The Whole Cat Аnd Caboodle

Chapter 23

“That man I just showed you a picture of was following Arthur Fenety the day he was killed?” Liz said.

Royce looked at her, two frown lines forming between his eyes. “I just said that, didn’t I?”

“Yes, you did,” she said. “Did you say it to the police?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“Why?” I asked.

He leaned behind Liz to look at me. “They didn’t ask,” he said with a shrug.

I had a little bubble of excitement in my chest. “How far did the man follow Mr. Fenety?” I asked. It struck me that the key to getting answers out of the older man was all in how the question was worded.

He pointed down the path. “Right until the path goes off through the trees just up there.”

“Did Arthur know he was being followed?” Liz asked.

He nodded. “Oh, I’d say he did.”

A soccer ball came bouncing over the grass toward us and I kicked it back to the bunch of preschoolers who were playing with it just beyond the raised flower beds. A chorus of little voices yelled, “Thank you!”

“Why would you say that?” Liz asked. Her jaw was tense and it was pretty clear she was running out of patience.

Royce took off his cap, smoothed down the tufts of gray hair that rimmed his head, and put it back on again. “Because Fenety just turned around all of a sudden and knocked that fella into the bushes right there.” He pointed to the spot where the path forked just ahead.

Liz and I exchanged looks. As we came level with the bushes I noticed that the side of the path sloped down at an angle there. It would have been fairly easy to catch someone by surprise and trip them into the bushes.

“Don’t climb down there, girl,” the former mail carrier said, raising a hand in warning.

“Why?” I asked.

“Lotta poison ivy down there.”

Poison ivy. “Bingo!” I said to Liz.

I looked at Royce Collins. “What did Arthur Fenety do after he knocked the man following him to the bushes?”

“He said something—I couldn’t hear what. Then he helped the guy up. They stood there talking for a bit and then Fenety went down that way.” He pointed to the trail through the woods and hiked up his pants. “Other guy headed back to the main entrance.”

Liz took a deep breath and smiled. “Thank you, Royce,” she said. “You’ve been a big help.”

“You’re welcome, Elizabeth,” he said. He tipped his cap to her. “If there’s anything else you need to know, feel free to stop by my place anytime.” He gave her a big smile and a wink and continued on down the path.

Liz took my arm. “Was that enough?” she asked. “Because I’m not going to his house to ask him any more questions. You will be on your own.”

I nudged Liz’s shoulder with my own. “You know, his teeth looked very nice and he doesn’t have any hair growing out of his nose. You could do a lot worse.”

She glared at me. “There are sixteen-year-old boys walking around with half their underwear showing and their pants aren’t as droopy as Royce Collins’s are.” She shook her head. “Honestly, what is it with men my age? Their pants are either up under their armpits or hanging so low we can almost see the crack—”

“Liz!” I exclaimed.

“Of dawn,” she finished.

We were back at the SUV and I walked around to get into the driver’s side. “You’re being a little hard on the poor man. His pants weren’t that bad.”

“Oh, really?” Liz said. She pointed across the park. Royce Collins was almost out of sight where the path curved again. His khaki pants slumped on his hips, the seat a good eight inches below his . . . real seat.

I slid behind the wheel. “All he needs is a good woman to teach him a little fashion sense,” I said, grinning at her.

She smiled back at me as she reached for her seat belt. “Would you like to talk about how both Charlotte and Rose think you and Nicolas would make an absolutely adorable couple now that he’s staying in town?”

“No,” I said.

She clicked the seat belt into place. “Let’s just drive.”

“We need to talk to Jim Grant again.”

“No time like the present,” she said.

We drove across town to the Rosemont Inn, where Jim Grant had been staying. The inn was a former sea captain’s home, built in 1822. It was only a couple of blocks from the waterfront.

Jim Grant had gone out for lunch. We found him at McNamara’s, about to start in on a pastrami sandwich.

“Ms. Grayson, hello,” he said, smiling as Liz and I approached the table.

“Hello,” I said, smiling in return. “And please call me Sarah.”

“If you’ll call me Jim,” he said.

“This is my friend, Liz French.”

Liz smiled. “Hello,” she said.

“Jim, do you have a minute?” I asked. “There’s something I wanted to ask you.”

“Uh, sure,” he said. “Please sit down.”

I pulled another chair over to the table, and Liz and I sat down.

Jim wiped his fingers on his napkin. I could still see a bit of a bandage peeking out from below his shirt cuff. “What can I do for you?” he asked.

“You could explain why you made a point of telling me you got into town Tuesday morning when you actually arrived here on Sunday.”

Jim Grant would have been a lousy poker player. A tiny muscle started to twitch on his left eyelid. He twisted his napkin into a tight ball in his right hand.

I shrugged. “It’s a small place. It’s hard to keep anything secret for very long.”

“I didn’t want you to think I’d done anything to Fenety.”

“Did you?” Liz asked.

His gaze flicked over to her for a moment. “No. I didn’t.”

I pointed at his arm. “You followed Arthur and he caught you.”

His mouth pulled into a thin line. “Twice my age and he got the jump on me. And to top it off I landed in a damn patch of poison ivy. My whole arm came up in welts that itched like a bugger. I’m really allergic to the stuff.”

“Why were you following Arthur?” Liz asked.

Jim pushed his plate back. “I thought maybe he’d lead me to wherever he stashed my mother’s jewelry.” He reached for his coffee. “You probably heard. The police found his safe-deposit box. Most of my mother’s things were in it. As for the money, I don’t care what he said; it’s long gone.”

I leaned forward, putting both hands on the table. “Wait a minute. What do you mean, you don’t care what he said?”

“He told me he’d changed. He said he’d call me in the morning and he’d give me the money he took from my mother.” He looked at me. “Yeah, I didn’t tell you the truth about that, either.”

“What did you do after you talked to Arthur?”

“I went back to the place where I was staying and got in the bathtub with a bunch of oatmeal. It was supposed to help.” He rubbed his hand over his left arm. “I told you, the damn thing itched like a bugger. I spent the afternoon getting drunk and half the night heaving my guts out.”

I looked at Liz.

“Ask them at the inn,” he said. “They’ll tell you. I didn’t kill Fenety. I wanted to get back everything he took from my mother. I couldn’t do that if he was dead.”

Liz and I left Jim Grant to his lunch and walked back to the SUV.

“We should go back to the Rosemont, just in case he’s still not telling the truth,” Liz said.

I nodded. Even without my feline lie detector I was certain Jim Grant had been honest. And it turned out I was right. The staff at the Rosemont confirmed that Jim Grant had returned to the inn just after noon on Monday, his left arm swollen and covered in welts from the poison ivy. He’d spent a half an hour in an oatmeal bath the housekeeper had gotten ready for him, and then proceeded to get standing-up-falling-down drunk in the lounge.

“I was so sure I was right,” I said to Liz as we stood on the sidewalk outside the inn.

“So, now what?” she said.

I shook my head. I was at a loss. “I don’t know.”