The Cat Collector Page 13

  Steve studied her and seemed to ponder a moment. “Not at this time, but I may want to speak to you again.” He took the Wheel of Fortune card from Claudia. “I’ll hold onto this,” he told Maria. “It’s evidence. We had it tested for fingerprints.”

  Maria’s eyes widened with alarm. “You did? But . . . mine are on it.”

  “I’ll send someone to take yours for comparison. If your chiropractor verifies that you were at his office at the time of the murder, then you’ll be cleared. But the card has more than one person’s prints on it.”

  “I’m sure. It’s been in my family for a century.” Maria sounded surprisingly defensive. “My grandmother’s prints must be on it. She loved to do Tarot readings. She died forty years ago.”

  “Fingerprint experts know what they’re doing,” Steve quietly told her. He slipped the card into his jacket pocket and handed the Tarot deck to Maria. Rising from the couch, he told her, “Appreciate your help. If you think of anything that might be useful in solving this case, give me a call.” He handed her his Briarwood Police card.

  Maria stood and dutifully accepted his card. She walked with them to the door and said goodbye.

  As they drove away in Steve’s unmarked car, Claudia asked, “What do you think about Maria?”

  “I think she knows more than she’s saying.”

  “Me, too. Like how the Tarot card made its way to Mrs. Worthington’s. And she seemed defensive about the idea of working with someone else. I wonder why.”

  “Right.” He glanced at her. “I’m glad you came along. You put her at ease asking about her violets.”

  “Until you showed her the Wheel of Fortune card. She turned pale. I thought she might pass out.”

  Steve slowly nodded. “I think that’s the key. Have you ever had a Tarot reading?”

  “No. I’m not into that kind of thing.”

  “Me, either. But I’m kind of curious about it now.”

  “Really?”

  “Maybe a Tarot expert could tell me if my life will change for the better.”

  Claudia felt hesitant, but found herself asking, “In what way?”

  “Oh, say, if a legal license and a church ceremony that decrees a change from singular to plural are in my future.”

  Here he goes again! Claudia rolled her eyes, stymied as to how to respond.

  “Just saying. Wondering if it’s in the cards.” Steve’s tone was airy. “So, where should we stop for dinner? In the mood for Italian? Chinese? A burger?”

  Claudia wasn’t particularly hungry, but relieved he’d changed the subject. She almost replied Chinese, but remembered fortune cookies would be served. Steve could probably interpret any cryptic fortune he might get as a cue for marriage.

  She grew still as all at once she recalled a curious thing. A year ago or more, she’d had lunch at a Chinese restaurant. When she’d opened her cookie, her fortune read: You are doomed to be happy in wedlock.

  “Any suggestion?” Steve prompted.

  “Italian,” Claudia quickly answered.

  CHAPTER five

  The Funeral

  On the following Saturday, the funeral for Lydia Worthington was held at the largest church in Briarwood. Claudia drove there from the cat clinic and met Steve in the parking lot. She hadn’t worn scrubs that day and instead had put on a long black skirt and a blouse with a floral print against a black background. She’d twisted her long hair into a French braid.

  “You look very nice!” Steve said as she walked up to where he was waiting near the entrance to the church lot.

  “Thank you. So do you. New suit?”

  “Store had a sale, so I took advantage.” He straightened his striped tie worn with a crisply tailored grey pinstripe suit. “Shall we go in and find seats? The pews will fill up.”

  As they began walking up the steps toward the church’s large double doors, Claudia noticed there was a Briarwood police presence. One uniformed man stood near the parking lot entrance, another on the sidewalk in front of the building, one on the church steps, and a police car had pulled up at the corner of the cross streets where the historic church stood.

  “Are you expecting trouble?” Claudia asked, after she saw Steve nod to the young police officer standing guard on the church steps.

  “Just a precaution. Mrs. Worthington was murdered—and well-known—so a crowd is expected. People may come out of curiosity.”

  As they entered the church, a uniformed female officer stood in the church entry hall. They went into the sanctuary and walked down the center aisle. Claudia noticed a group of men and women, all wearing blue Cubs T-shirts with the team’s circular logo, sitting in the very back two rows on the right side. Their casual attire made a contrast with all the well-dressed people entering or already seated.

  Smiling, Claudia whispered to Steve, “I wonder if they’re hoping to see Wrigley here.”

  Steve laughed. “How’s he doing, by the way?”

  “Okay. I called his vet and found out his dry food is duck and green pea. He’s been eating, but he’s quiet. Still traumatized. He likes to be near me. I haven’t let the other cats in to see him yet. But they hang around the guest room door a lot.”

  “He’ll be your most famous house guest.” Steve motioned toward a few empty seats in a row about one third down from the back of the church. People already seated moved over so Steve and Claudia could sit at the end of the upholstered wooden pew. An organ was playing and a closed white casket had been placed at the front, near the altar. Next to the casket was an enlarged color photo of Lydia Worthington holding Wrigley on her lap. Several large floral arrangements added beauty and the fragrance of roses.

  Claudia perused the program she’d been handed by an usher. As she read, she began to feel cold and knew that soon she’d be shivering. “They have the air conditioning turned up so high,” she quietly said to Steve. “I keep an old sweater in my car. Be back in a minute.”

  Steve turned as she got up, concern in his eyes. “I can go with you.”

  “I’ll be fine.” She grinned. “The place is crawling with cops.”

  Claudia hurried down the aisle in her high heels, walked outside and headed to the parking lot at the side of the building. She found her Prius, got her white sweater out of the back seat, and locked her car. As she turned to go back, a plump, brown-haired, middle-aged woman, wearing black pants and a Cubs T-shirt, approached her with hesitance.

  “Hi,” the woman said, her tone and demeanor apologetic. “I noticed you walk in with that detective I saw on TV. O’Reilly, is that his name?”

  “O’Rourke.” Claudia wasn’t fearful of the woman, but wondered what she wanted.

  “Right, Detective O’Rourke. Um, look, I can’t get involved. Hope no one sees me talking to you.” She turned to glance behind her, then held out a tightly folded copy of the program for the funeral. “I wrote a note for the detective, hoping to get it to him. Saw you leave. Would you please give this to him? Don’t point me out. I don’t want trouble. Okay?”

  “Is the note about Mrs. Worthington’s murder?” Claudia asked.

  The woman held her forefinger to her lips. “Shh.” She nodded yes. “Have to get back to my group. We sit together in the bleachers at Wrigley Field. Said I was going to the ladies’ room. So, thanks. Goodbye!” She hurried off.

  “Wait. What’s your name?” Claudia called.

  The woman ignored the question and increased her pace. Soon she’d gone around the corner of the building and was out of sight.

  Claudia opened up the folded program that felt damp from sweat. Inside, scribbled in pencil, she read: Art Clingenpeel. Red hair, sunglasses. Cubs shirt & cap. Back row. Lost $ on Wrigley prediction. Says wants to kill cat. Suspect?

  Claudia refolded the program and hid it in the pocket of her skirt, then walked back into the church carrying her sweater. People were still entering as the large sanctuary, much bigger and more ornate than Claudia’s church could boast, grew increasingly crowded. As she p
assed the last two pews where the Cubs fans were seated, she faced forward and gave them a sidelong glance. She caught sight of a man with long red hair and sunglasses at the end of the back row by the side aisle. Sitting in the middle of the pew in front of him, she saw the woman who had snuck out to pass her the note.

  Claudia took her seat beside Steve, who helped her wrap her sweater around her shoulders. “A woman in the Cubs group gave me this,” she whispered, glad the organ music was still playing. She pulled the program out of her pocket and opened it so he could see the penciled note.

  Steve took it and read it.

  “I saw a guy of that description in the back row, side aisle.” Claudia looked at Steve. “What do we do?”

  Steve seemed to be thinking as he refolded the note and stuck it in his jacket pocket. “He might get lost in the crowd when the service ends. I better approach him now. You stay here.”

  He rose and headed down the middle aisle, dodging people entering, and disappeared into the entry hall. Claudia turned her gaze toward the back door leading to the side aisle and in a moment Steve appeared. He looked over the Cubs fans and leaned down to say something to the red-haired man wearing sunglasses. Steve showed his badge and Art Clingenpeel’s muscular shoulders stiffened. With a churlish countenance, he got up and walked ahead of Steve out the door.

  Claudia couldn’t just sit in her pew and wait. She rose and headed toward the back to try to quietly observe what happened. When she reached the entry hall, she saw Steve escorting the tall man to the outside steps. And then, all at once, Clingenpeel took off running.

  “Stop! Police!” Steve yelled in an authoritative voice as he began chasing him.

  The uniformed policeman on the steps immediately followed. Steve caught up and in a swift move brought Clingenpeel face down on the grass while people entering the church stared. Impressed at Steve’s strength and agility, Claudia walked closer. She stood nearby as the uniformed cop handcuffed Clingenpeel while Steve kept him pinned down.

  The fugitive was still struggling, kicking his feet. “Why are you cuffing me?”

  “Need to ask you some questions,” Steve said. “About the murder of Mrs. Worthington.”

  “Huh? I’m no murderer!”

  “I hear you threatened to kill Wrigley the cat.”

  “I didn’t do nothin’ to that fricken cat!”

  “Why did you run?” Steve asked.

  The man gritted his teeth and didn’t reply.

  “You’re coming to the station with us,” Steve told him. He and the officer lifted him to his feet and escorted him to the waiting police car, just as other squad cars were pulling up in front of the church.

  Claudia stayed where she was, catching her breath. She realized she hadn’t been breathing, because she’d gotten scared watching Steve physically apprehend the man. After Clingenpeel had gotten into the car, Steve looked back and saw her. He hurried over to say, “Have to go. Stay here and let me know if you see or hear anything else.”

  “Are you all right?” She looked him over and pointed a shaking finger at his sleeve. “You got grass stains on your new suit.”

  He grinned. “I’ll send it to the cleaners. You sound like a wife.”

  She blinked. “Well, I got worried when I saw you tackle that big guy.”

  “About me or my suit?”

  “About you, silly.” She made an effort to smile. “But I see you know how to take care of yourself.”

  He looked at her, new lights playing in his eyes. “Claudia, I’d really love to continue this conversation, but I have to interview this guy.” Steve squeezed her hand. “Later,” he said and headed toward his car.

  Claudia sat through the service, having trouble concentrating at first. She had to admit to herself that she cared more deeply about Steve than she realized. Am I in love? What else would describe what I feel? But the thought unsettled her, and she decided to think it through later.

  She was finally able to focus when Brent walked up to the front to speak. He gave a touching eulogy about his aunt and her devotion to charitable causes, to the Cubs, and her beloved Wrigley.

  Claudia began to worry about the fact that she’d become Wrigley’s caretaker—a more comfortable worry than examining her feelings for Steve. The cat was surely missing his favorite person, had probably seen Mrs. Worthington murdered. Would he recover? And what about the Cubs fans? Would they want him to continue predicting baseball games?

  After the service, as she was leaving, she saw the woman who had given her the scribbled note. But when she noticed Claudia looking at her, she quickly turned and brushed past people to dash out. Claudia figured she didn’t want to be identified as the snitch who told on a fellow Cubs fan. With his height and red hair, Clingenpeel matched the general description of the man seen trying to carry off Wrigley, so Claudia could understand why the woman wanted to remain anonymous.

  As she walked toward the parking lot, Brent caught up with her.

  “Thanks for coming to the service,” he said. “How’s Wrigley?”

  “Your tribute to your aunt was lovely,” she told him. “Wrigley’s doing okay. He had a limp, but that’s gone now. He’s still not feeling at home. I’m going to gradually introduce him to my other two cats.” A thought came to her. “Brent, would you mind if I got Wrigley’s toys and things from Mrs. Worthington’s house? If he had familiar objects around him, it would help.”

  “Absolutely,” Brent replied. “Excellent idea. But the house is still a crime scene. Maybe Detective O’Rourke can get you in. My aunt kept a lot of Wrigley’s things in her bedroom upstairs. He’d stay in her room at night.”

  “Okay, thanks.” Claudia felt relieved that she could do something to comfort Wrigley.

  “Thank you,” he said. “I’m glad Wrigley will be looked after by such a caring person.”

  They parted with a hand-shake. Claudia was deep in thought as she entered the parking lot, along with a crowd of other people going to their cars. Someone tapped her on the shoulder. She turned to find Maria Kowalski, dressed in black, looking at her with tired, dark-circled eyes.

  “Maria. I didn’t see you in the church.”

  “I sat in the balcony. Is Detective O’Rourke here?”

  “He had to leave.”

  Maria bowed her head, her shoulders scrunched in a guilty manner. “There’s something I should have told him. My young cousin, Stanislaus, has been helping me houseclean over the summer. I didn’t like it known that my bad back is making it hard to do my job. He was helping me in return for letting him stay at my apartment.”

  “So he was familiar with Mrs. Worthington’s house. Did he have a key? What about the security code?”

  “We used my key. I suppose he might have seen the code numbers as I punched them in. But Mrs. W only turned on the security system when she was out of town. She’d been home the last few weeks. Stanislaus is a good boy,” she insisted. “Not the smartest young man, but wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

  “Would he know about the missing Tarot card?”

  The lines in Maria’s face seemed to grow deeper. “He had it. I should have told you. He thought it meant good luck. But I’m sure he dropped it as he vacuumed or something. I know how it looks, but I can’t believe he’d murder anyone. He’s never had a bad temper or been violent. Why would he want to kill Mrs. W?”

  Claudia took out her cell phone. “You’ll need to tell Detective O’Rourke all this.”

  CHAPTER six

  All In a Day’s Work

  As Claudia, Maria and Steve sat in a small, plain, conference room at the Briarwood Police Station, Steve listened as Maria told him everything she’d confessed to Claudia.

  “Stanislaus sleeps on my couch. Or sometimes he stays at a friend’s house. He’s a janitor at Briarwood Grade School, but school’s closed for the summer, so he’s temporarily out of work. He can’t afford an apartment. I offered to have him help me houseclean in exchange for staying with me and cooking some meals for him. I g
ive him a little money, too. I’m sure he must have accidentally dropped the Tarot card the last time we housecleaned for Mrs. W. That was the day before she was murdered.”

  “If you were cleaning, wouldn’t you have noticed the card littering the living room floor?” Steve asked.

  Maria lifted her shoulders. “I don’t know why we didn’t. I trusted Stanislaus to vacuum the Persian rug in that room and sweep the hardwood floor while I was cleaning the kitchen. I didn’t check his work as I should have.”

  “Why did he carry the Wheel of Fortune card with him?” Claudia asked. “I thought the whole Tarot deck is usually used.”

  “I showed him the deck because it belonged to his great-grandmother. I told him that each morning she used to draw one card out of the deck as the card for the day. She believed it gave an insight into what the day might have in store. Like reading your horoscope in the newspaper. So Stanislaus shuffled the cards and that was the one he drew. When I told him the Wheel of Fortune could mean good luck, he got all excited. He’s always feeling down on his luck, you see. He wants a place of his own, but can’t even afford a cell phone. He asked if he could keep the card. I guess he thought of it as a lucky charm. I let him take it. It seemed to make him so happy.”

  “Where is he now?” Steve asked.

  “I don’t know. At his friend’s maybe,” Maria worriedly replied. “I tried calling there, but no answer.”

  “Do you still have the key to Mrs. Worthington’s house?”

  Maria opened her black handbag and drew out her key chain. “Here it is,” she said, holding up one of the keys.

  “Would you describe Stanislaus?” Steve asked. “Have a photo of him?”

  “I have a photo.” She began searching her purse. “He’s fairly tall. Long reddish brown hair. Green eyes.”

  “Clean-shaven?” Steve asked.

  “Yes. Used to have a beard, but he started shaving it. Said it was too hot in the summer.” Maria found the snapshot and handed it to Steve.