Chapter Three
When we got home, Gus needed to prowl, and Maggie followed his every move, making sure he didn’t pee. He sniffed at the furniture and carpets, trotted down the hall to check out bedrooms, and explored the bathrooms.
“He must be trained,” Maggie said, but I wasn’t so sure. I had a great-aunt once who let her dogs pee all over her house, and it always smelled so awful I hated to go there as a child. I put out water for him and made a note to get him dog food. Meantime there was that can of Spam that landed in my pantry I know not how.
Then Claire arrived, carrying her cat, which she set down inside the front door. Gus began barking. The cat hissed and scampered all over the house with Gus close behind.
Just as I was about to scoop up the dog or cat, whichever came by me first, the phone rang. “What the heck is happening?” Mike asked, hearing the squeals and shouting in the background.
I sort of explained, and he said, “Claire Guthrie is there now?”
“She’s going to stay in the guest house for a while.”
“Yeah, I knew you would do that last night.” He sounded disappointed. “I’m off tonight at the last minute. I wanted to come for supper if you’d have me.”
“Mike, I would be so glad if you’d come. Claire’s brought a wonderful casserole she had in her refrigerator.”
“I don’t know, Kelly. I mean, I’m not sure I should socialize with Mrs. Guthrie. After all, I’ll have to testify against her.”
“Even if she’s already pled guilty?”
“By reason of insanity,” he said. “I won’t be able to go along with that.”
There was something he wasn’t telling me, but I pushed the thought to the back of my mind. “Can’t you both agree not to talk about the case? I’d like to have a whole evening with you, instead of a late-night short stop-over.”
“Yeah, me too. Okay, I’ll try.”
When I told Claire Mike would join us, she asked, “Is it all right for me to be here? I’ll just go out to the guest house. I know he was the policeman who took care of Jim last night and took me downtown.”
“No,” I said, “stay for supper, but just don’t talk about what’s happened. And could you put the cat in the guest house?”
She put cat, litter box, cat bed and all in the apartment, along with the few personal things she’d brought. By the time she was settled in and Mike arrived, I heated the casserole, defrosted some French bread, and tossed up a salad with things Claire brought from her refrigerator.
Dinner was uncomfortable, but it wasn’t until afterward I realized that Mike was in a funk that had nothing to do with Claire.
Maggie and Em were delighted to see Mike and weren’t as good at recognizing a funk as I was. The girls prattled throughout the meal. “Did you meet Gus, our new dog?”
“How could I not? He tried to attack me.” Mike smiled at her, but his eyes weren’t laughing.
“He didn’t attack. He just made sure you were a friend,” Maggie retorted.
“No, but he tackted Miss Claire’s cat,” Em said in four-year-old speak, “and he nearly killed it.”
Mike looked at Em, who nodded her head as if to verify what she’d just said.
“Did you save the cat?” Mike asked, still dead serious.
Em nodded. “Her name is Emily. Just like mine.” She had a smug look on her face, but it broke into a smile when Mike said,
“That was brave of you.”
“Gus didn’t attack the cat.” A voice of realism came from Maggie, and I could see an argument brewing.
“Girls, if you clear the table and take Gus outside, Claire and I will clean up and fix chocolate sundaes.”
They rushed to clear the table, and in no time Maggie had Gus in her arms.
“Can I come too?” Mike asked. “We could go in the back yard and throw a ball. Maggie, you could put Gus down and let him play.” Mike seemed a bit livelier, and of course, with raging paranoia, I decided it was because I’d be in the house doing dishes and he’d be outside. I was convinced that he felt he revealed too much of his emotions the night before.
“Won’t he run away?” Maggie asked.
“I doubt it. The yard is fenced, and we’ll keep him busy chasing the ball.”
And so they trooped out the door.
In the kitchen, Claire began to scrape and wash dishes—there was no dishwasher in this authentic Craftsman kitchen. I covered the casserole with foil and put it in the fridge, which was on the back porch—again typical Craftsman kitchen, the refrigerator was outside. I stopped and looked into the yard. The girls were laughing and running back and forth across the small lawn that was lined by photinia and a wooden privacy fence. Mike threw a soft rubber ball, and the girls raced Gus to get it, though he usually won. That’s the kind of father Tim should have been and never was, I thought. I was so lost in thought I didn’t realize Claire came to stand behind me.
“If you don’t marry him, I just might,” she said. “Except I’m probably twenty years older than he is, and it’s too late for my girls to play like that. It’s a whole experience they missed.” Her tone was wistful, and her voice soft, but I heard the words loud and clear. I realized I knew nothing about her background. Had she run and played like that as a child or did she see what she’d dreamt about, first for herself and later for her girls?
Claire changed the subject. “I’ll have to find a new lawyer. Second on my agenda tomorrow. First, before Jim gets out of the hospital, I want to go back to the house and get some more things—clothes, some personal things. Then the lawyer.” She took a deep breath and said, “And then my daughters.”
Whatever softness was in her voice and maybe on her face a minute ago was gone. “Who’s your lawyer?”
“Karen Landman,” I said. “But she handles domestic things. She can’t defend you. Won’t Angus Mitchell do that?”
Her laugh was short and bitter. “He knows which side his bread is buttered on. I don’t think he likes Jim any better than I do, but Jim has lots of legal business. I don’t, and I’m not sure how to pay for what I need. But I don’t want a court-appointed attorney. I swear the one they gave me last night was fifteen years old and has never been in front of a judge before.”
I smiled just a bit. “At least Mr. Mitchell came to your rescue last night.”
“He should,” she said. “We once meant a lot to each other.”
The implications were clear, and I sure didn’t ask any more questions. Obviously, I was naïve about the world in which Claire Guthrie lived. And if she was shell-shocked last night, she seemed to have gotten her composure back by tonight—or had she? I still saw no sign of remorse, only a kind of cold control. I wondered what was inside her mind. Before I could say anything, she said, “I’m going to retire and give you and Mike some privacy. What time do you get going in the morning? I’ll fix breakfast.”
I mumbled something about seven, and she was gone. Soon after that, Mike and the girls came inside, bringing a panting Gus. I gave the girls and Mike their ice cream and the dog, water. After the ice cream was gone, I sent the girls off for a bath.
“Mr. Mike, can you come give us a bath?” Em asked.
I swear he blushed. “Em, you girls are big enough to bathe yourselves.”
“But it’s not as much fun,” she said.
I shooed them off.
What seemed like hours later, they were bathed, had their snacks, brushed their teeth, and went off to bed. In matching sleeveless pink gowns, they came in to say goodnight. Maggie stood by Mike and said, “I’m glad you came for supper tonight,” while Em reached up and gave him a peck on the cheek. He managed a grin, a hug for each, and a, “Thank you, girls.”
After they left, we sat on the couch, with a great gulf of space between us.
“They’re great girls,” Mike said.
“Yeah,” I agreed.
Conversation didn’t get much better. Mike allowed as how dinner wasn’t too unpleasant, and I said I was glad. He thought Claire’s presence wouldn’t keep him away, and again, I said I was glad. Things went on that way—with each of us curled into a far end of the soft leather couch—for another half hour, and then Mike said he had to go. He was tired.
I walked him to the door, and he gave me his usual perfunctory hug. But then, as he turned to leave, he said what he’d apparently been thinking about it all evening, “Mrs. Dodson was murdered. Autopsy showed she died of blunt force trauma to the head.” He ducked and muttered, “You were right.” Then looking me straight in the eye, he said, “Lt. Buck Conroy’s been assigned to the case. Just wanted to give you a heads up. Claire will definitely be a suspect—and you might too, because you were known to quarrel with Mrs. Dodson. ’Course the most likely one is the homeless person—and they don’t sew their name tags into their sleeping bags.”
I opened my mouth to protest that I never quarreled with her. I just listened to her complain and stood up for my daughters. And that was all eight months ago. But Mike’s usually dancing eyes weren’t dancing tonight.
“Yeah,” I muttered, not knowing quite what to say. Buck Conroy was my nemesis from the episode with the skeleton in the dead space, Tim’s death (for which he briefly suspected me), and Jo Ellen North’s nearly successful attempt to murder me, for which he apologized for not taking the threat more seriously.
Buck since moved in with my friend Joanie and her new baby girl. I saw them together once, before the baby was born, and Buck did seem softer—but maybe that was just around Joanie. After Joanie confessed that my ex-husband might be the father of her daughter, we put our friendship on hold.
Mike’s thoughts were taking a different track. “I hope this doesn’t start a panic in the neighborhood—you know, someone putting it out that a serial killer is preying on old ladies. Could panic the whole south side of the city.” He looked down. “Kelly, I have a bad feeling about how this is going to turn out.”
And he was gone down the walk, before he could even hear my thanks. I watched him walk away, realizing that his shoulders slumped more than usual and his head was down. Mike anticipated trouble that I wasn’t smart enough to see.
And me? I missed the passionate kiss of the night before.
Late that night, I checked my email, and Mike’s worst fear was already real. The neighborhood group e-mail was abuzz with news about Mrs. Dodson, speculation about who did it, and suggestions of a serial killer stalking old ladies, who were all urged to stay inside after dark and keep their doors locked. It would do no good to point out it wasn’t dark when Florence died. And who spilled the beans anyway? As far as I knew, I was the only person Mike told. How did the whole darn neighborhood know?
Next morning the story was on the front page of the local section of the newspaper, a headline blaring, “Elderly Woman Murdered in Her Own Back Yard.”
There were few details, just because nobody knew any, but the reporter was as thorough as he could be, talking to neighbors, including Ralph Hoskins who talked about the neighborhood banding together to solve this horrendous crime. “It’s a shame,” he said, “when the elderly are not safe in their own homes.” Well, yeah. I wondered if he counted himself among the elderly, or was it just women who weren’t safe.
I lingered too long over the paper and jumped when Claire opened the back door. In truth, I’d forgotten she was in the guesthouse.
“I’ll have breakfast done in ten minutes,” she said, and I went to wake up the girls.
****
Once the girls were eating, I realized Buck Conroy, that blunt detective, was the only thing on my calendar. I could stay in the office all day and do some long-range planning, the things I didn’t do the day yesterday while waiting for Claire’s call and staring out the window. So I threw on some jeans, slipped my feet into tennies, and an oversized linen shirt.
By way of contrast, Keisha wore one of her dresses that looked like a cross between a muumuu and a dressing gown—big and flowing and oh so graceful. Her hair, streaked with gold today, was piled in curls on her head, and her fingernails danced with a different color on each finger. She eyed me. “Going casual today, are we?”
“Well,” I said ruefully, “I guess not ‘we.’ Just me.”
She shook her head. “You should have done better. That detective, name of Conroy, is coming in a few minutes. I got to go do some errands.”
I shot her a threatening look. “Don’t you dare leave. You can do the errands at lunch. I’ll even buy lunch.”
“You intimidated by the law?” she scoffed, whirling on her secretarial chair to follow me with her eyes as I crossed the room to my desk. My office was one large room, but Tim insisted on fine furnishings, so my desk, the one that was his, and Keisha’s were all antiques of one sort of another—mismatched, but much more interesting than the straightforward plain desks that graced most offices.
