Auntie wore her new blue top and a denim skirt to Bull Jenkins’ house the next morning when we delivered Petey to his final resting place. The shiny gold sandals on Auntie’s feet were a jarring reminder of what now lie in the new shoebox, talons up.
I’d called ahead to warn Bull. He was waiting for us in the open doorway of his ranch style home when we arrived. He gently took the box from my hands.
“Oh, Bull. I’m so sorry,” Auntie said, taking the opportunity to envelope him in one of her hugs. He turned his cheek for a kiss and patted her back.
“It’s a mystery to me why anyone would kill Petey,” he said, motioning us into the foyer. Once inside, I stopped walking and gaped.
“Wow.”
He followed my admiring gaze through the living room, or what a decorator might refer to as the Great Space, to a back wall made entirely of glass. The view of the canyon was spectacular, with Saguaro cacti dotting a landscape of dry brush and dirt. A lone coyote trotted through the ravine carrying what I hoped was a jackrabbit. The houses on the opposite rim stared back. Thoughts of binoculars wielded by bored retirees made me take a step back.
“It is a nice view.” Catherine Jenkins got up from a long, leather couch. “It was nice of you to bring the bird over here.” She twitched her shoulders. “I don’t think I could have, you know, handled the thing.”
I noticed she was still in her pajamas—a light green silk pants set with cacti embroidered on the top. The material skimmed her curves, and when she curled her hands into fists and reached toward the ceiling in a full body stretch, I realized Catherine Jenkins had a hot body. Then I remembered her latest miscarriage and felt bad for being jealous.
“Do you live here?”
“Tim and I spent the last few nights helping out.”
Bull jumped in and said, “There’s plenty of room if the two of you want to stay longer.”
“We’ll stay as long as you need us, as long as we’re not in the way.”
From what I’d seen so far, Auntie and I could pretend to leave and take up residence in a nook and they’d never find us. The living room was larger than my entire house. Dark tile covered the floor, with a large area rug between the couch and chairs that looked like cowhide, minus the head and the hooves.
The dining room shared the open space. The centerpiece, a mahogany table, was long enough to seat an entire crew after the roundup, and they emphasized the rustic with a chandelier of lights housed in cowbells. A china cabinet held a collection of plates with birds on them—a cardinal, a robin, and something with a long beak that might have been a woodpecker. I didn’t know much about birds except that they pooped a lot and I wouldn’t want to own one.
Bull invited us to sit. Auntie sank down in a chair so wide and deep her feet didn’t touch the floor. Catherine claimed the couch again and half-reclined with her elbow on the armrest like a centerfold. Okay. Not nice. I put my inner cat away and turned my attention to Bull.
Holding up the box, he looked around the room, obviously searching for the right place to set down Petey’s dead remains.
“I buried all my animals in the backyard,” Auntie said. “The kids made little crosses out of popsicle sticks. That was the secret. Calm them down first with a snack and then make a game out of decorating the grave.”
“The backyard’s out.” I stood in front of a glass sliding door that led to a balcony. Outside, I looked over the railing just as a mother quail skittered by with her chicks, zigzagging their way down to the rocky canyon floor.
To my left, a detailed arrangement of ceramic containers filled with mini rose bushes, various flowering plants, and rows of herbs were displayed on aged, wooden crates next to two rattan chairs and a small stone table.
Bull joined me outside. “I’ll have to bury him in the front yard.” He led the way. The balcony circled around and put us back on the driveway. The front “yard” was a natural stone and pink gravel, with flowering shrubs placed in strategic spots to block the view of the front windows from passing traffic. Bull set the box down and retrieved a shovel from the garage.
“Gotta get this done before it gets hot.” He chose a spot near a bougainvillea that he had recently watered. The ground, still damp, moved without too much effort.
“When did you last see Petey? I mean, did you take a peek to see if he was doing alright when you were at my house?”
“Heck, no. You took him into a room and closed the door. That marks it as private, in my book. And besides, I never really cared that much for birds. Noisy critters. And Petey had a mean streak.” He released a heavy sigh. “It would sure be nice if it turned out your cat got him. I hate to think of anyone killing an animal for fun.”
“Until Emily grows opposable thumbs—and I’m sure she’s working on it—she’s not capable of strangling anything. It’s too bad you weren’t tempted to check on him. It would have helped me place the time of his death.”
“I don’t understand,” he said as he dug. “It’s like someone’s trying to erase all traces of Vera from my life. First her. Then her beloved pet.”
Erase all traces of Elvira. Interesting. “You still have your son. He’s a reminder of your wife.”
Bull nudged the box with his boot until it tipped the contents into the hole. “And it seems as if the family line is going to end with him.”
“I heard about Catherine’s trouble. I’m so sorry.”
He replaced a shovel of dirt. “These things happen in God’s time and to His purpose.”
“She’s young. She can try again,” I said, hoping he took those words in the consoling spirit with which they were meant. They sounded kind of heartless once they were out. He caught my eye.
“I know what you mean.”
“It’s an uncomfortable thing to think about, but you’re sure Elvira didn’t have any enemies?”
He packed the grave down. “Not one. Sure, there were people who didn’t like her, but they just avoided her. That’s what normal people do. Not sneak up on someone and knock them on the back of the head with a frying pan.” He nodded at the grave. “And then kill their pet bird.”
Sneak up. He had a point. You wouldn’t turn your back on a raving lunatic who was waving a frying pan around. The killer must have surprised her. Elvira was expecting the photographer, but who did she meet instead? Was it someone she knew? Or did she innocently pose for her picture, giving the killer time to retrieve the frying pan…no. That was stupid. She must not have seen her killer at all. She must have gone to meet the photographer, and as she waited, the killer, armed with the frying pan, snuck up and gave her a good whack.
When Bull bowed his head, we observed a moment of silence before he led the way into the house via the garage, so he could put away the shovel.
We entered the house by the kitchen and found Auntie leaning against the marble island and drinking from a mug.
“I hope you don’t mind. I made coffee. Catherine went to get dressed.”
We sat at a kitchen table that looked out over the part of the balcony that ran down the side of the house. Several kinds of birds fluttered around a hanging bird feeder, including a bright red cardinal. It was a peaceful view. I could get used to waking up to it every morning.
After a bit of chit-chat, we sat in uncomfortable silence. Instead of diving into a new topic, Auntie became uncharacteristically tongue tied. “Do you want me to—” She pulled a napkin from the holder in the center of the table and wiped down the tabletop in front of her, even though it was perfectly clean. “I wondered—that is, if you like—” She bunched up the napkin in her fist. “Oh, heck. Do you want my help to go through Elvira’s things?”
Bull’s pallor turned pasty gray. He sucked in a hiss of air. It was as if she slapped him.
“I put my foot in it again, didn’t I. I’m sorry.”
“No. Not at all. I just hadn’t thought that far ahead. Once I do give her stuff away to charity or store it in the garage, it’ll be real.”
Auntie clucked. “That’s how it was when Pitt died. I even wanted to hang onto his shaving kit. It felt like it was a betrayal to say goodbye to him.”
I was a young adult when my Uncle Pitt died, at that age when death was something that happened to old people. That included anyone over forty. Uncle Pitt had been several years older than Aunt Gertrude—possibly decades—and that would have put him in his sixties. Still, the only thing I remembered about that time was that Mother spent a great deal of time at Auntie’s.
“You just tell me when you’re ready, and I’ll come help if you like. I’ll even fly back here.”
“I’m grateful.”
Bull’s lower lip trembled, and he tried to cover it with a forced coughing fit. When Catherine swept into the room dressed in gray slacks and a white blouse, it provided a welcome distraction.
“I have some errands to run.” She cocked her head at Auntie. “If I don’t see you again, take care.”
“Don’t you worry. I’m not going anywhere until this murder business is solved.”
“Really? Why not?” She moved around the table and put a hand on Bull’s shoulder, almost a protective gesture. Maybe she thought Auntie planned to drop by frequently and bring the subject up, keeping Bull from having a quiet, family-only mourning period.
“Haven’t you read the papers? Sissy and I are helping the police.”
“Sissy?”
I raised my hand. “Right here.”
She pointed at us one by one. “Sissy. Bull.” She stopped at Auntie. “What do they call you? Your name is Gertrude, right?”
“Gertie.”
Catherine shuddered. “I hate nicknames. I think they label people unfairly. Look at my father-in-law. He’s as gentle as a lamb, but they call him Bull.”
“It’s an Andy Devine reference,” I volunteered. Auntie had explained that Andy was Roy Rogers’ comic sidekick.
“And Sissy?” She eyed me. “You don’t look like a wimp to me.”
“Short for Frances,” Auntie said, “and I think it’s a sweet nickname. Very feminine.”
“Kids were cruel to me in high school.” Catherine brushed a curling bit of hair out of her eye. “Kate, Kate, can’t get a date. That’s why I insist people call me Catherine.”
“Anything for a rhyme,” I said. “Besides, I can’t imagine you had that particular problem.”
She narrowed her eyes at me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I was surprised that she took offense. Bull jumped in to the rescue.
“She means that you’re a beautiful woman.”
I fell over myself to say that was exactly my intent.
“Oh.” Her cheeks flushed. “Thanks. Back then, I had braces, skinny legs, and freckles. I didn’t feel beautiful.”
“I just assumed you were born looking like that,” I said.
She ran a hand over her hip. “Strict diet and exercise to lose the extra weight, braces to straighten my overbite. It takes work.” She ran a critical eye over my makeup-free face, my jeans and black t-shirt. “If you ever want a change, give me a call.”
After she left, I blew out a breath. “She’s a little touchy.”
“What can I say?” Bull said. “She’s a woman.”
“I’m a woman and I’m not touchy,” Auntie said with a huff.
Bull grinned. “You just made my point.” He lost the smile. “I meant that she’s been having some woman problems lately.”
“Speaking of women.” I stood up. “I promised Penny I would sit in with her on a free consultation with a wedding planner.”
“I planned my own wedding,” Auntie sniffed. “People make too big a deal out of the party aspects and don’t focus enough on the meaning. Not that Penny would ever do that.”
Auntie hadn’t moved.
“So, we’ll just get going and leave you to it,” I said to Bull, making another move to leave.
Bull scratched his chin. “I don’t really have anything planned, except maybe trim back the rose bushes.”
“I just adore gardening!” Auntie practically squealed. “Can I help?”
Bull seemed pleased to have the company, and he promised to give Auntie a ride home. That gave me an idea.
A peek at Elvira’s personal things might give me a clue about the murderer’s motive, but I hadn’t thought the opportunity would present itself. However, while Auntie and Bull were working out on the balcony, I could slip into Elvira’s room. It was a chance I needed to take, as I could hardly ask the man to rummage through his recently deceased wife’s drawers.
I scratched my ankle, and while bent over, lowered my purse to the floor and scooted it under the table. If I got caught, I could say I’d forgotten it.
“I’ll see you when I see you.”
I’d made it all the way to the door before Auntie called out. “You forgot your purse!”
She brought it to me with the enthusiasm of a retriever, and as she handed it to me, I felt I might have to let her in on my plan.
“Keep Bull occupied for the next ten minutes,” I hissed.
Off her startled expression, I jerked my head toward the balcony. “In the garden. Make sure he stays out there.”
“Are we investigating?” Her pleasurable expression dropped into a frown. “Oh, but if anyone should go through Bull’s private things, it should be me.”
“I’m not going through his private things. I’m checking out Elvira’s private things.” I dug through my purse for my keys and passed them to her. “Leave these on the couch. If I get caught, I can say I came back for them.”
Bull approached and held the door open for me.
Auntie grasped my hand in hers. “I don’t expect I’ll see you again for a couple of hours. At your house. After you’re done with Penny, which is where you’re going now.”
I pulled my hand free. “Right. See you later.”
“Much later.” With the hand farthest away from Bull, she flashed me a quick thumbs up.
I marched out to my car, and as they watched, I realized I couldn’t get into my car without my keys.
“Goodbye!” I called out. Auntie responded, still waving.
“See you later.” Nothing. “Enjoy your gardening. Out back.”
She got the hint and pulled him inside.
Since the front door was most likely locked, I gave them a few minutes and headed for the side door to the garage. Unlocked! Once inside, I pressed my ear against the inside door to the house and listened. Nothing.
I gently pulled it open, listened again, and then made my way on tiptoe through the kitchen, the dining room, and into a long hallway. All the doors were closed, so I cracked open the first and peered inside. The laundry room. I moved on to the next.
The second room must have been Tim and Catherine’s temporary residence. There was a queen-sized bed that looked like it would have been a tight squeeze for Elvira and Stan, and an open suitcase rested against the wall. They weren’t the intended target of my search, but as long as I was here…
One of them was a chocolate addict. The majority of the wastebasket’s contents were candy bar wrappers. They kept the room and its contents neat. Even Tim’s underwear was folded. Catherine’s clothes were quality, but not new. Just well cared for, like her jewelry. I’m no authority on authentic stones and metals, but the few pieces scattered on the dresser were tasteful, if not real gems.
They owned matching white iPods docked in a charging station that was plugged into the wall behind a bedside table, and their magazines of choice were Auto Racer Weekly and Style Today.
That left one remaining door at the end of the hall, and as I stepped inside the room, envy washed over me. Sheer white curtains draped over long windows, softening the bright midday sun as it filtered into a space eight times the size of my bedroom. To my left was a king-sized bed covered in a spread of orange and teal triangles, a more suitable size of bed for Bull and Elvira.
The dresser and armoire were Spanish style, made of dark wood and iron. The armoire belonged to Bull, judging by the cowboy hats on the top shelf, so I moved on to the dresser. There were six long drawers that turned out to be filled with clothes. I held back a shudder as I felt my way through bras that stood up on their own and underwear with enough material to provide me with a summer blouse.
On top of the dresser were a pair of white doilies on which a pair of turquoise earrings and a matching bracelet had been carelessly discarded, probably tossed there the last time Elvira Jenkins undressed. Next to them sat a large memory box topped with a red cardinal that was posed as if about to burst into song, probably because he’d never found himself in the underwear drawer.
If I’d been a first-class snoop, someone who wanted to know every deep dark secret Elvira Jenkins possessed, I’d have been disappointed. There were recipe cards—one for Never Fail Mini Cheesecake, and another for mint brownies. The index cards were decorated with candy canes, which meant Elvira gathered holiday clippings, put them someplace safe, and forgot about them, just like I did.
She had a flyer for a baking supply store, a few safety pins, and several mismatched buttons. I picked up a business card for Dr. Margaret Shaughnessy, OBGYN in Scottsdale. Bull said Elvira’s doctor of twenty-something years was a Dr. Zimmerman. On the back of the card, written in big print, was the name Moira and the date June 12, 2001. On impulse, I copied the phone number on a piece of scratch paper in my purse.
The only other item of interest was a newspaper clipping about a protest against the Kitty Cat Club located in Reno, Nevada. The faces of the protester were blurred and faded, so I couldn’t tell if Elvira was one of them. Without a date on the clipping, it could have been from last year or last decade. I hadn’t a clue what made it memorable enough to keep. Maybe, while chasing Bull across the country umpteen years ago, Elvira had stopped off for a little protest. Ah, memories.
Her closet held blouses, skirts, suits and pants, just like one would expect. A row of wide shoes lined the floor, and on the shelf above the hanging clothes sat six clear storage bins filled with various craft items.
Disappointed, I slipped out to retrieve my keys from the couch. Auntie and Bull were bent over the balcony garden, deep in conversation. I made as little movement as possible as I searched for the keys. I should have been more specific about where to place them. Digging between the cushions and flipping back the decorative pillows, I finally found them underneath the spot where Catherine Jenkins had sat. Just as I pulled them out, the sliding glass door opened.
“Sissy? Did you forget something?” Auntie gave me my cue.
I held up my keys.
“You left almost fifteen minutes ago,” Bull said. “You’ve been looking all that time?”
Auntie giggled and swatted his arm. “Have you ever tried to find anything in a woman’s purse, Bull? They’re like black holes.”
It was the perfect thing to say. Women’s purses have a reputation, and men like Bull give them a wide berth.
“Women.” That summed it up for Bull. “We were just getting some lemonade. There’s plenty.”
I declined. “I’m already running late, but thank you.”
And then I was off to an hour of torture for the sake of my best friend’s wedding.