Laurie Cass - Bookmobile Cat 02 - Tailing a Tabby (21 page)

That didn’t make sense. “But you’ve already talked to him. It’s Randall Moffit.”

Deputy Wolverson started to say something but stopped and looked at Inwood. When he nodded, the deputy went on. “He has a solid alibi for the time of the murder.”

“Sure, but he could have hired someone else to do that.” How, I didn’t know, but if he had buddies that
would paint their bodies in Tigers blue, maybe he had a friend good enough to commit murder for him. “Moffit must have been the one who was following her around to Crown and Trock’s TV set. Did you check his alibi for those days?”

The detective sighed, so I knew they hadn’t. “And what about the phone call that lured Cade to Carissa’s house?” I persisted. “Did you ever check up on that?”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Hamilton,” he said, “but we’ve found no proof it was ever made.”

My mouth went dry. “But maybe it was a landline call. A local one. That doesn’t mean it was never made. You can’t prove a negative.” I could see I was losing the detective’s interest and started talking faster. “But local calls do show up somewhere. I mean, they must, right? Every call is routed through computers, and computers keep track of everything. It’s just a matter of getting the data.”

Inwood stood. “Thanks for your input, Ms. Hamilton. And please drop that note off at the sheriff’s office tomorrow morning. Have a good night.”

He walked off, the deputy followed, and I was left alone with nothing but my own frightened thoughts to keep me company.

I
pushed away my fears for Cade. There had to be something I could do. I had to find something that the police had missed. Only… how? I sat on the quiet bench, thinking hard, watching people walk past and cars drive by.

Cars. I smiled. Got it.

I pulled my cell out of my purse to check the time. If high-end car dealerships kept hours similar to downtown merchants, I had almost half an hour until closing.

Bright lights shone out the windows of Talcott Motors. Half a dozen people wandered about inside the showroom, some obviously potential customers, others just as obviously salespeople. And, through an open doorway, I spotted Jari.

Perfect. I unbuckled my seat belt and was half out of the car, half not, when a
Ring! Ring!
sounded at my left ear.

“Hello, Minnie, dear!” It was Zofia on the rear seat of a bicycle built for two. In the front was a white-haired man who looked vaguely familiar.

Zofia waved gaily, the jewels on her ringed hand flashing in the setting sun. “How nice to see you. Do you know Claude? He has a summer home across the street from your aunt. Claude, this is Minnie, the young lady who drives the bookmobile.”

Claude and I nodded at each other and made nice-to-meet-you noises as Zofia talked on. “I’ve been having so much fun this summer and it’s all thanks to your aunt Frances.”

“It is?”

Zofia smiled fondly at the man sitting in front of her. “If she didn’t live where she did, Claude and I would never have met.”

“A tragedy,” Claude said, turning to pat her hand. “It would have been a tragedy.”

“Oh,” I said lamely. Remembering my promise to my aunt, I mustered up one last effort. “Leo will be so disappointed, don’t you think?”

Zofia made a rude noise. “Haven’t you seen the goo-goo eyes he and Paulette have been giving each other for weeks? Open your eyes, young lady, and you shall see.” She flung her arms out, palms up. “A wonderful world is out there, just waiting for us to discover it!”

Laughing, I said, “I hope I can be just like you when I grow up.”

“My dear, you can be anything you’d like.” Zofia blew me a kiss. “Toodle-oo!”

Smiling, I waved and watched them pedal off, their feet rotating in tandem.

“Minnie?”

I turned. “Hey, Jari.” All things come to those who are willing to wait outside in a parking lot for a little while. “Can I talk to you?”

•   •   •

A few minutes later, we were sitting on tall stools at a high table in a local drinking establishment. If I stretched, the tips of my toes brushed the stool’s top rung.

“What can I get for you ladies?” asked a long-haired young man with a notepad in his hand. He went away with two drink orders; a cosmopolitan for Jari and a sedate glass of house red for me. I glanced about, knowing there was no possible way that Kristen would be here, but leery that she might have spies out. If she heard I was drinking a house red, she’d try to force me to eat something horrible, like shiitake mushrooms.

Jari and I made idle chat about the weather, the summer crowds, and the upcoming winter until our drinks showed up. “Cheers.” Jari held up her glass.

“Cheers.” I sipped cautiously at my wine. A little sweet, not much depth, but not too horrible. Thanks to Kristen, I was learning something about wine, but not enough to ruin my enjoyment of a cheap glass of the stuff. The best of both worlds.

Jari took a large swallow of her reddish drink, started to put it down, then took another large swallow. “That’s exactly what I needed,” she said. “You wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had.”

“Brush-off Bob giving you a hard time?”

She blinked. “Who?”

I explained the nickname and she threw her head back and let loose with a huge laugh. “That’s perfect,” she said, wiping her eyes carefully with a small square napkin. “Just perfect. Do you have names for the other guys?”

“Not yet.”

“Maybe I’ll try to come up with my own. There’s got
to be something good that rhymes with Tim.” She sipped at her drink. “What was it you wanted, anyway? Something else about Carissa, I suppose.” Her newly lighthearted demeanor slipped a bit.

“I’m afraid so.”

Her shoulders heaved; once, then again. Finally she looked up. “Okay. Fire away.”

I had a number of things to ask but thought I’d start with an easy one. “Carissa’s obituary said she’d gone to Wayne State. Do you know what degree she had?”

“Pharmacy,” Jari said. “She’d been a pharmacist ever since she got out of school, but she said she got tired of counting pills and all the insurance hassles. One of the reasons she moved up here was to get away from all that.”

“Don’t pharmacists make quite a bit of money?” More than librarians, I was sure.

“Yeah, I guess. She’d saved a lot, so probably. I asked her once if she thought she’d ever go back to it, but she said she was having more fun selling cars than she ever had handing out medications, so who knows?” Jari shrugged.

“That big Petoskey stone of hers must have cost a lot of money,” I mused out loud, then could have kicked myself. Well, maybe Jari hadn’t heard exactly how Carissa was killed.

“Oh, she didn’t buy that,” Jari said. “Her ex-boyfriend, the Weasel? He gave it to her. She thought it was about the prettiest thing she’d ever seen, so she always had it on the table in her living room.”

Which made it an easy choice for a murder weapon. Right there on display, and quieter than a handgun
with the bonus of no registration. “And you never knew the Weasel’s name?” I asked.

“The police wanted to know that, too, but like I told you before, I never knew it.”

“Do you know where he works?” I asked. If I knew where Randall Moffit worked, maybe I could find out who his buddies were and figure out if any of them would be the type to—

“No idea,” Jari said. “Downstate is all I know.”

Downstate? But Randall lived near Chilson. “Are you sure?”

“You bet. I think half the reason Carissa moved up here was to get away from him.” She spun her glass around. “He must have had a good job because she said he gave her lots of nice stuff, but she didn’t like the way he tried to control her. Weird, since they only dated for a few weeks. Carissa said she was embarrassed about how stupid she was to go out with a guy like that in the first place, so she didn’t tell anyone about him.”

“His name wasn’t Randall?”

Jari looked up at me. “You mean Randall Moffit? No, he came after the Weasel. That didn’t last long, though.”

She went on, talking about how Carissa hadn’t wanted to hurt Randall’s feelings, but my brain was locked in place.

The Weasel and Randall were two different people. There were two ex-boyfriends. Zofia had been right, my eyes truly had been closed. How long had they been that way?

And worse, what else had I been wrong about?

•   •   •

The next evening, after I’d had a determinedly cheerful telephone conversation with Tucker, Eddie and I sat out on the deck. We’d started with me on one chaise longue and him on the other, but he quickly decided that my lap was a better location.

He flopped onto my legs, curled into a large Eddie-ball, and started rumbling out a deep purr.

“So,” I said, petting him, “it’s time to tell Cade that I’ve failed completely to clear his name. I’m no closer to figuring out who the killer is now than when I started.”

Eddie opened one eye.

“Sad, but true,” I told him. “Yes, I know more about Carissa than I did, a lot more, but I still don’t know enough.”

I knew that she’d fled the traffic of downstate for the open roads of northern Michigan. I knew she’d been a pharmacist who’d left it all behind for selling expensive cars, and I knew she’d changed from the serious adolescent my brother had known to a woman who was intent on having a good time. And I knew she’d left behind at least two ex-boyfriends.

Had it been her bad experience with the Weasel that had made her want to take life less seriously? That she needed to have fun, that life wasn’t all work and no play?

Eddie yawned and stretched out, his front claws digging slightly into my skin.

I winced. “Watch it, buddy, those are sharp. Someone should clip them for you.” I thought about getting up and finding the clippers, but that would mean moving Eddie, and it just didn’t seem right.

“You know what else doesn’t seem right?” I asked. “That no one knows the Weasel’s name. How can that
be?” But maybe it wouldn’t have been that hard. If you lived alone in a city, didn’t have any neighbors you were friendly with, and weren’t good friends with your coworkers, there would be no reason for anyone to know the name of every guy you briefly dated.

“We need to find out who he is,” I murmured. Whoever he was, I wanted him to be the killer. I didn’t want it to be Greg or Trock or even Hugo. I wanted it to be someone I didn’t know.

Eddie’s tail flicked around, tickling me something fierce. “You can stop that anytime,” I told him, but since he was a cat, he kept flicking.

I tried to catch the end of his tail, but he tipped it out of reach every time. Finally I used both hands to trap it down against my leg. “Ha! Got you…”

My voice trailed off.

A trap?

I considered the idea. And found it good.

A trap.

There was only one little problem. How do you set a trap for someone when you don’t know where he lives? Or even his name?

•   •   •

I left Eddie with a small handful of treats and a new cat toy—one with bells inside that I’d probably regret giving him come two in the morning—and drove up to the care facility to talk to Cade. About ideas for setting a trap for the killer.

It was long past dinnertime, closing fast on sunset, and the halls were mostly empty. The only things moving were the always-busy staff and the birds in the showcase in the hallway a few doors down from Cade’s room.

I stopped to admire the bright colors of their feathers. That, as well as their merry chirping, was enough to lift anyone’s spirits. “And what’s your name?” I asked a little guy. His head poked out of a tiny nest just long enough to let me see his brilliantly blue plumage. “Let me guess. Blackie. No, Snowflake.”

“Sorry. He’s Chirpy.” A nurse’s aide was standing in front of a laptop computer on a cart, tapping away at whatever it is that aides have to tap away at. She hadn’t been there thirty seconds ago and I don’t know how she’d arrived so silently, but maybe that was something they taught you in the certification class.

“Chirpy?” I asked.

“Yeah, I know, not very original, but we let every resident who wanted to name a bird name it whatever they”—she broke off into a huge yawn—“Sorry. Whatever they wanted.”

I glanced at the birdhouse. There were dozens of the little guys in there, and a number of them looked exactly the same to me. “Um, how do you know which one is which?”

She tapped at the computer a few more times, then flipped the laptop shut and turned to me. “Don’t,” she said, nodding slightly.

I began to see the beauty of the plan. Smiling, I said, “I’m Minnie.”

“Heather,” she said, and yawned again. “Sorry. I just switched from working midnights and it’s taking me a while to get adjusted.”

I shuddered. People were meant to be in bed and sleeping from eleven to seven, not on their feet and working. However, I was very grateful there were people who could function on that kind of schedule, and I
was even more grateful that I wasn’t one of them. “I don’t even want to imagine,” I said.

“Oh, it’s not so bad. Like they say, the only thing you miss working midnights is sleep. I could get to all my kids’ concerts and soccer games, no problem. I didn’t always stay awake, but I was there.” She grinned, and the resulting lines around her mouth made me revise her age up a few years.

“I always thought working midnights would be a little, you know.” I hesitated, then said it. “Creepy.”

She shook her head. “Not to me. Most everyone is asleep; you can chart without an interruption, practically. The best thing about midnights is that it’s quiet. Peaceful, even.”

I’d never thought about it that way, and said so.

She nodded. “And the shift differential is nice.” She rubbed her thumb across the tips of her fingers. “But the kids are older now, and my husband sleeps better when I’m home, so I switched over. Still, I kind of miss how nice and quiet midnights are. At least most of the time.” A darkness shaded her face. “Of course, it’s not all puppies and kittens. Sometimes…” Her voice trailed off and she glanced over her shoulder. Toward Cade’s room.

Inside my head, dawn broke, even if it was almost sunset. This must be the aide who’d told the police that Cade was in bed the night of Carissa’s murder. This was the woman whose statement was a critical part of keeping Cade out of jail.

“I stopped by,” I said, “to visit Russell McCade.”

“You know Cade?” Heather’s smile was wide. “I’ve been a fan for years, since I was a kid. The first real picture I ever bought was one of his prints. I’d love to
have one of his real paintings. They’re so lifelike they almost jump off the wall. Maybe someday I’ll be able to afford a little one.”

She looked wistful and I didn’t say that if I didn’t get something figured out, her wish might come true sooner than she might guess. “He’s one of the residents you’re assigned to?” I asked.

“I was so lucky. He’s such a nice man you wouldn’t think that he’s such a famous artist. I mean, people all over the world know who he is.” Her eyes were wide. “He said he’s sold paintings to people in over fifty different countries. I’m not sure I could even name fifty countries.”

My new friend seemed a trifle dazzled by Cade’s fame. I wondered if she’d act the same way around Trock Farrand. Or Greg Plassey, come to think of it. “He does have a lot of talent,” I said.

Heather nodded vigorously. “Tons and tons of it. People like him should be given breaks, don’t you think?”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t you think that people with that much talent should be given more leeway than other people?”

I didn’t, actually, but the hallway of a medical care facility wasn’t really the place to begin that kind of discussion. “Well…”