Claw & Disorder

by Eileen Watkins

  “Don’t worry about it.” Pulling out of the rear lot, he grinned. “I kind of like being a jazz musician with a gangsta girlfriend.”

  Chapter 15

  Work remained fairly quiet the next day, so in between helping Sarah care for the boarders, which now included Leya, I used my laptop to search the web for information about vintage jazz LPs. I found eBay auctions and ads posted by individuals that seemed to bear out what Stan had told me—depending on the reputation of the performer and the rarity and condition of the recording, certain albums could command at least four figures.

  There also were ads by specialty stores and private vendors who sold vintage records, including jazz, and posts by collectors looking for certain rare LPs. In other words, a lot of money seemed to be changing hands in this hobby.

  The eBay vendors generally identified themselves only by e-mail addresses, at least until you won the auction and got to the point of making a transaction. They had to be approved, though, to do business on the site, and were rated by customers for how quickly they filled an order and the quality of the merchandise. Was there any way to tell if a seller had come by something illegally?

  More likely, if you were a thief, you’d bring your stolen treasures to one of the specialty shops. Or offer it to a rabid individual collector who’d be even less likely to ask any questions.

  Sarah noticed me scrolling and tapping away, and asked what I was up to. I told her what I’d found out from Stan the evening before. “If we knew the name of even one particular album that Chester lost, we could see if anybody is reselling it.”

  “If he’d even remember,” Sarah pointed out. “But I’ll tell Robin to ask him. She still looks in on him two or three times a week.”

  I closed the laptop for the time being. “How is he getting along with his new caregiver?”

  “I guess it’s a little rocky. Robin says the woman doesn’t have much patience with him. She’s at least persuaded him to close the back door at night, and she put a big hook-and-eye lock on the inside. But now Chester says he’s got a plan to catch the thief.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “There’s a recipe for disaster, right? If anybody has been breaking in, confronting him would be the worst thing Chester could do. He could end up like Bernice.”

  Sarah bent to pour clean litter into a boarder’s pan, but I stared at her back. “Sounds as if you’re also coming around to the idea of a burglar.”

  “I don’t know what to think.” She slid the pan back into the cat’s condo and straightened up, dusting her gloved hands on her apron. “Have you heard anything more about it from Bonelli?”

  “Not lately. Last e-mail I had from her, she’d hit a stone wall with the Dalton cops. She was planning to talk to Chester and some of his neighbors.”

  “Well, she’s persistent. I’m sure if she suspects anything hinky, she’ll keep digging until she gets some answers.” Sarah crumpled the empty, economy-size cat litter bag and stuffed it into the trash can just outside the condo corridor. “By the way, we’re almost out of this stuff, and of the pan liners, too.”

  “Okay, thanks. I’ll make a run out after lunch to restock.”

  * * *

  I had recently discovered an animal-supply warehouse along one of the back roads. Though it might have opened originally to meet the needs of people with farms and breeding operations, it also offered pet supplies in large quantities at deep discounts. The only downside was that those thirty-pound sacks were a challenge to lift into my hatchback, but I’d gotten pretty fit over my past two years on the job, and at this rate I’d never need a gym membership.

  I’d restocked on the cat supplies and was cruising back to my shop when I happened to notice a graceful wooden shingle on a post up ahead: STIRLING HILL FARM. Why did that name sound familiar?

  Right. Linda Freeman had said that was where Whitney stabled her horse.

  I slowed the car, my conscience warning me all the while. You have no business talking to her, especially with neither of her parents around. They’d probably be furious. Depending on what you discuss with her, Bonelli might also be furious!

  But without her parents around, I thought, Whitney might be more willing to tell me the truth about what was going on in her home.

  It’s none of your business.

  But if Whitney did stir wheat flour into the porridge, and wasn’t just protecting her father, wouldn’t that put an end to Gillian’s fantasies that Donald was trying to kill her?

  Or would she then accuse her daughter of attempted murder instead?

  Surely not, if it was only meant as a prank.

  I didn’t even convince myself of that one. Still, I’d come to almost a full stop at the foot of the drive that I assumed led to the farm. In spite of my misgivings, I made the turn.

  On this lovely June day, the property couldn’t have been prettier. Across the middle distance stretched a long barn of picturesquely weathered brown wood. A center cupola sprouted from the well-kept roof, and crisp white trim accented the windows. Beyond this I could glimpse several green paddocks, where equines of various breeds, colors and sizes roamed and grazed.

  But what interested me most was the action in the foreground, which featured three fenced riding rings. A female instructor stood in the center of one, shouting corrections and encouragement to the four children who trotted around her on safe, sleepy-looking mounts. The middle ring was empty at the moment. In the farthest one, a helmeted rider with a blond ponytail was sending a long-legged red horse over a series of practice jumps.

  Could I possibly have gotten that lucky? But both Linda Freeman and Donald Foster had said that Whitney spent practically all of her time here lately. And why would the girl waste a fine, sunny day like this any other way?

  Still keeping a low profile, I parked in the common lot and nonchalantly strolled past the ring with the children’s class. I had no idea whether a stranger on the grounds would be suspect, but their teacher paid me no attention. I passed the empty ring and quietly approached the one where the blonde was practicing. Before I even got very close, I could confirm this was Whitney.

  The way she rode, she needed a ring to herself. Whether the horse was a handful or Whitney was goading her on, Glory charged around the circuit of jumps at top speed, with the occasional snort or flip of her tail. When she veered out toward the fence, she raised enough dust for me to retreat a few steps. Not a bad idea, anyhow, since I wasn’t sure her rider would welcome my presence. Once they knocked a rail down, but most of the time they sailed over clear. From a distance, I guessed the jumps were all around three feet high, pretty challenging. The effort and excitement on this warm day had raised a sheen on the chestnut’s curved neck and muscled shoulders.

  On that pass close to the fence, Whitney finally must have recognized me, because soon after she slowed her talented mount to a walk. She loosened the reins and Glory stretched her neck to take advantage of the freedom.

  I raised my voice to carry halfway across the ring. “She’s quite a horse.”

  Whitney patted the mare’s neck, as if to acknowledge this, and walked her in my direction. “Hi, Cassie.” So far, she hadn’t smiled. “What brings you out here?”

  “Just curiosity. I was driving back from the feed store, saw the sign, and I remembered that someone said you kept Glory out here. I must have driven by a dozen times and never knew it was such a big place.”

  “It is, I guess, compared to the last one we were at, up north. The guy who ran that stable was a jerk. At least here, when I tell them what to feed Glory and how much to turn her out, they actually do it, and don’t treat me like some dumb kid.” She swung lightly out of the small jumping saddle, and wiped her brow beneath the visor of her black helmet. “You wanna come in here and talk? I have to walk her before I bring her in.”

  “Of course.” I ducked between the wooden rails.

  “You’re not afraid of horses, are you? I know you handle cats a lot, but—”

  “I
’m not as used to horses, but I actually studied to be a vet tech, years ago, and took courses in animal behavior. So we dealt with a little of everything.” Up close, I could admire Whitney’s tall mare, whose eyes remained bright and eager, scanning the horizon. “She doesn’t even seem very tired after that workout.”

  As Whitney let out the horse’s girth a few holes, she laughed. “Omigod, Glory needs to work like this practically every day. Otherwise she starts kicking her stall and driving all the other horses crazy. She used to give me a hard time and go around too fast. But since I’ve ridden her so much this summer she’s started listening better, and we’re getting to be good buds.”

  “It sure looked that way.” I patted the horse’s damp shoulder. “Speaking of bonding with animals, I guess you know that your dad brought Leya back to my place to board? He said he couldn’t be sure for how long.”

  Whitney walked on, leading the horse; her gaze dropped to the toes of her tall boots, which scuffed up dust with every step. “Yeah, it’s been kind of crazy at our house lately. I guess he thinks she’ll be better off at your place.”

  I mentioned the bare spots I’d noticed on the cat, and my theory that she could be grooming herself too hard due to stress. “If it’s having that effect on her, I can only imagine what it’s doing to you.”

  The teen shrugged. “I’ve lived through our renovations before.”

  “Is that really all it is, this time?” When she responded with a pained look, I pressed further. “You know that handyman Nick and I are friends. He told me what it was like there last Saturday night.”

  “Yeah, he bolted. Poor guy, I couldn’t blame him.”

  “He said you told your mother you added the wheat flour to the pudding. Was that true?” Whitney looked spooked, so I reassured her, “He hasn’t told the cops, and I won’t, either. I’m just wondering if you’d really do something like that, and why.”

  Walking on, the young woman shrugged. “I don’t know. I just did it on impulse. Mom was so wound up about that reception, as if impressing those historical society snobs was the most important thing in the world. It made me see that this whole project, that she and dad spent more than a year on, was really just for that goal—getting the place on the historic register. That it was supposed to be our home for us to live in didn’t even matter, as long as it was this perfect period piece.”

  “I can see why that would be hard to accept,” I sympathized.

  “You have no idea how crazy she made Dad and me and everybody who came to work on the house. Anyway, that day when she was fussing at the caterers, and bitching about that stupid cabinet door being off-kilter, I just got so angry. I heard her tell the cook a couple of times to follow that recipe exactly because it had to be gluten-free, and suddenly I thought, that’s it. I took a mixing cup to the pantry, sprinkled a little wheat flour in it, and when the cook wasn’t looking I stirred it into the porridge.”

  Although there was nobody else nearby, Whitney dropped her voice to a hush and recalled how the trick had backfired. “I felt so awful when Mrs. Dugan reacted to it instead. And when they had to take her to the hospital, I was terrified that she might not recover!”

  I nodded. “I guess since you didn’t know Adele had celiac disease, you had no idea anyone might get really sick, except your mother.”

  She stopped the horse and faced me. “But that’s the thing. Mom goes on and on about having to avoid gluten, but she’s never gotten really sick from it. Sometimes she gets stomach cramps, but she’s never had to go to the hospital like Adele. I thought she’d be embarrassed, maybe would have to run to the john a few extra times. And as for anybody else . . . Cassie, you saw what that stuff looked like. I didn’t think a single other person at the party would even try it.”

  I gave her a grudging smile. “It would have been a fairly harmless trick, then, if not for Adele.”

  “The crazy thing is, I confessed Tuesday night! I told Mom I did it, but she wouldn’t believe me. She’s got this idea that Dad and Linda Freeman are conspiring to kill her so they can be together. It’s not true, but she’d probably rather think that than believe I just wanted to give her a hard time. Isn’t that twisted?”

  I couldn’t come up with a tactful reply, but Whitney didn’t wait for one. Pulling off her helmet, she opened the gate of the riding ring, led Glory out, and didn’t seem to mind when I followed. Through a wide door we entered the cool, clean barn, which smelled sweetly of hay and horses and very little else. When asked, I held Glory’s reins just under her chin while her owner stripped off the saddle and its similarly curved pad. Then she changed the horse’s bridle for a halter and cross-tied her in the aisle. Glory would not be in anybody’s way there, because although several horses occupied nearby stalls, the closest human was a stablehand working at some distance from us.

  With this amount of privacy, I stepped away for a second to phone Sarah and tell her I’d made a side trip but would be back soon.

  By now Whitney had begun grooming the horse, scrubbing with the currycomb in small circles. I dared to ask her, “Has your mom always been jealous over your dad, or is this unusual?”

  “Sometimes she’s joked about it, but this is the first time she’s acted seriously worried. And it’s weird, because Mom hired Linda herself, based on good things she’d heard about her work. They got along okay at the beginning; even though Mom is so picky, Linda usually rolled with it. But after a while she started giving both Linda and Robert such a hard time, I don’t know why they didn’t quit.” The teen paused for a second, biting her lip. “Tuesday night, Mom was absolutely out of control, screaming at Dad about this supposed affair. Finally, I got in between them, which I guess was a stupid thing to do. I told Mom she was imagining things, obsessing over nothing, and she should get help. Meaning a shrink, which I’m sure she knew.”

  Out of the mouths of babes, I thought, even though Whitney was no longer a child. “What did she say to that?”

  “She slapped my face.” The girl reddened, but also tried to laugh it off. “Guess I should’ve expected it, but she hasn’t done anything like that since I was a little kid.”

  I could imagine what a shock the blow must have been to a young woman of seventeen, almost an adult.

  “It’s not like what I said was so outrageous,” Whitney went on. “Mom was seeing a therapist for a while, where we lived before. I don’t know why she got so mad—unless she believed me about the pudding, after all.” The girl paused in her grooming and faced me. “Cassie, do you think I should tell the cops I messed with the food at the reception? I’m worried that if I do, Adele could sue my parents. They’d probably blame each other, and it might turn into an even bigger mess than it is already.”

  Whitney could be right about that. “Maybe your folks could tell Detective Bonelli it was an accident. The caterer needed more flour and you grabbed the wrong kind. Then, when Adele got sick, you realized it could have been your fault, but you were too scared to say anything.”

  The teen thought this over. “That could work, if I could count on Mom’s support. Maybe she’d go along just to avoid gossip, but . . . it feels like we’re at war lately. I had Glory entered in a show next month, and now Mom’s forbidden me to go. Some days she even threatens to sell Glory.” Whitney switched to a large brush and started polishing her horse’s coat with brisk strokes, until it glowed like copper. “She’s gotten crankier than ever, too. She used to fuss over Leya and babytalk to her, but now if she gets underfoot Mom yells and stomps to scare her away.”

  That did sound like a major change, I thought. “Gee, and she seemed so concerned about the cat when she first brought her to my shop.”

  Though Whitney was facing half away from me, I saw a tear side down her cheek. “I was upset when Dad took Leya to your place, and I really miss her . . . but maybe he was right. The way things are at home these days, she’s probably safer with you.”

  Chapter 16

  When I arrived back at my shop, I parked in
the rear and hauled the bags of litter into a storage closet. I washed my hands in the first-floor powder room and made my way to the front sales area, where I found Bonelli shooting the breeze with Sarah. That made me glad I hadn’t told my assistant exactly where my “side trip” was taking me, even though she probably would have known better than to share the information with the detective.

  Bonelli sat on one of the stools in our sales area and held an open bottle of water, no doubt provided by Sarah. A small plate of chocolate-chip cookies also rested on the counter between them.

  “Cassie, you sound out of breath,” the detective commented, never one to miss the smallest detail.

  I explained about the thirty-pound bags and quickly changed the subject. “You’ve got a new look, I see.”

  Bonelli had trimmed a few inches off her usually chin-length dark bob, and instead of gray roots it sported a few subtle reddish highlights. On the job, she always wore some version of a uniform, but today it took a summery turn—a lightweight navy jacket with rolled-up sleeves over a pale blue polo shirt and pressed khakis.

  “Thanks. Lou gave me a gift certificate to a salon at the mall, for Mother’s Day, and I just got around to using it. Pretty sad when your husband has to give you that big of a hint, eh?”

  Sarah laughed. “Well, a busy lady like you sometimes needs reminding.”

  The detective ran a hand through her straight hair, a brisk, tomboyish gesture. “I have to admit, it is a lot easier to take care of this way. And Lou seems to like it okay.”

  I got some water for myself out of our small refrigerator, slid onto my customary stool behind the counter and snagged a cookie of my own. “I don’t suppose you dropped by just to discuss your makeover, though.”

  Sarah turned to me. “She says she was up at Chester’s yesterday and found out a few more things.”

  “I stopped by there around five thirty so I could interview his neighbors as they were getting home from work,” Bonelli said. “One young couple claimed they haven’t lived there very long and seldom even saw the people in the ranch house, much less spoke to them. The fellow who lives right in back of them, Bob Smiley, was more receptive. He said he’d visited the Tillmans and talked with them sometimes over the years.”