Shirley Murphy - Cat Striking Back

SITTING AT THE big, round table in the ranch kitchen, still in her old plaid robe and with her first cup of coffee, Charlie tried again to reach her absent clients. She didn’t understand why no one was answering their messages. She didn’t care if she woke them, but even that seemed impossible. Did they all turn their phones off at night?

Most likely they did, she thought crossly, at least when they were on vacation. As she listened to yet another recording, looking out across the window seat to the ranch yard, she watched the sky lighten into a clear dawn. She could hear Redwing in the barn pawing at her door, wanting her hay and wanting to be turned out. It wasn’t quite feeding time, but the mare had seen Max leave earlier and had decided she’d been forgotten. Charlie hung up the phone after getting another “not available” no point in leaving another message. She had risen to refill her coffee cup when her phone rang. Turning hastily back to the table, spilling her coffee, she saw that the number on the screen was Ryan’s. She picked up, grabbed a towel, stood with the phone to her ear, mopping up coffee.

“I got Carl Chapman,” Ryan said. “He’d just turned his phone on. When I filled him in, he didn’t sound eager to tell Theresa about the paintings, said she was still asleep. He gave me the number for their insurance agent, asked if you’d call him. He’s hoping you can take the adjuster in the house for a look, give him a tentative list of what’s missing. He asked me to check on several other items in the house, he gave me a list. You have a pencil?”

Dutifully Charlie copied down the list, thinking that this whole thing was more of a pain than she wanted, that she’d be glad when she’d sold the business. At the moment she had only one serious prospect: a woman who, at one time she’d not have trusted to take over the service she’d so lovingly built, a woman she’d thought was dishonest until she’d learned that she was working undercover on the side of the law.

“I’ll keep trying the Beckers,” Ryan said. “Any luck with the others?”

“Not yet. I tried until well after midnight. Knowing Frances Becker, I expect when you get her, with half her antiques missing, she’ll head right home.”

She’d hardly hung up when the phone rang again. She picked up to Earl Longley’s dry voice. “Eleen’s out shopping,” he said. He sounded even more irritable than usual. He spent considerable time cross-examining her about just how many books were missing, and which ones. He didn’t seem nearly as upset over Eleen’s paperweight collection, which, Charlie thought privately, was understandable. The loss of a closet full of pornographic paperweights really didn’t stir her.

She must be on a roll, because the next call was from Ben Waterman. They were in Greece, had flown in that morning. It was cocktail hour, Ben said Rita was just getting out of the pool. When Charlie told him about the break-in, and described the events of the previous night, he startled her with his anger.

“What the hell were you doing? Don’t you lock up your keys? Who had a set, how many of your people? I hate to tell Rita, she’s going to be mad as hell.”

“Ben, I don’t blame you. But let’s concentrate on finding this guy, on getting the jewelry back if we can. Does Rita have some kind of inventory?”

“She has a full inventory,” he said coldly. “She has a photograph of each piece, with written descriptions and appraisals. You know the gems were all paste? But the settings were antique, some very old, and they didn’t come cheap.”

“Are the photographs and inventory in the house where we can find them? If the department can get copies to identify-”

“Why would they be in the house? So they could be stolen, too? Or burned up? It’s all in the safe-deposit box.”

“Does anyone else have access?”

“Of course not.”

“And your insurance agents. Do they-”

“I’ll call our agents and give them your number. I’m not sure what Rita gave them.” He hung up. Charlie sat holding the phone, swallowing back her anger. Did he have to be so cross? Now, if the department arrested a suspect and the jewelry was on him, they’d have to wait nearly two weeks for a positive identification. She was fixing herself some breakfast when Ryan called back to say she’d gotten Ed Becker.

“Guess I woke him. He was pretty cranky. He said, ‘How many people did Mrs. Harper tell we’d be out of town?’ I told him that wasn’t very realistic, that everyone in the neighborhood knew they were gone. He accused your crew of loose tongues and carelessness with the keys, of possibly copying the keys. Complained because you hadn’t come by in the evenings to turn on the lights, which, I pointed out, you hadn’t arranged to do. I suggested several things they could have done, like automatic light controls. He said Frances wouldn’t do that, that she was afraid one would short out and cause a fire.”

“Well, that’s all four couples notified,” Charlie said noncommittally, “and only half of them critical. I’ll be so glad when I sell the business. Thanks for helping, and thanks for the moral support.”

“Gotta go,” Ryan said. “I need to check on two jobs in the village and be up at the remodel when the gravel and cement arrive, around ten. Clyde says-”

Her phone went dead. Charlie hung up and waited, supposing Ryan was out of range. She waited quite a while, but Ryan didn’t call back. When she dialed her she got an “out of service” message, so maybe she’d forgotten to charge her phone. That wouldn’t be the first time-though it was about the only inattention to detail that Charlie had ever noticed in her efficient friend.

Putting Max’s dishes in the dishwasher, she warmed up a slice of cold bacon and her scrambled eggs, and made some toast, preoccupied with the robberies. The whole scenario was strange, she couldn’t shake the thought that she was missing something, was overlooking some crucial element that should be perfectly obvious.

Setting her breakfast on the table, wanting to hurry and go feed the horses, she realized that part of her unease was the phone calls themselves. Neither she nor Ryan had talked with any of the four wives, they had spoken only with their husbands.

In all four instances, there were good explanations: Rita in the pool; Theresa asleep, and probably Frances Becker, too; and Eleen shopping, maybe for more paperweights. She was reaching in the drawer for a fork when she stopped. Stood looking down into the drawer, at the new rubberized fabric with which she’d recently lined it, but seeing Theresa Chapman’s kitchen drawers.

Leaving her breakfast to get cold, she picked up the phone to call Max.

The dispatcher said he was out, so she talked with Detective Garza. “ Dallas, Theresa Chapman had keys for maybe half a dozen neighbors, all those with pets. She sometimes took care of the animals if someone was delayed at work; and she would sometimes let a workman in. She kept them in the kitchen silverware drawer, underneath the wooden divider and the liner.”

“We’ll have a look,” Dallas said. “How many others, besides the neighbors themselves, knew that?”

“I don’t know. She told me she was very careful, didn’t let anyone see where she kept them. She let the workmen think she had a key just for the day. The keys weren’t marked, the names weren’t on them. They were all different colors.”

Hanging up, she warmed her plate in the microwave again, and returned to the table, opening the morning paper. She was just finishing breakfast when Dallas called back.

“Keys were here. I’ve printed them and will take them with me.” He laughed. “You want me to feed the cat? She’s playing up to me shamelessly. Those kittens are pretty cute.”