Claws for Alarm (6 page)

“That's not true,” I began, but my sister cut me off.

“Oh right. You came back home to take over the family business because I couldn't make a go and wanted to sell. As usual. The cool, levelheaded older sister has to step in to save the family legacy from the flighty, impetuous younger sister, the one who has yet to make a success of anything she undertakes.”

“Don't flatter yourself,” I bit out. “I was considering coming back to Cruz anyway. Let's be honest, here. We really haven't had a serious talk in a long time. You have no idea what's been going on in my life, any more than I have in yours. And it's a shame.”

She regarded me thoughtfully for a moment and then said, “Touché. So let's be honest, just like you suggested,
sis
. You always did like to play rescuer, and everything you touch turns to gold while everything I touch turns to crap. Here's yet another opportunity for you to show me up. Why do you think I
didn't
call you?” Her words tumbled out, double time, and now she stopped for a shaky breath. “I didn't kill him. I wish to God I knew who did.” Her shoulders heaved up and down, and then her body curled into itself as she began to sob in earnest. I wanted to go to her, put my arms around her, and cradle her, but I knew I couldn't, so I just sat and watched until her sobs slowly subsided and her breath came out in hiccups.

“I'm so sorry you felt you couldn't call on me for help,” I said softly. “You have to know I love you.”

“No, I'm the one who's sorry,” she said at last, pushing hair out of her eyes with the heel of her hand. “We've had our share of differences over the years, but I don't mean to be ungrateful. You got me a lawyer, and came all the way out here—but honest, I think it's a lost cause. I didn't kill him, but the police aren't looking for anyone else. They've got a dummy right here, who got caught with the body and was stupid enough to touch the murder weapon. It's open and shut as far as they're concerned.”

“Them, maybe, but not us.” I tapped the edge of one nail against the tabletop. “If Pitt was as egocentric as you claim, there must be other students who hated him, too.”

“Gosh,” Lacey pushed her hand through her hair, “there were lots who felt that way, who hated his guts, but none of 'em would ever come right out and say so—except yours truly.” Her brow furrowed, then cleared. “Well, maybe Julia. She was always one to speak her mind.”

“Julia?”

“Julia Canton. She's one of his students—was one of his students—and she also does some modeling. Rumor has it she and Pitt have been, ah, seeing a lot of each other lately.”

“Seeing a lot of each other? As in dating?”

“If you put any stock in the school rumor mill, which, FYI, is right more often than wrong.”

“What a glowing endorsement.” I glanced across the table at Peter, who'd whipped a pad and pen from his briefcase and was scribbling down notes. “I thought Pitt was married.”

“He was,” Peter chimed in. “Been married to his second wife for a little over eight years now.” His lips twitched
slightly as he added, “I believe the second Mrs. Pitt would be what's known as a ‘trophy wife.'”

“Ah.” I rubbed my hands together. “And wife number one?”

“Apparently the divorce was amicable in spite of the circumstances. They do have a son, Philip. Boy's got a lot of problems—to be precise, the ponies and Vegas. From what I understand, Pitt has very little to do with the boy, yet he's on surprisingly friendly terms with the wife. Gave her a large settlement when they split, and a generous monthly allowance.”

“He dumped her for a younger model, though, right?” I tapped my chin with my forefinger. “Sounds like a guilty conscience to me.”

“Assuming Pitt has a conscience, yes. Anyway, since Althea hasn't worked full-time in years, I see no reason why she'd want to see her cash cow dead. Giselle, on the other hand, signed a pre-nup. In a divorce, she'd get virtually nothing, but as the widow”—he paused and finished with a flourish—“she'd get millions.”

“If Pitt was planning on racking up a new trophy, she's a good possibility. Money's always a prime motive for murder.” I slit my eyes in thought, then turned to Lacey. “Anyone else who wasn't his number one fan?”

Her eyes rolled upward, answer enough for me even without the vocal confirmation. “Geez, where do I begin? He was always picking on Taft Michaels on one thing or another—he's another student and model. And I think Jenna Whitt—she's another student—might have had a disagreement with him recently.” Her brow puckered in thought and then she said, “And there's Kurt.”

“Kurt?”

“Kurt Wilson. He manages a gallery in Pacific Grove that displays some of the more promising students' work from time to time. I think Pitt bought some pieces recently from Kurt's gallery. Maybe—maybe they could have had a disagreement over that. But I couldn't say for sure.”

I laid my hand on Peter's arm. “It would seem there are quite a few other people who could have had a motive for murder. Now why aren't the police looking into them?”

“Why should they? As far as they're concerned, I had means, motive, and opportunity,” Lacey cut in. “None of the others threatened to kill him in public and then got caught holding the murder weapon.” She scrubbed at her face with both hands and let out a giant sigh. “Mom said it best. I'm my own worst enemy.”

I wanted desperately to pat her on the shoulder and restrained myself with effort. “Can you think of anyone who might have heard you making that appointment with Pitt?”

Her lips scrunched up as she thought. “Julia might have been standing nearby; maybe Taft, too. The door was open, and I wasn't exactly quiet. Anyone walking by or standing in the hall near the door could have heard, I guess.” She slapped her forehead with her open palm. “I'm sorry, I just can't remember. I was just so
mad
. All my focus was on Pitt and getting him to agree to look at more of my work.” She paused and her shoulders slumped dejectedly. “And how much crow I'd probably have to eat for my earlier words, of course.”

I leaned a little bit forward, not too far as I caught the guard watching us carefully. “Is there anything else you can think of, Lace? What about the office when you went in? Did anything seem off to you?”

“You mean other than seeing the dead body on the floor, and all that blood?” She let out a giant sigh. “If anything did, it went from my mind the minute I saw that.”

“I know finding a body can make other details blur,” I said. “Believe me, I know. But if there was anything that seemed a bit out of the ordinary to you, anything at all, try and remember. Sometimes even the smallest detail . . .”

Her eyes squinched up at the corners. “I'm trying, Nora, honestly, I am. Do you think I want to go to prison? I've had plenty of time to rack my brain, believe me. There—there may have been something I noticed at the time, but now, after all that's happened . . . I just can't remember, or focus. My mind's a blank.”

“Easy, it's okay,” Peter interrupted soothingly. “You're doing fine. We'll get there.” He glanced at his watch and snapped his briefcase shut. “It's almost time for the arraignment. The guard will take you over to the courthouse. I'll meet you over there. I'm going to try and get you out on bail, but I can't guarantee anything.”

Lacey bit her lower lip. “I'm not getting my hopes up. Besides, even if they offer it, I'm sure I can't afford it.”

“You can't, but I can,” I interjected. “And if at all possible, I want you out.”

She slid me a glance. “You'd do that for me?”

“Of course, silly. We fight like cats and dogs, but you're my sister. We're family, and family sticks together.” I saw her eyes start to fill up and said quickly, “Provided you won't skip town and make me lose my investment.”

Her lips twisted into a wry half smile. “Heck no. I'd welcome a good night's sleep in my bed—lumpy mattress and all.”

Peter picked up his briefcase and rose, signaling to the guard. “Time to go. Stiff upper lip, now.”

Lacey's eyes brightened, although the corners of her mouth drooped down. “You're not discouraged? You're going to stick with my case, hopeless though it seems?”

“Are you kidding?” He smiled at her. “You're stuck with me, Lacey Charles. For better or for worse.”

She thrust out her hands so the guard could slip the handcuffs on again. “I'd like to say the worst is behind us, but I hate to lie. I haven't had the best luck lately.”

After Lacey was led out, Peter turned to me. “Going to the arraignment hearing?”

“Try and stop me. Even if bail's denied I want Lacey to know I'm there every step of the way for her.” I smiled at him. “I think she's lucky to have you in her corner, too. Thank you for everything, Peter.”

“Save your thanks, Nora. I haven't done anything yet.”

“You took a case where the cards look stacked against her, and that's something. This gathering was very helpful. I think I've figured out the key to proving her innocence.”

His eyes widened. “You have? What?”

“I'm convinced the real murderer is someone connected to the art school. It's such a perfect setup, it just has to be. And now that we have some other possible suspects, we just have to narrow them down. The key to Lacey's freedom is finding out which of them is the real murderer.” I paused. “And to find out fast. Really, really fast.”

“S
o, no bail, huh?”

I'd arrived back at Prudence's about twenty minutes ago, to find that she and Irene had gone to the local Pathmark to get some groceries. She'd left me a note, inviting me to stay for dinner. I'd gone up to my room, kicked off my shoes, and, since Nick was snoring peacefully in the corner, dug out my cell and called Chantal. Her psychic senses must have been on overdrive, because
no bail
were the first words she uttered, even before hello.

“No. Peter put up a pretty persuasive argument, but the ADA was more persuasive. She managed to convince the judge otherwise, which, considering the circumstances, wasn't all that hard to do.” I flopped down on the edge of the bed and let my leg dangle over the side. “The ADA was determined to get a quick court date, and Peter didn't object. If the case is brought to trial quickly, they can keep her in
jail locally; otherwise she'd have been remanded to the women's prison in Chowchilla.”

“Ouch,” Chantal said. “That does not sound good.”

“It's not. The prosecution must feel they've got a strong case for conviction, so unless we can unearth the real murderer, she still may end up there. The police aren't exactly looking elsewhere right now, thanks in part to my sister and her temper.”

I kicked off my heels and pulled the list of names out of my jacket pocket. “According to Lacey, there were quite a few people who weren't exactly charter members of the Thaddeus Pitt fan club. I'm betting one of them set her up.”

Chantal was very quiet for a moment, then said, “I did a reading,
chérie
. The High Priestess appeared, the guardian of secrets, right next to the Empress, who is known to represent all things traditionally feminine. Tell me, is one of the people you suspect his wife?”

“Funny you should say that. She does seem a good prospect, but there are others that fill that bill as well.” I paused. “So—the cards said
cherchez la femme
? Look for the woman?”

“They could be interpreted that way, yes.” She hesitated, then added, “There is a bit more. The Lovers card also appeared, in the past position. It usually indicates a past relationship that might have ended badly, or that the person might be of some help in the present.”

“Hm,” I said. “Lacey thought Pitt might have had someone on the side that could be a possibility.”

“Well, that reading was not one of my better ones,” Chantal admitted. “My concentration was not the best. I will do a cleanse and attempt another one later. You are coming back tonight?”

“I was, but my aunt wants me to stay for dinner, and under the circumstances, I think I should. So, would you mind doing the breakfast and lunch crowd tomorrow? I probably won't be able to get back to Hot Bread until late Saturday.”

“Take your time. Everything is fine here. And give Little Nicky a kiss for me. I miss him. I thought you would leave him here. I have some new collars ready for him to try on.”

Since I had her on speaker, Nick's head jerked up at the word
collar
. He bared his fangs with a loud hiss.

We exchanged a few more pleasantries, and then I hung up and pulled my laptop out of my tote. I settled in at the small table near the window and decided now was as good a time as any to start my research on other possible suspects. I plugged Taft Michaels into the search engine, and almost immediately names appeared on the screen. Some were variations on the name: guys with the last or first name of Michaels, a couple of schools with Taft in the title. On the third page I came across Taft Michaels's Facebook. I clicked on it, and the screen shifted to that particular site.

Nick hopped up on the table, startling me. “Well, well,” I said. “So, were you dreaming about all those nice collars Chantal's got for you to try on?”

I got a hiss and an indifferent stare in return. I chuckled. “Guess not.”

I turned my attention to Taft Michaels's photo. He looked like a younger version of Jon Hamm—coal black hair cut stylishly; wide, twinkling blue eyes; a firm chin; thick lips parted to reveal gleaming perfect teeth. He was bare chested in his FB page photo, and his chest was broad, the muscles clearly defined. My gaze moved to the particulars beneath
the photo. Occupation was blank, but the Pitt Institute was listed as his school, and his place of residence was San Fran. Under relationship it merely said “Involved,” vague to say the least. Below the page photo was a directory marked “Photos.” I clicked on that. Another page marked “Taft's Albums” appeared. There were three: one was labeled “Page Photos,” another “Publicity Shots,” and a third “New Year's Eve.” As I hesitated, Nick's paw shot out, pressing down on the mouse. He must have moved it to the “New Year's Eve” page, because the screen suddenly shifted to reveal about twenty photos, all of which featured Taft drinking and carrying on. Two photos showed him talking to two men. One man had his back to the camera, another was bathed in shadow, so it was impossible to discern who they were, but somehow I doubted either of them was Pitt. In some of the photos he had his arm around a beautiful brunette. The last photo, however, showed him in silhouette, in what appeared to be an elegantly appointed den underneath a portrait of a setting sun, kissing another girl who was most definitely not the brunette. This one was blond, and although most of her face was in shadow, the little that was visible seemed extremely attractive. Most of the photos had captions beneath them—the ones with the women, however, did not.

“Hm,” I mused. “It looks like an amateurish attempt to keep something secret, although if he really wanted to do that he shouldn't have made his page public. He's got virtually no controls in place, which means he doesn't care who views his stuff.”

Nick let out a loud “
Meow
” of agreement.

This time I typed in Julia Canton's name. When her
Facebook page appeared, I sucked in my breath. No doubt about it, Taft's brunette companion and Julia Canton looked to be one and the same. I took a quick look at her pertinent information, which seemed to mirror Taft's. Apparently they had vagueness in common.

“Well, well. Looks as if Taft and Julia are pretty cozy. Maybe that's the reason for the bad blood between him and Pitt.”

I opened Julia's photo page, but there were only two albums: one was her cover photos, of which there were three, each more beautiful than the last. The girl was stunning: long dark brown, almost black hair that fell nearly to her waist, bright blue eyes, dimples at either end of her lips when she smiled. To be honest, it was hard to imagine any guy wanting to be just friends with her, unless he played for the other team, of course. “They both look cut from the same mold. The beautiful people. I see why they're models. It's a wonder they don't do that full-time. I'm sure they'd make much more money than an artist ever could. And why isn't modeling listed as a profession, hm?”

Next I keyed in Kurt Wilson, but nothing came up on Facebook for him. Ditto Twitter and LinkedIn. I managed to find an address and phone number in Pacific Grove for the Wilson Galleries, which I promptly dialed, only to get a recorded message: “You've reached the Wilson Galleries. No one's available at the moment, but your call is important to us. Please leave a message at the tone.” I left my name and phone number and hung up.

“Man of mystery is right,” I said. “He's got my vote so far. People who like to stay that low-key usually have some
deep, dark secret as the reason. Maybe Pitt knew it and was blackmailing him.”

As fast as the thought entered my head, I rejected that theory. Blackmailers rarely bit the hand that fed them—or killed it. Besides, it would have been the other way around. If that scenario held water, Pitt would have killed
him
.

I pushed both hands through my mass of curls and jammed my hands in my pocket. My fingers closed around something long and hard, and I remembered that Prudence had given me the key to Lacey's room yesterday, in case there was something in there she might want. I turned the key over in my hand and jerked to my feet. I glanced over at Nick.

“I'm going to check out Lacey's room. Want to come?”

I'd barely pushed open the door when I felt a breeze around my ankles. Nick swept past me into the hallway, a blur of black fur, disappearing around the corner faster than a genie out of its bottle.

“Guess so,” I chuckled.

*   *   *

L
acey's room was larger than mine but with the same sparse furnishings. Her neatly made bed, adorned with the same type of blue chenille bedspread, stood in the center. A bottle of Charlie perfume, a few books on art, and the latest issue of
Entertainment Weekly
lay on her dresser. The desk and wooden chair by the window looked like an exact duplicate of the ones in my room. A worn armchair upholstered in a purple floral print was over in the corner, a wooden ottoman in front of it. Right next to the small bathroom was a closet. Instead of a door, the opening was
covered with a thick white shower curtain. I walked over and pushed it aside. Lacey's clothing hung there: several pairs of jeans, a few T-shirts, two long-sleeved pin-striped shirts, her one good George Simonton black dress with the scoop neck and lace sleeves that once upon a time had been mine.

I moved toward the desk. On the desktop a bouquet of pens and pencils sat in a worn leather cup, and beside it a frame lay facedown. I picked it up and my breath caught in my throat. I felt moisture well up in the corners of my eyes, and before I could stop it, the sting of wetness graced my cheeks.

The photo showed a smiling, redheaded woman in a checked sundress. Under each arm was tucked a rosy-cheeked child—one with flame red hair and a toothless grin under the right arm; a blond, paler girl with a serious expression under the left. I hadn't seen that photo in years. I'd wondered where it went, and now, to find it in my sister's things . . .

I felt something wet and cold against the back of my hand, and a second later Nick nudged his nose into my palm. I chucked him under the chin, then brushed at my wet cheeks with the back of my hand. “This isn't helping her,” I murmured.

I started to slide open the desk drawers. Nothing much was there. The top drawer had a sketch pad in it, and I lifted it out, started leafing through it. The portraits on the pages were good, really good. There was one of Prudence that looked almost as if she were about to speak. On the last page was another familiar face.

“Wow,” I shook my head. “She must have copied this
from my graduation photo.” I slid Nick a glance. “What do you know, Nick. My sister actually has talent.”

“Your sister?”

The sudden voice coupled with the creak of the door behind me made me drop the sketch pad. I whirled and caught a glimpse of short platinum blond hair framing a round face. A pair of hazel eyes framed by thick black lashes peered at me, and then the door swung all the way open.

“Oh goodness. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to startle you. The nice woman downstairs said that I should just go right on up, but she didn't mention anyone else was here.” She cocked her head to one side, studying me. “Yep, you've got to be her sister. I can see the family resemblance right around here.” She made a gesture that encompassed the area around her eyes.

“Yes, I'm Nora Charles. And you are?”

“Oh, I'm sorry.” Her laugh tittered out. “Jenna Whitt. I study at the Pitt Institute, too. Lacey and I have worked on some projects together.”

I took a moment to study her. She was short, maybe five-two, but well built, and she looked as if she spent some time in the gym maintaining that build. She wore a cobalt blue tracksuit unzippered down the front to reveal a bright lime green T-shirt that emphasized her full bosom. She wore thick Nikes on her feet, which explained why I hadn't heard her sooner. I placed her age as mid to late thirties. If I had to give a truthful assessment, she was probably more on the sunny side.

“Nice to meet you, Jenna. I'm afraid, though, my sister isn't here right now.”

“Oh, I know.” She waved her hand carelessly. I noted the
slight nicotine stains on the tips of her finger and thought it a shame she smoked. It took away from her expensive French-tip manicure. “She's in the slammer. Poor thing. If you ask me they should be giving her a medal, not prosecuting her.”

I was a bit surprised at her candor with a perfect stranger and struggled to keep my tone even. “She hasn't been found guilty yet.”

Jenna shook her bobbed head. “Oh right. I'm sorry. It's just—now don't get me wrong—I like your sister, she's a nice gal. But you've got to admit it'd take a miracle to help her, doncha think? I mean, caught with the murder weapon and all? Talk about bad timing.”

I frowned. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Not really.” She waved her hand carelessly. “I was here a few days ago, and I thought I might have left something here I need . . . Oh, hello.” Her eyes widened as she caught sight of Nick at my feet. “Wow. He's some big cat.”