Dead Bolt (30 page)

“The man was rich?” I asked. Maybe it wasn’t Emile.

“All men in America are rich, haven’t you heard?”

“Guess I missed the memo.”

Zach handed me the photo of Katenka that Ivana had given me. I searched her pretty face, the trace of a smile I had rarely seen on her.

“By the way, you’re in my debt.”

“How do you figure that?”

“I had to slip the bartender a Benjamin to get him in a chatty mood.”

“A Benjamin? Oh, that’s . . . a hundred?”

Zach gave me a crooked grin.

“I thought you said you were broke,” I pointed out.

“I am. It’s my mad money.”

“A hundred bucks is your mad money?”

“I don’t often get mad.”

“And that’s it? This doesn’t tell me where to find Katenka.”

“No one’s seen her for years now. But it does tell you something about her background.”

“Did the bartender say anything more about the old man? Does he still come in?”

“He apparently disappeared around the same time as Katenka.”

“Anything else?”

“One thing that stuck in his mind—the guy was into taxidermy, stuffing dead animals.”

It was Emile, then, for sure. How many old Russian-speaking taxidermists could there possibly be in San Francisco?

So Katenka had a deep, dark secret and a history with Emile Blunt. As his mistress? Or had Emile suggested Katenka find his lonely, wealthy neighbor Jim online so that the two could meet and Emile could then . . . what, milk her for money? Was the money I found in the settee one of her payments to him?

I sipped my latte and turned possible scenarios over in my mind. Could Katenka have killed Emile, tired of the blackmail? Or had Jim Daley discovered what was happening and killed Emile to keep him quiet about Katenka’s past? Maybe to punish Emile for his relationship with Katenka and for stealing Jim’s money through blackmail? Or was Jim Daley a jealous husband who, upon learning the truth about Emile and Katenka, had killed them both?

Maybe.

Then again . . . Dave Enrique argued with Emile the night he died. Could he and Emile have been enemies since their days at the Cheshire Inn? Could there have been some kind of romantic triangle involving one or both of the men and Janet, Hettie’s daughter? I rejected that idea. Emile was old enough to be Janet’s grandfather, and Dave was a good ten or twenty years Janet’s senior. A romantic triangle involving those three seemed far-fetched.

Plus, it was icky.

Besides, Hettie Banks and Emile Blunt were former flames. And white cat hair had been left on the sofa in Emile’s shop the night of the murder. Cat hair meant cats, which suggested Hettie. She might be getting up there in years, but it didn’t take much strength to pull a trigger.

I thought about calling Inspector Crawford again, but decided against it. I had nothing even remotely resembling evidence to implicate anybody in Emile’s death, and for all I knew Katenka came home last night, and was even now enjoying a champagne brunch with Jim and the baby at the Palace Hotel.

Zach interrupted my reverie. “Penny for your thoughts?”

“Beg your pardon?”

“Penny. For your thoughts.”

“My mother used to say that.”

“So did mine. What’s up?”

“Nothing. Listen, Zach, I have to run. I don’t have a Benjamin on me. Can I send it to you?”

“Why don’t I give you a call? We’ll get together when you have more time, and arrange for repayment.”

“Okay, whatever works. And thanks.”

“Anytime.”

I pondered possible suspects and scenarios as I walked to my car. Before I started up the engine, Hettie called.

“Need a favor.”

“Okay. . . .”

“Will you feed my cats?”

“I . . . uh 
. . .
why? What’s going on?”

“I can’t get to ’em for a while. Key’s under the mat. There’s food in the cupboard. They share a can morning and night. Oh, and change their water.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m down to the police station.”

“Are you in trouble?”

“It’s not looking good, tell you the truth. They say I had motive, opportunity, left some of Pudding’s hair on Emile’s couch, and even took a souvenir from the crime scene like they say some disturbed people do.”

“Souvenir?”

“They found a rhinestone cat collar on Pudding. I didn’t put it on ’im.”

“Have you called a lawyer?”

“I’m not worried about me. Heck, I hear in prison they got free medical care and cable TV and everything. But promise me you’ll take care of my cats.”

“What about Janet? Have you called her? Could she help?”

“Janet hates cats almost as much as she hates me. She oughta be happy now, though. Guess she’ll get a building on Union Street after all. Seems least I could do is leave her that upholstery shop if I’m going to San Quentin.” I heard a commotion in the background. “Listen, I gotta go. Are you gonna do this for me, or not?”

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’ll take care of them.”

 

An hour later I walked into my dad’s house with a struggling cat under each arm and a bag of cat kibble slung over my shoulder. I was scratched up and down my arms, covered in fur, and in a truly foul mood. I also had a newfound respect for Janet Banks and the feral feline rescue squad.

Dog went nuts upon sensing felines. The cats hissed and broke free, leaping from my arms and running to hide.

Dad dropped his chopping knife and after much human yelling and canine barking, Dad grabbed Dog by the collar, dragged him outside, and shut the kitchen door.

“You’re adopting cats now?” Dad demanded. “What the hell’s gotten into you?”

“You okay, Mel?” asked Stan.

I dropped the bag of food on the floor and went to the sink to wash my hands. Between my mottled cheekbone and the red furrows on my arms, I was starting to look like an extra in a zombie apocalypse movie.

“Learned something new today: Cats don’t like to ride in cars,” I said.

Corralling the cats at Hettie’s condo had been hard enough, but I finally managed to get them out to the car. The moment I started the engine, both cats lost their minds. At one point Pudding was literally standing atop the steering wheel while Horatio paced back and forth across the backseat, howling. It was a long ride home.

“Some cats don’t mind cars.” Stan chuckled and coaxed Horatio out from behind a cupboard and into his lap. Pudding was nowhere to be found.

I leaned against the counter as I dried my hands.

Dad returned to chopping onion and celery. “Gonna be a damned menagerie in here by the time you’re through.”

“We’re doing a good deed,” I said. “And it’s only temporary.” I hoped.

“That’s what you said about Dog. And Caleb . . .”

“Hey, Caleb’s nonnegotiable. He and I are a package deal, so if you don’t want him here, just say the word and I’ll move out.”

“Me, too,” said Stan.

Dad shrugged. “Nah, Caleb’s a good kid. I put him and his buddy to work out in the yard today, cutting back those shrubs by the garage.”

“Is he here?”

“Out with a couple of friends, jogging around Lake Merritt. Said he’d be back for dinner, asked if he could invite them along. I said sure.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Not sure about those cats, though. You remember the time you brought home that flea-bitten Siamese?”

“That was one of your other daughters. Charlotte always liked cats.”

“You sure? I could have sworn it was you.”

“I’m sure. I was there.”

He shrugged and transferred the onions and celery into a pan of heated olive oil, where they sizzled, sending out an enticing aroma. My stomach growled.

“Mel, why don’t you go take a shower while Bill finishes supper and I introduce Dog to the cats?” suggested Stan. “They’ll get along fine once they know one another—you’ll see. This one here’s a real sweetie.”

“Thanks, guys. You’re lifesavers. What would I do without you?”

T
he next day the phone rang while I was still in bed, pretending to sleep. I wasn’t sleeping, of course, because now that I awoke at five every morning for work I had become the sort of person who can no longer sleep past dawn. Plus, there were two cats and a dog sleeping in the room, and at least two of the creatures snored. Pathetic.

I reached for the phone, covers still drawn over my head.

“Hello?” I croaked.

“Morning, sunshine.”

I sat up. “Graham?”

“Sorry to say this isn’t a social call. Matt’s about to lose it over the tile in his kitchen.”

I sighed. “What’s up?”

“Apparently they’re the wrong height, so the kitchen floor will be higher than the existing wood floors in the hall and dining room.”

“Significantly higher?”

“About three-eighths of an inch.”

I heard Matt’s voice in the background, slightly hysterical, exclaiming,
“Whoever heard of height? Width and length, but height? Is that Mel? Tell her to come save me!”

“I’ll be right there.”

So much for a day, much less a weekend, off work.

 

“Why are you meeting with Matt at this hour?” I asked when Graham opened Matt’s door.

“Green consultation with the architect over breakfast. Apparently I’m now on call twenty-four hours a day. OSHA’s looking better all the time.”

“Mel, thank heavens you’re here,” said Matt as he rushed up to us. “I’m beside myself.”

I checked out the kitchen floor, and the new shipment of tile. Three-eighths of an inch was too much of an elevation shift to bridge with a simple wooden threshold. It would never look right.

“The tile guy should have alerted you, Matt. I apologize on his behalf. I’ll follow up with him, but for now you have a decision to make. You either have to take out the subfloor—which is a pretty big deal—or simply choose a different tile.”

“But I had my heart set on those,” Matt said.

“I’ll go tile shopping with you, if you want. It’ll be fun.” That was an exaggeration. What it would be was a huge time-suck, like all shopping trips with clients. But if Matt’s project fell behind, so would Cheshire House. Since we shared the same workers and subcontractors, one problem led inexorably to another, like toppling dominos.

“Okay, if you’ll come and hold my hand. It’s hard to decide these things.”

“Sure I will.” I checked my BlackBerry. “We can do lunch on Tuesday or Wednesday, if you want.”

“One more thing. I think the ceiling in the library is too low.”

I froze. This wasn’t a three-day tile job fix we were talking about. This was serious.

“You want to redo the roof.”

“I want it done right.”

Was it the effect of the cameras? Was he becoming a prima donna?

“I have to level with you, Matt. It’ll be exorbitantly expensive. Raising the roof means new permits, and requires getting the neighbors’ consent because a raised roof may impact the view of the houses behind you. There’s something called discretionary review here in San Francisco, which means that if the neighbors consider your project ‘exceptional and extraordinary’ they can request a review by the city planning commission, even if the project has already been given approval.”

Matt gave me a blank look.

“Bottom line: If you get approved—and you probably won’t—it means a delay of at least several months, possibly more. Not to mention the additional construction costs, which will be substantial. If you really want to do this, the first people to convince are your neighbors. You’ll also have to talk to the architect to commission new drawings. In the meantime, I suggest we leave the roof as it is.”

“One good thing: If we change the roof we could put solar panels up there. Graham was just explaining their advantages.”

I glared at Graham. He smiled.

“That’s a special permit process, as well,” I said. “But then as my mother always used to say, in for a penny, in for a pound.”

“How many pounds?” asked the Brit.

“Many, many pounds.”

 

Graham walked me to my car.

“Have you heard from Katenka?” he asked.

“No sign of her.”

“Elena’s been trying to get in touch with her about the party, which is coming up.”

“Yes, she called me yesterday.”

“Don’t suppose you know anything new?”

“Actually, I asked someone to look into the club where Katenka used to dance, when she first arrived from Russia. Remember Zach Malinski?”

“Zach, as in that kid from the fiasco at Matt’s house last summer? The photographer?”

“The photographer, yes. But he’s hardly a kid.”

“The man who
kidnapped
you?”

“It wasn’t a kidnapping, exactly. There were extenuating circumstances.”

“Are you insane?”

“I think we’re getting a little off track here; my point is that Katenka didn’t meet Jim the way she claimed. She was here, in San Francisco, working at a club.”

“What kind of club?”

“The sleazy kind.”

“So maybe they were embarrassed about it, and made up the online story to sound more respectable.”

“No one remembers meeting him at the club.”

“All that means is he isn’t that memorable. I could have told you that.”

“But what if she led him to believe she really was in Russia, teaching Sunday school or something, and he found out the truth, and did something to her?”

“Look, I find it hard to believe Jim would do such a thing, but assuming you’re right, why aren’t you talking to the police?”

“I mentioned it, but the inspector didn’t seem to think there was much to it. And Jim’s my client, after all. If I had some sort of proof, anything at all, I wouldn’t hesitate. But how awful would it be to accuse the man if he’s innocent?”