Миранда Джеймс - Claws For Concern

I found Delaney’s name on the box for apartment ten. I glanced around the courtyard to make a swift count of doors. There were sixteen, so eight up and eight down. I figured that number ten was upstairs, and I led Diesel to one of the four sets of stairs—one in each corner—that climbed to the second story. On the way I kept an eye out for broken glass or other objects that could injure feline paws.

We climbed the stairs to our right and found ourselves in front of apartment sixteen when we stepped onto the landing. I set Diesel down since the landing was shaded from the sun, as was the gallery around the courtyard. I turned to the right, and the next apartment was number nine. A few steps farther on, I stopped in front of the door to number ten. There was a large window near it, but the blinds were drawn, and I couldn’t see inside.

I listened for a moment. The complex was quiet, except for the faint noise of a television set emanating from somewhere on the bottom level. I rapped three times on Delaney’s door and waited.

I estimated thirty seconds had passed, and I knocked again, louder this time. After a few seconds I heard what sounded like a moan coming from inside the apartment. I listened intently, and then I heard it again.

I put my head close to the door and spoke. “Mr. Delaney, it’s Charlie Harris. Are you okay?”

I heard what sounded like mumbling. What I didn’t hear were footsteps approaching the door. I was worried now that he was injured or incapacitated and couldn’t get up. I tried the knob, and it twisted in my hand. I pushed, and the door opened.

The first thing I noticed was that the room was sparsely furnished, but clean. The second thing I noticed was the odor of beer. The room was dark, and the only light was the sunshine coming through the open door. I pushed the door open wider to let in more light.

Now that I could see better, I noticed a daybed against the wall to my left. Numerous empty beer cans littered the floor around the daybed. Bill Delaney was lying on the bed on his back, his right arm over his face. He was mumbling, but I couldn’t make out the words.

I wondered what had set off this binge drinking. Maybe he did it every weekend and stayed sober during the week. I had no idea. I took a few steps closer to the daybed. I wanted to assess his condition to decide whether I needed to call an ambulance.

The mumbling continued as I moved near. He startled me by removing his arm from his face and squinting at me.

“Who’re you?”

“Charlie Harris, Mr. Delaney. From the library.”

He closed his eyes. “Go ’way. Don’t wanna talk. Leave me alone.”

I hesitated. He was probably just sleeping off all the beer he had consumed and would be okay later on. While I stood there, Delaney rolled on his side, face toward the wall. His breathing seemed normal, and I reckoned he had gone to sleep.

I backed away, and for the first time I realized Diesel wasn’t beside me. I felt the leash go taut, and I looked around the room. Diesel was in the corner on the other side of the room batting something around.

“What on earth have you found?” I said in an undertone. “Stop that, and let’s go.”

Diesel looked up at me and then batted the object toward my feet. I looked down. A tube of lipstick.

I left it where it was and urged the cat out of the room. I pulled the door shut. I stood on the landing, wondering why Delaney had a tube of lipstick in his apartment. Who had been visiting him?

FOURTEEN

My head had begun to throb, a sure sign that my stress level was inching up. Finding Bill Delaney passed out drunk had complicated things in a way I definitely hadn’t expected. I wasn’t eager for him to show up at the house for dinner tonight, should he recover enough from his binge. The only thing I could do now was leave a note for him. I had to hope that he would see it and stay home.

“Come on, Diesel,” I said. “Let’s go back to the car. I need to find paper and a pen so I can leave a note.”

The cat warbled in response, and back down the stairs we went. I usually had a small notebook in the glove compartment of the car, though I had been known to take it out and forget to replace it. Today it was where it should be, but I had to search for a moment to find a pen. Finally, under the car user’s manual and assorted paperwork, I found one.

I scribbled a quick note to Delaney that I needed to reschedule, but I didn’t explain. I gave him my phone number and asked him to call me when he could. I had decided not to invite him to dinner tomorrow night, either. In light of all I had learned about him and the Barber murders, I wanted time to discuss the situation with not only Helen Louise, but with Sean as well. I appreciated the legal point of view my son provided. He always had my best interests at heart, although we occasionally disagreed over exactly what those best interests entailed.

I signed the note and tore the page out. After I restored the notebook to the glove compartment, I told the cat we were going back upstairs. He meowed loudly, and I couldn’t decide whether he was complaining or commenting. Either way, he followed me back to Delaney’s door. I folded the note and wedged it into the crack between the door and the frame beside the knob. I hoped no one would come along and remove it, but there wasn’t much I could do about it if that happened.

“Okay, Diesel, we’re going back to the car, and this time we’re leaving.” I received a quick trill in response.

I would be happy to get home again and stay out of the heat for the rest of the day. The older I got, the less I liked the high heat and humidity of a Mississippi summer. I had given thought recently to the idea of buying or renting a property in a cooler climate for the summer months. I hadn’t done any in-depth research yet, nor had I discussed it with Helen Louise. There would be no point in my buying or renting if she wasn’t willing to come with me. In a couple of years, perhaps, she might consider it if she could actually bring herself to step back from micromanagement of the bistro.

Back at home, I gave Diesel fresh water and added dry food to his bowl while he supervised. He rewarded me with a couple of happy warbles when I finished. Now it was my turn for refreshment.

Nothing appealed more to me at the moment than a tall glass of ice water. I downed a third of it in one gulp, refilled it, and took my place at the kitchen table. I pulled out my phone to check e-mail. If Miss An’gel had responded to my request for contact information for Ernie Carpenter, I planned to get in touch with her.

Once my new e-mail messages appeared, I scrolled through them. Three obvious spam messages, and two legitimate ones. The latter came from Miss An’gel and Jack Pemberton. I was a bit surprised to hear again from Jack so soon after the phone call that morning, but I supposed he might have further information.

I read Miss An’gel’s message first. To my surprise, she informed me that Ernie was once again at Riverhill for the weekend. Miss An’gel extended an invitation to Diesel and me to come to lunch, if we were available. Should we not be, however, she provided Ernie’s cell number and suggested I call her around eleven. I checked the time at the top of the screen. Less than five minutes until ten thirty. I wouldn’t have to wait long to call Ernie.

In the meantime I replied to Miss An’gel’s invitation. The thought of a meal at Riverhill always enticed me, because Clementine was as talented a cook as Azalea—though I would never have told the latter that. I thanked Miss An’gel but declined with the always-useful-but-vague statement that I had a prior engagement. I ended by saying that I would call Ernie around eleven.

I drank more water before I opened Jack’s message, the subject of which read: Great idea . The message was brief, only three sentences. I skimmed the words, shaking my head in disbelief. Jack’s great idea was for the two of us to work together to solve the Barber murders.