Лори Касс - Cat With A Clue

“Okay, how about this: I’m so short it would have taken so long for the knife’s blade to reach me that I could have grabbed Eddie, found the book, and ran to the police station before the downward stroke even started.”

Kristen frowned at me fiercely. “One more answer like that, and I’ll call your mother and tell her what you did last night.”

And she would, too. “How about this? I was so angry that I’d become invulnerable. Nothing short of kryptonite would have hurt a hair on my head.”

“Three.” Kristen snapped up another finger. “And that reason wasn’t much better. The last one better be bulletproof.”

I looked through the leaves of the big maple tree that stood outside Rafe’s house and over at the marina, where I could just see the back end of my houseboat. “Maybe this won’t fight the stupidity allegation,” I said quietly, “but I had to get Eddie away from Paul Utley. At least, I had to try.”

Kristen studied me for an eternal moment, then sighed and got to her feet. “Okay. You got me on that one. Be right back.”

She went inside, and, closing my eyes, I slouched down in the chair.

It had, after all, been a long night. After Paul Utley had been hauled away in the back of a police cruiser, the city police chief had shown up. He’d taken one look at me and at the mess in the museum’s basement, and after I’d made it partway through my explanation of the evening’s events, he’d held up his hand and called the sheriff’s office.

Since I’d known Detective Inwood and Ash were out of town, I wasn’t surprised when the sheriff herself walked in. Sheriff Richardson gave the room and its contents—human, feline, and inanimate—one sweeping glance and said, “Go home and get some sleep. Inwood and Wolverson will be back tomorrow morning. Stop by at ten and we’ll take your statement.”

She’d crouched in front of the occupied cat carrier, reached through the wires to give Eddie a chin scratch, stood, given us a collective nod, and left.

I’d woken Sunday morning to a cat wrapped around the top of my head and a ringing cell phone. Ash, on his way back north, was calling to make sure I was all right. Groggily, I’d said I was fine, and we’d met at the Round Table in time for a quick breakfast before the ten-o’clock meeting at the sheriff’s office.

He’d apologized for not calling me back. “It was part of the training,” he’d said. “I didn’t know until we got there, and I’m sorry about that, but it was what they call an immersion training session. We had to hand over our cell phones when we checked in.”

My mouth was full of French toast, so I couldn’t say anything, but he nodded. “Yeah, I know. I should have called right then and said I’d be out of touch. I really am sorry.”

And, since it was obvious that he was indeed sorry, I’d smiled and forgiven him.

Now I yawned comfortably. My feet were in the sunshine, staying nice and warm, the rest of me was in the shade, staying cool, and Andrea’s killer was in jail. And while waiting for the sheriff the night before, I’d opened one last box and, lo and behold, there was the DeKeysers’ copy of Chastain’s Wildflowers , right on top.

The book was currently in the sheriff’s evidence lockup, where it would stay until the ownership question was solved. Sheriff Richardson had contacted Paul Utley’s partner, who would now be handling Talia DeKeyser’s estate. After recovering from the shock of discovering that his partner had been arrested for murder, he had been, according to the sheriff, flabbergasted to hear that the DeKeysers had owned such a valuable book. The attorney would be contacting the estate’s heirs and it would be interesting to hear who would wind up as the book’s official owner.

Considering the book’s value, there would inevitably be a legal wrangle, but since that didn’t have anything to do with me, I didn’t have to think about it at all.

What Sheriff Richardson had told me was that the local DeKeysers she’d spoken with had gone very quiet when Andrea’s attempted theft was described. “I think Leslie, the oldest daughter, was crying when she got off the phone,” the sheriff had said. “That family sticks together. At least they used to.”

The other thing the sheriff and Detective Inwood had said was that Monica Utley claimed to have absolutely no knowledge of her husband’s activities. Inwood thought Monica was in it up to her teeth; the sheriff disagreed, and it would be interesting to see which one of them was right.

I was glad, however, to have the question of the X-Acto knife answered. Paul Utley, who, as an attorney, should have known better than to talk without representation present, had told Detective Inwood that he’d met Andrea at the library to look for the book together. They’d gotten into a heated argument about when he’d divorce Monica, during which he’d strangled Andrea and then stabbed her with her own X-Acto knife in a fit of rage.

I sank deeper into the chair and sighed. All this, for the sake of money? A life ended, other lives ruined, for what? A new boat? A new car every couple of years? I didn’t understand and didn’t want to. Even thinking about it was making me tired and sick at heart.

My eyes fluttered open at the sound of Rafe’s front door shutting. That noise was accompanied by the tinkle of glassware and I sat up. “What’s that?” I asked.

Kristen set down a pitcher filled with a heavily ice-cubed pink concoction and handed me a glass. “It’s medicinal. Drink up.”

“Alcoholic?”

“Just the right amount. Cheers.”

We tink ed the rims of our glasses and drank. At first sip, the sweetness made me shudder, but the second sip went down easier. “This isn’t half bad,” I said.

“You don’t tend bar in Key West and learn nothing. So, what else had happened since I saw you last? Have you saved any small children from drowning? Fended off a nuclear holocaust?”

“I met Bianca Sims.”

Kristen’s eyebrows went sky-high. “Mitchell’s girlfriend? How did that go?”

It had been at the Round Table that morning. Bianca, in real-estate agent mode, had been meeting with clients. I’d waited until they’d left, then slid into her booth and introduced myself.

“It’s weird,” I told Kristen, “but I think it’s going to work out.”

“Hang on. You mean . . . ?” She couldn’t say the word.

“Marriage?” I smiled. “Probably too soon to say, but she really seems to love him. Loves him just the way he is, and wishes he’d stop trying to impress her with all his hard work. She figures it’s just a phase and hopes he’ll go back to being the normal Mitchell soon, because that’s the man she fell in love with.”

“‘Weird’ is right,” Kristen said.

I nodded. “Speaking of love interests, what’s the news from Scruffy? Has he asked you to marry him lately?”

“Actually, no, and it’s a big relief.” But she glanced at the empty ring finger of her left hand as she spoke. I started drafting a mental note to text Scruffy that progress was being made, when Kristen asked, “What about you and Ash?”

I blinked. “What about us?”

“Any chance of wedding bells? You’ve been seeing him for a while now. You must have a good idea of what’s possible.”

“We’ve only been going out for a few weeks.” I shifted my feet, realizing that if I didn’t move them out of the sun soon, I’d end up with a very strange-looking case of sunburn. “It’s too early to say.”

“Sure,” Kristen said.

I checked her expression for sarcasm, but couldn’t detect anything overt. “It’s too early,” I repeated. “But at breakfast, we were talking about skiing this winter.”