Seven

A marked police car parked in the driveway. A firetruck parked at the curb. The neighbors turned out for a view of the latest disaster to befall the Flournoys. Or maybe they were just watching Libba, who stood in the front lawn with her yellow dress and high heels, clutching the bottle of Johnnie (they were definitely on a first-name basis).

“You might want to leave the cat in the tree until you’ve gone through the house.”

My suggestion to the uniformed police officer—I read his name badge—was met with a raised brow.

“I’m Ellison Russell.”

“You’re the homeowner?” Officer Stevens asked.

“No. I came to feed the cat.”

“Have you notified the homeowner?”

“They’re not available.”

“Oh?”

I pointed at the tree. “The cat is not happy.” An understatement. “Also—” I shifted my gaze to Libba, who was chatting with two strapping firefighters. Was that Jimmy? “—earlier this week, there was a murder at this house.”

The police officer’s gaze sharpened. “Here?”

He was grasping things quickly. I nodded. “The homeowner is in the hospital.”

The officer tilted his head. “You just said there was a homicide.”

“There was.”

“Not the homeowner?” His grasp of the situation was tight. “Who died?”

“The yoga instructor.”

Officer Stevens looked at the firemen with longing in his eyes, as if he regretted his choice to fight crime instead of fires. “Why is the homeowner in the hospital?”

“Someone tried to kill him.”

“Here?”

“No.”

“What about the lady of the house?”

“She’s in the hospital as well.”

“At her husband’s side?”

“Not exactly.”

“Another attempted murder?” His tone said he was humoring me. Kidding.

I wasn’t in the mood to kid. “Maybe. They’re running tests. Anarchy Jones is the lead investigator.

His shoulders—they stiffened. “I need to call this in.”

“You’re calling Detective Jones?”

His raised brows and thinned lips suggested mine was a stupid question.

“Yeow!” Beezie grabbed our attention. The cat was not pleased with the fireman at the base of his tree.

“Trust me, if anyone plans on searching the house, they don’t want that cat in the house with them.” On a good day, Beezie might be a pleasant cat—one who purred and curled in laps and lounged in the sun. But today was not a good day. And Beezie looked ready to flay the skin off the next human who touched him.

“Yeow!” Man-eating tigers sounded less vicious.

“Wait!” The police officer left me and hurried across the lawn to the fireman.

A discussion ensued, and the fireman removed the ladder. Then, the two men stared into the tree as if the force of their gazes could save the cat.

Not likely.

I left them to their gazing, slipped back inside the house, and used Winnie’s guest bathroom. Metallic silver wallpaper featuring large, blue-stemmed, iridescent white flowers covered the walls. Pendant lights hung on either side of the sink (the sink, the toilet and the rug exactly matched the cerulean blue in the wallpaper). The tiny room looked like a gift box and smelled of patchouli.

When I emerged, I peeked into the upended living room. What had the burglar been looking for? Had he been in the house when we came in? Had he snuck through the front door when Libba and I were in the kitchen? Surely, we would have heard someone making this level of mess.

Was the burglar the same man who’d killed Marigold?

My blood chilled at the thought and I rubbed my hands against my arms.

If so, why had he come back? What had he missed on his first trip to Lark and Winnie’s?

I took a tiny step into the living room. And then another tiny step. And then another.

“What are you doing?”

My heart leapt to my throat and when I turned my hands shook. “Just looking.”

The uniformed police officer was not convinced. His arms were crossed. His brow was furrowed. His chin was low. “This is a crime scene, ma’am.”

“Fine. I’ll wait outside.”

The man followed me out onto the front steps as if he thought I’d go wandering around the house if I wasn’t supervised. The nerve! He was right.

With a sigh, I settled onto the steps and rested my elbows on my knees.

Libba was still talking to the firemen. Talking was a loose term—her eyelashes were fluttering a mile a minute, she’d fluffed her cat-ravaged hair, and her smile was set at high-noon. The entranced firemen—one of them was definitely Jimmy—had forgotten all about the animal in the tree.

Since we’ve been old enough to wear Mary Janes, Libba has been effortlessly fascinating the opposite sex.

With nothing better to do, I watched her weave her spell. More fluttering. More fluffing. More smiling. Lots of laughing.

She could have kept it going forever except for the arrival of Detective Peters. He had his usual quelling effect on everyone. Even Libba. Especially me. I forced my ears out of my shoulders and pushed myself to standing.

Peters cast Libba and the firemen a wet-blanket gaze then marched up to me. “One week, Mrs. Russell. I’d like to go one week without seeing you.”

I eyed his hopelessly wrinkled raincoat, his funny little mustache, and the mean twist of his lips. “The feeling is mutual, Detective.”

The corner of his right eye twitched. “What happened?”

I told him.

“A ski mask, you say? In April?”

“Yes.”

“Why would he stay in the house when he could have snuck out when you and your—” he cast a dismissive glance at Libba “—friend were in the kitchen?”

“He hadn’t found what he came for?”

“Which was?”

“How would I know?” Suspecting the break-ins and murders had something to do with a decades-old legal case and knowing were two entirely different things.

Detective Peters grunted at me.

“I came here to feed the cat.”

“Sure you did.”

“Winnie is in the hospital. She was worried about her cat.”

Detective Peters’ squinty eyes narrowed. “Right.”

“If you don’t believe me, you can ask.”

He grunted. Again. Then he closed his fingers around the door handle. “Stay here.”

It wasn’t as if I wanted to go wandering around Winnie’s house with a detective who was sure (always) I was guilty of something (that should land me in jail). I resumed my seat on the steps.

Libba and Jimmy resumed their flirting.

Officer Stevens seemed torn. After a few seconds, he followed Detective Peters into the house.

No doubt the officer would tell Peters I’d returned to the living room.

No doubt that revelation would stoke Peters’ suspicions. He’d be outside asking me more questions soon. Prying questions. Suggestive questions. You’re-guilty-as-sin questions.

If Libba was done drinking, I knew someone who wouldn’t mind holding onto that bottle of Johnnie Walker. I pushed off the steps and crossed the lawn to the tree.

Beezie hissed a welcome.

Libba took one look at me and handed me the bottle. “Here.”

“Thank you.” Gratitude warmed my voice.

I lifted the bottle, parted my lips, and let liquid fire trickle down my throat.

That’s what Mother saw when she parked her car at the curb—her youngest daughter standing in Winnie and Lark Flournoy’s lawn, drinking Scotch from the bottle with a couple of firemen.

“Ellison Walford Russell, what on God’s green earth are you doing?” Mother marched across the lawn with deadly intent.

I considered another sip but decided I wanted to live.

The firemen melted away.

Libba smoothed her dress and her hair.

The cat snickered.

Really.

“Mother—” I let the bottle hang loosely from my fingers and searched for the right words.

“Carol Barton just called me and told me you were sitting on Winnie’s front steps with a full complement of police and firemen.”

I tightened my grip on the scotch. “I have had a tough morning.”

“I have too but you don’t catch me in a front yard drinking scotch from a bottle.”

She hadn’t dealt with Detective Peters.

“What—” her steely gaze encompassed the fire truck, the police cars, their personnel, and the cat “—is going on here.”

“I—” I glanced at Libba. If I was going down, she was coming with me “—we came over to feed Beezie.” I pointed at the cat “And someone broke into Winnie and Lark’s house.”

“Where is Winnie?”

“The hospital.”

“Surely she could leave Lark long enough to come home and feed the cat herself.”

“No, Mother.” I braced myself. “Winnie is in the hospital.”

“Why?” The wind whipping around the north pole was warmer than Mother’s voice.

“We were having a bite to eat together and—” I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t tell her.

“And?” Mother was waiting.

Why couldn’t Beezie do something helpful—like jump on Libba’s head? Why couldn’t the firemen flex their muscles? Why couldn’t Libba speak up?

“And?” Mother was still waiting.

Silence wasn’t an option. I should have taken that extra slug of Johnnie Walker when I had the chance. “It’s possible she was poisoned.”

Mother looked at Libba. Libba nodded.

Mother looked at the cat. The cat swished its tail.

Mother looked at the firemen. The firemen tried to appear busy (they weren’t fooling anyone reorganizing those hoses).

Mother looked at me and held out her hand.

Without a word, I gave her the scotch.

  

Detective Peters and the uniformed officer searched the whole house, but without Winnie or Lark present, determining if anything had been stolen was impossible.

A sour Peters (was there any other kind?) walked across the lawn, eyed the bottle of scotch, and pointed to the cat.

The firefighters stared up into the tree.

Beezie flexed his claws.

Jimmy retreated, donned a coat that looked as if it could repel a lion, and grabbed a ladder.

When the ladder was in place, Jimmy reached into his pocket and pulled out a sandwich bag.

“What’s that?” asked Libba.

“I have some leftover chicken.” He held up a bit of breast meat.

“How smart of you,” Libba cooed.

The cat watched Jimmy climb the ladder. Libba did too.

The cat was focused on Jimmy’s hands. Libba focused on an entirely different part of his anatomy.

“Here you go.” Jimmy’s voice was soothing, and he held out the chicken.

Beezie considered. His tail swished. His eyes darted. He darted.

The chicken disappeared.

“Just grab the damned animal.” Mother was out of patience with the whole operation.

Jimmy ignored her and held out another bite. “You want some more?”

Beezie ate that too.

Jimmy held out a third bite—this time just out of Beezie’s reach.

The cat crept forward, and the fireman snatched the feline off the branch.

“Yeow!”

Beezie clawed. Beezie scratched. Beezie hissed.

But Jimmy was made of stern stuff. He descended the ladder and hurried across the yard to the house.

A second firefighter opened the front door.

Jimmy, who was presumably coated in some non-scratch chemical, let Beezie go.

The cat dashed into the house. They slammed the door behind him.

“Well done!” Libba clapped.

Detective Peters rolled his squinty little eyes.

Mother indicated her approval with a tiny nod of her head.

I wished I’d thought to get my handbag and keys out of the house before they put the cat in it.

“I’ll tell Jones about this. If one of the Flournoys comes around, he can let them know what happened.” Detective Peters lips curled into a sneer. “He’ll have questions for you.” He pulled up the collar of his disreputable raincoat and left us.

The uniformed officer followed.

That left me, Libba, Mother, and a couple of smitten firefighters.

“I’m sure you gentlemen have things to do.” Mother didn’t flick her fingers at them, but the sentiment was there.

Jimmy smiled at Libba. “I’ll call you.” He climbed onto his truck and drove away.

“Such nice men,” said Libba.

Mother sighed—and not an I-agree-with-you sigh. No, the sound Mother made was more of a what-would-your-sainted-mother-say-if-she-could-see-you-now sigh. “He’s hardly suitable.”

“Suitable, shmootable.” Johnnie Walker was talking. A fully sober Libba would never say anything so foolish—at least not to Mother’s face.

Mother looked down her nose. “Shall we go?”

“My purse is inside.” With the furious feline. “My keys.”

Mother tsked. “Poor planning on your part.”

Libba shook her head sadly. “That cat will rip you limb from limb.”

“The cat is probably hiding.” At least I hoped it was. More likely, the beast was lying in wait.

“Forget the purse,” Libba insisted. “Aggie can let you in.”

“I need my purse. I can’t just leave my car here.”

“Of course, you can.

“Libba—” my voice took on a wheedling note “—please, come with me.”

“I’m not going in there.” Libba crossed her arms.

Something like amusement flitted across Mother’s face. “I’ll be happy to take you home, Libba. Ellison can fetch a bag by herself.”

Libba and I turned our heads and stared at her.

The color drained from Libba’s face. “You don’t need to do that, Mrs. Walford. Ellison can give me a ride.”

“Not without her keys. Besides, it’s no trouble.” Mother took in the small handbag hanging from Libba’s shoulder. “I see you were smart enough to keep your possessions with you. You can leave anytime.”

“I’d hate for Ellison to face Beezie alone.”

Had Mother done this on purpose? Libba had certainly changed her tune.

“Ellison has faced down killers, I’m sure she can handle a cat. Come along.”

“But—”

Mother’s brows lifted. Was that a smile tickling the very corner of her lips?

“I couldn’t possibly leave Ellison.” Libba sounded almost triumphant.

“You’re certain?” Mother’s gaze shifted to the scotch bottle in Libba’s hand. “I’m happy to take you. Give the Johnnie Walker to Ellison and we’ll be on our way.”

“No. Ellison might need help with the cat.”

“You’re sure? Because I’m happy to give you a ride.”

“I’m sure. Thanks for the offer.” Libba hurried toward the front door, leaving me, Mother, and Johnnie on the lawn.

“She makes it almost too easy,” said Mother.

I hadn’t imagined that small smile. It graced Mother’s face now.

“She hates being told what her mother—God rest her soul—would have to say about her behavior.”

“You didn’t mention her mother.”

“But I would have mentioned her on the drive back. Libba knew it.” Mother looked at the scotch. “No more drinking straight from the bottle, Ellison. And, if you must drink, please refrain from doing so in public.”

“Of course.”

“No more bodies.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“You and Grace will join us for Sunday dinner?” It wasn’t a question.

I nodded. “Okay.”

Mother turned on the sensible heel of her sensible pump and returned to her car.

I followed Libba up to the house.

The front door was still unlocked, and we opened it slowly.

“Beezie?”

The cat didn’t answer me.

“The coast is clear,” I whispered.

We tiptoed through the foyer and into the kitchen where Beezie ate from his bowl full of smelly tuna. The cat stood between me and my purse.

He hissed at us.

We backed up.

“What now?” Libba demanded.

“We wait until he’s done eating. When he leaves the kitchen, we’ll grab my purse.”

“What do we do in the meantime?” she whined.

“Retreat.”

After Peters’ passage, the living room was even more of a shamble. I returned the seriously dented bottle of Johnnie Walker to the liquor cabinet.

Libba bent, picked up a handful of papers, and put them on the writing desk in the corner. Then she collapsed on the couch. “How long does it take a cat to eat?”

“No idea. I’m a dog person. Max doesn’t eat his food, he inhales it.”

Libba lifted her feet onto the coffee table and leaned her head against the sofa cushions. “What was that man looking for?”

We both considered the living room. Herend cats covered every surface. Cats arching. Cats wearing that slit-eyed expression they wear so well. Cats batting at imaginary bits of twine. A cat playing the fiddle. Cats stretching. Cats balancing on balls. Cats.

“I have no idea.”

“Well—” Libba tilted her head until the tip of her chin pointed to the ceiling “—either Winnie or Lark has a deep, dark secret.”

“You’re probably right.” Lark. It was Lark. And it probably had something to do with an old case.

“Whatever it is, it’s big enough and bad enough to commit murder.”

I made a noncommittal sound.

“We’re stuck in here,” said Libba.

“So?”

She lifted her head from the cushion. “We should look for it.”

Obviously. “It?”

“The burglar was going through papers. Where would you hide papers?”

“In a safe.”

We both eyed the paintings on the walls. Did their frames hide a safe?

“You look,” said Libba. “I’m too tired.”

“Yes, flirting with firemen is terribly draining.”

She wrinkled her nose and stuck out her tongue. “It is.”

I peeked behind every painting in the room and found nothing. “Any other ideas?”

Libba stretched her arms over her head and yawned. “Not a one.” She swung her feet to the floor. “Let’s check on that darned cat.”

We tiptoed back to the kitchen where Beezie’s empty bowl was the only sign of his presence.

I put Beezie’s bowl in the dishwasher, grabbed my purse from the counter, and paused. Somewhere in this house there was a secret worth killing for. What was it? Could I find it?

Libba looked at me expectantly. “We’re not going to find it. Let’s go.”

“Fine.” I could always come back later.