Karen MacInerney - Margie Peterson 01 - Mother's Day Out (11 page)

“A woman?”

“Oh, yes.  A beautiful blonde.  She comes by some evenings, usually in a ball gown.  Dressed to kill, you know.  Funny, though, I never see them going out together.  I saw her just last night, in fact.”

“Has anyone else been by recently?”

“Why?”

“Oh, I just thought maybe they’d know why the cops were there this morning.  Maybe it would be someone I know.”

“Let me think.  I’m here most of the time, and since my door is at the end of the hall, I can peek out the peephole and see what’s happening.”  She blushed slightly.  “Not that I’m nosy. I just worry about security.  They promised us a doorman when we bought the place, but they keep giving notice.  So I keep an eye on things, just in case.”

“I understand,” I said.  “You can never take enough precautions.”

“Exactly.”  She nodded, seeming relieved that I had bought her explanation.  “Anyway, the police have been in and out all morning. I can’t think why. But other than that, Evan had two visitors recently. One was an attractive older woman. At least I think she was attractive. It was hard to tell with the hat and sunglasses.  Very nice figure though, and the cutest little skirt and jacket—all mauve, done up with embroidery on the lapels.  She stopped by Monday night, around seven, and stayed for a half hour.  She didn’t look happy when she left, though. She jabbed at that elevator button as if she wanted to poke it right out of the wall.”

“And who was the other visitor?”

“A gentleman, in his fifties, I’d say.  Quite good-looking, even though his hairline has receded.  I hadn’t seen him before.  He was here Sunday. We met in the hall when my my Henry was taking me out to dinner.

“Huh.  Doesn’t ring a bell.  What did he look like?”

 “Oh, he was quite debonair.”  She tilted her head to one side coquettishly.  “Reminded me of Sinatra, in a way.  A voice like melted butter.”  She sighed.  “Anyway, you didn’t come here to pass the time of day with me.  Let me get that key.”

As she bustled away, I sat and stared at the masks on the wall.  As she disappeared into the other end of the apartment unsettling thoughts began passing through my mind.  I hadn’t heard anyone when I first checked on Maxted’s door, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t someone there.  What if we burst into the room and Bunsen was there?

By the time Willie returned brandishing a silver key, my hands were clammy with sweat.  “Ready?” she asked?

I gulped.  “Sure.”

As I padded down the hallway in the older woman’s wake, I fought the urge to disappear into the elevator.  I’d gotten this far, hadn’t I? And if someone were in the apartment, I would have heard it, wouldn’t I?

She was about to fit the key into the lock when Evan Maxted’s door swung open.

NINE

It wasn’t Bunsen.

It wasn’t a whole lot better, either.

The woman who opened the door was dressed in blue polyester, with a nice shiny gold badge to match.  “Can I help you?” she asked in a clipped voice.

I opened and closed my mouth a few times.  Fortunately, Willie jumped into the gap.  “Yes.  This is a friend of Evan’s.  Prudence Meadowes.  He was keeping her cat, but she can’t seem to get in touch with him.”  Her delicate face squinched into a worried look under her turban.  “We saw the crime scene tape, and now you’re here…is he all right?”

“I’m afraid Mr. Maxted passed away last night.  This is a crime scene, ma’am.”

Although it wasn’t news to me, I widened my eyes and raised a hand to my mouth.  “Oh, no!” I said.  How did it happen? He was so young…”

 “Oh, my goodness,” Willie said, drawing in her breath.  “How awful!” 

I blinked at the cop.  “But if you’re here, does that mean… does that mean somebody killed him?”

The policewoman nodded curtly.

“Oh, dear.  Such a tragedy.  Such a young man…”  Willie shook her head and adjusted her turban.  “But what shall we do about Prudence’s cat?”

“She can get her cat.”  The officer, whose name was Carmes, according to her name tag, turned her slate-hard eyes to me.  “You say you’re a friend of Mr. Maxted’s?”

I nodded.

“When was the last time you saw Mr. Maxted?”

“I don’t know.  This is all just such a shock, I can’t even think… When I dropped off my cat, I guess.”

“And when was that?”

How the hell was I supposed to know? So far, the cat-sitting plan wasn’t working out too well.  “Um, two weeks ago, I guess.”  I sniffled.  “Poor Evan!”

“And were you out of town?”

“Yes.  That’s right.  Of course, if I had known
this
would happen, I never would have left.”

“Where were you?”

“Pardon me?”

“I asked where you went on your trip.”

I blinked.  I’d heard her the first time.  I just couldn’t think of an answer.  “Paris,” I blurted.

Paris?
What was I thinking?

Fortunately, this seemed exotic enough to satisfy her.  “Your cat’s in there,” she said.  “I’d go get it myself, but it almost bit me when I tried to contain it earlier.  Besides, forensics has already been all over this place, so I guess it’s okay.  Good thing you showed up, though. Animal Control is due here in a half-hour.” 

“Thanks,” I said, with a twinge of misgiving.  I hadn’t expected there to actual cat.  Now that there was one, and one that wasn’t afraid to use its teeth, I was worried.  What was I going to do when my supposed cat attacked me?

“Follow me, ladies,” the cop said.  Willie fell in behind her, and I brought up the rear.

We marched through Evan Maxted’s tastefully decorated Art Deco living room, with an expensive entertainment center and vintage posters of old movies, into his master bedroom, which was dominated by a round bed with a red satin comforter.  Officer Carmes flipped up the shiny spread and pointed under the bed.  “It’s under there.”

I approached gingerly and lowered myself to peer under the bed.  “Here, Snookums,” I crooned. 

A paw flashed out and raked across my face.  I dropped the coverlet and leaped back, pressing my hand to my bleeding cheek.

The cop eyed me suspiciously.  “I thought it was your cat.”

“He is, he is.  He’s just… temperamental.  I guess all the activity has thrown him off kilter.”

I knelt down again and peered in.  Huddling under the bed, about a foot out of arm’s reached, lurked an enormous orange cat with eyes that glowed like green fire.  I swallowed hard and dropped the coverlet. 

“Anyone have a broom?” I asked. 

“A broom?”

“I can’t reach him, and he won’t come out.”

“He won’t come to you?” Officer Carmes piped up.  “Isn’t it your cat?”

“Of course he’s my cat.  It’s just been a rough day for him.”  And me.

“It doesn’t look like you brought your carrier.  Shall I get a box for you to put him in for the ride home?” Willie asked sweetly.

I looked at her gratefully.  “That would be a good idea.  An old towel might not be a bad idea either.  I’ll wrap him up in that so he won’t scratch anyone.”  I’d learned that trick taking Rufus, my Siamese, to the vet.  “He seems a little upset.”

As Willie returned to her apartment, Carmes’s radio burbled to life.  She stepped into the hall to respond, leaving me alone in Maxted’s bedroom with Snookums and the big red bed.

I wasn’t thrilled with the idea of snooping around with a cop right outside the door.  But this could be my only opportunity to find out more about Maxted. 

I crept over to the closet.  Inside was what looked like the wardrobe of a businessman married to a Hollywood starlet: gray and blue suits marched soberly up one side, ending with a rack of red and blue ties, while the other size was ablaze in sequins and lame in a rainbow of flaming colors.  A row of wigs sat on a shelf above the dresses—auburn, blonde, and one that was shiny and black as a raven’s wing.  One of the wig stands was empty, and I shivered. I had seen it at the Rainbow Room, ripped away from Evan Maxted’s head.  I tore my eyes away from the wigs and examined the rest of the closet.  On the top shelf were a few intriguing cardboard boxes, but with a policewoman standing ten feet away, I didn’t feel it was the right moment to pull one down and start sorting through the contents.

I backed out of the closet and listened.  Carmes was still occupied in the hall, so I tiptoed over to Maxted’s dresser and picked up the one photo: a framed shot of Maxted in a mortarboard, beaming, standing next to a middle-aged blonde woman.  His mother, probably.  She looked faded, but happy, in a baggy print dress, and I imagined the bottles she must have fed her son, the soccer practices she’d driven him to, the pride she must have felt at his graduation.  Had she known about his double life? If not, what a terrible way to find out.  Tears welled in my eyes again.  I thrust the photo back onto the dresser and wiped my eyes. 

Next to the photo lay a thick ivory envelope.  Whoever was on the radio with Carmes was still going, so I slid it open.  It was a wedding invitation.  The bride was Anna Maxted.  Evan’s sister? The wedding was to be held in Sausalito, and was slated for late October.  The reply card was missing.

I had just slid the invitation back into the envelope when Carmes stepped back into the room.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Oh, just looking at this photo.  It’s so sad, don’t you think?”

“The photo?”

“No.  I was thinking of Evan’s poor mother.  Has she been notified yet?”

“I don’t know.  I assume so.  I’m just here to close the place up.”

At that moment, Willie swept through the door carrying a large cardboard box, a towel, and a broom.  “Will this do?”

I eyed the box.  The lid consisted of four flimsy flaps.  “Do you have any duct tape or string?”

“I brought a roll of packing tape.”

“That’ll work.” 
I hope
.

As Willie and Officer Carmes watched, I grabbed the broom and knelt beside the bed again. 

Willie said, “I’ll close the door, dear, so he doesn’t escape.”

“Can you throw the towel over him when he comes out?”

“I’ll try.”

I lifted the comforter and peered under.  “Here, Snookums,” I crooned.  Once again, a paw shot out at me.  On the plus side, this time he was far away to make contact.  He had relocated himself to right under the middle of the bed.

I poked the broom under.  He hissed at it and raked his claws through the straw.  I tried to shove him to one side, but he sank his claws into the carpet and refused to budge.  After several attempts to dislodge him gently, I gave him a good hard thwack.

He yowled and streaked toward me, sinking his claws into my thigh before using it as a springboard to rocket toward the door.  Willie threw the towel over him, and I hurled myself at the yowling ball, hugging him to my chest and dumping him into the box.

“Where’s the tape?” I yelled, pushing down the flaps.  An orange paw thrust through the crack in the middle.

“Oh, I’m sorry dear.  It’s still in the box.”

I sucked in my breath and shoved my arm under the flap.  Snookums’ claws fastened onto it immediately, and as my fingers made contact with the roll of tape, he sank his teeth into my thumb.

I jerked my arm out and howled.  Snookums exploded out of the box and shot toward the door.  A loud thump sounded as his head made contact with the solid oak.  He dropped to the floor like a downed duck.

 “Well,” I said, nursing my thumb and eyeing the unconscious tabby.  “That went okay.”

Willie bent down and peered at the massive feline.  “That’s Snookums? I thought that was Evan’s cat.”

Suspicion flared in Carmes’ eyes.  “That’s not your cat?”

How was I supposed to know that Evan had a cat? Or that Willie would be acquainted with him? My throat closed with panic. 
Think, Margie, think
. “Well,” I said, “we kind of have a joint custody thing going.  Had, I mean.”

Willie looked confused.  “You keep calling him Snookums.  I thought Evan called him Lothario.”

“Yes, well, we never could agree on a name,” I stammered, “so we each did our own thing.  At Evan’s, he was Lothario, but when he’s with me, his name is Snookums.”  I gave the cop a toothy smile.  “It works out for both of us that way.  See?” She didn’t look like she was buying it.  I couldn’t blame her.

Fortunately, at that moment, her cell phone piped up with the theme song to
Law and Order
.  Carmes glanced at the phone.  “I need to take this call.  But before you leave, I’ll need to see some kind of identification.”

Identification? Despite a strong breeze from the air conditioning, the areas of my body most frequently mentioned in antiperspirant ads were drenched.  As Carmes walked into the next room and delivered rapid-fire responses into the phone, I stuffed the unconscious cat into the box and pulled Willie aside.

“I really have to run before this cat—I mean Snookums—wakes up and gets through the cardboard.  Could you tell her I’ll call down to the station as soon as I get home?”

“Sure, honey.  I’ll tell her.  And if things change with your marriage, swing by for my pot roast recipe.  I’ll write it out for you.”

“Thanks,” I said.  “I may do that.”  As I was about to dash through the door, I hung back for a moment to ask the question that had been plaguing me since I’d met Willie.  “By the way,” I said, “where did you get the idea for the turban? Is it an African thing?”

She shook her head.  “No, dear.  I’m undergoing treatment for ovarian cancer.  The chemotherapy made my hair fall out.”

I swallowed.  “Well, I think it looks great,” I said.  “Thanks for all your help.”

I hadn’t just lied.  I’d lied to a seventy-year-old cancer patient and a cop.  I scurried out of the apartment toward the stairs and leaped down them two at a time. 

#

I kept glancing over my shoulder on the way home, looking for a police car or signs of an orange projectile emerging from the flimsy box in the back seat of the minivan.  Fortunately, nobody followed me, and Snookums didn’t wake up.  Which was a good thing, because I didn’t relish the thought of driving home with a ball of fur and teeth ricocheting around under my legs.  I deposited the box in the laundry room, which was already crowded due to the week’s worth of unwashed laundry spilling from a stack of baskets, and filled two bowls with water and cat food.  Then I opened the flaps and backed away quickly, closing the door tight behind me.