The Persian Always Meows Twice Page 6

  Nick had gone back to working under the stairs, so his face was half-hidden, but his tone remained grim. “Maybe they already found it. They asked Dion about the artworks DeLeuw had around the place. Like, did he ever look at them, touch anything?” Finished with his repair, the handyman sat up and faced me with a puzzled expression. “But that doesn’t make sense either. How could you kill somebody with an artwork?”

  Nick didn’t charge me for the small repair and told me to save it for when he put in the new post. Once he left, I hurried back inside my shop to help Sarah return Mystique to her owner, Mrs. Nolan. The preppy-looking, fortyish woman commented on our grooming job, which brought a big smile to Sarah’s face and also gave me a boost. Debby Nolan had told me in the past that her Birman often won prizes at cat shows, and I knew that folks on the show circuit took their grooming uber-seriously. Maybe she’d recommend me to her friends!

  By now it was past five, so I thanked Sarah for doing a great job on her first full day, and joked that I hoped I’d see her again tomorrow.

  “You sure will,” she promised on her way out. “I enjoyed every minute.”

  I marveled at her energy, because even though I was about thirty years younger, I felt wiped out. All I wanted was to feed my cats, pull together an easy dinner for myself, and hit the sack early.

  Stress, I thought. Maybe a delayed reaction to the shock of yesterday.

  And now the cops suspected Dion Janos? It didn’t seem possible that a sweet guy like Nick could raise a son with that kind of temper.

  While I spooned out canned food for my three roommates, then stir-fried some leftover chicken and vegetables for myself, I thought some more about how ridiculous that whole theory sounded. The police thought someone clocked George with one of his own artworks? That head wound wasn’t made by a picture frame!

  Only later, after I’d dropped into bed and turned out the light, did I remember one piece in DeLeuw’s collection that could have done the deed. The foot-tall chunk of granite with one jagged edge, kind of like a giant arrowhead.

  But if someone had used that to kill DeLeuw, the motive couldn’t have been art theft. When I’d left George’s house yesterday, the sculpture had still been on its pedestal in the front hall.

  Chapter 7

  I may be strict about no-cats-in-the-bedroom-while-I’m-sleeping, but I’ll admit I’ve slacked off about cats on my dining table during meals. Cole and Matisse often try to join me, and no matter how often I remove them, one or both will sneak back up when I’m not looking. These days I let them as long as they keep their distance and don’t try to actually take food off my plate . . . or out of my mouth. Since I always feed them before I eat, that seems only fair. They know they’re banished when I have company, and I always wipe the table and put down a fresh cloth before another human joins me for dinner.

  Wednesday morning, Matisse meditated on the table facing me, front paws neatly rolled under her (the feline version of the lotus position). I ate whole-grain cereal with skimmed milk and raspberries while I scanned the national news on my laptop. I always check the local stories too, which was how I came across George DeLeuw’s obituary.

  Even though the same news source had carried the initial story about DeLeuw’s murder—or maybe for that reason—the obit made no mention of his violent death. It simply noted that the sixty-five-year-old had passed away on Monday at his home in Chadwick.

  The full article stated that DeLeuw was a managing director with Redmond & Fowler Securities Management in New York City, where he formerly served as chairman of Hetherington Mutual Funds. He had graduated with an MBA from Columbia Business School and held analyst and associate positions with a couple of investment banks before his rise to power on Wall Street. A columnist from a major business publication was quoted as saying, “Over the years, George DeLeuw developed an outstanding reputation for generating revenue for his corporate clients. He also stood out for his low-key, cooperative approach in a profession that often breeds mercurial temperaments and big egos.”

  In the words of Charles Schroeder, another managing director at Redmond & Fowler, “George’s business acumen was second to none, and was exceeded only by his high standards, which he never compromised.” The article explained that DeLeuw had divested himself of some responsibilities in recent years “to spend more time traveling and adding to his prestigious art collection.” He still kept his hand in, though, as an adviser on the boards of one major investment firm, of the Braff Museum of Art in New York, and of Encyte Cybersecurity, based in San Jose, California.

  The article concluded, “DeLeuw is survived by his sister, Danielle, of San Jose. He was predeceased by a daughter, Renée.”

  Intrigued, I made an electronic copy of the obituary. George had never mentioned any children, and to have one die young must have been a wrenching experience. I wondered how long ago that had happened and how old Renée had been.

  I searched under Redmond & Fowler, and among the dry reports from business magazines I found only one hint of scandal. A few years back, several Wall Street firms had been investigated for laundering money from drug cartels—cocaine from South America and heroin from Central Asia. One major international bank was found guilty, but because it was deemed “too big to fail,” it paid a fine to settle out of court. Investment-banking firms such as Redmond & Fowler also came under scrutiny during that period, but in the end the Justice Department could not find enough proof of wrongdoing to bring a case against them.

  One other detail that caught my eye in DeLeuw’s obit was the mention of the Silicon Valley cybersecurity firm. No doubt this was the connection that had led Nick Janos to decide that DeLeuw might be able to help Dion patent his innovative coding system.

  I guessed George’s autopsy had been completed, because his funeral was set for Thursday at a local cemetery, with viewings tomorrow morning and evening at the Dewey Funeral Home in Chadwick. I considered going. Would that look weird, since I barely knew the man? And would I feel weird, rubbing elbows with people who knew him far better, and whom I did not know at all, such as his business associates?

  Though, thanks to our chance meeting, I now sort of knew his sister, Danielle.

  Of course, sometimes family connections could be more problematic than helpful. In my e-mail queue, I found one from my mother with the subject line, “Blast from the Past.” That cheery title didn’t prepare me for her alarming message: “Guess who I ran into at Headquarters Plaza yesterday? Your old boyfriend Andy! He’s working there now as a ‘loss-prevention officer.’ I guess it’s like what he did at the mall, while you two were dating, but at least it’s a step up. He asked about you, of course, and I told him . . .”

  No, no, Mom! You didn’t—

  “. . . that you moved to Chadwick and started your own business. Andy sounded very impressed. Don’t be surprised if he looks you up one of these days. Just to wish you well, of course!”

  And she signed off with a damned wink emoticon.

  Jeez, why did she have to do that? I’d told her, when I’d first moved away and she’d mentioned Andy, not to ever tell him where to find me. But of course, the few times she’d met him she had really liked him. Also, she thought I was still mad over some small issue and just didn’t feel like talking to him. My fault, I guess, for letting her go on thinking that.

  He got a job in the same complex where my mom works? Was that just a coincidence?

  Maybe I’m panicking over nothing. With any luck, he’s totally given up on me by now. If he’s got a new job, maybe he’s also got a new girlfriend.

  Though if I knew that for sure, I’d be tempted to call the poor woman and warn her about Andy’s temper.

  Shutting off the computer, I showered, dressed, and welcomed Sarah’s arrival. We had a fairly busy day to distract me from my worries.

  Linda, a plump, bushy-haired young woman, brought in a fourteen-year-old Abyssinian with kidney problems named Ali. She gave us prescription food to tide him over while he board
ed for a week. She’d had him since her high school days and obviously loved the old guy a lot. Fortunately, the cat was not so far along that he needed any medical procedures, such as subcutaneous fluids. We don’t handle anything that tricky, and I would have had to refer her to the clinic.

  “I’m so glad you only take cats,” Linda told me on her way out. “I boarded Ali once at a place full of barking dogs, and he was a nervous wreck by the time I got him home.”

  Smiling, I told her that was a common problem, and one of the reasons I’d decided to specialize.

  Sarah and I groomed the lean, chestnut-colored cat before putting him in his cage. His health problems made his coat dry and dull, but a gentle brushing did improve it somewhat, and Ali seemed to appreciate the attention.

  Again, I noticed how kindly Sarah dealt with all the animals, and asked her, “Do you have any cats of your own?”

  “Not right now,” she said. “I did when I was younger, and while my husband was alive, we sometimes fostered kittens for the local shelter. The little ones have so much energy, though!” She rolled her eyes and laughed. “I’m not sure I’m up to chasing after them anymore. But sometimes I do miss the company of a pet around the house.”

  “You just need an older, quieter cat,” I advised. “There are a lot of nice ones stuck in shelters, because so many people prefer kittens.”

  “Maybe so,” Sarah said noncommittally.

  While we settled Ali into his temporary home, with a bowl of water and his special food, my cell phone vibrated. My mother again.

  Better answer, so you can nip her new scheme in the bud! I took the phone to the back of the grooming area for privacy.

  “Did you get my message?” she asked coyly.

  Her tone irritated me, but I tried to be patient. “Yes. Mom, I understand you probably were caught off guard, running into Andy like that. But I specifically asked you not to tell him where I’d moved to or what I’m doing these days.”

  “Oh, honestly. I just told him you’d started a business. I didn’t even say anything more about it.”

  “Yeah, like Cassie’s Comfy Cats in Chadwick would be that hard for him to track down. I’m serious—you had no right to violate my privacy like that.”

  At least the legalese got her attention, and she huffed in surprise. “Really, Cassie, aren’t you being melodramatic? Even if you don’t want to date him anymore, what’s the harm in—”

  “There just might be a lot of harm in it, Mom.” When Sarah threw a concerned glance in my direction, I dialed down the volume. “I’m working now, so we’ll have to talk about this another time. Meanwhile, you need to trust my judgment.”

  After I hung up and rejoined my assistant, I felt I owed her some explanation. “She thinks I should get back together with my last boyfriend. She doesn’t get it, that he’s one of the reasons I moved all the way out here.”

  Sarah nodded toward the sales counter. “I hope he’s not the reason you keep that pepper spray around.”

  I felt my face warm. “You don’t miss much, do you?”

  “Not after all those years teaching high school!” She hesitated before adding, “I had a student once who was being stalked by a boy she’d broken up with. It got to be a very scary situation—her family ended up calling the police.”

  “Well . . . I never had to go that far.” Noticing that it was past noon, I suggested we take a lunch break. “I’ll fill you in on the whole drama, just in case you ever need to know.”

  Over our sandwiches, I told Sarah more about my history with Andy than I’d ever revealed to my mother. “Looking back, I can see he fit the classic profile. He could be charming and funny and very romantic, but he also had a mean streak. He used to torment Cole until he got scratched, then grouse about my ‘crazy cat.’ After we’d been dating a couple of months, he started blowing up at me over small, stupid things, even calling me nasty names. One time he grabbed me so hard by the wrist, I swear he sprained it. He was floor manager for a sports-equipment store that was having financial problems. I knew his boss put him under a lot of pressure, so I rationalized it that way. The second time he hurt me physically, though, I heard the warning sirens loud and clear. I told him we were done.”

  Gently, Sarah asked, “How did he take it?”

  “Oh, he apologized and swore he’d never do it again. I was tempted to give in, but I was just too scared to trust him. You hear stories about guys who swear they’re sorry and then beat you up even worse. Besides, he said, ‘You just made me so mad. . . .’ as an excuse.”

  Sarah nodded. “Right—putting the blame on you!”

  Memories I’d suppressed came flooding back now, signs of trouble I’d missed at first but that became obvious in hindsight. And I’d never forget that shocking moment when suddenly Andy had turned his full strength against me and I’d been too stunned to even fight back. Come to think of it, no wonder I hadn’t wanted to date anybody since then!

  “For a while after that he did some minor stalking stuff,” I told Sarah. “Leaving phone messages and driving slowly by my apartment building. I told him to knock it off and blocked all his e-mails and his calls. When I moved to Chadwick, I tried to cover my tracks so he wouldn’t follow me here. Of course, then I was brilliant enough to use my nickname in the name of the shop!”

  “You never told your mother any of this?”

  “I should have, right after it happened. But I was afraid either she’d accuse me of exaggerating or she’d fly off the handle and call the police. I know that technically Andy assaulted me, but I couldn’t actually prove that. And once it was over between us, I thought, why make a lot of trouble for him?”

  Sarah’s canny eyes glinted behind her lenses. “So he couldn’t do it again to someone else?”

  I dropped my gaze to my half-eaten sandwich. “Well, yeah. There is that.”

  My phone rang in time to save me from making any more excuses. The veterinary clinic!

  I expected a receptionist on the line, so it was a pleasant surprise when a familiar baritone said, “Hi, this is Dr. Coccia.” Then I worried that he’d called in person to give me bad news about Tigger.

  Fortunately not. “The kitten has had his shots and flea treatment—didn’t need worming—and he’s doing great. I just left your friend Dawn a message, telling her she can pick him up around four.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll check with her to make sure she got it.”

  “As for the other question you asked me about, I didn’t find out anything too helpful.” In his tone and wording, Mark sounded guarded; maybe he didn’t want the staff to overhear him discussing the DeLeuw murder. “Under most circumstances, if an owner dies and hasn’t provided for a pet in his will, it’s up to the surviving family members to deal with it. If there is no family, or no one wants the animal, usually it will go to a shelter. A shame, of course, but it happens all too often.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of,” I told him. “But thanks for double-checking. You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

  A warm chuckle on the line. “Uh-oh, I can hear the gears turning! If you do find a way to help Harpo, keep me posted.”

  After I clicked off, I found Sarah smiling at me. “Now, that young man sounds like a much better prospect for you.”

  “Huh . . . if he’s a prospect at all. But at least we both feel the same way about trying to protect DeLeuw’s cat.”

  Mark was right about one thing. Now that he’d confirmed my worst fears about Harpo’s probable fate, the gears in my mind had started spinning at an even faster pace.

  * * *

  After closing up my shop for the day, I decided to stop by Nature’s Way to see how Dawn was making out. Her building was one of the nicest small renovations in town, I thought. It originally had served as a feed store, then a humble five-and-ten. But Dawn brought out the Victorian details of its façade with a multicolored paint job in soft, harmonious shades of green. She believed in offering her customers a bit of pizzazz they would
n’t get by ordering their supplements and gluten-free cookie batter online. In her front window, a jungle of thriving plants surrounded a display of books and other products relating to nutrition, exercise, relaxation, and specialized New Age topics.

  Dawn also had turned the sign on her front door to CLOSED for the day, and when I stepped inside, she shrieked, “Cassie! Watch out!”

  But although Tigger dashed in my direction, my reflexes were pretty sharp too, and I shut the door before he escaped. “Just where do you think you’re going?”

  The striped kitten stared up at me. “Eeeep!”

  Dawn giggled and scooped him into her arms. “I’m so glad you stopped by, Cassie. I don’t know what to do with him! This must be what it’s like to come home from the hospital with a new baby.”

  “I hear he did well at the vet,” I said.

  “Yes. Thank goodness he has no icky worms or diseases. If nobody claims him by next month, he goes back to get”—she dropped her voice to a stage whisper—“neutered.”

  Tigger tried to squirm out of her grasp, as if he’d understood completely.

  “Want to hold on to him for a second, Cassie, while I get us some tea?”

  She passed the little tabby to me. I cuddled him against my shoulder, where he purred in my ear like a motorboat.

  “He looks so relaxed!” Dawn sounded accusing. “How do you do that?”

  “Just hold him nice and secure against your body. Not upside down in your arms, or in any way that he thinks you might drop him.”

  “Lord,” she said, “it is almost like dealing with a human baby.”

  “Worse, in some ways. He’ll be able to run faster, squeeze into smaller spaces, and climb onto higher shelves.”

  While she disappeared into her rear kitchenette, I assessed the potential kitten hazards of her rustic but welcoming store. She had sanded down the old oak floorboards but otherwise left them unfinished, and the original wood-burning stove still occupied a central spot in the sales area. She’d painted the barnlike wallboards and built-in shelving a pale sage green that nicely set off her merchandise. But I could imagine Tigger frolicking along those open shelves and knocking fifteen-dollar bottles of essential oils to the floor, where they’d mingle to create some truly overpowering scents. And of course, every time a customer arrived or departed, the kitten might make a dash for freedom. Dawn and I hadn’t gone to all this trouble just to have Tigger end up back on the streets, with all the dangers that involved.