Nickeled-And-Dimed to Death (19 page)

“Sorry.” Colin’s voice indicated that he had lost all interest in the discussion. “As I said before, the cat was my wife’s pet, and she’s dead. If that worthless piece of crap went anywhere, it would be back to her house. And since that woman was bound and determined to strip me of every possession I had ever worked hard to attain, I am no longer living at that residence.” He paused, then muttered, “At least not until the cops release it as a crime scene.”

“So you don’t have the animal in your custody?” I figured I could ask one, maybe two questions before he ended our conversation.

“No.” I heard him take a drink of something and then belch loudly before adding, “And if you find the little bugger, get rid of it. I always hated cats, and that one in particular, which is why that bitch I was married to loved him.” Then Colin hung up.

That had gone better than I’d hoped. Not only had I confirmed that Whitmore didn’t have Tsar, but I had also heard firsthand the animosity he had for his wife. The only downside was that the animal was still missing. But, hey, you win some and you lose some.

I had a few more calls to make in my quest for the cat, and I lucked out with the first one. The dispatcher who answered the police department’s nonemergency line was an old high school classmate of mine. She and I had been on the speech team and in the drama club together, and she was willing to check the reports. She put me on hold, and when she came back on the line, she informed me that there was no record that the police had found a pet in Elise’s house during the murder investigation.

My second call was to the real Animal Control. Again, the gods were smiling on me, because although the office was officially closed, one of the employees was working late and picked up the phone. He told me that they hadn’t picked up any stray cats in the past week or so, which meant I’d be kitty hunting the next day. After thanking the Animal Control guy, I went to tell Gran that I needed to get up early and would be skipping breakfast.

Since she and Banshee were still sleeping in front of the TV, I left her a note. Once I checked my phone one last time to see if Noah had called or texted—he hadn’t—I set my alarm for six a.m. and went to bed.

*  *  *

Wednesday morning, my eyes popped open to the sound of Pink singing “Raise Your Glass.” Fighting the urge to turn off the radio, forget about finding Tsar, and go back to sleep, I forced myself upright. Once I had showered, I hurriedly dressed and grabbed a can of Full Throttle Blue Demon energy drink from the fridge. I figured I’d need the caffeine boost and I actually liked the agave flavor. Thus fortified, I set out to find Elise’s missing cat.

I wasn’t sure why it had become so important to me to find Tsar, but my conscience wouldn’t allow me to rest until I had made every effort to locate the AWOL kitty and make sure he was okay.

Since Colin had been crystal clear about his loathing for the animal, what I would do with the cat when I found him was another question entirely. Banshee would never allow another feline in his domain. And I didn’t want Tsar to become a midnight snack for the old Siamese, like my aforementioned gerbil.

A quick call to Boone the night before had confirmed that he was okay and spending the evening with Tryg. Before we hung up, I’d asked Boone for Elise’s address. My plan was to start at her house and search outward from there. I’d go as far as I could before I had to open the store at nine. If I hadn’t found the cat by then, I’d have to try again the next day, because on Wednesdays the shop didn’t close until nine p.m.

Armed with a bag of Banshee’s Temptations kitty treats, his seldom-used Pet Taxi, and a can of Fancy Feast, I drove to Elise’s place. Her subdivision was only fourteen years old, new by Shadow Bend standards. It had been built on a forty-five-acre apple orchard a couple of miles outside of town.

When the parcel’s previous owner passed away, a Kansas City developer had offered the heirs four times more money than any of the local farmers were able to bid. Since his kids weren’t interested in keeping up the family tradition of working the land, they persuaded the city council to rezone the tract from agricultural to residential, and the sale went through without a hitch.

Now there were 250 houses instead of rows of trees laden with Red Delicious and Jonathan apples. Which was why I hated housing developments. The hypocrisy of tearing out a stand of trees and then naming the streets after them made me want to scream.

My GPS led me right to Juniper Lane and Elise’s door. I parked my Z4 in her driveway, then grabbed the pet paraphernalia. Since I already had enough to handle with the cat gear, I locked my purse in the BMW. As I pocketed the keys and adjusted my load, I looked over the Whitmores’ property.

The nondescript ranch-style house with beige vinyl siding and an attached garage took up three-quarters of the lot. There was no porch and only a small concrete front step. The three scrawny shrubs under the picture window offered no place for a cat to hide.

I circled around to the rear of the structure. There was a single tree in the tiny backyard and some kind of evergreen hedge growing against a wooden fence. The bushes’ branches poked me as I edged past them, checking for Tsar, but all I found was a flattened Budweiser can, a deflated balloon, and two plastic grocery bags.

With no sign of the feline in the Whitmores’ yard, I widened my search. Making my way down the length of the fence, I repeatedly shook the treat bag and called, “Here, kitty, kitty.”

As I walked, I hoped that no overvigilant homeowner got the idea to shoot me for trespassing. Elise’s street was only two blocks long and she lived on the corner, so when I got to the other end, I crossed the road and headed back down the opposite side.

Making my way through the neighborhood, I noticed that three basic house models alternated up and down the street: Elise’s ranch, a boxy two-story, and a trilevel. All of them had meager lawns, neutral siding, and a mind-numbing uniformity.

No one was outside, which wasn’t surprising at a few minutes before seven. Most of the nine-to-five folks would still be eating breakfast, and those who worked eight to four or attended school would already be gone. But the silence and sense of abandonment was a little eerie, almost as if everyone else had been sucked up into the mother ship and I was the only one left on earth.

Deciding to try the next block over, the one in back of the Whitmores’ place, I strolled down the side street. So far, I hadn’t seen any outdoor animals and very few spots where a cat might find shelter. Had Tsar already left the neighborhood for greener pastures?

The home directly behind the Whitmores’ had a miniature Cotswold cottage playhouse in its backyard. The diminutive Tudor bungalow boasted imitation stucco siding, a green asphalt-shingle roof, and window boxes brimming with bright red silk geraniums.

I was peering into the upper half of the playhouse’s cute little Dutch door, admiring the simulated antique plank flooring, faux fireplace, toy grand piano, and sleep loft, when a thirtysomething-year-old man wearing crisply pressed jeans, a snow-white button-down shirt, and a sky-blue crewneck sweater appeared beside me.

“What are you doing?” His voice was tinged with hostility. He pointed to what I had been assuming was a playhouse—although it appeared to be nicer than any of the
real
houses I’d seen on the block—and said, “If you’re another neighbor intent on meddling, I cleared this with the homeowners’ association.”

Before I could respond, he continued. “If I’d had any idea how narrow-minded and nosy all of you were, I’d never have bought this place.”

When he took a breath, I quickly explained, “I don’t live around here.” I reached in my pocket and handed him my business card. “My name’s Devereaux Sinclair and I own the local dime store. I apologize for trespassing. I’m looking for a lost cat.” I showed him the Pet Taxi, can of food, and bag of treats I was holding.

“Oh.” He smoothed back his short brown hair. “Sorry. It’s just . . .”

“No problem,” I assured him. “I take it your family has recently moved here and you haven’t had a very friendly welcome.”

“Precisely.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Bryce Grantham.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” I shifted the stuff I was carrying into my left hand and shook Bryce’s hand with my right.

“I guess I should have investigated a little more thoroughly.” He shrugged. “But the price was so much lower than the Kansas City suburbs, and the school has a good rating. . . .” He trailed off again, then said, “Would you like me to help look for your pet? What’s its name?”

“If you have time, that would be terrific. This is taking longer than I thought. His name is Tsar and he’s gray.” I paused, considering whether to admit I wasn’t the owner. When I couldn’t think of a good reason not to, I added, “Actually, he’s not my cat.”

“Then he belongs to a friend?” Bryce bent over to examine a pile of wood stacked near the house’s sliding glass doors.

“Not exactly.” I checked a humongous bird feeder mounted on a platform near the deck. “Did you hear what happened Saturday night?”

“You mean the murder?” Bryce asked as he walked toward the next yard.

“Uh-huh.” I followed him. “Tsar belongs to the woman who was killed.”

“It was all anyone could talk about at the neighborhood watch meeting Monday night.” Bryce hooked his thumbs in his back pockets. “Everyone is scared to death and talking about getting guns and pit bulls.”

“Damn!” I hadn’t thought about that when I worried earlier about somebody shooting me. Bryce walked with me toward the next yard. How could I not realize that the neighbors would have a right to be fearful after a murder occurred nearby? “I guess I’m lucky no one set their dog on me this morning while I’ve been poking around their yards.”

“I think you’d be all right if they did.” Bryce grinned. “The association rules currently have a weight restriction on pets. No animals over twenty pounds.” He pursed his lips. “I had to cut back on the Beggin’ Strips or my daughter’s poodle, Sweetie, would have failed the weigh-in.”

I chuckled at the image of a fluffy little dog on a
Biggest Loser
–type scale; then, as I looked under a parked car, I asked, “Why is there a neighborhood watch? We don’t generally have a lot of crime in Shadow Bend. Heck, a lot of folks don’t even lock their doors.”

“They tell me there’s been some vandalism and a few bikes have been stolen.” Bryce’s expression was skeptical. “But my guess is the guy who runs the patrol just wants an excuse to spy on everyone.”

“Do you know if the police talked to the neighborhood watch?” I asked.

“Yes.” Bryce moved the leaves of a hydrangea bush to check behind it. “As a matter of fact, Chief Kincaid was at the meeting. He questioned both guys who had been on patrol that evening.”

“Did they see anything?” I stepped onto a concrete bench and scrutinized the nearby roofs. I wasn’t sure how a cat would get up that high, but since they were able to climb trees, they might.

“The block captain said he noticed a guy skulking around Elise Whitmore’s street about half an hour before the body was discovered.”

“Was he able to give a description of the man?” I asked, holding my breath, hoping that information could clear Boone.

“Yeah. But it was pretty vague.” Bryce shook his head. “He said the guy was average height and maybe a little on the paunchy side.”

“What made him suspicious?” I asked. Boone was tall and thin, so the police couldn’t say he was the skulker. “I mean, even if you all know everyone who lives around here, couldn’t he have been visiting someone? Or had a business appointment?”

“The guy was wearing a baseball cap with a suit and had on dark glasses even though the sun had gone down a couple of hours ago.”

“Okay, that is definitely odd,” I agreed. “Someone dressed like that would have certainly caught my attention.” I wondered what Colin Whitmore looked like. “Did the block captain do anything about him?”

“No.” Bryce shook his head. “Too bad they didn’t report him to the cops.” Bryce straightened from peering into a hollow log and smirked. “But I guess he was afraid to.”

“Why?”

“Because the neighborhood watch has gotten into trouble for crying wolf one too many times.” Bryce narrowed his eyes. “Sort of like when they called the building inspector about my daughter’s ‘unsafe’ playhouse—which turned out to be just fine.”

I glanced at my watch, then said, “It’s quarter to nine, so I’ll have to leave and try again tomorrow.” We’d searched all the yards on Bryce’s street and I started back toward the Whitmores’ house. “I can’t thank you enough for helping me.”

“I’m happy to.” Bryce smiled. “I’ll keep an eye out for Tsar when I walk Sweetie.”

“That would be great.” I smiled back. “Give me a call if you see him.” Before I turned to walk away, I asked, “What’s the name of the guy in charge of the neighborhood watch?”

“He goes by Captain Ingram,” Bryce answered. “I never heard his first name.”

“Thanks again.” I waved. “Bring your daughter to the dime store sometime, and the hot fudge sundaes are on me.”

“I’ll take you up on that.” Bryce gave me a considering look, then waved back and disappeared down the street.

CHAPTER 18

I
hated leaving Gran alone for the twelve hours that my shop was open on Wednesday, but the supplies and refreshments I sold to the Blood, Sweat, and Shears sewing group that met at six p.m. helped keep the dime store in the black. So I compromised and called home every few hours to monitor how Gran was doing and to see if she needed anything.

After another busy morning, I finally got a breather around one. I’d heard my cell phone chirp several times but hadn’t had time to look at my messages. So once I checked in with Gran, I scrolled through my missed texts as I ate the leftover sushi that I had stowed in the mini fridge in my storeroom.

The first was from Noah. He apologized for not calling the night before, explaining he hadn’t left the clinic until nearly ten o’clock. He was hoping to be less busy today, and he would get in touch with me when he had a break between patients.

The other texts were from vendors and auction sites, and I answered queries and made bids between bites of spicy tuna roll. Once I was finished with lunch, I cleaned up my worktable and got busy creating the nostalgia basket that the high school class of ’78 had ordered to raffle off at their reunion.