When the Cat's Away

by Molly Fitz

  Lisa didn’t have a chance to answer, as the door opened right then. Emile Dubois stood in the doorway.

  Why was he back here so quickly? Why hadn’t they arrested him or at least held him for further questioning? Had Detective Gibson ignored everything we’d told him?

  Monsieur Dubois headed for the food, and so I stood to meet him there, my conversation with Lisa all but forgotten. “Did the police instruct you to leave the restaurant?”

  “Oui, and to come straight back here to the hotel.” He took a step back toward the door, as if wanting to get away from me.

  “Just a few questions first.” I stepped around him, blocking his path to the door. “Did Clive Richards win the food tour by submitting your recipe?”

  Monsieur Dubois sighed. “It is true, but there is no way to prove such a thing. Especially not now.”

  “But you must have been angry when you saw it in Foodie Elite Magazine. Did you come on the tour to confront the man who stole from you?”

  His gaze dropped to the carpet, perhaps processing his strong motive for murder. But Alex’s reminder came back to me: It’s often not the most obvious suspect.

  I tried a new angle. “And where were you when he died?” Even if he were poisoned earlier in the day, someone had to have doubled those Mardi Gras beads around his neck so tightly they’d left impressions.

  “There was a problem at my restaurant. I was on my cellular phone in the lobby discussing it.”

  I raised an eyebrow in disbelief. “What was the problem?” A non-kitchen-savvy police officer might not know to ask this.

  “My sous-chef had an accident and had to go to l’hôpital. He was impossible to replace on short notice.”

  “Why the hospital?” I assumed a knife cut, but quickly reminded myself not to lead the questioning, as Alex had taught me. “Was it serious?”

  He shrugged in a very French, very vague way. “Mais oui. Eric slipped on some water that had boiled over. He caught another pot with his fall and toppled it onto himself. He has some third-degree burns.”

  Without meaning to, one of my hands flew to my mouth. When I worked at Antonia’s Restaurant, one of our line cooks had been badly burned and rushed to the hospital. I blinked and reminded myself of my purpose. “Who did you talk to at the restaurant when you called?”

  “I spoke with my chef, Martin. My maître d’ had already taken Eric to the hospital, and they were très short on staff. I called in a junior chef, and I gave my staff les instructions to give complimentary entrée or dessert to anyone who had attend longtemps—that is, waited a long time.”

  The explanation was thorough enough that it could be true. Maybe I should spend a moment trying to prove Monsieur Dubois’s innocence, rather than his guilt.

  “Are the police going to check with your chef about this phone call?”

  “Perhaps.” He sounded much less concerned than I thought he should be.

  “Did anyone see you on your phone before Amber came in calling about the incident?”

  “Ah, yes. Madame Kinsley.”

  “Victoria? What was she doing there?”

  “She did not seem to notice my serious phone conversation. She studied the restaurant’s menu in the lobby and kept telling me how ridiculous that she had come to a restaurant specializing in sandwiches.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Victoria was in the lobby the whole time.”

  “As much as I noticed, oui. And she did not seem to want to stop letting me notice.”

  Any other time, I might have found this picture entertaining, but for the moment, I only felt relief.

  Perhaps Emile Dubois wasn’t guilty of murder.

  But if not Monsieur Dubois or Victoria Kinsley, then who?

  Chapter Thirteen

  Amber and I spent another half hour in the hospitality room interviewing all the people from our food tour, as well as Liam when he returned from making some phone calls to his food tour company.

  Finally, we both claimed tiredness and said we were going to go for a rest in our room. What we really planned to do was compare notes.

  “It has to be either Mr. Dubois or Mrs. Kinsley who killed Clive Richards,” Amber murmured as soon as we were alone in the hallway together.

  I dug out my key card. “That’s what I thought, too, but I had an interesting conversation with Emile Dubois. It turns out Monsieur Dubois and Victoria had both been in the entryway of the restaurant before you discovered Clive’s body.”

  “They must have been in it together!”

  Hunch sat at attention just inside our hotel room. I hated bursting Amber’s bubble, but we had to get to the truth. “I don’t think so. Monsieur Dubois was on the phone with his restaurant the whole time. The police would be able to confirm that. He said Victoria kept interrupting him. It didn’t sound like they were on the same team.”

  I pulled out my notepad. As I worked out the alibis, I spoke them aloud. “If Monsieur Dubois and Victoria could vouch for each other’s presence, and Victor and Liam O’Conner were with the chef…Plus, I was having a conversation at the table with Lisa… That leaves…” I scanned through my list of suspects, but Amber filled in the blank.

  “That leaves me, Mallory.” She crossed her arms. “The only person who doesn’t have an alibi is me.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  My gaze raced over the notepaper because that simply couldn’t be the case. Besides, Detective Gibson had found Amber’s green Mardi Gras beads.

  “The waitress, Juliana!” I suddenly blurted. “Or Scarlett Marsh.” I dug into my purse for the discount card she had given us.

  “She had gone to work by the time Mr. Richards collapsed,” Amber reminded me. “You’re reaching, Mallory. And it sounded like that waitress was scared to go anywhere near Mr. Richards and his cursed pendant. Why would she have chased him outside?”

  Something Lisa had said came back to me. “Scarlett claimed to have gone to work. And Clive could have been poisoned earlier in the day. One of these museums is a pharmacy museum.” I looked over the list of six museums. “If she worked at that one, she may have had access to poisons.”

  Amber was still unconvinced. “Scarlett hadn’t been given any Mardi Gras beads, green or not.”

  “The beads don’t seem all that difficult to find. All the waiters and waitresses had access to them. They were even draped on that statue on our way to the restaurant.” I stood from where I’d been perched on the edge of my bed. “The statue!”

  Amber looked at me with her brow furrowed.

  This was definitely reaching, but I said it anyway. “What color of Mardi Gras beads were on the trombone-player statue near the alley? Do you remember?”

  Amber shrugged and pulled out her phone. “Beats me. But I think I took a picture.”

  I hurried over. Sure enough, she’d snapped a photo of the busy street, including the statue. Zooming in, we could see the statue had three strands of beads: one gold, one purple, and one green.

  “You took this on our way to the restaurant? You wouldn’t have taken this while you were walking Hunch?”

  She balked. “That cat has a mind of his own when he’s on the leash. Believe me, I wasn’t taking pictures.”

  “I think I should go check that statue.”

  We weren’t supposed to leave the hotel, and if the police spotted either of us near the scene of the crime, that could shed a lot more suspicion on us. But if we didn’t do our own investigating, what were the chances the detectives wouldn’t soon return to suspecting Amber?

  I had to find a way to prove her innocence before the trail led back to her.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “I can’t just stay here while you go out there and get yourself killed or arrested!”

  Leave it to a teenager to be so dramatic. “Nobody’s getting killed or arrested. In fact, I thought I might be able to get a clear enough view of the statue if I took my car, and then I won’t be so obvious if the police are still around. After that, I can go by th
at pharmacy museum and see if Scarlett works there and if anyone could confirm her presence all afternoon.”

  Amber flopped onto her bed. “But I want to go, too!”

  I didn’t blame her, but I also didn’t want to let on about my worry over her being a serious suspect. “Someone has to be here to answer the phone in case the police call, and you can’t drive on your own.”

  “I could walk and stay out of sight.” I opened my mouth to rebut, but no words came. Then she interrupted my thoughts with, “But I suppose you’re right. Since you have an alibi and I don’t, I probably shouldn’t be the one snooping around the crime scene.”

  Why I’d thought my concerns would get past my teenage sleuthing brainiac friend, I’d never know.

  I left her with an instruction not to answer the door for anybody. Even if someone claimed to be a police officer, she would say I was in the shower and tell them we’d meet them in the lobby in a few minutes. Then she’d text me and tell me to get my butt back here.

  Ten minutes later, I drove toward the Café N.O. Amber had insisted I bring Hunch, I suspected to protect me. In truth, it wouldn’t be the first time if he did.

  He sat on his haunches in the passenger seat, barely reacting to the movement, no matter how sharply I took the corners.

  As the sun was setting, the French Quarter had filled significantly with partygoers. It was all I could do to avoid hitting any pedestrians who stumbled in front of my car. It took much longer than it would have taken walking. With tight one-way streets, it took me forever to wind my way back to the statue. In fact, I only realized I’d found it when Hunch growled.

  In a quick glimpse, and with dusk falling, it was impossible to tell what color beads adorned the statue.

  Parking in the French Quarter had also filled in the last couple of hours. I finally found a parking garage with some space on the top floor.

  I had Hunch’s leash in my purse, but I told him as I scooped him up into my arms, “If you don’t fuss, I’ll keep you off the leash.”

  He raised his eye whiskers at me, and I could imagine him replying, “If you’re a good girl, Mallory, I’ll let you tag along on my investigation.”

  With the flood of people, it took several minutes to return to the alleyway, but at least Hunch and I would no longer be as obvious as I expected snooping around.

  We came at the statue from across the street, and I squinted at the strands of beads. I could make out purple and gold, but had to get closer to see if the green ones were still there.

  By the time I got close to the statue, people nudged and pushed me on every side, but I stood my ground as my cat sniffed toward the two strands of beads looping the statue.

  The green one was missing.

  I snapped a quick photo before poking my head around the statue and down the alley. Groupings of people stood smoking and blocked my view of the crime scene. I couldn’t even tell if the restaurant had opened again.

  Hunch wrestled in my arms, trying to get back to that crime scene tape.

  “I can’t go down there,” I murmured to him.

  He growled in response and dug his claws into my arm.

  I jerked and let him go. My shirt was sleeveless, and my arm already showed beads of blood. It wasn’t the first time Hunch had clawed me, but as he crept along the side of the alley toward the crime scene tape, I reminded myself that he only ever did it with an investigative purpose.

  Once Hunch disappeared from view, I felt too nervous to stay so far away from him. I edged my way around the statue, keeping a keen eye out for any of the cops who might recognize me.

  I stayed close to the brick wall, but I didn’t see Hunch anywhere.

  Something rubbed against my bare leg, and relief washed over me. I looked down and even bent to pick him up before I realized it was a bony brown cat, probably a stray.

  The cat had ignored everyone else in the alley and headed straight for me. Great. I really was becoming a cat lady.

  “Shoo!” I whispered to him. “Go find my cat!”

  He sniffed the air a couple of times, then started off deeper into the alley.

  I wondered if I’d inadvertently started a cat fight. Now I had to get closer—not that I was eager to get in the middle of all those claws. I spotted Hunch coming back toward me with something in his mouth. No sooner had I let out my breath than I glanced back toward the statue and saw Amber waving, trying to get my attention.

  What on earth? She knew better than to show up here when she was already a suspect. Unless…she had come up with some new information.

  Just as I scooped Hunch up, Amber’s gaze darted past me down the alley.

  Detective Gibson hadn’t noticed me yet, but he was marching straight for Amber!

  I picked up in a run toward Amber. She rounded the statue out of sight. As soon as I got to the statue, partygoers blocked my view. I kept moving, searching every direction for her.

  Half a block along, an arm reached out and grabbed me, yanking me into a tiny shop. I yelped, but then saw it was Amber.

  “You can’t be here!” I hissed. We moved away from the open door of the souvenir shop filled with voodoo trinkets. “Why did you leave our room?”

  “Detective Gibson called! He said he’d be by in forty-five minutes. You didn’t reply to my text and I had to get to you before then!”

  The cacophony around me must have drowned out my text notification. Not only would we not be peacefully waiting for Detective Gibson in our room, but he now knew we were sneaking around the crime scene.

  This didn’t look good for us at all.

  “We were right about the beads on the statue,” I told her. “The green one was missing. It could have been anyone from the street who strangled Clive.”

  “Or it could have been me.” She raised an eyebrow. “What about the pharmacy museum? Did you find Scarlett? She could have grabbed some beads from the statue. She would have come from the street, and she had more motive than any of us to kill Mr. Richards.”

  Why hadn’t I searched out the museums first? I had been convinced the statue would lead us to the truth.

  But it was too late to investigate our theories because Detective Gibson stood in the doorway of the souvenir shop, looking straight at us.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “You ladies are coming with me.” He grabbed each of us by the arm.

  “Just give me a chance to explain,” I told him.

  “You can tell me all about it down at the station.” He pushed us out the door and down the street toward his unmarked police car.

  I tried to avoid oncoming foot traffic, but the toe of my ballet flat caught on an uneven patch of sidewalk, and I careened forward. I caught myself before hitting the asphalt, but in the process, Hunch dug his claws into my arm again.

  Despite the pain, I held tight. Out in this crowd, I’d have no chance of finding him after Detective Gibson drove us to the police station.

  “Please don’t,” I gritted out to my cat instead. But when I glanced down at him, he stretched his mouth wide like he did when trying to throw up a hairball.

  Right! Hunch had something in his mouth, something he’d found around the crime scene!

  “Spit it up, Hunch,” I instructed.

  We reached Detective Gibson’s car, and he looked between me and my cat before sighing and pulling a rear door open. “I don’t suppose you could contain your cat’s regurgitations to the floor mat?”

  “I’ll try,” I told him, even though I had no objection to Hunch puking any place he felt like, especially if it produced a clue to this murder.

  Once we were in the backseat, I murmured to Amber, “Hunch has something in his—”

  My words were cut off by Detective Gibson. “I’ll ask you to please keep quiet until we reach the station.”

  It took nearly twenty minutes to drive less than a couple of miles to the nearest precinct. As much as I didn’t want to drag Alex into this, I considered asking Detective Gibson to call him, just so we
’d get the opportunity to explain our infraction.

  By the time we got out of the police car, Hunch looked less like he needed to cough anything up. I envisioned myself in a prison cell a week from now, picking through Hunch’s excrement with a twig, looking for the clue that could have saved us.

  We followed Detective Gibson the short walk from the parking lot to the four-story police headquarters. Even though night had fallen, lit windows showed a busy office.

  He led us to a small interrogation room, very much like I’d seen on TV—nothing but an empty table, four chairs, and double-sided glass.

  “Listen,” I said before we’d sat down. “I know this looks bad, but we have a good explanation.”

  “You have an explanation of why you were downtown when I specifically instructed you to stay in your hotel?” Before I could answer, he went on. “You have an explanation of where your young friend was at the time of the murder of Clive Richards? Because we have more than one witness claiming he had publicly humiliated her less than an hour before he was found dead.”

  Detective Gibson kept his eyes on me as he spoke, not glancing at Amber once. He was likely treading carefully, knowing the delay it would cause if I claimed Amber’s mother should be here.

  I’d play that card, too, but only if I had to.

  I passed Hunch to Amber, needing to give this conversation my full focus. Hunch, the traitor, immediately purred in her arms.

  “Listen, Detective, I know you’re just doing your job, and I know this because we regularly help our local police department back home.” Here goes nothing. Time to drag Alex into this.

  But a choking sound interrupted my next words. I turned as Hunch worked at bringing something up again. Amber squatted to the floor to let him down.

  “Please sit, and I’ll do the talking from now on.” Detective Gibson wore a look of distaste as he watched Hunch. He’d have to clean up whatever came out of his suspect’s cat.