Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 63, No. 11 & 12, November/December 2018

The Furious Cat by Susan Thibadeau

Hunger drove me to Harry’s kitchen. I crossed the stone patio and slipped through the mansion’s unlocked rear door. No one was there. Good.

Stealthily, lest any loud footfalls alert my cousin and he put me to work too soon, I made my way across the impeccably clean tile floor. As I approached the granite countertop I began breathing again. This was turning out to be a piece of cake.

But self-congratulations were shortlived as an undeniable need to sneeze took hold. I let out one, then another, then a third. There might have been even more if I hadn’t been thrust into excruciating pain by a dark fury attacking my chest, ripping through my T-shirt, and swiping at my face. I don’t remember screaming.

“Jake! What’s all the screaming about? What are you doing to the cat?”

Harry crossed the kitchen with Mrs. Griffin, his housekeeper, close behind. She lifted the black monster off me, coaxing it to release what was left of my shirt.

“There, there,” Mrs. Griffin rocked the fat cat in her arms and came the closest I’d ever seen her come to glaring at me.

“What is that?” I pointed to the feline, who was starting to look vaguely familiar.

Harry sighed. “Why, a cat, of course.”

“I can see that. What I meant was, why is there a cat here?”

My cousin handed me a paper towel. “It looks like Marlowe gave you quite a work over.”

I dabbed the scratches. Some were deep and it hurt as I sopped oozing blood. It hurt even more when another round of sneezes overtook me.

Marlowe’s back stiffened in Mrs. Griffin’s arms. “I don’t think he likes the sound of sneezes,” she said, carrying the cat into her sitting room. A minute later she returned with a first-aid kit. “I’ve put him in his carrier for now.”

To make up for the damage the cat had done me — three large gauze bandages’ worth — Mrs. Griffin set about making a Western omelet. As it cooked, cat cries filtered into the kitchen.

“Isn’t Marlowe Paul Truitt’s cat?” I asked Harry.

“Yes, Marlowe belongs to Paul Truitt. At least, he did.” Harry put a macchiato down on the kitchen table in front of me. He took a deep breath. “Mrs. Griffin found him unconscious yesterday evening in his bookshop. By the time the paramedics got him to the hospital he was gone.”

I’d been reaching for the coffee, but now my hand hung suspended in the air. Harry’s housekeeper stared mutely into the omelet pan, her grief evident in the set of her mouth and the defeated slope of her shoulders. Mrs. Griffin was more than a housekeeper. Harry and I both considered her part of the family. I would have wanted to be there for her.

“Why didn’t someone call me?”

Harry sat down. “You’ve been rather preoccupied with rehearsals.”

That was true. Our stage manager had scheduled several days of long rehearsals, which I secretly welcomed. Shakespeare always intimidated me. I appreciated having extra time to get into my character. I’d even taken to wearing the heavy, cummerbundlike belt our costume designer envisioned for my character, Benedict, every day.

“Are you all right, Jake?”

I nodded, finally taking a sip of my macchiato. “Was it an accident? A heart attack?”

Harry shook his head. “No.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“It looks like Paul was poisoned.”

Although I wanted to know more, one look at Mrs. Griffin’s grief-stricken face kept me silent.

“I know you’re going into tech rehearsals,” Harry’s glance settled on Benedict’s belt, “but I’m hoping you can help me look into this.”

The play would be opening in two weeks. Usually, Harry let up on me right before openings, even though I’m the legman for his Pittsburgh-based law practice and the various investigations he conducts for his rich and famous friends. But this was different. “What do you want me to do?”

“I’ll find out what I can from my sources at the police. Mrs. Griffin said Paul had been distracted lately. See if you can find out what, if anything, was amiss in his life.”

“Does he have any family?”

The housekeeper put the Western omelet down in front of me. “No, there’s no family. I guess I was the closest friend he had.”

She’d met the bookseller when our late aunt, Agatha, sent her to pick up an antique book at Everything Old, Paul’s used bookshop. I suspect Aunt Agatha had wanted to get the two together. Although romance never blossomed, strong friendship did.

“Is Lucy minding the store?” I’d start with Paul’s part-time help.

The housekeeper joined us at the table. “No. The police are keeping it closed for now.”

The omelet was as delicious as always and I took a few mouthfuls before asking, “Paul owned the building, didn’t he?”

Mrs. Griffin nodded. “He did.”

“So what happens to it now?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

Harry cleared his throat and looked meaningfully at me. “Well, the fact is, it belongs to Mrs. Griffin.”

I dropped my fork. Mrs. Griffin gasped.

“Paul asked me to draw up a new will a year ago,” Harry said to the housekeeper. “You were his only close friend. He asked me not to tell you. He wanted you to have the building and the inventory — and Marlowe.”

Tears trickled down Mrs. Griffin’s face. I pulled open my unused napkin and gave it to her. “It’s good you were in his life,” I offered. There wasn’t anything else I could think to say and, in truth, Harry’s last words had finally registered. Marlowe was Mrs. Griffin’s cat now.

After breakfast I excused myself and walked back to the carriage house Aunt Agatha had left me upon her death. There was work to do.

The police would be looking for anyone with a motive. Harry would have to tell them about Mrs. Griffin’s inheritance, and she’d become a prime suspect, the only person to gain from his death. As far as we knew.

I opened my laptop and e-mailed Everything Old’s part-time sales clerk. A minute later Lucy messaged me, suggesting we meet at the Starbucks in Oakland, near campus.

When I walked in she waved me over.

“What do you want to know?” Her spiked hair sported purple streaks — a change from the green ones she’d had when I’d last been in the bookshop.

“I was hoping you’d be able to tell me how Paul has been doing lately. Mrs. Griffin thought something was on his mind, but she didn’t know what.”

Lucy thought for a moment. “I don’t think so.”

“Well, had there been any new customers? Someone who seemed odd or suspicious?”

She shook her head. “Just the regulars, and college students, like me.”

I noticed a tear forming at the corner of her eye and, for the second time that morning, I offered my napkin.

Lucy dabbed it daintily, reminding me of an Oscar Wilde heroine, perhaps Gwendolyn or Cecily, despite her hair and a new nose ring.

After waiting another minute I prodded: “Paul’s customers?”

“Oh, yeah. Just what I said. No one new.”

I could tell there was something more Lucy had to say and I wasn’t sure how to proceed. Luckily, she offered it up.

“I guess Jeff Grogan will be happy now,” she said.

“Jeff Grogan?”

“The President of HDC.”

“Of what?”

“The Hayesfield Development Corporation.” Lucy took a sip of her iced drink, then another.

I gave up waiting for her to say more. “Why will Mr. Grogan be happy?”

“He wanted Paul to sell him the bookshop building. They got into a big argument about it last week.” She took another sip.

I fought the urge to do my best stage double take. “Did you tell the police this?”

“I did. Do you think he would have hurt Paul?”

Once, I’d been as innocent as she was. Now I felt every bit my thirty-odd years. In my work for Harry I’d seen apparently good people do very bad things. The reasons why never made sense to anyone but themselves.

Lucy told me where I could find Grogan. “What’s going to happen to the cat?” she asked, her relief evident when I told her he was Mrs. Griffin’s now.

Grogan’s offices, in a newly remodeled two-story building, were only a few blocks away from the bookstore. A receptionist showed me to the small conference room behind her station. A minute later Jeff Grogan bounded in.

I’d been expecting some old, practiced politician, but he didn’t look old or anything like a politician. His opened flannel shirt revealed a Thirty Seconds to Mars tee underneath. Strategically tom blue jeans and nondescript scuffed sneakers completed the campus casual look. Only the deeply etched furrows of his forehead betrayed he wasn’t in college anymore.

After introductions, Grogan shouted to the receptionist for a pot of coffee. He turned back to me. “You have questions about, um, about Paul Truitt?”

He’d sounded saddened over the phone. As an actor, I’d employed those same pauses, hesitations, and inflections to convey my character’s sorrow on stage. They’d come from a lifetime observing others in the throes of grief or regret. Perhaps Grogan was as good an actor, but if not, I thought it best to come right to the point.

“You had an argument with Paul in his shop last week. What was it about?”

I filed away Grogan’s surprised expression for use on stage.

“Yes. I guess Lucy told you.”

There was fondness and hope in the way he’d said “Lucy.” Sadly, I hadn’t sensed the same when she’d spoken Grogan’s name. I hoped I was wrong. Unrequited love could be crushing. I’d been fortunate to play Konstantin Treplev in a summer theater production of Chekhov’s The Seagull and had spent two solid weeks channeling the pain and anguish rejection causes.

“Excuse me, don’t you want to, um, know what, um, we argued about?”

I shook the vestiges of Chekhov’s character off. “Sorry — yes. Lucy said you wanted Paul to sell you his shop. Why? What was in it for you?”

I’d hit a nerve. When Grogan’s mouth tightened he looked years older.

“I’ve already told the police there’s nothing in it for me. Yes, I wanted him to sell the building to HDC. But I’m not getting any kickbacks! That’s not how this organization works.”

The receptionist walked in with a tray. Besides the coffee she’d brought a plate filled with pastries. They looked like they were from the recently opened French bakery down the street. I’d hoped I hadn’t angered Grogan too much and could stay around long enough to try a few.

“Thanks,” Grogan said to the receptionist. “And would you bring in one of our community development folders?”

By the time I’d poured myself coffee and grabbed a lemon tart she was back.

“Here. This is what we’re envisioning.” He slid a folder across the table.

The architect’s drawing showed a sleek new building spanning the entire block. The ground floor had several shops, and the bookstore’s name was on one of the doors. The three upper levels looked like they might be apartments or office suites.

“We’ve got the city, a private foundation, and Woodbead Construction behind us. The only holdout was Paul Truitt. He didn’t want to sell his building even though our offer was more than fair.”

“Maybe he didn’t want to give up his bookshop. That seems fair to me.”

“That’s the crazy thing. We offered him a space in the new building. Our calculations showed he’d be paying less in a year’s rent than he was spending on property taxes and upkeep. And we would have guaranteed rent increases would be capped far below market for the rest of the store’s life.” He poured coffee into his cup and picked up the miniature éclair I’d been eyeing. The scent of chocolate filled the air between us as he bit into the pastry. “You don’t know who the building belongs to now, do you?”

Eventually, Grogan would find out it was Mrs. Griffin who’d inherited. But things were moving too fast. She needed time to grieve before she’d be pressed to make any decisions. Both Harry and I knew how important that was. “No, no I don’t.”

Grogan looked disappointed. “Well, I’m sure whoever inherits will see what a good deal this is.” His hand swept the air above the architect’s drawing. “This is going to revitalize the community. The building will be state of the art. Other neighborhoods in the city would kill for a chance to build this.” Grogan paled. “What I mean is—”

“I know what you meant.”

We both fell silent.

Finally, Grogan spoke. “Paul Truitt was being stubborn, but I hoped I’d be able to wear him down eventually.” He nodded toward the drawing. “This means a lot to me. But nowhere near enough to kill someone over.”

I pondered the sincerity in his voice, the tremble in his chin, and his doleful eyes. My years preparing for stage roles had taught me to read those subliminal messages hidden in the expressions and voices of others. But this time I wasn’t sure. Some people are unreadable, even by me. I scooped up both the folder and a cream puff from the tray and thanked Grogan for his time.

When I got back to the carriage house it was almost noon. Mrs. Griffin had left some of yesterday’s casserole in my refrigerator. As it reheated I studied HDC’s folder. It looked like Woodbead Construction stood to gain substantially from the development project since they’d also manage the building. I found the company’s online profile. Its CEO, Don Hallewell, was a member of Harry’s club.

The sweet-spicy scent of cinnamon wafted across the room as the microwave signaled the food was ready. I carefully moved the dish to my small table, sat down, and plunged my fork into the pastitsio, a Greek casserole Mrs. Griffin cooked to perfection despite her Welsh heritage. When done, I walked the stone path to the mansion and was surprised to find Harry standing on the back patio.

“Hello, Jake.” He motioned me to a marble bench. “I’ve just heard, unofficially mind you, the cause of death.”

After a minute Harry continued. “Conium maculatum.”

“Paul was poisoned with hemlock? Oh, no.” College criminal justice classes had taught me that while men killers did use it, poison was more popular with women killers. And when women killers did use poison, “a friend” was near the top of the list of their targets. Even though I knew Mrs. Griffin could never hurt anyone, evidence was stacking up against her. The police would be back to question her.

“We’d better learn how Paul spent his day yesterday, Jake,” Harry said, as if he’d read my thoughts.

I fingered the car key in my pocket. Hayesfield was on my way to rehearsal. I’d start with the other shopkeepers. Maybe some of them saw Paul coming and going. Maybe they saw the murderer too.

Before leaving, I filled Harry in on Jeff Grogan’s plans and the builder who’d be implementing them.

“I’ll call Don, although I can’t imagine him murdering anyone,” Harry smiled, “for such a relatively small amount of money, anyway. He has a lot of irons in the fire with the new mall up north and the office building complex downtown. This sounds like small change.”

“So far, it’s the only motive we’ve got.”

I thought I saw a question in Harry’s eyes. Or maybe it was just my imagination. He stood and looked over the expanse of patio and lower lawn. “I’m taking Mrs. Griffin to the funeral home. We have to make arrangements for when the body is released.” He looked down at me. “I’m assuming, with rehearsals, you’ll be missing dinner tonight.”

I hated missing Tuesday night dinners at the mansion, brought in and served by Teddy, the headwaiter at Josephine’s. Luckily, there were always leftovers.

I drove to Hayesfield and parked, noting just how desolate Paul’s side of the street looked. All the shops on the block, except for Everything Old and an art gallery on the corner, had boards across doors and windows.

I’d never been in the gallery before and was surprised at its paucity of paintings. A woman at a desk in the back motioned me to her.

“I’m Selina Simon.” She extended her hand. I shook it. “Are you looking for something in particular?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “I have a huge portfolio.” She saw the disbelief on my face. “I’m packing to move to a much larger space. Just tell me what you’re looking for and I’m sure I can find the perfect piece for you.”

Her short platinum hair was spiked in the same way as Lucy’s and even though she was much older, perhaps fifty, the cut was flattering on her too. In fact, one of the actresses in my current production had just such a haircut and she, as well, looked very pretty—

“Excuse me, what exactly are you looking for?”

Brought back to the task at hand, I introduced myself and told her I was looking into Paul Truitt’s death.

“It’s too bad.” She shuffled several papers on her desk, her interest in me waning.

“I was hoping you saw someone go into the shop. Or come out.”

“I told the police I didn’t see anyone.” Her obvious disdain was a match for Wilde’s Lady Bracknell. “And I’m very busy just now.”

If I was going to protect Mrs. Griffin I needed answers, and I persisted, despite the shopkeeper’s annoyance. “Did you hear anything?”

Selina picked up a paper and studied it. When I didn’t move she finally looked at me. “No. I didn’t see anyone and I didn’t hear anything. That’s all. I need to get back to work now.”

It was obvious turning on the charm wouldn’t get me anywhere, so I left, crossing the busy avenue to the sandwich shop. While Paul’s side of the street looked like a ghost town, this side looked like the vibrant community Jeff Grogan hoped for. I ordered what turned out to be a great cup of coffee and grabbed a chocolate chip cookie. The girl at the counter said she hadn’t seen anyone enter Everything Old. It was the same at all the shops.

Stymied, I climbed into my Honda. On the way to rehearsal I left a detailed message for Harry. I hoped he’d get further with Hallewell than I had with the shopkeepers in Hayesfield. If not, Mrs. Griffin was still the best suspect the police had.

My cell’s ringtone woke me the next morning.

“Jake, we need to talk.”

It was six thirty.

“Jake, are you there?”

I briefly considered not answering, but the urgency in his voice won me over.

I found Harry at the kitchen table. He’d brewed two macchiatos and rewarmed some of Mrs. Griffin’s lemon blueberry muffins. Their competing scents — earthy and ethereal — filled the air. I grabbed one of the muffins and sat down.

“Don came to dinner last night,” Harry said.

I raised an eyebrow. That meant fewer leftovers for me.

“He, apparently, is very fond of Josephine’s cuisine.”

“Who isn’t?” I grumbled.

Harry tried to hide his smile. “In any case, he says the money he’ll earn from the Hayesfield project won’t make up for all the aggravation.”

Save for the bookshop and the soon-departing art gallery, the shops on the block were abandoned. Whatever the aggravation had been, it was over. Except for Paul’s refusal to sell. But that was over with now too.

“Don’t you want to know what aggravation?” Harry asked.

At my nod, he continued. “Most of the buildings are supposedly owned by one landlord — Millicent Van Pelt.”

“The Millicent Van Pelt? The one who’s going on trial for murdering her world-renowned, art-collector husband?”

“Enigmatic” aptly described the look on Harry’s face.

I groaned. “You’re not thinking of getting involved in her case, are you?”

“Do you remember how she supposedly killed her husband?”

“I don’t like you using the word ‘supposedly’.”

“She supposedly gave her husband an overdose of his own prescription oxycodone.”

“Uh-huh. So there’s no real connection between that poisoning and Paul’s, right?” Hope struggled within me.

“I’d say, despite the different poisons, there’s a city-block-sized connection.”

I took another bite of my muffin and a swig of the macchiato but didn’t taste either.

“Millicent is desperate. She’s selling the buildings to HDC and she’s taking less than they’re worth. She needs to raise money for her legal defense. But her stepchildren are contesting the sale.”

“Sounds like a mess.”

Harry shrugged. “I think HDC was so eager to push forward they didn’t ask the right questions.”

“Still, what does it matter to Hallewell? He’s just the contractor. It’s not his problem.”

“Woodbead is part of the consortium that’s purchasing the buildings for the new project. It would be a partial owner.”

I made the leap. “Did Millicent’s husband want to sell those buildings?”

“He was playing hardball. Asking much more than what they’re worth.”

If the sale did go through, both Don Hallewell and Jeff Grogan would benefit from Van Pelt’s death. Either had a good reason to kill him. And Paul too.

“I can see your wheels turning.” Harry took one of the muffins from the counter and sat back down. “I don’t see Don as a killer. What about Grogan?”

Before I could answer, a black ball of fur streaked across the kitchen and bounded onto the table, upending Harry’s coffee cup. I jerked back in surprise, tearing open scabs from Marlowe’s previous assault. Pain shot through my body, leaving me speechless.

“Marlowe, you mustn’t be naughty,” Mrs. Griffin admonished, following the cat into the room.

The feline jumped from the table to an empty chair and back onto the floor, rubbing against the housekeeper’s leg as she took off her coat.

“I’m so sorry. He just gets so excited when he comes here.”

“We enjoy Marlowe’s visits, don’t we, Jake?” Harry said.

They were both waiting for me to say something, but I was too busy fighting the urge to sneeze. Mrs. Griffin, seeing my panic, scooped Marlowe into her arms just in time.

“Oh, dear,” she said. “I do believe you’re allergic.” The black cat struggled to get loose. “I’d better get him into his crate.”

“No, let Marlowe run free.” Harry pushed himself away from the table. “We’ll go to the study.”

I followed him down the corridor and sank gingerly into a wingback chair opposite Harry’s desk. He’d already opened his laptop.

“It looks like Grogan’s been working on this project for several years. Do you think he’s capable of murder?”

I like to think my work on the stage, plumbing the emotional depths of various and varied characters, has given me a certain skill in reading others. The truth was, though, I couldn’t tell with Grogan. “I just don’t know. What about Millicent, do you think she’s capable of murder?”

Harry considered the question. “If she’d wanted to kill her husband she would have taken him on a cruise and pushed him overboard. That seems more Millicent’s style. Poison would be much-too-much work.” Harry sighed. “And I don’t think her marriage was a bad one. I think they loved each other.”

“But maybe that’s just what they wanted people at your club to see.”

“No. I don’t think so.” He patted the top of his desk. “She’s being railroaded. And I’m afraid Mrs. Griffin is next.” Before I could say anything, he added: “The police are coming to question her. I’ve already called Ash. He’s on his way over.”

Even though it was still early in the morning, I wasn’t surprised. Ash Jackson, a brilliant defense attorney, was sometimes Harry’s rival but always Harry’s friend. It was good to know Mrs. Griffin would have him in her corner.

As if on cue, the doorbell rang. A minute later, Ash poked his head into the study.

“We’ll set up in the dining room,” Harry said without greeting.

We were all tense, sitting around the dining room table, waiting. Mrs. Griffin looked scared. I reached over and patted her hand. She tried to smile.

The doorbell rang.

“Get that, Jake,” Harry said.

I was already on my way.

A man with a wolflike grin stood behind the door. I was glad there was only one detective. With all of us in the room he’d be outnumbered.

“You’ll have to leave,” he said to Harry and me, after I’d shown him into the dining room and we’d introduced ourselves.

Harry nodded, pulled me away, and closed the doors behind him. “Ash will handle this,” he said at my protest.

Maybe Ash could handle things, but I’d wanted to be there too. I shook loose from Harry’s grasp.

“If you go back in he’ll drag Mrs. Griffin to Police Headquarters.”

I hated when Harry was right. “Fine,” I said. “I’m going to make myself a sandwich before I get back to work.”

Harry headed to his study. I found my way to the kitchen. Marlowe was nowhere in sight. I crossed the floor, stationed myself behind the kitchen’s swinging door to the dining room, and listened.

I’d taken a class that covered interrogation techniques in college when I’d double majored in theater and criminal justice. The detective was going by the book, asking the same question over and over, in different ways, hoping Mrs. Griffin would contradict herself. Although her voice quavered, her answers were always the same. I could tell the detective was getting frustrated.

“You say Whiteside didn’t tell you about the will?” he asked, for the fourth time.

“No,” Mrs. Griffin said.

“Or maybe Mr. Truitt told you. Maybe you took advantage of a lonely man, got him to write a new will. And you knew just the lawyer to do it for him.” I heard the sneer in the detective’s voice.

“No, we were just friends.”

Mrs. Griffin’s voice cracked with pain and alarm. I raised my hand to push the door open, staying it just in time when Ash intervened.

“That’s enough, Detective. We’ve answered all your questions; this interview is over.”

Behind me, I heard the scurrying of little feet, then felt the blow to my back as Marlowe struck. Together, we fell through the swinging door. I landed face-first while the cat leaped onto the dining room table, hissing his way to the detective.

“We’re lucky Mrs. Griffin was able to grab Marlowe before he did any real damage to the detective. What were you thinking, Jake?” Harry didn’t wait for me to answer. He stalked off to his study. Its door slammed shut a few seconds later.

I hadn’t helped matters by eavesdropping. Marlowe’s aborted attack made it worse. By the time we’d gotten the cat under control the detective sounded like he wanted to arrest Harry’s housekeeper. Somehow, Ash had managed to get him out of the house before he could. But it might only be a matter of time before he came back.

It was my job to make sure things didn’t come to that. I walked home, showered, slipped into jeans, covered Benedict’s belt with a sweater, and jumped into my Honda. I got to Hayesfield quickly, despite heavy traffic, and planted myself at the window of the sandwich shop with a breakfast bagel and a cup of coffee.

I’m not sure why I was there. The buildings across the street looked a sorry lot. Neglect had robbed them of the charm they’d once had. Even the art gallery, with its near empty windows, contributed to the gloomy view. Only the bookshop’s inviting facade offered hope to those seeking safe haven. But that had been a false hope for Paul.

“Jake, what are you doing here?”

I choked on the swig of coffee I’d just taken.

Lucy pounded my back. “Sorry,” she said.

After I recovered I told her I was trying to work out what had happened to Paul.

She plopped her book down on the table and went to the counter. Over her shoulder she said, “Have an exam today — just picking up coffee on my way to campus.”

I rifled the pages of her book as I scanned the shops across the street. Each one had a door opening into the back alley. The killer probably entered and left by the bookshop’s back door. No doubt the police had already scoured the scene. No doubt the ubiquitous yellow crime-scene tape was still up in the alley. But I’d just have to pretend it wasn’t there. I pulled on my jacket.

“What are you doing — I mean, where are you going?” Lucy put her coffee down on the table and picked up her book, tucking it into her backpack.

I didn’t want to involve her in my clandestine plan. “Heading home,” I lied.

We left the shop together. On the sidewalk, I watched as she walked to the bus stop, then I slipped into my Honda. In my rearview mirror I saw Lucy gazing after me. When I got far enough away so she couldn’t see, I turned down a side street and backtracked to the bookshop’s alley.

Just as I’d predicted, it was partially obstructed by yellow tape. I imagine the police had already taken fingerprints off the door — both inside and out — and checked for footprints. An empty garbage can sat close by. If it had held anything the crime-scene detectives would have taken the contents with them.

“Just a shame about that fella.” Surprised, I turned to see a man sporting a full head of white hair and a quilted vest crossing the alleyway. “Don’t read much, but he seemed nice enough. And he always put out a nice spread for our block party.” He held out his hand. “John Potter. I live there.” He pointed to the back of a house a few yards down, across the alley.

“So you were a friend of his?” Potter asked after I introduced myself.

“Yes. You didn’t happen to see anyone back here yesterday?”

“Nope. Just like I told the police. I didn’t see anyone. None of us did.”

My disappointment must have been obvious.

“We all have front porches. No need to be back here.”

Clearly intended for the cars parked on it, dingy gravel extended from the backs of the houses to the paved alley. The corner house was the one exception, with a thin band of grass and several evergreen bushes framing a small slab of concrete where a lone chair sat.

I nodded toward it. “How about that house?”

Potter frowned. “That’s Louetta Pickens’s house. They took her away yesterday too.”

“She died?”

“Nope. In the hospital. That’s where I’m going. Not that it matters. Lou’s still in a coma.”

“What happened?”

“Fell down the basement stairs. Sister found her yesterday. Late afternoon.” He pointed at the house. “The stairs in all these houses are too steep. And Lou’s getting on in age. I guess she had one of her dizzy spells and down she went.”

“I’m starting to think we’re on the right track, Harry. There are too many accidents and deaths to believe they’re not all related. I’m sure Louetta Pickens is in the hospital because she saw Paul’s killer come out the back door of the bookshop.” I leaned across my cousin’s desk. “I’d bet my life it was no accident.”

Harry rubbed his eyes.

I opened my laptop. “It doesn’t look like the police see the connection we’re seeing. Mrs. Pickens’s accident didn’t even make it into the papers.”

“They’re looking at our Mrs. Griffin. They aren’t looking for a pattern of violence.” Harry rubbed his eyes again. They were watering and red.

“Are you allergic to Marlowe too?”

“No, of course not.” He put his hand down but then it went back up to his eyes. “Well, I may have a mild allergy.”

“So biology wins out.”

Harry looked confused.

“We’re cousins. We share some of the same genes, maybe even one for a cat allergy.”

Harry stood and opened the curtains behind him. Light flooded in, momentarily blinding me.

“Blood wins out,” he said.

When my eyes adjusted to the bright light, I realized Harry was pouring himself a scotch. “Did I hit a nerve or something?”

Harry lifted the glass to his lips. “You know, I felt sorry for Paul. He seemed so alone in the world.” He drained the glass. “When I drew up his will, he told me he was estranged from his family. He specifically told me to write them out of his will.”

“Who were they?”

“A sister, Margot, and a first cousin, Julianne.”

“He never told Mrs. Griffin about them?”

“No. Whatever the rift, it ran deep.”

“It would have been better if family had inherited the bookshop,” I said.

Harry agreed. “At least our Mrs. Griffin wouldn’t be the prime suspect in his murder.”

“How could Paul turn his back on his family?” Family can be irritating. There are times I’d like to send Harry on a one-way trip to Kazakhstan. But I love the guy too.

I saw a familiar light in Harry’s eyes. “Find out, Jake. Maybe what was on Paul’s mind had nothing to do with the sale of his building.”

I wondered how much a ticket to Kazakhstan would cost. “Sure,” I finally said. “I’ll look into it before I head out to rehearsals.”

Harry nodded his goodbye.

I grabbed the remaining, paltry leftovers from Josephine’s and ate them cold back in the carriage house as I searched birth and death records. A few minutes in, my fork poised between plate and mouth, Paul’s birth record popped up on my screen. I doubled back, locating his mother’s obituary. It listed Margot’s married name and the California town she lived in. Searching real estate records, I found Margot was still living in the same place. The obituary had only listed cousin Julianne Truitt and her baby daughter, with no other information. I couldn’t find them anywhere online.

I e-mailed Harry what I’d found and poured myself a glass of milk. The police probably had done their own search but, just in case, Harry would need to alert them.

Like so many times in the past, I wondered what pathways Harry was traveling in his mind. He’d managed to convince me Van Pelt’s and Paul’s deaths were connected. Now he was bringing Paul’s newly discovered relatives into the investigation. Although I tried hard, I couldn’t see how Paul’s relatives could have anything to do with Van Pelt’s death.

I took a swig of milk. Over the rim I saw Harry pull open my sliding glass door.

“I’d told the police about Paul’s sister.” Harry raked his hand through his hair. “They’d already tracked her down.”

“So my search was a waste of time.”

Harry ignored my complaint. “They haven’t tried to find cousin Julianne.” He squeezed his over six foot frame into my club chair. “When are you buying a new chair?”

I raised an eyebrow. “When am I getting a raise?”

Harry scowled and pulled out his cell phone. “Let’s talk to Margot. Maybe she knows where Julianne is.” He punched numbers on the screen and pressed speaker.

“Yes?”

“Mrs. Margot Martin-Day?”

“Yes?”

“I’m your late brother’s attorney. Have the police contacted you and explained the situation?”

“Are you Paul’s lawyer?”

“Yes. I’m calling to extend my condolences, answer any questions you might have, and ask if you have your cousin’s contact information.”

“My cousin?”

“Miss Julianne Truitt?”

There was some rustling at the other end of the phone.

“Mrs. Martin-Day? Have the police contacted you?”

“Because Paul’s dead?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Harry rubbed his eyes. “Are you saying it’s good that your brother has died?”

“He stole my inheritance. Him and Julianne. I hope they both rot in hell. Did he leave me any money?”

We lost the connection after Harry said, “No.”

“I guess we’ll need to find Julianne Truitt after all,” I said.

“Yes, I think you do.” Harry looked at his watch. “Don’t you have to be somewhere?” Before I could answer he added, “I’ll look into the inheritance Margot claims she was robbed of.”

I would have pointed out that Julianne might have the information we needed, sparing a time consuming and boring search, but with his reddened eyes, Harry looked like a bloodhound on the trail. I didn’t want to rob him of the chase. I grabbed my jacket as Harry unfurled himself, rising from the chair. For a minute we stared at each other. With a sense of gnawing disquiet, I picked up Benedict’s belt and headed to the theater.

Rehearsal ran smoothly. Both the director and the stage manager were on the same page. During a break, the pretty actress with hair spiked like Lucy’s came over to me.

“Jake, we’re going to Eat’n Park after rehearsal. Want to come?”

Beth’s hair smelled like grapefruit and basil. Lucy’s hair had smelled like that too. It was nice. I took a surreptitious whiff and imagined myself on the Amalfi Coast, walking through a lemon grove.

“What do you say, Jake?” Beth had that same look of concern I sometimes saw on Harry’s face.

“Uh, sure. Yeah. You smell nice. What perfume are you wearing?”

“No perfume,” she said.

“But your hair,” I shrugged, “it smells nice.”

Beth smiled. “Oh! Yes! It’s the hair gel I use. Smells great right?”

I nodded.

“I can pick some up for you the next time I get my hair cut. It’s the salon’s own brand.”

The stage manager called us back before I could ask if she’d ever seen Lucy at the salon. Later, at the restaurant, as Beth settled alongside me in the booth, smiling a dazzling smile, her arm touching mine for one brief moment, my earlier sense of disquiet evaporated and I thought only of how to ask her out.

I found Harry at his espresso machine the next morning.

“You’re looking tired, Jake.” He handed me a cup. “A long night?”

“Uh-huh.” I bit into the breakfast casserole Mrs. Griffin had left for us. Hints of nutmeg and vanilla went a long way toward waking me up. Harry’s macchiato did the rest.

“Looks like you’re finally back with the living,” Harry said, pouring himself another glass of orange juice.

“Uh-huh — so where’s Mrs. Griffin?”

“She’s taking a few days off. This has all been a shock for her and her sister’s coming in from California for support.”

The mansion would fall apart without Mrs. Griffin’s tight rein. But I had to admit I was relieved Marlowe wouldn’t be stalking me for a few days.

“I said we’d take care of Marlowe while her sister’s in town.” Harry’s smile grew into a grin as my mouth moved but nothing came out. “Her sister claims she’s very allergic to cats. You’re to pick him up in an hour.”

I would have complained bitterly had Harry’s cell not rung. My cousin answered, walking away from the kitchen table, his back turned. I chowed down on the rest of the casserole. If I had to face that whirling dervish, I’d need all the strength I could manage.

After a few minutes, Harry came back. “That was the attorney in California who handled Paul’s mother’s estate, such as it was.”

“Did Paul cheat his sister, Margot, out of her inheritance?”

“Not according to the attorney.” Harry made more macchiatos in silence. When he sat back down, he continued. “There wasn’t much to the estate once his fees were paid. The house was sold, and proceeds were divvied up between the two children, with some little amount going to their cousin Julianne.”

“Then why did Margot think she’d been robbed?”

“There was a painting. The appraiser said it was worthless, but Paul’s mother had always claimed otherwise.”

“Did they try to sell it?”

“No. Paul let Julianne take it, and when Margot found out there was a big fight. Julianne wouldn’t give it back. In fact, she skipped town with her boyfriend and child in tow. Margot never forgave either of them.”

“Sad story. Seems no reason to break up a family, though.” My own grandmother had been disinherited when she married my grandfather. Despite that, she and her brother, Harry’s father, and her sister, Great Aunt Agatha, remained close, in large part because the siblings knew family was far more important than money. I felt sorry for Paul, who’d lost his sister because of a dispute over money.

“You need to find Julianne,” Harry said to me.

“Before or after I pick up the cat?”

Harry’s chuckle trailed behind him as he left the kitchen. I sat still for a moment, trying to put all the pieces together, failing in the face of the sad reality: Marlowe was coming to the mansion.

Mrs. Griffin put the cat into his carrier. “He needs water left out, and he likes a little bit of cheese — but just a little — and you can give him a few frozen peas each day. There’s an open package in the freezer. Otherwise, just his cat food.” She handed me a bag filled with cans.

I felt the housekeeper’s eyes bore into my back as I walked out to my car. Whatever happened, I needed to keep Marlowe safe or Mrs. Griffin would never forgive me. I hoped Harry would take our cat sitting seriously too.

That hope was dashed when I brought the carrier into the kitchen. Harry stood back as I opened its door and the cat launched himself onto my chest with a ferocious cry.

Harry backed farther away. “I guess he likes you best. When you’ve got him settled, come into the study.”

I managed to peel Marlowe off me and put him on the daybed in Mrs. Griffin’s sitting room, where he kneaded the bedspread with his sharp claws, then went to sleep.

“Is the cat taken care of?” Harry asked when I walked into his study.

I sneezed.

“Now back to work. We have to find Julianne Truitt.”

“What makes you think we’ll be able to? The only thing we have to go on is a stolen, worthless painting.”

Harry opened his laptop and began typing. “Here it is,” he said, after a minute.

I raised an eyebrow.

“The painting.” Harry turned the screen so I could see. “Amelia’s City.”

I studied the photo of a glossy brochure. The painting, a cityscape, was printed on its face. Despite the secondhand image, the richness of color and form mesmerized. “How do you know that’s the painting?” I couldn’t take my eyes off it.

Harry tapped the keyboard. The image disappeared and the inventory of Paul’s mother’s property took its place. Harry highlighted an item, halfway down the list: “Amelia’s City, oil painting, date/artist unknown. Value: $25.” Harry switched back to the brochure. He highlighted the print below the image: “Amelia’s City, artist Terrance Z. Hochman, c. 1954, on loan, M. Van Pelt.”

My eyes felt like they were popping out of my head.

“The painting was part of an exhibition at Hollis University’s art museum. It’s over now, but they’ll still have the provenance record,” Harry assured me.

He called them. After some persuading, they faxed the record to us and we were able to follow Amelia’s City through its chain of ownership back to an art dealer in North Carolina. The record indicated that sixteen years ago the dealer sold the painting for the artist’s granddaughter, Julie Hochman. We were both sure Julie Hochman had actually been Julianne Truitt.

“Hungry, Jake?” Harry closed his laptop.

The thought of food lifted my somewhat deflated spirit and I jumped up. There was a lot to process. Food would help.

Harry was slower to stand, a smile on his face. “I believe Mrs. Griffin left us soup and a seafood salad. Let’s brave our feline friend.”

With trepidation, I followed Harry to the kitchen where Marlowe sat amidst a countertop of decimated muffins, not looking the least bit guilty.

Harry scooped the cat into his arms. “Why didn’t you put the muffins away?”

“We never put the muffins away,” I countered.

Harry glowered at me as he carried Marlowe into the sitting room. I heard several hisses and one loud “Ouch!” A second later Harry reemerged without the cat. “Marlowe is resting comfortably in his crate.” A thin line of blood oozed from my cousin’s hand.

I gave him a paper towel. “I hope we’ll be able to find cousin Julianne.”

Harry nodded. “Get the laptop.”

As we ate we searched online. After the sale of the painting, Julianne stayed in North Carolina for several years, married, and was eventually widowed when her husband accidently overdosed on prescription painkillers. She then left the state, remarried, and was widowed once more. Coincidentally, her second husband also died from an overdose. Questions were being asked and Julianne disappeared.

“There was a daughter.” I put our plates in the dishwasher. “If we find the daughter we may find her mother.”

Harry closed the laptop and stood. “I have an appointment downtown. Keep looking.” He walked out just as pitiful cries wafted across the kitchen.

I called after him. He didn’t answer. I weighed my options. I could have ignored those distressed emanations. But I was my mother’s son — and my father’s too — and reluctantly, very reluctantly, I brought the crate and its contents with me to my carriage house.

After I opened his door, Marlowe licked his paws then jumped onto my kitchen counter to find not a bit of food. Disappointed, he curled up and fell asleep.

Before I’d let him loose I’d taken an antihistamine left over from a bout of hay fever. The yellow pill seemed to be working. I sat on my sofa and opened my own laptop. An hour later I was right where I’d started. The only change was Marlowe, next to me, flat on his back, his faint snores punctuating my every keystroke.

Elizabeth Ann Simon, the daughter of unmarried Julianne Truitt and Matthew Simon, had disappeared. I searched for Matthew, only to learn he’d died of an oxycodone overdose shortly after leaving California with Julianne and their daughter. Julianne had left a trail of dead bodies behind her. I feared the daughter, Elizabeth Ann, might have been one of them.

As if sensing my fear, Marlowe rolled over and sat up. I rubbed behind his ear and was rewarded with a comforting purr. If only we humans could be as easily satisfied. In our quest for ever more wealth, we often leave destruction in our wake.

At my cell phone’s ring the cat arched his back, hissing as I pulled my hand quickly away and picked up.

Without preamble, Harry asked, “Have anything?”

I reported I’d found nothing.

“Meet me at the bookshop,” he said, disconnecting before I had a chance to ask him why.

I found the bookshop unlocked, a patrolman at the front desk, and Harry in the back room.

“How did you get them to let you in?”

Harry looked up from a worn accounts ledger. “Said I needed to find Paul’s copy of the will.”

“Why do you need Paul’s copy? Don’t you have one?”

“There’s a dispute.” He held up a photocopy.

I took a step closer. “Paul penciled in some changes? Is that legal?”

“Look at them.”

I took the will and flipped through the pages, trying to make out the scribbles along margins and atop text. “The HDC? He left the building and the shop to the HDC? Grogan didn’t say anything about this when I talked to him yesterday.” Perhaps he was a better actor than I’d thought.

Harry closed the ledger book and slipped it into his briefcase, keeping his eye on the door. “The HDC lawyer said a copy arrived at his office last night. That’s who I met with this morning.” Harry overturned some other files and sorted through the piles of papers. After a minute he looked up. “I couldn’t find the original, the one with the penciled in changes, in Paul’s apartment. It’s not here either. All we have are copies.” He held up the photocopy. “But that’s definitely Paul’s signature.”

“Anyone could get the original will, pencil in changes, scan it, and then reconstruct Paul’s signature.”

Harry nodded. “And the likely person is the one who had the most to gain.”

“Either Grogan or Hallewell.”

“It’s starting to look that way.”

We drove back to the mansion, where I joined Harry in his study. Not a minute later, a black ball of fur propelled itself across the room, upending one of Harry’s floor lamps before it veered right and landed in my lap.

Soon afterwards, Mrs. Griffin came in and scooped up her wayward charge. She smiled ruefully. “I love my sister, but I forgot,” she hugged Marlowe, “that she is better enjoyed in small doses. And I thought I should check in and make sure Marlowe was settled.”

Harry’s eyes started to water.

Marlowe wiggled in Mrs. Griffin’s arms and managed to break free, leaping back into my lap.

“I do think he’s fond of you, Jake,” Harry said to me. He looked at Mrs. Griffin. “I was going to call. Ash said the police want to question you again.”

Mrs. Griffin nodded. Her cheeks flushed red. “I don’t know what more they want from me.”

“Take heart. There are some new developments.” Harry filled her in.

“So I may not have inherited Marlowe?”

My cousin smiled. “I think we can safely say Marlowe is yours.”

That’s the thing about some people. Money doesn’t matter to them. Their own troubles don’t matter to them. What matters are those they love, human and otherwise. I looked from Harry to Mrs. Griffin. They were worth more than anything money could buy. Even the cat — I stifled a sneeze — was beginning to grow on me.

Still looking worried, Mrs. Griffin took Marlowe back to the kitchen.

“Well, as dubious as I am of the will, I’m glad the police have other suspects now.” I stretched out my arms and yawned.

“But do they?”

“It makes sense, Harry. You were right. Grogan thought he’d gained a city block when both Paul and Van Pelt died. He could have held a gun to Paul’s head and made him change the will. And after he did he poisoned Paul.”

“Yes, Jake. Perhaps you’re right.” With his red-rimmed eyes, Harry looked like he’d been on a doozy of a bender. “We’ve been chasing so many leads, I suppose I’d lost sight of our goal, which was to make sure Mrs. Griffin wasn’t falsely accused.”

Something in my cousin’s voice didn’t ring true. He pulled Paul’s ledger out of his briefcase, opened his laptop, and began searching.

“Ever hear of Herle Investigations?”

I’d settled back into a wingback and closed my eyes. They popped open. “Never. They aren’t local.”

“Website says they operate in every state.”

While that may have been true, I’d never run across any of their investigators in Pittsburgh or in Florida, where I’d apprenticed to a local gumshoe right out of college.

Harry picked up his landline and pressed speaker. In less than a minute we were talking to the investigator Paul had hired. Afterwards, we stared at each other in silence.

“So Julianne’s dead,” Harry finally said.

“Overdose,” I added. “But why was Paul looking for Julianne in the first place? I mean, sure she was family, but she’d left him in the lurch. Why did he want to find her now?”

“That, Jake, is the crux of the matter. I wonder — doesn’t Hollis University put on a big book festival every year?” Without waiting for me to answer he typed into his cell phone. “Yes, yes it does.” He opened Paul’s ledger, his finger gliding over the page. “And Paul went to it three months ago. To the same place Amelia’s City was on loan,” Harry said.

“But we don’t know if he even saw the painting.”

“Paul frequented museums. Don’t you remember the museum trip he and Mrs. Griffin took to Washington, D.C.?”

I did. It was the same weekend I’d opened, and closed, in The Moonstone, a disastrous reimagining for stage of the much loved Wilkie Collins novel. There’d been none of Mrs. Griffin’s decadent fudge brownies to soothe my pain and I’d truly suffered for it.

“Jake, you do remember?”

“Yes. But if Paul saw the painting, why wouldn’t he confront the museum? Or the Van Pelts?”

“With what? He was the one who gave the painting to Julianne. The only recourse he might have had was to track her down and ask her to share whatever money she might have made from it.”

“Do you think Paul told Margot he’d found the painting?”

Harry shook his head. “It didn’t sound like he had when we talked to her. I’m sure he wouldn’t have told her unless he had cash to give her.”

“How much is the painting worth, Harry?”

My cousin searched the provenance record.

If I’d been standing I would have staggered at the three quarters of a million dollars it was insured for. “But what does all this matter? Grogan is the killer. And maybe they’ll be able to pin Van Pelt’s death on him too.”

Harry closed his laptop. “Maybe.”

A chill ran through my body, as if Paul’s ghost was passing through me. Yesterday’s feeling of disquiet returned, but I had a rehearsal to get to.

The feeling of disquiet dogged me all night. The truth was, as much as I wanted to believe we’d wrapped up the case, it didn’t feel right to me either. To make matters worse, Beth said she was tired and canceled our after-rehearsal date. Disappointed, I declined the rest of the cast’s invitation to the late-night bar down the street and turned in the opposite direction, toward my parked Honda.

The air was heavy. Hoping to make it home before the threatening storm broke, I quickened my pace. As I passed a narrow alley a gloved hand grabbed my shoulder. I felt a hard poke in my side and swung around to see a spectre swathed in black, the glint of a blade in its hand.

Perhaps the surprise I wasn’t down on my knees from the initial blade thrust is what kept the dark phantom from plunging its knife into my chest. Perhaps it was the sound of my fellow actors calling out to me to join them after all. Perhaps it was my ready stance, honed from all those false encounters on the stage. For whatever reason, the dark wraith stepped quickly back into the alley, fading from view as if it had passed into another realm.

I must have been confused, thinking my date had arrived, as several hands supported me, moving me quickly to the light of a street lamp. I called Beth’s name.

“Take it easy, Jake,” I heard someone say. “Lucky you’re still wearing the belt.” After what seemed a few minutes a patrolman arrived, and then an ambulance. By then I felt more myself and was able to describe the strange mugging.

It was only after I got back home, after I’d removed Benedict’s belt — the one that had stopped the blade from piercing my skin — that I began to shake. I poured myself a glass of milk and drank it. It did no good. I needed something stronger. Harry’s twenty-year-old scotch came to mind. I didn’t think, in this case, he’d mind if I helped myself, so I walked the path to the mansion and let myself in the back door. I padded down the hall and retrieved the bottle from Harry’s hiding place, pouring a glass I downed without water or ice.

“Jake, what are you doing?” Harry stood in the doorway, his bat in hand.

“I had a close call,” I said, sinking into a wingback chair as I told him what had happened.

“This madness has to stop now,” Harry said, as much to himself as to me. He poured me a second glass of scotch. “You should have gone to the hospital.”

“My belt stopped the blade.” I twisted in my seat and held up my shirt for Harry to see. “I’m perfectly fine.”

“It’s a nasty bruise.” Harry pulled my shirt up higher. “Not as bad as Marlowe’s handiwork, though.”

As if he’d heard Harry say his name, an ungodly wail emanated from the bowels of the mansion. My cousin smiled. “I don’t think Marlowe likes being left out.”

Harry retrieved the annoying feline, who jumped into my lap as soon as he came into the room.

“It’s love, I think,” Harry said, sitting behind his desk.

I couldn’t answer. I was too busy stifling a sneeze.

The next day I woke to the smell of coffee and pizza.

Harry poked his head into my bedroom. “It’s eleven a.m. A lot has happened.”

I dressed and joined Harry at my kitchen table.

“I was at the bookshop this morning. We need to go back,” he said, putting a slice of microwaved pizza in front of me.

I couldn’t remember how long it had been sitting in my freezer but I ate it anyway. “Are we allowed into the shop?”

“They’ll meet us there.”

“The police?” I asked.

“I talked to Millicent’s lawyer,” Harry said.

“Her lawyer’s meeting us there?”

Harry shook his head. “No. The police.”

“What about Millicent?”

“She owns Amelia’s City.”

“You mean now that her husband is dead.”

“The painting was always hers. Van Pelt bought it for her before they were married. She’s the sole owner of record.” Harry pushed the coffee cup toward me. “Millicent’s lawyer said Selina Simon, the woman with the gallery on the bookstore’s block, has offered to buy Amelia’s City to help Millicent out. Apparently, she’s been a good friend of the Van Pelts’ over the years.”

I remembered the imperious gallery owner. “Is she offering a sum below its valuation?”

Harry smiled. “Ms. Simon is willing to effect the sale immediately. She has also assured Millicent she was willing to risk that the stepchildren might sue for the painting.”

“But there’s no risk?”

“None at all as far as I can see.”

We drove to Everything Old in Harry’s Town Car, which he parked in the alley behind the shop. The yellow crime-scene tape had been removed and Harry pulled out a key.

“We can go in this way,” he said, opening the back door, switching on a light, and disabling the alarm.

I followed him past boxes of books, through Paul’s office, and out into the store itself. Just as he flicked on overhead lights a bolt of black flew at my chest.

“Marlowe!”

“I thought he’d like to visit the shop,” Harry said. “I couldn’t catch him when I wanted to leave earlier in the day.” He lifted the cat off me. “That won’t be a problem anymore. The cat is smitten with you.”

I ignored Harry’s grin. “The police are done with the shop?”

“Yes. There’s nothing more to be gotten here.”

“You only brought me here to get the cat?”

Before Harry could answer there was a knock at the front door. He handed Marlowe to me, motioned me to be quiet, and disappeared back through the stacks. A few seconds later, I heard Lucy’s voice.

“What did you want me to come here for? You had to butt in.”

“Well, my dear, we have questions that need to be answered.”

While Harry’s voice sounded calm I could read the tension beneath.

“I suppose he told you.” Lucy didn’t sound like a college student.

“Who?”

“Your lackey.”

I felt hair bristle on the back of my neck. I might do work for Harry, but I was my own man.

“What would Jake have told me?”

“About the book, the one he looked through.”

I remembered her textbook in the sandwich shop and how I’d absent-mindedly thumbed through its pages.

“What about the book?”

“Paul’s pamphlet. I forgot I’d slipped it in there.”

I’d seen no pamphlet. I’d never told Harry about any pamphlet.

“The one with Amelia’s City on it?” Harry asked.

Silence followed. Slowly, I worked my way through the stacks with Marlowe glued to my chest. I almost gave us away when I caught sight of Selina, holding a knife to my cousin, but Lucy’s cold voice stopped me from speaking out. “The painting is mine,” she said. “Mom promised we’d get it back. But then she went soft on her stupid husband. Husband Number Two. Or Number Three, if you count my father.”

“You killed your stepfather?” I heard Harry’s surprise.

“It was easy. All I needed was to slip him the extra oxy, just like Mom showed me. She picked men with chronic pain, on prescription oxycodone. She shorted their pills. Sold them for inflated prices to college kids. When they got wise she killed them. But the last husband forgave her and she went all soft. I thought killing him would bring Mom back to her senses.”

“But it didn’t. And you killed her too?”

There was no answer.

“What I don’t understand,” Harry said to Selina, “is why you’re helping your niece. She is your brother’s daughter, isn’t she?”

I almost dropped Marlowe. I don’t know how I’d missed it. Of course. Lucy, really Elizabeth Simon, and Selina had the same last name.

“Liz needed my help. Isn’t that what family does, help each other?”

Her dripping sarcasm gave lie to the sentiment. I suspected Selina was in it for the tidy profit she’d reap when she sold Amelia’s City. I forced myself to remain quiet, grateful Marlowe was doing the same. I held him close to me, keeping him safe for Mrs. Griffin.

Harry looked at Lucy. “Why did you fake the changes in the will?”

“We needed to keep the pressure on. We needed to make Grogan look like he killed Paul. If we kept him busy Millicent’s HDC sale would fall through.”

“A will in Grogan’s favor would make him look like he he’d killed Paul,” my cousin said.

That was it. With the HDC sale falling through, Millicent would be forced to sell the painting.

I crept forward to get a better view. When we saw Lucy the cat dove into action, hissing as he launched himself from my chest down onto the floor and, in a few cat-bounds, back up onto the store clerk.

I took advantage of the ensuing chaos to grab a nearby broom and knock the knife out of Selina’s hand. As Lucy cried out in pain, Harry bounded through the storeroom. I heard him fling open the back door.

“Jake, how could you have doubted me?”

“How did I know you were letting in reinforcements instead of running away?” The sight of several policemen with guns drawn had been most welcome. With a macchiato in hand, I settled into one of the wingbacks in Harry’s study and eyed the plate of brownies in front of me. “Mrs. Griffin has outdone herself. These look spectacular!”

Harry agreed.

“What’s going to happen to Lucy?” I asked him.

“I don’t know. Her mother was a killer and taught Lucy, or I should say Elizabeth, how to be one too. They found a stash of empty oxycodone prescription bottles in her room. And they found hemlock leaves.”

“So Lucy taught her aunt how to kill Van Pelt. They framed Millicent, thinking she’d have to sell her painting at a loss, but then what?”

“I’m sure Lucy, or Elizabeth, persuaded Selina they’d resell the painting for a profit. It probably explains why the gallery was moving to a larger space.” Harry sipped his macchiato and reached for a brownie. “Long ago, Selina told Julianne the painting was valuable. She was angry when Julianne sold it for so little. When Selina saw that Millicent had it she thought she’d finally get a chance to make real money off it. That’s when she called Lucy.” He took a bite of the brownie.

“Do you think Lucy, er, Elizabeth, would have killed Selina after they got the painting?”

“Yes, yes I do.”

“But why did Lucy kill Paul? He was her cousin.”

Harry took a bite of his brownie. “Lucy enjoyed fooling Paul, thinking he didn’t know she was his niece. My best guess is he told her he’d found out who she was and she panicked.”

“Like she did when Louetta Pickens saw her leaving the shop after feeding Paul the poison?”

“Exactly.”

“And like she did when she came after me with a knife?”

“Yes, Jake.”

I looked around the study. “Where’s Marlowe?”

Harry grinned. “Mrs. Griffin took him back home. Said it would help her sister make up her mind about when she was leaving.”

Funny, I kinda missed the black furball.