to my ankle.
“Yes, I’ve missed you, too, Furface.” I didn’t need to look down to know who had just welcomed me. Furface always made his presence felt in a very tangible way. “Why didn’t she leave you all inside?” I set down my duffel and sorted through my keys for the correct one. “No, you don’t,” I added as two of the cats-calico Birgit and gray and white Dagmar-reared up on their haunches to sniff the cage. I swung Vilhelm to safety, inserted the key in the door, and let us all within.
At least Aunt Gerda had left one light on. It shone from the back of the house, from the large bedroom she had converted into a study. I flicked the switch that turned on the living room corner lamps, and the comfortable room with its oak floor, hand-woven rugs, blue-gray upholstery and brick fireplace sprang to life. Home.
Still with the cage held at shoulder level, I wended my way through the clutter of my aunt’s loom, spinning wheel, and far too many baskets spilling over with colorful, hand-dyed wool, and made it to the hall. The first door on the right stood ajar. This had been my room since my parents died when I was only seven. I set Vilhelm on top of the bureau, dropped my duffel on the floor and my fingers found the wall switch with the ease of long experience.
Light filled the cozy room, and I cast an assessing eye over the furnishings. Just the way I’d left everything from my last visit. Well, almost. Olaf, an abnormally rotund lavender point Siamese, blinked at me from the comfort of the queen-sized bed’s flowered pillow shams, and the curve of an orange tail-Mischief’s-protruded from beneath the matching dust ruffle. Pausing in front of my dresser mirror, I tried to smooth rain-darkened strands of shoulder- length permed blonde hair out my eyes, but gave it up as hopeless. I turned to my bed, scooped up one cat in each arm, went into the hall, and pulled the door closed with the toe of my running shoe. Vilhelm might find cats almost as fascinating as they found him, but he needed peace to recover from his journey.
And speaking of cats, four of the seven currently in residence at Aunt Gerda’s had gathered at the far end of the long hall where they stared fixedly through the open door that led into the study. Not so much as an ear or tail twitched. I froze, while fingers of uneasiness played a cadenza up my spine.
For a long moment I hugged the two cats I carried, then set them on the loomed runner that extended the length of the hall. The Siamese Olaf hunkered his considerable bulk down low and crept up on the others, while the orange Mischief beat a hasty retreat toward the living room.
Probably a half-eaten gopher. Or worse, something they hadn’t quite finished off yet. I hated that the most, I can’t stand to see anything suffer. I shivered, and knew I was overreacting. “What have you guys dragged home this time?” I demanded. My voice sounded unnaturally loud in the empty house.
None of the cats turned to look at me, which did nothing to steady my nerves. I really didn’t want to go near that room. Which was utter nonsense. If it were something I could help, I would. And if it were something messy and long gone, I’d just leave it for Aunt Gerda. They were her furry little monsters, after all. On that thought, I strode down the hall, nudged my way between two of the beasties, and peered into the study.
Book shelves lined the walls, filled to overflowing with paperbacks, hardbacks, and oversized volumes, everything from poetry through science fiction and mysteries to scholarly tomes of history and philosophy. A
A man sat at the desk. Or rather, he slumped over it, one arm flung across the inevitable clutter on the surface, the other dangling at his side. The lamp on one corner didn’t show his face, which was turned away from the door, but it did an excellent job of illuminating the intricately carved handle that protruded from just below his collarbone on his left side. A dark stain spread from it, across his white shirt and gray suit coat, down his arm, to where it pooled in a burgundy mass across my aunt’s financial records.
I pried my fingers from the doorjamb and took a faltering step toward the desk. I wasn’t really seeing what I thought I saw. I couldn’t be. It simply wasn’t possible. It had to be an elaborate practical joke, and one in the worst imaginable taste. Knowing some of my aunt’s more eccentric friends, that just might be the case.
Still, it looked awfully real. And the cats were upset.
I closed my eyes and drew a steadying breath, which only brought the unmistakable odors of blood and bodily fluids.
Okay, no joke. I had to pull myself together. If there were any chance this man might still be alive, I had to do something, help him-I forced one foot in front of the other until I stood beside him. My gaze focused on the knife- except it wasn’t one, it was a letter opener. Aunt Gerda’s letter opener. I knew the delicately depicted cat that decorated its head.
I swallowed the bile that churned upward from my stomach. The letter opener had drawn one hell of a lot of blood. Part of my mind registered that the IRS would never be able to make heads or tails of my aunt’s business receipts, after this.
And speaking of blood-it no longer seeped from the wound. With a shaky finger I touched the man’s shoulder. It felt sticky, as if the blood had begun to dry.
He was long past any help I could give him, no question about that.
My mind kicked back into gear. He hadn’t fallen on the letter opener, and I didn’t see how he could have stabbed himself, not at that angle. Which left murder. But how long ago? Minutes? Seconds? For all I knew, my entrance to the house might have interrupted the act in progress. The murderer might still be here, lurking somewhere… I fought back a rising panic, forcing myself to think clearly. If some homicidal maniac intended to attack me, he could have done it easily by now. More likely, he would have slipped out by the French windows while I was talking to the cats.
The authorities. I had to call the sheriff. But I couldn’t bring myself to reach over the body for the phone. Instead, I sidled around to the other side of the desk. This gave me the added disadvantage of a clear view of the man’s face, with the open, staring eyes that no longer saw anything. His gray-flecked brown hair, I noted through a daze, remained impeccably styled. Clifford Brody, C.P.A., wouldn’t even be caught dead other than perfectly groomed.
Movement near the hardwood floor made me yelp. One of the cats, the calico Birgit, emboldened by my presence, slunk into the room. I shooed her out, then succumbed to a craven impulse and followed, closing the door firmly behind me. I’d call from another phone. Preferably one at the other end of the house.
I made it down the hall, through the living room, past the dining room door, and into the country kitchen redolent of herbs. Only a few steps from the royal blue wall phone my knees collapsed, dumping me onto one of the brightly painted wooden chairs set around the ancient pine table. I could use a stiff drink. Aunt Gerda would recommend strong tea, with something for nerves, like oat straw, in it. Call first, I ordered myself. Then I’d search out my aunt’s chocolate stash.
I hauled myself to the phone and punched in from memory the number for the Merit County sheriff’s office, then clutched the receiver, trying to order my mind. I couldn’t stammer out the incoherent gibberish that currently filled my head. Not if I wanted anyone to understand me. Dagmar, the gray and white tabby, wound herself around my ankles, and as the phone rang, I scooped the cat into my arm and cradled her there for comfort. Mine, not hers. She squirmed at the tightness of my hold, and I settled her more contentedly against my shoulder.
A bright, familiar woman’s voice answered with an encouraging, “Sheriff’s office.”
Deep breath. “This is Annike McKinley, at-”
“Annike? Hi, it’s Jennifer. Been a long time. You home for Thanksgiving?”
“Jennifer,” I repeated. The woman had been answering the phone twelve years ago, when I first met Tom McKinley, who already had been the county sheriff for five years. Who probably still would be if he hadn’t gotten in the way of that bullet during a drug bust seven years ago. Jennifer, who’d been at our wedding, and who’d accompanied the deputy sheriff when he’d come to break the news to me of Tom’s death.
“Are you going to stop by for a visit?” Jennifer’s voice sounded cheerfully over the line. “We’ve got a new guy here, just took over when Sheriff Guzman retired last month. Love to hear your opinion of him. He’s-”
“Jennifer,” I managed to break in. “We’ve got someone-I mean, we’ve got a body-”
“Don’t tell me, there’s a carcass in your kitchen. Someone murdered a turkey, right?”
“No, an accountant.” Except in the case of Clifford Brody, the point could be argued that he was both.
“An…” Jennifer broke off. “No, don’t tell me. Now, why,” she muttered, “would a turkey be called an accountant? No, don’t spoil it, let me guess the joke.”
