The Persian Always Meows Twice Page 7

  She carried in a tray with two steaming mugs and assorted herbal teas. She set it on an overturned barrel near the stove, between two salvaged club chairs she had covered with Indian paisley throws. I pawed through the teas and picked a ginger blend that sounded as if it would perk me up rather than tranquilize me like the one the night before.

  Meanwhile, we let Tigger roam. I crumpled an empty tea bag wrapper and tossed it to him. He leaped on it as if it was a killer scorpion that he needed to slay to keep us all from harm. His manic dance of destruction soon had Dawn laughing hysterically.

  “He’s a cutie,” I agreed.

  She met my gaze again with a rueful smile. “I really should make a good-faith effort to see if he already belongs to someone. Can you put a sign in your shop?” She brought her iPad over from the sales counter. “How does this sound? ‘Did you lose a brown tabby kitten, white-tipped tail, about three months old? Check with Dawn at Nature’s Way.’ ”

  I considered this. “Not sure. If you found a valuable necklace, would you describe it in detail so just anybody come could and say, ‘Oh yes, that’s mine!’”

  “Well, no. But he’s not—”

  “I know, but there might be people who’d be happy to take him off your hands for bad reasons. Medical experiments and . . . other things you probably don’t want to know about.” I thought of stories I’d heard about stolen kittens and puppies being used as bait animals for fighting dogs.

  “No description?”

  “Stick with ‘Did you lose a kitten?’ and the bit about checking with you.”

  She deleted everything else. “You’re the expert.”

  By now Tigger had easily made the leap onto her sales counter and was eyeing a shelf filled with crystal knickknacks. I retrieved him and sat down again with him on my lap. “Are you going to leave him here overnight?”

  “I intended to,” Dawn said. “My apartment’s kind of small, so I thought he could be, like, a store cat. But now I’m afraid he’s going to be lonely.”

  “Well, you said he’s been camping out in your storeroom. If there’s no way he can hurt himself, maybe that would be a good spot for him. Give him something soft to lie on, some water and dry food, and a litter box.”

  She brightened, as if feeling more competent. “Got all of that covered. I found a shallow cardboard box that I lined with a plastic garbage bag, and I already stocked some all-natural cat food and litter.”

  “Great! That should get him through the night.” I tasted my tea and savored the kick of the ginger. “Still, if he’s going to live here at the store, you’ll have to figure out some strategies to keep him—and your merchandise—safe.”

  Dawn buried a hand in her cascade of wavy reddish hair, braided across the top today. “This is what I get for falling in love at first sight. You’d think at my age I’d know better.” Her head popped up at a new thought. “Speaking of which, Dr. Mark seemed a little disappointed that I came by for Tigger instead of you.”

  “Well, we did talk afterward on the phone,” I reminded her. “Unfortunately, he just confirmed everything my mother said about what happens to pets when their owner dies and nobody else wants to take them in.”

  Possibly because she now was a pet owner herself, Dawn looked dismayed. “Do they get put to sleep?”

  “Well, they usually go to a shelter. But depending on the shelter’s policies, and how long they stay there without anyone adopting them . . . yeah, that could happen.”

  “How sad for DeLeuw, if with all his money, he couldn’t prevent that from happening. And since you’re not related to him—and it’s not likely that he left you the cat in his will—there’s probably nothing you can do to stop it either.”

  “We’ll see about that.” I took another slow, thoughtful sip of my tea. “I haven’t quite exhausted all of my options.”

  “Such as?”

  “Mingling with the rich and semi-famous. Asking some discreet questions. I’ve decided to go to his viewing tomorrow.”

  Dawn tilted her pale Renaissance-goddess profile at me. “You don’t think people will wonder why his twice-a-month cat groomer felt she had to pay her respects?”

  I told her about my encounter with Danielle, and how we’d discussed the murder while I helped her find a new charger for her cell phone.

  “Well, that’s better,” my friend decided. “You’ll have at least one person there you know.”

  I nodded. “And besides, I have the best reason in the world to feel awful about George’s death. After all, I am the one who found his body.”

  Chapter 8

  It’s not easy to decide what to wear to a funeral-home viewing, scheduled midmorning, when the deceased is someone you hardly knew and probably everyone else in attendance will be a lot richer than you are.

  Fortunately, my wardrobe was small enough to limit my choices. I own very few dresses, none of them black. Anyway, I figured it might almost be in bad taste for someone like me, no relation, to show up in full mourning. So I opted for what could have passed for a modest date outfit—slim black pants and a fitted, long-sleeved top in a teal-green-and-black abstract print. After I added drop earrings in the same shade of green, I at least looked presentable and pulled together, if still not wealthy.

  The Dewey Funeral Home occupied a Queen Anne Victorian structure in the older residential neighborhood of Chadwick. Its corner site offered plenty of room for parking, but I’d bet the lot rarely overflowed the way it did that morning. It surprised me to think very private George DeLeuw had that many friends in town, until I noticed license plates from New York and Connecticut, plus a few rental cars. Perhaps many former colleagues from Redmond & Fowler, and other business associates, had traveled to pay their respects. If some distant relatives also had shown up, maybe one could be persuaded to give Harpo a loving home?

  I parked on the street and fell in step behind a tall, broad-shouldered man in a well-cut dark gray business suit, accompanied by a sophisticated brunette in a black skirt suit that might have cost as much as one of my mortgage payments. The handful of mourners gathered just inside the front door also looked seriously decked out for ten thirty a.m. Suddenly I felt as if I’d shown up in overalls with hayseeds in my hair.

  Surrounded by all of these impressive strangers, the natural introvert in me wanted to slink quietly back out again, or at least hide in a corner. Then I reminded myself that the amateur sleuths in my favorite mysteries did this sort of thing all the time—attended the funeral of the murder victim to get a sense of who might have had a motive to kill him.

  And I’m not even doing that! I just want to get a feel for who might be willing to look after the guy’s cat. Remembering the forlorn expression on the lovely Persian when Anita had whisked him away from his master’s corpse, I had to make the effort.

  A couple of the Victorian’s original first-floor rooms probably had been combined to form Reception 1, where DeLeuw lay in repose. The rosy tweed carpeting here coordinated with two sofas and two armchairs, all upholstered in rose-and-green floral stripes. The rest of the seating consisted of rows of folding chairs with flat burgundy seat cushions. Murals on two of the walls depicted similar pastel country landscapes; a burgundy curtain hid the area behind the casket.

  I did a quick scan of the mourners—who numbered about thirty—and recognized only three of them. Luckily, Anita sat toward the back where I could easily say hello to her.

  She acted both surprised and happy to see me. Her deep-blue wrap dress might have come from a discount rack at the same big-box store where I’d gotten my outfit. She introduced me to her husband, Hector, who had a shiny dome, a kind smile, and a mustache as black as his loose-fitting suit.

  “I’m so glad you guys are here,” I whispered. “I feel a little out of place among all these high-powered folks.”

  The housekeeper smiled. “So do I. A few, I just know their names, or they came to Mr. DeLeuw’s house once in a while. I’m sure they wouldn’t remember me. But I wanted to c
ome for his sake. He always treated me well. He was a good man, I think, deep down.”

  I wondered what Anita meant by that last comment. Maybe just that nobody got to be a big success in the business world with having a bit of the shark in him?

  “How are you doing?” I asked her. “Still keeping up the house?”

  She nodded. “The police made me stay away for the first day, because they went over the whole place—looking for clues, I guess. When they let me come back, I had a mess to clean up, because they went through drawers, closets, everything. They took all of Mr. DeLeuw’s electronic stuff and work papers, even some of his artworks.”

  I saw a chance to confirm one of my suspicions. “Do they think something like that could have been used as the murder weapon?”

  “Could be.” She glanced around to see if anyone else was listening. “I probably shouldn’t talk about it . . . but they took the big rock that was on the stand in the hall. They packed that up real careful, like they thought it was important.” Anita shuddered. “Gives me chills, to think of somebody hitting Mr. DeLeuw with that!”

  Silently, Hector reached for his wife’s hand and squeezed it.

  “I know. The whole thing is very upsetting.” I decided to change the subject. “So there’s no one actually living in the house now? What’s happening with Harpo?”

  Anita’s soft features frowned in sympathy. “That poor kitty. I come at least once a day—the lawyer pays me, for now—and I feed him. Mr. DeLeuw had one of those timed feeders, so I leave a few meals. I keep him shut up in the master suite, where he’s got some room and can sleep on Mr. DeLeuw’s bed. But he’s still lonely. He cries when he hears me come up the stairs, and he cries again when I leave him. It’s really no way for an animal to live.”

  I laid a hand the little woman’s shoulder. “That’s one of the reasons I’m here today, Anita. If you want to help, you can tell me who some of these people are. . . .”

  She identified half a dozen gathered at the front of the room who seemed to be accepting most of the condolences. Of course I’d already met George’s sister, so I decided to approach her next.

  First, I knelt down in front of the polished cherrywood casket and tried to accept that the waxy-faced corpse resting on tufted ivory velvet was all that remained of my best client. If he could speak from the Beyond, would he be able to tell us who killed him? Or had his assailant crept up from behind, so that DeLeuw literally never knew what—or who—hit him?

  Silently, I again promised George that I’d find a way to at least protect his cat. Then I edged away from the casket and slipped into the cluster of people around Danielle.

  Her mourning garb couldn’t have been simpler—a straight black knit dress with three-quarter sleeves, hemmed just past her knees. Simple to pack, I figured, if you were flying in from California. But her big hammered-silver earrings added style and picked up the highlights in her straight ash-blond hair. Her pale green eyes again reminded me of her late brother’s, as did her narrow, ascetic face and high cheekbones. Today she wore a little more makeup, which shaved a few years off her appearance.

  At least she recognized me, remembering that I’d helped her with the cell phone charger and that I had found George’s body. With a thin smile, she added, “D’you know, I didn’t even realize my brother still had a cat until I read the news story. George and I got together from time to time, when he had business on the Coast, but the subject just never came up.”

  “I hear his lawyer is checking around to see if someone will take Harpo,” I said, trying to be tactful. “Unless Mr. DeLeuw provided for him in his will . . .”

  “Well, God knows how long it will be before we know that.” Danielle edged away from the casket, as if her late brother shouldn’t overhear this conversation. “Possibly the police have had a look at the will. If so, they’re keeping it a big secret. As if anyone close to George could possibly have done this to him, and over something as ridiculous as an inheritance.”

  I was sure George would have had quite a lot to leave his heirs, so it spoke volumes about Danielle’s own financial situation that she couldn’t imagine anyone harming her brother to hurry the process along. Or so she said.

  “If you ask me,” Danielle said with a sniff, “it was that gardener.”

  “Louis?” I asked in surprise. “You think he stood to inherit something?”

  “No, of course not. But he could’ve had his eye on some of the artworks. George told me every now and then he noticed some small piece missing from its spot and didn’t remember moving it. His housekeeper or even his gardener might have pocketed those things, although I don’t suppose the woman would haven been capable of... doing what was done to George.”

  I thought of Anita’s grief when she saw her employer’s body. “I don’t think so either.”

  Danielle met my eyes with a cool, confidential gaze. “It would have to have been someone taller and stronger, right? That’s why I suspect the gardener.”

  I didn’t bother to explain that Louis was a landscaper, not just a gardener. Or that people had seen him working in the yard throughout the period when DeLeuw probably was killed.

  It wasn’t my place, anyway, to discuss possible suspects with Danielle. I steered the conversation back to a situation I could do something about. “You’re right about one thing. While the police are still investigating, it could take a while before the will is probated. Meanwhile, Harpo really needs a new home.”

  “Harpo? Oh, the cat.” Danielle shook her sleek head. “Won’t be with me, I’m afraid. I’m too busy for a pet. I’m always off on buying trips or visiting my boutiques—I’m opening another one in LA next month—so I’m always traveling, hardly ever home.”

  “That’s too bad. Do you know of any other family members who—”

  “No, I don’t. Sorry.” She turned her attention then to someone else who embraced her and offered condolences.

  Time for me to step away, but I pondered my next move. While waiting, I glanced at the small screen set up near the casket, playing a memorial video. The loop included a 1950sera photo of George as a child, with his younger sister and his parents; a shot of him on the basketball court in high school; his college graduation. From there on, the images showed him shaking hands with another man at some business function, studying an abstract painting at an art gallery, and accepting a plaque at what looked like his retirement party. No personal pictures from his adult years, I noticed.

  Backing up a step, I jostled a statuesque redhead in a formfitting black sheath and high heels. “Excuse me!” I said. Then I recognized the woman Anita had identified as Marjorie, DeLeuw’s ex-wife.

  She ignored both my clumsiness and my apology, but nodded toward the slideshow. “Pretty spare, isn’t it?”

  “I guess his sister must have put it together in a hurry,” I said. “But I did notice there aren’t many family pictures—mostly business.”

  Marjorie’s red lips twisted. “Well, that was George, mostly business. I see Danielle managed to get a shot of him at an art gallery, but nothing with our daughter.”

  She must have meant Renée, the one who had died. “Maybe she thought that would be too painful?”

  The woman responded with a cynical shrug. “Probably right about that. I’m sure there are more than a few people here who’d rather not be reminded of Renée’s death.”

  Marjorie started to turn away, but I saw my chance to find out more, and offered my hand. “By the way, I’m Cassie McGlone. I was coming by the house twice a month to groom George’s cat. I actually . . . found him.”

  “You mean—” Her penciled eyebrows rose in two perfect arcs. “Really! I heard that an employee had discovered his body, but I thought it was one of the staff.”

  This time I heard a slight slur in her speech. Had she been drinking this early? No hint of alcohol on her breath, but maybe too many Bloody Marys at brunch? That might explain why she was sharing her opinions so freely with a complete stranger.


  I tried to forget that DeLeuw had blamed this woman for euthanizing his other cat out of pure spite; otherwise, I’d find it impossible to carry on a civil conversation with her.

  “It was a terrible shock for everyone,” I told her. “None of us who worked for George could imagine why anyone would want to hurt him.”

  I purposely threw out this idea to see how Marjorie would react, and could see her moderating her response. “I guess the police are looking into the possibility of art theft,” she said vaguely. “And there was some business with a local man who thought George stole his idea for an invention. But it’s anyone’s guess, really, who might have killed him. You don’t get to his level without getting your hands dirty . . . and making some enemies.”

  She glanced in the direction of the well-dressed businessman I had followed into the funeral home, now in deep conversation with Jerry Ross. According to Anita, that was Charles Schroeder, the R&F exec who had been quoted in DeLeuw’s obituary.

  Marjorie’s offhanded demeanor bothered me, and I wondered if she counted herself among George’s enemies. Since I had no intention of asking her to provide a home for Harpo, I said I was sorry for her loss and moved on.

  I pretended to admire one enormous spray of all-white roses, Asian lilies, carnations, and chrysanthemums displayed on its own easel. At my right, I could hear snatches of the conversation between Ross and Schroeder.

  “They’ve moved his whole art collection to a warehouse.” Jerry sounded bewildered.

  “That’s to be expected,” said Schroeder. “George had a lot of valuable things, and they have to be assessed. Easier to move them to a secure location than to post a guard round the clock at his house.”