Catnapped! (17 page)

Monday

I
f Lexie Deener was distraught when the sheriff’s office towed her car, she would have screamed bloody murder at what happened next.

The classic black ’86 Jaguar was sprayed with luminol inside and out. The lab found bloody handprints on the driver’s door, inside and out, and the red leather center console. A partial footprint smeared the carpet.

When the technicians photographed and then dismantled the door, they chipped Blackie’s seven coats of black paint and clear lacquer and scratched the red hand-painted pinstripe. The pristine Connolly Leather panel was scarred when they processed the print on it. The hinges on the red leather center console were damaged when the compartment door was removed. The original Wilton wool carpet was cruelly sliced with a scalpel. The BSO needed the best evidence available.

The footprint was inconclusive, but the handprints matched Lexie’s. The blood was A negative, Mort’s type. It occurs in about seven percent of the population.

Lexie Deener was arrested for the murder of Mortimer Barrymore. She still refused to talk without a lawyer.

Deputy Maddow told Helen that DNA tests were ordered. That’s when Nancie Hays stepped in.

She didn’t threaten. She didn’t need to. Nancie’s fierce reputation was threat enough. She simply said that an innocent woman was still in jail and she needed to be freed as soon as possible. Her client’s husband was being buried Thursday morning, and Mrs. Barrymore had to attend his funeral for her health and mental well-being.

Repeated calls by reporter Valerie Cannata asking for a statement about Lexie Deener’s arrest also probably helped speed the process.

DNA tests normally take three to four weeks because of the huge case backlog. But a DNA test for a murder—especially a high-profile killing that had attracted an insistent lawyer and an investigative reporter—got a rush order.

Back at the Coronado, Helen paced restlessly, waiting to hear the test results. If that wasn’t Mort’s blood in Lexie’s car, she’d be sued sideways. True, A negative was fairly rare. And while only seven percent had it, that was still a staggering number—more than sixty-two thousand men in Broward County alone.

“Go take a shower,” Phil told her. “Your pacing is driving me crazy, and you’ve got cat hair on your clothes.”

Helen showered and washed and dried her long brown hair, but the dryer failed to blow away her worries. Phil poured her a glass of wine, but she left it untouched. At four o’clock, Valerie called and said, “Helen, I can’t thank you enough. You’re the lead story on the five-o’clock news.”

“So, it’s confirmed Lexie Deener killed Mort?” Helen asked hopefully.

“Not quite, but I have enough for a story,” Valerie said.

Helen nearly wore a groove in the terrazzo floor, waiting for the news at five. At four fifty, Phil popped his delicious,
made-from-scratch popcorn, then forced her to sit on his black leather couch. He handed her the wineglass and said, “Drink.” He didn’t have to tell her to eat the popcorn. She absently munched handfuls until the news came on.

When Valerie was on the trail of a hot story, she practically sizzled onscreen. She’d freshened her makeup and changed into an eye-catching lilac sheath for this story.

Her story began with video of Lexie lecturing the Hasher School children. “Lexie Deener, a senior supervisor for a North Carolina medical equipment company and a Gold Cup Cat Fanciers’ Association show judge,” Valerie said, “was accused of murdering Peerless Point financier Mortimer Barrymore today by a partner in Coronado Investigations, the successful South Florida private-eye firm.”

Helen groaned and took a gulp of wine while she watched herself on video calling Lexie a killer.

“The incident occurred at the Hasher School Pet Appreciation Day. Mr. Barrymore’s estranged wife, socialite Trish Barrymore, has been charged with murdering her husband by the Peerless Point police.

“Ms. Deener denied the allegations made by private investigator Helen Hawthorne, then refused to talk to anyone, including the police and this reporter.”

More video of Lexie frowning and shaking her head.

“BSO Deputy Webster Maddow checked the Peerless Point camera system and confirmed that a car fitting the description of Ms. Deener’s”—the camera panned the glossy black Jaguar—“was videoed in the vicinity of Mr. Barrymore’s home at the time police say he was bludgeoned to death.

“Deputy Maddow obtained a warrant to tow Ms. Deener’s car to the lab.” The dramatic video of Lexie screaming that her car had to be towed on a flatbed truck followed.

“As you can see, Ms. Deener was cautioned and taken into
custody,” Valerie said. “Neither Deputy Maddow nor the BSO would comment further on the case, but two sources have confirmed that bloody handprints were found in Ms. Deener’s vintage Jaguar. The prints match Ms. Deener’s, and the blood type matches Mr. Barrymore’s.

“Channel Seventy-seven is the only station with this story, and we will continue to keep you updated as it develops.”

A commercial for laundry soap followed. Helen realized she was sitting with her mouth open, holding a handful of popcorn.

Phil was all smiles. “Valerie played the story straight, but still gave the impression that Lexie is guilty,” he said. “Nice plug for our business, too.”

“I just hope we have a business,” Helen said. “We’re dead if that’s not Mort’s blood.”

“Of course it’s Mort’s,” Phil said. “Who else would it belong to? You worry too much.”

And you don’t worry enough, Helen wanted to say.

She glanced at her watch. “It’s five thirty,” she said. “Aren’t you supposed to go to the Fisherman’s Tale tonight and meet Zach’s dodgy friend, Xavier Dave?”

“You’re right, darlin’,” Phil said in his annoying fake-redneck drawl. “Got me a new T-shirt at a thrift shop for my disguise, too.”

Five minutes later, he was wearing his ball cap with the built-in mullet, seat-sprung pants, and a stretched-out T-shirt sporting a Lab holding a six-pack and this legend:
REDNECK RETRIEVER—CUZ I’M FIXIN TO HAVE ME A COLD ONE.

“How much did you pay for that shirt?” Helen asked.

“Twenty-five whole cents,” he said.

“You wuz robbed,” she said, grinning and gathering her keys and her purse.

“Whoa, whoa, where are you going?” he asked.

“To the Fisherman’s Tale, so I can eavesdrop. I’ll meet you there.”

“But that’s no place for a woman alone. Sleazy guys will try to pick you up,” Phil said.

“That’s their problem,” Helen said. “I’m in no mood to play wifey and wait for you at home.”

She unlocked her car, waved good-bye and drove to the Fisherman’s Tale.

Phil was already seated at the bar when Helen entered. She was slapped in the face by Pine-Sol and stale air. The same lowlifes seemed to be at the bar, except this time the lone woman had carrot-red hair and no front teeth.

Helen’s skin crawled when she felt the bar-goers eyeing her. She swung by the bar to buy a beer, and saw Phil slide two twenties across the water-ringed surface, way too much for a beer in this joint.

“That’s him at the table behind you,” the bartender said. Phil slapped down another twenty and said, “Gimme a couple bags of peanuts, two packs of beef jerky and a beer for my friend at that table.”

He took both beers and the snacks and invited himself to sit down. Helen ignored the bartender’s ham-fisted efforts at flirting and sat at the sticky table behind Phil, where she could listen.

If Xavier Dave was a car salesman, he wasn’t a successful one. He wore the only sports jacket in the bar, navy with shiny elbows. His shirt was dingy white, and the cuffs of his khakis were frayed. His red tie hung limp around his neck, as if it had surrendered.

Helen looked up and saw a scrawny man with a Guns N’ Roses T-shirt and stringy hair that could be called dirty blond for its color and condition. “Why’s a pretty little thing like you all alone?” he asked.

“Because I like it that way,” Helen snarled, and he backed away.

“Okay, okay,” he said. “If I wanted to be yelled at, I’d be home with my old lady.”

Phil and his offerings of beer and snacks had sparked a conversation with Xavier Dave. Helen tuned in.

“You can call me XD,” he said.

“You had it right, Phil. Ol’ Zach really did a number on poor Mike.”

Mike, Helen thought. That would be Mike Fernier, the skinny red-haired guy who went to prison for dealing years ago.

“Zach owed Mike twenty grand, and when the feds started nosing around, Zach disappeared with the money. Now Mike’s out of jail and wants his money. He coulda rolled on Zach, like you said, but he didn’t. Mike asked him nicely for the money. Said Zach could pay him back in installments.

“Zach taunted him, telling him, ‘I ain’t got it. So sue me.’ Mike needs that money. The only job he can get is with a lawn service, and it’s hot, sweaty work, killing weeds and cutting grass. Cuttin’ grass. How do you like that? Some friend Zach was.”

“Mike deserves to get his money back,” Phil said, nodding sympathetically.

“Damn right he does,” XD said.

“Like I said, I’m working for Zach’s estate,” Phil said.

Technically true, Helen thought. Margery did inherit Zach’s condo and life insurance.

“I might be able to help out you and your friend,” Phil said.

“You think?” XD said.

He sounded absurdly hopeful. Nobody’s as gullible as a con artist, Helen thought.

“Do you think Mike was mad enough to poison Zach?” Phil asked. “Not that I care. I never knew the man personally, but he didn’t seem to be any great loss.”

“That twenty thou would have made Mike’s life much easier,” XD said. “I was here when he asked Zach for it. He was real polite about it, but Zach refused to give him a nickel. Next time Mike came in and talked to Zach, trying to reason with him, they ended up fighting. Mike swung at Zach and they broke a chair, and Mike got himself eighty-sixed.

“Now Mike’s barred from this place permanently. It ain’t fair.
But I think Mike would hesitate before killing someone. He’s afraid of going back to jail again.

“You ask me, Zach did himself in. He started losing his health about six or eight months ago and felt life wasn’t worth living. I’m not surprised Zach committed suicide.”

Another one for the suicide theory, Helen thought.

“Maybe. But rat poison is a nasty way to go,” Phil said.

“He was tired of doctors running tests on him,” Mike said. “Kept saying they didn’t find anything, but Zach always felt kind of unwell.”

“What was wrong?” Phil asked. “Can I get you another beer?”

“You sure can, and more of that beef jerky.”

Helen waited for Phil to return, mentally circling her table with barbed wire to keep the barflies away. They were still watching her, and she was uneasy.

Phil was back with two cold ones and another round of snacks. “You were telling me Zach hadn’t been feeling well for six months or so.”

“Yeah. He had a rash he couldn’t get rid of on his stomach and numb, tingly fingers—which didn’t help in his line of work. He lost all his hair. You’d never guess it, he had such a good wig, but he hated being bald, and he had the trots all the time. It was wearing him down.

“He told me he was ready to end it all. He didn’t like guns, so I don’t think he’d shoot himself. I could see him pouring rat poison in his beer, though.

“Zach felt even lower because he tried to hook up with his ex-wife, Margery, and she wouldn’t give him the time of day. He actually got on his knees and begged her, and she kicked him in the nuts. She’s a real piece of work.

“When Margery told him to get lost, he just gave up. You might think it’s silly for someone our age to die of love, but that’s what finished him. You ask me, Margery killed Zach.”

Monday/Tuesday

Z
ach didn’t commit suicide. Helen knew it. Phil’s conversation with XD convinced her she was right: A man as vain as Zach wouldn’t deliberately lose his hair. Someone poisoned him.

She was so excited by this insight, she could hardly wait to get back to the Coronado. She muttered and growled at the traffic on her way home from the Fisherman’s Tale. Each red light, every snarled intersection kept her from looking up the symptoms for arsenic poisoning on her computer.

At home in Phil’s apartment, she breezed past her husband on her way to the computer. “Good work at the bar,” she said, kissing him lightly. “Inspiring, too. I’m checking a theory.”

“What theory?” Phil asked.

“Let me get the facts first,” she said.

She got the information—almost too much. She read it and then read it again. It confirmed her suspicions.

“Phil, Margery couldn’t have poisoned Zach with weed killer,” she said. “Listen to the symptoms if he’d swallowed a big slug of
arsenic-based weed killer: He’d have had nausea, vomiting, massive diarrhea and more, ending in heart failure.

“I don’t see anything about instant hair loss, and we know he wore a wig. Margery saw him popping Tums, so he must have had nausea, but the other symptoms sound so severe he couldn’t have walked into Beachie’s restaurant.”

“He barely walked out, remember?” Phil said. “He had to be helped out.”

“Okay, he was sick,” Helen said. “Definitely. But what he had sounds more like a low-dose poisoning over a long time. That’s where he’d get the rash on his gut, the hair loss, numb fingers and generally lousy feeling.”

“So, you’re saying the cops, his doctors and the medical examiner made a mistake?” Phil asked. Thumbs jumped into his lap, and he idly scratched the cat’s ears.

“Highly likely,” Helen said. “The detective saw Margery using weed killer, knew she inherited Zach’s estate and hated his guts. He jumped to the conclusion that she killed her ex.”

“And everyone else was wrong, too?” Phil asked.

“You’d be surprised,” Helen said. “I found a slew of studies that show the official cause of death is wrong about one-third of the time.”

“A slew?” Phil said. Thumbs was kneading his leg with his big paws.

“Highly technical detective term meaning ‘a whole bunch,’ ” Helen said.

“Nice work,” Phil said. “Except, who did kill Zach?”

“His former good buddy Mike,” Helen said. “With his job, he has access to weed killer and the time to slowly poison him. XD, who still saw Zach after Mike was eighty-sixed from the bar, could have kept slipping small doses in his beer.”

“Possible,” Phil said. “But how do we prove it?”

“We’re back to nothing again, aren’t we?” Helen said, and sighed.

At least she’d quit pacing. A phone call from Valerie at eleven thirty that night confirmed the news Helen had been waiting for: That was Mort’s DNA in the Jaguar. Lexie Deener literally had Mort’s blood on her hands. She’d left her prints in the car and on the cat medallion. She was formally charged with the murder of Mort Barrymore.

Helen had escaped a libel suit.

Helen and Phil celebrated in bed, then fell asleep, but this time they left the phone on.

Nancie’s call woke up the pair of PIs at two fifteen in the morning. “I’m leaving the North Broward jail,” she said. “Trish has been released.”

“Huh? What?” Phil said.

“Trish has been released from jail,” Nancie said.

“So quick?” Phil said.

“Impossibly quick. The Peerless Point cops were falling all over themselves to get her out of jail,” Nancie said. She couldn’t resist a touch of bluster. “They know I’m coming after them. Meet me in my office at three o’clock.”

“Three a.m. today? Right now?” Phil asked, still sleep stupid.

“If I wanted to talk to you in the afternoon, I would have waited till morning to call,” Nancie said, her voice crisp as starched cotton. She hung up before he could say anything else.

Helen threw on a clean shirt and jeans and slipped into her sandals. She didn’t bother with makeup. Phil put on the same shirt and pants he’d tossed on a chair the night before, and they stumbled outside. The night air wrapped around them like a warm, moist blanket. The Coronado looked eerie and abandoned in the moonless night.

“The place feels so dark and empty without Margery,” Helen said, and yawned. “At least I’m free to help you work on her case
now that I’ve been fired. I won’t have to wash cats in the morning. You drive. I’m afraid I’ll fall asleep on Federal Highway.”

“The Jeep doesn’t have air-conditioning,” Phil said.

“I’m too tired to care,” she said.

Helen snoozed for most of the drive. She was awakened by a police siren at a no-tell motel near Port Everglades and stayed awake until Phil parked at Nancie’s law office.

Inside, the office smelled of freshly brewed coffee. Helen and Phil poured themselves cups and sat across from Trish.

Jail and the strain since her husband’s murder had taken its toll on Trish. Helen caught a glimpse of how their client would look in old age. At this hour, her pale, papery skin was crisscrossed with fine lines and her blond hair was frizzed and straggly. She’d lost so much weight, her wrist bones looked like knobs. Trish’s navy pantsuit emphasized the dark circles under her eyes.

Nancie, who had superhuman powers, was alert and ready for battle, but even she showed signs of wear. Her suit was wrinkled and her dark hair was limp and flat.

Helen and Phil sat like a pair of pups expecting to be congratulated for their good work. Instead, Nancie swatted them both.

“Helen, you had a narrow escape today,” the lawyer said.

Helen kept her head bowed, but Phil jumped to her defense. “Helen took a risk, but she was right,” he said. “She jump-started the process. There’s no way Trish would be free so fast if Helen hadn’t accused the killer in front of witnesses. We’re lucky the press was there. Valerie was a big help.”

“What good is being free if I don’t have my baby?” Trish wailed. “She’s my reason for living.”

The cat! Helen and Phil had forgotten about Justine. Helen tried not to look at Phil. How could they have forgotten that blasted cat?

“We could ask the prosecutor to make a deal so Lexie tells us where she stashed the cat,” Phil said.

“You’re supposed to find her,” Trish sobbed. “That’s why I’m paying you.”

Nancie interrupted Trish’s tears with a harsh dose of reality. “Not a chance, Phil,” she said. “Justine may be Trish’s baby, but to the law, she’s a cat.”

Trish’s howls ascended the scale and made the hair stand up on Helen’s neck. She’s crying as if she really did lose a child, she thought. Helen tried to be sympathetic, but Trish didn’t cry that much over Mort.

“The prosecutor is not going to make a deal on a murder case to find a missing cat,” Nancie said. “Animals and humans are still not equal under the law.”

“And that’s the problem,” Trish wept. She reached for the tissues beside her chair with shaking hands and blotted her tear-reddened eyes.

“Did you ask Lexie where Justine is?” Phil said.

“Me?” Nancie said. “Why would she talk to me? She’s not my client.”

“Her lawyer, then,” Phil said. “You could make sure she’s not charged with animal abuse.”

Trish’s crying rose to a frantic, hysterical shriek. “My baby’s out there all alone, with no food or water. Locked away someplace, frightened and hungry.”

“Sh, Trish,” Nancie said. “You have to concentrate if we’re going to help Justine.

“I talked with Ms. Deener’s lawyer, Phil. He assures me that his client does not have your cat. She swore up and down that she didn’t kidnap Justine.”

“And you believe that?” Helen asked. “A half-million dollars’ ransom would restore her lost fortune.”

“I could give her a reward if she helped find Justine,” Trish said, sniffling into a tissue.

“I don’t think she can,” Nancie said. “Her lawyer told me he
mentioned the catnapping to her and she seemed surprised. Ms. Deener told him there’s no way she’d kidnap a cat when she was on a road trip—it would be too difficult to keep. As a criminal lawyer, he says he’s used to dealing with liars. He believes his client is telling the truth about the cat.”

Helen heard that lawyerly quibble “about the cat.” Did Lexie tell her lawyer she’d murdered Mort—or was she lying about that, too?

“I was sure when we found the killer we’d have the catnapper,” Nancie said, “but now I think the killer and the kidnapper are two different people. We’ll know for sure tomorrow. Isn’t that when the kidnapper is supposed to call you?”

Helen and Phil nodded like a pair of bobble-head dolls. Helen tried to hide another yawn.

“Today, actually,” Phil said. “The special phone number’s all set up and we’re monitoring it. We have the kidnapper’s cash in our office safe, marked with SmartWater and ready to go. The kidnapper will probably call right before the exchange, so we won’t have time to check out the setup or bring in additional operatives.”

“Are you sure the kidnapper can’t see that the money is marked?” Trish asked. “I want my Justine and I won’t take any risks with her life. I don’t care about the money. My baby comes first.”

What’s it like to be so rich you don’t care about half a million bucks? Helen wondered. If someone kidnapped Thumbs, would I pony up that much cash? She felt uneasy that she even had to ask herself that question.

“It’s safe, I promise,” Phil said.

“You’ll call as soon as you hear from the kidnapper, won’t you?” Trish asked.

“We’ll call as soon as we can,” Phil said. “If we have to be someplace in a hurry, we may call you after it’s over and we have your cat safe and sound.”

That provoked a fresh round of tears.

“Trish!” Nancie said sharply. “I know you’re tired and emotional, but this isn’t helping you or Justine.”

“You’re right,” Trish said. “I have to pull myself together. Now that Mort’s gone, she only has me.”

“What if we brought in the police for backup?” Phil asked.

“The police! After the way they treated me? Those bunglers?” Trish spat out the words. “The kidnapper will see them and kill my baby. They couldn’t even find the right killer. You did that. I’d still be in jail if it wasn’t for you. I don’t trust anyone in Peerless Point.”

“After the way they treated Trish, can you blame her?” Nancie asked.

“Trish, are you able to drive home now? I need to discuss another case with Helen and Phil.”

“Arthur, my fiancé, will take me home,” Trish said. “I called him from your car, remember? He’s probably waiting in your parking lot now.”

Nancie walked Trish outside to Arthur’s waiting arms. Helen dozed off during the short time the lawyer was gone.

“Helen!” Nancie said, and she snapped to attention. “What have you and Phil found out about Margery?”

“I met with Zach’s buddy, XD, at a bar,” Phil said. “He believes Zach killed himself because he was in love with Margery and she gave him the boot.”

“Do you think XD would sign a statement and testify to Zach’s state of mind if Margery’s case goes to trial?” Nancie asked.

“Another beer or two and maybe a burger and I think he’ll say yes,” Phil said.

“I still don’t think Zach killed himself,” Helen said. “I did some research about arsenic, and Zach’s symptoms—his feeling off, the skin rashes, weakness and hair loss—point to slow, long-term arsenic poisoning. Someone was feeding him small doses and
slowly killing him. If he’d taken one large shot of rat poison, like Phil said, he’d have had a much more violent end.”

“Right now, we need XD’s information about Zach’s possible suicide,” Nancie said. “It will muddy the water nicely if we have to go to trial. Helen, you keep working on the murder theory.

“Phil, I want you to investigate Mike the ex-con and this XD character and see if you can get a statement from XD about his belief that Zach committed suicide. Skip the burger. Spring for a steak.

“And, whatever you do, don’t screw up the cat ransom tomorrow.”

“Today,” Phil corrected.