“That’s cool, huh?”
“Yeah, I guess. I wanted to move out, but I didn’t have my own money to do it with, and my dad said if I was going to go to school in the city, on his dime, I could live at home – he wasn’t going to shell out money for a place for me to live when I had a perfectly good place to live already. This was a compromise. My mom said a young man my age should have some privacy and independence.”
“So it works out pretty good, then?”
“Yes and no.”
“How’s that?”
“I think my dad figured I wanted a place to bring girls. And he probably would have been okay with that.”
“But?”
“But, well... I can’t believe I’m telling you this, but he found out I was bringing home guys, if you know what I mean.”
“I know exactly what you mean. So, dad wasn’t cool with that, I take it?”
“Not by a long shot. I think he would have kicked me out altogether if it hadn’t been for Mom.”
“Go Mom, right?”
“Mom’s, well... she’s my mom. She loves me no matter what. They had a huge fight. She looks all cool and classy when she’s dressed up, but she curses like a drunk biker when she gets angry. Dad hates – hated – when anyone stood up to him. He was one of those guys who always wanted to get his way. I think relations were still chilly between them when he... died...”
His voice faded off, and I wondered if he was realizing what he’d told me – that his mom and dad had been fighting and she may have had a motive. There was no way I couldn’t tell Petreski this, and if Petreski started asking questions, Tom would know who his source was. I should have stayed at home.
❧
“So let me get this straight. You had lunch with Tom Wilton again?” Petreski did not sound happy. I knew he wouldn’t be, but he seemed to be fixated on me having lunch with Tom, not on the juicy details of marital strife in the Wilton home.
“Yeah, but that’s not the point.”
“I get the point, but why are you having lunch with Tom Wilton when you... when you know you’re supposed to be staying out of trouble and not talking to suspects or witnesses?”
“Um... well...” And then it hit me. “You’re jealous!”
“What? I’m not jealous! Why on earth would you say that?”
“You so are! I told you Tom Wilton flirted with me the other day, and that very evening you showed up on my doorstep. Like you were calling dibs or staking a claim. Oh my gosh! That’s it, isn’t it? That’s exactly what you were doing!”
He didn’t say anything, and even though I couldn’t see his face I bet he looked pissed off. I looked over to where Don was sitting at the other end of his sofa. He had forgiven me – we could never stay mad at each other for more than a few hours – but he didn’t look pleased about me having lunch with Tom Wilton, either.
“Detective Petreski – Ruben? Are you still there?”
“I’m here.” It sounded like he was gritting his teeth. So sexy.
“I don’t mind if you’re jealous. Or, you know, worried about me.”
There was silence, and I decided to wait him out this time. After a few seconds he sighed. “Of course I’m worried. There’s a murderer out there, and you keep winding up in the middle of things. You get accosted in the coffee shop, threatened, warned off, and then the victim’s son – who is a suspect, don’t forget – starts trying to cozy up to you. How could I not be worried?”
“And maybe, a little jealous?”
“Fine. Maybe a little, okay? But it’s not like I can do anything about that right now, and you know why. So if you’d just... I don’t know...”
“Give you a break and try to behave myself?”
“Yes, that. And whatever you do, don’t go over to Tom Wilton’s love nest.”
“Love nest? Just how old are you, anyway?”
“I’m thirty-three, if you must know. And don’t go to the Wiltons’ house.”
“Well, I hadn’t planned to, but why? I mean, I’ve been really open and given you all the scoop – every little detail. If someone says hello to me while I’m walking down the street you hear about it. So if I’m supposed to stay away, can I at least know why?”
He sighed again. “Okay, look. Between us, right? And Don, because I know you’ll tell him and he’s probably sitting there anyway.”
“Promise.”
“Helena Wilton has a gambling problem. Her so-called spa weekends are really spent at casinos in Louisiana. She’s addicted to high-stakes poker, and she recently lost big. Clarence’s death makes her a very wealthy widow with no one to answer to.”
“Oh.”
“So Tom may or may not know about his mother’s money issues, but put what he told you about his parents’ fight on top of that...”
“Yeah. I get it.”
“Good. So remember what I said, okay?”
“Okay. But try to wrap this up soon, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
I told Don what Petreski had told me about Helena Wilton’s gambling problem, and we spent a few minutes talking about what we had learned, and that’s when Don said the smartest thing he’d said all week.
“We need to do internet searches on these people.”
“Who? Which ones?”
“All of them. Everyone connected to this. The Wiltons. The Katzes, Harry, Dawn Thrasher. If she’s the kind of activist troublemaker Jennifer Katz and Harry describe, there’s probably all kinds of stuff about her online and in newspaper archives and stuff.”
“Makes sense. I’ll go get my laptop. You make a list of everybody we need to look up.”
❧
We had varying degrees of success. We found some old newspaper stories about the demonstrations that had gotten Harry in trouble. There was even a grainy photo of Dawn holding up a sign, and what looked like a young Harry standing next to her. And as far as we could tell, everything else Harry had said was true. There were no other stories or records about him. There was some stuff in the local news and business journal about him opening Ground Up, but nothing that had anything to do with protests, or Wilton, or property developments in general.
There wasn’t much on Tom Wilton, either. We figured he was just too young to have much of an online presence beyond his social media accounts. He was more discreet with his pictures and posts than most people his age. Maybe I was right, and he didn’t have many friends. That was sad.
Helena Wilton, on the other hand, was all over the internet. She didn’t have any social media accounts that we could find, but she was a staple in the local press and society sites. She was on the boards of museums, hospitals, foundations, and charities. She was a fixture at galas and fundraisers. Readers wanted to know what she was wearing, and wanted to talk about it. What was most interesting to me, though, was that in all those photographs she was alone, or standing with other board members or event organizers or celebrity guests. I only saw one picture of her with Clarence. She was smiling, although it looked brittle and didn’t reach her eyes, and he was looking off to one side, completely disengaged. I was starting to get the impression that Clarence and Helena lived separate lives under the same roof.
But we also learned something else very interesting about Helena. I started wondering, if Clarence had no interest in his wife’s good works, was he funding them? It seemed unlikely, based on what we had learned about his personality. So I started delving deeper into Helena’s background. I even poked around on one of those genealogy websites. It turned out she had a rich uncle – literally. Helena was an only child, but her mother had come from a large family and there was a whole passel of cousins. Her mother’s brother Liam, though, had died single and childless, and it had been a family scandal when he left his entire fortune to Helena.
There were court records where the cousins had contested the will, but they got nothing. Uncle Liam and his lawyers had known what they were doing, and Helena had inherited over fifty million dollars, the details of which
were made embarrassingly public in the court records. Twenty million in a charitable trust – the proceeds of which Helena could donate as she saw fit. The remainder went into a trust for her personal use, and she would receive a monthly payment. It sounded similar to my own trust, only much, much larger. If her payouts were what I guessed, then all she’d need to do was wait until next month’s check cleared and she could pay off her gambling debts.
“But what about Clarence?” Don asked.
“What about him?”
“Wouldn’t part of that money be his? Texas is a community property state, and she got that after they were married.”
“No, it says here she inherited it as her own, separate property. That means Clarence would have no claim and no control over it or what she did with it. So she could use her allowance to pay off her debts and he’d never know.”
“So it’s not likely she’d need to kill Clarence off for his money, then. But wouldn’t the police have figured this out already?”
“Not if they haven’t gotten her financial records yet. Maybe that takes time. Maybe they’re going through channels or whatever, and that takes longer than snooping on the internet.”
“Or maybe her debts are staggering.”
“Maybe.” I wasn’t sure I could picture her losing control to that extent, gambling addiction or not.
“But yeah, if she didn’t need the money, what does that mean? Would that clear her?” Don asked.
“Not necessarily. She could have another motive. They’d fought over Tom. Who knows what else they might have fought about?”
“So we haven’t really gotten anywhere.”
“I wouldn’t say that – we’ve learned a lot about Helena. And we still have the Katzes and Dawn Thrasher to check out.”
Jennifer Katz was another bust. My first thought was that she must have no life, not a ridiculous thought considering her husband. But then I remembered how she seemed to know everyone at Ground Up the other morning. Someone that outgoing would have to have some kind of social outlet. I found her on a social network for knitters. I had to join to find and read her posts, but it was free. She belonged to a lot of groups and had a lot of online friends. There were groups for every interest, and I could see a list of her group memberships on her public profile page – she belonged to groups for knitting sweaters, knitting shawls, favorite yarns, designers, local groups, shops she liked, TV shows, yoga, and bands. There weren’t any pictures of her, but she had posted pictures of things she had made. I didn’t know anything about knitting, but they looked impressive to me, and her online friends raved about them.
But being an obsessive knitter didn’t make someone a murderer, even if she did carry around a bag full of pointy sticks everywhere she went.
“Don?”
“Yeah?”
“Did we ever find out how Clarence Wilton was killed?”
“Well, we reckon he was stabbed, right?”
“Yeah, but for sure? Do we know?”
“I don’t think so. Let’s see if it’s in the news.” Don started searching the local paper and TV news sites for reports, and I started thinking more about someone who carried pointy sticks around everywhere they went. Or people who might have access to such a collection.
“Says he was stabbed. Why?”
“They wouldn’t say, though, what he was stabbed with, would they?”
Don shook his head. “No. Doesn’t say. But the police wouldn’t give out that much detail, would they?”
“I wouldn’t think so.”
“Why?”
“I was wondering how hard it would be to stab someone with a knitting needle.”
“Well, I guess it depends. What are knitting needles made out of?”
I thought about my cruise through Jennifer Katz’ favorite site. “Just about anything. Wood, bamboo, metal, plastic.”
“Then I guess, if it’s pointy enough and you’re strong enough, sure, you could kill someone with a knitting needle. You don’t think Jennifer Katz could do it, though, do you?”
“I don’t know. But I could see Josh Katz doing it. And maybe he could swipe a knitting needle from his wife’s collection, clean it, and get it back before she notices it’s gone.”
“I could see that happening.”
“Are you searching on Katz now?”
“Yeah. He’s got a temper, and it’s gotten him in trouble in the past. He also has a tendency to get into flame wars online. He’s kind of a troll.”
“Why am I not surprised? I’ll start searching on Dawn.”
Wow. Dawn Thrasher sure did get around. Harry knew her at the beginning of her career, before she really got going. Lucky for him he got out when he did.
We must have lost track of time, because I heard a scratching at Don’s door and a black paw was waving around beneath the door.
“Oh! It’s Boo!” I said, getting up. “Does he come visit you, too?” I felt a little less special at that thought.
“Nope.” Don shook his head. “He must have known you were over here – heard your voice or smelled you.”
“Boo!” I said, opening the door so the regal black cat could come in. “Were you looking for me?”
I let Boo investigate for a minute and greet Bridger while I gathered up my computer and other stuff. “We’ll finish up tomorrow?” I asked Don, who nodded.
“Okay, Boo. Let’s go to my place, huh? I haven’t had dinner yet. Come on, okay?”
I headed for the door and Boo followed me back to my place. I put some water down for him and dug around in the refrigerator for some leftovers to heat up.
“How was your day, Boo? Huh?”
Boo meowed, but he didn’t sound like he was complaining.
“That’s good, I guess. I had class, and then I had lunch with Tom Wilton again. That kind of got me in trouble.”
Boo trilled.
“Yeah, with that hunky detective I was telling you about. But I can’t help it, Boo. People just talk to me. I guess I have one of those faces. I mean, you come over and talk to me, right?”
Boo rubbed against my legs and thwacked me with his tail.
“Maybe you should go back across the hall and visit with Bridger, Boo. I have to study and I won’t be very good company. Huh?”
I sat down, putting my dinner plate on the coffee table and picking up a book. “See, Boo? I have to read this tonight. Not a fun time for a cat.”
Boo looked at the book, cocking his head, and I imagined him trying to read the title. He curled up next to me, and I took that to mean he wasn’t going anywhere, for the moment at least. I stuffed some chicken in my mouth and started reading.
❧
I had another dream that night. But it wasn’t about Murphy this time. Or rather, I wasn’t Murphy this time. I really needed to go see Miss Nancy again. Anyway, this time I felt different. With Murphy I felt light and curious and excited. This time I felt thick and heavy. I didn’t want to run and explore. I was curled up, warm and cozy. But someone, or something, was making me leave my spot and go outside. I wasn’t scared, just resentful.
Boo woke me up again. I must have been tossing and turning. “Sorry, Boo. It’s okay – nothing scary this time. Thanks for waking me up, though.” I kissed the top of his silky head and went back to sleep.
Perez Has a Soft Spot
Tuesday morning Don and I were back at Ground Up. And Bridger, of course. Bridger stuck his head out of the sling and looked around the shop, but seemed content to stay put. His eyes were turning a golden color that reminded me of the lady cat Boo had brought with him the other day.
Somehow we managed to drink our coffee and eat our pastries without encountering anyone, other than Harry, of course, but he was too busy to talk.
“I want to go over to the pet store and buy a leash and harness for Bridger. Do you want to come?”
“Sure, why not. I’ll look at the birds or something.”
We walked again, enjoying the cool weather while it lasted. Don he
aded off to look for a harness and I tried to get the grumpy parrot in the bird section to talk to me. I tried getting my mind to relax, like the time I had “known” Raymond’s name. I’d heard parrots were intelligent, so I thought maybe I’d get some useful information. Mostly he was sad because he was stuck in a cage. I didn’t blame him for not wanting to talk, and moved on.
I caught up with Don as he was heading for the aisle with cat treats. We turned the corner and there – holding a bag of treats and reading the ingredients with a scowl on her face – was Detective Perez. She looked up as we approached, and at least her scowl didn’t get any worse.
“Um, hi, Detective Perez,” I said, trying a little wave.
“Mr. Hillebrand. And Mr...?”
“Olson. Don Olson. Do you have a cat, Detective Perez?”
She looked down at the bag in her hand, then put it back on the shelf. “No, not... not at the moment.”
“Oh. Well, I just got one. Maybe you could recommend a good brand of cat treats?”
She looked back at the shelf. “I don’t know. They’re all full of preservatives and chemicals. These aren’t bad, I guess.” She took a bag down and looked at it. “Yeah, these I think.” She handed the bag to Don.
“Thanks. He’s still pretty young, you think these’ll be okay? Hey, you want to meet him? Here.” He reached into the cat sling and pulled out Bridger, who blinked at the detective with his almost-golden eyes.
Detective Perez looked almost sweet as she cooed over the kitten. “He’s yours?” She asked Don, which struck me as an odd question, but didn’t faze Don.
“Yeah. I’ve only had him for a week. We – well, Jake, really – found him.”
She looked at me. “You didn’t want him?” she asked. Wow, judgy much? Was she going to give me the stink eye because I didn’t adopt Bridger myself?
“Bridger is Don’s. That was obvious from the very beginning. They belong together.”
She squinted at me with her light brown eyes, then turned back to Don. “Can I hold him?”
Not a Werewolf Page 10