Mew is for Murder Read online

  Bill paused again, but this time when he started speaking his voice was back to its less formal mode. Officer Friendly. “Theda, Lillian Helmhold wasn’t murdered. I shouldn’t be telling you this because the finding hasn’t been officially released yet, but I will. We had an autopsy. Lillian Helmhold died as I’d thought, of a subdural hematoma, a slowly bleeding wound under her skull. Her time of death was sometime between eight and midnight, and she probably injured herself as much as an hour before that. A lot of elderly people meet with accidents right around dusk, Theda. There’s even a word for it: sundowning. With no evidence of foul play, it is most likely that she fell, as we’d originally thought. Her death is going to be ruled accidental.”

  “And the medic-alert necklace?”

  “I’ll look into that.” He had the grace to look mildly chagrined. “But I wouldn’t count on it leading anywhere. A lot of older people sign up for these personal alarm services and then forget to keep up with the monitoring fees, or they find the necklace annoying and stop wearing it. Or they take it off at night or in the tub, just when they’re most likely to fall. They’re like burglar alarms: homeowners put a lot of money in them up front. They go off once or twice by accident in the next six months, and they become a bother. Within a year or two, they stop setting them and soon the codes are forgotten. That’s why selling them is such a great business: the companies know they’re not going to have to spend that much on follow through services.”

  I didn’t have anything to say to that. For all I knew, he was right. He was a cop, after all. And although I knew that Violet hadn’t wanted me to say anything to the police, this had just kind of come out. It was better this way. I was done with it.

  “Yeah, well, thanks for the beer.” I pointedly pushed away the remaining half pint that now tasted sour and flat. The peevishness in my voice was obvious, even to me, but I couldn’t help it.

  “Theda, I’m sorry.” He reached out and took my forearm. “I will look into it. I promise.”

  “Thanks. I do appreciate it.” I tried to muster a smile. “And think about adopting one of those cats, will you? The older ones probably only have till next week to find a home.”

  He smiled back. “The crusading journalist returns! I’ll think about it, Ms. Krakow. And you remember what I said about trusting people you’ve just met.”

  “Excellent advice, seeing as how I just met you!” I replied as I stood to leave. His mouth was slightly open, but no words came out as I swung my bag over my shoulder and walked away. I’d have to call Carole tomorrow to fill in some of the facts for my story, but the opportunity to make a dramatic exit was just too much fun to resist.

  Chapter Seven

  I paid for my dubious wit the next morning, rolling out of bed a little before eight to the realization that I’d played too much and done too little work the night before. As I made my coffee, extra strong French roast, and booted up the computer, I mulled over all the people I could call for follow-up. Musicians, scene regulars…nobody who’d be up at this hour. Penance makes for discipline, however, and in lieu of the club story I tried the contractors again, this time catching two of them who were—in their words—running late. They both agreed to chat with me that evening, and one even came up with the name and number of a recent client who had offered herself as a reference.

  A full pot of my best dark brew, heavily sweetened, accompanied by Raisin Bran and the morning papers, carried me up till nine. I checked my email—mostly spam—and figured it would be okay to call the contractor’s client. The warmth of her greeting nearly knocked me off my seat.

  “Scott told me you’d be calling!” She sounded as if I’d made her day. “I’d love for you to come by and see what we’ve had done. The work is just beautiful! How’s eleven?”

  Musetta’s vet appointment was set for one, so I suggested ten, half hoping that she’d refuse. Nothing would make her happier, though, and with a lilt in her voice she gave me directions to the ritzy side of town.

  I sighed and lumbered into the shower. Time to make myself presentable. Truth was, of course, that I didn’t need to be. As a freelancer, unaffiliated with any real professional organization, all I really had to be was clean and decently attired, and I knew other freelancers who severely stretched the definition of both those terms. But I still had to summon up an extra dollop of energy when I went out to do interviews like this morning’s. Maybe it was the subject matter; no matter how many “action verbs” I chose, this was fundamentally a dull story. Useful, maybe, but dull, the kind of assignment that I hoped to be able to phase out eventually. Maybe it was that months of self-employment had made me unfit for human society, better company for a cat or a computer than another living, breathing person. Or maybe it was that I knew that because this woman’s life—and bookshelves—were important to her, I’d end up spending several hours with her, a complete stranger, for the two or three salient quotes that I’d have gotten from a fifteen-minute phone interview, if only I’d had pictures to draw from.

  But I didn’t, and so after showering and dressing, feeding the cat and scooping the litter, I slumped out the door. The day that greeted me shone like a jewel, completely shattering my burgeoning self-pity. Overnight it must have rained, because more of the new leaves were opening, their brown-gold casings lining the gutter, and the buds still waiting glistened. One stately old beech, right by the corner where I’d parked, shone black and silver, still wet and bright, and the air had that freshness that reminds me how close we are to the sea. Knowing full well I’d not have been up and out this early were it not for Mrs. Bookshelves—I fumbled for my pad to make sure I had her actual name—I made a mental note of gratitude and vowed to be patient. Karma might not work that directly, but it didn’t hurt to be sure.

  Fresh air, warm enough to merit open windows as I drove, banished the last of my morning fog, and I was singing along with the radio by the time I pulled up to Mrs. Bookshelves, a lovely Georgian mini-mansion, set back behind a severely pruned hedge.

  “You must be the reporter!” A woman was standing at the top of the porch stairs to greet me, her impeccable hair and makeup making me think that she’d risen long before me to get dressed. “Did you bring a photographer?”

  That could have explained the makeup, as well as the perfect pale lemon twin set, the pearls, and elegantly pleated pants. But she looked like the kind of woman who dressed like this anyway, just as her mother had. Close up, I would have said it all was a bit old for her; she seemed to be within a few years of my own age. But I was being nice.

  “Uh, no, uh, I’ll be passing your contact info onto my editor though, Mrs. Book, I mean Mrs. Hudson.”

  “Please, call me Sally.” I wouldn’t dare. Why did posh always make me uncomfortable? Already my morning lift was wearing off. It tumbled further as she led me into her house, more a showcase than what I’d call a home. Not that it wasn’t lovely. Fresh flowers nearly overwhelmed a receiving table and, to the left, I could see the kind of cream and yellow furniture that wouldn’t have lasted a night with my friends.

  “This is the living room,” she said, although I’d have been afraid to do much living in it. “And here,” she led me back across the wide, well-lit entrance hallway, “is the office.” Sally smiled as she said it, as if the word were a private joke. I peeked in at a rolltop desk that looked antique, a love seat that I’d seen in magazines, and a framed diploma that made her only two years older than me.

  “This is your office?” The decorations were clearly feminine, but I had to ask. “And what do you do?”

  “A little research, a little reading.” She lowered her voice. “I’m thinking of starting an interior design firm. That’s why I was so excited that you wanted to feature my house!”

  “Yeah, well, okay.” I took a deep breath. “And your bookshelves? Which ones did Scott do for you?”

  “All of them,” she said brightly. “These built-ins and the window seats and the cherry shelves in the living room that you j
ust saw! We consulted together on the design. I conceptualized the project.”

  Looking around, I saw very traditional cases built into both rooms, her office shelves painted white with a seat upholstered in a sunny floral fabric filling in the space beneath the big bay window. Then she led me into a third room, much more masculine, and announced it as “the library.” These were the real deal, and I made notes on the floor to ceiling shelves that lined the interior walls. Except where they gave way for a huge, marble-topped fireplace, they dominated the room with a dark red sheen that glowed from regular polishing. No small porcelain figurines here, although a few silver-framed photos of the senior Hudsons and two tow-headed kids took pride of place in front of some handsome leather-backed volumes. A lot of bookshelf for a decent collection of books, nothing milk crates wouldn’t have taken care of. I pegged Mr. Hudson as a lawyer, corporate, and very well paid. In this room alone I was looking at a good thirty thousand dollars’ worth of custom cabinetry, easily, but who was I to question the expense? Contractors have to eat, too.

  “My husband is with Hudson, Hudson, and Brandt.” She looked proud, as if I’d recognize the name. I smiled back. “And you, you work for the Mail?” Clearly I’d been silent too long, taking notes and a few measurements.

  “I’m a freelance writer, actually. I’m not on the paper’s staff, but I contribute stories to the Mail and for a couple of magazines.”

  “A freelance writer.” Sally sighed audibly. “That must be fun!”

  I did my best to smile. “Are these real cherry or veneer?” By the time I got out of there, ninety minutes later, I felt both drained and broke. So much for how the other half lives.

  mmm

  Can cats sense when we need loving? I returned home to find myself the object of affection in an almost aggressive sense. Musetta was growing stout as a linebacker. Her weight, which she threw against my shins as I entered holding my bag and that morning’s mail, was warm and solid.

  “Good morning to you too, little kitty.” I bent down to scratch her spine right at the base of the tail, getting a growling, guttural purr in response. “Isn’t this nice? I hope you don’t hate me after your vet visit today.”

  There would be time for more coffee, I noticed. Life was perking up. But first, two messages that were blinking at me from the machine. I grabbed a pad.

  “Hi Theda. This is Bill, Detective Sherman, again. I wanted to let you know that we followed up with the emergency-alert necklace. We didn’t find the actual device, but we were able to find the service that she’d registered with. As I’d thought, she’d never used it, which makes it more likely that she never wore it either. But they did confirm the contact information we have for her son. They had the information about a prepaid cremation service, too. Mrs. Helmhold must have taken care of herself at one time, anyway. So, thank you for the tip.” The voice paused though the tape kept rolling. I figured he was worried that he’d said too much. “And, well, anyway, it was nice to see you last night. Feel free to call me back with any other questions.” The message ended with him repeating the number he’d given me before.

  That was gentlemanly of him. I suspected that he wasn’t supposed to tell me, a reporter, all that information, and I appreciated it. I guessed he could tell how emotionally invested I’d become in Lillian’s death.

  “Hey, Theda.” The next voice on the machine was worth saving. “Connor here. Are you an early riser, or did you just never come home?” The suggestive chuckle with—was it just a hint of frustration?—made me give silent thanks to the Hudsons’ extravagance. “Anyway, Ralph was telling me about some band from Brooklyn that’s going to be playing at the Casbah tonight. Don’t know who’s opening. Maybe I’ll see you there.” It was a statement, rather than a question, but I knew an invitation when I heard one. Who needed more coffee? I cranked the stereo and danced around the apartment, sending Musetta skittering for cover. “Ooma-wallah-wallah,” I called out to her, echoing the nonsense refrain of Professor Longhair’s classic, “Tipitina.” She glared at me from under the sofa and I turned the volume down. Going to the vet would be traumatic enough, I remembered, and went to search for James’ old carrier.

  mmm

  “Good to see you, Theda! I’ll be right with you.” Dr. Rachel was backing out of one of the isolation rooms when Sandra buzzed me in, her shoulder holding the door open as she rubbed her hands together with the ever-present Purel. Motioning for me to follow her into an empty examining room, she headed right to the room’s sink, taking advantage of the real soap and water.

  “It’s good to do this. That alcohol cleanser really irritates my skin after a while,” she said, drying her hands. “Okay, who do we have here?”

  I’d placed the green plastic carrying case on the stainless steel examining table and Rachel opened the top. Lifting the uncomplaining kitten, she deposited her first on the scale and then on the table, taking notes and chirping to her patient as she went along.

  “Teeth coming in, very nice. Aren’t we sweet? Let’s see that troublesome leg of yours. Not still limping? No, not that I see. And now the ears, little bitty ears. Belly feels good, yes it does! Now let’s see your bottom!” Rachel wielded a mean-looking thermometer. At this indignity, Musetta started to scramble away, her white boots not getting much grip on the smooth metal surface.

  “Come on now, baby. We’re almost done.” A few more pokes and prods and she was.

  “You’ll want her shots today, right?”

  “Might as well, whatever she’s due for.”

  “We’ll do the usual new kitten inoculations. Watch her?” She turned to the table behind her and its well-stocked cabinet. “I’d put her at between six and eight weeks. A little young to be out on her own.” She reached again for her patient, calm now despite the needle that was coming up behind her. “What a good little girl you are! Good thing you’ve got a good mama right here to take care of you.”

  Musetta didn’t flinch, the little trouper. I did. “I’m not her new mama, Rachel. I just want to take care of her till I can find her a good home. A kitten this cute, shouldn’t be hard.”

  “Wouldn’t be if it weren’t already kitten season, Theda.” Rachel prepped another injection and looked at me a little harder. “Spring is when intact cats breed most. We’re already full up, and that means no more stays of execution for all the animals we already have. Six days, that’s it. And that’s just not much of a chance, especially for the older cats.” She saw the look on my face and sighed. “I don’t like it any more than you do.” She gave the last shot and stroked the little girl into a purr. “But we don’t have the space and we don’t have the resources, even with all the volunteers.”

  “But a kitten, surely?”

  “Yeah, a little beauty like this will probably get snatched right up. But that means some other kitten won’t find a home.”

  I looked down at the examining table and away, out the window where a still-bare tree had begun to toss in the wind.

  “I’ll think about it,” I said, meaning, “I’m not ready.” Musetta made her way over to my edge of the table, still purring, and butted her head against me.

  “Do, Theda. This little girl looks to be in fine shape. Her leg must have gotten bruised somehow, but it seems to be healing. I don’t see any need for X-rays. And I think she’s already made her choice.”

  mmm

  Musetta mewed a little on the drive home, then curled up and slept, exhausted by her adventure. I kept the radio off so as not to disturb her and instead let my own thoughts wander. I didn’t want to be pressured into another cat. James was my cat, and always would be. I didn’t even want to think about it and instead mused about more pleasing developments. Connor in particular. I was looking forward to meeting up with Connor tonight. But first, it was time, once I got home and liberated the kitten from her temporary imprisonment, to do a little research. Not the three-call rule on something this sensitive, but some in-person questioning. Time to head back to the Mail and corn
er Ralph.

  Boston traffic is miserable. The city streets, legend has it, were laid out by a snake and paved by a cow, and neither the years nor the ongoing construction known as the Big Dig have been kind to the result. That traffic, a day-long mess of snarls and honking, along with my growing aversion to talking with real humans, makes me very fond of filing everything electronically. But on occasion eye contact is still useful. And editors do like to see that their reporters leave the house every now and then. That was my excuse, anyway, as I pulled into one of the guest parking spaces in front of the Mail and bounded up the stairs to the features department.

  “Theda!” Tim’s booming voice headed me off on my way to Ralph’s cubicle. “Do you have a moment?”

  It was a command, not a request. But then, he paid much of my rent. “What’s up, boss?” I tried for jovial as I weaved between desks toward his office, where he stood in the doorway looking flustered and annoyed.

  “Who is Sally Hudson and why is she calling me?”

  “Sally Hudson?” It hit me: Mrs. Hudson, Mrs. Bookshelf. She must have called the paper looking for me and gotten directed to my former section and, thus, to Tim as my editor. “She’s someone I’m writing about for Home. She called you, I gather? I’m sorry.”

  “Crazy lady,” he muttered as he retreated back to his desk. I think he was referring to Mrs. Hudson.

  “I’ll call her in a minute,” I promised him, following him into the small office out of habit, and he looked up, vague hope in his eyes.

  “Do you have something for me?”

  I almost stumbled into his desk. Of course! He thought I was here on business.

  “Went to that acoustic café last night,” I said, settling into his one guest chair. “It is becoming quite a scene. Great music, great food. Real atmosphere. The neighborhood is catching on fast. And,” I leaned forward in a conspiratorial way, hoping to hype my one bit of news. “Nobody else has written about it yet. Nobody.”