“Anastasia, come here baby,” I called out. Nothing. I stepped through the graceful arch of the doorway into the foyer and shut the door behind me. This is so unlike her, I thought. The friendly dog had always welcomed me, bounding toward me with her tail wagging. Anastasia was noisy, too. Not a dog that barked a lot as a neighbor had claimed in a complaint lodged with the HOA soon after Beverly moved in. The friendly pooch did greet you, though, with playful woofs and yips as she wiggled and danced around familiar visitors.
I flipped a switch and the alabaster chandelier hanging in the entryway sprang to life. The area sparkled as light bounced from the mocha-colored marble floors to other polished surfaces in the space. I let out my breath, not even aware until then that I’d been holding it. With the lights on, I felt less uneasy, but moved cautiously into the foyer and called softly to Anastasia again. Maybe her owner’s late arrival or my sudden presence in the house had scared her and the poodle was hiding under a bed or in a back room.
A pit of dread settled in my stomach as the stillness closed in around me. I peeked into the study to my right, flipped on a light, and then froze. No Anastasia, but the room that had been pristine every time I visited was untidy. It wasn’t ransacked, but not as orderly as Bev had kept it. Books on the shelves were no longer lined up neatly, a few even sat sideways in front of other books as though someone had gone through them without putting them back in proper order. One of the paintings on the wall next to the bookshelves was askew and papers were strewn about on Beverly’s gleaming wood desk.
I pulled my phone from my purse and began snapping photos as Jerry had done the first time we’d walked into a crime scene together. That seemed like a lifetime ago even though it had been less than a year since that visit to Laura’s house where she’d found her murdered husband lying in the hallway. That recollection touched off an unpleasant shiver. I paused for a moment to listen for any sound of footsteps, rustling of clothes, or breathing in case an intruder might still be present. I’d been caught in that situation before, too.
“You’re capable of learning, aren’t you, Jessica Huntington?” I murmured to myself hoping the sound of my voice would cover the pounding of my beating heart. “Why not stop right now and call the police?” Because I didn’t want to let my overactive imagination, fed by anxiety over Beverly’s death, lead to an embarrassing overreaction. “Beverly could have been in a hurry, looking for something, and didn’t bother to straighten up after herself before she left,” I argued with myself, speaking out loud.
Ah, talking to myself. Not a good sign, I thought as I made my way around the room, as skittish as a spooked cat. I leaned over and examined the paperwork lying in disarray on Beverly’s desk. I snapped more photos, careful not to touch anything until I decided whether to call the police to report a break-in.
As far as I could see, all the items had to do with the renovations. These must have been pages from Beverly’s copies since the originals were all in a file in my office. That file not only contained the contracts written to hire the General Contractor, but a seemingly endless series of subcontracts and forms filed with city departments, along with those sent to the AR Committee.
As I retreated from the den, leaving the lights on, a wave of déjà vu struck. My intuition told me someone had rifled through Beverly’s things. If Anastasia was still upset enough to be hiding, it must have happened recently. I considered leaving. Not altogether, but stepping back outside in the courtyard to call the police and wait for them there. When I thought I heard a woof, concern for Anastasia won out.
“Anastasia,” I called out—loudly, this time. Nothing. I rummaged in my bag and then slung it across my body. That freed my hands to hold my cell phone in one hand, my finger poised to call 911, and a can of police-grade pepper spray in the other. Across from the den was a large sitting room that I lit up, using an elbow to hit the switch. It was harder to tell if anything in this room had been moved around, so I stepped back into the foyer.
Matching bombe chests sat on either side of the wide foyer. A drawer was slightly ajar in one of them and several petals lay on the marble top. Had they fallen or been knocked from a stunning arrangement of blushing peach garden roses, coral peonies, and golden craspedias, with gray-green succulents worked into the mix? I snapped more photos of the drawer that was open slightly, catching a whiff of fragrance—something floral—but not from the bouquet.
As I tried to identify the familiar scent, a noise put me on alert. The sound had come from the back of the house—somewhere near Beverly’s newly renovated kitchen. Barely breathing, I listened intently. Scratching, that was it.
“Anastasia,” I called out again. “Where are you?” I heard more scratching and this time, whimpering too. I sprang into action, turning on lights as I went. As I continued, I passed the dining room on one side, swung in that direction, taking aim with my pepper spray as I flipped the nearest light switch. All clear. Then I did the same after swinging the opposite way, and lighting the guest bathroom. A second hallway veered off to the left. That led to Beverly’s master suite. If there was a slime ball hiding in there, I’d have to take my chances. Anastasia’s scratching had grown more furious.
“Are you locked in somewhere?” I hollered as I hurried toward the sound. When I turned on the lights in the kitchen, the sight took my breath away for an instant. The kitchen was a joy to behold! Beverly had wonderful taste and had turned the kitchen into a Tuscan dream of creamy whites in molded Venetian plaster, carved woods, and polished stone. The dark wood base of the huge kitchen island anchored the room. Pendant lights, under-cabinet lights, and canned lighting lit every nook and cranny. The light cast a warm glow as it danced on the shiny stone counters and stainless steel surfaces of the appliances.
Delight fled as I noticed several drawers ajar in here, too. A glass-fronted cupboard hadn’t been closed completely. My heart pounded almost out of my chest as I forced myself to move. I nearly stepped on a sheet of paper lying on the floor. It was a receipt of some kind. Several more slips of paper were on the floor near a kitchen work desk where the intruder hadn’t bothered to shut the largest drawer. A book was on the floor near the shelves in the kitchen island that housed Beverly’s cookbook collection.
“Someone must have been in a hurry by the time they got in here,” I commented aloud.
Whimpering turned to barking as I snapped pictures, and walked toward a wall of sliders in the comfy family room adjacent to the open kitchen area. Splashes of color, like those in the flower arrangement in the foyer, were repeated in the plush upholstered seating and accents in the room. The inviting furniture had all been strategically oriented to take in views of the outdoors and an imposing fireplace on the far wall of the room. Anastasia jumped up on her hind legs and spun around, obviously pleased to see me. Her lovely arc of a tail whipped back and forth.
“What are you doing outside?” I asked as I opened the door and let her into the family room. Anastasia woofed and greeted me before dashing through the kitchen and toward a short hallway into the butler’s pantry that ran between the kitchen and the formal dining room. Beverly kept Anastasia’s water and food bowls there. Before she reached them, the hungry poodle stopped abruptly at the work desk. She sniffed and then barked at the papers on the floor.
Backing away, Anastasia came to stand at my side. She whined as she looked up at me. A chill slid down my spine as I caught another hint of the fragrance I’d detected in the foyer. It was a strong, distinctive perfume. Too bad I couldn’t document it with pictures like I was doing for the physical evidence I’d found lying around. I reached out to pat Anastasia, speaking to her at the same time. It suddenly dawned on me that the sliders were closed but not latched.
“It’s okay. Nobody’s going to hurt you. We’re going to get help.”
No way would Beverly have left Anastasia out in the yard all day, even with the cooler winter temps. Ruth was correct that Beverly’s neighbor had withdrawn her complaint about Anastasia’s barki
ng, but Beverly had remained anxious about the incident and wouldn’t have pressed her luck by leaving Anastasia unattended outside.
Not to mention that the backyard was a huge mess. Piles of stone and dirt, and other landscaping materials were evident in one corner of the yard. Nearby, a small backhoe sat, perhaps needed to put several large boulders in place. The pool had been drained and resurfaced, but some sort of work was still being done since tools, a tarp, and buckets sat in the bottom. The patio lights had come on when I hit the switch, but not the landscape lights or the lights in the enormous overhang that ran the full length of the house sheltering what would have eventually become an outdoor living area.
Wrought iron fences kept Anastasia from escaping onto the golf course that abutted the property. Beverly had mentioned that workers propped the side gate open during the day to get in and out of the yard quickly. She had been more than a little concerned that they’d leave that gate open and never let Anastasia out on her own.
I reached down and patted Anastasia again, taking comfort from the nuzzle I received in return. As much as I dreaded it, I called the police. I didn’t bother calling the dispatcher, but went straight to an old friend instead. Beverly may have died in Palm Desert, but she lived in Cathedral City.
“Detective Hernandez, it’s Jessica Huntington. Sorry to bother you, but I need to report a break-in. A break-in,” I said, hoping to justify my call to a homicide detective by adding, “with extenuating circumstances.” I heard a familiar chuff on the other end of the phone. Some days it seems, no matter how hard you try, an encounter with the police is unavoidable.
11 An Old Detective Friend
“Well, well, well, I was wondering when I’d hear from you again. It’s been weeks since my debriefing with you and the Cat Pack about your last misadventure. I know you made a New Year’s resolution to stay out of trouble, but I can tell from the entertainment news that’s not working out too well for you. That husband of yours has a mess on his hands, doesn’t he?” Detective Hernandez was standing in the foyer, smirking ear-to-ear, as one of the two officers he’d brought along inspected the front door for any sign of forced entry. The other officer was in the den.
“Ex-husband, Detective,” I said, hanging onto Anastasia’s collar and wondering how many more times I was going to have to make that correction? “Maybe I should make up a frigging t-shirt that says, ‘Ex-husband, not husband’, and ‘It’s just Jessica Huntington, no hyphen!’” The dog was chomping at the bit to follow the officer into Beverly’s den. I wrestled with her, glad when I was finally able to grab her collar. It wasn’t easy to do with the fingers on one hand poking out of the cast. “Go ahead and rub it in. Despite my hopes that the new year would be better than the hellish one that just ended, I’ll admit it’s off to a dismal start.”
The smirk on the detective’s face vanished as he eyed the cast on the arm I had broken in that terrifying fall with Libby. Almost without taking a breath, the detective poked at another sore spot left in the wake of the incessant string of disastrous events in my life.
“How is Libby Van der Woert, by the way?”
“Not good. Of course, things weren’t good for Libby before we tumbled off that cliff together, were they?” The sadness about Libby’s situation added another brick to the weight pressing down upon me at the end of a day involving a senseless death.
“And your mother, how’s she doing?”
“You do keep up with the events in my life, don’t you? I guess you caught Mom’s mishap in the news, too.”
“It was hard to miss since you’re a local. Your mother’s situation didn’t get as much press as that ex-husband of yours, but I did catch a line or two about it. ‘Well-known Southern California socialite rushed to hospital after suspected overdose.’ Or something like that.” He shrugged.
“The real story’s more complicated,” I said, trying not to be defensive. That hadn’t made it less scary or less frustrating, but I wasn’t going to share any of that with Detective Hernandez.
“It always is, isn’t it?” The detective had adopted a more sympathetic tone, but I was still riled up.
“What I need to do is go find out how Mom’s doing. Thanks for asking. At least she’s not dead, like Beverly Windsor.” I paused and inhaled deeply, hoping to calm myself down. “I thought you’d appreciate getting a heads-up about the fact that someone broke into her house the same day she turned up dead on a roadside in Palm Desert. It could be a coincidence, but I don’t like it.”
The detective appeared on the verge of responding to that comment, but shook his head instead. What the heck did that mean? Despite my efforts not to lose my cool, I was getting more worked up.
The Cathedral City detective and I had put much of the antagonism between us aside, but I still found his manner irksome. The threat of finger-wagging always hovered as he spoke. The detective didn’t like lawyers or amateur sleuths as I had discovered soon after we met. I must admit that our meeting hadn’t occurred under auspicious circumstances given my bumbling attempts to uncover the truth behind the murder of my best friend’s husband. I’d overcome some of his misgivings about my crime-solving abilities, but like most detectives, he was always a breath away from an admonition to leave it to the pros.
Anastasia must have sensed my growing anxiety. She stopped squirming, and licked my hand, staring up at me with soulful puppy dog eyes. I released one hand from her collar, reached out, and stroked her soft fur.
“It’s okay, girl, we’re going to get out of here soon. I promise. If I can turn all this over to you now, I’d like to leave.” Detective Hernandez shifted his weight from one foot to another as if trying to decide my fate. He shoved his hands into the pockets of the jacket he had on to shield him from the cool air of the winter nights in the desert. Before he could deliver his verdict in response to my plea, one of the uniformed officers stepped out of the den. In his gloved hands, he held up an evidence bag that contained a power cord.
“We found this under the desk—still plugged into the outlet on the floor. Did you see a laptop anywhere when you looked around?”
“No, but I didn’t go through the entire house. I’ve been here several times before, and Beverly usually kept a laptop on the desk in there,” I said, jerking my head in the direction of the den since I was using both hands, again, to wrestle with Anastasia. Constraining the large, exuberant pup was awkward. Anastasia was trying to make friends with the officer who had approached us.
“I didn’t see it at the workstation in the kitchen, but maybe it’s in the family room or bedroom. If not, the only other possibility I can think of is that Beverly’s daughter might have it. Unless it was stolen, of course. Her daughter, Leslie’s, contact information is already on file with the Palm Desert police department.”
“If it doesn’t turn up in the house, make a note about it in the report and we’ll follow up with her daughter. She’ll have to help us figure out what else might have been taken,” Hernandez told the officer. Then the detective looked at me.
“I suppose the laptop could be in Ms. Windsor’s car. We can check on that since Ms. Huntington says the police took the car into evidence at another crime scene.” The officer paused and stared for a moment, but didn’t ask any questions about that other crime scene. He added another comment for the police report he’d write later, and then went back to join the second officer who was still in the den.
“I know this has been a long day. We’re going to be here a while longer. You did the right thing by calling me. I don’t see any reason why you shouldn’t leave and let us take it from here. That dog isn’t going to get any easier to manage.”
“No, she’s not. Anastasia’s got to be starving by now. I know I am. I need to stop on the way home and get a few things for her, unless your officers will get her stuff for me. I don’t mind traipsing through the kitchen again, but you probably don’t want me to do that, do you?”
“No. Tell the officer what you need,” Detective Herna
ndez said after thinking about it for thirty seconds.
“One more thing. It’s been a horrid day for Leslie Windsor. She’s in no shape to answer more questions from the police tonight. I’m having lunch with her tomorrow. Can you have the officer assigned to this case meet us here sometime in the afternoon to do a walk-through, and she can help figure out what’s missing then?”
“Why not? More bad news is all she needs. What time should I tell the case officer to meet you here?”
“Let’s say three o’clock, okay?”
“I’ll pass it along. I don’t like coincidences any more than you do, Jessica. We’ll do what we can to coordinate our efforts with Palm Desert PD to find out what’s going on. The lead officer assigned to investigate Beverly Windsor’s death may want to do that walk-through with you. I presume you’ll keep us in the loop and share whatever information you and your Cat Pack dig up, right?”
“Sure,” I responded, trying to believe the civility of his request was a sign of growth in our relationship and not meant to chide me. I hadn’t said a word about doing an investigation of our own. Hernandez knows me well. Too well, I thought as I felt my New Year’s resolution slipping away. Maybe better than I know myself.
12 More Mensch than Mooch
“Bernadette, we’re home,” I hollered as we entered the kitchen from the garage. A wonderful aroma enveloped me, making me dizzy. My stomach growled. It was almost 6:30 and I hadn’t eaten anything other than a granola bar that passed for lunch at my desk. Anastasia must have heard my growling stomach and went on alert. I had a good, hearty laugh for the first time since I’d spoken to Leslie this morning. I dropped my bag and keys on the counter, and bent down, rubbed both of Anastasia’s soft floppy ears and looked her in the eyes.
“It’s okay, Girl, I’m not growling at you. I’ll bet you’re as hungry as I am, aren’t you?” I was rewarded with a big kiss from Anastasia. When I stood up, Anastasia jumped up on her hind legs, put her front paws on my shoulders and, this time, she licked my face. That tickled, and I laughed again. I knew Beverly had been working hard to train the oversized puppy not to jump up on people like that. Anastasia reacted to my laughter and woofed as she danced and spun around on her hind legs.
4 A Dead Mother Page 11