“Greenberg,” he answered in his all-business voice. As soon as he heard it was me, his voice softened only as long as it took to say my name, then it went right to agitated.
“Where were you?” he demanded. “Or should I say who were you with?”
“I was snug in my bed alone,” I said, rolling my eyes. “My phone’s battery ran down and I didn’t realize it until this morning.”
There was silence on his end and I knew he was evaluating what I’d said. One of the drawbacks of being involved with a cop is that he’s used to dealing with people who don’t always tell the truth. By now I knew what he was waiting for. Would I gush forth with too many details? Like saying I’d had my phone where I couldn’t see it and therefore had missed its flashing screen before it shut down, and talking about what time I went to bed and what time I’d gotten up and how quiet the room was, since I was all alone? Too many details spelled cover-up to him.
Two could play that game, so I just said nothing until he finally spoke, apparently accepting my excuse as being true.
“Babe, I just want you to know I had nothing to do with your new residents.”
“Whoa,” I said, “what are you talking about?”
“The two cats.”
I asked the obvious question. “What two cats?”
The story unfolded that when Barry had stopped by the first time to let the dogs out and make sure everything was okay, there had been two cats sleeping on a lounge chair in the backyard. But when he’d come by late last night, the cats had been inside and there were some cat bowls, cat food, a cat box and even some cat toys on the floor in my crochet room, which, according to Barry, seemed to have become cat central. And as far as he could tell, all my yarn was okay, but then who could tell, since it always seemed to be all over the place?
“Cats? What kind of cats?” I said as visions of a yarn nightmare danced through my mind.
“They look like the regular kind to me. One of them is black and white and the other is kind of gray. I’m guessing they have something to do with the stuff accumulating in your front hall. Did I mention there were some chairs along with the cartons?”
“You mentioned cat bowls and cat food separately. Is there some cat food in the cat bowls and some water? You said a cat box, too, right?”
“Don’t worry. Everybody seems to have lots of whatever they need.”
“I’ll have to deal with everything when I get back.” A little weariness crept into my voice and Barry picked up on it immediately.
“Not much fun without me, is it?” he said in a teasing voice.
“No,” I said, and meant it.
Barry laughed. “So Mason isn’t keeping you amused?” He sounded all too happy when I mentioned Mason was gone for the day to his family event. I didn’t say anything about Izabelle’s death or my investigation. I should have figured that was the same as giving too many details when you were trying to cover up a lie. It was like a red flag to Barry.
“Okay, Molly, let’s put all the cards on the table,” Barry said at last. “What’s going on with your crochet instructor’s death?”
I tried to say nothing, but Barry used his whole arsenal of investigating tricks, from “You’ll feel better if you tell me the whole story” to saying that maybe he could help straighten things out.
The funny thing was, it did feel good to tell him the whole story, at first, anyway. He listened patiently as I gave him all the details. Almost all the details. I left out tackling Adele.
“Now what in that makes you so sure someone killed the woman?” he asked in an understanding voice, which surprised me. When I’d gotten involved in investigating other murders, he’d been far more disturbed and irrational. Maybe because those were in his jurisdiction, or maybe because he was trying a new tactic to deal with me-being reasonable.
“Molly, it sounds like Sergeant French and his people have it covered.” He still sounded calm. “You were so worried about being in charge this weekend. Wouldn’t it be better if you spent your time on the retreat and trust the cop to do his job?”
Not a chance.
CHAPTER 21
I WAS DETERMINED TO JUGGLE HANDLING THE RETREAT and checking out my list of suspects. After all the fuss to get her more of Izabelle’s supplies for the workshops, Adele had complained there was too much clutter and insisted I take back one carton. I opened the door to Izabelle’s room and took it inside. A copy of
It took a few more moments of fumbling and then I heard the door open, followed by nervous whispers.
“We have to hurry. My boss will have a fit if we get caught.” I recognized Spenser’s female companion as she slipped in. He held up some kind of device and said something about being surprised that it really worked.
“If all else fails, I might have a future as a burglar,” he said with a grin. She glared at him in response.
“It’s in there,” he said, pointing at the closet. I just had time to move behind the clothes before the closet door swung open. Spenser leaned in and began moving things along the clothes rod. I flattened myself against the back wall as he took a hanger containing a jacket.
“Hold it up,” she ordered, and he complied. The dark space was filled with flashes of light. Between seeing spots from the brightness, I caught a glimpse of her single-lens reflex camera. If I hadn’t been hiding, I would have hit my forehead with my hand. So that was the kind of shooting they had in mind for Adele!
“Got it,” she said, and headed for the door as he rehung the jacket.
“It’s a lot easier exiting by the door than by the window,” Spenser said, following her out.
I waited a few moments and then stepped out into the room. All was quiet. The jacket was in the middle of the clothes rod, and I took it into the light to see what the fuss was about. The body was cream-colored denim and the sleeves were crocheted in coral yarn. Another strip of coral crochet ran down the front and around the neckline. I checked the inside for a label and found one of the kind I’d seen advertised in craft magazines. It said “An Izabelle Landers Original Design.” The style reminded me of a baseball jacket.
After Spenser’s comment, I opened the window and stuck my head out. In the daylight his means of escape the other night was obvious. The balcony almost touched the back stairs.
When we met after the morning sessions ended, Dinah got a good laugh about the real meaning of
“I could go undercover again and see what I could find out about it,” Dinah offered, but I told her to put it on hold for now. I also told her how glad I was I hadn’t decided to call Sergeant French about the
“I know this weekend has been tough for you, but my students are a teacher’s dream. How am I ever going to go back to my restless freshmen at Beasley Community College?” She went on some more about not having to waste time arguing about what was or wasn’t acceptable to wear in class and being respectful of others. I didn’t mean to, but I kind of tuned out as she went back to raving about her group, and I didn’t come back into focus until she said she’d been thinking about what I’d said about Izabelle being a twin.
“Remember that first e-mail we saw from Tom? He was reacting to something she had said she was going to do. It probably had something to do with her twin. I was thinking,” Dinah said, glancing into the interior of the large dining hall, “what if her twin was here, and whatever she planned to do, she planned to do this weekend?”
I told her I’d been thinking along the same lines, and we began surveying the people coming out of the food
