Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 14 - Murder in a Casbah of Cats (14 page)

Or was Karla’s assertion simply a spoiled rich girl’s defense mechanism kicking in?

Somewhere along the torturous path my mind was wandering, I fell asleep.

Next morning before descending the stairs to breakfast, I stopped in at the cats’ rooms. All the sly felines were there, even Hercules. He sat on a windowsill, grooming himself and soaking up the morning sun.

I headed downstairs, wondering if I would be having breakfast with a killer.

Henry grinned up at me when I pushed through the swinging door. He was wearing a purple T-shirt. The slogan on his shirt seemed somehow prophetic: “The Light at the End of the Tunnel Is the Ten O’clock Amtrak.” He gestured to the front door. “Morning. Hey, your pal must have slipped out last night when you went outside.”

I frowned. “How’s that?”

“This morning when I went out for the paper, he was waiting by the door. Soon as I opened it, he scooted inside.”

Gadrate clicked her tongue. “Those cats, they be fast like that. I’m always running that one out of the laundry room.”

“I just saw him upstairs. Looks none the worse for wear,” I said, sitting at the table and taking the plate Edna offered.

Edna looked up at Henry. “You sure it was Hercules? He’s scared of the front door.”

I glanced around the table. I didn’t know what I was looking for, a nervous tick, dry lips, furtive eyes? Everyone appeared normal, as usual. I spread my napkin in my lap. “Scared?”

Gadrate grunted. “That be right. We never figured out what happened, but something did. He be anywhere around when the door, it opens, he scoots up the stairs.”

Around a mouthful of Canadian bacon, Henry said, “Well, it was him. No mistaking that one.”

I spooned scrambled eggs onto my plate. “Cats get spooked by the strangest things. No telling what happened to him.”

Naturally, the conversation during breakfast was all about the latest killing.

Finally, Edna asked the one question I hoped no one would ask. “Did you know this Morena guy, Tony?”

“No.”

My reply puzzled her. “But he came to see you?”

“Yeah. I’ve always been nosy. Mr. Watkins’s death made me curious.” I hesitated, not quite sure if I should continue or not after Fenster’s warning last night. Then, I reminded myself, he’d said nothing about talking about the incident, just not to nose around anymore. “You know, and I know, there’s a way in or out of that library. The killer did not hide behind the door, then mix with the crowd that rushed in.” I studied their faces for a reaction as I continued. “Collins was the main suspect. Morena was one of his boys. I just wanted to pick his brain, see what he knew about that night.” I paused and held my hands out to my side. “Next think I knew, pop, pop, and the big man was dead.”

Gadrate sipped her coffee, then looked up at me, her slender face reflecting her curiosity. “Did you find out anything?”

On impulse, I lied. “I’m not sure. Before he got it, he mentioned a couple of things that I plan on looking into.”

“Like what?”

I lied again. “Hard to say for sure. I won’t know until I make a few phone calls.”

“What about?” Henry asked, patting his mouth with his napkin.

I shook my head ruefully. “I hate to say in case I’m wrong. I look like an idiot most of the time anyway.”

He chuckled.

“Well,” Edna snapped as she pushed back from the table. “I just wish all this excitement would stop. I haven’t been able to sleep the last two nights.”

Always prompt, Fenster showed up at eight o’clock, conducted his questioning, then departed. After he left, I returned to my room, having stopped by the cats’ lairs on the way. Hercules was curled up on the windowsill, sleeping.

I slipped in at the desk in my room and booted up, checking my e-mail. The usual, a little spam; Marty wanted to know how things were; and a couple of messages from my old high school chat group.

Leaning back in my chair, I stared unseeing at the French doors through which the bright glow of the morning sun filled the room. How did Morena’s killer learn of our meeting? Only three people knew of it. No, I reminded myself, there was a fourth, but who?

I called up a blank document on my word-processing program and started jotting down questions. I touched my finger to my swollen forehead. Was the figure I’d spotted that first night one of the three I’d seen the second night? What possible reason could they have for being on the grounds? And how in the Sam Hill did the killer vanish in the hedge lining the fence? Was it like Fenster suggested, the killer slipped past us and scooted out the gate? That’s the only explanation that made any sense. In fact, that was the only explanation, yet I was between the killer and the gate, and I pulled every inch of that hedge apart.

He, or she, would have had to have pulled an invisible-man trick to have slipped past me. And I knew that was impossible.

A distant rumble reached my ears. I turned my head and listened, hoping it wasn’t what I thought. Another rumble, this one louder, rolled across the grounds. I closed my eyes and grimaced. More lousy rain.

With a groan, I pushed back from the desk and peered out the French doors just as dark clouds blocked out the last of the sunlight. Moments later, a slow drizzle began, the kind that lasts two or three days, the kind that makes you feel romantic when you’re with your significant other, but now I was just feeling miserable.

While staring out at the rain, I thought of Hercules. I had no doubt that he was the cat Henry had seen at the door, but how did he get out? It wasn’t when I opened the door the night before. I would have noticed.

Plopping at my desk, I stared at the page on the screen. I typed in the name Hercules.

I remembered that first night coming back from the gardener’s cottage. A cat ran under and through my legs. I figured it wasn’t Hercules because that feline had headed out the gate instead of to the mansion. The next day was the first time I’d spotted him outside. I awakened that same day from a nap with a couple of arachnid bedfellows.

Henry swore there was no way they could get in. The old mansion was sprayed monthly. So, for them to end up on my bed, someone had to bring them in. Henry? Gadrate? Edna? Frank?

I hesitated when the idea popped into my head. I’d spotted Hercules in the library once or twice. I knew I was reaching, but
I toyed with the idea that maybe when someone slipped out the hidden door in the library, the cat followed.

He was also out the following night, when someone wasted Willy Morena and vanished just as the killer had the night of the first murder. Again, what if someone in the mansion slipped out, killed Morena, then ghosted back in? Hercules could have sneaked out at any time.

I shook my head. That little theory wouldn’t hold water. With my own eyes, I saw the shooter cross the lawn and disappear into the hedge.

Drawing a deep breath, I went online and sent Eddie Dyson another request, for background on Edna Roth, Henry Perry, and Gadrate Brasseaux. I added that Gadrate was from Morgan City, Louisiana. On impulse, I added Frank Creek. I paused before hitting the send button. I felt guilty, but still, what other explanations were there for how Hercules had slipped out of the mansion or how the spiders had showed up in my room?

Surely, someone on the staff would have seen a stranger, unless that stranger, I reminded myself, was brought in deliberately by one of them. Would someone take that kind of chance? I doubted it.

Of course, in my years as a PI, I’ve been wrong more often than right. My batting average was probably around one-fifty, if that.

Outside, the rain continued to fall, a steady drizzle. I wandered over to the French doors and then out onto the balcony, replaying the last few days in my mind.

In any crime, from misdemeanors to felonies, investigators search for motive, opportunity, and means.

Everyone in the house would have had the opportunity to place the spiders in my room. Everyone in the house would have had the opportunity to waste Morena. Any of them could have slipped outside, but how would they have made it back from the hedge?

Motive was the major roadblock. What reason could any of them have?

The only answer I had was that I’d been asking questions about Old Man Watkins’s death. Could it be someone in the house had been involved? It couldn’t have been Gadrate. She’d only been employed the last ten years. The other three had been on staff when Watkins was murdered.

But, I reminded myself, what about last night? Someone could have overheard me from the balcony, and aware of the hidden entrance, slipped out through the library. Hercules could have been right on his or her heels. It was a stretch, but it was the only thing that made sense.

I peered through the glass doors. Traffic was moderate on Woodlawn Boulevard. From time to time, raincoat-clad pedestrians scurried along the sidewalk in front of the wrought-iron fence.

A sudden feeling of claustrophobia came over me. Despite the size of the mansion, after only three days, I felt confined. On impulse, I grabbed an umbrella and headed for Frank Creek’s cottage.

By the time I reached his neat bungalow, my running shoes and jeans from the knees down were soaked.

The cottage door was open. I knocked on the storm door. No answer. I glanced at the storage shed. The sliding door was open, so I peered inside. A single fluorescent bulb lit a workbench along one wall. A metal jerrican lay on its side beneath the light. The rest of the jerricans were lined up on the floor next to the workbench. Some were plastic, some metal. Beside them was a white bag with linens sticking out through the mouth, the kind Gadrate used to haul out soiled linens to George, the H&H laundryman. “Frank! You in here?”

No answer.

I stepped just inside the door. Half a dozen more jerricans sat against the far wall. A door in the back wall opened, and Frank stepped out.

“There you are,” I called out. “I was wondering where you were.”

He looked up in shock. “Jeez! You scared me,” he said, turning and locking the door behind him. He spoke over his shoulder. “I didn’t know anyone was here.”

“Yeah. I needed to get out.” I glanced at the door behind him. “Is this a bad time? I can come back.”

“Huh? Oh no, no. I was just locking up.” He glanced at the jerricans, then gestured to the front porch. “Let’s get over there where we’ll be out of the rain.”

He paused by the bag of linens to knot the mouth of the bag, then followed me, sliding the shed door shut and locking it.

On the porch, he indicated a wicker chair. “Have a seat. Excuse me a minute while I put on a dry shirt.”

“Take your time,” I said, placing the umbrella upside down to drain.

He returned a few moments later, pipe between his lips, two coffee mugs in one hand and a pot in the other. “Too early for vodka,” he said with a mischievous gleam in his eyes.

“Later’s OK with me.” I laughed with him.

His open hospitality made me feel guilty for asking Eddie to do a background check on the older man, but still, more than once, I’d discovered that often the guilty joker is the one you least suspect.

He poured the coffee.

“Thanks,” I said. “I was going bananas up in that big house.”

He ran his hand over his balding head. “Always puzzled me, that did. How such a big house could make a body feel closed in. I lost count the number of times the old man come down here just to get away.” Frank chuckled. “He’d say the same thing. The place was driving him nuts.”

“You been here a long time, huh?”

His blue eyes clouded over as he slid back through the years. He drew on his pipe thoughtfully. “Yep. Near on thirty-five years. Good years.” He paused, then continued, his words slow and pensive. “I was in the seventies drug scene. My old man kicked me out—all that sort of thing. I was begging for quarters on the street when Mr. Watkins found me. He offered me this job, telling me
any kind of honest work was better than begging.” The old gardener drew on his pipe once again. “I was down on my luck and figured to keep the job just long enough to rat hole the cash to get me down to San Antonio where the action was.”

He paused, then continued. “I’m still here. I discovered I liked making things grow. Yep, been here quite a spell, thanks to Mr. Watkins. Fine, fine man.”

“He’d come down here to your place often, huh?”

“Yeah. It wasn’t Mr. Watkins when he did; it was just plain old Herb. That was his name, Herbert Adam Watkins the third. But to me, he was Herb.” Despite the dark overcast, I saw tears gather in the corner of his eyes. He scrubbed at them roughly and cleared his throat. “I miss that old man, I tell you.”

“Thirty-five years.” I whistled softly. “The other day when you told me about his murder, you said you didn’t believe the killer mixed in with the crowd that burst through the door.”

He nodded. “Yep.” He puffed on his pipe. The steady drizzle showed no signs of lessening.

“And in all those years, Watkins never hinted about a secret way out of the library?”

He removed the pipe from his lips and looked around at me. “Not once, and believe me, Tony, I’ve thought a lot about it. Oh, he’d talk about the old house, claiming no one would know all its secrets until it was torn to the ground.”