Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 14 - Murder in a Casbah of Cats (3 page)

The first name that popped into my mind was Karla, but then I dismissed the idea. She seemed a bright young woman, too bright to throw a rock through my window after having warned me only hours earlier.

I reread the note half a dozen times, each time growing both angrier and more confused. Angry because I never cared for anyone presuming to order me about, and confused because there was absolutely no reason I could see for anyone, except maybe the ghosts or local dogs, not wanting me out there.

Pardon the cliché, but I decided two could play that game.

I studied the paper on which the note was scribbled in black felt-tip. The paper was crinkly and thin, thinner than regular copy paper, and the twine was jute, green jute, a thick, more loosely wound fiber than nylon or polyester.

Carefully, I folded the paper and rolled up the twine, placing both in the bottom of the sports bag I planned to take with me to the mansion.

I chuckled to myself. Whoever the joker was, he’d be in for a big surprise when he found out his threat was the little push that made me decide to take the job.

Next morning, I called Janice to grovel out of our date, explaining that an important job had come up, and I was the only one who could handle it.

At first, she was piqued, until I told her who I was working for. Naturally, since her aunt, Beatrice Morrison, was one of Austin’s social elite, whose wealth from her Chalk Hills Distillery and its spin-offs would put the legendary Croesus to shame, she had frequently rubbed shoulders with Skylar J. Watkins.

“Skylar’s sort of odd,” Janice said. “Did you notice?”

I wanted to laugh. “Yeah. I did.”

Her voice grew conspiratorial. “Tell me. Does she still have the same weird butler?”

“You mean Henry?”

“Yes. The one with no hair.”

For the next ten minutes, I answered her questions about the quirky mansion, managing somehow not to tell her about Skylar running around in a pale-green bikini. Somehow, I figured Janice might get the wrong idea about my dedication to my job.

The rest of the day I spent researching the Watkinses and the mansion.

Herbert Adam Watkins built the three-story structure back in the 1850s, on two thousand acres. He was already wealthy from his somewhat murky enterprises back east, and with the plantation, he became even wealthier.

His family had lived in the mansion ever since, selling off all the land except the ten acres upon which the main building sat.

I ran across a couple of archived articles that alleged the Watkinses had been part of the Underground Railroad back during the Civil War, but I couldn’t find information to substantiate the allegations.

While I’d heard old-timers speak of the Underground Railroad when I was a youngster in Church Point, I knew little about the means that zealous citizens had used to secretly move slaves from the South to safe haven, nor had I heard of the route running through Texas.

But I was surprised when a little more research revealed that many slaves went through Austin and San Antonio on the way to Mexico and the Caribbean.

I also learned that the murdered man, Herbert Adam Watkins III, grandson of the first Watkins, had given millions to charities in Austin and Travis County. Twenty years earlier, he had been chosen Mr. Austin. A couple of years later, the Texas legislature honored him.

That evening, I called Marty and surprised him by agreeing to take the assignment. Given that I had been warned and then threatened to stay away, I decided to keep what had happened to myself. If someone were serious, I’d know soon enough. But I promised myself that, first chance I had, I’d grill Karla on why she didn’t want me to take the job.

Wednesday morning, promptly at eight o’clock, I rang the doorbell at the mansion. Just as promptly, Henry opened it. He wore a red T-shirt with the words “Smile…Tomorrow Will Be Worse” emblazoned on the chest. With his typical dour manner, he said, “Good morning, Mr. Boudreaux.”

“Morning, Henry, and let’s don’t be so formal. The name’s Tony.”

He reached for my sports bag, but I shook my head. “I can get it.” I held up my laptop case in the other. “I’ll put these in my room. Is Ms. Watkins around?”

He arched a thin eyebrow. “Skylar?”

“Yeah.”

“No. She and Dorothy left an hour ago.” He pointed through a door. “The kitchen is back there. Edna, our cook, made some fresh doughnuts. Come on down after you settle in.”

His hospitality surprised me.

In the hall next to the door of my room was an armoire. I puzzled over it a moment, and then remembered armoires were the closets of the antebellum mansions. Apparently, the family hated to get rid of them.

That had to be the reason, for just inside the door was another armoire, a perfect match to the one in the hall. With a shrug, I tossed my sports bag on the bed and placed my laptop on the desk. Part of one wall was taken up by a brick fireplace, in front of which sat a leather couch and two chairs. An entertainment center with a flat-screen HDTV filled another wall. Within the center was a wet bar and refrigerator. I opened it and discovered an ample stock of soft drinks, juice, and two bottles of chilled wine, cabernet, and merlot. French doors filled the third wall, opening onto a balcony along the front of the mansion.

Opening the doors, I walked onto the balcony. The view was spectacular. I felt like a king, and for a moment, I wondered if those fortunate to live in majestic plantation homes prior to the Civil War had the same feeling when viewing their own estates from the balcony.

A bus ground to a halt in the street, and I watched as two riders climbed down and one boarded.

Back inside the room, the walk-in closet was as large as my living room on Payton-Gin Road in North Austin. And the bathroom was so spacious you could fit three of mine in it.

Must be a rough life, I told myself.

I felt something touch my ankle and glanced down to see a longhair cat rubbing up against me. “Hi there, kitty,” I said, kneeling and scratching the purring cat’s head between the ears.

A small white cat with short curly hair padded in. She stopped and looked at me curiously. I’d seen the breed before, but the name escaped me. She had a tiny triangle-shaped face, huge ears, and blue eyes.

She padded over to me and started rubbing up against my ankle.

After a moment, I pushed to my feet. “Come on, cats. Let’s see about those doughnuts.”

Henry and Gadrate were sitting at the kitchen table when I entered. A short, bone-thin woman at the cabinet glanced over her shoulder. “Hi,” she called out. “I’m Edna. Find a seat. I’m bringing the coffee over.”

The kitchen was half again the size of my whole apartment. Refrigerators and freezers along one wall abutted a walk-in cooler. All the appliances were stainless steel, with not a fingerprint showing. Racks of pots and pans hung over a ten-foot-long preparation table, one-half of which was a well-used chopping block. Sliding-glass doors opened to the back. I whistled to myself.

I glanced out the window, spotting Frank the gardener perched on the seat of a small John Deere utility tractor, pulling a five-gang-reel lawn mower out behind the garage. “Thanks.” I nodded to Gadrate. “Morning.”

She didn’t look up from her coffee and doughnut. “Morning.”

“Get all settled in?” Henry held his cup while Edna poured the coffee.

“Yeah. Nice room.”

Edna laughed, a rollicking, jolly bellow. “Everything is nice around here.” She set the pot down and extended her hand. “I’m Edna, Edna Roth. Been working for the Watkinses almost forty years. Come here when Skylar was just a gangly teenager.” She patted her short gray hair. “Of course, I wasn’t a whole lot older either.”

Old southern chivalry surfaced. “I can see that.” She beamed. As a way to make conversation, I added, “I heard the man who lived here was a big philanthropist.” I glanced at Gadrate and Henry.

Edna picked up the pot and filled the other cups. “Yep. Mr. Watkins was a good man. Generous to a fault. He gave the city the land down at the end of Woodlawn Boulevard for a mall. The Watkinses, they all good folks. Crying shame about what happened.”

“You mean his death?”

She sipped her coffee. “Yes. He was kinda quirky in a way.” She winked at Henry. “They all, the Watkins, was kinda odd at times, but good folks. You tell him about Skylar’s ghosts?”

Gadrate snorted. “There ain’t no such thing. You know better ’n that.”

Edna waved her comment aside. “Shoo. Of course I do. I was just wondering if Tony here knew about them.”

The slight, dark-haired maid glanced at me. “Kids. I seen them sometimes. Curious about the place. They sneak up at night and hide behind the trees. Peeping Toms, they are.” She glared at Edna as if to say, “So there.”

Edna replied. “For once, I agree. Just kids.” She offered me the platter of fresh doughnuts. “Help yourself,” she said, patting her waist. “Eat them all. You could use a few pounds, but not me. I been dieting for the last month and all I lost is a month.” She
shook her head. “I never figured out how a one-pound box of chocolates can put ten pounds on a body.”

I frowned. “You don’t look like you need to diet.”

Henry chuckled. “You know women. Edna gains a pound, she goes into a tizzy.”

The coffee was thick and hot, and the doughnuts light and tasty. I ate two, and I had to beg off on another.

For the next few minutes, we chatted, getting to know each other, although Gadrate seemed somewhat reticent. And I couldn’t help noticing, except for that one time, she had never glanced at me. Why?

From time to time, one of Skylar’s twenty cats would jump up on the table, saunter around, and then leap silently to the floor. Everyone ignored them.

I suppressed the urge to question them about Karla’s warning; instead, I tried finessing some information without their growing suspicious.

All I learned was that the little white curly-haired cat with the funny face was the Devon Rex, from England. Her name was Queenie.

“And expensive,” Edna said. “That one, Skylar paid eight hundred and fifty dollars for it.”

Eight hundred and fifty dollars! I began to view the cats in a different light. I glanced at the closed door separating the kitchen from the dining room. “The other niece, Karla—is she here or does she have her own place?”

Edna clucked her tongue. “That one. Why, she wouldn’t know what to do if it wasn’t for Skylar. One time—”

Henry cleared his throat.

Edna glanced at him. “Don’t shush me, Henry Perry, until you been here forty years. You got another fifteen to go.”

If looks could kill, Edna would have toppled into her grave. He pushed back from the table. “Just remember Skylar likes her privacy.”

A delivery van squeaked to a halt out back. Edna glanced over her shoulder, then turned to Gadrate. “Here’s George with the laundry.”

Gadrate glanced at me, then disappeared into an adjoining room and returned dragging two large white bags of dirty linens and clothes.

The glass door slid open. A swarthy-complexioned man with a black mustache and wearing a white uniform entered. The label over his shirt pocket said “George.” He carried an armload of neatly stacked packages. “Morning, everyone.” I guessed from his soft accent that he was a second-generation Hispanic.

He glanced at the table but, seeing us seated at it, placed the stack on the cabinet. He took the bags from Gadrate and whistled. “You get prettier every day, did you know it?”

She blushed. “Get out of here.”

He threw the bags over his shoulder. “Nope. It’s the truth.” He grinned at Henry. “Ain’t that right?”

Henry said, “I tell her that every day, George.” He glanced at me. “This is Tony. He’ll be here a couple of weeks.”

George headed out the door. “Hi, Tony.”

“Nice to meet you, George.”

Gadrate gathered the stack of packages in her arms and disappeared into the next room. Moments later, the laundryman returned with an armload of folded linens.

I pushed back from the table, planning to give Gadrate a hand. Just as I reached for the linens, she shouted, “Don’t touch them.”

Surprised, I looked around at her in time to see the alarm on her face quickly melt into a shy smile. Her voice was apologetic. “I mean, you don’t have to do that.” She hurried past me and scooped up the linens. “Besides, I know where everything goes.” Quickly, she disappeared into the next room.

Feeling like a dummy, I looked around at Edna and Henry. Edna gave me a sympathetic smile. “Don’t worry about it. I should have told you, but I didn’t think. Gadrate, she’s particular about the laundry, about the whole house, in fact. She has a place for everything.”

“That’s right,” Henry put in. “I’ve offered to help her before, but she insists on doing it all herself. She’s kind of a loner, you know?” He shrugged. “So, I don’t argue. Just one less thing for me to worry about.”

“Yeah. I know.” I still felt like a fool.

Henry added. “Well, she does give us our linens to carry up to our rooms, but that’s it.”

“Used to be,” Edna said, “she wasn’t like that. But four or five years back, Skylar raised all kinds of cane about the job she was doing. Since then, Gadrate won’t let no one help. It’s like she’s on some kind of mission.”