Dying to Read (5 page)

It was none of her business anyway. Her job was just to find Willow, give her the message about an inheritance from her grandmother, and provide the great-uncle with an address. Which gave her a sudden idea.

“I don’t suppose you’d know where Willow worked before she came here? The information might help me locate her for our client.”

The woman stopped the chin tapping. “That’s an excellent idea. Aunt Amelia must have asked for character or employer references before she hired the woman. Perhaps the information will aid the police too. If you have time, we can go upstairs to her office and take a look right now.”

Cate almost clapped her hands. Maybe she wasn’t totally hopeless at this PI stuff after all.

She already knew where Amelia’s office was located, but she didn’t let Cheryl know that. She just followed Cheryl up the stairs, then down the second floor hallway.

In the small office, Cheryl opened a middle drawer of the wooden file cabinet. The numerous manila folders were neatly labeled, although their order seemed to be based on some unique interpretation of the alphabet. Appliances and warranties. Property taxes. House insurance. Bank accounts. Income tax returns.

Cheryl’s hand hovered over the bank accounts file, as if she’d like to take a look, but apparently she decided to wait until later. Probably, Cate guessed, until her own curious eyes weren’t present. Cheryl had just pulled out a file labeled Employees when Cate felt a brush against her legs. Cheryl spotted the cat at the same time and instantly flapped the folder at the cat.

“Shoo! She leaves cat hair on everything. Shoo!”

“Will you take her now?” Cate asked as the cat skidded out of the room.

“I have two burgundy velvet chairs. Need I say more? She’s going to the animal shelter.”

“The animal shelter?” Cate repeated, appalled. “But your aunt must have cared a great deal for her.”

“I’m sure they’ll find her a good home.”

“But she’s deaf.”

Cheryl’s flutter of fingers dismissed that as not her concern.

Cate
was
concerned. She kept remembering how the cat had curled so forlornly by Amelia’s arm. How, in spite of all the good efforts by the shelters, so many pets, even young, healthy, hearing ones, didn’t find homes because there were just too many of them.

“Maybe one of the women from the book club would take her,” Cate suggested.

“If I have time maybe I’ll call them.” The careless comment suggested that the possibility of enough time to do that was remote. “Oh, look! I think I’ve found something.”

She had indeed. It wasn’t a formal employment application, but it had Willow’s name at the top of the page. Listed below were a few lines about each of several jobs she’d held. Stapled to the page were three references from former employers.

“It looks as if she’s worked for several older women,” Cate said. “Do you mind if I use the copy machine to make copies of these?”

“Help yourself. The police will probably want them too.”

The copy machine hummed efficiently and quickly turned out clear copies. “I met the women from your aunt’s book club yesterday,” Cate said as she turned the machine off.

“Oh yes. The Whodunit Club.”

“Do you know them?”

“I’ve probably met most of them at one time or another. There’s a Fiona somebody. And a woman who looked as if she’d just come in from feeding the cows. I remember her telling me, ‘You can take the girl out of Texas, but you can’t take Texas out of the girl.’ ” Cheryl wrinkled her nose. Cate wasn’t sure if the distaste came from a reaction to Texie’s cowgirl outfit or the “girl” reference Texie had made to herself.

“An interesting group,” Cate murmured.

“And there’s a Doris. Tall and skinny, with a face like a hungry hawk. A real nosy busybody. I remember Aunt Amelia saying how the woman always wanted to know how much her shoes cost.”

“They all seemed quite nice,” Cate said in a neutral tone.

“Oh yes, of course. Although I think they took advantage of Aunt Amelia’s generosity.”

“Really? In what way?”

“Oh, you know. She was always taking them to lunches or movies or little outings of some kind. Things like that.”

A rather different view than the Whodunit ladies had given of Amelia’s tightfisted ways. But, again, not her business. Her assignment was to find Willow.

“I certainly do appreciate your helpfulness.” Cate folded the photocopies and stuck them in her purse. “Is the funeral service scheduled yet?”

“Scott and I will have to discuss that. It also depends on when they release the body, of course. I don’t think Amelia would want a big fuss, so we’ll probably have something small and private at the cemetery where a couple of her husbands are buried.”

Cate hadn’t known Amelia, but she suspected a big fuss was exactly what a woman who owned a tiara would want. “Maybe you could talk to her friends in the book club. They seemed to know her well and thought so highly of her.” Maybe a smidgen of white lie there, even though the women had spoken well of Amelia after she was dead.

“You think so?” The niece sounded skeptical. “They struck me as a bunch of piranhas who’d happily turn on Amelia or each other over a good quiche.”

That seemed a little harsh to Cate. But maybe not totally untrue.

“Can you see yourself out? I want to get started on Amelia’s jewelry so I can get word to the police about what’s missing.”

Cate started to say sure, then had second thoughts. Could this be a smoke screen? A sly proclamation of “Look how innocent I am!” to throw suspicion toward Willow and away from some involvement of her own in her aunt’s fall?

“Could I be of any assistance?” Cate asked, all innocence herself.

“I don’t know that I need any help. But, like I said, this place is so creepy. Like all those old husbands might still be lurking around watching.” Cheryl glanced at a ceiling corner as if expecting to find one hovering there. “So sure, c’mon. We’ll see what we can find.”

They started down the hallway to Amelia’s bedroom, but Cheryl paused when her cell phone chirped. Cate continued on down the hall and spotted the cat hiding behind a drapery in Amelia’s bedroom. The pill bottles on the nightstand were gone now. The police must have taken them. A ceramic hand on a mirrored dressing table held several rings. They all looked like costume jewelry to Cate, but then, she had no great familiarity with real jewels. One ceramic finger was empty. Was that a place for some ring Amelia had been wearing, a ring someone had snatched off her finger? Or had someone with familiarity with real jewels snatched the only valuable one?

Cheryl joined her a few minutes later. “Sorry for the interruption. That was Scott. He’s trying to get away from the conference as soon as he can. Even though we’ve been married for four years now, he just has to call several times a day whenever he’s out of town.”

Cheryl rolled her eyes, and Cate interpreted the movement as Cheryl wanting to imply she was exasperated with such solicitous husbandly attention but actually being quite proud of it.

Cheryl opened several drawers and found an old-fashioned cedar jewelry box in one. She set it on the dressing table and pushed the contents around with her forefinger.

“The squash blossom necklace is here.” Cheryl dangled the heavy necklace of silver, turquoise, and coral from a finger. “It looks like sterling silver, but I have no idea of its value.”

Monetary value was obviously the big factor in Cheryl’s judgment of worth, not the fact that her aunt had owned and probably treasured the necklace.

Cheryl set the necklace beside the cedar box and rummaged further, finally grabbing a handful of jewelry and holding it up as if it were a fistful of spaghetti. “The rest of this is junk! All the good jewelry is gone. There should be emeralds. And the tiara. And I remember diamond-stud earrings too, at least a carat each.”

“Maybe she has a home safe?”

Cheryl, suddenly energized, dashed around the bedroom, shoving aside mirrors and paintings, pushing one so hard it crashed to the floor and shattered the frame. None of which revealed anything more than empty wall space.

Cheryl finally paused and planted her hands on her hips. “Well, Willow definitely got herself enough here to finance an escape to Mexico or the Bahamas or somewhere. And I’m wondering now if she didn’t do more than take advantage of Aunt Amelia’s fall to steal the jewelry. Maybe she pushed her!”

“What about a safe-deposit box?”

Cheryl took a deep breath, sliding one hand from her throat down her chest as if to calm herself. “Amelia liked to flash her glitter. I don’t think she’d hide anything in a safe-deposit box. But I’ll check. You’ll let me know if you have any luck finding Willow?”

Cate wondered about the client/PI ethics of that, but Cheryl was too absorbed in her loss to notice that Cate’s murmur was noncommittal. Octavia was peeking out from behind a drape now.

“You’re definitely taking the cat to the animal shelter?” Cate asked.

“I mentioned my burgundy velvet chairs, didn’t I? And royal blue carpeting as well.”

Cate hesitated, feeling as if she were skidding down a path she didn’t want to take. “Maybe I could take her . . .”

Shut up, mouth
, she commanded. What she did not need was an oversized, spoiled feline with epicurean tastes.

But maybe she could find a good home for the cat among Uncle Joe and Rebecca’s neighbors. Yes, that would work! She’d find a home for the cat and then come back and get her. But Cheryl jumped on Cate’s cautious words as if they were an offer she couldn’t refuse.

“You can take her? What a wonderful idea! I’m sure there’s a cat carrier out in the garage.”

So not more than five minutes later, feeling rather like a piece of flotsam carried along by an irresistible tide, Cate found herself back in her car. With Cheryl at the car window saying, “I’m sure she’ll make you a wonderful companion.”

“But I didn’t intend—”

“It’s been lovely meeting you. And do let me know if you locate Willow, if the police don’t beat you to it. I’ll make up a list of the missing jewelry and give it to them. Although it’s probably a lost cause if she’s already left the country.”

Cheryl waved as she headed back to the house. Cate drove down Meisman Street feeling a little dazed. She’d come here hoping to gather information that would help her locate Willow. Instead, what she had was a backseat full of canopied cat bed, two cases of some gourmet brand of cat food, a padded scratching pole, and an enclosed litter box with the name Octavia written in gold script over an arched doorway.

Plus a pet carrier full of spitting, clawing, yowling cat.

 4 

Cate managed to get the cat to the house without major damage to anything except her eardrums. She installed a still-yowling Octavia in her own bedroom, where the cat’s bed was considerably grander than her own. She wanted to get started on contacting Willow’s former employers, but she decided that a home for the cat took priority at the moment.

She went around the neighborhood and enthusiastically extolled Octavia’s virtues to several people. Such beautiful blue eyes and classic white fur! Free bed, food, and litter box! Honesty made her add that the cat was deaf, but she also assured potential cat owners that this didn’t appear to be a problem. She didn’t mention that it certainly didn’t seem to hamper Octavia’s own vocal abilities. But everyone was either disinclined to enter cat ownership, already had a lone cat diva in residence, or had a feline or two they tried to pawn off on her.

Back in her bedroom, she discovered Octavia had calmed down and made herself at home, preferring Cate’s pillow to her own canopied cat bed. The cat had obviously explored her new surroundings. White cat hair decorated everything from Cate’s black sneakers in the closet to the top of the drapery rod at her window.

“This isn’t home,” Cate warned the cat. “So don’t make yourself too comfortable.” Then Octavia’s blue-eyed stare punched her with guilt. The cat had just lost both home and owner. She had to feel confused and traumatized. Cate amended the statement. “But I’m not going to toss you out on the street to fend for yourself, so don’t worry about that, okay?”

The cat condescended to offer a purr as she tucked her white paws under her body.
Who me, worry?

Cate took the photocopies of Willow’s employment references into Uncle Joe’s office. She reread the letters. None of the jobs had apparently lasted very long, but the letters glowed with praise. Cate wished she had such enthusiastic references. She picked up the phone to call the name on the top letter.

Which was when she discovered something peculiar. The letter had a name and address, but no phone number. She flipped through the other references, and the peculiarity expanded. No phone number on any of them.

A thud, a skid, and papers flew like oversized confetti. And then there was Octavia sitting on the desk with a smug expression, her plump rump anchoring a lone letter remaining on the desk.

“Octavia! How did you get out of the bedroom?”

She must not have closed the bedroom door tightly. Cats couldn’t open doors.

She tried to snatch up the cat, but Octavia eluded her grasp and dashed out to the living room. Cate followed. The cat was faster and more agile than her weight suggested, a Wonder Cat taking sofa and chairs in single bounds, then racing back to the office. She finally thunked down on the desk again, the skid flipping the letter remaining there into Cate’s hands.

This was a reference from a Mrs. Beverly Easton, with an address on Westernview Avenue. It looked as if it had been written on an old typewriter, a haphazard mixture of lighter and darker letters, the
e
slightly off-kilter. The woman praised Willow’s “commendable and caring work ethic” and her “cheerful good nature and impressive cooking skills.”

Cate studied the letter, then the cat, who was now industriously tongue-cleaning her left hind leg. Twice now the cat had targeted this particular letter.

“Are you trying to tell me something?” Cate inquired. “You think this is the one I should contact first?”

Nah. What did a cat know? Octavia was an oversized feline, not a PI.

But neither was Cate a real PI, so maybe this was as good a place as any to start. She found a phone book in a desk drawer and turned to the E’s. No Beverly Easton. Okay, she’d do this in person. Uncle Joe had more faith in old-fashioned legwork than high-tech investigative techniques anyway. He used the internet frequently, but he tended to yell at the TV when he watched crime shows. He said most of the technology they showed, if it even existed, wasn’t available to the average police department and definitely not available to him.

Cate retrieved the scattered papers, carried the cat back to the bedroom, and opened a can of “wild salmon in a delicate seafood sauce.” She called Rebecca’s cell phone to ask about Uncle Joe, but Rebecca wasn’t responding. She googled Westernview Avenue to pinpoint its location and headed out.

The drizzle had lifted, and sunshine peeked through the clouds. Much of Eugene was flat, but Westernview Avenue snaked up a ravine—older fifties houses on the left, steep hillside of blackberry vines tangled with manzanita and fir and shiny-leaved madrone on the right.

The one-story house had a hint of sag to the roof. A picket fence, recently mended with new pickets in several places, enclosed a small yard. No evidence of a “western view,” as the street name suggested. No view of any kind. This hardly looked like a residence for people who could afford household help. The house needed painting, and roots had humped the sidewalk into continent-shaped sections. In contrast to the modest house, however, a new-looking blue SUV stood at the curb.

There was no doorbell, so she knocked. No response. Another harder knock. Still no response. She tilted her head toward the door. Was that a clunk from inside the house or around back?

She followed the cracked and bulging sidewalk around the house. An empty wheelchair stood near the back door. And a woman in faded jeans, heavy jacket, and stocking cap lay on the sidewalk with her head in a flowerbed of pansies.

Another body? No, no, no!

Cate ran to the prone figure, crouched over her, and tried to loosen the zipper at the woman’s throat. A gurgle and slight movement told her the woman wasn’t dead. At least not yet. Frantically she tried to remember what she knew about CPR. Clear the airway. Tilt the head back. She stuck two fingers in the woman’s mouth to clear it.

Something rammed her in the shin, throwing her back to the sidewalk. She blinked, her bottom stinging from contact with the hard concrete.

An elbow. The woman had whacked Cate in the shin with an elbow! And now, definitely not dead, she was glaring over her shoulder. Bewildered, Cate scrambled to her feet, only to find an arm clamped around her throat, her body skewered against a solid wall of muscle.

She clawed at the arm. But even as panic roared through her and she kicked backward into whoever . . . whatever . . . was behind her, a sour thought slammed into her head.

What can you expect, when you take advice from a cat?

“She tried to choke me!” the woman on the ground yelled. “Stuck her fist in my mouth!”

“I did not!” That’s what Cate tried to say, but with the arm cranked around her throat, it came out in glug-glub gurgles.

“The wedding ring wasn’t enough? You came back to see what else you could grab?” a male voice close to her ear accused.

Cate glubbed more protests, but the arm didn’t loosen. The figure on the ground twisted to a sitting position. Her sharp brown eyes peered at Cate.

“Hey, wait a minute. I don’t think she’s the girl I told you about.”

“She isn’t?” The arm loosened slightly.

“Let go of me! I thought she was dead!” Cate slammed her heel into his instep, but sneakers pitted against male boots had all the effect of a bicycle in a demolition derby.

“So if I’m dead, why’re you sticking your fist in my mouth?” the woman challenged.

Cate put both hands on the encircling arm and yanked. The arm still didn’t let go, but she got a little more breathing space.

“You were lying there. I thought you’d fallen out of the wheelchair! I put my fingers in your mouth to clear your airway so I could give you CPR.”

“Who are you?” the woman demanded with a fraction less hostility.

“Isn’t she the woman who worked for you?” the male voice asked. “The one who stole your ring?”

This time Cate used her own elbow to wham him in the ribs, although she was the one who oofed when the blow hit the solid rib cage. She suspected it was confusion more than effectiveness of the jab that made him finally release her.

She turned to look at him. Tall, brown-haired, wide-shouldered, paint-blobbed. He returned the glare, the hostility only marginally marred by a dribble of paint on his nose.

“She looks like your description of the woman who worked for you and stole your ring,” he said.

“She looks some like her, all right,” the woman conceded. “Red hair, same size, pretty and all. But not her.”

“Her, meaning Willow Bishop?” Cate asked.

“You know her?”

“Kind of.”

“She worked for me after I fell on the sidewalk and messed up my back and got my legs like this. Useless as a couple of noodles. Then she took off, and so did the wedding ring I usually kept in my bureau drawer.”

Cate didn’t like the sound of this. Amelia Robinson tumbles down stairs, jewelry and Willow go missing. Here, a ring and Willow disappear. Was Willow Bishop something other than the sweet grand-niece Jeremiah Thompson wanted to find?

“Okay,” Cate said cautiously. “So, you just fell out of the wheelchair?”

Cate now noted that the woman wasn’t lying on bare sidewalk. Her forearms were in the flower garden, but she had a square of black plastic spread out under her.

“No, I didn’t ‘fall out of the wheelchair,’ ” the woman mimicked. “You try weeding a flower bed from a wheelchair and see how well it works.”

“Beverly says her pansies are special because they keep blooming all winter, so she likes to treat them special. I helped her get down on the ground so she could weed them from a lying-down position,” the man explained in an if-it’s-any-of-your-business tone.

“Mitch is here painting my bedroom,” the woman said. “He’s going to do the outside of the house too.”

“Mitch Berenski,” the man said. He didn’t offer to shake hands, although Cate didn’t know if that was because he didn’t want further contact with her or because his own hands were paint smeared. “And you are?”

She yanked a card out of her purse and slammed it into his hand. “I’m here on official business.”

He inspected the card but gave her a skeptical look. “You don’t look like a Joe.”

“I work for him. I’m Cate Kinkaid, an . . . uh . . . assistant PI. I have my own identification card.”

“Let’s see it.”

After several awkward minutes, Cate finally found her own card where she’d stuffed it in a side pocket of her purse when the police officer had returned it. The guy examined the card critically, then glanced back at her. Perhaps checking to see if she really did have hair growing out of her left ear? Finally, without comment, he handed the card back.

“Maybe we should all go inside to figure this out, then,” he said. “I don’t want Beverly getting chilled there on the ground.”

He didn’t sound convinced that Cate had any business being here, but his concern for the woman somewhat lessened Cate’s annoyance with his treatment of her. He scooped Beverly up in his arms and settled her into the wheelchair. Beverly took off the stocking cap and shook out curly gray hair. Mitch opened the back door, and she wheeled herself inside.

The door opened into a sunshine-yellow kitchen that also looked recently painted. Pansy decals decorated the cabinets. Mitch Berenski’s work? Nice, though Cate made the admission to herself grudgingly.

Beverly kept going, leading the way into a living room with an old brown plaid sofa, a modest-sized TV, pansies in a vase, and a lineup of teddy bears on a shelf. A metal wind chime of dolphins hung over the front door to signal when it opened.

Cate perched on the sofa. Mitch remained standing. Cate deliberately ignored him as she explained to Beverly that Belmont Investigations had been hired to find Willow because of an important family matter. She pulled the copy of the reference letter out of her jacket pocket.

“I had an address on Meisman Street where she’s been employed most recently, but she’s no longer there. I thought I’d check back with former employers to see if they knew anything helpful. This is the copy of your reference letter for Willow.” To forestall questions from either of them, she added, “The similarity in our appearance is purely coincidental. We aren’t related or anything.”

Cate glanced between Mitch Berenski and Beverly. He looked the more hostile of the two, the one who most needed convincing. She handed the copy of the reference letter to him.