“A button? I don’t see what difference that would make.”
“She said it matched a button she found about a week before that. She thinks it’s from a woman’s piece of clothing, probably a top. Too small and delicate for a man’s shirt, she said.”
“Is she taking it to the police?”
Mike hesitated. “Well, that’s a problem. She says she swept it up and threw it out. Later, she realized that, because it was so much like the other one, maybe she should have kept it. But she didn’t have the first one either.”
“None of this sounds like it’s going to help the police any.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
Chase heard a beeping sound.
“That’s my front door. I think my next appointment is here,” Mike said. “I’ll call you later.”
Still fretting about Karla, Chase opened the office door to the kitchen. Then, remembering that they needed more paper bags in the front, she hoisted a box of them and set it on the kitchen counter.
After being shoved off the treat maker’s lap, the cat stalked the room with his tail twitching. A box of comfy paper products stood in the corner with its top open. The cat jumped into the space, just barely big enough to contain him, and took a snooze. The box was left on the kitchen counter. Soon, the cat awoke and peered over the edge of the box.
The box seemed extra-heavy. Chase would carry it up front later. She paced the kitchen. She decided that as soon as Vi returned and Anna was back in the kitchen, she was going to sound her out about Hilda Bjorn. Could the old woman be malicious? Mistaken? Senile? She hadn’t seemed senile. Maybe she could talk to the neighbor, Professor Fear, and find out more about her personality.
There was another thorn in her side at the moment, Karla the Kleener. She was growing more and more fond of Michael Ramos. But the thorn from Karla was a mere sliver compared to the stab that Hilda was delivering to her. How could the woman insist that Chase had run from Gabe’s with blood on her clothes? And how could Chase clear herself of the charges? She didn’t have any bloody clothing, but that didn’t prove anything. She could have thrown her clothes away. As for the timing, how could she prove she wasn’t there at 4:30?
She thought back to that day. She’d been so upset about Gabe coming into the shop and threatening her, and then even more upset about losing control and threatening him, she had taken a walk around the parking lot at about that very time, to cool off and calm herself down. It was a very short walk, not enough time to get to that condo and back. She would never mention that to Detective Olson. No one at the Bar None had said anything about that. Unless Anna had.
TWENTY-SEVEN
The kitchen closed in, stifling her. Maybe she would return to Hilda’s and see if she was home. She grabbed her sweater from the hook and opened the rear door. She hesitated. She should tell Anna she was leaving. Turning around, she saw Quincy leap from the box on the counter. He darted between her legs and was gone before she could completely recover her balance.
“Anna!” she called, hoping Anna could hear her. “Quincy’s out again. I’m going after him.” She hoped Anna had heard. She followed Quincy, hoping he would stop at the trash bin. He wasn’t there, but she spotted him rounding the building at the corner. Again.
He was heading the way he’d headed several other times, for the block of Gabe’s condo and Hilda Bjorn’s house.
Chase was tired of running after that cat. If he was so overweight, why could he run so fast? She knew where he was going, so she decided she wasn’t going to rush. On her ambling way, she mused that Chase was certainly an apt nickname for her, since chasing was one of her main occupations. If only Quincy weren’t so clever. She hadn’t seen him get out of the office, but he must have smuggled himself out in the box of paper bags.
As she approached Hilda’s place, Professor Fear rode to his own house from the other direction, pedaling his fat-tired blue bicycle. His hair was more windblown than the last time she’d seen him, most likely due to the bike. He didn’t notice her at first.
“Hi, Professor Fear,” she called. “Do you know if Ms. Bjorn is home?”
“She should be. I saw her this morning. She wasn’t feeling well and was going to stay home all day.” He carried his bike up his porch steps and chained it.
Chase called her thanks, but they were unacknowledged. The man merely straightened up from securing his bicycle and entered his home. Maybe she should bring Ms. Bjorn something. Tuna hot dish? Chicken soup? Would that help convince the woman that Chase was not a killer?
Quincy sat purring on Hilda Bjorn’s wicker rocker. It still swayed from his jump onto its seat. Chase picked him up, trying to determine whether or not he was lighter after his jaunt. She couldn’t tell.
She knocked on the front door, but didn’t hear any movement inside. Since she knew Hilda was there, and was ill, she tried the doorknob. It wasn’t locked. She pushed the door open a few inches and called, “Ms. Bjorn?” She repeated the name a few times, getting louder each time and nudging the door farther open with each repetition. She thought she heard a door close at the back the house.
She entered the living room, a small, snug room with afghans draped over the couch and both of the overstuffed chairs. One end of the room held a dining table and hutch. Ms. Bjorn must be in her bedroom, poor thing. Chase tried the first door leading off the hall that ran the length of the house. It was a bedroom, and probably Hilda’s, but no one was in the room. The bedclothes were smoothed, but the bed wasn’t made up. A coverlet and two pillow shams rested on an old-fashioned fainting couch under the window. Chase tried the bathroom off the bedroom, but it, too, was empty.
Reentering the hallway, she tried the next room, also a bedroom. The heavy red draperies were drawn and the room was dark. It was obviously the guest room and hadn’t been occupied recently, from the evidence of a layer of dust on the wooden floor.
She left the room. Quincy wriggled out of her arms and ran toward the rear of the house. Chase ran after him, stopping short when she got to the end of the hallway.
Hilda lay on her kitchen floor, a small puddle of blood beside her. It brought back the vision of Gabe so vividly, Chase started to feel faint.
Chase clutched the doorjamb and gave a loud gasp. Hilda’s eyes fluttered open.
“Oh my,” the woman breathed, barely audible.
Chase knelt and took Hilda’s hand. “It’s okay, I’m here,” she said. Hilda pulled her hand away and frowned.
Sitting back on her heels, Chase whipped her cell phone out of her pocket and dialed 911. Before the operator answered, Chase heard sirens. Puzzled, she completed the call anyway. The sirens probably weren’t coming here. The woman at the call center, after finding out where Chase was, told her to stay put.
“Don’t you want to know what the emergency is?” asked Chase, standing up and regarding Hilda, who didn’t seem awake anymore. Something blue lay on the floor, in the shadow of the dark wood cabinets. “The woman here needs help right away. Hilda Bjorn. She’s been sick, but—”
“Help is on the way. You need to stay right where you are. Don’t move and don’t touch anything.”
Chase thought that was odd. “I should pick up my cat. He might disturb something. There’s blood.” There was something else on the floor, near Hilda’s head. Something small and round. It might have been a button.
Quincy was, in fact, ignoring everything else and sniffing poor Ms. Bjorn’s feet. She was barefoot, wearing a gown and robe. She must have felt his whiskers because she twitched her foot. Quincy transferred his sniffing to the door that led to the backyard.
“I repeat,” the voice on the line said, “don’t move and don’t touch anything.”
“Can I hang up now?”
Two policemen came quietly into the kitchen, their guns drawn.
Chase flinched and dropped her phone.
“Don’t
move,” one of the men said, the square-jawed one.
“No, I won’t.” Her voice was faint, just above a whisper. She didn’t think she could have said it any louder at the moment. The barrel of the gun loomed, huge and deadly. She wished it weren’t pointing at her. She raised her hands in the air, surrendering. “My cat,” she said.
“Is that it?” the rounder-faced one asked, jerking his head toward the door and Quincy.
“Him. That’s him.”
The policemen exchanged a private look.
“Go get it,” the lantern-jawed one said to her. “Then stand right there and don’t move.”
She walked to the back door, weak-kneed. Professor Fear’s face, wearing an incredulous expression, peered in at her through the windowpane. She saw a policeman come up behind him and motion him off the back porch. After she picked Quincy up, she stole glances out the door. Professor Fear stood in the yard talking to the policeman, waving his hands toward the house.
Meanwhile, in the kitchen, one of the policemen knelt beside Hilda Bjorn until a pair of medics arrived. They scooped her onto a gurney and whisked her down the hall, seconds after entering the room.
Chase was relieved that Hilda’s color was good and she didn’t seem to be bleeding much.
The two policemen remaining in the kitchen huddled together across the room for a quiet conversation. One shook his head at everything the other one said.
“Is anyone there?” a familiar voice called from the front of the house.
It was Mike Ramos! Chase was so relieved to hear his voice she nearly dropped Quincy.
TWENTY-EIGHT
The square-jawed policeman raised his gun again, this time pointing it at the newcomer. Mike stopped in the doorway to Hilda’s kitchen, his eyes wide.
“What’s going on?” Mike asked.
“Who are you and what are you doing here?” The policeman sounded as suspicious of Mike as he had of Chase. She wondered if Mike’s heart was hammering as fast as hers was.
“I’m Dr. Ramos. I live across the street. I was coming home for lunch and saw the commotion. Is Ms. Bjorn all right?”
“I think someone hit her on the head,” Chase blurted.
The round-faced policeman silenced her with a glare. The other one was talking on a phone.
“I saw the ambulance take her away,” said Mike. “Is she going to be okay?”
“Are you a medical doctor?” asked the policeman not on the phone.
“No, a veterinarian.”
“Isn’t that medical?” asked Chase.
“You be quiet.” Another one of those stern glares. He went to talk to his partner again. After further hushed debate, he turned to Mike. “Would you be able to take this animal?”
“Take him where?” Mike and Chase both said together.
The policeman unhooked a set of handcuffs from his belt. “We’re taking her in, but can’t take the cat.”
“You’re what?” Mike said it, but Chase thought it at the same time.
There was no answer. Mike threw Chase a worried glance. “What did you do?”
“I found Ms. Bjorn on her floor and called nine one one.”
“Quincy got out again, I gather.”
Chase nodded. She wanted to ask him what he was doing here when he had told her an appointment was coming in his door and he needed to hang up on their conversation.
“I’m sure this will get cleared up in a hurry.” Mike took Quincy from Chase, giving her a pat on the shoulder. It should have been reassuring, but she barely noticed, as the policeman, the round-faced one, grabbed her wrists and pulled them behind her to snap on the cuffs. They were cold and uncomfortable.
“Can I get my phone?” Chase asked. It lay on the floor where she had dropped it. It was unbroken, at least. The round-faced policeman picked it up and pocketed it.
“I’ll take care of Quincy,” Mike said, as he left. “Then I’ll go to the station. Call me when you know what’s going on.”
Chase nodded again, unable to speak her thanks. As soon as Mike was gone, tears started spilling down her face. It was distressing that she wasn’t able to wipe them with her hands secured behind her. The taller, square-jawed one took her elbow and guided her, not ungently, out of the kitchen and to the front room. He motioned her onto one of the soft chairs and she perched on the edge of the cushion, not able to sit back because of the awkward handcuffs.
After a few minutes she asked what they were waiting for. As she was speaking, a team of forensic people entered with cameras and bags of equipment. Oh yes, she thought, the CSI people. Detective Olson followed them. They all proceeded down the hallway, but Detective Olson soon returned.
He took a seat in the other easy chair and sat facing her. “What’s going on?” he asked the uniformed policeman. He didn’t seem like the monster he had been when he was grilling her.
“Suspect was found standing over the victim. Victim was on the floor, bleeding and unconscious, with a heavy piece of marble beside her.”
The detective turned to Chase. “Again?”
“Not exactly. This wasn’t a stabbing. And I didn’t do it this time either.”
The policeman, still standing, stirred a bit. He was frowning at Chase. She didn’t think he believed her. He stood at attention, his hands clasped behind him, and swayed slightly.
“I know, you were chasing your cat,” said the detective.
“Yes.”
“No, not really. Chasing your cat again? I was joking.”
“Quincy likes Ms. Bjorn. He’s run away and come here before.” She wished that policeman would stop swaying. And frowning.
“Tell me exactly what happened, Ms. Oliver.” Detective Olson took out a notepad. The whole scenario was all too depressingly familiar, from the use of Ms. Oliver to the notepad. At least she was in a living room.
She related how Quincy must have gotten out of the office as she hung up from talking with Mike. She called him Dr. Ramos, making herself a mental note to ask Mike, when she picked Quincy up, why he was going home to lunch right after he’d told her his next appointment was at his office.
After she’d told Detective Olson the rest, which wasn’t much—that she’d gone after Quincy, learned from Professor Fear that Ms. Bjorn had been ill today, and had entered her house to see if she could do anything for her—he wrote for another minute or so, then looked up.
“Why would you be concerned about the woman who is a witness against you?”
“She’s . . . she’s an old woman and she’s sick and she’s . . . wrong.”
“Were you thinking of attempting to change her mind about what she saw?”
He could tell that? “No, of course not. That would be tampering, wouldn’t it?”
Detective Olson narrowed his eyes in an unattractive way.
“Since I was here, because Quincy was here, I thought I’d peek in and see if she needed anything. Professor Fear said—”
“Yes, I heard you. He said she was sick.” He still didn’t seem convinced, but told the policeman to take the handcuffs off.
“My cell phone,” Chase said.
Detective Olson retrieved it and handed it to her. “If I need anything further, I’ll be in touch,” he said.
Grateful, Chase stammered something and fled.
TWENTY-NINE
Chase approached Mike’s condo with caution. She didn’t want to interrupt anything between him and the red-haired dog owner, the one who had let her dog get hold of a chicken. Chase still thought that was irresponsible.
Mike’s truck was at the curb, behind his Ford sedan. No other cars were parked nearby. The woman must not be there. Chase rang his doorbell. He answered the door alone. So far, so good. Quincy was curled up on his couch, asleep. Evidently, finding bodies, even those of people he’d known and napped on, didn’t bother him overly m
uch.
“Thanks, Mike. I’ll take him.”
“What’s your hurry? Come on in.” He stepped aside and motioned her inside. “I’ll get you some iced tea or . . . coffee?”
“I’d better call Anna. She has no idea where I am.”
“Are you doing all right without me?” Chase asked when Anna answered the office phone.
Anna said that Vi had returned and was in front, selling. She said they’d both been worried about where Chase was until Anna noticed that the office door was open and Quincy was gone. “Where are you two?”
Chase told Anna about Quincy going to Hilda’s and about finding the elderly woman on her floor, unconscious at first. “I think she was hit on the head. There was something chunky beside her on the floor.”
“The poor woman. Will she be all right?”
“They took her away in an ambulance.”
“Are you at the hospital?”
“No, I was . . . detained.”
“Detained?”
“By the police. Just for a bit.”
Chase heard Anna’s intake of breath. “Do they think you did it?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t think so. That is, I don’t think Detective Olson thinks so, but the uniformed cops were ready to take me to the station. I was handcuffed until the detective showed up.”
“That’s awful.” Chase heard beeping on Anna’s end of the call. “That’s the timer. I’m making caramel.”
Chase knew timing was critical for that process. “I’ll be back to the shop in a few minutes.”
After she finished the call, Mike asked if she had to go right away.
“Maybe I could have a glass of iced tea,” Chase said. She realized she was parched. Maybe extreme emotions did that to a person.
Fat Cat At Large (A Fat Cat Mystery) Page 19