Dying to Read (18 page)

“I’m not, but . . .” Cate glanced at Mitch. She’d been so startled by the call that she hadn’t even thought to move away to talk in private, but he’d taken care of that. He was on the other side of the yard now, laying the ladder down alongside the garage. They weren’t “involved.” They weren’t much more than acquaintances. He was heavy-handed with his “concern” over her. And yet . . .

“I can call back later,” Mrs. Collier said quickly, as if she didn’t want to give Cate an opening to say no. “I know this comes as a complete surprise to you.”

“Look, I just don’t know about this. It’s a . . .” More than a surprise. A shock. “I’ll call you back, okay?”

“Thanks, Cate.”

Cate dropped the phone back in her pocket. Kyle. After all this time. Was God sending him back to her as she’d once been so certain he would?

Mitch came back to the picnic table. “There’s an expression: ‘She looked as if she’d seen a ghost.’ Now I know what it means.”

“That was Kyle’s mother.”

“Kyle, major player in the Cappuccino Conflict?”

Cate nodded. “He’s just moved to Portland. He isn’t engaged now. He wants to come down and see me.”

“But he had to have Mommy make the call for him?”

Cate jumped to her feet. Octavia, startled, skedaddled away from under the table. “It was thoughtful of him! He didn’t want to—to put me in an awkward position by calling me himself.”

Mitch gave a “whatever” shrug. “When’s he coming?”

“I told her I’d have to think about it and call her back.”

“Is this what you’ve been waiting for?”

“I’m not sure.”

At the beginning, she’d been so certain God had brought the two of them together. She usually went to the 9:00 service at that big church down in San Diego, but she happened to go at 11:00 that day. There was a big crowd coming and going between services, no reason for them to meet, and yet they’d bumped right into each other, almost falling into each other’s arms. After a moment of don’t-I-know-you-from-somewhere awkwardness, they’d shared startled recognition. Wasn’t that meeting a God thing? Eventually she’d been certain God intended them to spend their lives together. And now was he giving them another chance, because he had a plan to get them back together after they’d messed up before?

Mitch waited a minute while she just stood there with thoughts racing and colliding like an emotional demolition derby inside her head. Then he came to some conclusion and nodded briskly.

“Okay, I’ll be on my way then, so you can get on with your thinking.” He paused. “I apologize for the snarky remark about Kyle’s mother making the call. And any other uncalled-for snarkiness.”

He grabbed the two big lawn bags as he went by the garage, one in each hand. She’d have had trouble dragging one bag off. She managed a moment of scorn. Showing off with the big, strong man stuff.

But she had to resist an urge to run after him.

By the next afternoon, after she’d thought her way through much of a sleepless night, Cate was still undecided. Thinking about Kyle. Thinking about Mitch. Wishing a big voice from God would boom out of the sky and tell her what to do.

And now the bump on her head, which she’d almost forgotten for a while yesterday, throbbed again.

She decided she should get away from thinking for a while. She had an address for Radford now. She could go see him. If he wasn’t guilty, maybe she could enlist him as an ally in finding Amelia’s murderer. If he was guilty, going to see him was about as smart as walking unarmed into a grizzly’s den. Where the bear was perhaps not sleeping but sharpening its claws.

Okay, how about Doris? Ask her about the money connection. Cate couldn’t see her as being as dangerous as Radford, but the conclusion about charging in to question her was the same. Not smart. She might find herself smothered by something purple.

But how could a PI get information, if she didn’t step into danger once in a while?

Okay, she wasn’t ruling out danger indefinitely. But not today, while her head felt as if Octavia was batting beach rocks around inside it.

She dug out the list of numbers she’d taken from Amelia’s little red book. She passed over Texie and Doris. Hannah. Who was she? Maybe the short one, with the squeaky voice? Or how about the next one, Emily? Cate frowned. She couldn’t even remember an Emily. Krystal. Yes, Krystal! The woman who did volunteer work at the hospital, the most sophisticated looking of the Whodunit gang. Cate grabbed her cell phone and had half the number punched in before she stopped, remembering something she’d read in one of Uncle Joe’s books. Often an investigator was better off surprising people and catching them off guard than setting up a formal appointment.

She didn’t have either an address or a last name for Krystal, but a few minutes on the internet in a reverse phone directory provided both. After briefly wondering what was appropriate clothing for a prowling PI, she changed to conservative blue slacks, white blouse, and sandals, and headed out.

2978 Vista View Drive turned out to be in an area of nicer older homes, a substantial brick with ivy climbing the walls, mature maples in the front yard, and two white columns flanking the entryway. A formal rose garden bordered a side fence, and a newer Cadillac stood in the driveway. Cate hesitated after she pulled up to the curb.

She’d come close to getting hit by a bullet on Saturday. What would happen today? Maybe Krystal had a hidden arsenal of major assault weapons.

Cate resolutely discarded that possibility. She slid out of her car, walked up to the double doors with leaded glass inserts, and pushed the doorbell. She halfway expected to encounter a barrier of household help, but Krystal Lorister opened the door herself. She was dressed in pink capri pants and a scoop-necked tee today, but she looked ready to step onto the runway of a fashion show of casual outfits for older women. Her white hair was as perfectly coifed as before, elegantly immovable.

“I don’t know if you’ll remember me . . . ?”

“Of course,” Krystal said. She eyed the bump on Cate’s head, her gaze curious, but she didn’t follow up with nosy questions. “The private investigator. The woman who was at Amelia’s that day looking for Willow and found a body instead.”

Not necessarily the way Cate wanted to be remembered for posterity, but at least no assault weapons were in sight. “I’m wondering if you’d have time to talk with me for a few minutes?”

“Concerning?”

Cate started to toss out the names that interested her. Amelia. Doris. Texie. Willow. Cheryl. Radford. Instead, afraid of alarming Krystal, she said, “I won’t take much of your time.”

“Are you here in a professional capacity?”

“Well, I, um, have a client whose . . . future is involved in the situation.”

“I see.” Krystal tilted her elegant head, but her reserved expression finally softened to a smile, and her tone even took on a touch of playfulness when she asked, “Anyone I know?”

Cate tried to make her return smile both friendly and professionally mysterious. Somehow she doubted offering the information that her client was a deaf cat would enhance her PI status.

Krystal seemed to be granting her professional status when she said, “I know. A client isn’t something you can discuss with me. I’ve encountered a good many private investigators in books and on TV, but I’ve never known one in person before. It must be a fascinating occupation.”

“It’s just a job,” Cate said modestly. She refrained from using the “ma’am” that seemed to go with the line.

“We can go back to my reading room to talk.”

Cate followed her through an immaculate living room decorated in white and delicate coral and blue pastels. Coordinating fresh flowers stood on the coffee table and fireplace mantel. They passed several closed doors down a white-carpeted hallway. Krystal opened a door and stood aside to let Cate enter. The room held floor-to-ceiling bookcases, with books precisely aligned. A lamp on a white end table flanked a recliner, and two wing chairs were set at precise angles to it. Landscapes of serene meadows and flower gardens hung on the walls.

“I spend a lot of time here,” Krystal said.

Cate had never known anyone who had a room just for reading. It was a lovely room, serene and soothing. Although overly neat, by Cate’s standards. She’d have had books strewn all over, but here a lone book lay on the arm of a recliner. The paperback with a corpse on the cover made a lurid island in the tranquil room. Cate started to take a seat in a wing chair, but she stopped short when she saw a very pretty, dark-haired girl of seven or eight sitting in a child-sized rocking chair beside a floor lamp, a book open on her lap. Cate hadn’t expected anyone else to be here.

“Oh, is this one of your—” Cate broke off before she got to the word
grandchildren
and did a double take. Not a little girl. A doll. A life-sized doll. In a demure blue dress with a white collar and cuffs, rather old-fashioned, and black shoes in a Mary Jane style.

Krystal smiled, apparently pleased with Cate’s reaction. “Isn’t she realistic? Does she look familiar?”

Familiar? Why would a doll in the reading room of a woman she barely knew look familiar?

Krystal stroked the doll’s dark hair. “A woman who lives out south of town makes them. Face, arms, legs, everything. She’s very talented. She did Camille using this old photo for guidance.”

Krystal picked up a silver-framed photo and handed it to Cate. The photo was black and white, but the resemblance to the doll was truly remarkable. The doll maker had caught the shape of face and ears, the round cheeks, the firm jaw, and wide-eyed gaze. The photo might have been taken of the doll, not the other way around.

“She’s really beautiful.”

Krystal knelt and put her face next to the doll’s. “Do you see it now?”

Cate didn’t see anything except an extremely real-looking doll.

“Camille is me, of course.” Krystal smiled again as she made a fractional adjustment of the old-fashioned locket hanging around the doll’s neck. “At eight years old.”

Cate’s glance darted between doll and woman once more. No remarkable resemblance jumped out at her, but there could be a trace of Krystal’s seventies elegance in the face of the girl-sized doll.

“That’s, uh, very nice,” she said.

In a macabre kind of way. Sitting here reading with the company of a younger version of yourself in the chair beside you. Cate suddenly wondered if Krystal was perhaps a little odder than she appeared on the surface.

Of course, there was nothing really
odd
about owning a single life-sized doll. Some women had collections of dozens, even hundreds of dolls. Beverly made teddy bears.

Krystal motioned her to a wing chair, and Cate perched on the edge of it. Now she had the uneasy feeling the doll might lift its head and stare at her straight on, a maniacal gleam in its eyes. Or suddenly produce some Twilight Zone cackle of laughter.

Krystal sat in the other wing chair and held her hands neatly in her lap. “You wanted to ask me something about Amelia, perhaps? Or her niece?” She sounded pleasantly encouraging.

Cate decided to go straight to the focal point of this visit. “Actually, I really wanted to ask about the Whodunit ladies. I understand that in addition to the book discussions you shared, there was something like an investment club you were in together?”

“Where did you get this information?” The question didn’t sound hostile, but it held a hint of frost.

Cate decided not to give a name. “It came up in my investigation for my client.”

Krystal seemed undecided for a moment, but then she gave an almost imperceptible shrug. “It wasn’t really a club. Just an opportunity we all had to make what appeared to be an excellent investment. Unfortunately, that didn’t turn out to be the case. But I was fortunate in that I’d invested only a small amount and didn’t lose much.”

“You had misgivings about the investment?”

“Before his death my husband put much of our money into good mutual funds. He left me quite comfortable. Although Amelia’s pressure to get us all to invest was very intense.” A small line cutting between her perfectly arched brows suggested she hadn’t appreciated that pressure.

“What kind of investment was it?”

“A company developing a totally different type of car engine using some easily available alternate energy source. Hydrogen? Nitrogen? I’m afraid the technicalities escaped me. The investment wasn’t yet open to the public, so investors who got in early could expect a tremendous profit. Amelia said it was the opportunity of a lifetime.”

“Apparently you made a wise decision not to invest a large amount.”

“I saw no reason to place much trust in Amelia’s judgment about an investment. I’m sure you saw that painting in her living room.” She wrinkled her nose delicately.

“The one with three eyes?” Gazing out of what appeared to be a cauldron of bad chili.

“That was also one of her investments. Some upcoming artist whose work is supposed to make a spectacular jump in value as soon as he becomes better known. I wouldn’t put the thing in my laundry room.” Krystal’s reserved elegance took a hit with the catty-sounding comment, and another not un-catty comment followed. “I’ve always wondered if he was a friend of Radford’s.”