Лори Касс - Pouncing On Murder

“They’re for Josh,” She pushed the long rectangles into half a dozen piles. “You know darn well that he’ll just paint every room in his house beige if we don’t help him, so what do you think?” She pointed at the small stacks. “Living room. Kitchen and dining. Master bedroom. Bathrooms. Study slash guest room.” Frowning, she asked, “Do you think he has three bedrooms?”

I had no idea. “Pink? You really think there’s any chance he’ll paint even a small bathroom pink?”

“It’s not pink.” Holly picked up the sample and peered at the tiny writing. “It’s strawberry blush.”

“It’s pink,” Josh said.

Holly and I turned. Our coworker was standing behind us, eyeing the wide variety of colors with disfavor.

“Oh, good,” Holly said. “You’re here. These are the colors you should think about for your living room, and these are—what are you doing?”

He was feeding coin after coin into the soda machine, was what he was doing, and not paying any attention to her at all.

“Come on, Josh,” she said, wheedling, “don’t you want to look?”

“Not really.” He pushed a button and a can rolled down.

“Sure you do.”

“Nope.”

Don’t worry, Holly,” I said. “It’s not your fault. Most men don’t see the importance of decorating. They like the results, just not the work that goes into it.”

Josh gave me a sour look. “Who asked you?”

I wondered if Eddie had somehow been snoring on Josh’s head last night, too. “Did you sleep okay?”

He snorted. “What, because I don’t want to paint my bathroom pink means there’s something wrong with me?”

“No,” I flashed back. “It’s because there’s so obviously something wrong with you that makes us think there’s something wrong with you.”

“Yeah,” Holly said. “You’re being really cranky. Are you sick?”

“Oh, for crying out loud,” Josh said. “I’m out of here.” He stalked away without even bothering to open his soda.

“He can be such a jerk sometimes.” Holly looked at her rainbow of colors. “We’re just trying to help.”

“We?” I echoed. “How did I get dragged into this?”

“Fine.” Holly shoved all the paint samples together into a small heap, got up, and tossed them into the wastebasket. “I can’t believe no one cares about this. You’re both being jerks. Just plain jerks.” She stomped out.

I shook my head at them both and did some stomping of my own on the way back to my office. But even before I sat down in my chair, I knew I’d have to do something about the situation to make sure it didn’t take a festering turn into a permanent rift. It wasn’t likely to, but a little reassurance never hurt.

Thinking fast, I typed an e-mail message to them both. Sorry I was cranky just now. I didn’t get much sleep and I’d like to blame Eddie. Would that be okay?

After I hit the Send button, I opened up the bookmobile’s summer stop schedule, but before I could start working on it, I heard the ding of an incoming e-mail.

It was from Holly: That darn Eddie. I’m okay blaming him if Josh is.

Ten seconds later, there was another ding. This one was from Josh. He’s a pretty big cat, so yeah, I bet he can take the blame.

And just as I finished reading that e-mail, a second one came in from Josh. But it was really the new video game I bought yesterday. I was up half the night figuring it out. Sorry.

And then came the final one from Holly: And Wilson has an earache, so I’m sorry, too.

Smiling, I went back to my spreadsheet, a little surprised at how happy their e-mails made me. Reassurances, apparently, were a good thing.

• • •

By lunchtime, I decided that if I could add another reassurance or two to my life, it could only be a better thing. My conversation with Kristen the night before about families and siblings had combined with my lack of sleep to trigger a question that needed answering by two different people.

My previous research had given me the phone numbers I needed, and as I walked out the library door, I thumbed on my cell and pushed the proper buttons for calling person number one.

“Good morning, Denver Fire Investigation Unit.”

“Hi,” I said. “Can I speak to Dennis Gill, please?”

“Is Captain Gill expecting your call?”

I blinked at the title but remained undaunted. “No, but it’s about his father’s estate.” Sort of.

“One moment, please.”

The phone went silent. I was just starting to assume that I’d be dumped into voice mail when the silence ended. “This is Dennis Gill. How can I help you?”

I introduced myself the same way I’d done with his older brother, said that I’d been a friend of his father’s, was sorry for his loss, and that I was calling because I’d heard a developer was trying to convince them to sell the property.

There was a chance that Mike had told his brothers about my phone call, but it had sounded as if they didn’t talk often, so there wasn’t much risk I’d get called on it. Besides, I could always say that I’d heard more rumors about the property being sold and just wanted to double-check.

This was all because I’d realized, at three in the morning, that taking the word of a complete stranger about what could be a very lucrative development deal might not have given me an accurate picture of reality.

“Sell Mom and Dad’s place?” Dennis asked. “That’s the furthest thing from our minds. Yeah, we could probably make a bundle selling it to Stanton, but with Dad gone, we’ve decided we need to make a real effort to get together. It’s too easy to let the years go by, you know?”

I murmured that keeping up the house might be an expensive endeavor, and that property taxes didn’t usually go down.

“Sure,” Dennis said, “but Dad left behind some decent assets. With some investment luck, the income will pay for everything and maybe even a little more.”

“That sounds great.” I paused, then said, “I think your dad would have been very pleased to hear all this.”

He gusted out a sigh. “I hope so. He was hard to figure out sometimes. Not a big talker, even when Mom was still alive.”

I smiled, thinking of Henry’s typical communication-by-grunt. “No, but he was a master at getting his point across in one syllable or less. Best ever, if you ask me.”

Dennis laughed. “Thanks for calling, Minnie. And let me know if you hear more rumors about the property being sold. I’d like to know where they’re coming from.”

I promised I would and ended the call. One down, one to go, and I was only halfway to downtown. Plenty of time for another. I thumbed the phone again.

“Northeast Networks, how may I direct your call?”

“Kevin Gill, please.”

“One moment.”

I got an earful of a techno version of “You Are My Sunshine” and was on the verge of deciding to call back later when the music broke off and a man said, “This is Kevin.”

Two minutes later, Kevin Gill was laughing. “Sell Mom and Dad’s place? Not a chance. Mike and Dennis and I practically made a blood oath that condos won’t go on that property in our lifetimes.”

I smiled. “What about your children?”

“You know, we talked about that,” he said. “I have a buddy who’s an attorney and he says if we really want to lock up the property we should think about adding deed restrictions. We just might do it, too,” he added thoughtfully. “And if we tie up Dad’s money in a trust, make all the money go to the maintenance and taxes for the place, we can guarantee it’ll stay in the family.”

I wondered how that might work a few generations down the line, when there might be dozens of Gills, but there are only so many things anyone needed to think about, even me, so I thanked Kevin and let the thought go.