My assistant nodded. “He visited once when I was there. Seemed very nice. He’s interested in sports, and drew Chester out about his experiences writing for the papers and covering games on the radio. Bob seemed impressed by the celebrities Chester had met and interviewed over the years. It was a kind thing to do, I thought, and seemed to keep Chester’s wits sharper. I don’t think Bob has come around much, though, since Bernice died.”
“I asked Smiley about that. He said he was between jobs for a while, but now he’s back to work and hasn’t had the time. He acted sorry to hear about Bernice’s death and told me he’d try to look in on Chester again soon.”
I picked up on the detective’s turn of phrase, since she never used words carelessly. “You say he ‘acted’ sorry?”
“When I’m doing interviews at a scene, I never take anything people say at face value. He sounded sincere enough.”
“What’s his new job?” I asked.
“He was vague about that, said it was part-time, in retail. But he’s also picking up extra bucks by helping out a local contractor, Superior Home Renovations. They’re working on the house a block or so away from Chester’s.”
“Oh, yes,” said Sarah. “That’s turning into a big project. They’re putting on a second story and adding to the back. When Robin and I are at Chester’s house, we can hear them sawing and hammering half the day.”
Bonelli turned thoughtful. “You’d think that would annoy Bob, too. Maybe the guy hired him partly so he wouldn’t complain about the noise.”
“Chester told Sarah and Robin that he’s hatching a plan to catch his burglar,” I remembered. “Did he mention that to you?”
“No.” The detective’s smile slipped sideways. “Maybe he was smart enough not to. If there is a thief, that would be a seriously stupid thing to try to do.”
“Yes, I’m worried,” Sarah said. “His caretaker only comes three times a week, and she doesn’t stay overnight, so he’s still alone then.”
“I can ask the Dalton PD to have a car cruise by his place at night,” Bonelli said, “though I doubt they’ll want to make the effort.”
I locked eyes with Sarah. “Did you ask Angela about the Dalton cop who was accused of theft a while ago?”
She passed along Robin’s story, about the officer who might have stolen a man’s iPod during a traffic stop. “I don’t know if there’s any truth to it,” Sarah added.
“I don’t, either.” Bonelli made a quick jot in her small, vinyl-covered notebook. “But I’ll see what I can find out. For what it’s worth, I’m also going to research Superior Home Renovations and maybe give them a call.”
Since she seemed to be ferreting out everyone’s secrets, anyway, I thought it wise to tell her that Donald Foster had brought Leya in to be boarded, because of all the “disruption” in their household.
“She’s turned out in the playroom now,” Sarah told Bonelli. “Want to meet her?”
The detective, more of a dog lover, paused briefly. “Why not? Always a chance she might turn out to be evidence!”
Sarah stayed out front while Bonelli joined me in the playroom. Leya already had made it to the top of a tall, carpeted cat tree, and her bushy tail hung gracefully off the platform to one side. She looked much more relaxed and confident than when she’d been cowering under the bed in the Fosters’ guest room.
The spectacle even impressed our detective, though she still approached the longhaired diva gingerly before stroking her head. “She is beautiful. What kind did you say she was, again?”
“Himalayan. Sounds exotic, but it’s really just a type of Persian with Siamese coloring—a light-toned body with dark points.”
Bonelli looked amused. “Really, Cassie, how in the world do you keep track of all these breeds and the variations?”
I’d never even questioned that before. “To tell the truth, when I started grooming professionally, there were some types even I didn’t know much about and had to read up on. But I guess I remember easily because I find them all interesting.” I joined her in petting Leya. “At least she seems to have mellowed out since Donald brought her here.”
“Considerate of him, to get her out of the line of fire.” Bonelli crossed to one of the carpeted cubes and sat down. “Last I heard, Gillian still thinks Donald messed with the food at the reception, or maybe even put Whitney up to it.”
“That’s ridiculous.” From what Whitney had told me, her father had nothing to do with the prank.
“Gillian did tell me one other disturbing story,” the detective continued. “She said the brakes on her Acura have been making noise for a while. Donald told her it was probably the pads and he could replace them himself... I guess he’s done it before. Thinking he’d fixed the problem, Gillian took the car out a couple of days ago and the brakes failed—she lost control just a few feet from their house and almost went into a ditch. That was one of the things they were fighting about Tuesday.”
“Maybe Donald never got around to working on the car.”
“That’s what he claims. Gillian had it towed to a dealer, and they said the pads were fine but the rotors were shot, which is more serious. I guess they showed unusual wear, so now she thinks Donald sabotaged them. He knows she’s the only one who drives the Acura.”
That did sound a bit fishy, but I remained skeptical. “So, Donald doesn’t know as much about cars as he thinks. He misdiagnosed the problem and never actually checked it out. That doesn’t mean he’s a killer.”
With her customary wry expression, Bonelli stood to leave. “No, it doesn’t. But if anything did happen to his wife, a jury could have said he had means and opportunity. They’d only have to decide if he had sufficient motive.”
* * *
My mother, Barbara McGlone, lives about forty-five minutes away from me in Morristown—which, compared to Chadwick, is almost urban. Up until last winter, she and I talked several times a week and had dinner together as often as once a month. But at the end of last year, Mom had started dating again for the first time since my father’s death, three years ago.
Not that she’d launched into a wild social life—that never would have been her style—but she took up with someone I didn’t much care for, at least in the beginning. I’d met him, in fact, before Mom had. Harry Bock, a divorced local architect, had boarded his cat at my shop and then threatened to sue me after she’d developed a nasty rash. Mom, a paralegal with the Morristown firm of McCabe, Preston & Rueda, had interceded on my behalf. For her and Harry, the rest was romantic history.
At least now I didn’t have to picture her spending every night in front of her TV alone. She also called me less often just to make sure I was okay (a good thing, considering how much trouble I tended to get myself into), or to hint around that Mark and I should tie the knot before I was too old to give her grandchildren (also a good thing, since he and I agreed we both liked our relationship as it was, for the time being). I’d gotten in the habit of calling Mom at least once a week, on Sunday night, no matter what.
But she’d been on her way out to a movie with Harry this past Sunday, so our conversion had been brief.
My talks with Whitney Foster and Angela Bonelli raised some questions that Mom probably could answer. It was Thursday night now, and I didn’t think she’d mind another call to share her legal expertise. Sitting amidst the cats on my living room sofa, I punched her number.
Mom had caller ID and answered the phone with a cheerful “Hi, Cassie!” I had to admit her spirits seemed better since she had been dating Harry, and she didn’t pull that clichéd lonely-mother act as often, implying that she never heard from me. We chatted for a few minutes about what was new with each of us, and she enthused about Sunday’s movie, a weighty historical drama. I was sure it would get many Oscar nominations, though it wouldn’t have been my kind of thing.
As soon as I could, without being too obvious, I got around to the ulterior motive for my call. I gave Mom the general outline of the Fosters’ situation, n
ot mentioning any of them by name.
“The wife in this marriage seems hell-bent on accusing her husband of adultery, though he and the supposed other woman both deny it,” I told her. “Could that work in the wife’s favor if she has more money than he does? The guy seems to have a good job, but if she either earns more or inherited a pile, could she end up paying him alimony?”
I heard Mom sigh. “That depends on so many things—how long they’ve been married, whether either of them gave up career possibilities to support the other or to relocate, who did more of the child care . . . But off the top of my head, I’d say no. If he’s been working full-time and makes a good living, I don’t think any judge would require her to support him.”
That made sense to me. “If she could prove he cheated, though—and she didn’t have any big inheritance of her own—could she demand alimony?”
“That might be more likely, but she also has a career, right? And from what you said, her daughter is almost of legal age. He might be required to help with support of the daughter—college tuition, and all that—but not of his ex-wife.” Mom paused. “Again, Cassie, when lawyers get involved, anything can happen, but all I can tell you is what would be most likely.”
And of course, I thought, there could be hidden aspects to the Fosters’ marriage, about which I knew nothing, that could come out during divorce proceedings. Matisse jumped on my lap for a cuddle, drawn by the fact that I was talking to someone and jealous that it wasn’t her. Massaging her dense, tricolored fur helped to counteract my dark thoughts—somewhat.
My mother was still musing on the Fosters’ situation, her logical brain clicking away. “If Gillian has most of the money, the only way her husband would be almost sure to get it would be if she died.”
That grabbed my attention. “What?”
“Well, unless they were divorced, or she cut him out of her will. Otherwise, a spouse automatically inherits everything.”
“Yes,” I realized, “of course.”
Long after I’d gotten off the phone, this simple and obvious fact preoccupied my thinking. Still stroking Matisse, I thought about Gillian’s near accident, which she blamed on her husband either neglecting to repair the brakes on her Acura or deliberately sabotaging them.
Whether or not he was involved with Linda the designer, did Donald Foster have a financial motive to murder his wife? That seemed absurd, until I considered how long he had persevered in their marriage, despite Gillian’s difficult temperament. If it was for her money, he might be starting to think the aggravation wasn’t worth it . . . but if they divorced, he might be worse off. And which of them would get custody of Whitney, who obviously preferred her father?
So much better if Gillian was completely out of the way . . .
I thought of a twist on the old joke. Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean someone isn’t out to kill you.
Chapter 17
On Friday morning, I finally got around to bringing Mango to the Chadwick Veterinary Clinic to get his blood work done. It wasn’t that I didn’t care about his health, or even that my mind was preoccupied with other issues. I always dreaded bringing Mango to the vet under any circumstances. Just getting him into his carrier was a struggle—even for someone with my skill and experience—and things generally went downhill from there.
At my apartment, Mark had been able to hold the orange tabby and poke and prod him with very little drama. But whatever the reason—maybe the first faint whiff of antiseptic—by the time we took a seat in the waiting room, Mango began softly growling in his carrier. Another vet, where I used to live, told me her staff had posted warnings such as Danger—will bite! all over Mango’s chart. They could vaccinate him on the fly, but for a more thorough exam and blood work, he had to be at least mildly sedated.
The routine always depressed me slightly, because it seemed so harrowing for the poor cat. It also embarrassed me, as if I were somehow responsible for his being so difficult to handle. But I’d gotten Mango as a five-year-old rescue and had little idea of what he’d gone through in his early years. Luckily, our vet these days was Mark, who knew that I didn’t terrorize or abuse my cats at home.
A tech ushered us, with a smile, into one of the examining rooms. Most of the staff at the clinic knew by now that Mark and I were a couple.
I set Mango’s square gray carrier on the stainless steel table and, while we were alone, tried to talk some sense to him. “C’mon pal. Jeez, it’s just Mark. You like him fine when he comes to the apartment!”
But the tabby remained haunted by some trauma from his past, I guess, and my reassurances fell on deaf, pointed ears.
Dr. Coccia himself stepped through the door a few minutes later. When he heard the rumbling protests coming from the carrier, he smiled at me. “I see that Mango is as delighted to be here as ever.”
“Unfortunately. I didn’t want to let him out, because I figured you might need to take him in back and sedate him.”
Mark ruefully studied my pet, who spat at him through the mesh window in response. “If it were something simple like a shot, we could probably just hold him down with a big towel. But when we’re drawing blood, too much could go wrong. Besides, I’d always rather keep an animal as calm as possible. I wouldn’t want to risk a heart attack or a stroke.”
Though I knew the danger was real, I couldn’t resist a macabre joke. “For him or for you?”
“Ha-ha. Mango’s the older guy in this scenario, if you adjust for cat years.” Mark picked up the carrier. “We won’t totally knock him out—a light gas should do it, and he’ll shake that off pretty fast. We’ll keep him here for a few hours to recover, though.”
I knew that was my cue to leave. On the way out, I asked, “By the way, how did things go with the three cats from the Tillman house?”
“Okay, I think. We released them to Chris Eberhardt, to go to the FOCA shelter, and sent along medications for two of them. I haven’t heard anything since.”
Mark said I’d get a call when Mango was ready to come home, and I thanked him. Though sedating a cat made a simple blood draw more expensive, I suspected he’d give me a break on the bill, even if he didn’t admit to it.
After our relationship became serious, Mark had implied that he’d be glad to treat my cats for free. But I insisted on paying the same rate as everyone else, as long as I could afford it. I knew that Mark and his partner, Maggie, did a lot of pro bono work, and I’d rather see the really needy cases benefit from their generosity.
The day outside had turned overcast and muggy. I hadn’t come prepared for rain, so I walked briskly back to my shop, fitting in some much-needed exercise.
Sarah was already on the job, of course. She asked after Mango’s health, and I gave her an update.
“Poor little guy, I hope he’ll be okay,” she said. “Even though he almost scared me away from this job, when I first tried out for you!”
“He was scaring off all my prospective assistants,” I confessed to her with a laugh. I remembered how my orange menace had flattened his ears and hissed at Sarah when we’d started to work on him. She had flinched a bit, but stood her ground. “That was the acid test—whether they had the nerve to work with Mango. One girl burst into tears, and a couple people gave up immediately.”
“But I hung in there,” she recalled proudly.
“That’s right. And you have ever since!”
When Sarah and I took our lunch break, I retreated to the playroom to phone Dawn, whom I hadn’t talked to in a few days. She actually had tried a Summer Solstice Sale, promoting it among her known Wiccan and neo-hippie customers, and saw a slight boost in her business. She said she was still mulling the possibility of taking mail orders.
“Even though I already have a website, it’s designed just to lure people into the store,” she reminded me. “Every once in a while I will send merchandise to someone, as a favor, but I’ve always been reluctant to get into taking orders as a major part of my business. I’d probably have to
get an assistant just to handle that, which would eat into my profits, anyway. What do you think?”
I saw her dilemma. “I think you’re right to consider all the angles before you make any new moves. Since the summer promotion worked well, why not try that for every new season, every holiday, and see how it goes?”
Dawn murmured agreement. “I could make up a mailing list, ask Keith to design flyers for me, and send them out to my regulars. That would cost a little, but not nearly as much as shipping goods all over the country.”
Keith, her lanky, brown-bearded significant other, was a sought-after graphic artist. He lived and worked in a loft across town, in a former commercial building.
“Sounds like a good plan,” I told Dawn.
When she asked what was new with me, I brought her up to date on the situations with Chester and the Fosters, and told her Bonelli was looking into both cases. I kept to myself, though, any sensitive information, such as the possibility of a dirty cop on the Dalton force, and Gillian’s claims that her husband and/or her interior designer were out to kill her.
When asked about Mark’s rehearsal with Quintessence, though, I did describe Tracy’s brazen attempt to put the moves on him and how I’d handled it.
Dawn howled with laughter over the phone. “Catwoman unsheathed her claws, eh? I won’t say I didn’t know you had it in you, because I’ve seen you face down even tougher characters. But I’ll bet you surprised the hell out of Tracy!”
“Well, I meant to scare her off, and I hope it worked. It’s not that I don’t trust Mark, but he shouldn’t have to put up with stuff like that. If he gets a chance to perform with the group sometime, for real, he might think twice if he’ll have to watch out for the niece of the keyboard guy. I mean, a woman has no right to sexually harass a man, either!”
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