close this case.”
The smile faded. He averted his eyes and grabbed a handful of papers, shoving them angrily into a manila folder. “This case will not be closed. And what the hell, do you know about it, anyway?”
“More than you could hope to comprehend. I had to give up on my marriage, a decision that still keeps me awake nights. I appreciate your concern for my safety, Sergeant, but I have priorities, too.”
Later that evening, when the doorbell rang, I was actually looking forward to Aunt Caroline’s and Willis’s arrival. I usually went along reluctantly with these Sunday dinners Kate planned, but I’d been examining canceled checks for hours, hoping to unearth a clue to the mysterious safe-deposit box, a task that had progressed from downright humdrum to seriously tedious. Visiting with Willis and Aunt Caroline seemed a stimulating alternative in contrast.
“Abby, leave this stuff and join us for a drink,” Kate said when she entered the study with Willis on her heels.
“You won’t have to twist my arm.” I rose from the desk chair.
“Whatever are you doing?” Willis took in my pile of checks.
“I figured I could locate the bank where Daddy rented that safe-deposit box by hunting through these. He had to pay for the lease, right? Unfortunately, Kate and I didn’t put the checks back in chronological order after the break-in on P Street, so those from 1960 to the present are all mixed together. A rabbit in a frying pan could have more fun.”
“What will you glean from all this sleuthing, Abby?” said Willis.
“ ‘Gleaning’ and ‘sleuthing’? Is that what I’m doing? Gosh, that sheds a much more interesting light on this thankless task. They never taught you about gleaning and sleuthing in East Texas, did they, Willis?”
He flushed and took a gulp of his club soda.
The doorbell rang again, and Kate left to let Aunt Caroline in. From his expression, Willis didn’t appreciate my jab at his humble beginnings—beginnings he had spent a lifetime disguising with fancy cars and expensive suits.
“Let me be straightforward, Abby,” he said. “What do you hope to find inside this safe-deposit box?”
“Something linking Daddy with Ben’s murder.”
“Do I need to remind you that your father died three months before Ben’s murder?”
“Daddy may have known more about Ben’s past than he let on,” I said.
“Like what?”
“Ben’s using an alias, for one thing. Maybe Ben told him why, and Daddy hid away anything concerning Ben in that box—maybe for Ben’s protection.” I wouldn’t bring up my theory on the adoption connection again—not until I had hard facts rather than guesses.
Willis smirked. “Abby, you’re cooking up stuff to entertain yourself now.”
I stacked the checks I’d just gone through back in the box. “Okay. Sure. Whatever you say.”
“I didn’t mean to discount your very creative ideas,” he said. “But have you considered the much simpler possibility that Ben owed someone some money and was murdered when he didn’t pay that person back? I’d say that’s much more plausible than your speculation about Charlie and Ben’s relationship.”
“Are you implying Ben was a mob hit? Aren’t they more into assault weapons and concrete? I can’t remember the last victim they rubbed out with poisoned spaghetti, can you?”
He raised both hands. “Obviously you’ve abandoned common sense completely.” Willis turned his attention to the lime sliver floating in his drink.
“Common sense was never her strong suit,” said Aunt Caroline from the arched doorway. She’d gone from underdressed the other day to looking as if she were ready for dinner at La Reserve in her black crepe pantsuit.
“What’s this? Gang-up-on-Abby night?” I could tolerate Willis chastising me. He meant well. But Aunt Caroline had as much right to talk about common sense as about the benefits of monogamy.
“Let’s have a drink before dinner and forget this for now,” said Kate.
“Sounds great to me,” I said, anxious to get away from the check search for today.
We retreated to the family room, where Aunt Caroline sipped white wine and prattled on about how well she would protect the paintings and sculptures we’d entrusted to her. Then she pumped Willis for information on the insured value of every piece of art she’d confiscated, making sure to point out that she planned to will everything back to us. That was when I had a chance to extract a small measure of revenge.
“Good. We wouldn’t want anyone else to get his ‘Hans’ on our things when you die, Aunt Caroline,” I said.
Her eyes sparked with anger, and I had to turn away to hide my grin.
Whenever Diva disappeared, which wasn’t all that often, I usually had trouble sleeping. By one A.M. I was still awake, my eyes focused on the interlocking circles in the plaster ceiling of my bedroom.
Where did cats go when that urge to wander hit them? Did they have prearranged meetings with each other in the night? Hold little cat conventions to reaffirm their independent spirits? I closed my eyes with a renewed effort to find sleep, and that was when I heard her faint but distinctive meow. I sat up and strained to hear more, then realized where the sound was coming from.
How in the world did she get into the attic? It was only accessible through the back of a closet.
I left my bed and crept down the hall, not wanting to wake up Kate. She had to be at school early tomorrow.
When we were kids, she and I had plotted our escape from the world into our “secret room” in the very attic Diva now inhabited. But once we’d dragged a few prized possessions up there, prepared to disappear from the face of the earth, we immediately realized that anyone who spent more than a few minutes in those stifling confines would shrivel up and die from the heat. Poor Diva was probably melting.
I went into the guest bedroom, pushed aside the clothes in the closet, and opened the door. A rush of hot, humid air threatened to suck me in.
“Diva!” I whispered into the darkness. I reached over my head, trying to locate the ceramic pull for the light. “Here, kitty-kitty.” I found the chain, but after several tugs I realized the attic bulb was burned out. Meanwhile, I could hear plaintive cries in the blackness beyond.
The bedroom light would have to suffice, but though I waited awhile for my eyes to adjust, I still couldn’t see her. I needed a flashlight, and on my way down the hall to find one, I asked myself why all important cat business had to be conducted in the dead of night.
Wiping my sweaty hands on my boxers, I tiptoed toward the stairs, certain I’d seen a flashlight in the kitchen drawer not too long ago. But about halfway down the front stairway, I stopped abruptly.
I’d heard something. A squeaking sound. Did it come from outside? I couldn’t tell, so I called out Kate’s name, thinking maybe I’d woken her. No response. And no more noises.
I grasped the banister, slowly followed the railing down to the foyer, and flipped on the lights. I walked down the hall to the kitchen and started clawing through the catchall drawer. No flashlight there, so I stooped and looked in the cabinet beneath the drawer, mumbling, “If and when I move, half this stuff is getting thrown in —”
I heard another noise. Behind me.
I spun in time to see the back doorknob slowly turning.
15
My heart thudded against my chest, and I was about to grab the phone or scream for Kate when Steven opened the door. My whole body went limp with relief. “Steven Bradley! You gave me a mouthful of my own heart!”
“Sorry,” he said. “Thought I could sneak in and out without waking you.”
“I know I locked that door. And the alarm was on.”
“No alarm, babe. You musta forgot, as usual.” He then held a key with a sheepish grin. “Found this a month or two after the divorce. Couldn’t sleep, thanks to all the Dr Pepper I drank, so I thought I could sneak in and pick
