I.L. Wolf - Her Cousin, Much Removed Page 8

  “Venetia, would you like to introduce me to your friend? Is he the reason that your extremely handsome and,” she said, looking the detective straight in the eye, “exceedingly successful beau couldn’t make it?”

  “Don’t be silly, Aunt Cicada—”

  “Sissy,”

  “Aunt Sissy—”

  “Just Sissy,” she said.

  “This is Detective Cadby James. He’s investigating Delenda’s death.”

  “Oh, such a tragedy,” she said. “You know, you can’t always judge the number of lives touched by a person like Delenda by the number of people at her service, no matter how well organized it might be.”

  “I’m sure,” said Detective James.

  “Because she touched many, many lives,” she said. “Many many.”

  “No doubt.”

  “Only, apparently, not the kind of lives who can make it on a Thursday. What can you do? People are so busy these days.”

  “Yes, that’s the reason,” Venetia said quietly. Detective James shot her a strange look. She’d forgotten that it was only her aunt who had selective hearing. “As I’ve said,” she continued, the flush creating actual heat in her skin, “she wasn’t exactly, um, diplomatic.”

  “I’m getting that,” he said.

  Walter Bloaerd came by with Higson Boggs, and Walter settled in next to her aunt. Cozily.

  “Well,” Sissy said brightly, “We’re going to go to my house. Venetia, as I said, I’ll expect you to stop at the deli, there’s a platter there, and then you can come in through the back door. Why bother dragging that through all the people? And that will be convenient for you because you can grab an apron, Courtney will have one waiting for you.”

  “Courtney?” said Cadby.

  “My aunt’s maid.”

  “Are you catering on the side or something?” Cadby asked.

  “Not intentionally. Or willingly,” she said. “Aunt Sissy,” she said, and Sissy gritted her teeth, but said nothing, clutching Walter’s arm a tad more tightly, “it doesn’t look like many people are planning to come back to your house.”

  She pointed to the stack of papers, printed with a map from the funeral home to Sissy’s place. They sat on the table untouched.

  “I’m sure people know where I live.”

  “I’m planning on going,” said Walter.

  “I have things to do,” said Higson, giving Venetia another once over. “You’re sure we haven’t met?”

  “No, wait, wait,” said Walter, eventually. “I know who you are. You’re the person who waters our plants.”

  “Guilty,” she said. “Guilty.”

  “It’s funny, you see a person once a month—”

  “Week.”

  “Once a week for however long, and you still can’t place them out of context.”

  “That’s so true,” said Sissy. “And, frankly, Venetia’s really not one to stand out in a crowd, she’s got one of those, well, you know what I mean, essences.”

  “Thanks Aunt Cicada,” Venetia said. Sissy glared, but since Walter wasn’t her first time roping a steer at the rodeo, she held her tongue.

  “It’s still amazes me that she managed to snag someone like Mason Certain,” Sissy said, a gleam in her gray eyes.

  “Mason Certain,” said Walter. Yep, Sissy hit her target. “Local 9 News? Really?”

  Venetia nodded and counted how many steps it would take her to get the heck out of there. She wondered if the detective carried a gun and if he’d cover her if she fled. “The anchor?” The dismissive air he wore in a fading coat of cologne transformed before her into something more opportunistic. It was funny the first few times she’d seen it happen, but it had gotten old. Really, really old.

  “That’s the one.”

  “You know, I met him at a gala once—”

  “He goes to a lot of galas.”

  “I’m so sorry to disrupt your plans for Venetia,” said Cadby, “But I’m afraid she’s going to have to come with me. Official business.”

  “Venetia, are you in trouble? I always suspected you’d end up in trouble eventually, but at your own dear departed cousin’s funeral. For shame.” Sissy shook her head, her hair only slightly moving with it. “For shame,” she said again, this time directly to Walter.

  “No, no, Mrs.—”

  “Nouncense.”

  “Wasn’t he two husbands ago?” Venetia said. “The last one was Lan Mather. Shouldn’t you be Mrs. Mather?”

  Sissy didn’t respond, she only opened her eyes wide, narrowed them again and pressed her mouth into a tiny circle.

  “Mrs. Nouncense, Venetia has been very helpful with the investigation into Delenda’s death, actually.”

  “Well that’s a turn of events,” she said. “Most people don’t find her that helpful.”

  “And I’m afraid I have to take her away right now. But I’m sure you’ll manage, given the light turnout.” He smiled surprisingly warmly.

  “And you’re sure she won’t need bailing out? You know, of jail? Oh this girl,” she said to Walter, shaking her head.

  “I think you’ve gotten that backward, Aunty Cicada,” she said fed up and switching to full-throttle. “Don’t you remember? Actually, what happened—”

  “Never you mind with all that,” she said quickly.

  “Let me give you my card,” said Walter, pulling one from the inside pocket of his jacket. He pressed it into her hand with a cloying grin she found far more creepy than his previous appraising indifference.

  “Thanks, I’m not really in the market for a lawyer,” she said.

  “No,” he said, “pass it on to Mason Certain. I’m excellent with contracts,” he said.

  “Mrs. Nouncense, we’ll probably need a conversation of our own.” Detective James said.

  “Now’s clearly not the time,” she said. “If you have to be off,” she said, “you’d better go.” Her last word trailed off as she noticed a man standing near the door. “Who is that?” she said.

  “Who?” said Venetia, her back the wrong way.

  “That man over there. Who is that?”

  Venetia turned, but barely got the tiniest peek at him before he melted back through the double doors. “I don’t know,” she said slowly. “But I’m pretty sure this isn’t the first time I’ve seen him.”

  “There seems to be a lot of that going around,” Walter said. His jovial tone hit the papered walls and fell flat. “Ha,” he added to Sissy.

  “Ha,” she said, still focused on the spot where the man had been.

  “As your aunt said, we’d better go.” Cadby gestured to Venetia to go ahead, and nodded at the others. “I’ll be in touch, Mrs. Nouncense, about our meeting. Maybe you can give me some convenient times over the next few days.”

  “I’ll have to get my book,” she said.

  Once they were outside, Cadby checked to be certain there was no one within earshot. “Was it the same guy you saw in the van?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “It could have been. I didn’t see him for that long.”

  He waved her the direction of the car, and they walked through the parking lot, in silence. “So no graveside service?” he said eventually.

  “Nope. Aunt Sissy’s generosity only goes so far. Especially until the insurance kicks in. Although, wait,” she said.

  He looked around. “What? Do you see him?”

  “No, I’m thinking.” He opened her door for her, and she got in. She sat, mid-thought, until he got back into the car.

  “Yes?” he said.

  “If Higson Boggs is the husband, won’t he get the insurance proceeds?”

  “Are you trying to trick me into giving you information?”

  “Not much of a trick, is it? I already know about the will” she said. She drummed her fingers against the armrest and stared out the window as he backed out and then got onto the street. “Besides,” she said finally, “the policy would be separate from the will, that’s the whole point.”

&
nbsp; “Yes, that is generally true,” he said, concentrating awfully hard on turning the wheel.

  “Thanks, by the way, for get me out of my indentured servitude for the afternoon.”

  “No problem. Besides, I need you to go with me to talk to Billie.”

  “What, you’ve decided you need my help?”

  Letting the car idle at the stoplight, he turned to her and gave her a lopsided grin. “Absolutely,” he said.

  “All right, I’ll bite.”

  “They’re only letting in family members. And since you brought her in—”

  “You thought I’d qualify. And here I was thinking you were doing something nice.”

  “Are you currently at a deli picking up a deli platter that your aunt would never reimburse you for, and taking it in to serve it to her and that lawyer, and only her and that lawyer?”

  “No, and you’re right on the money on that platter. So to speak.”

  “Then consider yourself niced.”

  “I don’t think that’s a verb.”

  He shrugged. “Close enough.”

  “Seriously, you nailed Sissy, she has all this money, but never seems willing to spend it.”

  “I know,” he said.

  “What do you mean, you know? Have you been looking at her finances? When?”

  “You do realize that I’m not a single-person police department, right?”

  “I do now,” she said. She felt better than she had in days, it must be the relief of having the memorial service over. And the liberation from Sissy felt not too terrible either. Then she remembered. “Hey, you did it again.”

  “Did what again?”

  “Told me you were going to tell me something, and then didn’t.”

  “Did I?”

  “You know you did. And did you see the guy?”

  “I saw a guy,” he said, “I can’t be certain it was the guy.”

  “Me either, but I know I’ve seen him.”

  “Let me guess, he waters your plants once a month.”

  “That sounds oddly unsavory,” she said. “No, really, what were you going to tell me? Was it about Aunt Sissy?”

  “I don’t know who it’s about,” he said, leaning out of the window to take a ticket from the parking garage. “That’s part of the problem.”

  “What do Aunt Sissy’s finances have to do with anything?” she said. “That has to be it. Right?”

  He rolled up the window and pulled slowly into the parking structure. “To be honest, I had no intention of telling you that.”

  “Right,” she said. “Sure you didn’t. And you seemed cagey about the insurance policy.” She watched a woman cross the middle of the garage. Then it hit her. She whipped around to look at him. “Higson’s not the beneficiary of the life insurance policy,” she said.

  He stared stalwartly ahead.

  “And if he’s not, then Sissy must be.”

  His knuckles turned white from his grip on the wheel. “I didn’t say that.”

  “You don’t have to. Why on earth would Delenda make Sissy the beneficiary? Surely there must be someone she was closer to. I mean, there’s…well, her parents are gone, she didn’t have any kids, but she had…huh. Well maybe it’s not so suspicious.” She studied the side of Cadby’s face, her eyes narrowed. “But you think it’s suspicious.”

  “Didn’t say that,” he said, finally finding a spot and pulling into it. He turned off the ignition.

  “No, you haven’t said anything.” She leaned back against the seat, her head on the headrest. “So either you didn’t know that she didn’t have many people she’d name as beneficiaries, which is a possibility. Or was until the funeral. Or…”

  “Or?” he said, caught up in her line of thinking in spite of himself.

  “Or you found something else. Something that would make you suspicious.”

  “OK no prizes for that,” he said. He grabbed the door handle and opened it a crack when she grabbed his arm.

  “Wait,” she said.

  “What?” His hand went toward his holster and he checked the area around him, getting low in the seat. “Do you see him again?”

  “No, no. No.” she said. “Dial it back. No. I know what you found. A change of beneficiary form. With Higson’s name on it.”

  “I didn’t say that,” he said, this time opening the door completely and getting out of the car. “Stay in the car,” he said sharply.

  “What? Why?” She strained to see, but she couldn’t see much past the headrest and back seat. She got out.

  “That’s why,” Cadby said, nodding toward the guy pointing a gun in their direction.

  Chapter 11

  “Take it easy,” said Detective Cadby James, reaching very, very slowly to grab his badge. “I’m a police officer.”

  “I know,” said the man.

  “You were at the funeral,” said Venetia. “Did you follow us?”

  He didn’t say anything, just held the gun close.

  She tilted her head, squinted at him. “And the supermarket. You were the–” she stopped herself before she said “creepy,” thinking it probably wasn’t a good idea to call the guy with the gun creepy, “the guy who was staring at me.”

  “Put the gun down,” said Detective James.

  “I only want to talk,” said the guy.

  “I believe you,” he said, “but I’d believe you more if you put the gun down.”

  “I don’t think you’ll listen to me without it.”

  “I’ll listen.”

  “No, both of you. It has to be both of you.”

  Venetia opened her mouth, but shut it again. He was also the guy from the van. Definitely the guy from the van, he had that same voice. But he didn’t need to know she knew that.

  “I want to go somewhere and talk,” he said. The barrel of the gun shook ever so slightly as he spoke.

  “We can talk right here,” said Detective James. “And I’m going to need you to put that gun down.”

  The man closed his eyes briefly, and Cadby judged the distance between them. As though he sensed it, the guy snapped them open again.

  “He wasn’t supposed to be at your apartment,” the man said to Venetia. “It was only supposed to be you.”

  “I think I’d concentrate better if you put that away,” she said. She took a step back, and then another.

  “I think you’ll listen better if I don’t,” he said.

  “I can see that.” She tried to smile, but the fear froze her lips into something else.

  “We’ll listen to you, but you have to give me the gun.”

  He shook his head, his static-y hair waving wildly. “No, I won’t give you the gun until you promise.”

  “We’ve promised to listen.”

  “That’s not what I mean.” Big, dark circles enclosed his red-rimmed eyes, and his clothes were creased and rumpled. “No, I need you to promise.”

  The end of the gun shook more vigorously, and Venetia, not sure if his trigger finger was trembling as much as the rest of him, took another step back, bumping into a shiny SUV.

  The piercing shriek of the car alarm behind her reverberated through the concrete garage, the horn of the SUV and the click of its flashing lights layering the din. Instinctively, Venetia brought her hands to her ears, trying to muffle the sound. Detective James moved so fast, she didn’t quite see it when he dove at the man, twisted the gun away from him, and got him on the ground.

  “The cuffs,” he said.

  “What?” She barely registered that he’d spoken, the noise was too much.

  “The cuffs,” he said again, firmly pinning the man to the ground.

  “The what?”

  “Cuffs,” he mouthed at her. She ducked into the car and found the plastic handcuffs in the console. “These? And shouldn’t you have these on you?”

  He didn’t respond. He zipped them onto the man’s wrists as the security pickup truck pulled up behind them.

  “Problems?” he said over the noise of
the alarm.

  “Under control,” Detective James said, showing him his badge.

  “You’ll have to wait out the alarm,” the guard said, “unless the owner comes back.”

  “Should be almost,” Cadby shouted, and then it suddenly went silent, “done.” The loud word hung in the air. The security guard gave a wave and drove off.

  “Who is this guy? And who, by the way are you, Cadby, some kind of caped avenger?”

  “No, a badged one. Don’t know who he is, but we’ll find out.” He patted down the man, who was still lying face down on the garage floor.

  “Can I get up?” he said.

  “What do you think?” said Detective James. He found a wallet. “Brooks Chale.”

  “Brooks Chale?” said Venetia. “Are you sure it’s Chale?”

  He held the license for her to see. “Despite what you might think, I can read,” he said.

  “Oh my God,” said Venetia. “I know who he is.”

  ***

  “What do you mean I can’t take him in?” Detective James stared at her as though she was nuts, as she pretty likely could be. Brooks Chale sat in the back of Detective James’ car, still handcuffed, trying to look like he wasn’t listening.

  “I mean we have to hear what he has to say first. Then you can take him into the station if you want, but we have find out why he was looking for me.”

  “You want to listen to the guy who was waving a gun in your face a few minutes ago?”

  “It wasn’t exactly in my face,”

  “You said you’d listen to me,” Brooks said plaintively.

  “You were holding a gun,” said Detective James, “that’s pretty standard practice.”

  “Why aren’t you paying attention to what I’m saying?” said Venetia. “I know who he is, and I need to know why he’s here. I owe him at least that.”

  “Why do you owe him anything?”

  She tried to keep her emotions in check, but her voice cracked anyway, the stupid traitor. “Because he’s Brenna’s brother.”

  “Brenna?”

  “My client,” she said.

  “What client?’

  “The client. You know, the client?” She could see he still wasn’t getting it. “The one who died?”

  “Oh,” he said, turning. “Is that true? Are you Brenna—”