Clawed: A Gin & Tonic Mystery (5 page)

Ginny looked up at the ceiling, thinking. “She said she’d gotten my name from a relative of Mrs. Kern. The one with the twins’ birthday parties?”

“Right.” He had a vague memory of horror stories about that client. “But not directly from the client herself?”

“No. And I didn’t call to confirm, because there was no way in hell I wanted to talk to Mrs. Kern again. She—the alleged Mrs. Adaowsky—said in her original email that a relative had raved about how smoothly everything had gone off, and how calm Mrs. Kern had been. Mainly because she was tipped up with Xanax the entire time, but anyway, Mrs. Adaowsky—the alleged Mrs. Adaowsky,” she repeated, “said that she wanted someone who could keep their cool no matter what happened, because, and I quote this, ‘I love my friends but they’re prone to hysterics if someone uses the wrong fork.’ ”

“Huh. And she couldn’t have found someone a little more local who came as highly recommended?”

Ginny made That Face at him, clear even through the webcam. She had that expression down cold: Are you implying that I am not as awesome as my credentials suggest?

He kept his expression serious, but he was pretty sure she knew he was holding back a snicker. He didn’t think needling her would ever get old, although they’d stopped keeping track of points awhile ago. Triple-digit numbers got unwieldy without an actual scorecard. “Cool your jets, woman. I’m just saying. Bringing someone down from another city? That’s expense above and beyond, isn’t it?” Mallard’s services didn’t come cheaply, he knew that.

“Maybe she could have hired a party planner,” Ginny said. “But there’s a difference between party planning and what I do. A personal concierge handles
everything
, even the unexpected bumps and disasters. Which means we have a lot more control over the situation, without having to get everything okayed on a micromanager scale. They hire me because they trust me. It’s like having a personal assistant, for a set time, the length of the project.”

He knew that, mostly, but talking it out, or hearing it talked out, helped him think.

“And, let’s be honest, there aren’t that many people doing this—and most of them prefer long-term clients, not one-offs.”

“So for an older woman who didn’t want the bother, only the result, and probably prefers personal recommendations rather than doing an Internet search, you’d be the perfect choice.”

“Exactly.”

And, he thought but knew better than to say out loud, Ginny’s ego would assume that of course her reputation was spreading, and not look too much further. “So you get a call from this woman, haul down there, and oh, hey, no woman but a dead body?”

She sighed. “Dead body, in a house that didn’t look like it belonged to an older woman, and what looked like the setup of a small, probably illegal business,” she said. “Unless the local DMV is seriously outsourcing their workload . . .”

“Yeah, no. Oregon’s a little crunchy-granola, but I don’t think so.”

“Neither did I.”

“So yeah, this is either the world’s largest convocation of coincidences, and cause for a hairy eyeball if you ask me—which you did—but then the dead guy’s got your contact info on him? Sorry, Gin. At the risk of repeating myself, that’s not coincidence. Either the dead guy was the one who contacted you, pretending to be an old lady, or someone stashed the paper in his pocket, probably after killing him. Either way, it’s not good.”

“Yes, but why? I mean, either scenario? It’s one thing to build a conspiracy theory, but why would there even be a conspiracy? Why would someone
want
me involved in this? Let’s not forget that she—someone—paid my retainer to start. So they were willing to sink a thousand dollars into this, plus the cost of my rental car and hotel. And yes, the check cleared,” she said before he could ask. “It was PayPal, though, so tough to look into that without a court order.”

“And the possibility of that happening would be . . . ?”

“Low to none,” she said. “The cops didn’t seem interested in anything other than why I was in the house, and if I touched anything or saw anything—they’re treating my mystery nonclient as irrelevant.”

“Or they don’t believe there was a client at all.”

They looked at each other through the screen, both frowning.

“I told them. I showed them the email. I told them I’d gotten a retainer.” And they’d written it all down, and then asked her again, as though they were expecting her answer to change. “Shit.”

“You need to pass on that bit about the PayPal, so they can establish someone did pay you to come down there. Pronto. Just, you know, in case.” He was being paranoid, but he wasn’t going to apologize for it.

“Right.” She leaned out of frame to do something—probably, if he knew her, to start a list of things to do on her tablet.

Teddy leaned back in his chair, trying to think of what else Ginny should do, to keep her nose clean, and looked up to see Penny on the shelf over the desk, washing her paw calmly, as though she’d been there all night. “And when did you come in, missy?” he asked her.

“What?”

“Nothing, just Penny escaping the noise out front. Look, the not-a-client is a mystery, yeah, but in and of itself we could assume someone was pranking you, maybe. Even the dead guy—that could just be bad luck he got dead, maybe someone else he’d pranked having no sense of humor. Or, hell, maybe the guy is your client’s nephew and he was trying to do something nice for his auntie, or maybe he was there to meet you because auntie was in the hospital.”

“And auntie doesn’t seem to exist, online?”

“I know this will come as a shock to you, Mallard, but some people don’t. Especially older people.” He’d only started paying bills online recently himself, mainly because Ginny had gotten on his case about it.

“But with your contact info in his pocket and him dead by violence, and you being the one to find him dead by violence? Your friend’s right, that’s when it gets serious.”

“Thank you, Captain Obvious,” she said.

“I’m just laying the pieces out on the board, Mallard; don’t snipe at me.”

She made another face, then nodded once. “Yeah, sorry. Go on.”

“Your friend’s also right that the cops might dismiss it out of hand because like you said, you’ve got an alibi, and odds are he was dead before you even hit town. But they might not—especially if they don’t have anyone else to look at. Unexplained murders in quiet neighborhoods, especially white neighborhoods, makes for a really bad time in the mayor’s office.”

She laughed at that, a little. “And you call me the cynic?”

“I only wish that were cynicism. The most obvious thing could be, he’s the guy who called you down there, for whatever arcane reason, and someone killed him before you got there. It’s bad timing all around, but if the cops find another lead, you’re in the clear, and worst-case ending is that we’ll never know why he pulled the scam.”

“When that’s the simple answer, my life has taken a seriously wrong turn,” she said dryly.

“Oh, a long time ago,” he agreed. “But there’s also the chance that the cops can’t pin it on someone else, and you’re
not
in the clear, not immediately, anyway. I wish we knew who the dead guy
was
. Any chance of getting that information out of the cops?”

Ginny tilted her head at him, her expression slipping from irritated to curious. “Tonica . . . are we investigating this? Officially?”

He stared back at her. “Um.”

“Because that would be really, really dumb.”

“It’s a fool who has himself for a client.” He thought Abraham Lincoln had said that, but college was far back enough that he wasn’t going to cite it, in case he was wrong. Not that Ginny would correct him—who was he kidding, of course she would.

But she didn’t counter-quote, proof that she was a lot more distressed about this than she was letting on.

“Right. Investigating this ourselves would be stupid. We’re just trying to get perspective on what might happen.” That almost sounded believable.

“I think—” There was a noise, and Ginny shifted, then suddenly Georgie’s head filled the screen. “Georgie!” her owner yelped, and there was a slight tussle as Ginny tried to reclaim control of the laptop from the curious canine.

“Having some technical difficulties there, Mallard?”

Her hand, one finger upraised, filled the screen, and he laughed, the tension not gone, but broken a little. He felt something nudge his elbow and looked down to see Penny’s head shoving her way through, coming to settle on his lap. “Well, hello there,” he said in surprise. Penny wasn’t an unaffectionate cat, but she was more of the “pause for petting” type than prone to laps or snuggling. Now she seemed intent on sniffing the computer monitor, as though trying to tell who was on the other side.

“Hey there, Mistress Penny,” Ginny said, reappearing in front of the screen, having apparently come to a compromise with her dog. “Come to join the discussion, or did you just want to say hi to Georgie?”

The cat let out a faint mrrowr—also unusual for her, since she wasn’t much of a talker—and settled back into Teddy’s lap, her tail curled primly around her hindquarters, her gaze on the screen, as though to say that the conference could now proceed. Despite the seriousness of the matter, Teddy had to chuckle. Well, every PI had a sidekick, right? They had two. And Georgie at least earned her keep, playing guard dog and conversation starter, as needed.

“So we’re not going to investigate this ourselves,” Ginny said, going back to their pre-interruption discussion. “Not in any kind of official or semi-official capacity. Because that would be foolish. And also dumb, getting in the cops’ way. Right?”

“Right. We’re just . . . looking into things, in case there’s something we can figure out, that we can pass along to help clear you of suspicion. Then the cops can go do their part of the job, and catch the actual killer instead of side-eyeing you, and you can get back to work without this hanging over your shoulder annoyingly.”

“Right.” Ginny nodded again. They were in complete agreement. “So, first step is . . . what? Find out who actually owned the house, and if the dead guy was the owner, or renter, or happened to be passing through in time to get killed?”

Penny mrrowed, louder this time, and Georgie answered her with a snort, settling back down into Ginny’s lap. “Shush, kids,” Ginny said, knuckling the top of the dog’s head affectionately.

“Finding the owners will take you ten minutes of digging, and you’ll do it before you go to bed,” Teddy said. He was actually surprised she hadn’t done it already, but being side-eyed for a murder could throw anyone off their game, even Ginny. “I think the first thing you need to do tomorrow is Operation Neighborhood Walk.”

“I suck at Operation Neighborhood Walk,” she said glumly. “You’re better at it.”

“Yah well, I’m here and you’re there. Suck it up, Gin. It’s not like you’re doing the hard work, anyway. Georgie is.”

She opened her mouth to protest, then made a “yeah, you’re right” face, and nodded.

*    *    *

Penny purred, gently kneading her front claws into Theodore’
s leg, while her ears twitched back and forth, picking up Georgie’s voice under the humans’ speaking.

“She didn’t let me go with her,” Georgie was complaining. “I had to stay in this room all day!
”

“Make her take you tomorrow,” Penny said. “Soil the carpet if you have to.”

“I couldn’t do that!”

“You’d rather be left behind?
”

Georgie grumbled, and licked Ginny’s hand as though to apologize ahead of time.

“Just . . . She likes taking you places. Be enthusiastic. Suck up to her, make her think you don’t like being left alone.”

“
I don’t!”

Penny sighed. She was fond of Georgie, but some days she just wanted to bat the dog’s ears, hard. “Then it should be easy, right? You need to do this, Georgie
. I’m here; I can’t do everything this time.”

Georgie settled back into her human’s lap and rested her nose on the edge of the keyboard, so all Penny could see was the top of her head. “All right. But I don’
t like it. And if she’s mad at me, I’m blaming you.”

Penny’s tail twitched, the only sign she gave that she was amused. “Fair enough.”

5

S
he was chasing after a
large orange bird with plastic wings that couldn’t quite get it off the ground but kept it just out of reach, and Georgie was no help, sitting on the sideline with her tongue hanging out, laughing at her owner’s efforts.

“Don’t use your hands, use your nose,” the dog suggested, and Ginny has just enough time to consider that before she realized how absurd the whole thing was, and the alarm on her phone went off.

Ginny managed to grab at the offending noise without having to look. Turning it off, though, required actually opening her eyes. When the alarm shut off, she closed her eyes again and took internal inventory. Still incredibly tired, check. Body aching from a too-soft bed, check. In dire need of caffeine, double check. She opened her eyes again, and the brown-eyed, wrinkled face peering over the edge of the bed at her held a familiar expression: Georgie needed to be walked, check.

“Ugh. Right.” She dragged herself out of bed and pulled a sweatshirt over the sweatpants and T-shirt she’d slept in, then shoved her sneakers on bare feet and grabbed Georgie’s leash off the desk, where she’d coiled it the night before. “C’mon, kid. Your bladder waits for no woman.”

She managed to remember her room key before locking herself out, and exchanged a sleepy smile with another guest, who was coming out of the elevator with a terrier mix in his arms.

“They have coffee in the lobby,” he told her. “Free.”

“Oh, thank God,” she said, and he laughed.

The coffee was hot and strong, even if it lacked in the taste department. She dumped two sugars into the paper cup and let Georgie drag her outside. There were two other guests walking their dogs that morning, and Ginny, holding her coffee in one hand and the leash in the other, watched them with a little more interest than she’d been able to muster the night before. The tall black man, already dapper in a suit, had two puppies that looked like some kind of shepherd mix tumbling at his heels. He was talking into a cell phone, softly enough that she couldn’t hear what he was saying, and occasionally glancing down to make sure that the puppies were staying out of trouble. She appreciated that kind of multitasking. The other guest was an older man, with a staid, graying black standard poodle that perfectly matched his own hair. Georgie and the poodle ignored each other, but she sniffed at the puppies—missing their abandoned pup Parsifal, maybe. They’d finally gotten Parsy a new home with one of Stacy’s friends, who lived in Kirkland and had room for an ungainly, overenergetic puppy to run around.

Neither human attempted to speak to her as they strolled the length of the dog run, and while normally Ginny liked talking to other dog owners, this morning she was thankful for their preoccupation. She had gotten a full seven hours of sleep, but somehow it felt earlier than 6 a.m. The sun was up, though, and the sky was a grayish blue, and there were birds singing in a nearby tree, making Ginny feel like a slacker for not being more cheerful.

Then again, she decided sourly, having a job go south was enough to ruin your mood—knowing that you were stuck here until the cops said you could go pretty much trampled it into the ground. If she had to extend her stay here . . .

“At least I brought the laptop,” she said, not quite loud enough for the dog to hear. “Being stuck here without would have driven
me
to kill someone.” And then she looked around guiltily, as though a cop would be standing there writing down her words as a confession.

Once Georgie had taken care of her basic needs and Ginny had finished her coffee, they went back upstairs and Ginny took care of her own morning maintenance. The water pressure in the shower was mediocre, but there was enough hot water that she finally started to feel alert—and a little less paranoid.

She came out of the bathroom dressed in a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, about as far from the smart-but-approachable suit she’d been wearing yesterday as her suitcase could manage. She let her hair dry naturally and studied herself in the mirror. Her normal look was Professionally Tough, No Bullshit Taken. But if she left her hair down, and didn’t wear makeup?

Her curls framed her face in a haphazard way that might be able to pass for innocently tousled, and her skin seemed reasonably clear, no more than normal shadows under her eyes, despite how tired she felt. She widened her hazel eyes at her reflection and tried to project Trustworthy Girl Next Door vibes.

“Tonica’s so much better at this,” she told her reflection. “He could be dressed like a Goth IRS agent and people would still trust him.” It was his body language, making his strong build seem comforting rather than threatening, his expression inviting rather than forbidding.

Oh well. She was honestly interested in what people had to say, especially when it was on a topic that she had a vested interest in solving. That was going to have to be enough.

“C’mon, kid,” she called to Georgie, who had curled up in the corner while she took her shower, and seemed to be napping. “Time to go to work.”

*    *    *

Operation Neighborhood Walk was Tonica’s term for it. Ginny preferred the simpler “take Georgie for a walk and see what falls out.” But it came down to the same thing: drive to the area they wanted to check out, snap on Georgie’s leash, and wander along the sidewalks until someone came up to talk to them.

Someone always did. No matter who was holding the leash, Georgie’s wrinkled skin and sweet brown eyes drew people to her, exactly the same way she’d first drawn Ginny to her at the sidewalk shelter adoption display. Shar-peis were a blend of odd and adorable, and Georgie’s one drooping ear, the off-breed inheritance, made her even more appealing. Strangers would approach cautiously, looking at Georgie then flicking their gaze up to the human with her, turning sideways, and offering their hand for Georgie to sniff at the same time they were asking if it was okay to approach the dog. Ginny thought it would be smarter to ask before putting your hand out, but people couldn’t seem to help themselves. She wasn’t much better, with other people’s dogs.

People
wanted
to believe that dogs were friendly, for the most part.

As they drove back to the house where she’d found the body yesterday, Ginny felt a familiar nervous tension in her stomach. It wasn’t the snooping around that made her uncomfortable—even when they’d started this, she’d been okay with the idea of asking questions and poking her nose into other people’s business. That was what she
did
, after all. All right, usually with their permission, and them paying her to do so, but the theory was the same. But returning to the same street, walking past the same house, where she’d been the one to discover a murder victim? When the cops had their eyes on her already?

She gave herself a pep talk. “You’re just going to look. And maybe talk to anyone who’s out and about.” It was just after nine now, so the commute-to-work folk would be gone, and anyone on the street now might be more likely to stop and gossip about all the cops who’d come by the day before. That was the theory behind Neighborhood Walk, anyway, and it had always worked before.

And it was unlikely anyone would connect her with the woman who’d been there the day before, even without the change of clothes and hairstyle. She hadn’t talked to anyone other than the cops, hadn’t been caught on film—that she was aware of—and hadn’t stopped to chat with any of the rubberneckers. Everyone had been focusing on the house and the cops, not the person who’d called in the scene.

Normally, she’d be upset to be so overlooked, but in this instance, Ginny was thankful. Plus, she had Georgie now. People remembered the dog, not the owner. She was guilty of that herself, too.

Just to be on the safer side, though, she parked the rental car a block away, and the two of them ambled in the direction of the house slowly, ready to abort the mission if she saw even a hint of a cop car. But whatever investigating the police had done, they seemed to be done. When she looked down the street, she could see that there was the usual yellow tape on the door, but no sign of anything else.

Maybe they were treating it as an accidental death, despite what Ron had said. Maybe she was panicked for no reason at all.

Then Ginny remembered the way the body had been crammed under the table, the torn clothing and bloodied hands, and shook her head. Even the most inept or corrupt TV cop would have to investigate that, even if they overlooked or ignored what was in the small studio, or—she presumed—on the computers lined up in the living room.

“They’d have to have looked at the computers, whatever was on them. Wouldn’t they?” she asked Georgie, who was busy sniffing the base of the stop sign at the corner.

Georgie had no opinion.

“Some help you are, partner,” she grumbled, but gave Georgie a treat anyway. It wasn’t the dog’s fault she didn’t know enough about actual police procedure. She should learn. Except the cops she knew back in Seattle would be more likely to tell her to back off than to actually tell her anything. . . . Maybe there was a website with that kind of info? There was always a website.

“Oh, isn’t he a beauty,” a voice said, and Ginny looked up to see an older woman walking down the street, a tiny black fluff of a dog at the end of her leash. “Is that a shar-pei?”

“Mostly,” Ginny said. “And she’s good with little dogs, don’t worry,” even as the fluff spotted Georgie and strained at the leash, wanting to go meet the newcomer. Georgie looked at the strange dog and wuffed once, then turned her head to look at Ginny, asking if this was all right.

“Play, Georgie,” she said, and let the leash go slack enough that Georgie had room to move forward and sniff noses, then butts, before the black fluff tried to put its paws on Georgie’s head, indicating it was time to play.

“Little dogs always think they’re so fierce,” the woman said fondly. “Mika firmly believes that she’s a Great Dane.”

“Hey, Mika,” Ginny said. “Is she a Pom?”

“Mostly. And a little Jack Russell, I think.”

Ginny’s eyes widened. “That must make for . . .”

The other woman laughed. “A very energetic dog, oh yes.”

Mika’s owner had to be in her late sixties or early seventies, and Ginny only hoped that she was up to that kind of energy at that age. “You must have to walk her a lot?”

“Three times a day, minimum.” They paused a moment to untangle the leashes, as the dogs circled each other, sniffing noses, then tails. “I have a yard where she can run around, but it’s good for her to have the discipline of a leash, too.”

Ginny had the suspicion that the woman had been a teacher at one point. “I know that feeling,” she said with sincerity. “Georgie’s getting full-on training, because if she decided to take off I’m pretty sure she’d take my arm with me. Not that she ever would, she’s a sweetheart, but, well, things can startle even the best dog.” It was a lousy opening, but Ginny took it anyway. “And you never know what’s going to happen these days, do you? Were you out when the cops showed up yesterday? I only heard about it after the fact. . . .” Technically true: He was dead when she got there, so that was after the fact, right?

“Oh my, yes, such a shame.” The woman made a face, the kind you make when you talk about a tragedy that doesn’t really affect you directly: slightly too concerned, too interested. “Not that I knew the boy who lived there—he seemed to keep rather odd hours, and spent his time with much younger people than me, obviously—but you don’t ever want to think about someone dying in such an awful fashion.”

The dogs had graduated to mock-leaping at each other, and their owners had to keep adjusting leashes while they talked, handling the reins like seasoned pros to keep them from becoming hopelessly tangled. “Signs have already gone up; we’re going to have a neighborhood watch meeting at the end of the week, with the local police in to talk about safety precautions we can take.”

“They think it was a break-in?”

“Oh my, dear, what else could it have been?”

“That’s terrible. . . . I’d hoped maybe he just fell, or . . .”

“Oh no, it was definitely murder.”

The woman didn’t lower her voice or look either wide-eyed or nervous saying the word: definitely a teacher, Ginny decided. Or ex-military.

“Someone bashed his head in, and left him to die. I can’t imagine that was anything but a crime of passion, can you? I mean, a planned death wouldn’t be so . . . sudden?”

“Maybe he was actually one of those so-quiet types who turn out to be mass murderers, and he was killed by an escaping victim?” Ginny couldn’t help herself; the woman seemed so fascinated by the ghoulish turn of the conversation.

“Oh.” The woman’s eyes widened. “Oh dear, the property values of the neighborhood would
never
recover if they start finding bodies in the basement. . . .”

They looked at each other, and there was a moment before they both started giggling, slightly ashamed of themselves.

“Oh dear.” The woman’s expression eased a little, true regret there now. “A man is dead; we should not be so . . . But I suppose there are only a few ways to respond to death, and gruesome humor always seemed healthier to me than the others, if you didn’t actually know the victim. . . .” She shook her head, and then suddenly seemed to recall her manners. “I’m Daisy.”

“Virginia.” Fake names were pointless trouble. A limited truth’s easier to keep track of, and gives you plausible deniability if you happen to know people in common. “And that’s Georgie.”

“Do you live in the area, Virginia? I’m sure I would have noticed Georgie before.”

“No, I’m down from Seattle on business. Georgie came with me, since it was only a car ride.”

“Oh, that’s nice.” From ghoulish to grandmotherly in .002 seconds. “Business trips can be awful; it’s nice to have company. She’s good in a car?”

“Surprisingly so,” Ginny said.

At that point, Mika decided she’d had enough, and started tugging at her leash again, indicating she wanted to get a move on.

“Well, I hope you enjoy the rest of your stay in Portland,” Daisy said.

“And I hope they catch whoever did that, soon,” Ginny said, bending down to pet Georgie, who looked forlorn to lose a playmate. “Sorry, kid,” she said as Daisy and Mika moved away. “That’s how business meetings go.” Bless Daisy. She might not have been the most informative informant, but it was an excellent starting point. The victim
had
lived in the house, and kept, quote unquote, “odd hours.”