eye. The process would be easier on everyone, I thought, if we moved it along quickly. I mentioned this to the FOCA kids, and they agreed.
It occurred to me that, if these cats were the main “suspects” in Bernice’s death, removing them from the house could constitute wrapping up the case. I just hoped they wouldn’t have to remain incarcerated at the shelter for too long.
On the front stoop, Becky promised Chester that she’d keep him posted on how the cats were settling in and let him know if they found new homes. The feral ginger tom that I’d seen before trotted into the front yard, probably drawn by the cries of the other animals.
“What about him?” Chester asked. “Wanna take Buster, too?”
“Probably not a good idea,” I told him. “That guy’s too wild, so as long as he’s not causing any problems he can stay. But don’t let Candy or Minnie out, okay? Keep that kitchen door shut.”
I would have asked him about the taped lock, but a loud wail from Autumn spurred me along. I hurried to load her into the FOCA vehicle with her housemates, then got into my own car.
Chester waved to us as we pulled out of his driveway, but his posture slumped again as he stepped back inside his house. I hoped the two pets he’d hung on to would be enough to dispel the new sense of emptiness without Bernice.
That disabled lock also made me wonder, again, if someone had been able to slip into his house when he wasn’t there or was sound asleep. But who would take a risk like that just to grab some old toys and memorabilia? The autographed baseball, maybe—that had been out in plain sight. But old LPs, Nintendo games, and a doll that even Sylvia didn’t want?
Could all of those things possibly have something in common?
* * *
Though I’d promised Bonelli I wouldn’t spread information about what had happened at the Fosters’ reception, I cheated a bit on Monday when Sarah showed up for work. As my assistant, I thought she had a right to know what had taken place when I’d returned Leya to our client’s home.
Sarah tied on her grooming apron while she listened, eyes behind her wire-rimmed glasses growing wide. When I finished, she shook her head. “I had a feeling you shouldn’t spend any more time at that house than you absolutely needed to. Now watch Gillian try to accuse you or Nick of putting something in the food!”
“We can vouch for each other. Plus, the cook and Gillian’s daughter would also know that we never came back into the kitchen while the dishes were being prepared.”
“Unless one of them has something to hide,” she pointed out, “and wants to implicate you.”
Donning my own apron, I smiled. “You really have been unraveling mysteries with me too long, Sarah. You’re developing a criminal mind.”
“It’s not all your fault. Also comes from a couple of decades of teaching high school, with kids always trying to pull stuff behind my back.”
“Well, if all e
lse fails, I’m sure Bonelli can be my character witness. She called me last night, just to get my take on the incident. I tried to be as helpful as I could, but after this there’s no reason for me to be involved. The cops may find out that someone from the historical society has a personal grudge against Adele, or else didn’t want Gillian joining their exclusive little group. I had no motive, so I’m out.”
“Lucky thing,” said Sarah.
From one of the condos we retrieved Taffy, a Turkish Van cat whose owner would be picking her up that afternoon. Though she was a semi-longhair and mostly white, she needed only a touch-up to restore her natural elegance. It took two sets of hands, though, because she was not yet four and still a bundle of energy.
I started gently brushing the cat’s rust-colored face, which matched her plumy tail. Sarah’s phone buzzed in the pocket of her tunic, beneath the apron, but she ignored it and held on to Miss Taffy.
She returned the call only after we’d finished the task at hand. While I put the cat back into her condo, I heard Sarah tell someone, “Oh, dear . . . That’s not good.”
I busied myself straightening up the studio to give Sarah privacy, but as soon as she got off she reported back to me, anyway.
“That was Robin,” she said. “New crisis with Chester.”
“Uh-oh. Is he hurt? Sick?”
“No, but he called her and was going on about things missing from his house. He’s sure somebody got into the house while he was at the funeral.”
“He told me all that yesterday,” I said. “Of course, Chester doesn’t have the more reliable memory, and he just buried his wife of forty-some years. I’m sure that’s also affecting his mental state.”
Sarah shrugged. “Robin says even though he may be vague about doing his laundry, or knowing what day of the week it is, he has a steel-trap mind when it comes to his collections. Can tell you who he interviewed on his radio show and when, and what songs are on every record album.”
Possibly someone was sneaking into the house, I thought, especially with the lock disabled on that back door. “Did he call the cops?”
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