A Shattering Crime (16 page)

My discomfort manifested as a laugh. “I don't think my heart has much to say yet.”

Grandy made a point of meeting my gaze. “That's because you can't see the look on your face when you think
no one is watching, especially him. The moments you let your guard down, Georgia, that's where your truth is.”

Fifi chose that moment to leave a particularly odorous clump of doggie extract on the strip of grass between the sidewalk and the road. I suppose it said something about me that I was more eager to clean up poo than I was to face what Grandy was saying. But I had yet to sort through the tumble of the emotions the previous night had left me with. And rushing to get my cat to the vet and returning to look for clues as to where Rozelle might be would have to take priority for the day.

And that was okay. For the time being at least, Tony wasn't going anywhere.

*   *   *

N
ot a spot was open in the parking lot in front of the veterinarian's office. Of course, there were only four spots to begin with so it wasn't too shocking that they were all occupied. It was, however, frustrating.

Proceeding at a crawl, I drove past the office itself and searched for an open spot along the street. The car behind me wasn't thrilled with my snail-like progress, and was less thrilled with my intention to parallel park. I got an earful of annoyed car horn as the vehicle whooshed around me, and that was the one sound that managed to eclipse the growls of protest coming from the cat carrier.

If someone had told me before I became an owner of one that cats could growl, I doubt I would have believed them. Dogs growled. In fact, Fifi's growl was something to strike fear in the hearts of pseudo-stepfathers and
mailmen alike. But once my initial shock at Friday's ability to growl had passed, and I was content she would not suddenly start barking, I learned to ignore the noise and give her a wide berth.

Trapped inside a cat carrier also constituted a wide berth.

Alone on the road at last, I parked the car like a pro—city driving required a very particular skill set—then checked my side-view mirror before opening my door. I waited while an enormous land yacht of a car rolled by and wondered what it was about cars like that one that the older generation found so appealing. Smaller cars were so much more fun to drive than these great big Crown Victorias and Grand Marquises. How old does a person have to be before the fun of driving is gone?

Grrrmmmooww
.

“Oh, hush now,” I told Friday. I climbed out of the car, circled to the passenger side, and hauled out the cat carrier. Of course, the cat insisted on cowering in one corner as we walked the distance back to the vet's office, throwing off the balance of the carrier and making it seem twice as heavy.

On the walk back to the office, gaze trained on the little brick building that was my destination, I was able to see the structure that sprung like an appendage from the back of the office. A shed row extended away from the office proper. In front of its weathered shingle exterior ran a length of fencing a good eight feet high and divided into narrow sections. It reminded me of a horse barn made of chain-link fence, but of course, it was a large dog kennel, and I recalled the vet also offered boarding
services. What I could see looked clean and nicely shaded. Not that I could envision ever needing to board either of my pets, I nonetheless was pleased to know I had a good option should the need arise.

Hauling a bulky carrier with a distressed cat inside, I'd worked up a bit of sweat by the time we reached the door to the office, and I was breathing heavily to boot as I skirted around an older man with a black German shepherd waiting outside. He was talking loudly into his cell phone, completely oblivious to my struggle to get the door open.

At last I slipped inside. The entire pet-owning population of Wenwood was there to greet me.

Okay, that's an exaggeration. But there wasn't a seat open for humans, and the floor was crowded with dogs of all sizes—some whining, some panting, one apparently sleeping—and the occasional small animal carrier.

I stepped my way carefully to the counter. The same bleached-blond receptionist stood behind the half wall, and I expected her to ignore my presence as she had in the past. She stunned me by looking straight at me.

“Dr. Bucherati is running behind, Miss—” She squinted down at the clipboard, squinted up at me. “Miss Kelly. She's just finishing up emergency surgery on a Rottweiler who swallowed a ball of twine. You're welcome to wait or reschedule.”

I glanced around the room, at the assortment of pets and owners. “I'm only supposed to be dropping off my cat. She's due for a spay today.”

She huffed out an audible breath, nostrils widening with the passage of her aggravation. “Have a seat. One
of the assistants will be out to collect your cat in a few minutes.”

Surely she was kidding about the seat part. Or had she completely blocked the waiting crowd from her awareness?

I shuffled away from the counter, scanned the room for a spot to wait. I knew there was no hope of a seat, but there didn't appear to be anyplace simply to stand either. Outside German shepherd man suddenly made sense—and seemed like the best idea.

I turned back to the blonde. “I'll wait outside, okay?”

She gave me a glare that told me she didn't really care where I waited, and I lugged Friday and her carrier back out through the door.

More
mrrrows
of complaint emanated from the carrier. As I set it down on the sidewalk, I peered within. Friday's big green and gold eyes, wide with distress, peered back at me. She gave another half growl, half meow, never opening her mouth. “You're creepy when you do that,” I told her.

Something pushed against my thigh and I sucked in a breath when I looked down to find the black shepherd furiously sniffing at the knee on my slacks. The knee would be right where Fifi's nose reached before I put on my heels. “Um, hi there,” I said. The dog exhaled with a
flumph
, while the man holding her leash continued his cell phone conversation
.
The sniffing recommenced, and I edged backward, away from the dog's range. Just because I'd adopted Fifi didn't mean I was comfortable with other canines. Fifi was harmless. This big black beast could bite my hand off, I just knew it. And I wasn't
entirely sure her cell phone–absorbed owner/handler would even notice.

I backed away from the reach of the dog's leash, sliding the cat carrier with me as I went, and elected instead to stand as still as possible, eyes on the dog, just in case.

When the door cracked opened behind me, I nearly yelped in shock.

“Bliss?” a girl's voice called.

The shepherd turned its attention away from me, ears pricked, tail wagging.

“Bliss?” the voice repeated.

Cell phone man interrupted his conversation to say, “Oh. That's us. C'mon, dog.”

Bliss? A dog whose jaws could crack a rock in two was named Bliss? What kind of irony was that?

I was still mulling over what might cause someone to look at a dog the size of a pony and call it Bliss when the door opened again.

“Friday?” the girl's voice said this time.

“We're here,” I said, reaching for the carrier at my feet.

I grabbed the handle of the carrier at the same time I turned for the door. Catching sight of the scrubs-clad girl leaning out, I slowed my movement. The girl looked familiar to me. Her dark hair, clear skin, and slight smile lit some corner of my memory.

“Oh,” she said, eyes wide, jaw semi-slack with surprise. “Oh wow, it's you. You're here.”

She had a voice that sounded midway between Minnie Mouse and Marilyn Monroe, and she made me think of cookies.

Realization hit. “You're Nicole,” I said. “You work for Rozelle. What are you doing here?”

This was a foolish question. With Rozelle's whereabouts unknown, of course the bakery remained closed. Nicole wouldn't be there, would she? But the vet's?

Gaze downcast, she tipped her head in the direction of the waiting room. “My mom works here,” she said. “She made me.”

“Dr. Bucherati is your mom?”

She started to grin but couldn't seem to bring herself to go through with it. “No. My mom works the front desk. Lee? The blonde?”

“Oh.” I was no stranger to being forced (aka guilted) into doing things because my mother insisted on it, but still I had no words of comfort or support.

She nodded at the carrier. “You're dropping your cat off?”

“Yeah.” I hefted the carrier a little higher. “It's time for a spay.”

Nicole reached to take the carrier from me, her hand trembling a bit. “I'll take her. We're a little backed up, so . . .”

“Your mom said.”

She nodded, took hold of the handle on the carrier as I released it. “We'll call you when she's out of surgery and let you know how it went.”

Surgery. My stomach clenched. My poor cat, my sweet kitty, was going in for surgery. Anesthesia. Knives. Little kitty heart rate monitors.

I squeezed my eyes shut. “Okay,” I said, and turned to leave. “Hey wait.”

Nicole paused in her backward progress through the door. Rather than looking at me in patient expectation of what I next might say or ask, she glanced nervously into the building as if she wanted to get away. Then again, she was holding an off-balance cat carrier. I understood the strain.

“When was the last time you saw Rozelle?” I asked.

Again, she looked back into the building. “What difference does it make?”

“I'm worried about her,” I said. “Did she ever mention anything to you about, I don't know, any friends she might want to go see or any plans to visit out of town?”

“She wasn't real, you know, chatty, okay?”

“Well, did she give you any idea of when she planned to reopen the bakery? Any sense of whether she would need your help?”

Nicole shifted her stance so she was able to move the carrier inside. “I have to get back to work, okay? We're real busy.”

Then she slipped inside, the door closing behind her. I was left on the sidewalk, wondering what it was that Nicole wasn't telling
me.

“S
he knows something,” I said. One hand holding my cell phone to my ear, I tugged open the top drawer of the filing cabinet in Drew's back office.

“We talked to her,” Diana said. “She claims Rozelle never talked about her personal life.”

“And you believed her?”

“There's no reason to doubt her,” she said. “She's a kid with a part-time job. To her, Rozelle is an ancient old woman who spends her life in the bakery. She probably never had a conversation with Rozelle that wasn't about cookies. What has she got to hide?”

I sighed, pulled out a file labeled
ADAMS
, and pushed closed the filing cabinet drawer. Moving the phone from my left ear to my right, I said, “I don't know what she's hiding. That's the whole principle behind hiding and
secrets and the reason I'm calling you professionals. Isn't this the sort of thing you guys figure out?”

She let out a little huff while in the background electronic phone ringers bleeped and chirped. “I'll look over the notes from the interview again if it will make you happy.”

“It would make me ecstatic.” I turned and tossed the file gently onto the table at the center of the room.

“You know I'm only doing this because you're my friend,” she said.

“I know. And I appreciate it. Any progress on finding Rozelle? Any clues?”

“Georgia, believe it or not, there are parts of my job I can't talk about.”

“Does that mean you have clues? Leads?”

“It's an open case.”

“That means yes?”

“Before I hang up on you and get back to work,” she said with a tone that closed the conversation on clues, “tell me where you and Tony went off to last night.”

I paused in my grab for the list of names Drew had scrawled, his appointments for the day. “How did you know I was with Tony last night?”

A few more phones bleeped in the background before she replied, “Small town, Georgia. Really. When are you going to get used to everyone knowing your business?”

Something in her tone made me doubt her words, but I had to be careful with Diana. Her history of anger management issues meant choosing confrontations carefully. “It was dinner and a trip to the glass shop,” I said, eyes scanning the list for the next file I had to pull.

“Glass shop, huh? That man's going right for your heart.”

“I'll tell you all about it on Thursday,” I said, distracted. The next name on the list was Carrie's. How odd.

“With details,” Diana said. “And don't hold anything back.”

Two steps to my right and I yanked open the R–S file drawer. “How would you know if I was holding anything back?”

“I'd know. I'm a detective, remember?”

“In training,” I pointed out. “A detective in training.”

“Sure. Rub it in.”

“Go look at those interview files, will you?” I flipped past file after file before determining no file had been set up for Carrie. “I have to get back to work.”

“I'll give you a call if I find anything.”

“Thanks.” I clicked off the phone then tossed it gently onto a stack of papers on the table behind me.

I crossed to the door separating the back room from Drew's office and stuck my head out. Drew was alone in the office, head bent over a legal pad, textbook at his elbow. I sidled into the office. “Drew,” I said.

He startled, his whole body flinching. “Jeez, Georgia.”

“Sorry,” I said. “Did you forget I was here again?”

“I was focused on this case.” He set down his pen, swiveled his chair so he could face me. “What do you need? And what's all over your pants?”

I glanced down at the offending spot, a clear slick on the black fabric, bits of white clinging to its edges. “Bliss,” I said.

“What?”

“Dog slobber. I tried to clean it off with some paper
towel but that only made it worse.” I brushed at the spot, knowing full well it wouldn't help but unable to overcome the urge to try.

“I told you that would be a problem when you adopted a bulldog.”

“Actually it wasn't Fifi.” I crossed to the front of his desk then dropped into one of the button-tuck leather visitor's chairs. “It was one of the other dogs at the vet this morning. I had to drop off Friday for her spay. She seems so small for surgery, though. I hate having to leave her there.”

Drew reached for his pen. Using one finger, he rolled the pen back and forth, a sure sign I was losing him. Like Carrie, Drew wasn't much of a cat person.

I had just opened my mouth to ask him how long Carrie had been a client when the sound of the outer door opening reached us. Within moments two very distinct and well-known voices made me sit up straight and turn.

Carrie was the first to reach the doorway that divided the waiting room from Drew's office. “Am I interrupting?” she asked, large hot cup in hand. “Should I wait?”

Drew raised a questioning eyebrow at me. “Something you wanted to discuss first?”

I grinned. “Just wanted to know what time Carrie was expected.” Then I narrowed my gaze at her. “And why.”

She shuffled into the office. “Drew's going to help me with some legal agreements and contracts and whatnot. I've decided to sell the property.”

“Which?” I asked. “The property you co-own with the ex?”

“It's time,” she said on a sigh. “I don't want anything tying me to him anymore. I want a clean slate,” she managed to say before Terry crossed the threshold behind her.

“Good morning, good morning.” He marched directly to the desk and reached out a hand to Drew. “You must be Drew Able. I'm Terry Lister.”

Drew stood to shake Terry's hand. “I recognize that name,” he said. “You were a private investigator, weren't you? Maybe six, seven years ago?”

“That's right, I was.” Terry flashed a broad smile. “Retired now,” he said. “But I like to keep my hand in the game when I can.”

In unison both men turned to look at me.

I glanced from one to the other. “What?” I asked.

“What are you up to now?” Drew asked.

“Working,” I said.

But Terry had his own opinion on the matter. “Georgia's been helping me out with a little investigation.”

“Helping
you
?” I asked.

“When Carrie mentioned she was headed this way, I bummed a ride.”

Behind him, Carrie met my eye and shrugged. “Sorry,” she mouthed.

Terry stood straight, shoulders back, big smile. I wasn't sure if he was proud of begging a lift with Carrie or pleased with himself for laying claim to my investigation.

I nearly shook my head to throw off the idea that I was doing any sort of investigating. I was poking around, that was all. Well, poking around and hoping for a miracle.

Smacking my palms on the arms of the chair, I pushed to my feet. “Fine then.” I pointed at Terry then at the door leading into the file-filled back room. “You. That way.”

I had to wave my hands a few times, shooing him into the back room, but finally he got the idea and toddled on in. “You,” I said to Carrie. “You got tea for yourself but didn't bring me coffee?”

She seemed to shrink a little. “I meant to but I got distracted trying to convince Terry I wasn't coming here.”

“Didn't work,” I said.

“Didn't work,” she agreed.

“All right. I'll go keep him busy while you talk to Drew.”

She smiled her thanks and moved to take the visitor's seat.

“Georgia?” Drew said. “Do you have Miss Stanford's file?”

I gave him my best overbright smile, the kind that usually helped him remember I was his accountant-slash-office manager, not his secretary. “Sorry. You'll have to make a new one. I'll just be back here generating some invoices for you.”

Pulling the door closed behind me, I fixed Terry with a glare. “Now. What's so important you had Carrie bring you over here?” I lifted my chin to indicate the spindle-back chair tucked up to the table. “Have a seat.”

While Terry slid the chair from under the table then settled himself, I gathered together the files I had scattered across the table and, squaring their corners, moved them out of Terry's range of vision.

“You know, at my age, I don't do a whole lot of sleeping,” he said.

I nearly asked if he thought sleeping was too much like death, but I held my tongue and waited for him to continue.

“So there I was, watching
The Bob Newhart Show
, when it hits me, I still got a friend in the department. You write down Rozelle's last name, I'll get my buddy to check into her credit card activity. We'll see if she's done any spending.”

Grabbing my list of files yet to be pulled, I found the appropriate drawer on the filing cabinet and tugged. “Wouldn't the police already have done that?” I asked.

“If they're worth their salt. Question is did they, and if they did, how do we find out?” He rested his folded hands on the table and leaned forward.

Flipping through the D–F drawer in search of Durnin, using my forefinger to save my place, I kept an eye on Terry. Something in his expression gave the idea of wheels moving knowledge through his brain.

“What?” I asked. “You want me to ask my friend in the police department if Rozelle's been racking up frequent flyer miles on her Visa?”

“You gonna be part of an investigation, you gotta turn over all the stones.”

My brow furrowed so hard I was afraid it might remain permanently dented. “Turn? And what . . . Wait. I'm not trying to be part of an investigation here.” I pulled the Durnin file and slammed the drawer shut.

“Don't you want to find out who killed that Rayburn fella?” he asked.

“I want to find Rozelle.”

He shook a finger at me. “You solve one, you solve the other. You got linked crimes here.”

I leaned my hip against the table and let out a long, slow breath. “Rozelle is missing. She could be in danger where she is. She's my priority. David Rayburn isn't going to get any more dead—God forgive me—if I don't spend my time worrying about who did him in. My focus is Rozelle.”

Terry took a deep breath, shoulders rising and chest expanding. Eyes locked on mine, he repeated, “You solve one, you solve the other. No way around it.”

*   *   *

I
t took until midmorning before I could finally admit to myself that Terry was probably right. Not that I felt any sudden urge to know who poisoned David Rayburn but that maybe spending a little time learning about him might give me even a clue at a direction to go in my search for Rozelle.

But first things first. When I reasoned enough time had passed since my last call, I picked up my phone and dialed Diana's personal cell.

Diana wasted no time with hello. “Do you have no patience?” she asked. “I told you I'd call you after I looked at the notes.”

“It's not that,” I said. I yanked open the drawer beneath the coffeemaker and reviewed the single-serve options within. “I have other questions I thought you might help me with.”

“Are you finally ready to hear what I think about Tony?”

“No, I— What? What do you mean, what you think about Tony? I thought you liked him.” Flustered, I grabbed blindly at a single-serve pod and dropped it into the brew slot on the coffeemaker.

“I like him better than Nolan, that's for sure.”

With my finger hovering above the power button, I froze. “What does that mean?”

“Oh, come on,” she said. “Like you didn't know the crappiest cop mentor on the planet is not so secretly hoping your relationship with the hunky construction foreman is going to implode.”

“Not really,” I said. “I've been pretty occupied enjoying that relationship. Are you going to ruin it for me?”

“How could I do that?”

“You want to tell me what you really think about him. Given your profession, I can't imagine you're going to come out with anything positive.”

“Have a little faith, will you?”

I gave my mug a cursory rinse before sliding it in place to capture the mystery-flavored brew. At last, I punched the power button. “If it's not something negative, why would you ask if I'm finally ready to hear your opinion?”

“Because you, my friend, are that rare person that needs to be in the right frame of mind to hear positive things about the man she's dating and to handle the encouragement to just let go and get on with it.”

I was glad I had already put my easily breakable coffee mug down lest I risk dropping it. And I was annoyed by
the implication I was incapable of accepting encouragement. “What is that supposed to mean? You're not trying to give me bad women's fiction advice, are you?”

“I'm trying to tell you he's a good guy and you should just relax and, you know, let yourself be in love.” She slammed shut a drawer, the metallic thunk bringing back to me memories of years in a crowded office. “My God, did I just say that? Don't tell anyone I said that. In fact, let's just pretend I never did. Tell me why you called.”

I wanted to pursue Diana's comment about being in love almost as much as I didn't want to, and yet neither want mattered. For that moment at least, I had bigger—or at least other—things to worry about.

“Okay, first question fast question. Rozelle's credit cards. Any recent transactions? Anything in her history to give us an idea of where she might have gone?”

“And by ‘us,' you mean us the police.”

“If it gives me the answer, sure, that's what I mean.”

“There's no recent transactions and no prior transactions for helpful things like plane tickets or hotels. Her last set of purchases was a large order from Bakery Supply Depot,” she said, a hint of sadness in her voice.

The same sadness settled around me, as if the emotion itself were transported along the phone lines. “She was stocking up to reopen the bakery.”