Maid of Murder

Chapter Thirty-Nine

The next morning, I woke up in my funeral outfit with Templeton kneading my head with his forepaws. I reached up to pet him and felt the dried dove poop on my sleeveless blouse. I shuddered. I blinked my eyes, fatigued from staring at the ceiling most of the night, and stumbled into the shower fully clothed.

An hour later, dressed in shorts, T-shirt, and running shoes, I felt twenty percent human and eighty percent idiot. The guilt from my outburst haunted me. Ina was right—I would make an excellent Catholic.

I plugged in the phone and grabbed a new box of raspberry toaster pastries, Ina’s favorite. I hopped over the iron railing that divided our porches. It was seven-fifteen; Ina would be on her third mug of Irish Cream coffee.

There was no answer when I knocked. I knocked again, and Ina threw open the door.

My hand caught suspended in the air. I waved. “Good morning,” I said brightly.

Ina scowled. Her ensemble that morning was lemon yellow pedal pushers and a lime green tank top.

I held out my peace offering like a Girl Scout making her pitch. Giving the inside of my cheek a good chomp before I spoke, I apologized. “Sorry I blew up at you yesterday. I was angry at my parents, not you.”

Ina took the box of pastries from my outstretched hand.

Taking this as a sign of goodwill, I pressed my luck. “I know that you were just worried about Theodore. You’re a terrific cat sitter. Mark’s really grateful.” Or, he would be if he knew.

Ina examined the box. “Raspberry?”

I nodded.

Ina’s withered face broke into a glorious grin. “Come on in, Sweetie. Let’s have breakfast.”

If things were that easy with my parents, I’d write a personal letter of thanksgiving to the cereal company.

The layout of Ina’s apartment was the mirror image of my own, but that’s where the similarities ceased. Ina’s apartment had all the novelty and, well, greenness of an Irish specialty shop skirting Boston Common. The carpet was green; the curtains were green; and the walls were green. Shamrocks decorated the lampshades and doilies, and clay pots of houseplants were painted to resemble pots of gold. A large icon of St. Patrick held center stage on the wall directly across from the couch. However, the apartment held remnants of Ina’s former life—the life before the senator’s letter—in the heavy mahogany furniture and silver frames of deceased relatives.

Ina dropped the pastries in the toaster. “Fella’s doing much better. He’s in the bedroom, sleeping it off.”

“Ina, I’m sure that he only had a stomachache from all he ate yesterday. You should only feed him cat food, at least for a while,” I told her as gently as possible.

“I gave Archie table scraps all the time. He always turned up his nose when he was full, but Fella never turned up his nose. He kept eating. Made me wonder if that brother of yours ever fed him.”

I sat on the bar stool by the abbreviated counter. “Theodore is well fed. Any scale will tell you that. He doesn’t understand the concept of full, or, for that matter, self-restraint.”

The toaster popped, and Ina tossed two extra crispy treats onto a saucer for me. The edges smoked. I bit off a corner and burned the roof of my mouth. Penance. I ineffectively waved my hands in front of my mouth,

“Yes, some don’t understand self-restraint,” she remarked.

After Ina’s pastries were charbroiled, and mine had cooled to a temperature akin to the shady-side of the equator, I took three steps, Ina took six, and together, we sat on the green plush sofa.

Ina spoke. “What’s got you spooked, honey?”

After burning my mouth twice more, I fanned my mouth again. “Spooked? I’m not spooked.”

She wiped a few stray crumbs from her tank top to the floor. Theodore would eat them after his nap. “I’ve never seen you so uptight.”

I scooted away from her for a clearer view. “I’m not uptight.”

Ina shook her head slowly.

“It’s been an unusual week, and under the circumstances, I’ve held together very well.”

Ina shook her head again. “You’re three tantrums away from the psych ward. You’ll never survive if your brother goes to trial.”

Frequently, Ina rambled on in incomprehensible psychobabble, but I wasn’t in the mood to indulge. “What on earth are you talking about?”

Ina placed her saucer on the low coffee table. Sprinkle crumbs were all that remained of her breakfast. She licked her right index finger and picked up the crumbs, putting them in her mouth. I was ready to throttle her when she finally spoke. “A tiny part of you thinks that Mark could be guilty.”

I jumped from the sofa, tipping my own saucer and half-eaten pastry to the floor. “I do not.”

“He had motive, means, and opportunity.” She ticked the three points off with her hands.

I lowered my volume to a roar. “You are not Hercule Poirot, for goodness sakes. You just can’t check off these elements and have the answer.”

“My dear, I know this is hard for you, and I truly believe that Mark is innocent, but the only way you are going to find out who is really responsible for Olivia’s death is to assume that Mark is guilty and prove that he’s not.”

“You’ve got the legal system backward, Ina.” I slid back onto the sofa and picked up the pastry and saucer.

“You do want to know what happened, don’t you?”

“Of course I do.”

She shrugged. Case closed.

“I’m trying to help Mark as much as I can. I’ve talked to people about it. I’m going to bail him out, at least try to bail him out. What more can I do?”

“We know the police aren’t going to figure it out with that bloody Englishman in charge.”

I laughed in spite of myself.

“So, let’s hash it out. You can be the brilliant detective; I’ll be the wise sidekick. The sidekick is usually the fat one, but he’s the one that gets to write everything down.” Ina pulled a notepad and a pen out of the small drawer in the coffee table.

“Ina, I’m not a private eye, and neither are you.” I rose and took my plate to the counter. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll pass. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go try to bail my brother out of jail.”

“Can I come?”

“No.”

Her face fell.

Theodore lumbered into the room and begged Ina for a bite. “I’m all out little Fella, but India still has some of hers.”

I threw my uneaten pastry in the trash. “Ina, he cannot have people food.”

She nodded solemnly. Theodore licked crumbs from the carpet.