Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 14 - Murder in a Casbah of Cats (8 page)

“Eleven.” She paused. “I don’t remember much of anything about it. I was crushed. Pawpaw was fun to be with. Even before we moved in, he’d take Dorothy and me on walks about the grounds and tell us stories his father and grandfather had told him. Funny,” she said, “he never talked about business, just family. It was my great-great-grandfather that built this place. Back in the old days, you know, those like
Gone with the Wind
.”

“Yeah. I know.” Leaning back on the couch, I smiled as I remembered some of the old spooky folktales Grand-père Moise would tell me. Afterward, I’d jump in bed at nights and cover my head, expecting see a
feu follet
or
loup garou
spring through the window at any moment.

Years later, I learned that in the next room my grandfather would be rocking in front of the fire with a glass of white port wine and smoking his pipe and chuckling at how wide my eyes had been when I went off to bed.

Karla continued, “But the neatest stories Pawpaw ever told was the ones about the secret tunnels his grandfather used to help slaves escape.”

I sat up. “Secret tunnels?”

She bobbed her head up and down. “He always promised he’d show us one day, but…” The slim blonde shrugged. Her smile faded. “But he never got the chance. Of course,” she added, “Pawpaw probably made all that up. He made up a lot of stuff just to entertain us.”

I didn’t know either, but I was beginning to wonder if there might not be more than a kernel of truth in the old man’s fables.

“They found Pawpaw dead in the library. All the doors and windows were locked. There was no way for the killer to get out, but he did.”

“Did you tell them what he said about a tunnel?”

“Oh, yes. They brought in people who looked everywhere in the library.”

“I’ve heard that.”

She shrugged. “Nothing. They found nothing.”

“They search the rest of the house?”

“I guess so. I don’t really know. They didn’t find anything, if that’s what you mean.”

After leaving Karla, I headed back to my room to see if Eddie had replied. Walking down the hall to my room, on impulse, I squirted the wasp spray. It shot out twenty feet in a solid stream. I glanced over my shoulder, hoping no one had seen me spray it. I scrubbed my feet over the carpet, rubbing the moist spray in.

In my room, I found Eddie’s reply waiting.

I skimmed it, disappointed.

William S. Collins, fifty, had been released five years earlier from the federal correctional prison in Beaumont, Texas, after completing his ten-year sentence for drug trafficking.

He currently worked for H&H Laundry Service, where he was making fifteen dollars an hour. The report gave the names of his brother and sister. Parents deceased. His known cohorts had been Al Guzman, Corky Radison, Willy Morena, and Chippy Alberto, whereabouts unknown.

I frowned when I finished reading the report. Not much at all. I was surprised. Usually Eddie provided much more information, but then his charge reflected the lack of information. His bill was only about 20 percent of what I usually paid.

Trying to figure my next step, I went out on the balcony. The day was sweltering, and the shade cast by the porch overhead was a welcome relief. Around the grounds, timed sprinklers sent out row upon row of blossoming spray, giving the thirsty grass a much-needed drink.

Down below, Frank Creek waved. “Hot today,” he shouted.

“Too hot.”

He gestured to the rows of spray. With a hint of irony in his voice, he said, “Soak it good, and it’ll rain. Never fails.”

He disappeared around the corner into the pool area. I considered taking a dip, but decided instead to look in on the cats. Even though Skylar had made it clear I was to do nothing except be there, I felt some overt action on my part regarding the cats was, well, if nothing else considering the pay, appropriate.

By now, some of the cats had grown comfortable with me, especially the little Siamese, Princess. When I appeared in the door, she leaped lightly from the cat stairs on the wall and rubbed up against my ankle. I squatted and scratched behind her ears. She purred.

I scanned the room. No Hercules. When I rose to leave, Princess wound around one ankle, and then like all cats in an effort to confuse and frustrate humans, padded right between my feet as I walked from the room.

On the second floor, I spotted Hercules sitting on a banister rail grooming himself. I stopped a few feet from him. “So there you are.” I noticed his coat where he had not groomed was wet.

Normally, I would have touched a finger to any other cat’s coat, but I’d learned my lesson with Hercules. He had an itchy trigger finger and a deadly aim.

Gadrate came up behind me. “Won’t do you no good. Nobody makes friends with that one.”

I glanced around. “I just noticed his coat was wet.”

She snorted. “That one, he get hisself wet sometime. Me and Henry, we never figure out how except from the water bowls. That’s the only way that one, he can get wet.”

Water bowls? The image of a mackerel-colored cat dashing across the yard full of sprinklers was burned in my mind. “Probably,” I muttered. “Probably.”

Studying her back as she descended the steps, I wondered if she were the one responsible for the rock and the spiders. What would she have to gain?

I shrugged. Nothing as far as I knew. I turned back to Hercules, remembering him locked in the library. A jumble of unrelated thoughts tumbled through my head. After a few moments, the thoughts coalesced in my thick skull. Watkins was killed in the library. There were no exits except the doors and windows, all of which were locked. Double doors opened to the foyer. Double doors also joined the library and the spacious den where the Christmas party was being hosted.

Earlier that day, I had seen a cat like Hercules racing across the grounds, which this afternoon the gardener was watering. Hercules was wet. Was it from the water bowls, or had he discovered the secret exit in the library, if there were indeed one?

On impulse, I hurried up to the cats’ rooms. The floor around the water bowls was dry.

Downstairs, I inspected the library, studying each wall carefully before knocking on it, pushing and pulling every protuberance, and stomping on the floor in front of each wall.

Every window, I tried to slide up and down. I checked the heavy swinging latch at the top of each window, satisfied there was no way it could be locked or unlocked from outside. I even went so far as to look under the mounted game heads on the walls, having no idea what I expected to find.

I surveyed the fireplace, noting the large cast-iron fireback at the rear of the firebox carried the image of the mansion in relief, identical to the image on the fence columns surrounding the estate. I squatted at the hearth and studied the fireback, then the gas logs and decorative andirons.

Before I left, I picked up the poker and scrutinized it, then the tool stand. Two curved fingers of steel, the tips of which arced upward, formed the cradle holding the poker. I placed the tool back in its cradle and shook it. I couldn’t see how it could slip out. Yet, earlier today, I’d heard it fall and found it on its side.

Like Karla said earlier, “crazy.”

Back in my room, I called Bob Ray Burris, an old friend who worked the evidence room at the downtown police station. We’d known each other for years, and on occasion he gave me a helping hand.

“Hey, Tony. What’s up?”

“Got a question. About fifteen years ago, a rich guy out in the historic district was murdered. A philanthropist. His name was Watkins. His killer never found. I need to know who worked the case. Can you do it for me?”

“Something happen out there?”

I laughed. “No. Just curious. I’m spending a few days at the place on a job. I heard about the murder and—well, you know how nosy I am. I just wanted to learn more. Who conducted the investigation?”

“Oh. What are you doing out there, house-sitting?”

“No, I’m not house-sitting,” I snapped.

He picked up on the defensive tone in my voice. “Then what?”

How do you tell an old friend you’re watching twenty cats, especially since he’s one of those bozos who likes to rub things in. “Nothing.”

He remained silent a few moments; then, with a taunting edge to his words, said, “Sorry. Can’t help you.”

I couldn’t have felt any more frustrated than if had I learned the psychiatrist I had been going to for ten years didn’t speak English. “All right, all right. Cats. I’m looking after cats, and before you ask, twenty of them. Now, will you help me?”

He roared. “Jeez, you PIs will do anything for a buck, huh? That’s great, and yeah, I’ll find out for you. Hold on. Let me pull it up.”

I could hear him snickering as he pulled up the information. My ears burned. Finally, he returned. “Here it is. Joseph Weiman. Old Dutch. Remember him?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

He managed to stifle his laughter. “Well, he’s retired, but I can give you his last number. Here it is.”

I copied the number. “Thanks, Bob Ray.”

“No problem.” He snickered again. “And hey, I just thought of a new slogan for your company. ‘Your cats are in safe hands with Blevins Security.’”

I cursed him and added. “I hope Allstate sues your worthless tail off.”

He roared again. “A regular casbah out there, huh? Wait till the guys hear.”

Dutch Weiman answered on the first ring. He remembered the case and the frustration it caused him. “Can’t make it tonight. How about nine in the morning?”

“Great. See you then.” I replaced the receiver and leaned back, anxious for the next morning. I rose and headed for the bathroom to freshen up before supper—I mean, dinner.

Gently I bathed my knot, noting the skin around it had turned a charming purple—you know, the color that instantly elicits questions from the curious. After washing it clean, I doctored it and put on another Band-Aid.

I headed downstairs, feeling pretty chipper.

I might not have felt so chipper had I known what the night would bring.

Frank Creek was right. In the middle of dinner, the sky grew dark and a gentle rain began to fall.

Henry glanced out the window. “About time,” he said. “We can use a good soaking.”

Gadrate snorted. “Maybe you think so. Me, all I see is the mess tracked into this big old house.”

Edna snorted. “Don’t be so gloomy. The rain is God’s way of saying life goes on.”

The slight maid rolled her eyes. “You say so. Not me.”

I grinned to myself. That Gadrate sure had one positive outlook on life.

After a delicious meal, I ambled back upstairs, dutifully counting the cats as I made my way to their rooms. At least by counting them, I felt as if I were doing something.

I accounted for all twenty, and all of them were living and breathing.

In my room, I flipped the channel to the local radar and saw a solid band of green over Austin. Some eighty miles or so to the south, a red and yellow amoeba-shaped patch of rain stretched from La Grange to Martindale, moving straight for us.

I whistled softly. If it held together, we were in for one heck of a storm that would probably last until morning.

Stepping out on the balcony, I peered in the direction of the coming weather, seeing no lightning yet. I glanced over my shoulder in the direction of the cats.

From experience, I knew what cats would do. These were no different. With the first roll of thunder, each one would zip into a snug little niche and curl up inside until it was all over. Who says cats aren’t smart?

The phone rang. It was Henry from the kitchen. “We’re going to have a heavy rain,” he announced. “Be here about midnight.”

“I know. What about the cats?”

“Nothing to be concerned about. They’ve been through many. I just wanted you to know if you’re still up and the lights go out, don’t worry. The house has a generator that comes on within a few seconds after power goes out.”

After hanging up, I pulled out Eddie’s report and booted up my laptop. I had three phone calls to make. If I couldn’t find out what I wanted to know from one of them, then the information just wasn’t there.