A Shattering Crime (18 page)

Rapid mental arithmetic allowed me to extrapolate his meaning. The older you get, the colder you get. And I was going to spend a winter in Grandy's house. Suddenly unpacking all my sweaters, wool socks, and fleece pullovers seemed a waste of time.

We rode the elevator first to the fourth floor, where
Dolores Number One had never heard of Rozelle Schurz and nearly broke my nose slamming the door in my face. One floor down and at the opposite end of a long hallway, Dolores Number Two peered at me through the gap created by a safety chain between door and jamb.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Um, hi, Dolores,” I said. “We're friends of Rozelle Schurz's and we're looking—”

The door slammed shut.

I was, at least, prepared this time and had kept my distance from potential injury. Sighing, I turned to Terry. “Third time's the charm,” I said. “Where next?”

But the clatter of the safety chain dropping announced the imminent reopening of the door.

No more than an inch shorter than I was, Dolores Number Two had short, rich red hair combed in neat waves and the smooth skin of someone who had spent their outdoor life beneath a sun hat.

“Is Rozie all right? Did something happen?” she asked.

I glanced to Terry; he swept a hand upward in a manner indicating the answer was up to me. “That's what we wanted to talk to you about,” I said. I laid a hand against my heart. “I'm Georgia Kelly. I'm Pete Keene's granddaughter. Has Rozelle—”

Dolores's face lit. “You're Pete's granddaughter.” She swung wide the door and stepped back to wave us inside. “Come in, come in. Oh, Rozie's told me how Pete hardly stops talking about you.”

She seemed to suddenly catch sight of Terry. “Who's that?”

Prepared to make the introductions, I ended up
stepping back as Terry moved forward, smile on his face, twinkle in his eye, hand outstretched. “Terence Lister. Please call me Terry.” When Dolores rested her fingers against his palm, he lifted her hand as though to kiss it, but he stopped just short and gave a half bow. “It's lovely to meet you.”

Why, the charming devil.

Dolores very nearly giggled as Terry released her hand. Smile slowly fading, she closed the door and invited us to sit.

“Now then,” she said. Tucking the tails of her pale pink cardigan under her, she lowered herself into a gold-and-cream-striped arm chair that sat at right angles to the gold-and-green couch on which Terry and I settled. “Tell me what happened to Rozie. Is she all right? She's not . . .”

Again I glanced to Terry, not out of any sort of deference to his age or his supposed wisdom, but because for a moment I lost my nerve. I had not an inkling how to tell this woman that her friend was missing.

Terry proved to be no help whatsoever.

Letting out a breath, I slipped my fingers behind my knees and leaned forward. “The thing of it is, no one's seen or heard from Rozelle since Saturday morning.” I waited, eyes on Dolores, to be sure she wouldn't go into any sort of shock or distress. But she sat calmly. Only the shifting of her eyes belied the worry within. “We were wondering if the last time you saw her she mentioned anything about taking a trip or maybe going to visit her sister or . . .”

Dolores slowly shook her head. “She was here Friday,” she said. “We go out to dinner. The early-bird special.”
She gave a soft laugh. “More so Rozie doesn't have to drive back home in the dark.”

“Completely understandable,” Terry said. “It's tough driving at night.”

“Did she maybe talk about any plans for the weekend?” I asked.

With a little grimace, she said, “What are the police doing? Are they looking for her? Why aren't they here talking to me?”

I shook my head. “I don't know why they haven't, um, gotten here yet. But they are looking, I can assure you of that.”

Dolores put her elbow on the armrest of her chair. Chin resting on her hand, she slumped over a little, as though she had suffered a sharp pain to the gut. She shook her head, gaze fixed on a random spot on the carpet. “She said . . . she said she was going to go home and . . . and call Pete because he worried about her driving and wanted to know she'd gotten back safe.”

“He calls it worry but it's really because he likes to give orders.” I smiled, trying to bring her mood a little lighter. I imagined she'd made the call or Grandy would have mentioned if she hadn't.

“She planned to go to the luncheonette in the morning and make fresh biscuits.”

“Oh, those biscuits.” Terry touched the tips of his fingers to his lips. “Delicious.”

“But she didn't mention anything other than that. She did say she was disappointed she wouldn't be seeing Pete, that his daughter is visiting?”

I nodded.

Dolores twisted around, straightening her spine while continuing to lean her elbow on the arm rest. “What about Rozie's sister? Does she know? Has anyone spoken to her?”

“I haven't,” I said. “I wouldn't know how to contact her.”

“That's something that really is best left to the police,” Terry said gently. “Her sister will have questions only the police can answer. But maybe you can be part of that talk.”

Quiet gripped the room as we each followed our own thoughts.

“Dolores,” I said, keeping my voice quiet, matching the hush in the room. “It looked to me like Rozelle had made cookies on Saturday and took half of them . . . somewhere. Would you have any idea if that was possible? Was she in the habit of bringing anyone cookies or pastries?”

Dolores pulled in a shaky breath. She gave me a quivering smile. “She used to bring those cookies here and I had to ask her to stop. I could go through a whole dozen in one sitting.”

I smiled in sympathy. “You ladies have any other friends here Rozelle might visit? Anyone still living in the neighborhood?”

She gave a half laugh. “No, just us diehards. The rest were wimps like her sister who couldn't stand the cold. I doubt Rozelle drove off to Florida just to deliver cookies.”

With Terry's help, the conversation turned to more general topics. We chatted awhile longer, talking of the
upcoming season, of life in an assisted-living facility, and the benefits of having a pet.

Reminded once again that I had not heard from the vet, I slipped my phone free of my purse under the guise of checking the time when in reality I was checking to see if I had missed the call. I hadn't. Nonetheless, the time proved alarming. “Goodness,” I said, dropping the phone back in my bag, “we've taken up quite a bit of your time. We should be getting back.”

I stood from the couch, eager to escape the room so I could call and check on Friday. “I can't thank you enough, Dolores,” I said as we ambled toward the door. “You've been a big help.”

“I don't see it quite that way,” she said.

“Nonsense,” Terry put in. “It was very kind of you to invite us into your home and answer our questions.”

“Well, it's always nice to have a visitor. The days around here can be a little empty.”

Getting the uncomfortable feeling I was in danger of preventing some important flirting, I hustled a little faster for the door.

“You must have a hundred friends to fill your day with,” Terry said.

“Oh, if only that were so,” she said, only the slightest hint of sadness weighing her words. “But everyone's so busy these days, trying to fit in so many things. Sometimes a quiet visit among friends gets pushed to the bottom of the list.”

I steeled myself and dug in my purse for my car keys. Staying for a good long visit would be a kind thing to
do, but I was one of those people trying to fit a million things into her day. And one of them was finding Rozelle.

“Maybe you'd like to come for a visit another time?” Dolores suggested.

“Well now, that—”

“Oh, wait now. Hold on,” Dolores said. “I remember now.”

I turned my back to the door, fingers clutching my key ring.

“Rozie did say something. She said she was worried about the girl who works for her. She was going to call and see if she was all right. You should try talking to her.”

“To who?” I asked. “Nicole?”

“That's the name,” Dolores said. “Nicole. Yes.”

I shook my head. “Nicole said she hadn't heard from Rozelle since the shop closed.”

Dolores raised both neatly drawn-in brows. “I tell everyone I have no use for a man in my life,” she said. “Saying something doesn't make it true.” Then she winked at Terry and I hurried out the door.

On our way down the hall to the elevator, I dialed the vet's office. On the other end of the line, the phone rang, rang, rang. No one picked up.

I wanted the truth from Nicole and I wanted my cat.

And nothing was going to stop me.

O
n second thought, there was a chance someone might try to stop me. The obvious approach was to stack the deck in my favor.

I dropped Terry back at Tom's house, thanked him for his help and his company, then flat-out lied and told him I was going home to put my feet up and plan for tomorrow. I hadn't reached the corner before I punched the Bluetooth button on the dashboard and commanded the car to call Diana.

“Why do you keep calling me? I told you I would call you when I had information. I just got backed up doing—”

“Paperwork, I know. Nolan told me. That's not why I'm calling,” I said. I stopped the car at the street corner, having to do a little extra thinking to figure out the best
route to pursue. “What are you doing right now? Are you busy?”

“I'm in the car with Nolan,” she said. “We might have a lead on Rozelle's car.”

Good thing I was stopped since I hit the brake harder in my excitement. “That's fantastic. Where?”

“Over in Saint Mark's,” she said.

In the background, Nolan said, “Who are you talking to? This is police business, not town gossip.”

“I don't gossip,” she said, her muffled voice indicating she was holding the speaker away, as if I couldn't hear her anyway. “It's Georgia.”

Nolan mumbled something that might have been profanity.

“Hey,” I said. “Did the person who called about the car happen to mention if there was a plate of cookies in it?”

“I don't know and I'm not asking because that is seriously bizarre,” Diana said. “Do you have something sane I can help you with?”

“I wanted someone to come with me to help pick up Friday at the vet,” I said. With Nolan in the car, there was a chance he could overhear everything I was saying. I didn't exactly want him to know the extent of my plan.

“Well, I have police business to do, after which I'm sure I'll have to fill out a couple of dozen forms for Nolan.”

There was more mumbling that no doubt involved profanity.

I didn't want to get in the middle of what was becoming a slightly strained work marriage. “All right, no worries.”

“Why don't you call Carrie?”

“Carrie barely tolerates Friday.”

“I can barely tolerate a lot of people but somehow I get through it,” Diana said.

I chuckled, thanked her, and hit the receiver button on the dashboard to end the call.

I could call Carrie; that much was true. It was also true that Carrie and Friday were not best buds, mainly because Carrie disliked cats . . . a lot. Odds of Friday being the only cat at the vet's office were not in Carrie's favor.

Flicking on the indicator light, I pulled the car forward and into a right-hand turn. I'd have to go to the vet's office by myself. If they refused to give me my cat, I could always threaten to call my lawyer, or the police, or whatever it would take to make them see it my way.

I navigated the twists and turns away from Tom's house and opted to take the few back roads I knew to get to the center of town. Or more accurately, the few back roads I didn't really know. It took me a good fifteen minutes to realize I'd made a wrong turn somewhere and had traveled resolutely in the wrong direction.

Mentally kicking myself, I took my smart phone out of my bag and punched in the address for Carrie's store—because frankly I didn't know the exact address of the vet but I would have no problem getting there once I was on Grand Street.

Back on the road chosen by my GPS to get me to my destination, I switched on the headlights against the setting sun and thought fleetingly of calling Tony. But what could I tell him? I was going to pick up my cat from the
vet. Did I really want to share with him the minutiae of my life? Was that where our relationship was? I tried to do a gut check, that thing everyone always says is the best way to make a tough decision, to be quiet and focus on your dilemma and listen to your gut. But my gut was currently busy churning over whether or not my cat was okay, over whether or not the car Diana was on her way to look at was indeed Rozelle's, and whether or not locating the car would lead to locating Rozelle. And mercy, I hoped she was all right.

With all those things on my mind, how could I expect my gut to accurately answer my concern about Tony? How could I trust that the little glowing sense of
yes
was correct?

Pushing the thoughts out of my head, I flipped the radio station over to the evening baseball game. I'd never been much of a fan, but living with Grandy was having its effect on me. Plus it was nice to be able to chat with him in the morning about last night's game. And maybe it would take my mind off all the other thoughts swirling through my head. A distraction.

By the time the coach finally pulled the pitcher who was giving away runs like it was Christmas, I had reached Grand Street. I drove its length and then some, closing in on the veterinarian's office. Meanwhile, my GPS, disturbed that I had bypassed what it thought was my destination, had begun insisting I turn left at every corner. The poor program wanted to recalculate my route in the worst way.

When I reached the vet's office, I was surprised to
find the parking lot empty and the windows dark. Closed? Had they closed for the day? Had the staff failed to set the phones to forward to the answering service? Or had someone like Lee seen my number pop up on caller ID and decided not to pick up?

I pulled the car over to the side of the road just past the building and let the engine idle while I tried to pull myself back from the brink of paranoia. No one was ignoring my calls. They had no reason to, did they? I forced myself to swallow back the belief in an anti-Georgia conspiracy. That left me with two strong emotions. First, a slowly building but nonetheless powerful fury that no one had called about Friday, no one had given me a report of how she'd handled her surgery, when I could come pick her up, just . . . anything. Second, anxiety-coated heartache. I wanted to see my cat. I wanted to know she was okay. It was all right, I told myself, if she needed to stay overnight because of whatever reason—maybe her surgery had taken place late and she was still groggy, maybe they hadn't gotten to the surgery at all and they were going to do her spay first thing in the morning so they decided to keep her overnight instead of making me come pick her up only to bring her back first thing in the morning. Many things were possible, but I had only one response to any of them: I wanted to see my cat.

I switched off the engine and flicked off the lights.

I wanted to see my cat. But the building was closed.

But I knew, because I'd seen them this morning, that there were dog runs and kennels out the back. I hadn't
spotted any dogs, though. Maybe there were none. And maybe when there aren't any dogs being boarded, the fence gates weren't secure.

Maybe I really needed psychological help because even I couldn't believe what I was contemplating, and I was the one doing the contemplating.

I pulled the keys free of the ignition.

I was wearing black pants—with dog slobber on them—and my navy jacket had a hood that would cover my hair. You know, provided I felt the need to be sneaky, provided I was even serious about doing what I was considering.

I zipped up my jacket, pulled up my hood, and opened the car door.

The interior light illuminated the car and I felt like I had just sent up a flare. I practically dived out of the car, keys in hand, and slammed shut the door.

Okay, I was out of the car.

I got out of the road and stood on the sidewalk, eyes on the building, heart pounding.

One car rolled past, not going fast but not slowing down either.

I took a deep breath. Theorizing that skulking around might attract attention, I stood straight and set out, walking purposefully toward the building.

Taking a quick left a few feet before I reached the parking lot, I plunged into the carpet of fallen leaves and stray twigs littering the side of the building. Sticks stabbed at my ankles as I walked, and I both wished a motion sensor light would come on to illuminate my path
and prayed no light would come on to announce my presence.

A car whooshed along the road, and I fought the urge to turn and look. I had to keep my dark-covered back to the road. I didn't really think walking around the outside of a veterinarian's office at night wearing dark clothing was a crime, but I didn't feel like having to explain myself to anyone. And guaranteed, within minutes, that “anyone” would be Detective Nolan.

I duck-walked a few feet in order to pass beneath the low-hanging branches of a tree that was already bare, and when again I could stand straight, I had reached the chain-link fencing of the dog run.

I followed its length back and away from the road, scanning the links for any spot where I might sneak inside. Turning the corner at the far end of the fence, I caught sight of a dimly lit window at the back of the vet's office. Did they leave a night-light on for the animals? The light certainly didn't seem enough to see much by. Still, I stopped and watched, tried to be patient while I stared at the window, watching for some sign of movement.

The light held steady while my toes grew colder.

Pulling in a breath of courage, I resumed my path, running my hands over the fencing, looking for a latch, a handle, anything that might give me access. I reached the cement blocking, the indoor side of the large-dog kennel, without finding a point of access to the area.

Straight ahead, though, at the back of the building, another window glowed dimly.

Night-lights, my mind insisted. The inside of the building featured night-lights. Dim, constant, night-lights.

And the beauty of them was, they might not shed much light, but it was enough for me to be able to spot the gap in the window, the gap that meant the window was partly open.

I took another deep breath, thought of Friday—her fluffy white fur, the smudge of gray at the top of her head, her sweet little purr and the peculiar chirping noise I never knew a cat could make. The poor little thing was all alone, recovering from surgery—maybe. What if she thought I had abandoned her? What if she thought I didn't love her?

Well. I'd done stupid crazy things before. What was one more?

Returning to the idea of moving with purpose, I practically stomped my way to the back of the building and up to the window.

The sill lined up with my chest. I reasoned it wouldn't be easy to use the window to gain access to the building, but it wouldn't be impossible.

Both palms against the lower edge of the window, I tried to ease the window up.

It didn't budge.

I put a little more muscle behind my effort and still the window wouldn't give. A little more muscle, and still nothing. I was beginning to get an idea of why the thing had been left open. I was beginning to suspect the damn thing was stuck.

Gritting my teeth, I took a breath, bent my knees, kept
my body rigid then slowly straightened, using the leverage of my body to force the sash to rise. Sweat popped on my brow and the wood of the window dug into my palms as I pushed. Pushed. The heels of my shoes sank into the ground, my jaw ached from gritting my teeth, and still I pushed.

At last, the window shuddered upward—a little, a little, all the way.

“I really need to get more exercise,” I murmured.

Brushing my palms against each other to rub away the sting of the wood, I turned to face the window. All I needed to do now was hoist myself up over the sill and into the building. Piece of cake, right?

I laughed at my delusions of strength then clamped my hand over my mouth.

There was no way this was going to be a quick and easy entry. This was going to be hard and potentially painful. But I wanted to see my cat.

I rested my hands against the windowsill and tried to straighten my arms. My muscles shivered, twitched, and ached, and I'd only managed to lift myself off the ground by inches. Seeking the wall with my toes, I pitched myself forward, head and shoulders through the open window.

My feet scrabbled against the brick. I huffed and grunted, pressed and pushed and tugged and made any movement I could think of that might help me through the window. I whimpered, felt the sting of frustrated tears bite at my eyes. Then I felt my hips rest against the sill.

I was half in the building and half out, hanging from an open window like the incompetent thief in a bad
buddy cop comedy. I knew, as I hung there, things were about to get even uglier.

One final push-pull and I tumbled through the window. Head first, shoulder catching the edge of heaven-knew-what that clattered and sent a hail of unknown objects to thump against the floor, I landed sideways on the floor, hip and elbow striking the tiling with enough force to make me gasp in pain.

Profanity followed as I curled into a momentary fetal position. “There must be a method to this,” I said to myself. “Maybe acrobat training or something.”

Slowly, I unfolded myself and sat up.

From the darkness of night to the semi-light of the room, my eyes adjusted rapidly, and I saw far more than the arc of the night-light plugged into the wall beneath the window should allow.

The night-light was clear glass with a small white bulb. Shame, really. There were so many lovely stained glass patterns for night-lights and yet the vet had gone with boring clear.

As I prepared to stand, pressing my hands to the floor so I could push myself up, I knocked the side of my hand against a lightweight object. I turned, looked at the clutter of individually packaged items. Reasoning they must be what I had knocked into with my shoulder, I lifted one of the little packages and brought it to the light. The size and feel of the item inside the paper made me think of a ball-point pen. Given my location, I amended my assessment to syringe, and I nodded as I accepted my medication theory. Indeed. What I held was a package
labeled
ATROPINE
,
1 SYRINGE
, and some further information printed in a lighter tone, too faint to read.