Лори Касс - Wrong Side Of The Paw

“Of course not,” I said in as soothing a tone as I could, because I could hear the tense emotion in her question. She needed to believe that her husband had been a good man. That was understandable. But as I turned the conversation to the arrangements for a memorial service, my thoughts veered in another direction.

Carmen was an emotional woman who clearly had control issues. Could I envision her, in a fit of anger, going after Daphne Raab with the intent to maim and wound?

Yep.

And I was starting to see a scenario in which she had killed her husband.

Chapter 11

The next morning I woke up slowly. There was absolutely no need for me to get out of bed before noon, and I was seriously considering taking advantage of the opportunity. I was set to meet Aunt Frances and Otto for lunch at 1 p.m., but other than that, I had no obligations and nothing I absolutely had to do, so—

“Mrr.”

I looked over at my cat. It wasn’t far to look, because he was snuggled up inside the crook of my elbow, with his back half on the bed and his front half draped over my arm. He was staring at me with wide-open eyes and an expression that meant he was trying to tell me something.

“What do you want?” I asked. “Tell me and I will fulfill your every wish.”

He lifted his chin the slightest bit. “Mrr!”

“Sorry, I don’t understand. I’ll just have to guess.” I took my hand out from under the covers and patted the top of his fuzzy head. “Is this what you want? A little attention?”

“Mrr,” he said.

Pats might not have been what he wanted, but he was purring, so he obviously wasn’t rejecting them. I kept patting and he kept purring, which kept me from rolling over and looking at the clock. “What time do you think it is?” The light coming in the window was gray, but that could mean it was just before dawn or that the sky was thick with clouds. It was unlikely I’d slept through to morning’s double digits, but it had happened before after a late night of reading.

And I had read late. Somewhere on the floor was a copy of Margery Allingham’s Black Plumes, a book I’d picked up at the used bookstore. For some reason I now couldn’t remember, I’d decided to start reading it after dinner the night before and hadn’t managed to put it down until I’d finished.

Eddie, however, remained silent on the time question. “Well, if you’re not going to guess,” I said, “I’m going to have to play all by myself. Let’s see, I think it’s—”

My thought was interrupted by the ringing of my cell phone. I reached out, dislodging a protesting Eddie in the process, looked at the screen, and took the call.

“Hey, Leese. What’s up?” I swung my stockinged feet to the floor and glanced at the clock. Not quite ten, which to me, if not my mother, was a perfectly acceptable hour to get up on a Sunday morning.

“Sorry to bother you,” she said. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“Nope.” I stood. “Been up and out of bed for some time now.”

“Great. I just got off the phone with Carmen.”

“Right. About that.” Last night I’d been so taken up with my new suspicions about Leese’s stepmother that I’d decided I wouldn’t call my friend until I’d worked it all through in my head. “I’d planned on talking to you, but . . .” But what? I hadn’t left myself anywhere to go with that sentence.

Leese laughed. “But Carmen was being Carmen and you didn’t feel you could take any more Lacombes in a twenty-four-hour period? I know the feeling. Believe me.”

Though I felt a little ashamed of myself for doing so, I didn’t contradict her. “What did Carmen tell you?”

“I heard the whole Daphne Raab story all over again.”

“Did you wear yourself out from rolling your eyes?”

“Absolutely.” She chuckled, then sighed. “Carmen also told me you think a disgruntled employee killed my dad.”

“It’s a possibility,” I said. “Or do you agree with Carmen that your dad was the best boss in the world and the reason he had so much turnover was because kids today don’t know what hard work means.”

She snorted. “Brad’s told me too many stories for me to believe in that fairy tale.”

“Okay, so that’s something to look into.” I paused. “What do you know about Rob Driskell? He’s a building inspector for the county.”

“Not much, other than my dad didn’t have a good word to say about him, which puts Driskell in the same category as ninety-nine point nine percent of the world’s population.”

“I met him yesterday,” I said, and told her about the conversation.

After a short silence, she asked, “You think Driskell killed my dad?”

I almost said what I’d been told so many times by Detective Inwood, that I was exploring all avenues of investigation, but I stopped myself in time. “It’s another possibility,” I said. “I asked Carmen about him, but we got sidetracked.”

“That happens a lot with Carmen,” Leese said in a matter-of-fact manner. “I’ll talk to Brad, ask if he knows anything.”

By now I’d walked up the short flight of stairs from the bedroom and was starting coffee preparations. “Speaking of Brad, the other day I asked him about disgruntled employees. He said he was probably the best candidate of all.”

“The fight,” Leese said, “and that’s a capital F. It was years ago, but people still talk about it.” She paused, then said, “Minnie, so many people talk about the Fight that the story has grown far bigger than what actually happened. I’m afraid the police are going to start thinking that Brad is a good suspect.”

I was afraid of the same thing. “Yesterday I ran across Daphne Raab and we talked about your dad a little. I’m sorry to say that she didn’t have much good to say about him.”

“No, she wouldn’t,” Leese mused. “Still, from what little I know of her, I don’t see her as the murdering type. Not that I’d know what type that might be.”

In the last couple of years I’d had the misfortune to run across more than one killer. Was there a type among them? I’d never seen it, but I hadn’t been looking, either. Now that I was thinking about it, the only thing they seemed to have in common was murder.

“Let me know what Brad has to say,” I said, pouring water into the coffeemaker. “Other than your stepmother issues, how are things going? Did you meet with that new client?”

“Bob Blake,” Leese said. “We’ve had phone conversations, but we haven’t scheduled a meeting. I think he has health issues—one time we talked I kept hearing hospital noises in the background. Anyway, he said he’d call this week to set up something. It sounded like Saturdays will work best for him.”

I watched the caffeinated liquid dripping down. “Great. How about your other clients?”

“Things will work out,” she said. “Isn’t that what you always say?”

It was mostly my aunt Frances, and I would have given her the attribution if Leese’s voice hadn’t sounded so tight. “Is there anything I can do?” I asked.

“Thanks, but I’ll be fine,” she said a little grimly.

“Here’s an idea.” I got a mug out of the cabinet. “How about a presentation about elder law at the library?”

“Are . . . you sure?” Leese asked.

“Sure I’m sure.” The more I thought about the idea, the more I liked it. “We could do a series of service-type talks for senior citizens, starting with you. No one’s doing anything similar in the whole county, as far as I know.”

Ideas were spinning around in my head. I’d get someone to talk about finances. Someone else to talk about health care. Maybe lots of someones to talk about different aspects of health care. I’d have to get Jennifer’s permission, of course, but why would she object?