I stared into the face of a tortoiseshell cat and tried to think of an explanation for why the animal would be crying by the backyard window every morning at five a.m.
“Have you noticed any other cats running loose in the neighborhood?”
Mr. Farley, the spectacled owner of Tabitha, popped his eyes open wide behind thick lenses, giving an impression of Mr. Magoo. “You’re kidding, right?”
He had a point. Wolf Creek, with its coyotes, hawks, and occasional mountain lions, was not a safe place for a cat to wander freely. Those pet parents who thought kitty preferred to roam at large usually wound up posting pointless lost cat ads on mailboxes. Wiser residents would read them and hold a moment of silence, knowing the pet would never return.
“And you don’t have new landscapers or anyone like that dropping by?”
“At five in the morning?”
Again, he had a point. I searched my memory banks for other situations that left me itching to throw a shoe at a feline to shut her up, and it hit me.
“Is Tabitha fixed?”
He shifted his glasses and raised his chin, so he could look down his nose at me.
“It is the law.”
“Have you had Tabitha checked out by a vet?”
“Of course I did. You think I’d call you before checking with a professional?”
My neck muscles cramped up and my temple throbbed. I hadn’t a clue what to ask next. Tabitha lifted one hind leg to clean herself, and it crossed my mind that one little peek inside her furry skull might explain the whole situation. I reasoned this could be a test to see if I had regained the ability to control my conversations with animals. Well, as much as I ever could control them. What could it hurt if I tried it just this once?
A lot. That’s what. No. I wasn’t going there. Not after my experience with Sandy, the golden retriever who witnessed a murder. And then there was that moment afterwards when I was able to pick up Seamus’ and Bowers’ thoughts. What if I started reading Mr. Farley’s mind, too? What if he turned out to be some kind of pervert? Or a serial killer? Or wore women’s underwear? Yuck.
“Have you changed her food lately?”
“No.”
“Her toys?”
“No.”
“Taken away her catnip or given her catnip for the first time?” Withdrawals or a bad trip were possibilities. At least they could have been if she had been human, but I didn’t see a difference between a catnip-deprived feline and a crack addict. My client didn’t agree.
Mr. Farley stood. “No. I haven’t.” He adjusted his glasses. “I’m surprised. I heard great things about your insights into animals. I could have had this same discussion with the sales clerk at Pet World.”
“Animal behavior is a bit of guesswork, since we can’t actually read their minds.”
“Like heck you can’t!” He trotted to a credenza and brought back a newspaper. “That’s not what this says.” He held up the front page of The Wolf Creek Gazette.
They’d gotten hold of a picture of Auntie and me from a wedding six years ago. We both had our mouths open in laughter and looked mentally unhinged.
Is Psychic Team Ready to Botch Blue-Ribbon Murder?
In an amazing coincidence, Frances Chandler and Gertrude Pitt, both well known for plying the public with their psychic “abilities”, were present at the premiere of the Baking Channel’s latest sensation, Blue-Ribbon Babes. Ms. Chandler fancies she can communicate with animals, while Mrs. Pitt limits herself to flipping tarot cards for guidance.
Mrs. Pitt threw down the gauntlet for the murderer of contestant Elvira Jenkins, saying, “I will not rest until the killer receives justice!” She’s in for many sleepless nights. Ms. Chandler wisely had no comment. Lucky for Wolf Creek, we have an excellent police department, who should be able to solve the crime in spite of this proposed interference.
The byline belonged to that evil reporter, Paul Simpson. The last time we’d met, I’d shoved a sample of dog food in his face when he threatened to expose me as a fraud, with the exposé from Loon Lake’s own busty Lois Lane as proof. In my defense, it was homemade dog food with human grade ingredients, but it sounded as if Paul might be carrying a grudge.
“It says right here that you communicate with animals.”
Mr. Farley obviously didn’t have an ear for sarcasm.
“You can’t believe everything you read in the paper. There’s been a mistake, because I wasn’t interviewed for this story, and I’ve nothing to do with the police.”
He carefully folded the paper back up and tucked it under his arm. “So, what you’ve given me is all I’m going to get? I hope you don’t expect me to pay for a few wild guesses.”
I plastered on a smile, but my cheek twitched. “Of course not.”
After leaving my non-paying client, I headed straight to the Prickly Pear. Penny explained that Auntie had gotten bored, so she had driven her back to my house.
“Did you tie her up and gag her before you left?”
Penny took one look at my dark expression and said, “What’s the matter?”
“Can I use the phone in your office?”
It was going to take some calming down before I confronted Auntie, because really, who else could have given out the information? However, my current level of anger, somewhere between I want you fired and I’d like to turn you into cat food was perfect for Paul Simpson. Penny closed the door behind me to give me privacy, and soon I had The Wolf Creek Gazette on the line.
“Paul Simpson, please, and if he’s on another line, disconnect it.”
There was a pause. “Can I ask what this is regarding?” The receptionist didn’t ask who I was; she asked what I wanted. The Wolf Creek Gazette probably had a black hole where they sent complaints about Paul Simpson, so I added, “I’m a source. I’ve got some dirt on Frankie Chandler for him.”
“One moment please.” Her voice now registered disgust, but I’d rather have her think I was a sleazy source and put me through than think I was one of the many normal human beings who thought Paul Simpson was a loser and send me to voicemail.
“Simpson here. What has that spacey broad done now? And it better be good, cause I’m not paying for the obvious.”
His voice contained a whiney quality that grated on my ears.
“I see you’re still fascinated by my psychic skills, Mr. Simpson.” I began with a sweet tone because I didn’t want to sink to his level. “But what you printed in this morning’s paper was a lie. I could sue, you know.”
“Is this really Frankie Chandler?” And then he laughed. “A lie, huh? I don’t think so.”
His confidence threw me. While I knew that a scenario with Paul Simpson groveling at my feet was pure fantasy, I would have settled for an apology. What I heard was the evil snicker of a devil’s minion.
“Your aunt was a talker. Quite a pleasure, in fact. Usually I have to work to get a source to open up, but she just poured out the material. More than I could use, in fact, but there’s always tomorrow, right?”
I knew I’d lose my edge if I showed any interest, but I had to ask. I did so through gritted teeth. “What kind of material?”
“Seemed to think the two of you were spiritual caped crusaders, using all your tricks in the pursuit of justice. I’ve got quotes to back me up, and they all start with ‘Sissy and I’.” He snickered.
“But you didn’t check your facts,” I reminded him. “I’m certain I didn’t get a call from you to verify my part in the story.”
“She represented you as a team. I spoke to a representative of the team. That’s all I need to please my editor. And I did confirm that you and Sissy were the same person.”
Paul Simpson probably didn’t have an ounce of humanity in his stocky little body, but he wasn’t hatched on a lonely beach like a baby turtle. He had a mother who probably liked him. He most likely reciprocated the sentiment, and judging from his age, his own mom must to be around Aunt Gertrude’s age. I took the sympathy shot.
“I can’t believe you would betray the confidences of an innocent, little old lady. For Pete’s sake! She was in a fragile state of mind, having just seen a dead body. She wasn’t responsible for what she was saying.”
“Are you saying she’s loony? ‘Cause I could get some mileage out of that.”
Maybe he was hatched, the repulsive reptile. I was tempted to sacrifice Auntie’s reputation for the sake of killing any future stories on me, but I figured he’d somehow drag my name along for the ride.
“My next phone call is to my lawyer.”
No such person existed, but it made a good exit line.
I didn’t stop to explain to Penny as I headed out the door. I wouldn’t put it past Paul Simpson to be dialing Auntie up right now, just to spite me.
At least one mystery was solved. Now I knew why everyone had stared at us throughout breakfast. They’d had their morning paper with coffee and a good laugh at my expense for dessert.
As I pulled into my driveway, I discovered that an unlisted phone number doesn’t mean that people can’t track you down. I counted six reporters in my front yard. Technically, it was four reporters and two photographers.
“Ms. Chandler!”
I held up my hands, and the people quieted, ready for a statement. “The story you read in the paper is completely untrue.”
“Were you present at the murder?” asked an older reporter with a trilby hat.
“Of course not! I went to the premiere like dozens of other people and was just as surprised when the poor woman turned up dead.”
A young, freckled photographer lowered his camera. “But didn’t you and Madame Guinevere discover the body?”
That wasn’t in the article. My face must have registered surprise, because he raised the camera and took a snap.
“Anything about the crime has to come from the police who, as I said, we are not working with. That’s all I’ve got to say on the matter. And if you don’t leave, I’ll be calling those same police—the ones we’re not working with—to complain.”
As they moved to their vehicles, I pulled the photographer aside.
“Who told you I found the body?”
He jerked his head toward my house. “Your aunt.”
“I suppose she’s been free and easy with the interviews,” I growled.
“Technically, she refused to open the door to strangers, so she shouted her responses through the keyhole.”
I asked him nicely not to print what she’d told him. He laughed all the way to his car.
Inside my living room, Auntie reclined on the couch, with a women’s magazine spread open on her lap. Face up on the coffee table lay The Wolf Creek Gazette.
“Where did that come from? I don’t subscribe.”
“Sharlene was nice enough to drop it off.”
“Who’s Sharlene?”
Auntie raised her brows. “Why, she’s your next-door neighbor! Don’t tell me you don’t even know the names of your own neighbors.”
Temporarily sidetracked, I asked, “When did you meet my neighbors?”
Auntie focused her gaze on her hands and played with a hangnail. “Around. It’s not that difficult to meet people if you’re friendly, like I am.”
“What did Sharlene want?”
“She thought I might like to keep a copy of the paper, since we were in it. I made her pass it to me through the window because I didn’t think you’d like those reporters in your house. They looked like they might rush me if I let her in.”
“You shouldn’t have talked to them, either.”
“I was just being polite. Besides, no harm done.” She poked the paper and gave me a coy smile. “Have you read it?”
“A client showed it to me. Have you read it? You sound like you’re proud of it.”
She brushed a hand over her hair. “I’ll be honest. That wouldn’t have been my choice of photograph.”
The paper made a handy prop as I waved it in Auntie’s face.
“When did you talk to Paul Simpson? You weren’t alone the night of the murder long enough to talk to him.”
“He called my cell phone last night.”
“I didn’t hear the phone ring.”
“I keep it on vibrate. Do I need to announce every personal call I get?”
“Yes, but that’s beside the point. You told Paul Simpson we were working with the police.”
She blinked. “Of course I did. When that reporter called me, I couldn’t believe my luck. It’s a good business move, and seeing as how you haven’t had as many clients as I have toes on one foot since I’ve been here, I would think you’d be pleased.” She gave a martyred sigh. “I’m looking out for you, Sissy, not that I expect any thanks. Who else could get us exclusive coverage in such a short time? Maybe I should get an agent.”
“Do you have any idea the kind of fallout we’re going to see over this?”
“Hopefully a lot. I could use some clients.”
“He’s making fun of us!” I read it aloud with the proper inflections, so she couldn’t miss the point.
“The only thing people will notice is that we offer psychic services. They’ll look us up on the internet—you do have a web page, I hope.”
“I’m working on it.” I wasn’t. “Besides, I’ll have to rethink things now that I’m an animal behaviorist.”
She threw her hands up and spoke to the ceiling. “The girl doesn’t have a web page. Can you believe it? No wonder she can’t make ends meet.”
I grit my teeth and growled, but she only grinned.
“I was repeating what the young whippersnapper at the computer store said to me. Turned out she freelances, and she designed my site. I’ll give her your phone number when I get back to Loon Lake.”
She slapped her thighs and stood. “I’m going to start on dinner.”
I made it my mission to beat her to the kitchen. Auntie is a marvelous cook, but I might not survive her haphazard methods, which usually left my kitchen in need of a decontamination crew. Oven fried chicken was on tonight’s menu. I got moving.
“I can find my way around, Sissy. You just relax. Maybe a glass of wine will calm you down.”
But I was already ten steps ahead of her. I flung open the cabinets and searched for a mixing bowl for the batter.
“Don’t bother. I’ll just use this.”
She pulled down a cereal bowl.
“You’ll want to beat raw eggs, and I’d prefer that you not do it in the same bowl I use for my Peanut Butter Oaties.”
She cracked the first egg into my bowl. “We’ll wash it, silly. You worry too much.”
Turning to toss the eggshell into the sink, she left a trail of egg white on my linoleum. I grabbed a paper towel and held Chauncey’s snout at bay with one hand while I cleaned up the mess with the other. My dog already figured out that Auntie cooking meant good things for his tummy.
“You want to grab the chicken from the icebox for me?”
She hadn’t put a plate under the bagged carcass as I’d suggested, so while Auntie cut the bird into pieces—using my paper scissors—I waited for the water from the kitchen faucet to reach scalding hot, so I could clean the bloody juices off the refrigerator shelf.
Whatever tensions Auntie might have been harboring from the day, she released them in the rigors of rubbing down the chicken with olive oil, using vigorous strokes and pats that made me yearn for a massage. She beat the pulp out of boiled potatoes and garlic and viciously snapped the ends off the green beans. I set the table and killed time reading a dog training guide. When she finally plated the finished masterpiece, the doorbell rang.
Auntie set the chicken on the table, and I noticed she’d laid the food out on a decorative tray that normally hung on my kitchen wall. It was a pretty, mustard yellow tray with handles.
“You can’t put food on that. It’s only for decoration.”
“Seems a waste not to use it.”
“The tray isn’t sealed. And there’s lead in it.”
“That’s only children who need to worry about lead.”
The doorbell rang again.
“You get started without me,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”
I flung open the door and froze at the site of Detective Martin Bowers. His jaw muscles twitched, and his eyebrows joined together like Oscar the Grouch. He was still on duty, because he wore a blue sports jacket over a white shirt and beige slacks.
“Did you time it? We were just about to die of lead poisoning.”
He grabbed my elbow and pulled me outside.
“Are you sure you’re through with the pet psychic nonsense?”
I wrinkled my nose. “I suppose you’re talking about that little article in the Gazette.”
“That little front-page article. Yes.”
I threw out my hands. “You got me. I contacted the sleaziest reporter I could find and helped him write an article making fun of me and my aunt.”
“Good point.” He ran this over in his mind, relaxed, smirked, and then let loose a chuckle. “It wasn’t very flattering, was it?”
“Not at all.”
“And that picture…”
“I saw it.”
“The story made our department sound pretty good.”
“I’m glad you liked it.”
The wary expression came back. “There’s usually a grain of truth hidden in Simpson’s stories. How exactly did he find out about your aunt?”
“He was waiting outside as we left Saguaro Studios, and when confronted by a sleazy, no-good reporter, my aunt’s response was to pass him her contact information.”
He tilted his head and looked into my eyes. “Auntie gave him the story?”
“A fine business move, she says.”
“As long as it’s not true. I don’t want you to stick your nose into a police investigation. And please don’t become one of those idiot women in books who says I’m being an unreasonable chauvinist because I don’t want you to get people killed and destroy evidence. Besides, it would be better for your aunt if the two of you stayed under the radar right now.”
He took a step toward the door, but I pulled it shut and barred the way.
“What’s that supposed to mean? Better for your aunt. It sounds like a threat.”
He wouldn’t meet my eyes. “It’s friendly advice. She is—a person of interest.”
“A person of interest?” I repeated. “You mean a suspect?” I’d heard the pause and knew he’d changed his word choice mid-sentence. He wore his policeman’s face, an almost bored look.
“If I’d meant suspect, I would have said suspect,” he said.
“How could you possibly think she had anything to do with Elvira Jenkins’ death? Auntie doesn’t even live in Arizona.”
My stomach growled, reminding me that dinner awaited. “This is just silly. My aunt is a—well not exactly sweet, but a little old lady who couldn’t hurt a fly. We’ll take your advice and stay out of the investigation. Problem solved. Thanks for coming.” I reached for the doorknob.
“Not that simple. This is a professional call.” When I didn’t invite him in, he sighed and said, “I want to talk to her, but if you’d prefer, I could get Detective Gutierrez to come out.”
I shuddered. “No. Gutierrez doesn’t like me. You’re the lesser of two evils.”
He smiled. “That’s good, because I was bluffing. She’s been assigned to another case. A B&E.” Naturally, he was pleased. Bowers and Gutierrez both had gigantic egos and an even bigger case of professional rivalry. As I understand it, murder trumps breaking and entering.
“Gutierrez already interviewed my aunt last night. What more could you have to ask her?” But even as I pointed out the obvious, another thought occurred to me. Bowers once made a comment about fraud regarding my pet psychic business. Had he gotten wind of Madame Guinevere’s recent activities in my home?
“This isn’t about those silly tarot cards, is it?”
He put on his neutral face, but his lips twitched as if he were holding back a grin. “You mean the ones she gave Gutierrez, the coroner, the EMT, and everyone within throwing distance? Sort of, but only as it relates to the death of Elvira Jenkins.”
There were few ways to interpret that statement. Had Auntie predicted the woman’s death with a lucky guess and the victim complained about my aunt’s downer techniques to a friend? Before she died, of course. Did Bowers think the prediction was actually a threat? I couldn’t really stop him from interviewing my aunt, but at least I could be present if he tried to grill her or trap her or use Guantanamo techniques on her to force a confession.
A flash of light temporarily blinded me, but after I blinked a few times, a freckled face came into focus, grinned at me, and then took off running.
“Hey!” I shouted, prepared to pursue. “That’s one of those reporters.”
Bowers blocked my way. “Just ignore them. There’s not much you can do about it, and if you tick them off, they can do plenty of damage through innuendos.” He did a quick scan for other lurking paparazzi. “But I suggest we get off the street.”
The door swung open before I could grab the knob. Auntie caught sight of Bowers.
“Don’t just stand there. Why don’t you invite the nice-looking young man in? Would you like to join us for dinner?”
“He’s busy working,” I said. “He can only stay a minute.”
“Thank you. I believe I will.” Bowers pushed his way past me with a smirk. I heard a crinkle and noticed he carried a plastic bag in his hand.
“You look familiar,” Auntie said, leading the way to the kitchen. She laid out another place setting and invited him to sit. She seemed flustered that my square table didn’t demarcate a clear head of the table for the man in the room, but she made up for it by giving him an extra napkin.
“We met, briefly, last night at Saguaro Studios, but we didn’t have a chance to talk. You were distressed. I’m Detective Martin Bowers.”
Her only acknowledgement of his status in the investigation was to say that it was a sad business. Then she folded her hands and said grace. I was impressed that Bowers knew all the words. Probably drilled into him by his big sisters.
He looked appreciatively at the fried chicken, but then he took a closer look at the serving tray. “There isn’t any glaze on that.”
“Nope.” I gave him a sweet smile.
His eyes met mine, and as I watched, his facial expression work its way through puzzlement, realization, and horror. He’d finally made the lead poisoning connection.
“Is that—”
I nodded. “The cause of death. You still have time to make out a will, because it’s a slow death.”
We both poked and prodded at the chicken, filling up on the side dishes that came from safe, glass bowls, but it wasn’t only fear of the grim reaper that kept him from enjoying Auntie’s cooking. Guilt was written all over his face, and that’s when I knew I wouldn’t like the bag’s contents.
“It’s wonderful that Sissy has such nice, clean friends,” Auntie chirped with Midwestern hospitality.
She’d repeated that same saying since my childhood. When I was younger, I assumed it meant my pals scrubbed behind their ears. As a teen with an active imagination and hormones, I thought perhaps it meant the guy friends didn’t visit bug-infested brothels and the women friends didn’t work there. Now I thought it meant that Bowers’ fingernails passed inspection and that he hadn’t drooled on his shirt once during dinner.
“How is your investigation going?”
That seemed to decide it for him. He pushed his plate away.
“So, are you from Loon Lake as well?”
She paused, then added a roll to her plate and picked up the butter knife. “As well as what?”
Bowers nodded at me. “As well as Frankie.”
“You mean Sissy?”
“Sissy?” Bowers cut short a snort when I gave him a dirty look.
“A lifelong resident,” Auntie boasted, buttering her roll. “No better place on earth. We haven’t been invaded by alleged progress. You can still walk to the cinema at night for a G-rated movie without worrying about a gang of hoodlums knocking you over the head.”
“Sounds like a nice place. Elvira Jenkins, the victim, was originally from Loon Lake.”
Auntie didn’t miss a bite. “Isn’t it a small world?”
“Elvira Jenkins is around your age.”
Auntie set down her roll. “Just how old do you think I am?” she asked with a sweet smile.
Bowers recovered nicely, probably because he’d been raised by a zillion sisters who taught him how to maneuver dangerous female topics, like age. “Of course, you’re probably younger than the victim, but it’s still funny you hadn’t run into each other before last night.”
“Nice save,” I whispered out of the corner of my mouth.
“Loon Lake isn’t that small, Detective. There are plenty of people living there whom I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting.”
“So, you didn’t know the victim?”
“I saw her on the show last night, so you could say I knew who she was.”
“You didn’t know the victim before yesterday?” he clarified.
“I’d never met Elvira Jenkins before yesterday.”
I looked at him, but his expression betrayed nothing. Why did he think Auntie was lying? Because I was certain that’s why he kept rephrasing the same question. I took a closer look at Auntie. Her hands were clasped together under her chin, she wore a sweet simple smile, and her eyes never left his face. She was lying. No one stares that hard unless they’re trying to prove they haven’t got anything to hide. At least no one in our family.
“Didn’t know her at all.” He repeated.
“Nada. Elvira Jenkins and I have never crossed paths.”
“Funny.”
Bowers wasn’t laughing when he said it, so funny wasn’t a ha-ha good time reference. The way he stressed that one word told me something was on its way that I wasn’t going to like. I braced myself.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled card that I immediately recognized as one of Auntie’s business cards.
“Don’t tell me you’re here for a reading,” I said with a forced chuckle. The thought of Detective Martin Bowers facing off with my aunt, he of the stoic expression and Auntie with her iron will regaling him with messages from the alleged spirit world. The urge to giggle left me as I thought of what kind of cop revenge Bowers could plot against Auntie after he lost the battle of wills—because he would lose. My temples throbbed.
“By the time forensics finished with the body last night, you were already home,” Bowers said to Auntie. “We pried this card out of the victim’s cold, dead fingers.”
Okay. Bowers didn’t phrase it like that, but he might as well have based on the effect he produced. In me, that is. Auntie’s expression didn’t change, but I hyperventilated.
“We need a paper bag.” Auntie made a move toward the kitchen cabinets, but Bowers put out a restraining hand.
“She’ll be fine. I have a few questions for you about the victim.” His tone didn’t invite argument.
Auntie gave him a shrewd look and then sat back down. “What can I tell you?”
“You can tell me what you and the victim talked about, for starters.”
“Last night? I talked to so many people.” She put the fingers of one hand to her forehead. “Wait a minute. I think I introduced myself and give her one of my cards.”
I snapped to attention. “When was this? I don’t remember you and Elvira talking.”
She brushed her fingers toward the crumpled card. “Obviously, I gave her a card.” Her face brightened, as if all became clear. “That’s right. She was having her fifteen minutes of fame, and it seemed too good of a business opportunity to pass up. You never know when someone’s going to let your name slip, not that I think a Blue-Ribbon Queen is going to be interviewed on national television or anything, but she still might be asked to cut the ribbon for an opening. Maybe for a bakery.” She tapped the card. “That’s why she had this on her, poor woman. I’m so happy she didn’t toss it in the garbage, as I suspect most of my prospects do.”
Auntie was definitely dancing around the truth. How could she forget a conversation with the Blue-Ribbon Queen, let alone her last conversation with the recently murdered Blue-Ribbon Queen? Especially as she took such pains to be rude to her when the woman introduced herself. And if I could see what she was doing, there was no way Bowers missed it.
“The witness who saw the two of you talking—and you were standing on the set at the time, in case you’ve forgotten—well, she felt that the conversation was more…personal.”
Oh, cripes. A witness! I would have given anything to know what Bowers was thinking. Suddenly, it occurred to me that maybe I could.
I stared hard at Bowers, and using an image I’d tried before on Chauncey, I tried to imagine an information highway traveling between his head and mind.
Meanwhile, Auntie followed her line of reasoning. She actually tittered. “Two old ladies chatting about tarot cards and baking. I was excited about being there; Elvira was excited about her fifteen minutes of fame. We probably sounded excited, especially if your witness was a youngster. Was it a youngster?”
His expression revealed nothing to me, but Auntie must have seen something there that I missed, because she nodded and smiled.
“That’s what it was. Youngsters always expect old ladies to be demure and quiet.”
Those were not the expectations of anyone young that I knew. My imaginary highway wasn’t getting anywhere, so I relaxed my shoulders and tried to place myself in Bowers’ position. Literally. I’m a cop. I’ve come to the home of a charming woman to interview her houseguest. I’m remembering what a witness told me—
Bowers’ elbow shot out and poked me in the side.
“Sorry about that,” he murmured.
Auntie picked up her roll and pointed it at him. “Are you trying to get a sense of what the victim was like? Because if you’re looking for information on the victim’s personality, she reminded me of Vicky Perkins. A slip of a girl back when I was a younger woman. Vicky was as self-centered as God makes ‘em. Always butting in where she wasn’t wanted, almost to the point of being rude. No one could tell her a thing. The similarities are worth noting.”
Bowers said, “The comparison is worth considering, but I’m surprised you were able to come up with such detailed insights on a woman you never met.”
Auntie tugged on my arm. “But wasn’t she kind of bossy on the set? She just charged out and took over. That little host didn’t stand a chance. Isn’t that right, Sissy?”
They were both watching me, Auntie expectantly, and Bowers through narrowed eyes.
“Oh. She’s right. Absolutely right,” I said, happy to give Auntie my support. “Elvira Jenkins came across as a strong personality. Very strong.”
Bowers looked from Auntie to me as if trying to size us up. Maybe he was wondering if we were lying. Maybe he was considering our familial relationship and the possibility that I might someday resemble my aunt and hang about the house wearing large, colorful dresses.
“You want to stick to your statement that you didn’t know the victim?”
“I said I didn’t know Elvira Jenkins.”
He slid a book out of the bag and laid it on the table. “I was able to speak with Mr. Jenkins today and go through his late wife’s effects. I found this.”
He angled the book, so Auntie could read it. She took a hearty bite of bread and wiped the butter off her lip with the back of her hand. I shot up and moved around Bowers, so I could peer over his shoulder. I put one hand on his shoulder and leaned forward to get a better look. It was a high school yearbook from Our Lady of Perpetual Help High School, known throughout Loon Lake as “the girl’s school.” One page was marked, and Bowers flipped it open and pointed to a picture of a young girl with braces.
“I believe that’s you?”
Auntie finished chewing. “I hated those braces. Tinsel teeth. That’s what they called me.”
He watched her face as he flipped the page, and I knew he was setting her up, ready to pounce on her response. I wanted to shout a warning. He shot a look up at me. His brows furrowed, and I realized I was pressing my nails into his shoulder. I released my hold, and he turned his attention back to the page.
“That’s the victim.”
A chubby girl with braids smirked at us from over the caption Elvira Doud.
I squeaked.
“Exactly,” Bowers whispered out of the corner of his mouth without moving his gaze from Auntie.
Dabbing her lips with her napkin, Auntie said, “The victim’s name was Jenkins, not Doud.”
Bowers pulled the book back and looked at the name. Score one for Auntie. Then he pushed the book right in front of her and tapped the photo. “You’re telling me you didn’t recognize her?”
She merely sighed, as if she were dealing with an impatient child. “Did you see the body? Then you should know that fifty years make a bit of difference. Well, maybe not quite fifty.” She smiled the way old women smile at handsome younger men. “Now why don’t you finish your dinner? You’ve got to keep up your strength.”
Whatever he was searching for, he finally gave up, but only for the moment. He complimented Auntie on dinner and wished her a nice visit. Though he smiled enough to show off a nice set of teeth, his eyes had that hooded look, as if he were already thinking about his next approach.
“I’ll just show Detective Bowers out,” I said. Auntie made a noncommittal noise and gathered up the dishes from the table.
Once in the living room, I didn’t waste time.
“You don’t really think Auntie had anything to do with the murder, do you?” I playfully punched his arm, probably harder than I meant to, because he flinched. I didn’t really expect him to share his thoughts, and he didn’t. When we reached the door, Bowers turned to me.
“I need a favor.”
“A favor? You interrogate my aunt and then expect a favor?”
“It’s a small favor.”
“How small?”
When he didn’t answer, I thought of the last time he asked me for a favor, and I think I blushed.
“Don’t tell me you need a date, because I’m not up for it.” When Bowers needed someone to hang on his arm at a fundraiser, I’d agreed, but only after I heard La Hacienda Chop House was catering. I desperately wanted to try their sautéed-onion-and-blue-cheese-smothered steak.
He took my hand in his, and we walked to his car. “It wasn’t so bad, was it?”
Remembering my disappointment that night, I pulled my hand away. “They served fish. How can a chop house serve fish? You owe me a steak.”
“That’s all you remember from that night?” He raised his brows, a smirk on his lips. Those same lips had delivered a pretty good kiss that night. My face warmed at the thought.
“The only thing of importance,” I said.
He unlocked the door and pulled out a humongous yellow object that he held by a handle at the top. “This is Petey.”
“What’s that?” I knew what it was, but I hoped I was mistaken.
“A birdcage. Petey lives inside.”
“What am I supposed to do with a bird? I know nothing about birds. I don’t think I even like birds.”
“Mr. Jenkins is in a depression right now. He’s not capable of looking after Petey. It’s just for a day or two.”
Reluctantly, I reached for the cage, but Bowers insisted on carrying it back to the house for me. I couldn’t credit his insistence to gallantry; his tightened grip on my hand made me pretty sure he wanted to ensure the package was delivered.
He handed off the cage with mumbled thanks. Hoping that Petey had transformed into a little green parakeet, I lifted the cover. The huge feathered monstrosity from the Blue-Ribbon Babes premiere glared at me from two shiny black eyes and squawked. It couldn’t form intelligible words, not having lips, but it definitely sounded like my cat Emily if she ran around screaming at a sharp, ear-splitting volume.
“Meow! Meow! M-e-o-w!”
The memory of the last time I’d heard that squawk gave me the chills. I dropped the cover, and the bird went silent.
“Is this a joke?”
“Nope.”
It dawned on me there may be more to Bowers’ move than a grab for free pet sitting. I could hardly bring myself to ask. “Did you bring Petey here so I could read him?”
He took a step back and swore. “No!” He shook himself off as if he’d been temporarily infected by cooties. “Just keep an eye on the bird until Mr. Jenkins feels up to taking him back.”
“Bowers!” I grabbed his arm as he attempted to leave. He shoved his hands in his pockets, probably an offensive move to make certain I didn’t get any ideas about tossing him the cage and slamming the door on him.
“You didn’t say. How was Elvira Jenkins killed?”
“She was hit on the head with Betty Hernandez’s cast iron skillet. We found the weapon right under the counter where it belonged. No fingerprints, naturally.”
Burnt cornbread. Bashed brains. That skillet had a lot to answer for.
A black-and-white blur shot through the living room. Emily stood under the cage, her hackles up and her mouth open as if she had just hit the jackpot. Bowers made his escape. I could still hear his laughter after I closed the door.
I left the birdcage on the coffee table and headed for a confrontation in the kitchen. As I cleared the last dishes from the table, I put together my approach. Antagonizing Auntie wouldn’t get me far.
From the corner of my eye, I noticed Chauncey creeping past me, his cheeks bulging.
“Stay!”
He reluctantly complied, his front paws stepping side-to-side like one of those bears trapped in a tiny zoo cage.
“I told you not to give him the bones.”
“Let him enjoy himself,” Auntie said. “You worry too much.”
I held out my hand. “Drop it.”
He refused to give up his prey, so I wrapped one arm around his thick neck and pushed in on his cheeks behind his back molars. He clamped down harder. Snatching a leg bone from my plate, I waved it under his nose. Greed kicked in, and he dropped the first bone to claim the new prize. When I pulled them both away, he gave me a disgusted look and slunk away, defeated.
I tossed the bones into the wastebasket, plugged the sink, and turned on the water. “You didn’t tell me you went to high school with Elvira Jenkins.”
Auntie dumped the unscraped dishes and silverware into the sudsy water.
“You just threw knives in my water.”
“They sink to the bottom,” she said. “Just don’t make any sudden grabs.”
“Back to Elvira.” I reached into the water, gently, pulled out a dish, and scrubbed.
“You heard what I told that pleasant officer. It’s been a long time. I don’t kid myself that I’m the same person I was back then. She wasn’t either.”
“You want to tell me you had no idea who she was when she walked out on that set?”
Rather than answer, Auntie started drying for me. “Remember when you were a little girl and used to have sleepovers at my house? And we’d bake cookies, and I’d tell you ghost stories?”
I smiled at the memory. “Those were good times.”
“They were, but it’s still not a good idea to live in the past.” And with that cryptic advice, she kissed my cheek and left me to finish washing up. She only made it as far as the living room.
“Sissy!”
I dropped the dishrag and ran to join her. Emily was sprawled over the top of the bird cage, as if calling dibs on the contents.
“What is that?”
“Elvira Jenkins’ bird, Petey.”
Her eyebrows rose a fraction. “Couldn’t B—I mean, doesn’t she have a relative to care for the poor little critter?”
“Apparently not. Her husband is distraught, and I don’t know if she has other family.”
Her eyes misted up as if she were remembering the loss of her own spouse. “It’s a kindness to help people out during hard times.”
Obviously, the advice only applied to me, because she headed into the bedroom with Chauncey close on her heels.
Though I couldn’t very well ask my aunt to sleep on the couch, I was starting to regret giving her my bed. Chauncey abandoned me in a heartbeat, which I expected, but even Emily, after a last longing look at the cage, scurried along to make certain she claimed a good sleeping spot.
I moved the birdcage to the center of the coffee table, cautiously lifted the cover, and stared into two beady eyes. Someone had murdered Elvira Jenkins. I could reach out my fingers and touch her pet, a pet that had been on the set the night she died. Since I’d already received an impression from Petey, I knew I might be able to take the smallest peek into his head and discover something about Elvira’s murder, but I was determined to try any other available options first.
The bird could talk. Maybe his vocabulary extended beyond Meow.
“Petey.” I snapped to get his attention. He clacked his beak shut as if to make certain I knew his favorite snack would be my fingers.
“Elvira,” I said, slowly.
He turned his head sideways, giving me one eye, which was so coquettish that it made me laugh. “Meow.”
Most people didn’t refer to themselves by their Christian names when addressing their pets. They used a typical nickname. Maybe he didn’t know his pet parent by Elvira.
“Mommy.”
“Meow.”
I curled my fingers, made a face, and growled. “Killer.”
“Meow.”
I recalled a time when I ran across a family from Mexico who needed directions to Phoenix. We crossed the language barrier through an impromptu game of charades. I retrieved a skillet from my kitchen. I didn’t own cast iron, so I settled for aluminum. With an exaggerated stalking walk, I passed his cage and then swung the skillet at an imaginary head.
The bird let loose a squawk and flapped his wings. I’d gotten the message across to him, but it was clear he didn’t have the words in his repertoire with which to answer me. I was going to have to go in and fish the information out manually.
After a steadying breath, I reluctantly imagined a large, solid door. This was my mental barrier against animal messages, which I hadn’t opened since the end of the Margarita Morales investigation. It was a hokey idea, but it worked. Usually.
I allowed it to open, just a crack, just enough to let Petey’s thoughts through, if he had any. Immediately, a steady hum throbbed in my ears. Animals give off energy signatures that often sound like various hums that changed in volume, pitch, and intensity, depending on the subject. The combination of energy signals from many animals comes together into a kind of white noise until I focus on a particular one. That buzzing sound used to be my constant companion until I learned how to block it out with a mental image of a door and an imaginary radio dial that allowed me to tune in or turn off the noise.
As I concentrated all my energy on Petey’s little birdbrain, I caught sight of my reflection in his shiny metal food dish and lost my focus.
Bowers once mentioned I made faces when I concentrated. He was right. How embarrassing. What I saw in that reflection—scrunched-up eyes, wrinkled nose, a curled upper lip—was reason enough to give up psychic readings.
Refocusing on the door, I called out to Petey and waited for some kind of response. I considered opening the door wider but dismissed that idea as foolish. Who knew what else might come barging through?
After a few minutes of heavy concentration, I gave up. Dumb, dumb, dumb. Opening that mental door was a good way to get involved in something that should fall to the police. Not to mention I might see something gross. And what would I tell Bowers? The bird says the murderer is Donna Pederson. Arrest her. That wasn’t going to fly. I’d just wind up frustrated and paranoid and annoyed.
I reached for the cover, and the door image crept back into my head. It came to my attention in the same way that it might catch the eye if, while trapped in a decrepit mansion on a stormy night, the door handle to an empty room turned.
A light began to build around the doorway. As it grew brighter, I found it hard to breathe. I looked the bird in the eyes, imagined him behind that door, and invited him to tell me anything he knew about the murder. I threw in an image of dead Elvira just to make sure he understood.
Silence. The light dimmed.
My shoulders relaxed with relief. It wasn’t going to work. Not surprising, as I’d never tried to read a bird before. They were supposed to have tiny brains. Maybe there wasn’t a lot going on in his noggin. Or maybe Petey had nothing to say.
I reached for the cover, intending to put Petey to bed, when I felt a rustle in the air. A flutter really, like a bat, or a sparrow, or an enormous moth. Instinctively, I swatted the air around my head, just in case something had slipped past the screen door and intended to take up residence in my hair.
A train-like roar of “MEOW!” blasted through the room and sent me flying back onto the couch. My head connected with the wall, and I saw stars. I clutched at the cushions and hung on for the next round, breathing hard, but nothing happened.
That was it. I’d made a connection only to find that Petey had an obsession about mimicking cats.
“I’m trying to sleep in here,” Auntie yelled from my bedroom. “What are you doing? Rearranging furniture?”
I croaked out, “Sorry!”
The first thing I did when I caught my breath was to slam that stupid mental door shut. I’d never learn. Just a peek inside Petey’s head. What was I, a moron?
Rising cautiously, just in case there were leftover vibes, I threw the cover over Petey’s cage and set about making up the couch. Not that I was going to get much sleep. Not only did I have a dead woman’s bird in my living room, but I was getting the impression that Auntie was holding something back.
What did my aunt have to hide? That very disturbing question kept me awake long past midnight.