Caught Dead Handed (14 page)

It was my turn. The tallest officer turned to me, taking in the Gypsy outfit, not unappreciatively. The note-taking one spoke first. He asked my name, if I lived here, and if I had anything to add to what Aunt Ibby and Jim Litka had told them.

“Not really,” I said. “I never got a good look at the man. I was chasing him down the street in the dark, and I couldn't run very fast in these shoes.”

He snapped the notebook shut. “That's okay, miss,” he said. “I guess we've got all we need. We'll take a look over behind the monument and see if the guy dropped anything, and we'll take a look around the common, but he's pretty surely long gone by now.”

“Do you think you'll be able to find out who he is?”

“Well, to tell you the truth, miss, we can't spend a lot of time on this one. After all, you got your cat back. No harm done.”

Aunt Ibby returned to the living room, wooden stirring spoon still in hand.

The other officer spoke up. “Weird things happen around Halloween, miss. I'm thinking this guy was at a Halloween costume party where they had a scavenger hunt and he was supposed to bring back a cat. That's all. Probably drunk, too.”

“I guess that's possible.”

But why
that
costume? Camo and army boots?
Aunt Ibby and I exchanged puzzled looks.

“Sure. Don't worry about it. Anyway, we've got a couple of murders on our hands now, too, so cat stealers aren't high priority.”

“But, Officer,” I said. “Didn't you know? O'Ryan was Ariel Constellation's cat.”

That information immediately increased the policemen's interest in the attempted cat-napping. One of the officers carefully picked up the discarded pillowcase, tucked it into an evidence bag, and left us. I considered calling Pete Mondello. He had, after all, told me to call anytime if I thought of anything that might help with the case. But would he appreciate a call at 3:00 a.m.? Probably not. With a relieved sigh, I closed the door behind the last officer.

“The camouflage suit and the boots cannot be a coincidence,” Aunt Ibby said as we headed for the kitchen for our long-delayed hot chocolate. “That man may be Ariel's killer.”

“I know. He may be the Pelletier woman's killer, too. Surely the police must have made the connection.”

“Do you think you ought to call that detective?”

“I thought about it. But look at the time!”

It turned out that someone else had thought it was important enough to wake Pete Mondello.

I'd barely had a sip of hot chocolate when the door chimes sounded and the detective appeared in our foyer, leaving me wishing that I'd changed my clothes.

Mondello asked permission to check out the courtyard where the man had grabbed the cat, and within minutes a crew of techs was ruining what was left of Aunt Ibby's late-blooming geraniums and vacuuming the top of the wall where the thief had made his escape. Down the street another crew was swarming over the Civil War memorial site, while a few of the Winter Street neighbors, wide awake now and alerted by the commotion, stood along the curb.

I wasn't too sure exactly what was going on, so after a quick change into jeans and a sweater, and a much-needed face scrub, I caught up with the detective on the sidewalk in front of the house.

“Detective—” I began.

“Pete,” he insisted with a smile.

I'll bet that smile gets him just about anything he wants.

“Pete, why all the interest in O'Ryan? I know he was Ariel's cat, but what would anyone gain by stealing him? Ransom?”

“Don't know. Doesn't make a lot of sense, does it? What we're interested in is what your aunt told us about the guy wearing boots. Ariel's killer wore boots. We're hoping to get a good casting in the soft dirt out in the garden or maybe down there by the monument.”

“I have to admit that for one wild minute I thought it was because O'Ryan was a witness to Ariel's death!”

He laughed. “Yep. I thought of that, too. But unless the cat can communicate with humans, he wouldn't be much help.”

I didn't laugh. I thought about the picture in the obsidian ball of O'Ryan in distress. Had he arched his back and snarled at his abductor, just as he had in my vision? Could he communicate with humans? With me?

And hadn't anyone but my aunt and I noticed that the guy on all those surveillance cameras on Derby Street was wearing camouflage?

I decided to ask.

“Pete,” I said, “seriously, do you think the man you're looking for in the Pelletier murder is the same one who killed Ariel? And probably the same one who just tried to steal our cat?”

His expression changed immediately into what I recognized as his “cop face.” I wasn't about to get any information about police business, that was for sure.

Then, just as quickly, his expression softened.

“Yes, Lee. I do. And I don't like it that this creep knows where you live. You haven't made any enemies around here, have you?”

“Not that I know of.”

Not unless you count a guy sitting on a throne and holding a cup who lives in a deck of cards.

By the time Pete and his crew left, it was far too late to even think about going to bed. Anyway, I was wide awake. Promising myself a good nap later, I headed for the study for some
Nightshades
show prep. I jotted down a few notes for my monologue and browsed through a book on meditation techniques from Aunt Ibby's secret stash.

Happily, O'Ryan showed no ill effects from his near abduction. After hiding under my bed, behind the dust ruffle, for an hour or so, he emerged, tail erect, whiskers bristling, and joined me in the study. He selected a pale pool of early morning sun in front of a bay window and proceeded to give himself a good washing.

“O'Ryan,” I said, “do you really know who that man was?”

He paused in his fur-licking project, cocked his head to one side, and gave me a look that seemed to say, “Are you nuts? Of course I don't. I'm just a cat.”

But then he winked.

I put the book and notes aside and thought about the mysterious man who'd run down the street, carrying the cat bag. Had he been waiting in the garden for O'Ryan to come outside via the cat door? Did he know that sooner or later the cat would appear? But the psychic's cat had been with Aunt Ibby and me for only a few days. How many people even knew about the cat door?

I could think of only one.

Before Scott Palmer and I had left for the football game, he'd mentioned that he liked cats all right but didn't like litter box duty. That was when I'd told him about the cat door. I was positive I had never mentioned it to another soul.

I didn't like the way I was thinking. It was definitely time for coffee. I headed for the kitchen, O'Ryan following close behind me.

When I passed the den, there was Aunt Ibby, dressed for the day, working at her computer.

“I thought you might have gone to bed, considering our all-nighter,” I said. “But I'm glad you're here. I just had kind of a disturbing thought.”

“What is it, dear?” She closed her laptop, looking at me with concern.

I told her about my cat door quandary. “Who knew about O'Ryan's bathroom habits besides you and me? And recently, Scott Palmer?” I asked. “I'm sure I've never mentioned it to anyone else. I hate to think that Scott . . .”

“Oops,” said my aunt.

“Oops? What do you mean, oops?”

She tapped the closed lid of the laptop. “Facebook. I've been bragging to all my Facebook friends about how smart O'Ryan is. I even took pictures of him coming out of the cat door and posted them. Everyone loved them. Those pictures may have gone viral by now, they are so darned cute!”

“How many Facebook friends do you have?” I asked, relieved about Scott, but curious about who else might be on some kind of a short list of suspects.

“Oh, hundreds!” She waved a hand. “Lots of them. All over the world. Why, I was just talking to one of my old library friends in the UK. He earned a scholarship to Oxford, and he's with New Scotland Yard now. I'm blessed to have so many interesting friends.”

“You are,” I agreed. “Do any of those friends happen to be associated with WICH-TV?”

“Well, of course there's Rhonda.”

Wonderful. Rhonda, of “sees all, knows all, tells all” fame.

“No problem. But maybe we ought to tell Detective Mondello about those pictures of the cat door, anyway.”

“Oh dear. Do you think it was wrong of me to post them?”

“Absolutely not. How would you know there was a catnapper lurking out there somewhere? But I promised to tell Pete any little thing that might be helpful.”

“Pete?”

I could feel my face coloring. “Detective Mondello. His name is Pete.”

My cell phone rang, so I didn't have to explain further.

“Hello?”

It was Rhonda. “Hi, Lee. Mr. Doan says to tell you he liked the show last night and he wants you to join him and Janice for lunch. He says for you to be at the old Lyceum restaurant at noon. Okay?”

The last-minute invitation, which ignored the fact that I'd worked until two in the morning, was typical of the high-handed manner of the station manager. But I knew I'd accept, because he was, at least for the time being, my boss.

I told Rhonda to tell Mr. Doan, “Thanks very much,” and that I would be there at noon.

“What was that about?” my aunt wanted to know.

“I've been invited to lunch with the boss and Janice Valen. Apparently, Mr. Doan liked the show, and Janice must be feeling better.”

“That's nice, dear. Where are you going to eat?”

“At the restaurant in the old Lyceum.”

“A most interesting venue,” she said. “Alexander Graham Bell gave the first public demonstration of the telephone there. Oh, and it's supposed to be haunted, you know.”

“No kidding? By whom? Or what?”

“A witch,” she said, “named Bridget Bishop.”

So with thoughts of witches, good and bad, dancing in my head, and with O'Ryan stretched out beside me, I took a short nap. Somewhat refreshed, I got to the Lyceum at exactly noon. Janice had arrived ahead of me and was seated on a long bench with some other people.

“Hi, Lee.” She moved over, patting the space next to her. “Come on. Sit down. George dropped me off. He doesn't like me to drive after I have one of my headaches.” She wrinkled her perfect nose. “Even though I feel fine. Doan isn't here yet, but we'll get seated as soon as he arrives. They know him here.”

She was stunning in a bright red suit and shoes that screamed Jimmy Choo. She certainly looked fully re-covered from her headache. In fact, she looked as though she'd never been sick in her life. I was wearing the same green suit I'd worn for my ill-fated interview, and I hoped that my carefully applied makeup covered the fact that I hadn't really slept in about forty-eight hours.

“I'm glad you're feeling better,” I said. “You look wonderful.”

“I'm fine,” she said again. “Big brother George always takes good care of me. But I'm truly sorry about not being there for your first show.”

“Not your fault. But I'll admit it got pretty hairy there for a few minutes. I'm really grateful to George for bailing me out the way he did.”

“You mean after the call from the old fart who thinks you have nice tits?”

“Uh . . . yes.” I looked around, hoping none of our bench mates were listening.

“Well, don't worry about it. George says you handled everything perfectly. Doan was impressed. Anyway, you do.”

“I do what?”

“Have nice tits.” She looked down at her own chest. “I wish I did.”

“Wish you did what?” It was Scott Palmer's voice. “Good show last night, Moon.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“Had nice tits,” said Janice in a matter-of-fact tone.

I felt the color rising to my face. I looked at Scott through lowered lashes. He was red-faced, too.

“Everyone says it was a good show, Lee. I'm sorry I missed it.” Janice seemed oblivious to the embarrassment she'd caused. “And, Scotty, I'm glad Doan invited you, too. He's really happy with your work. Especially that piece with the old guy who found that razor thing.”

I welcomed the change of subject. “Scott, have they figured out what those numbers on the straight razor mean?”

“Not exactly. But the police think they could be old service numbers.”

“Service numbers?”

“Yep. Back in the sixties everybody in the service had a number. Now they just keep track with Social Security numbers.”

I thought about Aunt Ibby's description of the man she'd seen in the garden, and the surveillance videos of the “person of interest” in the Pelletier murder. ”Do they think some old soldier has something to do with all this?”

“I don't know what the police think. They're not letting the media in on much.”

Janice stood, pointing toward the sidewalk. “Here comes the great man now. About freakin' time. I'm starving.”

A beaming hostess greeted the station manager by name and led us to a very good table. Janice was right. They knew him here.

Maybe he's a good tipper.

He stuck out his hand. “Glad to welcome you to WICH-TV, Ms. Barrett,” he said. “I hope this is the beginning of a long and happy association.”

Since we hadn't even discussed my salary yet and I hadn't given up my plans to land a
real
TV job, my reply was deliberately noncommittal.

“I'm pleased to meet you, sir.” His handshake was surprisingly gentle for such a big man.

We were seated at a square table, Scott opposite me, and Doan and Janice facing each other. Bruce Doan aimed a smile in my direction.

“Looks as though you have the best seat in the house, Ms. Barrett,” he said.

“Really?” I looked around.

“You're facing the staircase. That's where the ghost of the witch is supposed to appear.”

“No kidding?” Scott leaned forward. “A real Salem witch ghost?”

“Her name was Bridget Bishop,” Janice said. “Ariel always said she was a really evil witch. A very powerful one.”

Doan made a snorting sound but didn't say anything.

Scott persisted with his questions. “Do you know of anyone who's really seen it?”

Doan looked annoyed. “Of course not. There's no such thing as ghosts.”

“Ariel saw her once.” Janice spoke softly.

“Ariel was a raving nutcase,” Doan answered.

“You're just saying that because you hated her.”

The station manager raised his voice. “Everybody hated her!”

“I didn't hate her. She was nice to me.” Janice's eyes looked misty.

Heads began to turn in our direction. Had the two forgotten that Scott and I were there? I raised my menu to cover my face.

A waitress appeared to take our orders. Thankful for the interruption, I chose the daily lunch special. Scott and Mr. Doan did the same. Janice ordered a hearts of palm salad.

“Can we have a bottle of wine with lunch, Bruce?” she asked quite pleasantly. “After all, we're celebrating with our new friends.”

Her change of demeanor didn't seem to surprise Doan at all. “Sure we can,” he said and ordered a good merlot. “I'm real happy to have you two aboard.”

“Glad to be here,” I mumbled, and Scott said something similar. Our eyes met in a silent, if confused, communion.