Leann Sweeney (33 page)

But people must grieve at their own pace. I only hoped that this playtime with my three might make her realize she was ready for a new cat. If she didn’t end up in jail, that was. Baca wasn’t done with Daphne. In fact, he might only be getting started where she was concerned.

Daphne shared strings of mozzarella with Merlot, the only cheese-taker today. The other two curled up together near her since she’d stayed on the floor.

I didn’t want to bring up the investigation, not today, so we were sharing stories about our pasts when the doorbell rang.
I sure hope this isn’t some policeperson looking for Daphne
, I thought as I went to answer.

Not a policeperson at all. When I opened the door, I saw that Marian Mae Temple had come calling. What was this all about? Whatever it was, I had a bad feeling the minute I saw her.

I invited her in, and she stepped into the foyer, at first glance seeming as collected as usual. She held a handbag over her arm and her makeup had been applied to perfection. But her cold blue eyes belied calm. This was an unhappy woman. But why was she so upset? Had my coming to Baca’s house created tension between her and her boyfriend?

Syrah came into the foyer, probably curious about yet another visitor. And then he did something I’d never seen him do before. He arched his back and hissed loudly through his open mouth at Marian Mae.

“Syrah,” I said, “it’s okay.”

He turned his gaze on me before he bounded down the hall.

If Syrah’s behavior wasn’t unsettling enough, Marian Mae confirmed my earlier thoughts by saying, “You, Jillian, have created problems for me. I came here to tell you to keep your nose—” Her gaze was drawn over my shoulder and she said, “What are you doing here, Daphne?”

“Who are
you
?” Daphne said, as only the well-guarded and paranoid could.

And the flustered look on Marian Mae’s face told me more than words.

“Let me get this straight,” I said. “You know Daphne, but she doesn’t know you. How do you explain that, Marian Mae?”

The answer didn’t come fast enough. She was thinking too hard. Finally she said, “Mike showed me her picture. He thinks—well—” she said, seeming to regain her composure, “Perhaps I shouldn’t say what he thinks.”

“You know what?” I said. “He doesn’t strike me as the kind of officer to discuss a case with his girlfriend, much less show her photos of someone he’s interviewed. I mean, what did he do, show you the whole murder file?”

“Of course not,” Marian Mae said, switching to indignation. She was good at sounding indignant.

I looked at Daphne. “Chief Baca take any pictures of you?”

“Not that I know about,” Daphne said.

I returned my attention to Marian Mae. “Better answer would have been to say that Flake Wilkerson showed you his daughter’s picture when you two shared a table at Belle’s Beans,” I said. “I might have bought that explanation, since you’ve already told me you and Mr. Wilkerson were acquainted.”

Marian Mae ran her tongue over her upper lip, those baby blues dancing left and right. “I’m not a liar, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“Then finish telling me why you’re here. Something about me keeping my nose out of your business? Problem is, I’d about convinced myself this had nothing to do with your business—until you showed up here. How do you know Daphne? From seeing her picture at Flake Wilkerson’s house?”

When I saw Marian Mae’s hand dart into her bag, fear struck me like a small electrical shock, shooting up my arms and nearly making me jump.

And when the gun appeared and she pointed it at the two of us, I felt as if my legs would give out. Now I understood what Syrah was trying to tell me. He knew this woman—he’d met her at the Pink House. And he didn’t much care for her.

I took a deep breath, held my palms up and facing toward her. “Please. You’re scaring me,” I said.

Marian Mae looked past Daphne again and into my living room. “Go in there.”

I didn’t like the way she waved the gun in that direction, as if she couldn’t care less if the thing went off. And that unflinching stare. Obviously she hated me. “Sure,” I said. “Whatever you say, Marian Mae.” But I walked backward, not wanting to give her a target as inviting as my spine if she went completely loony.

The way I was walking, with my hands half raised, must have blocked Marian Mae’s view of Daphne, because when we got into the living room, my friend had already pulled her cell phone from her pocket.

But Marian aimed the gun at her and said, “Put that on the coffee table, you idiot.”

Daphne complied, but I noticed she didn’t look the least bit afraid. Her eyes were a little chilling, too.

A shiver climbed my spine as I focused again on that gun. I’d never been so terrified in my life, but I had to hold it together. I took a deep breath and tried to make sense of this.

But was Daphne’s surprise presence in my home so unsettling that Marian Mae might be vulnerable? It was two against one. Well, two against two, if you counted the gun.

And with this thought Merlot decided to show his face. He sauntered into the living room, completely unbothered by an additional stranger. And I spotted Chablis curled in front of the entertainment center a few feet from Marian Mae. Chablis’s eyes were intent on that gun, though. Cats smell danger—and that was why Merlot’s nonchalance was so confusing.

Marian Mae ignored the cats, turning her attention to me again. “Get rid of your phone, too.”

It would have been easy to speed-dial Candace if I didn’t have a flip phone, but I had to open mine to use it. With a trembling hand, I set the useless phone on the table alongside Daphne’s.

Her tone even, Marian Mae said, “Daphne’s going to do to you what she did to her father—stab you with a kitchen knife. But you’ll try to fight her off. And after this little spat, you’ll both be dead. Case solved, but with a tragic end.”

Okay, the woman was certifiable. How was she going to orchestrate this? But my pointing out the implausibility of her plan wouldn’t help Daphne or me right now.

“What are you talking about?” Daphne said, her voice cold. “I never killed my father. Seems obvious you’re the one who killed him.”

How I longed to tell Daphne to hush up. Instead I said, “This is pretty complicated, what with two of us to deal with. Maybe we can call Mike, you can explain and—”

“No,” she said sharply. “Get me two big, sharp kitchen knives. Now.” But her eyes were unfocused, and I was betting she was racking her brain for a better way to deal with this situation.

I had a feeling Daphne wouldn’t cooperate in any way, shape or form, and she confirmed this by saying, “Why should she do that? We’re not going to make this easy for you.”

I closed my eyes. Why wasn’t she scared of that gun?

Without warning, Marian Mae sidestepped and as fast as light, reached down and grabbed an unsuspecting Chablis by the scruff of the neck and pointed the gun at her. “If you don’t get me those knives right now . . . well, you get the picture.”

Poor Chablis was struggling in the air, trying to turn this way and that to free herself. My mouth was dry, my stomach tight with fear. Chablis was unable even to cry out because Marian Mae was holding her so tightly.

Merlot’s “I couldn’t care less” act—and it had been an act—was over with this new development. He leaped from what had to be five feet away. Being the big strong cat he is, and with surprise on his side, he knocked Marian Mae off balance.

This is your only chance
.

I was across the room in a second and rammed Marian Mae against the wall. She let go of Chablis, but not the gun.

I gripped her right wrist, and when she tried to twist free, we both ended up on the floor. But I had the advantage. She was on the bottom, and I was able to press my knee into her gut.

“Daphne, call 911,” I shouted.

“Already did,” Daphne said calmly.

Marian Mae released her grip on the gun, but as I shoved it away, I must have let up on her. That allowed her enough freedom to grab my hair. She pulled my head back until I feared my neck might break.

But suddenly Marian Mae was screeching and she released her hold. At first I thought she’d finally lost it because Daphne, thank God, was holding the gun on her. But that wasn’t the entire problem.

Syrah had clamped down on her ankle with his very sharp teeth, and he wasn’t letting go. I could almost hear him whisper, “Revenge is so sweet.”

To add to the confusion, not to mention the noise coming out of this lunatic woman, someone knocked on the door. They must have heard Marian Mae’s continuing wails, because that someone invited themselves to the party by bursting in.

Candace had her gun drawn when she rushed into the living room.

The very agitated Marian Mae was pretty well pinned, but I thought it only right to say to Candace, “A little help from a friend would be appreciated.”

Twenty-eight

T
he number of people in my living room was making me claustrophobic. But we were waiting for Mike Baca to arrive. Seemed odd he would take his sweet time getting here.

Candace had cuffed Marian Mae, and Morris, who had also responded to the 911 call, was sitting at my dining room table with Marian Mae, trying to get her to explain her behavior.

But she’d clammed up, hadn’t said a word. Billy Cranor and his firemen friends were here, too. I was beginning to accept the fact that everyone showed up everywhere for emergencies in Mercy.

Marian Mae had needed the puncture wounds on her ankle cleaned and bandaged. The paramedics could have left right afterward, but they hung around. Each emergency was a potential story to be passed along at Belle’s Beans.

Convincing Daphne to give up the gun had been interesting. She hadn’t wanted to part with it. Trust issues, I’d decided. I was the one to convince her the gun was evidence and Candace couldn’t make a case against Marian Mae without it.

The wait for Baca was an agonizing thirty minutes. But when he arrived wearing golf spikes and a ridiculous argyle sweater vest, I understood. He took the shoes off at my front door before entering the living room.

When he saw Marian Mae sitting across the room in handcuffs, he said, “What have you done, Mae?”

Seemed she’d been thinking hard during her prolonged silence. “I came here to tell Miss Marple to allow you to do your job and this wacko”—she pointed at Daphne, who was sitting in John’s recliner—“this woman pulled a gun on me. It’s obvious they were in on Mr. Wilkerson’s murder together.”

I think my jaw dropped to my knees, but Daphne responded by jumping up from the chair in an instant. I believe I heard her say, “You lying bitch,” before Candace grabbed her from behind with some kind of fancy police maneuver.

Candace whirled Daphne around so they were nose to nose and said, “Sit down or I’ll have to cuff you, too.”

The two of them stared at each other, with Candace’s grip on Daphne’s upper arms so tight her knuckles were white.

I stepped toward them. “Do what she says. Please?”

Once Daphne reluctantly sat back down and stuck a cigarette in her mouth, the tension in the room lowered a few notches. Not taking any chances, Candace positioned herself between Daphne and Marian Mae, who sat at the dining room table.

Meanwhile, Baca took a seat next to his girlfriend. The three extra police officers and the four firemen edged closer in unison so they could hear the conversation that was about to take place.

Baca may have been blind when it came to Marian Mae, but not to them. “Everyone but Morris, Candace, Ms. Wilkerson and Ms. Hart can wait outside.”

“Does that mean
I
can leave?” Marian Mae said with the sickest, most smug smile I believe I have ever seen. But Mike’s look kept her in her seat. As people filed out of my house, grumbling all the way, Mike Baca leveled a stare at Marian Mae Temple that was filled with both shock and disgust.

He said to Marian, “You’re saying Ms. Wilkerson pulled a gun on you?”

Marian Mae lifted her chin. “That’s right.”

Baca looked at Candace and said, “Can I see the gun, please?”

Candace being Candace, she’d already bagged the weapon as evidence. She’d put the Ziploc holding the gun inside a large brown paper sack, and now she lifted the gun by the corner of the plastic so Baca could see it.

He rubbed between his eyes with his thumb and index finger. “That’s my service revolver, Mae.”

She said, “That Daphne person must have snuck into your house and stolen it before—”

“Did anyone tell you that you have the right to remain silent?” Baca said.

“Yes, but—”

“Then I’m reminding you again of your rights,” Baca said wearily.

“But I have to tell you what happened,” she said, sounding a tad desperate now. “These women attacked me and that awful cat bit me.” She seemed to be working hard to summon up tears, but it wasn’t happening, so she extended her ankle for some sympathy. “Look at this. I might get rabies. Now take off these silly handcuffs and we can go to the hospital where I can be adequately treated. And get Candy and Morris to take these two violent people to jail.”

He ignored the speech by saying, “You’re waiving your rights?”

Marian Mae stared at her once-future husband for several long seconds. Finally she said, “Should I do that? You’re the policeman; you tell me.”

“That’s not how this works,” Baca said. “It’s your decision. We need to search your house, Mae. Do I need a warrant or do you give me permission?”