Martha Grimes - The Black Cat

Jury was next in line. He said, “Hold on, Dennis,” as the next cab pulled up. “I’m getting into a cab.” He gave the driver his address, climbed in, shut the door. “Right. Receipt found where?”

“Wedged down between pavement stones. Why didn’t forensic find it that night? Beats me.”

But not Jury. “Your SOCO people would have found it; they didn’t because it wasn’t there.”

Jenkins pondered this. “You mean it was planted?”

“Yes. What’s the book? Is it on the receipt?”

“It’s been rained on, wait a minute… Shoe-aholic, whatever that might be.”

Jury looked out the window; they were just passing through Clerkenwell. “I know about Jimmy Choo and Manolo Blahnik because I know a ‘shoe-aholic.’ I’ll save you some legwork, Dennis. The person this is going to lead to is a detective with Thames Valley police. Detective Sergeant David Cummins. He bought the book when he was in London. You’ll want to talk to him.”

Jenkins sounded disbelieving. “Thames Valley police? A detective? You’re way ahead of me.”

“Not at all. I just happened to know about the book because I saw it in Cummins’s house.”

“This is pure gold, isn’t it.”

Jury smiled. “That, or at least plate. Worth the trip, I assure you. I’ll be going to High Wycombe headquarters tomorrow. Want to come?”

“Yes, but I can’t. I’ve got some bureaucratic nonsense to take care of.”

“I’ll fill you in later.”

Jenkins said he’d be waiting and rang off.

The cab pulled up to Jury’s house. Lights everywhere. Were they having a rave? Why were the lights on in his flat? Carole-anne could be in there teaching the salsa to a roomful of Mexicans. He paid the driver, gave him a big tip.

As the cab pulled away, Jury thought about the receipt left at the crime scene. He shook his head.

On the part of the shooter, that had been a huge mistake. That person should have let well enough alone.

He was right about Carole-anne. He was wrong about the Mexicans. She was talking to Dr. Phyllis Nancy, both of them standing in his living room.

Oh, Christ, he’d done it again-forgotten.

Yet she smiled at him. That was Phyllis. “Who,” she said, “would want to eat at the Ivy when they could dine here? Its charming ambience, its mood lighting, its early-detective decor.”

Said Carole-anne, “She’s being funny.”

“Phyllis, I’m so sorry.” He turned to Carole-anne. “I’m glad to see you’ve met Doctor Nancy. Which of you got here first?”

“Had to let her in, didn’t I?” Carole-anne’s tone was querulous. It would be. Jury would be hearing about this for weeks. She turned on her heel and went into the kitchen. “She brought food: sausages and eggs, cheese, bread, some red wine. Good. I can do a nice fry-up.” She reappeared at the kitchen door. “Okay with you, Super?”

“Shouldn’t you be asking if it’s okay with Phyllis?”

“It is. She brought the food, after all.”

Phyllis said, “It’s certainly okay with me if you’re doing the cooking.”

“Good,” said Jury. “Phyllis and I will sit here and drink wine. Sounds like a winning scheme to me.”

Carole-anne was reevaluating her KP duty. “I’ll have some wine too between turning the sausages.”

Jury pulled glasses from an old armoire he’d picked up from a sale of Second World War stuff held at the Imperial War Museum. They were used to hold guns, originally. This fascinated him. He set the glasses on the coffee table and looked at Phyllis. “This was really sweet of you, Phyllis.”

“Yes, it really was thoughtful,” Carole-anne called from the kitchen. “I’ve had it in mind all day to get eggs and sausages, and hash browns too. Only you didn’t get any hash browns.” She pointed out this weak spot in their menu when she carried in the bottle of wine.

“You’re right,” said Phyllis. “I should have thought of that.”

“Probably just as well. I’m watching my weight.” She appraised Phyllis, who was sitting not on the sofa but in a chair, making her hold on Jury speculative.

Carole-anne noticed this. She smiled.

Jury knew this small act of generosity on the part of Phyllis was beyond Carole-anne to work out. She wouldn’t understand it, much less perform it. Jury poured wine into three glasses.

Carole-anne said, “That’s a nice one, that. Had a glass at the Mucky Duck the other evening.”

As the wine was in a gallon jug-Phyllis had a keen sense of humor-Jury wasn’t surprised that the Mucky Duck featured it. “Maybe I should have Trevor taste it.”

“Who’s Trevor?” asked Carole-anne, taking a drink of her wine.

“The wine guy at the Shades. Knows everything.”

“Quite nice, this. Of course, I don’t purport to be an expert. Like Trevor.”

Jury laughed. Conversation could be a minefield for Carole-anne. It was so easy to put a foot wrong.

“How was Brighton?” asked Phyllis. “Worth it?”

Carole-anne, who, to her chagrin, hadn’t known about Brighton, went back to the kitchen as if she couldn’t care less.

“It was, definitely,” said Jury. “Except I missed our date,” he added sotto voce.

And sotto voce, Phyllis answered, “But we’re having it.”

An awful clatter came from the kitchen, as if a half-dozen pot tops were being bowled across the floor.

“Sorr-ee!” yelled Carole-anne, sticking her head round the kitchen door. “Dropped the skillet!” The head disappeared.

Jury leaned across the table, his hand stretched toward Phyllis. “Sit over here.”

Phyllis smiled but shook her head and was about to say something when another series of rattles came from the kitchen.

“Oh, God, but I’m clumsy tonight!” The ginger hair poked round the doorway. “A plate. Hope it wasn’t the good china!”

“It better not be the stuff I bought at Christie’s.”

Carole-anne shrugged as she studied their relative positions: a coffee table apart, good. She moved back into the kitchen. There came a bright sizzle from (Jury supposed) the reclaimed frying pan.

“I forgot, I forgot,” said Jury, putting his hands through his hair, “the uncle, Lu’s uncle. You said-”

“No, not yet,” said Phyllis quickly, reaching across the table. “He hasn’t done anything yet. There’s still a chance, you know, I think more of one than-”

“Here we are!” fluted Carole-anne, ushering in two plates filled with fried eggs, buttered bread, and sausages.

Jury frowned, taking the plate she held out. “That was awfully quick.” He inspected the sausages. “You sure these are done, Carole-anne? It’s only been a few minutes.”

“Of course it is. I’ll just get mine.” She hurried off, hurried back, carrying a nonmatching blue plate, and sat down beside Jury.

The phone rang. Jury rose to answer it, his plate in hand.

It was Wiggins. “Guv, Harry Johnson called several times today.”

“Out of jail, is he?” Jury sniggered and forked up a bite of sausage. He had the phone wedged on his shoulder.

“What he wants is, he wants to know what you did with his dog. You know-Mungo.”

“DI Jenkins sent it over. Said you’d want to see it,” said Wiggins.

Jury had just come into the office carrying a plastic bag and now looked at the receipt from Waterstone’s. He heard the voice of Kate’s godmother, talking about her love of books: that big Waterstone’s bookshop in Piccadilly. The date was the day of Kate’s murder. The time registered was 11:00 a.m. Chris Cummins had mentioned David bought it in London Friday.

“I was thinking about it, you know, being found at the crime scene.” Wiggins was stirring his tea slowly, as if the spoon were a divining rod. “It doesn’t have to be Cummins’s receipt. Other people bought that book.”