Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 14 - Murder in a Casbah of Cats (21 page)

“And how.” He laughed. “Sunday’s usually a lazy day around here, but I got some mowing to catch up on and tinkering in the shed. The rain, you know. You got some spare time this afternoon, stop by. I think there’s two or three preseason games on the tube.”

“Sounds good. I got some work to catch up on. I’ll see you later.” He made no effort to leave the table. “What do you think about this fireplace business?”

I had to watch my words. While I was skeptical of the staff’s involvement with Guzman and Morena, I couldn’t afford to take any chances. “Fenster’s reasoning is too flimsy. I can’t see any connection between those two and the death of Mr. Watkins. Might be, but I don’t see it.”

He studied me. “Yeah, but you know, I’d kinda like to see if there’s anything behind that fireplace.”

As had become his habit the last couple of days, Hercules snoozed on top of the armoire in my room. I plopped down at my laptop and booted it up. No mail other than the usual junk.

Fifteen minutes later, the steady roaring of the small John Deere tractor rolled across the carefully tended grounds. Five
minutes later, Henry pulled a white Cadillac up in front of the porch and honked. I peered over the railing in time to see Edna and Gadrate climb in the back.

Moments later, the limousine turned onto Woodlawn Boulevard, driving slowly east, past the bus stop where three riders dressed in Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes waited.

I glanced over my shoulder. As soon as Karla made her way to the swimming pool, I’d have the house to myself.

I heard a splash. Karla. I strolled the balcony, spotting her slender body slicing through the clear waters of the Olympic-sized pool.

I stopped in the cats’ rooms, then sauntered down to the first floor, making sure someone hadn’t popped back in. In the kitchen, I spotted a light-blue cell phone on the granite countertop near the door to the laundry. Gadrate’s.

Naturally nosy, I flipped it open and punched in the contact list, reading off each name as I scrolled down. I wasn’t sure just what I was looking for. My chances of finding the name Al Guzman or Willy Morena or even George Mendoza were as slim as my chances of winning the lottery, but I wasn’t prepared for the name Emerente: 985-555-2943.

Emerente? Then I remembered. Gadrate’s sister.

I scrolled on down the short list until I hit the name Placide: 512-555-8205. He was the brother.

I started to scroll on down, then froze, staring at the area code. The Morgan City, Louisiana, area code was 985, but Placide’s area code was 512. Five-twelve was Austin.

But she had told me her brother and sister were both back in Louisiana. And I knew there was no way brother Placide could have moved over here in the last five days. Why had she lied?

Taking care to place the phone exactly where I had found it, I glanced around the kitchen and into the dining room before hurrying back to the laundry room.

I found nothing.

In Edna’s room adjoining the kitchen, I discovered folded linens on shelves in a hall closet and wadded laundry packaging in the trash can.

Nothing.

I hurried back to the second floor, checking my watch as the roar of the tractor continued. They’d been gone thirty minutes. From around the corner of the window at the end of the hall on the second floor, I spotted Karla sprawled in the lounge with her book.

Five minutes later, I closed Gadrate’s door behind me, having found nothing incriminating in her room. I was beginning to believe my suspicions were simply wistful little theories with no more substance than a puff of smoke in a hurricane.

Slipping into Henry’s sparely furnished room, I gave it a quick shakedown. In the medicine cabinet, I ran across several prescription drugs, some out of date, some current, but nothing in such quantities as to dredge up any questions.

Finally, I headed for the library, although I had no idea what I could do different than I had in the past. After all, I reminded myself, “The cops drilled holes and tore out panels and walls. They found nothing.”

The curtains were drawn and the room was gloomy. I opened them, letting bright sunlight spill in and push away the shadows.

Taking my time, I inspected every corner and niche in the fireplace. I tugged on the concave molding between the paneling and the brick. It refused to budge.

I stepped back to the middle of the spacious room and stared at the fireplace. I looked up at the canvas of Herbert Adam Watkins I. “When you hide something, you hide it good,” I said to him.

Moving closer, I looked closely at the painting and then the painting within the painting. Within the smaller painting was another painting, this one too small for any detail.

Like a mirror, I remembered Henry saying. They go on to infinity.

Idly, I glanced at the smaller image. I counted the courses of bricks above the mantel to where his hand rested. Six, just as in the larger image.

I glanced at the larger image then back at the smaller image. Something about the smaller one puzzled me. I peered at the two closely, realizing that in the larger image Watkins stood with his heels together, the toes of his soft red lounging slippers pointing out. In the smaller image, the wood rack was placed aside, and his right ankle was crossed over his left, the toe resting against the brick next to the paneling on the bottom course of bricks.

I heard the Cadillac pull up in front of the porch. Quickly, I drew the drapes and hurried up to my room.

Plopping down at my desk, I uttered a soft curse. Just another couple of minutes, and I would have known if the old man’s toe was indeed pointing at the trigger for the hidden opening.

I couldn’t take a chance during the day. The way my luck ran, someone would walk in on me. Tonight. Tonight after everyone was in bed. That’s when I’d give my newest hunch a try.

I sat staring at the blank screen on my laptop. Woodenly, I pulled out my note cards and jotted down what little I had discovered in the last hour or so.

As I wrote, one part of my brain continued sifting and winnowing through the events of the last few days. I had put together a theory that was simply a conjectural proposition with no substantial proof.

And that’s was my problem. No substantial proof.

Still, I had Bill Collins as the broker. George Mendoza was one of his mules who sold to Gadrate, who in turn sold to the “ghosts” Skylar Watkins had so often spotted on the grounds of the mansion. As far as I knew, Gadrate’s brother, Placide, could be part of it. After all, he now lived in Austin, not Morgan City.

I leaned back and stared at the ceiling. The idea made sense.

“But,” I said, “you got no proof. Zilch. Zip. Zero.”

My gaze slid to the stack of note cards beside the laptop on my desk. Out of habit, I began separating them by name, a technique one of the old guys had taught me. Separating them provides a focused perspective, one without inhibiting influences.

I had only a few cards on Edna, most of it identical to the information Eddie sent me. A devout Catholic, she never missed Mass, contributed to charities, and served as a surrogate mother to Skylar. She was small, like the figure I saw in the rain, the one who had been knocked to the ground. And her expensive clothes were soaked the night of Guzman’s murder. But, I reminded myself, there was no mud on them.

Gadrate, like Edna, had a small frame, but unlike the older woman, Gadrate was a loner, aloof, distant, as if she had something to hide. I laughed to myself. Talk about a biased guess. Aloof people always seem as if they have something to hide. Still, she had not been truthful about the length of time she was down in the laundry that night, and there was a question as to whether Skylar had indeed reprimanded her, precipitating a fetish for cleanliness. Pretending to have such a fetish could simply be a cover for receiving shipments. And although her explanation of following Henry and me that second night made sense, I knew of very few women who would deliberately risk a mud bath and soaking just out of curiosity, let alone any who were also fanatics about cleanliness.

Yeah, I know that’s flimsy, but flimsy has proven on more than one occasion to mark the truth.

I pushed Gadrate’s cards aside and read the first I’d made on Henry.

Henry seemed defensive at first, but I supposed he was one of those who had to get to know someone before he relaxed. More than once, I’d spotted him in the hall, on the stairs, entering and
leaving rooms. That was his job, I reminded myself. To look after the house.

Still, the day of Morena’s murder, I would have sworn I heard a noise on the balcony. When I looked in the hall, I spotted Henry descending the stairs. And although his story of being at the pool cabana the night Guzman was killed made sense, I couldn’t shake the feeling he knew more than he revealed.

And then there was Frank Creek. All he did was go about his business taking care of the grounds, trimming, mowing, fertilizing, and all the tedious little chores necessary to maintain ten acres.

He was the one who escorted Bill Collins off the grounds the night Watkins was murdered. According to what he said, he’d been in the kitchen with Edna when one of the guests rushed in searching for a key to open the library doors.

The old man’s death was a hard blow on Frank, for according to the old gardener, he and Herb Watkins were on a first-name basis. The two spent a great deal of time together.

The next card on Frank Creek noted my spotting a jerrican lying on its side on the workbench when I had entered the storage shed. Maybe he was repairing it. Surely not with heat. Fumes inside one of those cans would react just like a bomb. Perhaps some kind of Bondo or fiberglass.

Leaning back, I stared at the ceiling, remembering that particular day. There were several jerricans beside the workbench, then several more along the wall next to the door from which he had come.

He’d then locked the door, which wasn’t surprising. With only a few security lights around the ten-acre grounds, any of Skylar’s “ghosts” could slip into the shed and clamber over the fence at the rear of the grounds while Frank worked on another side of the premises.

The jangling of the phone interrupted me.

It was Henry. Edna had lunch on the table.

Henry and Edna were seated at the table when I pushed through the swinging doors. I nodded, eyeing the cold cuts platter.

Henry shifted a mouthful of cold cuts to one cheek. “Sit. Gadrate’s already eaten.”

I slipped in at the table. “What about Frank?”

Edna glanced toward Woodlawn Boulevard. “In and out. He’s gone to the lumberyard to pick up some material to repair the cabana.” She indicated a basket on the granite countertop. “I’ve got his lunch in there. I’ll run it down later. He never locks the door.”

“Hey, I’ll be happy to do it for you. I’ve been cooped up all morning upstairs. Do me good. Work off this lunch,” I added with a grin.

Between two slices of whole-wheat bread, I laid thin sheets of sliced turkey, ham, and cheese, garnished with mayonnaise, lettuce, tomatoes, chopped olives, and nuggets of green peppers.

Making idle conversation, I asked, “What’s the problem out with the cabana?”

“Leaking roof,” the butler replied, turning up his glass of iced tea.

I glanced at Edna. “How was church?”

Her face beamed. “Wonderful. Our priest is a young man, but he’s very consecrated. A blessing to talk to. Gadrate and me talk about him a lot. Father Simon is a jewel. I wish he’d been here when my sister passed away.” She paused, her aging face wrinkled with past memories.

“Rough time, huh?”

She jerked her head up. “What?” A shy smile curled her lips. “Oh yes. Yes, it was a hard time. You see, I always thought I was an only child. At the orphanage, no one told me different, but then out of the blue one day about twenty years ago, Christine called. She was my older sister. She’d been put in a foster home when I was still a baby.” Her brow knit deeper. “It was hard, having her for such a short time.” She smiled sadly at Henry. “And then when I returned and Henry told me about Mr. Watkins—well, I was ready to die myself. You remember, Henry?”

The lean butler pursed his lips and ran his hand over his bald head. “Yeah. I remember waiting for you at the airport. I hated to tell you so much that, once or twice, I even hoped you’d missed the flight.”

They both chuckled.

After I’d put myself about the thick sandwich and two glasses of tea, I leaned back and patted my stomach.

“You can’t be full,” Edna exclaimed. “I baked an apple pie and have plenty of ice cream.”

I waved her off as I pushed back from the table. “Later. After I take Frank’s lunch to him. I’m about to burst now.”

“All right,” she said. “Just leave the basket on his kitchen table. I put the tea in a thermos. It’ll be fine in the basket.”

The hot sun warmed my shoulders, filling me with a sense of well-being. I remained on the curving sidewalks although a direct route would have been much shorter, and muddier, despite the thick St. Augustine.

I paused outside the cottage storm door and looked around. I noticed a large padlock on the shed door. Pays to be careful, I told myself, opening the cottage door and stepping inside. The living
room was dark, but I could see how neat it was. I stepped into the kitchen and set the lunch basket on the table. The kitchen was just as clean and organized as the living area.