Claw & Disorder

by Eileen Watkins

Hoo, boy. I wondered when dealing with that dysfunctional family had officially become part of my job description.

  Have a heart. The girl did just lose her mother.

  I sighed. “Okay, sure. I’ll put this cat away and bring Leya out here.”

  When I returned with the Himalayan in my arms, Whitney sat waiting on the top platform of a carpeted perch. She’d shrouded herself in a baggy sweatshirt and faded jeans—maybe the teenager’s version of mourning garb. She also had pulled her long, straight hair over one shoulder and twisted the whole hank nervously. The same as she’d been doing the night she watched the EMTs load Adele into the ambulance.

  She bounced up when she saw Leya, though, and met me halfway to fuss over her.

  “Poor sweetie, have you been okay here? Did you miss us? We miss you!”

  I handed over her pet so they could have a better reunion. Meanwhile, I couldn’t help wondering if Whitney was channeling her feelings of loss into the cat . . . or whether she’d missed Leya at least as much as her mother, if not more so.

  After a minute she finally acknowledged me again. “Cassie, thanks so much for noticing the smoke and calling the fire department. If they hadn’t gotten there so quickly . . . there might have been nothing left.”

  I nodded, though this comment also stirred my curiosity. Did she mean nothing left of their house, or of Gillian?

  “Sorry I wasn’t able to do more,” I said. “How are you holding up? This must have been a terrible shock for you and your father.”

  “Neither of us can understand how it happened. Mom had no reason to go into the cellar by herself on Monday. A couple of weeks ago, she drew up plans about how she wanted it to look, with storage in one half and a wine cellar in the other, but since then she’s left all the work to Dad and Nick. Even when they talked about the nuts-and-bolts stuff in front of her, she just acted bored.”

  “Is it possible someone else dropped by and she was showing them around down there?” I suggested.

  Whitney looked up at me and cocked her head. “I don’t know who that would be. When I left for the stable, Mom didn’t mention anything like that to me. I thought Herta would be coming, as usual, but Detective Bonelli says Mom gave her the day off.”

  “You already spoke to Bonelli?”

  “Yeah, she asked me a lot of questions, because of the porridge incident. As if that means I’d try to kill my mother!”

  Not so far-fetched, I reasoned. On the one hand, Whitney’s prank probably wouldn’t have done Gillian any serious harm. On the other, it had landed Adele Dugan in the hospital.

  “The cops are giving Dad an even harder time,” the girl went on. “They think maybe he rigged up something in the basement and told her to go down there, but that’s ridiculous! Not only would my father never kill anyone, but would he risk burning down our house, too?”

  “Is there a chance he did something wrong down there and accidently created the conditions that started the fire? The inspector found work gloves that looked like a man’s size right near the spot where the blaze started. Could they have been your dad’s?”

  She shrugged. “I suppose they must have been, either his or Nick’s. Honestly, I was afraid something like this might happen, but not to my mother. I worried that Dad would get electrocuted fooling with that old wiring. He probably didn’t know as much about it as he thought, because once I heard Nick warn him about it. The wires weren’t color-coded right, or something, and Nick told Dad to always check whether or not a wire was live before touching it.”

  I asked Whitney if her mother was aware of the gas pipes behind the walls, and she looked surprised. “I’m not sure. This is the first I heard about them. That’s what started the fire, the gas?”

  Hoping Bonelli wouldn’t think I was sharing confidential details with a suspect, I nodded.

  “Wow. Dad did tell us he needed to stop the work for a while and get a plumber in to deal with some pipes, but I figured they were regular water pipes. I think Mom did, too. Just yesterday she was nagging him about it, asking why he couldn’t work around the plumbing and get the electrical stuff done. It made her antsy not to have the house completely finished. You know how she was—needed to know everything was done perfectly.”

  “I do.”

  Whitney started wringing her hair again. She gazed sideways, toward the wall of cat shelves, but I could tell her vision really was turned inward. “Mom almost baited Dad to just deal with the wiring himself, without Nick. Like, didn’t he know just as much about that kind of thing?”

  I could almost hear Gillian’s sarcastic tone in my head, and it set some gears rolling in a new direction.

  “Well, speaking of Dad, I’d better get home or he’ll worry.” Whitney ruffled Leya’s fur once more and planted a kiss on her head, then handed her back to me. “Thanks for hanging on to her a little longer. Once we’ve had the house checked and repaired, Dad will come to get her.”

  I followed the girl as she headed for the playroom door. “Whitney, right before the fire, did your mother say or do anything else that seemed strange? I mean, like giving Herta the day off?”

  “I can’t think of anything.” She paused, and for the first time her voice thickened with sadness. “But she did do something weird on the day of the fire. I didn’t know about it before, just found out about it yesterday. Mom died wearing my shoes.”

  “What?”

  “We wore the same size, and once in a while we borrowed shoes from each other. Mostly she’d talk me into wearing her heels, when I was dressing up, even though I like flats better. But after the fire, I was missing some running shoes, and when I asked Bonelli, sure enough, Mom had them on.”

  “Did your mother go running?”

  Whitney gave a dry laugh. “Never! She didn’t like to sweat that much; Pilates was more her thing. And she absolutely hated those particular sneakers on me, because they were so thick-soled and clunky—she called them my Frankenstein shoes. But for some reason, without even asking me, she wore them on Monday.”

  By the time Whitney left, it was about four thirty. Sarah and I had no other appointments that day, so we began straightening up the place in a leisurely way, sweeping floors and scooping out litter pans. We made chitchat about various things, including the Fosters, but I kept my newest, half-formed suspicions about Gillian’s death to myself. I’d save them for someone who’d be in a better position to follow up.

  Near five, Sarah got a call on her cell. I stepped away to avoid eavesdropping, but could tell from my assistant’s low, serious tone that the news worried her.

  “That was Robin,” she told me minutes later.

  “Chester again?” I guessed.

  “He said he heard noises last night in his back yard—a cat yowling and music playing. Saxophone music. He said it sounded like something from the Coltrane album that went missing from his house.”

  I paused, in the middle of filling a boarder’s dish with dry food, to stare at Sarah. Her expression told me she also found this story absurd.

  “I know, it’s crazy,” my assistant agreed. “Even Robin thinks his mind really could be going this time. But she’s worried that, because Chester set that ‘trap’ in his kitchen, somebody might have decided to try luring him out of the house instead. The other day, his caretaker told Robin she found an empty beer bottle in the outdoor garbage can, and since she’s been coming there she’s never known Chester to have beer in the house. Robin thought of grabbing it for possible evidence, but the trash already had been picked up.”

  “The bottle could have been dumped by someone just passing by, through the woods back there,” I said. “But yeah, it also might mean somebody shady has been hanging around his house.”

  “Exactly. Robin has told him to lock his doors, and not to go outside by himself at night under any circumstances, but she’s afraid he won’t listen to her.”

  I shook my head. “I’d tell her to call the Dalton cops, but we all know how much good that will do.”

&n
bsp; “Anyway, she’s going to stay over there tonight with him and sleep in Bernice’s old room, just to see if there’s anything to Chester’s story. If she does hear noises, at least she can stop him from leaving the house. Cassie, do you think she also could call the Chadwick cops? Since Bonelli’s on the case now, would they respond?”

  “Worth a try,” I said. “But I really don’t like the idea of Robin putting herself at risk like that.”

  “I don’t, either, but she’s hardheaded. Robin thinks because she’s a nurse and in good shape—and has handled some rough situations working in the schools—she can take care of herself. But she doesn’t know who or what she’d be up against. None of us do!”

  I glanced at my wall clock and wondered if Bonelli would still be in her office. Seemingly not, because I got her answering machine.

  I gave her a brief heads-up about what Chester reportedly heard the evening before, and Robin Stoppard’s plan to stay over and check it out. I doubted the detective would investigate unless there was some real evidence of wrongdoing, but it didn’t hurt to alert her.

  As long as I was leaving a message, I also mentioned Whitney’s visit to my shop and our conversation. “She said her mother died wearing a pair of running shoes that belonged to Whitney, even though Gillian didn’t run and always complained that the shoes were ugly. I was just wondering . . . did they happen to have thick, rubber soles?”

  Chapter 22

  By around eight thirty that evening I lay exhausted on my sofa. Matisse sprawled across my lap, and Cole sat in a meditative Sphinx pose nearby.

  Mango observed the rest of us from a wall shelf across the room. He had begun avoiding me since I’d started giving him his daily thyroid pills. I’d fooled him with the first two by hiding them inside the chewy cat treats, but he’d soon gotten wise to that trick. The next few times, I’d had to prop him on my lap, facing away from me; I’d gotten his mouth open, shoved the pill as far in as I could, held his jaws closed, and massaged his throat until he swallowed. The element of surprise had worked in my favor.

  But Mango never had been known for his mellow temperament, and over the last few days he’d been ready to do battle. I resorted to the time-honored vet tech method of wrapping him completely in a bath towel, except for his head, before I poked the tablet into his mouth. Even so, one pill that I could have sworn he’d swallowed later turned up between the sofa cushions.

  He was his own worst enemy, I told myself. The pills did seem to be helping his condition and would be the easiest way to manage it. But if he refused to take them, the next step would be surgery to remove the thyroid tumor. I dreaded that, because anesthesia was always risky for cats past a certain age.

  Earlier, I’d put in a call to Dawn but got voice mail. I told her it was nothing urgent and to call back when she got the chance. Too tired to focus on a book, I began watching a lackluster episode of a forensic-mystery series. Fatigue soon got the better of me, though, and my eyes closed.

  I’d probably dozed for a good ten minutes—the TV episode was winding up—when my cell phone rang. Not Dawn, though. Sarah.

  “Sorry to disturb you, Cassie, but I’m worried. I’ve tried calling Chester on his house phone and Robin on her cell, several times. Neither of them answers.”

  I woke sufficiently to understand why this was a bad thing. “She’s staying over at his house tonight?”

  “That was her plan. Do you think I dare call the Dalton cops?”

  My mind clearing, I advised Sarah, “No, call the Chadwick PD and drop my name. Tell them it’s about the Chester Tillman case, that he’s supposed to have a caretaker with him, but no one’s answering at the house. Let me know what they say.”

  While giving her time to do this, I pulled myself together. I had showered after work and now wore my Kelly-green CAT WRANGLER T-shirt with floral pajama pants; I exchanged the pants for jeans and pulled on sneakers. A glance out the window told me the night had turned rainy and foggy, though, and I hoped we wouldn’t have to go out.

  Sarah called me right back. “The desk sergeant said most of their officers have gone out to a multicar accident on the highway. He’ll try to pull somebody off to look in on Chester, but it could be awhile.”

  “Okay, we can’t wait that long.” Rain and fog be damned. “Want to go up to his house?”

  She chuckled darkly. “I was afraid to ask you.”

  “Since you’re nearer to his place, I’ll pick you up.”

  I locked my apartment door and trotted downstairs, by the glow of a ceiling safety light. Passing my sales counter, I paused to grab the can of pepper spray I kept underneath. (Store stickups weren’t a common problem in Chadwick, but I’d had issues with a few specific bad guys in the past.)

  When Sarah got into my car, about fifteen minutes later, she brought along a good-size flashlight, which I imagined could be helpful, too. Both of us had worn dark pants and hooded jackets, like burglars. The rain had eased a little, but the fog remained. I had to be careful driving out to Dalton, because the roads grew more rural with fewer lights.

  Meanwhile, Sarah and I plotted our strategy: Park a little distance from the ranch house, survey the property, and see if anything looked immediately suspicious before we went inside.

  I left my car in a patch of woods, and we approached the house on foot, our jacket hoods raised against the drizzle. Through the garage window, I could make out Robin’s sleek gray sedan inside. Had she pulled it in to keep it dry, or so her presence wouldn’t be too obvious?

  The living room’s high front window showed only one dim light, probably from a table lamp. Maybe Robin had decided to stay up and read while keeping watch? But why hadn’t she answered her phone?

  You’re making too much of this, Cassie. She and Chester are probably both asleep, in their respective rooms. Could be she just forgot to charge her phone.

  But what about Chester’s landline?

  When we reached the front of the house, I heard voices. One shout that sounded like Robin, then a man yelling at her. A healthy baritone, not Chester’s elderly rasp.

  “Stay low so they can’t see you,” I told Sarah. We eased through the overgrown bushes at the front of the house, and I stood on tiptoe to peer inside. The living room window bowed outward, in the style of many 1950s and 1960s houses, and my nose just came to the sill. The vertical blinds had suffered even more damage over the past couple of weeks, and the gaps allowed me a decent view of the room beyond.

  Robin sat in an old wing chair, bound to it by several coils of a thick rope. The stiff way her hands lay in her lap suggested her wrists also were tied. While I watched, her captor, a medium-tall man, tore some duct tape off a roll and plastered that over her mouth.

  He stepped back to approve his work, and tucked what looked like a small pistol into the pocket of his sweatpants. He wore a gray hoodie, but the top was pushed down far enough for me to recognize Bob Smiley.

  Beside me I heard Sarah gasp, and knew she’d also glimpsed the scenario.

  I ducked below the window and texted a 911 message to the Chadwick cops, knowing it still might take them a while to come.

  “What can we do?” Sarah whispered.

  “Let’s go around the back.”

  We crept up the steps to the rear porch, while I tried to devise a game plan. Smiley’s gun complicated things. It explained how he’d persuaded Robin to sit in the chair while he tied her up. But if he’d meant to kill her, wouldn’t she be dead already?

  “Where’s Chester?” asked Sarah.

  Another good question. Smiley could have felled him with one good punch. We’d just have to worry about that later.

  We found the back door unlocked, made it to the kitchen and crouched behind the counter. From there, the clutter helped conceal us, but we had a decent view of the living room.

  Smiley backed away from the immobilized Robin, rubbed a hand over his thinning hair and tapped out a number on his phone. He started talking to someone, too rapidly and quietly
for me to hear very much. Just two phrases reached me: “. . . more than I signed up for . . .” and “You better get over here!”

  My mind was on other things, anyhow. While he faced away from me, I scanned the cluttered kitchen counter. Spotted something useful—a chrome-sided, 1980s toaster oven.

  I held up my hand, signaling Sarah to stay where she was. Bob seemed caught up in his agitated conversation, but still kept an eye on Robin. I slipped from my hiding place and quietly picked up the greasy old appliance. Stole up behind him . . .

  And, as hard as I could, swung it at the back of his head.

  Robin darted a glance at me, which might have tipped off Bob, and he half turned. My blow landed not quite square, glancing off the side of his head and his shoulder. In spite of that, he let out one groan and dropped—like a trash bag full of old eight-track cassettes.

  Sarah, armed with a kitchen knife, dashed across the living room to Robin. In a few seconds she had freed her friend’s hands, and the two of them untied the thicker rope that bound her to the chair.

  Once Robin had pulled the tape from her mouth, she started to tell us what had happened. “After Chester went to bed, I sat up for a while in Bernice’s room, reading. I’d tried to lock the back door, but that hook-and-eye lock is pretty flimsy. Before too long, I heard someone padding around out here. I told Chester to stay in his room until I gave him the okay, and sneaked out to see who it was . . . but Bob got the drop on me.” She glanced at the fallen man. “At least you got the drop on him!”

  “Who knows how long he’ll stay out, though,” I said.

  “Oh, could be awhile. You hit him in a good spot, behind the ear. That’s an instant KO. Just as well you didn’t get him right at the base of his skull, because that could’ve killed him.”

  Sarah nodded. “And we still need him to tell us just what’s been going on here!”

  I laughed at this cold-blooded statement from my usually gentle, humane assistant.

  “Well, are you gonna let him just lay there? Tie him up before he comes to!”

  This suggestion, coming from the kitchen, startled all three of us. Focused on Bob, we hadn’t noticed Chester sneaking down the hallway, wearing a bathrobe over pajamas.