Mew is for Murder Page 11

  As I sat staring, my reverie was suddenly broken by a movement. There it was again. Or was it? The third floor on this side, facing Patti’s, had two windows, and just for a moment I could have sworn something had flickered inside one of them. I stepped back to get a better view. The window toward the front was mostly obscured by two lace curtains. The other window, further back, seemed to have boxes piled against it, and those boxes had served to push the curtain out of the way. That’s the one I thought had shown some sign of life, some small shift of light, as if something or someone had moved among those boxes and they, in turn, had jarred the curtain.

  Or had it been an encroaching shadow? Although it was early for dusk on a spring afternoon, the day certainly seemed to be fading fast. Clouds were moving in, and I could see how a flash of late sunlight, angled just so, could have mimicked movement.

  “Violet?” If she was in there, I was going to warn her off. This was getting ridiculous. “Violet?” I ducked around the front of the hedge and into Lillian’s yard. The back door was closed and locked tight.

  “Violet!” I rapped on the metal frame and waited for her to appear, shame-faced and dusty. Silence. If it wasn’t the purple-haired punk, I wanted to know who was in there.

  Where was the spare key? Under the last slate? I could see where the chipped blue stone had been moved recently, its imprint in the new grass showing where it had lain. But when I lifted the slate, I found nothing but an earthworm. “Violet?” I knocked again and called her name, yelling up at the third floor where I’d seen that movement. Nothing answered, not Violet, not a cat. I looked for a loose window, but everything was battened tight. Could I make it up to the second floor, maybe climbing one of the overgrown yews? Even as I grabbed at the spiny branch, I knew this was ridiculous. If I kept this up, one of the renters who lived in the brick building opposite would see me and start wondering. Or Patti Wright would come home and call the cops on me for attempted breaking and entering. Besides, it was starting to rain. Thick, fat drops were already darkening the slate path. I knocked once more, rattling the door’s thin metal handle for good measure, and gave up, running to my car just as the thunder broke.

  mmm

  They call Cambridge the City of Churches, at least in the older guidebooks, because there seems to be one of every possible denomination on almost every corner. Of course, despite the preponderance of scenic white steeples, our citizens aren’t as observant as they were in the city’s Puritan youth. Plus, these days synagogues and mosques offer further alternatives, so these churches tend to function as all-around civic buildings. One was known for its political involvement, with speakers heating up an audience every evening. Another hosted yoga for seniors on weekdays, and a third shared its space with pagan worship circles once a month. So I wasn’t too surprised that First Baptist right nearby would be hosting Lillian’s memorial service, even though I hadn’t heard any evidence of any religious affiliation in the old woman’s life.

  Not that I’d know. I was just lying in bed, having awakened early, and found myself wondering what it would be like, religious or casual, and depending on that, what I should wear. The sun sneaking around my curtains promised a bright, clear day, the night’s storm as much a memory as the pizza I’d devoured by the TV the night before. Black might be a bit much, especially since I’d only barely met the deceased. Maybe dark blue: my nice jeans and a formal top. I wanted to be respectful. I also wanted to blend in, just in case there was anything to find out. But first, a run. I was determined not to let my exercise habit slip away again, and felt the need of exorcising some of that pizza as well.

  The first step out of bed stopped me cold. “Ow!” Musetta, who’d stretched out at the foot of the bed to almost its full width, looked up. “Ow!” I’d gotten both feet on the floor, but that was it. Every muscle cried out for relief. None of them wanted to work.

  “Ow. Ow. Ow.” I hobbled to the bathroom to brush my teeth and tried leaning on the sink, my left leg stretched out behind me. I could feel the tension from heel up to butt. Switching hands on the toothbrush for symmetry, I stretched the other leg and waited. No popping sound. This might be okay.

  “Musetta, what did I do to myself?” I asked the kitten who had come to stand in the hallway and look quizzically at me. I spit and rinsed. “What did I do?” In answer, she flopped to the floor and stretched luxuriantly, arms and legs extended with her paws grabbing at the air.

  “You’re right, more stretching.” Out in the living room, where I could follow her example, I treated myself to a good twenty minutes of every warmup I could remember. Sweating, even in the shorts and tee shirt I’d put on, I could feel my body forgiving me. The exercises seemed to amuse Musetta, too, especially when I bent low enough for her to bat at my hanging hair.

  “Free weights!” I announced, and hefted her up in one hand. Man, she was becoming a little butterball. “Left side!” I switched her to my other hand and hoisted her up toward the ceiling. “Meh!” She sounded a little panicked. That was enough, obviously. I put her down, where she proceeded to ferociously attack my untied sneaker lace.

  “You win, little kitty. You’ve chased the enemy off.” Giving her a kiss on the top of her smooth black head, I tied my laces, grabbed my keys, and set out.

  Forty-five minutes later, I was glad I had. Sure I had limped more than I’d flown, but it was coming back. I wasn’t the most graceful on the corners; stepping off one curb I’d swear I scared a driver into slowing down to keep from hitting me; at any rate, he crawled along at a snail’s pace for a while. But within minutes after I’d passed Lillian’s block, I could feel the warm buzz in my muscles, from my legs through my butt, and by the time my own building was in view I was cruising. This morning, I made sure to cool down for ten minutes and repeat all my early stretches. Feeling all right with the world, I fed a homemade Neville Brothers compilation into the CD player and went dancing into the shower. Aaron Neville’s ethereal falsetto wafted in with the steam, reminding me, “Everybody plays the fool…” and I sang right along.

  mmm

  I got to the church about fifteen minutes early, thinking maybe I could grab Violet and finally get some answers to my questions. Maybe I’d even find other people to query. A paper sign posted on the dark wooden door of the squat stone structure directed me to a community room, down the stairs to the right, where the cement walls were warmed by appliqued hangings depicting life in Cambridge. Tall windows, cut thin and high in the basement wall, let spring sunshine in to illuminate the colorful hangings, the felt-and-fabric version of medieval tapestries, and the overall effect was cheery, rather than dreary, an impression furthered by the lively hubbub that had begun filling the room. Already a group of about a dozen people were gathered, mainly around the portable podium placed by the room’s far end. I saw Violet talking to some women who seemed to be of Lillian’s vintage, and as I approached was nearly run over by three dark-haired little boys, all in Sunday suits, whose mother followed close behind, hushing them with reminders that they were in a church.

  “Hi, Theda.” Violet looked up from discussion. “Glad you could make it.”

  I walked over, and Violet made the introductions. “Sylvia and Rosie were friends of Lillian’s, and Gerta took yoga classes with her. That’s Mrs. Rodriguez over there; I don’t know her first name. But her boys—Eddie, Richie, and Marco—were over at Lillian’s all the time, especially when a new litter of kittens had been dropped off.”

  I said my hellos and explained that I’d only just met Lillian, not that I’d been thinking of her as a potential cat hoarder. Mrs. Rodriguez—who came over and introduced herself as Oona—apologized for the boys, explaining that she wanted them to tire themselves out before the service began.

  “We weren’t thinking of a service, actually,” one of the tinier older women interrupted. She introduced herself as Betsy, the community organizer for the church. “Lillian never really cottoned to religion or any kind of organization,” Betsy explained. “Inste
ad, we thought that we could all share some memories of her. I’ll talk first, and then anyone can take the podium who wishes.”

  Everyone murmured assent and, since the crowd was starting to grow, moved to settle into the metal folding chairs that had been lined up in neat rows. This could be useful, I realized, following the crowd. By listening to these people talk about Lillian, maybe I could get some idea if—or why—anyone might have wanted to harm her. In the meantime, I sidled up to Violet, who still stood by the podium.

  “Violet, can I ask you a few questions? This is getting serious.”

  “What? Sorry, I was looking for someone.”

  “Yesterday afternoon, late in the day, was that you at Lillian’s house?”

  She looked at me strangely. “What are you talking about?”

  “The key was missing and I thought, I could’ve sworn, I saw some movement up on the third floor.”

  “Squirrels, probably.” She waved at another young woman with bright red Pippi Longstocking braids who’d just come in. “And I never take the key. Maybe you looked under the wrong stone.”

  “Maybe, but Violet?” She had started walking away. “What’s with you and the cops? Why didn’t you want them involved?”

  “Because they’re incompetent.” Her friend gave her a hug and they clasped hands. “Look, we can talk afterward. You’re coming to the shelter, right?”

  I hadn’t planned on it, but maybe that would help me get some answers.

  “I guess so. One more thing,” I stopped them as they started to walk away. “Is Dougie here? Could you point him out to me?”

  She craned her head around. Most of the crowd was taller than her. “I don’t see him. Maybe his bus was late.” I looked around too, not sure what I was seeking. There were definitely faces from the neighborhood I’d seen before, even someone who looked like Ethan. I started to call out to the stranger, to see if it was the reporter, but just then someone shushed us, and I saw that Betsy had taken the podium. Everyone else was already seated, so Violet hustled off to join her friend and I looked for an empty seat, finding one about midway back.

  “We’re here this morning to remember Lillian Helmhold,” began Betsy, peering at the crowd from just over the podium. I could see her eyes resting on the three boys and several of their young friends who’d been shepherded in by parents. Her wrinkled face was kind, but something in her stare made the children grow still before she continued. “Lillian was not a member of this church, but she was a member of our community.”

  For such a small woman, Betsy’s voice was deep and low. Clearly, she was an accomplished public speaker. But the talk she was giving—I doubted if she’d let it be called a eulogy—was personal, rather than practiced. Rather than describing an oddity, a strange old lady who might have made enemies, it painted a clear portrait of a woman who had been active and involved in the world around her. Lillian had come to Cambridge as a young woman, Betsy told us, a young wife who was giving up a life as a dancer to settle down and raise a family. She’d built a career despite the ravages of World War II, but was willing to turn her back on what sounded like considerable fame in order to forge ties and build a home, a new people-centered life to replace all those she had lost during the war years. Her husband, Piers, had been an academic here in Cambridge and also, like Lillian, a refugee from a war-torn Europe when they met at a reception after a performance. He was tall and dashing, in Betsy’s memories, and he clearly loved the woman who had given up fame to be with him and to bear and raise their son.

  About that son, Betsy spoke gently. “He loved his mother dearly,” she recalled, and her gaze settled on a stout man toward the back whom I hadn’t noticed before. Balding and somberly dressed, in a dark sweater that looked too warm for the day, he seemed to be rocking back and forth in his seat, and I wondered if he was listening. “Lillian in turn worked hard to help him find his way in life, because Lillian loved Dougie, too.” The man in the sweater looked up furtively and quickly lowered his eyes again. Clearly Betsy was connecting with him, and just as clearly, from the dampness visible on his scalp, she made him nervous. “Lillian loved her son,” Betsy repeated, her voice low and calming, but the man just kept rocking, and she let her oratory continue. The two of them, Dougie and Lillian, had been on their own for more than a decade, Betsy explained, once again addressing the assembled crowd, and they’d found ways to make things work. But Lillian was always quick to remind her son that his father had loved him as well, loved him above all else, and that he was with them always in spirit.

  “Now,” she said, looking over what had become a congregation, “we have to believe the same about Lillian. She was a survivor, a woman who thrived and rebuilt after destruction and despair. And what she built will live on, in our hearts and our minds, as well as in our community.”

  Pausing for a moment of reflection, Betsy looked honestly moved. Rather than wanting to question her about her relationship with Lillian, I found myself envying her, wishing I had made the effort to meet the old cat lady long before. As I mulled over my regrets, Betsy began talking again, inviting those who wished to share their thoughts or memories to come up to the podium.

  Several people stood up, most of whom looked to be of Lillian’s vintage, skewing the average age way past sixty. None looked likely as a potential suspect, but by then I wanted to listen anyway. The first of this crew who stood to speak was as wide as she was tall, and as weathered as a stone. More likely to injure herself than anyone else, she slowly waddled up to the podium and stood there for a moment, catching her breath.

  “Lillian loved her kitties. She did what she could for them,” she began, and the small congregation murmured its assent. “She said she loved them because they were so warm and so caring. They responded when so many didn’t in this world. She also loved them because they were graceful, like dancers, just like Lillian used to be. They moved in such lovely ways, she always said she could watch them for hours. And, like her, they always landed on their feet.”

  Not that last time, I thought, as the eulogies continued. More’s the pity.

  Another woman stood. As tall and lean as her predecessor had been round and squat, she recalled stories of Lillian’s youth in a clipped, Eastern European accent. The woman she remembered had been a dancer, lithe and gay.

  “She would have been a star, but for the war,” she said, the echo of her own youth turning “war” to “var.” “But after—even with all the years of training she missed out on, with all the years of chaos—she had her followers, her admirers. She performed all over the world before she came to marry Piers.” This was news to me. Could something from her past have come back to haunt her?

  “Lillian had known hardship. She’d gone hungry,” the speaker continued, her long hands clasping the sides of the podium. “That’s why she liked to have her belongings around her. Why she liked to have enough.” Her dark eyes scanned the crowd looking for an argument. Others must have noted her tendency to collect cats, and perhaps other things as well. That could heat some passions. But no, the speaker continued. “She had her quirks, our Lillian. She never could quite trust ‘the state’ again. But her friends and neighbors? Always! When Ruby, her neighbor, was ill? Lillian was there every day, helping out. And you didn’t have to be sick. Our Lillian always shared. Nobody went hungry, if Lillian knew about it. Nobody was evicted. No animal was mistreated. Lillian Helmhold was my friend.”

  That sentiment echoed in every voice that morning, even when the three young brothers rose and, under their mother’s encouraging eye, read a brief letter thanking “Mrs. H.” for teaching them about animals. My cheeks burned as I recalled how I’d counted cats and jumped to conclusions, and I gave up my intentions of questioning the mourners here. I finally understood Violet’s vehemence. If anyone had caused Lillian Helmhold harm, it wasn’t one of the friends gathered here today. Whoever it was, though, that person deserved to pay.

  I wanted to say this to Violet, or at least make some acknowled
gement that I understood her loss. And as pushy as it felt, I wanted answers to my questions, too, if for no other reason than to clear away any suspicions lingering about her interest in the old house. But first, I needed to talk to Dougie.

  “Doug—Mr. Helmhold,” I called over to the stout man in the cardigan. From the back, hunched over, he looked strangely like his mother, with fewer and darker curls. He was standing by the door with Betsy. She was reaching up to say something to him, but at the sound of his name he turned. The face that looked up to me was all eyes, dark and wide, the rest sagged damply, useless with pain and loss.

  “I just wanted to say…to say I’m sorry.” How could I question this man now? If he’d done anything, it had to have been an accident, right? Behind him, I could see Betsy nodding at me. She put her small hand on his shoulder, just gently touching him, and he started forward, lurching out of the room and away from her.

  “Betsy?” She’d been watching after him and turned back toward me. I wasn’t sure how to ask, but I had to. “I’m trying to figure out…. Could Dougie have…? I mean, how is he doing?”

  She shook her head, but as soon as she started to speak, I realized she’d misunderstood my question. “As well as he can be, I guess. Poor boy.” She paused, lost in thought. “Lillian always said she’d take care of him. I know she wanted to. I always thought she’d put something by for him. She’d talked about leaving him something. Wishful thinking, I guess.” She reached forward and patted my hand with her featherlight, cool palm, then turned to follow Dougie out the door.