The Persian Always Meows Twice Page 2

  I’d picked this town for a few reasons. Some practical, some emotional.

  One of my high school friends, Dawn Tischler, operated a successful health food store just a few blocks from my new place. Visiting her over the years, I’d noticed that Chadwick was starting to “take off,” becoming a desirable spot for urban and suburban folks who wanted to get away from it all for an afternoon or a weekend. It had sprouted a couple of bed-and-breakfasts, several antique and craft shops, a cute retro diner, and a few more upscale restaurants. Driving along Center Street, I passed an old theater that a local group recently had revived to show classic films. To the lakeside park, the town had added walking trails and a Victorian gazebo, where they’d planned a new series of concerts this spring.

  Four months ago, when I’d decided to open my business, I’d also been one of those harried suburbanites who badly needed to get away from it all. My last romantic relationship had come to a disastrous and even violent end, and I wanted nothing more than to escape to a setting that promised peace and safety.

  More trees and shrubs brightened my drive toward the outskirts of town with that unreal Day-Glo green of early spring. I rolled down my windows to better appreciate the clean, unpolluted air. I enjoyed the smell even when I passed the occasional small farm with grazing cows or horses. These alternated with new developments that boasted old-world names like Hunter’s Chase and Regency Estates, trying to sound exclusive and expensive. I hoped the McMansion trend wouldn’t creep any closer to Chadwick. I preferred the town’s more genuine, historical appeal, even if it did come with a few mice or roof leaks.

  Arriving at DeLeuw’s place, I pulled into the long, curving driveway and parked in front of the detached garage, next to his silver Mercedes sedan. The front lawn was a perfect swath of emerald-green velour, kept that way by Louis, his landscaper, and smelled freshly mowed; as I left my car, I heard the whine of some type of machinery farther back on the property. Toting my duffle, I started around the front of the house, where purple and white crocuses peeked out from beneath the dark foundation shrubs.

  Something else, cream-colored, flashed under the bushes and rustled away. Too fluffy and pretty to be any type of wild animal.

  I set down my bag quietly and sank to my knees. “Harpo? That you, boy?”

  It was him, all right, flattened beneath one of the bushes, his coppery eyes round and scared. Of course he would be—George had told me he never let the cat outside. Harpo must have darted out when somebody, maybe Anita, had opened the door.

  I fished some cat treats from my duffle and made whispering noises until the Persian finally crept toward me. After a couple of minutes, I lured him close enough to scoop him up in my arms. Being about one-third fur, he was lighter than he looked.

  “Let’s get you back inside.” I carried both my bag and the cat to the front stoop and started to ring the bell, then noticed the door stood a few inches ajar.

  Weird . . . somebody was being very careless, for sure. I pushed the door open and called out, “Hello?”

  No answer. Harpo began to fidget, so I stepped inside anyway and put him down. He trotted off, feet padding silently over the marble tiles of the entry hall, and I followed him. With his heightened senses of smell and hearing, he probably would know where to find whoever was at home. Ideally, his master.

  I was right about that. The cat passed a couple of open doorways before he veered into what I’d always taken to be the study.

  There, we both found George DeLeuw sprawled facedown on the Oriental carpet, a bloody gash across the back of his head.

  Chapter 2

  I stood paralyzed for a full minute, and only snapped out of it when Harpo crept forward and nosed around his master’s head. I stooped to push the cat away and, while I was down there, checked to see if the man might still have a pulse.

  After college, while pondering career options, I’d put in a few months as a vet tech, so I’m less squeamish about medical things than some people might be. I did not want to turn DeLeuw over to search for the artery in his neck, though, so I tried his wrist.

  No flutter of life. Anyway, his skin already had started to cool.

  As if the cold had spread from him to me, I started to tremble. Before this, I’d seen dead people only in coffins, and had plenty of time to prepare myself. Much different to walk into a man’s house, someone I expected to find perfectly well, and come across him like . . . this. It just seemed unreal.

  A horrible scream shredded my eardrums and sent Harpo skittering away. Anita stood frozen in the doorway, her normally toasty complexion almost as pale as her apron. “Dios mío! What . . . what . . . happened?”

  I sensed that she’d almost asked, What did you do? Realizing how guilty I must have looked, I sprang to my feet and backed away from the body. “I don’t know. I had an appointment. I found Harpo out front and the door open. I brought him inside and he led me . . . here.”

  “Is Mister . . . is he . . .”

  “G-gone, I’m afraid.”

  Anita dared to steal a little closer and I made way for her. “He . . . had accident?” I heard tears in her voice.

  “I don’t think so.” The closest stairs were out in the hall, and there wasn’t anything nearby that could have fallen on him. Did he pass out and hit his head on some furniture? Again, nothing close by could have made that kind of wound. Besides, would he have landed facedown?

  The housekeeper reached out, possibly to turn him over, but I stopped her. “Don’t touch anything. I’ll call the police.”

  She stared at me. “You think that somebody did this?”

  “If there’s even a chance of that, we shouldn’t disturb the scene.” At least I’d learned something useful, I guess, from all those mystery novels and cop shows on TV.

  I pulled out my phone and made the call. Meanwhile, Louis the landscaper, whom I’d seen from a distance but never met, came down the hall from the back entrance. The fit young black man, his green EDEN LANDSCAPING polo shirt lightly stained with perspiration, stopped in the study doorway when he saw Anita and me.

  “Did one of you scream?” Then he looked past us and saw the reason. “What the—”

  “Oh, Louis!” Anita burst into tears, crossed to him, and huddled against his shoulder. Louis took the fortyish woman in a kindly but awkward embrace, as if they weren’t normally on such close terms. She explained what little I’d been able to tell her.

  Meanwhile I told the two of them, “The police are on their way. Why don’t we go wait in . . . some other part of the house?” Lord knows, there were plenty of other parts to choose from.

  The three of us moved across the hall to what I assumed would have been called the great room. Like the study, this larger and brighter space had moldings, a fireplace, and a coffered ceiling all in a dark, polished wood. It was obviously designed for entertaining a large, and sophisticated, group. While the study revolved around George’s desk, this room offered a central seating area of light, neutral, upholstered pieces that threw the emphasis on the artworks. And those were everywhere you looked. A big, abstract, multicolored drawing hung over the fireplace; a black geometric steel construction stood on a corner pedestal; and a glass sculpture like a wavy jellyfish rested on the low coffee table next to a small ancient-looking Oriental chest.

  Anita, Louis, and I sat on the beige sectional, at discreet distances from one another.

  Louis clasped his hands on his knees and shook his head. “Somebody killed DeLeuw? That’s crazy. Why?”

  “A thief !” Anita decided. “They must’ve tried to steal money, or maybe one of his art pieces. Mr. DeLeuw surprise them, an’ they—” She mimed the killer bringing down a bludgeon on her employer’s head.

  I didn’t find fault with her theory, since we were all upset and knew far too little to draw any conclusions. But DeLeuw couldn’t have been facing his killer; he’d been hit from behind. It would take a very brave or stupid burglar to break into a house in midafternoon, with the owner and
two of the staff on the premises. Also, judging from the keypad near the door, the place had a sophisticated alarm system. But the killer didn’t need to jimmy a window if somebody had let him in.

  Did Anita, and was she covering up now for her lapse in judgment? Or did DeLeuw himself open the front door? He only would have let in someone he trusted . . . most likely, someone he knew.

  * * *

  Detective Angela Bonelli of the Chadwick Police Department appeared to be thinking along the same lines. While her crime scene unit photographed the body and did whatever else they had to in the study, she took first Anita, then Louis, then me into the great room for questioning. She sat across from me on the chaise extension of the beige sectional, keeping her posture erect despite the soft cushions. Her powder-blue shirt barely softened the effect of her severe navy pantsuit and dark chin-length hair threaded with gray.

  “You’re a professional cat groomer.” Her nearly black, heavy-lidded eyes locked on mine, and she paused her pen over her notebook as if waiting for the punch line. “I thought they groomed themselves.”

  “Yes and no. There are many situations . . .” But I could see Detective Bonelli wasn’t interested in my usual sales pitch. “Longhaired cats, like Mr. DeLeuw’s Persian, often need extra care so they don’t get matted. I’ve been coming out here to work on Harpo every other week.” In case that didn’t sound legit enough, I also mentioned my boarding facility in downtown Chadwick.

  Her skeptical air began to dissolve. “Oh yeah, I’ve driven past that place. You can see cats inside, at the back, sitting up high on shelves.”

  I smiled and nodded, hoping I’d established myself as a law-abiding resident and businessperson.

  “You said you found the body?” she asked.

  I explained the order of events. Meanwhile, in the corner of my vision, I saw a uniformed officer in the hallway going through my duffle. Was he looking for the murder weapon? After a second of panic, I decided nothing that I’d brought along was heavy or sharp enough to have caused DeLeuw’s head wound, even if swung with great force.

  “Did you and the deceased have any differences?” The detective still held eye contact with me in a way that made me squirm.

  “None at all. We didn’t have a lot of personal conversation, but he did like to stay in the studio while I worked on Harpo. He was interested in learning my technique.” Did that sound arrogant, or even suggestive? I twisted my hands together, then worried that Bonelli might read my tension as a sign of guilt. “I liked Mr. DeLeuw because he seemed genuinely concerned about his cat. And because he put me on a regular schedule, he was a valuable customer. I’m very sorry to lose him.”

  “Did he ever discuss his work with you?” she asked.

  That surprised me a little. “No, never. After he hired me, I got curious and Googled him, so I know he ‘semi-retired’ last year from a big-deal Wall Street job. But most of the time we talked about his cat, and cats in general. And sometimes about art, because I minored in art in college, and he has such an amazing collection.”

  “Were you familiar with his collection? When you came in today, did you notice anything missing?”

  I suppose she had to ask that question, but it was a stretch. I shook my head. “He’s got so much, I never would have noticed. And after I found . . . the body, I pretty much blanked out on anything else.”

  For the moment, Detective Bonelli appeared satisfied that I had not bludgeoned George to make off with one of his Franz Kline lithographs or Peruvian fertility figures. Is that what they expected to find in my duffle?

  Still, she asked, “Do we have your permission to search your car before you leave?”

  Hoping no one had stashed stolen artwork in my hatch while my back was turned, I agreed. I handed over my keys, which Bonelli passed to one of her officers.

  “You said you’ve only been in town a few months,” she recalled, looking over her notes. “How did you decide to move to Chadwick?”

  I explained that I’d been influenced by my friend Dawn’s success with her store and the fact that the town seemed to be on the upswing. “Also, with wealthier people moving to the neighborhoods nearby—like this one—I thought I should be able to build a good customer base.”

  Bonelli doesn’t need to know that I also wanted to put some distance between me and my abusive ex-boyfriend. After all, that’s got nothing to do with DeLeuw’s murder.

  “And you live alone?”

  “Yes, if you don’t count my own three cats.”

  Though it was a sensible question, under the circumstances, I couldn’t help thinking the detective sounded a bit like my mother. Or like Dawn, who kept trying to find a new guy for me. Even my handyman, Nick, had hinted more than once that I should meet his son, Dion. “He’s an electronic genius and almost thirty. But he spends his weekends holed up in our basement, doing who knows what on his computers. Understands them better than women, I guess.”

  So far I’d tactfully dodged that matchup, because I prefer someone who’s good with living things. Like maybe Dr. Mark Coccia, the very cute vet at the clinic a few blocks from my shop. I’d first met him when I dropped by to ask if the clinic would display some brochures for my business, and saw him a second time when I brought in a rescue cat that needed medical care more than grooming. I had no idea, though, whether Dr. Mark was spoken for.

  Detective Bonelli snapped me out of this reverie with a few more personal questions about my age and background, including how I’d been able to afford my shop. I explained that I’d inherited a little money when my father passed away and also I’d qualified for a small business loan. She finally seemed satisfied that I wasn’t the type of girl who went around endearing myself to wealthy men who could bankroll my business. . . then bumped them off when I got tired of them.

  At last, the detective closed her notepad with a mild warning that I should stay in the area in case she had more questions, and I assured her I’d be tethered to my shop for the near future.

  Following me into the front hall, she added, “Please stop by the station downtown on your way home, to give a statement,” she said. “We’d also appreciate it if you’d let us fingerprint you. Just so we can determine if anyone was in the house this morning who didn’t have a legitimate reason to be here.”

  I agreed, figuring that if I refused to give my prints, it would only make me look more like a suspect.

  A subtle glance at my watch reminded me how late it was. The cats back home—the boarders and my own—would be wailing for their dinners. Now that I’d recovered a bit from the vision of George bleeding onto his exotic carpet, my stomach was starting to complain too.

  The crime scene guys had finished going over the front hall powder room, so I got permission from Bonelli to use it. When I glanced in the mirror, I understood better why she’d her doubts about me. I wore jeans and a CAT HERDER sweatshirt, my usual grooming apparel, with my faded denim jacket. Several long brown strands had drifted loose from my ponytail, and my hazel eyes peered like a wild animal’s through my overgrown bangs. What little makeup I’d put on that morning no longer helped to relieve my pallor.

  A sudden commotion outside in the hall startled me, because in spite of the tragedy, everyone had been acting subdued and respectful. I eased open the powder room door and saw a dark-haired man, probably in his late thirties and only about my height, demanding to know what had happened and who was in charge. He wore a blazer that gave a business twist to his khakis and T-shirt. When Bonelli hurried over to intercept him, the newcomer announced that he was “Jerrold Ross, executive assistant to Mr. DeLeuw.”

  I stepped into the hall but kept a low profile. So this was the same guy I’d dealt with that first time on the phone. I’d never seen Ross in person before, but I might have known him anyway from his overall air of impatience. On the other hand, he did seem genuinely shocked to hear of his employer’s death.

  “I just spoke to George on the phone maybe two hours ago!”

  “Yes,
” Bonelli responded calmly. “We think he expired not long after that.”

  The sight of the forensic team clustered just outside the study fanned Ross’s agitation. “My God, what was it? A heart attack or—”

  “We’re not sure yet.” A couple of inches taller than the assistant, Bonelli steered him away toward the family room. “Please come with me. You can help by telling us whatever you may know about Mr. DeLeuw’s schedule for today . . . especially any appointments he may have had here at the house.”

  “Huh? Oh yeah. Of course.” As if dazed with grief, Ross let her lead him across the hall. If he was so upset by the idea of George dying of a heart attack, I could only imagine how he’d react when Bonelli told him it almost certainly was murder.

  I preferred not to be around when that happened, so I reclaimed my duffle and made for the front door. En route I passed poor Anita, who sat in one of those stately chairs that rich people put in their front halls, mostly for show. The almost medieval-looking throne made a strange contrast with the sleek white pedestal next to it, which displayed an abstract sculpture—a foot-tall piece of jagged stone like an oversized arrowhead. Anita had straightened her spine against the tall back of the chair and curled her hands tightly around the ends of the arms, her expression also tightly controlled.

  “I’m so sorry. This must be such a shock for you.” Remembering she also had been questioned as a possible suspect, I added, “I hope everything works out okay.”

  Anita nodded her thanks.

  “Where’s Harpo?” I asked.

  By shifting her focus, I guess, the question relaxed her a little. “I put him up in the studio. I should go feed him. Maybe the police will let me now.”

  “Poor cat, I’m sure he’s wondering what the heck is going on.”

  Anita managed a crooked smile. “So am I!”

  I stooped to give her a quick hug, handed her my business card, and told her to call if she needed anything. Then I let myself out, past another uniformed cop.