Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 14 - Murder in a Casbah of Cats (19 page)

I slipped into my running shoes and headed downstairs.

Despite the sun’s glow through the large windows of the library, a sense of pervasive gloom filled the spacious room. I flipped on the lights, remembering Dutch’s account of that night.

“We got the call around ten thirty or so. Not long before Christmas. It was cold as a witch’s heart. I was freezing. Had a cold, and chills were running up and down my arms. I can tell it now, but I did justice to a pint of Jim Beam that night.”

I stared at the logs in the fireplace and remembered his words. “When I got here first thing I did was warm myself by the fire over there while the techs took their measurements and pictures. I’m not crazy about fireplaces, but that night I enjoyed this one.”

I looked at the couch, imagining what Watkins looked like lying in front of it. Dutch had pointed out the spot and said Watkins had been shot twice in the heart. He had added, “Some of those who got in here first could still smell the gunpowder. Couldn’t have been more than a minute. As I remember, they wasted a few seconds trying to find someone with the key. Looked everywhere, they claimed—the kitchen, laundry—but the butler and maid were somewhere else. I think someone found the butler upstairs, but by then they had busted the doors open.”

And by then, I told myself, Watkins was dead, and the killer had vanished.

I looked behind the door, imagining it opening and the killer hiding behind it as a frantic crowd rushed it. That he then slipped unseen into the hysterical crowd swarming into the library was
perfectly logical. Who would have noticed? Everyone’s attention would have been on the sprawled body of Herbert Adam Watkins III.

The drawback to that theory was that if Bill Collins were indeed the killer, he would have been recognized and arrested.

Subsequently, if the behind-the-door-theory were correct, the killer wasn’t Collins but some other unidentified person.

I smiled to myself, proud of the conclusion I had drawn. I have to admit, I often run short in the deduction department, but thanks to our office’s resident Sherlock Holmes, Al Grogan, I’m learning. Al would have been proud of me—maybe.

From where I stood, I inspected the redbrick fireplace that consumed most of the outside wall. The brick ran all the way to the ten-foot ceiling. I looked at the picture above the mantel, remembering the first time I’d seen it and Henry’s explanation of the old man’s touch of humor.

I studied the painting again. Herbert Adam Watkins, immaculately dressed in a swallowtail coat, red vest, and gray trousers with black pinstripes, meticulously groomed, with his gray hair slicked down and matching bushy muttonchops and groomed chin whiskers. Except for his left hand resting on the corner of the fireplace, he looked like a bearded Napoleon.

He stood in front of the wood rack beside the very fireplace upon which his image hung, one hand in his vest, the other braced against the side of the fireplace.

I moved closer, looking up into his gray eyes. “I wish you could tell me all you’ve seen in this room,” I muttered. I turned my attention to the fireplace. I wasn’t sure exactly what I was looking for. On top of that, even if I found this will-o’-the-wisp, I wasn’t sure I would recognize it.

I pushed and pulled on the mantel; tugged on the oil painting of the progenitor of the Watkins family; stomped on the square blocks that made up the hearth; and banged on all three walls of the firebox. Nothing gave; everything was solid. I would have done more, but there was nothing else to do.

I plopped down on the couch and stared forlornly at the silent fireplace, cursing it under my breath for guarding its secret so zealously. I was convinced that somehow it had provided a quick and silent exit for Collins after he murdered Watkins.

After a few moments studying the brick Sphinx, I laid my head back on the couch and closed my eyes, frustrated. I remembered a remark Henry had made in the kitchen that day I was nursing a brand-new knot on my forehead. “Let the dead bury the dead.”

Could that have been his way of warning me to mind my own business, which was making sure twenty cats were safe? Or was it simply a homily reflecting the fact that life goes on despite tragedy?

As firmly as I was convinced the library possessed a well-kept secret, I was just as certain that somehow drugs played a role in the current melodrama unfolding at the mansion.

How do you explain away Al Guzman and Willy Morena, both neck-deep in the drug business, being murdered on the grounds?

Sure, Morena had come to see me, but only because he ran with Guzman, who had been on the grounds the previous night. Why? Who was Guzman meeting? Who were the other two shadows, one small, one large? And how did they vanish?

And then there was Jimmy Vega, carrying not only a wicked shiv he planned on sliding between my ribs and rearranging my insides with, but also a bag of crack cocaine.

I opened my eyes and stared at the painting once again. I started to look away, and then my eyes locked upon the elder Watkins’s hand on the bricks. A crazy idea popped into my head.

Henry said this was the only picture of the old man. He refused to have his picture painted or taken. Why this one?

If there were a secret to the fireplace, could it be the old man commissioned the painting to pass the secret along to his descendents—to leave some sort of clue in case the secret were lost?

The idea was so far out of right field it was laughable, but I didn’t laugh. I focused on his fingers. They lay on a corner brick six courses above the mantel.

Could it be?

My pulse began to pound. I shook my head. “No way,” I told myself. “That just happens in the movies.” But I couldn’t resist counting up six courses of bricks from the mantel to the very brick on which his hand lay in the oil painting.

Was it possible, I asked myself, that he had designed the fireplace so a single brick could trigger an opening? The technology was available back then, but had he actually utilized it? I knew I was grasping at straws, but still, there was always the possibility, regardless of how slim.

Despite my better judgment, my hopes soared as I drew a deep breath and pressed in on the ragged side of the brick, hoping to hear the grating sound of something opening up.

As suddenly as my hopes had soared, they plummeted.

Nothing. No grating sound. No open sesame. Nothing. The brick didn’t budge.

Chiding myself for such capricious hope, I glanced around, hoping no one had seen me. Looking up at the painting, I shrugged. “Well, pal, it was worth a shot.”

I shot a look over my shoulder at the scraping of claws on the bare floor in time to see Hercules sliding to a halt in the open doorway. He stared at me, then whipped around and disappeared back upstairs.

Staring after him, I couldn’t help wondering if he had planned on slipping back outside, but how? In frustration, I looked around the room. Finally, my gaze swept back to the fireplace. The only way that mackerel cat could get out of this room, I told myself, was to climb out through the chimney.

I knelt on the hearth and peered up. The flue was closed. That solved that. Not even Hercules could morph through the iron damper. I opened it. Still no way, not for a cat the size of Hercules. A kitten perhaps, but not that fifteen-odd-pound feline.

The rich aroma of Edna’s afternoon coffee break wafted through the old mansion. I sniffed the full fragrance again,
realizing it had a little more tang that her usual pot of coffee. I headed for the kitchen, wondering what sugary treat she had for us today. She was spoiling me.

She beamed when she saw me eye the platter of beignets covered with powdered sugar. “Figured to make you feel at home,” she said. “New Orleans–style.” She gestured to the coffee pot. “You like chicory, you got chicory.”

The coffee and beignets were delicious. If I’d closed my eyes, I would have figured I was right back at Café du Monde, across from Jackson Square in New Orleans.

A few minutes later, Henry came in from the dining room and Gadrate from the laundry, both commenting on the mouthwatering aromas coming from Edna’s kitchen.

Naturally, the conversation around the table quickly swung back to the night before. I liked all three. Edna was a comfortable one to be around; Henry took some time; and Gadrate was, as Henry had mentioned earlier, a loner. I could empathize with her, for I was more of an introvert than an extrovert.

Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that one of them knew more about what was going on than he or she let on, so when Henry posed the question once again why that Vega guy wanted me dead, I lied.

“All I can figure is that it was part of my last case before I came out here.” All three frowned, and I shrugged. “That’s all it can be.”

Gadrate set her cup down carefully. “Do you think he was connected with them other two men?”

Deliberately, I hesitated, giving the impression that I was considering her question in detail. I wanted to put whoever engineered Vega’s attempt at ease. “That’s all I can figure. I didn’t know Guzman, but I knew he and Morena were connected with a drug case I’d been working on. That’s why I was talking to Morena that night.”

“You learn anything?”

I looked at Edna and shook my head. “Nothing except Morena and his pals wanted to get together with Bill Collins, but Collins refused.”

Henry arched an eyebrow. “Refused? You mean the guy’s going straight?”

“That’s what the cops say. He’s been clean since he got out.”

Edna leaned forward. “So what about Vega?”

“I don’t know how he fits in, but he has to be connected with Guzman and Morena somehow. The only reason I can see him coming after me is because of the previous case I was working on.”

Gadrate shifted around in her chair. “Why would he do that?”

“Probably because I’ll likely end up testifying at the trial of their boss.”

“Who’s he?”

I grinned at her. “Can’t say. Gag order.”

My cell rang, interrupting us. I glanced at it. Dutch Weiman. I excused myself and went out back, standing in the delivery drive under the portico. “Hey, Dutch, what’s up?”

“Not a whole lot. Got a couple of pieces of information about Jimmy Vega. He’s got a slew of brothers and sisters, enough to field a baseball team.”

I laughed. “Yeah. I know.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, I went online and forked over fifty bucks.”

“You find out about half the kids ending up in foster homes or orphanages?”

“No. Why?”

At that moment, the H&H Laundry truck turned in the drive and headed for me. I moved off to the edge of the drive as he
approached. I couldn’t help wondering about the truck. This was the third delivery in four days.

The old detective chuckled. “I found something mighty interesting. I don’t know if it means anything, probably not, but then, you know how the business is. The smallest thing can sometimes make a world of difference.”

“OK. What did you learn?”

The delivery van pulled up and parked. George Mendoza waved and went to the rear of the truck. As I looked on, he carried an armload of packages into the kitchen.

Dutch continued. “One of his brothers was named George.”

“Yeah. I found that.”

“He was stuck in a foster home. Good parents, but the boy went bad. Beat up the old man, put his foster mother in a wheelchair. Stayed in juvenile until he reached eighteen, then was dumped out on the streets.”

I half listened, wondering where he was going with his story.

Then he dropped the bombshell. “The guy’s name was changed from Vega to Mendoza. George Mendoza, and he works at the same laundry as your pal, Bill Collins. Been there five years now.”

My eyes grew wide. I stared in disbelief at the back of George Mendoza disappearing into the kitchen. “Mendoza? George Mendoza?”

“Yep.”

My heart was thudding against my chest as I gaped at the glass door sliding closed behind Mendoza. A crazy idea popped into my head. Mendoza and Gadrate were selling drugs. He was delivering to her in the laundry packages. She in turn dispersed the goods to the “ghosts” Skylar claimed she saw. Maybe the others were involved too. “Hey, thanks, Dutch.”

“Can you use the information?”

“Yeah. I can use it.” I punched off and headed for the door.

George looked around as I opened the door. “Morning.”

Gadrate was carrying an armload of fresh linens into the laundry room.

I quickly counted the number of packages in her arms. “Good morning.” I crossed the room to the table and my unfinished coffee. “Coffee’s hot,” I said, gesturing to a chair.

Edna spoke up. “I already offered, but George is too busy,” she added, a hint of reproach in her tone. “All work and no play.”

George groaned. “You don’t know my boss.”

Gadrate returned with bulging bags.

George slung them over his shoulder. “I’ll bring the rest in when I come back.”

A couple of moments later, he returned with six more packages, which Gadrate immediately carried to the laundry room. I was determined to get a look at those packages. How, I had no idea, but I’d find a way.

A few minutes later, the slender maid returned with four packages in her arms. She read the names on them, and then placed the packages on the table. “Here’s the linens,” she announced. Indicating one stack, she added. “Those are yours, Henry. The others are Edna’s.”