Karma's a Killer (11 page)

“That's smart advice. Tell you what—let's go to the lobby. There will be other people there, so we won't be alone. I think they might have coffee.”

I took her silence to mean assent. “Let me grab Dharma's stuff.”

I carefully wrapped Dharma's wooden box with a shirt, placed it inside her suitcase, padded it with the rest of her clothes, and started to close the zipper.

The door slammed shut behind me. When I whipped back around, Goth Girl was gone.

Twelve

Less than two hours
after my failed interrogation of Goth Girl, Michael and I drove across the Ballard Bridge en route to our meeting with Maggie.

“I know I promised not to second-guess you, Kate, but really? Talking to a murder suspect in a deserted motel room? Alone? Are you trying to get killed?”

Michael spit out his questions in rapid-fire succession, leaving no opportunity for me to sneak in an answer. I sat back and observed him instead. He looked cute, in a wavy-haired Elmer Fudd kind of way. His hands gripped the steering wheel precisely at ten and two o'clock, as if by mastering the car he could somehow manage his out-of-control girlfriend.

Good luck with that.

“I know, Michael. Inviting her into the room was reckless. But in my defense, she confronted me, not vice versa. Honestly, I think she was more afraid of me than I was of her.”

“That's what hikers say about rattlesnakes right before they strike.”

He had a point.

“She didn't strike, Michael. She bolted, before I got a single useful piece of information out of her.”

“At least now we know that HEAT is still in Seattle.”

“Some of them, anyway. They're probably all staying at that same motel.” I paused. “I wonder why they haven't gone back to California. Does that seem odd to you?”

“Not really. The police might have asked them to stick around, or they may have other business in Seattle. For all we know, there's some animal rights convention in town this week.”

“I tried to get the guy at the front desk to give me their room numbers, but he wouldn't talk to me, not even after I offered him twenty bucks. He said if I wanted him to snitch on his guests, I'd either need a court order or a heck of a lot more money.”

“Have you tried calling John O'Connell?”

“Yes, but he won't tell me anything. I barely conned him into helping me get on Dharma's visitors list. He said that he'd rather lock me up with her than help me get mixed up in another murder investigation.”

I drummed my fingers on the dashboard. “I really want to interview Dharma's friends. Do you think I should go back to the motel? I could dress up as a maid and knock on doors.”

Michael's grumbled answer contained words never written in
The Bhagavad Gita
. I changed the subject.

“Why are we going to Queen Anne, anyway? I thought we'd meet Maggie at the shelter. I would have enjoyed seeing it.”

Michael shrugged. “Honestly, there's not much to see. The main building has offices, a clinic area, and a large training room. The one next door houses the animals.”

“That's the part I'd enjoy visiting.”

“No you wouldn't. Not unless you like spending time in a crowded space filled with desperate-looking animals.”

“Desperate-looking? I thought DogMa was supposed to be good.”

“It's a shelter, Kate. They do the best they can, but it's not a home. Maggie's facility is state-of-the-art and well maintained, but like most shelters, it's also understaffed and overcrowded. The animals who end up there are frightened and confused, and they have no idea why they've been separated from their human families. Maggie uses trainers and volunteer dog walkers to enrich the animals' lives as much as she can, but it's still not perfect. The kindest thing she can do is get the animals she rescues into new homes as quickly as possible.”

He reached over and took my hand. “Very few abandoned pets are as lucky as Bella, Kate. Some of them truly suffer, especially emotionally, even in the best of shelters. If I spent too much time at DogMa, Bella would have a whole slew of new siblings.”

I grimaced. Bringing
one
other dog into Bella's territory would be a disaster. “Just what I need. Another murder.”

“Of me or the dog?”

“Don't test me, funny man.” I winked to let him know I was kidding.

Michael grinned. “Maggie said that the shelter will be closed for a couple of days, but I'm sure she'd be happy to give you a tour when she gets back.”

“Closed? Is someone taking care of the animals?”

“I assume so, but we can ask when we see her.”

“How'd you convince her to meet with us on her day off?”

“I told her I'd received several large cash donations for DogMa, and that I wasn't comfortable keeping them in the store. She gave me this Queen Anne address and said we could come by any time today.”

“Is she going to believe you? I mean, do you have enough money to give her?”

“My customers are very generous, and I've been harassing them about the DogMa fundraiser for weeks. Even with the fire, Maggie took in over fifty thousand dollars at the event. I've collected almost three thousand more at the store.”

I leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Have I ever told you that you're wonderful?”

Michael smiled. “Once or twice, but I never get tired of hearing it.”

We drove up to the Queen Anne mansion a few minutes later.

Or rather, drove by it.

Every parking spot in a five-block radius was taken. We finally squeezed into a not-quite-legal spot near a fire hydrant and took our chances with a ticket.

“It's a good thing Rene was able to watch Bella again today. We'd never have found a spot in the shade.”

Michael locked his Explorer and we started the five-block hike to the top of Queen Anne Hill and the front gate of the huge Victorian mansion. I paused at the entrance and stared, gape-mouthed.

“Wow.”

Not super eloquent, I'll admit, but appropriate. Even for Queen Anne, the house and its grounds were impressive. Seattle's Queen Anne neighborhood was named after the architectural style of its early homes, most of which were custom-built mansions designed for the city's social elite. At the time of its construction in the early 1900s, this house must have been one of the finest. Its precisely trimmed evergreen hedges lined the yard's front border and provided privacy from the street; the southern-facing windows opened to a gorgeous cityscape view.

Michael gestured to a crowd of uncomfortable-looking people congregated behind the living room's sheer curtains. “No wonder we couldn't find parking.”

“Did Maggie say she was at a party?”

“Nope. She just asked me to meet her here.” He rang the bell.

A woman I didn't recognize answered the door. Her breath—which smelled like a mixture of bourbon and breath mints—arrived a second before she did. She wore a form-fitting black dress, black pumps, and a solemn expression.

Michael spoke first. “Hi, we're friends of Maggie's. Is she here?”

“Thank you for coming. I'm Ginny.” She gestured with a highball glass for us to come inside. “Maggie is with her grandmother right now, but she should be able to see you shortly.”

We followed her into a large foyer lit by a three-tiered chandelier. She pointed toward a long, dark hallway. “Put your coats in the first bedroom on the left. Food is in the living room to the right. Alcohol is at the wet bar. Believe me, you'll need it.”

She closed the door behind us, rested her fingertips on the wall for balance, and then teetered back to the crowd.

I looked at Michael and silently mouthed, “What is this?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

I could say this much—if this was a party, it was the creepiest one I'd ever attended. Somber-looking people whispered, gripped platters of food, and avoided eye contact. The energy of the space was stilted, as if the guests were anticipating something decidedly unpleasant, though I couldn't imagine what.

Michael and I put our coats in the bedroom and wandered to the living room. I glanced around the crowded space, trying to get my bearings. Ivory furniture and Oriental rugs precisely matched the room's eggshell-white walls. Every decoration, every detail seemed painstakingly positioned—as if super-glued to a specific location. In spite of the floor-to-ceiling views of downtown Seattle, I suddenly missed my messy, chaotic Ballard bungalow.

The room's temporary centerpiece was a gluttonous-looking buffet containing every edible species of the animal kingdom. Prime rib, peeled shrimp, chicken, salmon, a leg of lamb, even a large, pink bone-in ham. I always tried not to judge other people's food choices, but the sheer number of dead beasts on the table made my stomach churn a little. I ignored the smell of cooked flesh, picked up a plate, and filled it with a colorful collage of fruits, vegetables, breads, and desserts, hoping that holding something would make me feel less uncomfortable.

Michael glanced at me and surreptitiously covered his slice of prime rib with a pile of mixed salad greens.

“It's okay,” I said.

He nodded sheepishly, then added four bright pink shrimp tails and a large chunk of salmon.

Of the concessions Michael and I had made when we moved in together, his biggest was agreeing that our shared kitchen—aside from Bella's special food preparation area—would be completely vegetarian. I knew that he still ate meat outside of our home, and it wouldn't have been fair for me to ask him to stop. But I still cringed internally whenever I saw the man of my dreams eat the food of my nightmares.

Then again, it wasn't much worse than watching Rene snarf down one of her jalapeño pineapple pregnancy concoctions.

I pointed to a relatively uncrowded area across the room. “I'll meet you over there.”

I wandered to a display table covered with photographs.

What the … ?

Over a dozen Ravens smiled back at me.

As in Raven, the murder victim.

The photographic display created a visual timeline of Raven's life. Brunette-haired baby, gap-toothed grade schooler, college graduate. A pedestal toward the back displayed an eleven-by-seventeen framed photo of Raven standing next to Ginny, the black-clad woman who'd greeted us at the door. From the creases surrounding the two women's eyes, I assumed the photo had been taken recently.

I took in the hushed room with new awareness. This wasn't a celebration; it was a send-off.

What was Maggie doing at Raven's wake?

I set down my plate and examined each photo, trying to get a better sense of who Raven had been. Young Raven seemed happy, light, and carefree. Over time, she'd transformed. Her clothes became darker; her eyes angrier. Until, in the final photo, her forced smile seemed like a paper doll's outfit, cut out and taped to an unhappy face.

Michael's expression, when he joined me, looked as confused as I felt.

“What is this?”

Maggie's voice sounded from behind us. “It's my grandmother's shrine to Raven. Displaying photographs of the dead is a family tradition.” Her mouth hardened. “Grandma values nothing as much as tradition.”

I gestured toward the large photo. “Is that Raven's mother?”

“Yes, that's my Aunt Ginny. Leave it to Grandma to make that one center stage. Raven always hated that picture.”

“Wait a minute,” Michael said. “You and Raven were related?”

“Yes. Raven is … ” Maggie closed her eyes and swallowed. “She
was
my cousin. Our fathers were brothers.”

“Were?” I asked.

“They both passed away years ago.” Maggie shrugged, almost resignedly. “Cancer.”

“I'm sorry for your losses.” I pointed at Raven's photo. “All of them.”

My words came out automatically. They were, after all, what you were supposed to say at a funeral. But part of me wondered if
Raven's death had truly been a loss at all, at least to Maggie. She never mentioned knowing Raven at Green Lake on Saturday. Had she hidden their connection for a reason?

“Thanks for meeting me here,” Maggie said. “I hated to inconvenience you two, but I couldn't leave today. Did you bring the donations?”

“Yes.” Michael patted his pocket. “I have them right here.”

Maggie glanced around the room. “Let's go into my grandfather's office. I'd rather not deal with money issues in front of the guests. It doesn't seem … ” She paused, as if searching for the right word. “It doesn't seem respectful, I guess.”

We followed Maggie down a hallway lined with stilted-looking family portraits to a dark-paneled office decorated with the mounted heads of dozens of animals: deer, antelope, bison—even a moose. An open display case of hunting rifles hung behind an imposing walnut desk. I stared into the blank glass eyes of a nine-foot-tall grizzly and shuddered.

Maggie noticed. “I know. It's pretty creepy, especially if you're an animal lover. Grandpa was an avid big-game hunter. I tried to talk Grandma into redecorating now that he's passed on, but she won't hear of it.” She gazed around the space, as if fully taking it all in for the first time. “Frankly, she should skip redecorating and move, but she insists on staying. Aunt Ginny says Grandma won't leave this house until we wheel her cold, rigid body out on a stretcher.” She smirked. “If I know Grandma, she won't even leave then. She'll have her head mounted and hung here in the office.”

I winced before I could stop myself.

“Sorry, dead body jokes are inappropriate, especially today. You'd get it if you knew my grandmother, though. She can be a tough old bird sometimes.” Maggie sat on a corner of the desk and turned to Michael. “You said you had some donations for me?”

He handed her an envelope. “You might want to put this in a safe. It's almost three thousand dollars. I hope to collect more over the next few days.”

Maggie grabbed a silver letter opener off the desk, ripped open the envelope's seal, and ran her thumb across the tops of the bills.

“Thanks. We can use every penny.”

Light tapping on the door interrupted our conversation. Sally opened it and peeked through.

“Sorry to bother you, Maggie, but the caterer needs to see you in the kitchen.”