Catnapped! (13 page)

Helen thought she heard some hesitation in Jan’s voice. “Would you say that?” she asked.

“She has a good reputation in the fancy,” Jan said. “Lexie went to the Gold Cup judges’ school and she knows cats. She’s judged at cat shows in Canada, France and Britain, as well as the USA.”

Britain! Helen wondered if she’d judged at the Gold Cup Coventry cat show. Phil could check. Maybe cleaning up after Chessie had paid off after all.

“But,” Helen prompted.

“Here she comes,” Jan said. “We’d better get back to work.”

Saturday

H
elen and Phil weren’t dancing Saturday night—they were facing the music. Nancie demanded to see them both in her law office as soon as Helen came home from the cat show.

Phil waited for his PI partner in the Coronado parking lot, and motioned for her to roll down her window. “Quick!” he said. “Nancie wants us now. I’ll drive if you’re too tired.”

“I’m fine, but what’s going on?” Helen asked, as he climbed into the Igloo’s passenger seat.

“We’re not getting results fast enough,” he said.

On the drive over, Helen updated him on what Jan told her about Judge Lexie. “She didn’t have time to explain what’s wrong with the judge,” she said. “But something’s not right. I’ll find out more on Monday, when I go in early to wash the cats.”

She slammed on the brakes as a young couple talking and carrying longnecks wandered out into the road. Helen lightly beeped the horn to bring them back to this planet. The startled pair waved and boozily stepped back on the sidewalk.

Helen’s heart was pounding. “That was close,” she said. “The Saturday-night celebrating is starting early.” She was relieved to park the Igloo at the law office.

“Brace yourself for a chewing-out,” Phil said.

“I’m wearing so much cat hair, I may not feel it,” Helen said, trying to brush a clump of red fur off her shorts.

“Hurry!” Phil said. “She’ll have to take you as is.”

Inside, Helen felt like she’d been called into the principal’s office. Nancie frowned at them from behind her desk. “So, have you two made any progress?”

“We’re working on some promising leads,” Phil said.

“I don’t want promises,” Nancie said. “I want action. I saw our client today in jail. Trish is unraveling. I’m afraid she’ll crack under the strain. Jail is wearing her down. We have to get her out of there. Between the kidnapped cat and Mort’s funeral, she’s ready to snap.”

“Has Mort’s body been released?” Helen asked.

“Finally,” Nancie said. “His mother claimed it. His memorial service is Thursday, and Trish wants to go, preferably not in handcuffs. Their marriage was over, but she still has feelings for the man.”

“Who’s planning the service and the funeral?” Helen asked.

“His mother,” Nancie said. “She believes her daughter-in-law is innocent. Mort will be buried in New York, where he’s from, but she wants to have a service for him here in Fort Lauderdale, where he lived.

“Now let’s get back to this case. What are those leads, Phil?”

“I’m working on the red medallion found by Mort’s body,” he said. “We believe it may have been a souvenir from the Coventry cat show in England. The woman who can confirm it should be home late Sunday night. It may be Monday before I reach her, because of the time zones.”

“Forget the time differences,” Nancie said. “Wake her up.
What’s she going to do? Fly over here and sue you? Get the information and get it fast.”

“I’d also like to talk to someone who worked in Mort’s office,” Phil said. “Can you give me those names?”

“Mort had a one-person office,” Nancie said. “But he had an amazing executive assistant, Carol Berman. She’s smart.” The lawyer pulled out her cell phone and began tapping on it. “I’m sending you her contact information now and I’ll let her know she can talk to you.”

“Besides the cat-show judge,” Phil said, “I also talked to the pole-dancing girlfriend, Amber Waves. She says Jan Kurtz, Mort’s fiancée, inherits half his income.”

“She does,” Nancie said. “His mother gets the rest.”

“Amber has an alibi for the time of the murder,” Phil said. “She was teaching a pole-dancing class, so she’s out.”

“See what you can find out from Mort’s assistant,” Nancie said. “Carol’s peeved because the cops never talked to her. I swear, I’ve never seen such a shoddy investigation. I can’t wait to go after those clowns. Helen, what do you have?”

“Remember the cat-show judge Mort helped with financial advice?” Helen said. “I found out she’s an international judge. Phil will check if she judged at that Coventry cat show. There’s something off about her. Jan tried to tell me exactly what, but we got distracted at work. I’ll find out more when I go back to the cattery early Monday morning. I’m still working there.”

“I can see that,” Nancie said, and nodded at Helen’s cat-hairy T-shirt.

Helen brushed at the hair, but it clung to the fabric. “Let it alone,” Nancie said. “You’ll just get more on the furniture.”

“I also followed Jan, Mort’s fiancée, home because I thought she had a gray cat. She did, but it was an ordinary striped tabby, not Justine.”

“She’s got a motive,” Nancie said. “Helen, see if you can find
out what Jan was doing the night of the murder. Amber has a motive, but she’s in the clear. The judge is a possibility, if your inquiries pan out, but why would she kill Mort?”

“No reason,” Helen said. “Not if Mort was making her money. She sure spends it—lots of it—on her car and clothes. Maybe younger men, too.”

“Nothing more on the catnapping?” Nancie asked.

“We would have called you,” Phil said. “We’re not supposed to hear anything from the kidnapper until Tuesday morning. Do you have the cash?”

“In my safe,” Nancie said.

“We should take it with us and stash it in our office safe,” Phil said. “The SmartWater CSI kit arrived and we have to mark the money. The catnapper may not give us time to get the money from you and mark it on Tuesday.”

“Are you sure SmartWater works?” Nancie asked.

“Oh yeah. Neighborhoods in Fort Lauderdale, Oakland Park and other places are testing it. SmartWater is a clear liquid with a unique chemical signature for each user. You mark your jewelry, computers, TV sets, even cars with a little dab. When the cops catch the thieves or the stolen goods turn up in a pawnshop, your property’s chemical signature can be identified with the special black light.

“It works better than the bank’s dye packs. The thieves can’t see the SmartWater. Even if the catnapper tries to burn this money, the SmartWater signature will show in the ashes.”

“Amazing,” Nancie said. She hauled a lumpy black nylon duffel out of her safe. “Half a million in used twenties. Two hundred fifty packs, with a hundred bills in each pack. It would have been simpler if the catnapper had asked for fifties.”

“He knows South Florida,” Phil said. “Counterfeit fifties are rampant down here. Even small stores check each fifty-dollar bill with a special test pen.”

Helen and Phil left Nancie’s office half a million dollars richer. Phil hid the money in the back of the Igloo.

“Are we going to have to mark each dollar bill?” Helen asked. “That will take us till next Tuesday.”

“Nope, I have a plan,” Phil said. He stopped at a garden store and bought a plant mister. “We can do this over dinner. How’s Chinese sound?”

“Delicious,” Helen said.

On the way home, they swung by their favorite take-out Chinese place, Bei Jing, on the corner of Federal Highway and Oakland Park Boulevard. The tiny take-out shop was staffed by a hardworking Asian family, and those in the know said Bei Jing had the best Chinese food this side of Shanghai. Helen ordered her favorite: steamed shrimp with broccoli and garlic sauce. Phil got spicy General Tso’s chicken, and the woman behind the counter gave them a large free container of wonton soup.

“Hurry home,” Phil said. “I’m so hungry, I’m ready to eat this in the car.”

“Me, too,” Helen said.

She was practically drooling when she rounded the corner to the Coronado. Helen carried the takeout, and Phil hauled the duffel full of money to their office. “You set out the dinner,” he said, “while I mark the money.”

Phil opened the navy blue cardboard SmartWater CSI box, took out a bottle of pinkish liquid, and poured it into the plant mister. Then he stacked the money bundles so the edges were standing up and sprayed the edges with a light SmartWater mist. Twice he stopped to wash the mister. “The SmartWater particles can clog it,” he said. Once all the money was misted, he carried the table to the window air conditioner and turned it on high. “Should be dry in a minute or two.”

“That was easy,” Helen said. “Sit down and eat.”

But they heard sirens outside and saw uniformed officers and a stout, bristly haired figure striding through the yard.

“What the heck?” Phil said.

“Oh no!” Helen said. “Why are the police here?”

“Quick!” Phil said. “The money’s dry. Drop it in the bag and let’s go see.”

They quickly bundled the bag into their safe, left the food and sprinted downstairs. A uniformed cop stopped them. “Snakehead Bay Police,” he said. “We have a warrant to search Margery Flax’s apartment.” Phil talked his way past the uniform, explaining they had to feed the cat. The officer could hear Thumbs howling.

They gave their cat dinner, then watched a swarm of latex-gloved cops carry boxes out of Margery’s house. Two especially unlucky uniforms were rummaging in the spiderwebbed storage area behind her apartment. Their landlady was chain-smoking at the poolside umbrella table under the watchful eye of a young, sandy-haired cop.

“Margery,” Phil said. “What’s happening?” The sandy-haired cop looked uneasy but didn’t interfere. Phil and Helen stayed on the sidewalk.

“That Snakehead Bay detective showed up with a search warrant,” she said. “He and his pals are tearing my place apart.”

“Whelan? Why?” Helen asked. “What’s he looking for?”

“Why? Because Zach not only left me his condo, but also a six-figure insurance policy.”

“Oh,” Helen said.

“The Snakehead Sherlock said that was enough to cover the work on the Coronado. I didn’t know a thing about it.”

“Maybe Zach forgot to change your name as a beneficiary after you divorced,” Phil said. “It happens.”

“No, he changed it back two months ago, the dumb bastard,” Margery said.

“And speaking of dumb, Detective Whelan made a big deal
out of finding weed killer in my storage area. He knows I had it. Last time he was here, he asked me about it. He saw me killing weeds. So why’s he carrying on about it now?”

“The autopsy must have shown that’s what killed Zach,” Phil said. “Did you talk to this detective?”

“Of course I did,” Margery said. “I’ve got nothing to hide. I told him I cashed in a CD. That’s a matter of record.”

Phil sighed. “Margery, Snakehead Bay is a small force, if you get what I mean.”

“You mean they don’t always hire top-notch people,” Margery said. “I already figured that out.”

The young cop turned bright red to the tips of his ears.

The parade of cops carrying boxes and evidence bags out to the cars had finally stopped.

Detective Whelan swaggered out of Margery’s apartment, shutting her door hard enough to rattle the glass slats in the jalousie door. He strutted over to the umbrella table with two uniformed officers.

“Margery Flax,” he said. “I’m arresting you for the murder of Zachariah Flax.”

“What?” Helen said.

“No!” Margery said.

“Yes!” the detective said. “You have the right to remain silent . . .”

When he finished the well-known warning, Phil said, “Margery, don’t say another word. I’ll get Nancie Hays.”

Margery, stunned into silence, nodded at Phil. The detective took out his handcuffs. “Oh, come on,” Phil said. “You’ve got two burly cops for protection. Do you really think a seventy-six-year-old woman is going to attack you?”

The detective put the cuffs back. “Put out the cigarette, ma’am,” he said. “Let’s go.”

Vital, vigorous Margery seemed to shrivel before Helen’s eyes.
She shuffled out between the two strapping cops, looking small and old.

As they reached the gate, Elsie appeared in a jaw-dropping outfit—a pink-flowered strapless dress, hot pink mules and cherry-pink hair. The dress revealed mounds of flabby white flesh. Helen wanted to throw a sheet over her.

“Margery, dear, what’s wrong?” Elsie said in her fluttery voice. “Why are these policemen here?”

“Because of you,” Margery snarled. “Get off my property!”

“But I came to beg your forgiveness—to say I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? You pathetic old fool,” Margery said, her voice hard. “This sorry mess is what happens when you meddle in people’s lives.”

Elsie burst into tears, and Phil took her protectively into his arms. She cried on his shoulder, leaving black mascara streaks. “I’m sorry, Phil, I really am.”

“Sh,” Phil said. “I know you are.” He rocked her in his arms.

“We must help her, you know,” Elsie said, her eyes shining with tears. “She loved that man to death.”

“Let’s hope not,” Phil said.

Saturday/Sunday

“I
’m much more at home with a good, clean murder than a nasty divorce,” Nancie said.

Home. Helen wished she were there now, at nine o’clock on a Saturday night. She wished she were sitting by the pool with her landlady, instead of trying to get Margery out of a murder charge.

“Well, now you have two murder cases,” Phil said, “Trish’s and Margery’s. Thank you for taking our landlady’s case.”

Before the Snakehead Bay detective had slammed the door on his unmarked car, Phil called Nancie. The lawyer promised to meet them at her office in an hour. He and Helen had shared their Bei Jing takeout with Elsie.

Now the PI pair were back at Nancie’s office. Even after a twelve-hour day, Nancie was ready for battle.

Helen forced herself to stay awake. Margery, her surrogate mother, was going to be charged with murder one, and Florida was a death-penalty state.

“That means you’ll both have to work doubly hard,” Nancie said. “And twice as fast. Where are you starting Margery’s investigation?”

“At Zach’s condo,” Phil said. “He left it to her.”

“I know,” Nancie said. “That’s one reason why Detective Whelan thinks she killed him.”

“But Zach was two months behind on the mortgage,” Phil said.

“Doesn’t matter. Property values are really going up in Florida again. If Margery makes those payments and sells his condo, she’ll get a nice chunk of change—providing she isn’t convicted of killing Zach. Then she can’t inherit it.”

“Margery gave me the keys to the condo,” Phil said, and held them up. “We’ll search tomorrow for anything the police missed. She also gave us a box of papers Zach left unclaimed and unopened since 1983.”

“The cops didn’t take them?” Nancie asked.

“Margery brought them to our office before the search warrant,” Helen said. “We expected her to be arrested.”

“Smart,” Nancie said.

“We’re opening that time capsule tomorrow,” Helen said.

“Helen, you look tired,” Nancie said. “Both of you need to go home now and get an early start Sunday morning.”

Helen was relieved to park the Igloo for the last time that night at the Coronado. The old building gleamed in the moonlight. Even the construction scaffolding had a silver sheen. The palm trees whispered invitations to linger in the soft, velvety night.

But the Coronado seemed oddly empty without Margery’s overwhelming presence. It looked the same, the way a dead person looks as if she’s asleep. But the essence was gone. Helen shivered in the warm evening air. She escaped with Phil into his apartment, and then to sleep.

Morning came too soon. Helen was awakened by Phil whistling in the shower and the fragrant aroma of hot coffee. Neither private eye was in the mood for love. They chugged their coffee and were at Zach’s Snakehead Bay condo by seven o’clock.

Zach had lived on the fifth floor of a soulless steel-and-glass building, all sharp angles and hard, shiny surfaces. Phil unlocked Zach’s black-lacquered door, and the PI pair was nearly snow-blinded by the white interior: a vast bone tile floor and hard white leather couches. The icy glass coffee table was angled so people sitting in the deathly pale chairs would bruise their legs when they stood. The air-conditioning was so cold, Helen felt snowbound.

“Do you think Zach decorated this place himself?” Helen asked.

Phil shrugged. “Do they have a whites-only furniture store for rich people?” he asked.

The only color came from the incredible view of Snakehead Bay out the curtainless windows. The bay was as blue and palm-fringed as a corny postcard.

Helen found a silver-framed photo under a snowy lamp. “Look at this,” she said, softly. “A wedding photo of Margery and Zach.”

“Handsome couple,” Phil said.

They were. Even in the domesticated dreariness of the fifties, Margery had flair. She wore a tea-length white wedding gown, the skirt a graceful bell of chiffon. A short veil covered her lustrous black hair. Zach was leading-man handsome, with broad shoulders and thick, dark curls. Their young smiles hurt Helen’s heart. They were glowing with love.

Knowing how their marriage ended made that photo unbearably sad.

Helen set the photo back on the end table as if it burned her hand.

That was the only picture in the room. Helen and Phil searched the couch, looked under the furniture, checked the cushions and baseboards.

“Nothing else,” Helen said. “No drawers, shelves or knickknacks. Let’s search the bedroom.”

More white, an endless Siberian winter. But in a drawer under
Zach’s socks, Helen found a cache of bills, and spread them on the slick white bedspread.

“The main color here is red,” she told Phil. “Zach was deeply in debt. Not only was he behind on his mortgage and monthly condo fees, Zach also had overdue notices for four credit cards. He owed money for a fancy power saw, fine-quality hardwood, suede and sisal.”

“Those must be supplies for his Zen Cat Towers,” Phil said.

“And this two-inch stack is nothing but doctor bills and lab tests.” Helen patted that pile.

“He must have been really sick. Any idea what was wrong?” Phil asked.

Helen shook her head no. “We’ll take them with us and check,” she said. “I wonder why the police didn’t take them.”

“I’m guessing Detective Whelan didn’t graduate at the top of his police academy class,” Phil said. “The detective had a suspect, so why bother with a tedious investigation? His force did a sloppy search.”

Zach’s closet held only men’s clothes. “Look at these polo shirts. Two very different sizes, both fairly new,” Helen said, holding up both. “Zach must have lost at least twenty pounds in the last year or so. I wonder if he kept the larger clothes because he expected to get well?”

“Lots of men hang on to their favorite clothes,” Phil said. “They don’t weed through their closets as much as women do.”

Those were the only finds in Zach’s bedroom, except for an unopened box of condoms in his bedside table.

His workroom next door smelled pleasantly of wood shavings. The floor was waxed concrete, with a workbench along one side and neat racks and shelves of complicated tools. A partially finished cat tower was clamped onto the bench.

“I wonder how he got by making those towers in his home,” Helen said.

“Maybe one of his neighbors tipped off the company that sent him the cease-and-desist order,” Phil said.

In the bathroom, the medicine cabinet was empty and the closet held only linens. Even his toothbrush and toothpaste were gone. “The police must have taken everything in here,” Phil said.

They searched the narrow kitchen last. Zach was clearly no cook. Helen found the bare-minimum kitchen equipment: four cheap aluminum pots, a coffeemaker, stainless flatware and white china, all selected without thought for style or even function. The pantry held an unopened jar of peanut butter and three cans of beef noodle soup.

“Either he didn’t eat much or the police took his other food,” Helen said.

“They took everything in the fridge,” Phil said, looking inside.

“But left the food on the freezer side,” Helen said. “Vanilla ice cream and two homemade apple pies. One pie is cut into six slices, with two pieces missing. Each pie is dated and labeled in a flowery woman’s hand. I wonder if that’s Daisy’s writing and these are the pies she made Zach come back for?”

“Amateur police work,” Phil said, shaking his head. He checked the cabinet under the kitchen sink. “Nothing here but dish soap, lemon furniture polish and window cleaner.”

“That’s not how you look under a sink,” Helen said. She kneeled down and began pulling out bottles and boxes. “You missed the scouring pads, the floor cleaner, cleanser and two dried-out sponges. What’s behind this plastic scrub bucket? Hello? Something’s hiding in the back corner.” She pulled out a yellow box. “Rat poison!”

“Hah, I was right,” Phil said. “He committed suicide.”

“If he did, why would he hide the box?” Helen asked.

“Because Margery couldn’t collect on his life insurance policy if he killed himself,” Phil said. “She refused to see him anymore,
so the miserable old coot committed suicide and left everything to his one true love. It’s the one unselfish thing he’s done in years.”

“Sorry, I’m not buying it,” Helen said.

“A new building like this wouldn’t have rats,” Phil said.

“Rats are everywhere,” Helen said. “Especially around waterfront property. Let’s go home and look in that box of old papers.”

Peggy was reading the newspaper and sipping coffee by the pool when Helen and Phil returned at ten thirty that morning. Pete the parrot sat on her shoulder.

“Can he read the
New York Times
?” Helen asked.

“Yes, but he can’t do the crossword puzzle,” Peggy said.

“Hello!” Pete said.

“Morning, handsome dude,” Helen said.

“Woo-hoo!” Pete said.

“Have you seen Margery?” Peggy asked. “Her car’s here, but she’s not up yet. Should we check on her?”

“We’ve got bad news,” Helen said. “Margery was arrested for Zach’s murder.”

“Awk!” Pete said.

“Took the words out of my mouth, Pete,” Helen said. She and Phil explained what happened and how they’d taken on Margery’s case.

“Do you think the police messed up her apartment when they searched it?” Peggy asked.

“I’m sure they did,” Phil said.

“Then that’s today’s chore,” Peggy said. “I’ll clean her apartment.”

“I’ll do the yard work and keep the pool clean,” Phil said.

“Right now, we both have to help get her out of jail,” Helen said. “Let’s open that box, Phil.”

Upstairs in the Coronado office, the battered box showed its age. The Florida humidity had softened the brown cardboard and curled the ends of the packing tape.

“Not as heavy as I’d like,” Helen said, as she peeled off the tape.

“Look,” she said, “an old newspaper. Look at those
Flashdance
fashions! I forgot about leg warmers. Here’s a story about Star Wars, but they’re talking about missiles, not the movie.”

Phil took the paper away from Helen. “While you’re strolling down Memory Lane, Margery is rotting in jail.”

“Right. Sorry.”

“You look through these business papers, and I’ll check the photos,” Phil said.

Helen rifled through old Coronado leases, receipts for repairs and other apartment business. “I wonder why Margery packed these instead of using them for her taxes,” she said.

“She probably wasn’t thinking straight,” Phil said. “Hey, talk about
Flashdance
, I think this is an old photo of Zach and Daisy.”

Zach had a mullet, a shoulder-padded jacket and a guilty smirk. Daisy’s gray sweatshirt hung off one shoulder. She had the period’s frizzy blond hair, earrings the size of doorknobs, purple jelly shoes and neon orange short-shorts. She was wrapped around Zach like a vine.

“I believe those are called booty shorts in today’s fashion lingo,” Helen said. “Even then she was a bit on the plump side.”

“Voluptuous,” Phil corrected.

Helen glared at him.

“But nowhere near as good-looking as Margery,” Phil added quickly.

“Ever notice that? Unless you’ve got a middle-aged guy on the prowl for a younger model, the other woman isn’t as attractive as the wife. It’s like the unfaithful husband needs a rest from having to live up to his wife.”

He pulled out a yellowing color photo. “Hey, look at this,” he said.

“Oh, the eighties,” Helen groaned. “That red-haired guy in the neon green Adidas tracksuit looks like a giant leprechaun. The preppie in the black shirt and khakis is okay, but boring.”

“The guy with the red headband and wild brown hair is a John McEnroe look-alike,” Phil said.

“Who?” Helen asked.

“McEnroe. Tennis star and tantrum thrower. Zach’s mullet is outstanding.”

“Well, he was a fisherman,” Helen said. “That wife-beater shirt sure shows off his muscles.”

“If he wasn’t dead, I’d be jealous,” Phil said.

“You have nothing to worry about,” Helen said, and kissed him. He kissed her back hard, then pulled away.

“Look where those four men are standing,” he said. “In front of the Fisherman’s Tale. I know that bar.”

“Of course you do,” Helen said, disappointed that he’d stopped when things were getting interesting.

“I mean, it’s still in business,” Phil said. “It’s a hangout for locals. We might be able to track down Zach’s old friends.”