Shirley Murphy - Murphy_Shirley_Rousseau_Cat_Telling_Tales_BookFi

Emmylou couldn’t lock the bedroom slider once she’d pried it open and stepped inside Alain Bent’s house. She pushed it shut and closed the draperies over it, making sure there was no crack for light to shine out. There was no one back there in the woods, surely no one to hear her prying metal against metal as she’d jimmied the door, but still she was nervous. She had parked on a little side street down the hill where her car might not be noticed. The house was stuffy inside, and cold. Moving up the hall, she found the thermostat, she felt a thrill of satisfaction as she turned it up to nearly eighty and heard the furnace click on. She wondered if the water heater had been turned down, too. She made a quick tour of the house to be sure she was alone, then returned to the master bath, with its peach-tinted tiles and peach-colored marble, and ran the hot tap in the basin.

When the water ran hot she smiled, shed her clothes, dropping them on the floor, turned the shower on full blast and got in, luxuriating in the hot water and steam. She stayed in a long time, scrubbed real good and washed her hair. When at last she came out she found a thick towel in one of the drawers, and dried off beneath the heat blowing from the furnace vent. Moving into the bedroom, she pulled a blanket off the bed, draped it around herself and tucked it in. Carrying her clothes into the alcove by the kitchen, she found the laundry soap and threw them in the washer, jeans, shirt, socks, panties, everything. While the wash ran she ransacked the kitchen cupboards. Finding canned soups and fruit, she pulled a saucepan from a lower cupboard, warmed a can of black bean soup, and opened a can of apricots. She had found the bowls and was gulping her breakfast when she heard the bedroom slider open—she was so startled she burned her mouth on a big spoonful of soup. She half rose, pulling her blanket tighter, looking to the front door for escape.

She was too late. One second’s hesitation, and here came a woman down the hall, silent and quick, a tall woman dressed in jeans and sweatshirt, long dark hair down around her shoulders, and she was wearing a holstered gun. Emmylou had seen her around town, but only in uniform. Cop. Woman cop. She stepped to the table.

“Having breakfast?”

Emmylou stared at her.

“Smells good. I guess you’re doing a load of laundry, too?”

Emmylou said, “You were down at Sammie Miller’s house. What’s happened down there? How did you know I was in here?”

“Someone saw smoke, they thought it was from the chimney. I came up to see if Alain had returned.” She glanced down over the rail at the cold fireplace. “I guess what they saw was hot air from the furnace vent.”

Kathleen didn’t mention that Ryan Flannery had already come up here to have a look, had circled the house and then slipped inside while Emmylou was in the shower. Kathleen didn’t mention—because she didn’t know—that it was not, in fact, Ryan who had first spied the white trail rising up from the chimney, it was Joe Grey. He saw the condensation, alerted Ryan, and, because Kathleen was busy with the CSI technicians, she’d walked up the snowy street, walked along the front of the house and through the patio, had knocked then rang the bell. When no one answered, and she could hear water running, she’d gone around to the back, found the glass slider to the master bedroom jimmied, the frame bent, the door not quite closed, and a crowbar lying inside tucked against the wall. After slipping in to look, which she knew was foolish, after seeing that it was only Emmylou in there, she’d called Kathleen on her cell.

Ryan had remained in the bedroom while Kathleen cleared the house. She could hear them talking, Kathleen and Emmylou, she heard the washer stop and in a moment the clothes dryer kicked on. When Kathleen came back down the hall, her expression was both annoyed and amused; the detective had trouble, sometimes, maintaining the unreadable façade of a seasoned cop. “Emmylou’s having breakfast. Wrapped in a blanket, cozy as a cat in a basket.”

“It was pretty cold last night,” Ryan said, straight-faced. She followed Kathleen into the kitchen, where Emmylou had found some tea and had put a saucepan of water on to heat. They watched her drop teabags into three cups. She poured hot water over them, looking up inquiringly. Kathleen nodded, and they sat down at the table, Kathleen facing both the front door and the hall. It might be out of order for an arresting officer to socialize with someone breaking and entering, but Ryan didn’t think, from Emmylou’s behavior, that Kathleen had made an arrest. The detective was watchful and silent—there was something in the moment as tentative and frail as a whisper.

Did Emmylou know that was Sammie Miller down there? Ryan wondered. Was that what this was about? Was she on the verge of identifying the body without ever seeing it? Or even, perhaps, on the verge of confessing to killing her? Ryan remained still, sipping her tea, trying not to telegraph her interest, trying to keep her thoughts, her whole demeanor, blank and withdrawn.

Whatever their individual thoughts, none of the three women, not even the detective, was aware of movement in the master bedroom, of someone else slipping in through the glass door and down the hall to listen: an intruder padding stealthily, his shadow low to the floor; no one heard the hush of his soft paws.

Joe slipped closer through the shadows of the hall, crouching where he could see all three women. Now, he realized, Alain Bent’s house was an adjunct to the case, a part of the crime scene: It had been broken into at least twice by players in this tangle, once when Debbie searched it, and again this morning by Emmylou—to say nothing of the phantom snitches. With this much interest, one had to wonder what the connection was, what was here of such value, or what had been here? What did Debbie, and Emmylou, think was hidden here? How did their interest tie in with the murders, and with Alain’s absence? How, in fact, might this house play out in the scenario of Hesmerra’s death? Kathleen was saying, “We’d like you to have a look at the body, Emmylou, see if you can identify the woman.”

“You think it’s Sammie,” Emmylou said, her face going pink as if with suppressed tears. “Who else would be buried there, under Sammie’s own house? When did this happen? I saw her two weeks ago, and I’ve been up here nearly every day since, looking for her cats. Was she lying there all that time?”

Kathleen said, “You told Officer Brennan you had a key. I’m surprised you didn’t stay there in the house, as cold as it’s been. You’ve been living in your car?”

“She kept the key under the porch. I told the officers it wasn’t there, that it’s gone. Yes, I broke in but when I saw the mess I was afraid to stay there, someone’s been in there. Maybe only raccoons, maybe not. Someone has the key, and that scares me.”

Kathleen said, “If the body is Sammie Miller, did she have family, someone to be notified?”

“No one,” Emmylou said. “Just her brother, and Birely would be hard to find. He does have a cell phone, the number’s in Sammie’s Rolodex, you could try that. He doesn’t have a home, he calls himself a hobo, he comes to the village now and then and phones her, that’s why she bought him the prepaid phone. She meets him down near the river, the homeless camp there. Or up at the bridge where they all camp in bad weather.” She looked evenly at Kathleen. “There’s no one else who cares about Sammie. No friends I know of, only me.”

“Which bridge is that?” Kathleen said.

“The one on Valley Road, just off Highway One, just above the market where Sammie worked, where I used to work.” Her answer brought Joe Grey’s ears up. He rose, slipped down the hall where he could better watch Emmylou from the shadows.