Claws for Alarm (9 page)

I remembered Chantal's tarot reading and nodded. “Sounds like a prime motive to me.”

“Did to me, too, at first. But the alibi she gave us for the time in question checks out.”

I bit down hard on my lip to conceal my disappointment. “Okay, then. What about Pitt's son? I heard they had a disagreement recently.”

He pinned me with that navy gaze. “You certainly ask a lot of questions.”

I shrugged. “Old habits die hard,” I said lightly. “You can take the gal out of reporting, but . . . “

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” he said roughly. “Well, I quizzed him, too, and before you ask, his alibi for the TOD checked out.”

The sigh that tumbled from my lips didn't even begin to express the frustration that welled inside me. “All right, but even if you eliminate them, there are others to investigate. Take Taft Michaels, for instance. Pitt is supposed to have
picked on him a great deal, plus he has knowledge of poisons that seems to me to be way beyond what any art student slash model should possess. Then there's Kurt Wilson; it's possible they argued recently, too. And Julia Canton. She and Pitt were supposed to be having an affair. Maybe he broke it off, and she reacted as a woman scorned.”

He started to say something, then stopped as his cell phone beeped impatiently in his pocket. He flashed me an apologetic look as he fished it out and flipped it open. “Samms here.” He listened for a few minutes, then said, “Fine. I'm on my way.” He snapped the phone shut and dropped it in his pocket. “Sorry, but I've got to go. An appointment that I completely forgot about.” He made a sweeping gesture with his arm. “After you.”

I stepped over the threshold and paused. Out of the corner of my eye I caught a flash of movement. I turned my head just in time to catch a glimpse of a gray-streaked ponytail disappearing through a door far down the hall. I glanced over my shoulder at Samms.

“It might be a good idea to seal the room up again. You know, to protect it from people curious about the scene of the crime.”

His blank, unreadable face stared at me pointedly. “Of course I'm keeping it sealed for now. But you're right, some enterprising individual might take advantage of an opportunity to take a look around and help themselves to a little souvenir to sell on eBay. I think I'll speak to Ms. Dinwiddie, have her put one of the guards on this floor. Not that I don't trust anyone, but . . . aw, hell. I don't.” He snagged my wrist and looked straight into my eyes. “Look, I know you're concerned about your sister, but you should leave this to the
professionals. I'd certainly hate to see anything happen to you because you took it upon yourself to play Brenda Starr, or do you prefer I call you Nancy Drew?”

I jerked my hand free of his grip. “I prefer it if you don't call me either. And regardless of what you think, Samms, I know what I'm doing.”

“I'm sure you think you do, but think about it. If your sister didn't kill Pitt, then the real killer is out there. And I'm sure he or she won't take kindly to someone trying to expose them.” His lips twitched at the corners. “Our department is down manpower right now. One murder is about all I can handle at the moment.”

“Agreed, but—”

“No buts. I'm sorry to bail on you right now, but please promise me that you'll leave the detecting to me and my team. I can see it's hard for you, but—” He shoved his hands into his pants pockets. “Things have a way of working out. So do I have your word you'll leave the detecting to the professionals?”

I promised, hoping he couldn't tell I had my fingers crossed behind my back. He turned and hurried back down the hall, and I leaned against the wall with a heartfelt sigh. Leroy Samms was the last person I'd ever expected to see again, and to top things off, he was the detective in charge of the case. Funny, wasn't it, how life worked out sometimes? Well, his warning had only served to strengthen my resolve to continue my investigation into Pitt's murder. I was just about to start walking back to the door marked
STAIRS
when it suddenly opened and a girl wearing jeans and a flannel shirt emerged. She toted a large sack in one hand, and the manner in which she held it suggested it might be
heavy. As she started to cast a furtive look around, I ducked into a small alcove and flattened myself against the wall. Peering cautiously around the corner, I held my breath as I caught a better glimpse of her face. It was the nude model from downstairs, only now that she was clothed, recognition kicked in.

Julia Canton.

What the hell was she doing up here, and what on earth could she possibly have in that sack?

My cell phone chose that moment to start blaring out my new ringtone. Usually I sang along to Katy Perry's “I Kissed a Girl,” but right now I scrabbled in my purse, desperate to shut it off. I wasn't fast enough. Julia's head jerked up; she gave a quick look around and hightailed it in the other direction. I sighed as my fingers closed over the phone, and I pulled it out and looked at the number. It was a local one, not familiar. Thinking it might be Peter, I flipped it open. “Hello?”

A lilting, feminine voice asked, “Is this Nora Charles?”

“Yes,” I replied. “Who is this?”

“I've got to see you, Ms. Charles. As soon as possible.”

I remembered the last time someone had said that to me. I'd ended up finding a dead body. “Who is this?”

“Mrs. Pitt. We need to meet. I have some information concerning my husband's murder.”

A tingle inched its way up my spine. I gripped the phone and glanced around. Why would Giselle Pitt want to share anything with the sister of the woman who supposedly murdered her husband? “What sort of information, Mrs. Pitt?”

“I can't go into it over the phone, but let me say this. I do not think your sister killed him. In fact, I'm relatively certain she didn't.”

That was surprising. “You are?”

“Let me just say this. There are others with far better motives than her. For example, I can tell you that the alibi that blond tart married to my husband cooked up needs to be looked at closely. Much more closely than the police did.”

Wait a minute? Wasn't I speaking with the blond tart? “Excuse me, I'm sorry, you did say you were Mrs. Pitt?”

“Yes, and I'm the one who should be sorry. I should have been clearer. I'm Althea Pitt, Thaddeus's first wife. I live at 4576 Victoria Lane in Pacific Grove. Be here in an hour. Trust me, Ms. Charles, this is a meeting that will be well worth your while.”

Then the line went dead.

T
wenty minutes later I parked my SUV in front of the address Althea Pitt had given me, a small bungalow tucked back in a shady corner on a quiet street lined with huge elms and flowering shrubs. I locked the car and walked up the neatly trimmed walkway to a wide enclosed porch. I rang the front doorbell, and a few minutes later the door opened to reveal a demure woman with short medium-brown hair, snapping hazel eyes with flecks of gold in the center of their irises, and a wide, full-lipped mouth. Her dove gray suit looked lightweight and comfy, and a U-necked blouse in black was the perfect foil for the thick braided gold chain around her neck. I judged her age to be somewhere in her middle fifties at least—a very well-kept middle fifties. Our eyes met and her lips parted, revealing teeth so perfect they had to be caps, and she held out a perfectly manicured hand.

“You have to be Nora Charles. Do come in. I'm Althea Pitt. It's a pleasure to meet you.”

I stepped over the threshold, and she wiggled her fingers, motioning for me to follow her down the narrow hallway. She led me into a dim room that I assumed was the parlor, and she turned on a table lamp with a fringed shade. An off-white damask upholstered sofa and love seat were positioned in front of a fireplace, and she motioned for me to take a seat. I settled down on the sofa and scooted to the edge of the seat.

Mrs. Pitt moved over toward an oak table on which an antique silver tea service rested. She picked up the pitcher and held it aloft. “Tea?”

I really didn't want any but didn't want to seem rude. “Yes, thank you.”

“Do you take lemon?”

“No, thanks. Just a bit of cream and sugar.”

She poured the tea into two fragile-looking china cups, which she placed on the long mission-style table in front of me, along with a sugar bowl and small pitcher of cream. As I prepared my tea I took a moment to study my surroundings. The room had a slightly musty odor to it, and the walls were painted a faded ivory color. I noticed several lighter rectangle shapes on the wall where pictures had obviously been removed. The Oriental carpet covering the hardwood floor was thick but threadbare and fading along the edges. A white grand piano bearing several framed photographs sat off to one side in front of a massive bookcase whose shelves were only partially full. My eyes focused on one photograph positioned off to the side, and a niggling sense of familiarity immediately swept over me. I didn't have much chance to
dwell on it, though, because Althea leaned forward and spoke in her soft voice.

“I appreciate your coming, and I won't keep you too long.”

I gave her a long, slow look. “I confess, I was surprised to hear from you.”

She chuckled. “Well, your cell phone number isn't unlisted, my dear.”

“That's not what I meant. Why call me at all?”

“Why not?” Althea returned my look with an equally long, slow one of her own. “Once the police informed us of who they had in custody, I did a thorough Google search on your sister, and on you. You have an impeccable reputation as a true crime reporter, not to mention the excellent job you did on the Lola Grainger case.” She leaned forward. “You and I both know once they have who they feel is the perfect suspect in custody, the police have a tendency to stop looking elsewhere.”

“And you're not sure my sister is guilty?”

Her lips twitched. “Let's just say I want the right person convicted of this crime.” A slight pause and then, “No matter who it is.”

I took a sip of the tea and balanced the cup on my knee. “You said on the phone you knew something. Is it about his murder?”

She let out a long sigh. “Thaddeus and I were happy, back in the day. We lived here when we were first married—oh, this was a grand house, full of life and love, and objects d'art. I love art in all its forms: paintings, sculptures, antique books, everything. It was one thing Thaddeus and I had in common. Unfortunately, over the years I've found it necessary to . . . part with some of my treasures.”

Well, that explained the faded squares on the wall and the empty places on the bookshelf. “That's a shame,” I murmured.

Her eyes took on a dreamy look. “Fame does things to people, my dear, especially to ones who are not prepared for it, and Thaddeus wasn't. He started believing his own press, and I didn't exactly support him back then. The fact my marriage ended was my own fault. Our son was grown, and the common bond of art we'd always shared was overshadowed by his commercial fame. Thaddeus was ripe for the plucking, and Giselle saw a golden opportunity. My husband was smack-dab in the midst of a midlife crisis, and she saw a chance to grab the brass ring.” Her hand fluttered carelessly. “I'm sorry. I don't mean to bore you with what is obviously not your problem. The current state of this house is in no way Thaddeus's fault. He gave me a generous settlement when we divorced—guilt will often be a benefactor—and gives a generous monthly allowance still.” She shook her head. “I couldn't complain about him in that respect.”

“Funny, Mother. I could.”

I turned toward the doorway. The speaker was a tall, thin man in his late twenties, with close-cut red hair, deep green eyes, and a firm jaw. He wore a navy suit, which I judged to be an Armani, and a light pink and undeniably expensive shirt. He moved over to the bar and poured himself a brandy, downed it in one gulp, then poured himself another.

Althea's eyebrow rose. “A bit early isn't it, darling?”

He shrugged. “Not really. What is it they say? It's five o'clock—or happy hour—somewhere.” He raised the glass. “Cheers,” he said, and downed the second.

Althea's lips twisted into a half smile that in actuality resembled more of a grimace. “This is my son Philip. Philip, this is Nora Charles.”

“Ah.” He moved forward and extended his hand. I took it, noting as I did so the long, tapered fingers and the nails, which were impeccably manicured and shone with just a hint of clear polish. Somehow that didn't surprise me. “They arrested your sister for my father's murder,” he said, and raised his empty glass. “Well, Mother and I believe in the old adage, innocent until proven guilty.” He refilled the glass and settled himself in a high-backed Queen Anne chair. “Especially when there are so many other more likely candidates.”

“Really? Who?” I couldn't resist asking.

He bit out a laugh. “The wicked stepmother, for one. Actually, the only one, in my book.” He slid his mother a glance. “I still think Giselle is the reason Dad got cold feet about the painting.”

I looked questioningly at Mrs. Pitt. Her finger toyed with the hem of her skirt. “Allow me to explain,” she said. “As I started to tell you, the current state of my home is not Thaddeus's fault. Other expenses cropped up he didn't know about. No, let me amend that statement. To be quite honest, and I intend to be nothing less with you, dear, I didn't want Thaddeus to know about those other expenses.”

Philip coughed lightly. “She means me, Ms. Charles.”

Althea nodded. “My son has always been headstrong, impetuous, and outspoken.” Her laugh tittered out. “His father's son, no doubt about it. A smart boy, but lazy.” When Philip made no move to protest, she continued, “I can say that about my son, because he
is
my son. He has the mental
capability to do something really great with his life, but he has no ambition, no direction.”

Philip coughed again and shot me an apologetic look. “Do excuse the cough. I just can't seem to shake it.”

“You've got to stop smoking,” his mother admonished. “I told you, that only makes it worse.”

“But Mother, I've got to have some vices, after all.” He pulled a package of Newports from his pocket and tossed them on the table. “I even switched to menthol. Doesn't help. Anyway, getting back to my mother's assertion. It's rather harsh.” He turned to Althea. “I have lots of ambition, Mother. You and Father just don't appreciate what the ambition is for.”

“Yes, racing and blackjack.” Althea spit the words out and then turned to me. “I blame Thaddeus and myself for the way he turned out. I couldn't have any other children after he was born, so I'm afraid we spoiled him rotten—”

Philip cut her an eye roll. “Not this again,” he muttered.

Althea ignored him. “He knows it's true. He's never had a real job, never worked at any hard labor. He plays at things. Right now he's playing at investment banking.” She leaned forward and dropped her voice to a whisper. “And he's terrible at it. It's only a matter of time until he gets fired, and then he'll move on to something else. The only constant in his life is gambling.” She bit the last word out as if she'd spit out a hot pepper. “There were times when he'd be quite lucky at it, but more often than not he ended up owing extravagant amounts of money, amounts my monthly income can no longer cover.”

Philip rose out of the chair and walked over to where I sat. “And before you ask,” he said, “they thought about sending me to GA—Gamblers Anonymous—but my shrink told
them it wouldn't do any good. One has to want to be cured, and quite frankly, I don't want to be. I enjoy it too much.”

Althea slid me a look that said more plainly than words,
You see what I have to put up with?
“It's true,” she gritted out. “My son refuses to admit he has a problem. I've sold whatever I could to help him out, but in recent months the well has, as they say, finally run its course.”

“Yes, Mother insisted she couldn't support my habit anymore, so . . . last month I swallowed my pride and took the problem to the old man. After all, I'm the fruit of his loins, too.” Philip spread his hands. “Imagine my shock when he agreed to help me.”

Now I raised both eyebrows. “He did?”

Philip nodded. “Yep. He said he'd give me one of his paintings to sell. There was a condition attached, of course. I had to pay off my debt and then put any surplus in the bank and not touch it for a period of two years. He wanted me to leave it to grow, try and accumulate a nest egg.” He paused. “He also wanted me to give up gambling entirely for the same length of time. Father thought if I could do that, well, there might be a chance I could give it up for good.”

“And did you agree?” I asked.

He nodded. “Sure. What choice did I have? It was either agree to the old man's terms or get my kneecaps busted. The people I owed this money to aren't exactly the forgiving type. I was to meet with him last week, sign an agreement, and he was going to turn over the painting to me. Then I got a call, informing me the deal was off.”

I swallowed. “You must have been furious.”

“I was.” He twirled his now empty glass in his hand. “But not enough to kill him, if that's what you're thinking.
Besides, I have an alibi for the time of death. I was at a fund-raiser the entire night.”

That jibed with what Samms had told me. “But you did argue with your father.”

“Yes. I couldn't understand why he so abruptly changed his mind. I wanted—needed—an explanation.”

“And did you get one?”

He shrugged. “He seemed very evasive. Just told me he'd changed his mind and that was that. The entire call lasted about five minutes.” He blew out a breath. “I was angry and disappointed, but in the long run it didn't matter.”

“Why not?”

Althea answered, “Because the following day a check for the exact amount of Philip's debt arrived by special messenger. It was drawn on the school account. So I knew, right then and there, my husband's decision had nothing to do with Phil's situation, but rather with the painting itself. I'm positive of it.”

I let out a low whistle. “That is interesting. Do you happen to know which painting?”

Both shook their heads in unison, and then Althea answered, “Thaddeus never said which painting it was to be, but I have an idea it might be one he recently acquired. There were two. A Cezanne and an Engeldrumm.” Her lips twisted into a rueful smile. “Engeldrumm is a modern artist, a bit out of Thaddeus's comfort zone but very rare and hard to get. It would have been just like him to gift Philip with that one.”

“And you think his current wife had something to do with his decision?”

“My father was besotted with that witch,” Philip spat. “And she hates me and Mother. It would be just like her to
insist Father not give me the painting. She'd love to see me squirm and suffer.”

Althea nodded. “She would indeed, and as much as I'd like to lay the blame at her feet, I can't shake the feeling there's more to the story.”

“I honestly don't know why Father stayed with her—oh, wait, sure I do. Giselle's great in the sack.”

“Philip,” Althea remonstrated. “Don't be crude.”

He thrust his lower lip out. “It's true, though. That's why he married her but maybe not why he kept her around. I never could figure that out. I mean, it's not as if she could rake in the dough in a divorce. She signed an ironclad pre-nup. And she was cheating on him.”