Claws for Alarm (5 page)

*   *   *

T
wenty-eight steps later I had my suitcase on the twin bed in the room and Nick lay sprawled out on the braided carpet next to the bed. The room wasn't much, but it was homey; it boasted an iron-frame twin bed, a wooden dresser, and a small nightstand. The walls were covered in a paper that was denim blue and cream, and the chenille bedspread was a lighter shade of blue. Uninspiring quarters, to be sure, but at least they were clean. I took out the suit I'd packed to wear to the police station in the morning and hung it in the tiny closet, then pulled out a small bowl and a package of Fancy Feast for Nick. He scampered double time off the rug, turning around and around as I filled the bowl with salmon and chicken bits. I left him happily hunkered down in the corner and went downstairs in search of the promised coffee.

By the time I reached the first floor the aroma of freshly brewed Kona blend assailed my nostrils. I followed the scent straight into the large, homey kitchen I'd glimpsed upon my arrival and stood in the doorway for a better look. Gleaming stainless steel appliances took up almost one entire wall, while the one opposite held shelves overflowing with cereal, canned goods, and other assorted groceries. Light streamed in from the window above the sink and filtered over the large wooden table that stood in the center of the room. To the side
of the window was what looked like a large covered cage on a stand. I wondered what was inside then decided I was probably better off not knowing. A sizable orange, white, and black calico cat sat square in the middle of the room, paws folded under its head, eyes closed. Aunt Prudence, in front of a massive double oven range, turned, smiled at me, and saw the cat. She immediately hustled over, scooped it up, and deposited it gently in a fluffy fleece bed lying off to one side of the massive double-door refrigerator. The cat shifted comfortably in the bed, with not a peep or a meow.

“That's Gladys.” My aunt smiled fondly at the cat. “She's fourteen but still pretty spry. I'd introduce her to your Nick, but . . . I'm afraid she's not very sociable with other animals.”

“That's okay. I'm sure Nick won't mind. To be honest, I haven't had him very long, so I don't know how he interacts with other animals, either.”

“Some cats need other feline companionship, while others are perfectly happy being ‘only children.' Gladys loves having the run of the house. She's fondest of the kitchen, especially at mealtime, but if Irene ever saw her up on the table . . .” She shot me a quick eye roll. “Irene's not too fond of cats. Doesn't like the fact they can jump most anywhere.”

I eased myself into one of the high-backed lemon yellow wooden chairs. “Well, I'll try to keep Nick in my room while we're here.”

A light shuffling sound reached my ears. I swiveled my head in the direction of the covered cage. Aunt Prudence saw me and smiled. “That's only Jumanji, my African parrot. He's a complete dear.”

“Dear, dear,” sounded softly from beneath the cover.

My aunt poured steaming coffee into two mugs and
brought them over to the table. “Do you take your coffee straight, or with milk or cream?”

“Milk's fine.”

She bustled over to the stainless steel refrigerator, returning with a small white ceramic pitcher, which she placed on the table in front of me. I poured some milk into the mug and took a long, satisfying sip.

“So,” Prudence settled herself in the chair next to me. “How do you like running the sandwich shop? I imagine after palling around with undercover cops and tracking down criminals it must have been quite a change for you.”

“Change, change,” chirped Jumanji.

I ignored the parrot and turned to my aunt. “It was,” I admitted, “but not an unwelcome one. I've always liked to cook, as you know, and I enjoy making up different sandwich combinations for my customers. People love my
Thin Man Tuna Melt
, and the
George Foreman Griller
is also pretty popular. And I've been writing articles in my spare time for an online crime magazine, so . . . I guess you could say I've got the best of both worlds, right now.”

“It certainly sounds as if you're happy, carrying on the family tradition. Oh dear, I do hope your business won't suffer, you know, what with you being here and all.”

“It won't. After all, it's not as if I'm three thousand miles away. It's less than a twenty-minute drive, and besides, I've got Chantal and a high school girl to watch the store.” I squeezed her arm. “We've got more important things to worry about.”

“True.” Aunt Prudence let out a sigh and cupped her mug with both hands. “To be honest, I don't know how you did it back in Chicago, dealing with crime and criminals, day in
and day out. This fiasco with Lacey has me worn down to my last nerve.” She lifted the mug to her lips, took a long sip, and then glanced at me over the rim. “It's a mistake, that's what it is. A horrible, horrible mistake.”

“Of course it is,” said a raspy voice behind us. “Anyone with an ounce of sense can see that girl's not a murderer. If anyone lacks the killer instinct, it's her.”

“Murderer,” came from the depths of the cage. “Killer.”

“Gosh, what's got that parrot all riled up? He's usually not this chatty so late.”

I glanced over my shoulder. A tall woman wearing a burgundy quilted housecoat that seemed a size too big on her lean frame moved forward, hand extended. “You must be Nora. I'm Prudence's friend, Irene.”

I took a moment to study her. Irene clearly was not what I'd expected. From Aunt Prudence's description, I'd envisioned her childhood friend as an elderly lady with iron gray hair, stoop shouldered, someone who wore a hearing aid, housedress, and apron and fussed over her boarders like a momma hen fussed over her chicks. Well, Irene MacGillicuddy had a hearing aid alright, in her left ear, but that's where that resemblance ended. She was as tall as me, maybe an inch or two taller, built like a linebacker with ramrod-straight posture. Curly coal black hair was piled atop her head, a few loose tendrils framing her oval face. Her skin was clear and unlined. Had I not known her age, I would have pegged her for someone in her late thirties or early forties—she was that well preserved.

I took the proffered hand and shook it. “Yes, I'm Nora. It's nice to finally meet you, Irene.”

Sharp black eyes snapped, crinkled up at the corners.
“You, too. I'm only sorry it has to be under such dire circumstances.” She lifted her head and sniffed the air. “Is that Maui Kona I smell?”

“Yes. I know it's your favorite.” Aunt Prudence jumped up, crossed over to the counter, pulled out another mug, and filled it to the brim with the hot liquid, then returned to the table and set it down. “Have some, dear. We were just discussing . . . the day's events.”

Irene pulled out the chair next to me and eased her tall frame into it. She took a sip of the coffee and shook her head. “You made it a bit on the strong side, Prudence. You and that heavy hand of yours,” she muttered. “You put six scoops in this—I can taste it. I told you, four is more than enough.”

“Of course,” my aunt sniffed, “if you like drinking dirty water. Nora needed a good jolt of caffeine.”

In his cage, Jumanji tittered loudly.

“Irene,” I decided to interrupt in the hopes of forestalling what looked to be a doozy of an argument over coffee strength. “Aunt Prudence told me you were here when they arrested Lacey.”

Irene turned her sharp gaze to me. “Yes, I was. It all happened so fast, too. Lacey didn't say a word, she looked calm, but I could tell the poor girl was scared half out of her mind.”

“Well, wouldn't you be?” Prudence demanded before I could say anything. “Accused of a crime you didn't commit? Railroaded to jail like a common criminal?”

“Hardly common, Prudence. Murder isn't like robbing a convenience store.” She paused and rubbed at her stomach. “My, I'm hungry. Would either of you like some toast?”

We shook our heads. Irene pushed back her chair and walked over to the kitchen counter. She opened a large
breadbasket, removed two slices of bread, plunked them into the gleaming four-slice toaster, and pushed a stray tendril out of her eyes. “Let's see. The doorbell rang when I was watching Dr. Oz. I went to answer, and there's this nice-lookin' guy standin' on the stoop. Before I could say a word he whipped out a badge and says he's from Homicide, and is Ms. Lacey Charles home?” She moved her shoulders expressively. “What could I do? I let him inside and told him I'd go and see. Just at that moment she comes walking down the staircase and, let me tell you, she looked just like a doe caught in the headlights. Her eyes were big and round, and she was pale, oh, so pale—I thought she might faint. So I said, ‘Lacey, this gentleman is lookin' for you.' And she just nodded, you know, like someone in a trance. So then that detective walks right up to her and he asks, ‘Lacey Charles?' and when she nodded, he said, ‘You're under arrest for the murder of Professor Thaddeus C. Pitt. You have the right to remain silent,' and he just went on and on, you know, like they do on
CSI
. I kept waiting for him to pull handcuffs out, but he didn't, thank the Lord. Just took her arm, led her out to the car at the curb, and off they went. She didn't protest, didn't let out one peep.”

“It's all a giant mistake,” Aunt Prudence burst out. “It's got to be. Lacey wouldn't harm a fly, let alone deliberately murder anyone. This is all absurd.”

“Mistake,” squawked the parrot. “Mistake.”

Irene removed the toast, then walked to the refrigerator, took out the butter, and slathered it liberally on the bread before returning to the table. She took a large bite, chewed it thoroughly, and then said, “I don't like to butt into family matters, but you must agree, Prudence, Lacey hasn't been acting like herself lately. She's been in a bit of a funk—a real
odd mood.” Irene took another bite of toast. Gladys's head lifted and the cat stretched, ambled from the fluffy fleece bed, and seated herself beside Irene's chair. Irene glanced down, saw the cat, and hitched her chair away from the animal closer to my aunt. Then she turned back to me. “She put a lot of pressure on herself, that girl. Why, she was desperate to get an A from that Professor Pitt. She worked late at that studio and then stayed up here till all hours, working on her projects. She put her whole heart and soul into her work, and then when it wasn't appreciated, when he embarrassed her”—she put her hand across her heart and sighed dramatically—“it must have been more than she could bear.”

“Oh, really, Irene,” my aunt bit out the words. “Just because someone gets in a mood every now and then doesn't make them a murderer.”

“Maybe, maybe not. I watched a show once on the Discovery Channel that said anyone could be capable of committing a murder, if they were pushed far enough.”

The corners of Aunt Prudence's mouth turned down. “Bullhockey.”

“It is not.” Irene's jaw jutted forward. “Look how many murders are the result of some stupid argument. Why just yesterday in the police blotter—”

I decided to interrupt this discussion before it escalated into a full-out war. “How do you know he embarrassed her, Irene?”

“I don't,” she said bluntly. “I'm just making a logical assumption. From stories Lacey's told since she's been here, and from what I've heard from other people, Pitt could be a real asswipe, especially where art was concerned. If it didn't
measure up to his exacting standards . . .” She shrugged. “Asswipe,” she repeated.

I threw a quick glance at the clock above the sink and stood up. “Well, I guess I'd better try and get some rest. I've got an early day tomorrow.”

Prudence turned to Irene. “Nora managed to contact a criminal lawyer. She's meeting him at the jail tomorrow.”

“Well, he'd better be damn good,” Irene remarked. “If they do charge her with first-degree murder, it'll take nothing short of a miracle to get her out. She'll either be facing life in the big house or, heaven forbid, the death penalty.”

Beside me, Aunt Prudence's sharp intake of breath was unmistakable. “The death penalty! Oh my Lord, you don't think . . .”

“Hey, the evidence against her is pretty strong,” Irene cut in. “An eyewitness caught her with the body, remember?”

“Standing over it,” my aunt retorted. “Not actually stabbing it.”

Irene waved her hand in the air. “Still . . . the DA's already sent four people to death row on a lot less this year. He's on a roll. It's an election year, you know, and word on the street is his goal is to get half a dozen sent up before year's end. Lacey would make number five. Not a bad incentive to nail her as guilty, if you ask me.”

I turned to leave, and Jumanji shuffled in his cage.

“Guilty,” he warbled. “Guilty, guilty, guilty.”

Great.

I
was up well before anyone else the next morning, made myself a quick cup of coffee, and arrived at St. Leo's Central Station, an imposing building located in the downtown area, a few minutes past 7:30 a.m. As I entered the lobby, a tall, slender, sandy-haired man rose from the bank of chairs and started toward me. He was wearing a navy pin-striped suit that draped nicely on his tall frame, a white button-down shirt, and a navy and yellow striped tie, and was carrying an expensive leather briefcase. He extended his free hand. “Nora Charles? I'm Peter Dobbs.” He grinned, slow and easy. “The description Daniel gave me was spot-on. Beautiful redhead, hourglass figure, snapping green eyes, walks with confidence—it fits you to a tee.”

Heat seared my cheeks as I shook his hand. “Wow, I'm at a loss. Daniel didn't describe you at all, Mr. Dobbs.”

He held up one hand. “It's Peter. Mr. Dobbs is what folks call my father—or my uncle.”

He had a manner about him one couldn't help but find appealing, and in spite of the situation I found myself grinning. “Okay, Peter. I don't want to waste any time. What can you tell me about my sister, and when can I see her?”

He put his hand on the small of my back and guided me over to the bank of chairs. Once we were seated, he set his briefcase on the floor between us and said, “As soon as I got off the phone with Daniel I came straight here. She was still being processed, but they let me have a few minutes with her. She appeared to be doing well, under the circumstances. Naturally, she was a bit confused, and a mite indignant as well. I have a few friends on the force, so I used my influence to have them handle her with kid gloves. They kept her here overnight, pending arraignment. If she's denied bail, they'll want to transfer her, but if we can get a quick court date, she'll most likely be kept locally, at County Jail. And believe me, if she's got to stay in jail, far better here than the alternative. Here her cell mates would only be a few vagrants or drunks. Elsewhere . . . you get the idea.”

I winced at the thought of my free-spirited sister behind bars no matter where the locale. “What do you think her chances of bail are?”

“Depends on what they decide to charge her with. First-degree offenders rarely are granted bail, and in your sister's case, well, she was caught holding the murder weapon, standing over the body, plus she threatened him in front of witnesses. Second-degree or manslaughter would be a stretch.” He ran his hand through his hair, mussing the sides. “In any event, I'm
going to argue she be granted bail. I'm sure you'd prefer she not be incarcerated in prison during the trial. Unfortunately, she's appearing before Judge Blaskowitz, and he's a stickler for the letter of the law.” He reached into his pocket for a packet of mints, held one out to me. I shook my head, and he popped one in his mouth. “Be warned, though, if Blaskowitz does grant it, it'll be high. Very high.”

I set my jaw. “That's okay. I have savings, and I have my shop. I'm sure I can meet it.”

He nodded. “Lacey is lucky to have a sister like you.”

“I'm sure she'd disagree with that. We really don't get along all that well.”

He chuckled. “No sibling gets along one hundred percent of the time with the others. I haven't spoken to my brother or my sister for months.” He shoved his hands in his pocket. “You're familiar with the details leading up to her arrest?”

I grimaced. “I know she was found with the body holding the murder weapon. And I know she's supposed to have threatened him in class earlier that day.”

“In front of over thirty witnesses,” Peter sighed. “She told me she'd made an appointment with him to look at more of her work for extra credit, but she was running late. She got to the office, and the door was slightly ajar. She went in and, at first, didn't see anything, then she noticed a large red stain. She walked around the desk, saw Pitt sprawled beneath, the knife sticking out of his chest, and she just reacted. She bent over, pulled it out of him, and by the time it dawned on her what had actually happened, the guard had entered, yelled at her to drop the weapon. He moved pretty slowly, though, and when he went for the phone she took off.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Said she just had to get out of there. She
needed to think, to process what had happened. She said she wasn't quite sure what she should do, and by the time she decided to go to the police, well, it was too late.”

“Any chance there are other prints besides hers on that knife?”

Peter shrugged. “Homicide hasn't shared those results with me yet. But I wouldn't bet on it.”

I pushed hair out of my eyes with the heel of my hand. “It just seems like a setup to me. Her altercation with Pitt made her a perfect patsy for the real murderer.”

“I had the same thought,” Peter admitted. “Of course, the murderer would have to have known about their late-night meeting.” He looked at me for a long moment, then said, “For what it's worth, your sister denies having absolutely anything to do with his death. She said she was mad enough to kill him, but she didn't.”

I looked him straight in the eye. “Do you believe her?”

He met my gaze. “Yes. I do.”

I let out a heartfelt sigh. “I'm sorry. I had to ask. And I'm glad I did. I'm glad you believe in her, and this isn't just a favor you're doing for a friend.”

His lips relaxed into a slow grin. “I've always been fond of Daniel, but there is no number of favors owed that would convince me to take a case I didn't believe in. I'll do everything I can to absolve her, but in order to do that I'll need her help. Let's just say your sister isn't as cooperative as you'd expect a person in her position to be.”

“Knowing my sister, I can imagine. You can rest assured, though, I'll do anything I can to help prove her innocence.”

His lips twitched upward, and I caught a glimmer of a twinkle in those eyes. “Yes, Daniel mentioned you used to
be a top-notch investigative reporter. And that you gave it all up to make sandwiches.”

“Not just any sandwiches, either. They're specialty sandwiches, with specialty names. Clear my sister of this murder charge and I'll even name one after you,” I promised. “How does the
Peter Dobbs Panini
sound?”

“If it's as good as your
Thin Man Tuna Melt
I'll be flattered. Daniel raved about it.” He rose and took my arm. “Now, let's go see your sister.”

We walked down a long corridor and through a door marked
SECURITY
. Inside, we stepped through a metal detector, and I handed my purse over to a female officer. She gave it a thorough going-through and then handed it back, then went through the same procedure with Peter's briefcase. Then we were escorted into a large room that reminded me of a hospital cafeteria. Gray metal tables were arranged in a large square. The chairs were a dull black, and the floor was a black-and-white checked pattern. The only bright spot was the large window along the south wall, which allowed the early-morning sunlight to pour into the room, brightening it up considerably. The officer waved her hand in the direction of the chairs.

“Have a seat. She'll be in shortly. The arraignment is set for ten.”

The lieutenant left and Peter leaned in toward me. “Just a word of caution,” he said. “I know you'll want to touch your sister, give her a hug and a kiss, but it's best if you don't. This isn't a family visit, remember, and we don't want to alarm the guard with unsolicited behavior. They might think you're passing something to her.”

I nodded. “I'll remember.”

Several minutes later the door opened and my sister, accompanied by a dour-faced guard, entered. I could see even this brief period of incarceration had taken a toll on my sister. Lacey had on navy pants and a matching shirt. Her hands were manacled, and her eyes were dull and expressionless. Her normally bouncy ash-blond hair hung in limp strands around her pale face and looked as if it could do with a shampoo.

“Hello, Lacey,” Peter said. “You remember me—we met last night.”

Lacey stared at him blankly, and then her gaze traveled to me. She sucked in her breath and didn't say a word, but her eyes widened and seemed to lose their glassy stare. The guard unlocked the handcuffs and waited until Peter and I were seated before moving to a seat on the other side of the room.

Lacey perched awkwardly in her chair, arms folded tightly across her chest. She kept her gaze down, fixed on the tabletop.

“Lacey,” Peter said, “I've brought someone with me who would like to talk to you.”

“Lace.” My hand started to move across the table, and I had to catch myself midway. I could feel the guard's eyes on me as I drew it back, put it in my lap. “Lace, it's good to see you.”

My sister slowly raised her gaze to meet mine. She blinked back tears, hugged herself more tightly. Still she did not say one word.

“Don't you worry,” I said, with far more confidence than I felt. “Everything's going to be all right. I know you didn't murder Pitt, and so does Peter. We're going to find out who did.”

A tear trickled down her cheek. I pulled a tissue from my jacket pocket and placed it on the table. She picked it
up, dabbed at her eyes, then clenched her fist tightly around the tissue before raising her gaze to meet mine. “You shouldn't have come. You shouldn't have wasted your time.”

I leaned forward a bit, but not too much, as the guard had her eagle eye trained right on the table. My sister had lost her former sense of bravado. I couldn't recall ever hearing her sound so dejected. “Why do you say that, Lacey? The only way my time would be wasted would be if you did kill him, and you didn't, right?”

Her lips tugged downward. “You don't sound very sure of me. Of course I didn't.” Her chin shot up, just a hair. “I might have wanted to, maybe, just for a minute, but . . . He was a pompous, arrogant ass, but I knew that when I signed up for the course. I wanted to study under the best. I never dreamt he was so . . . so malicious, such a bully. His biggest delight was in making people feel small, feel inadequate. Of course, it might just have been his way of igniting one's creative flame, but I thought it sucked. And I told him so.”

“Good for you,” I murmured. “People who think belittling someone is the way to make them do a better job make my skin crawl.”

We were all silent for a few moments, and then Lacey dropped her arms to her sides and sat up a bit straighter in her chair. “I asked him what I could do to improve my grade. I knew I deserved more than that damned C minus. God, all of them did. I was the only one with any guts to ask for extra credit. He said he'd think about it, and I should come to his office after my last class. I told him that I'd definitely be there.”

“Okay,” I said as she took a breath. “Then what happened?”

“I went back to the studio and worked on my portraits. I had three of them, and I worked on them all day. My last class ended at nine thirty that evening, and I'd forgotten one of my portraits, so I had to go back to my locker—that's why I was late for our meeting. I figured he might think I wasn't going to show and leave, but when I got there I saw the door was ajar. I called out his name, and I thought I heard a sound.”

“What sort of sound?” I asked.

She shrugged. “I'm not sure; it was so faint—if I had to guess I'd say it sounded like a faint click, you know, like a drawer being shut. Anyway, I pushed the door all the way open and went in. I called out his name—no answer. At first I thought he'd left, and then . . . I saw that red stain. At first I thought it might be wine—the decanter was off center, and I could swear I smelled it. Pitt was such a fanatic about his wine; he always had a glass or more in the evenings, and he could have spilled some, but . . . there was just so much red. Then when I realized what it was, what happened next . . . well, it's kind of a blur.” She scrubbed at her eyes with the palms of her hands. “I walked around the desk and he was lying there, that antique knife of his bulging out of his chest. I don't know what I was thinking. Maybe that if I could get that knife out, he'd start to breathe. I saw all the blood, and yet—I don't know why, I thought maybe I could still save him. So I grabbed the handle with both hands and just pulled it out. For what it's worth, I honestly don't think he'd been dead very long. Next thing I knew the guard was standing in the doorway, yelling at me to put the knife down and step away from the body. All I could think of was I just had to get out of there, to figure out what to do, so when he went
for the phone—” Her shoulders lifted in a shrug, and she raised her head. She fixed me with a penetrating stare. “I must say, you certainly got here fast, Nora. How did you hear about this so quickly? Either this was front-page news over in Cruz or Aunt Pru called you,” she said flatly. “Of course she did. Who else could get to the bottom of this mystery?”