Claws for Alarm Page 15

  * * *

  As it turned out, looking up terma wasn’t as simple as I’d hoped. The most popular site was a company called TERMA, which specialized in aerospace, security, and defense. I perused that site, but after a few minutes it became evident it wasn’t what I was looking for. I also checked out some charitable foundations, even a resort and spa, and was just about to click on the one for an episode of The X-Files, when I heard a knock on my door. Thinking it must be Aunt Prudence, I called out, “Come on in,” and almost fell off the chair when Irene entered, bearing a tray on which rested a small pitcher and a mug of steaming hot chocolate.

  “Your aunt made this fresh. She thought maybe you’d like some.” She set the tray down on the edge of the table and peered over the rim of her glasses at my laptop screen. “You like The X-Files?” she asked, nose wrinkling. “That show was a bit too ‘far-out’ for my tastes, although I’ve always liked David Duchovny.”

  “Actually, I was trying to track down the meaning of a word, and it happened to be the title of this episode.”

  Her eyebrow quirked skyward. “A word? Must be a pretty odd one.”

  “Terma. Ever hear of it?” I said, not expecting an affirmative answer, so when Irene nodded and said, “Sure I have,” I almost fell off my chair again.

  “You’re kidding,” I said. “Where?”

  “It was a word in one of my crossword puzzles. Don’t ask me which one, ’cause I do a ton of ’em, but I do remember that one because it’s so unusual, and it was a bitch to look up. I finally found it, though. It’s a Tibetan word, and if I’m not mistaken, I think it means ‘hidden treasure’ or something like that.”

  I typed terma Tibetan into the search engine and, sure enough, a few sites came up. I clicked on Wikipedia and quickly scanned the page. Irene was right. Terma, in a nutshell, was a term used to refer to a “hidden treasure” or an object that’s been concealed or hidden.

  “Well.” I reached for the mug on the tray. “Thanks for the tip, Irene. This is certainly a help.”

  “No problem.” She set the pitcher on the table and picked up the tray. “Is this something that will help your sister?”

  “It might.”

  “Well then I’m glad I remembered it.” In the doorway she paused and snapped her fingers.

  “The New York Times,” she cried. “That was the one. They always have the hardest, most obscure words. Damn.”

  * * *

  Once she was gone, I glanced over at Nick, sprawled comfortably beside the laptop. “Looks like Julia used the term as a code for hidden treasure. Maybe she found something hidden inside the plaster, and that’s what she wanted to show Samms, but if she did, where is it? There was nothing else in the bag.”

  I switched off the laptop, crossed over to the bed, and lay down. I closed my eyes, but I knew damn well I wouldn’t get a wink of sleep. My thoughts were far, far too jumbled. Suddenly, I sat bolt upright, startling Nick, who’d just arranged himself comfortably across my ankles. He fell to the floor with a resounding thump as I dragged my hand through my hair.

  “Althea was positive Giselle’s alibi was bogus. Why? Does she have some sort of proof, or is it merely her own desire to see the woman who stole her husband get what she deserves?” I rubbed my hand across my forehead. “You know, it’s possible there are two murderers. Maybe Giselle did murder her husband, and maybe Wilson and/or his mystery partner discovered Julia was informing on them. Having your forgery scheme unmasked is an excellent motive for murder.” I gave my pillow a good punch. “I’ll tell you the person I can’t figure out in all this. Jenna Whitt. I’m ninety-nine percent sure she was at Lacey’s room because she wanted to look for something, but what?” I frowned as a sudden thought occurred to me. Giselle Pitt said she’d seen a pretty blonde leaving Pitt’s office late at night. She’d thought it was Lacey, but what if it were Jenna? Could my sister have something in her possession that might prove a connection between the two?

  Nick jumped onto my lap. I caught a glimpse of something shiny clamped between his jaws, and I reached out, sunk my fingers into his ruff.

  “What have you got now?” I asked as I extricated the object from his mouth. I groaned. “My Mickey Mouse watch! I paid over a hundred at Disneyland for this, Nick. I’ll say this for you—you know quality when you see it.” I jumped up and walked over to my dresser, replaced the watch in the top drawer. I shook my finger at Nick, who lay innocently sprawled on the bed. “I can’t be worried about your Houdini-like habits now. I’ve got other matters, like this case that’s got more twists and turns than a roller coaster.” I shut the drawer, grabbed my purse, and fished out my cell phone. I punched in a number, and the minute it went to voice mail, as I knew it would at this ungodly hour, I said, “Hi, Peter, it’s Nora. Sorry to call so late, but I’ve been thinking. There are some things I need to ask Lacey, so I was wondering if you could get me in to see her early tomorrow morning? Call me when you get this message.”

  I rang off and looked at Nick. “I hope my hunch pans out. Because as things stand right now, jogging my sister’s memory could make the difference between a prison sentence or freedom. And you stay out of my drawers. Please.”

  He just blessed me with his unblinking stare.

  I stretched out on the bed and closed my eyes. Might as well try to get some shut-eye. I felt Nick curl up next to my arm in a tight little ball. The last thing I remembered as I surrendered to the velvety arms of sleep was the comforting feel of his rough tongue against my palm.

  * * *

  I awoke to bright sunlight streaming in my window. A quick glance at my bedside clock assured me I’d managed to get a few hours of snooze time in—it was almost eight thirty. Nick had shifted his position to my feet, and I gave him a quick nudge as I rolled over and out of bed. My cell phone revealed Peter had called sometime around 7 a.m., so he was an early riser, too. His message said to meet him at the jail at ten o’clock. I arrived only five minutes late to find him sitting on a long bench, head bent over his briefcase, going over some notes. He tried to be cheerful, and I felt like telling him he didn’t have to put up a brave front for me; in spite of Samms’s assurances, I knew unless we could cut a break quickly, Lacey’s wardrobe would soon consist of a bright orange jumpsuit. We went downstairs and through the same procedure we had the previous time. This time the guard was a dour-faced woman, whose starched uniform seemed a bit snug, particularly around her wide girth. She gave me an exceptionally sharp look as I passed through the metal detector and handed her my purse for inspection.

  “You’re part of the law team?” she asked. Her beady eyes pierced right through me, like a lion considering its prey. Not a good feeling. I nodded, and she gave me the evil eye as she handed me back my purse and waved me through. I could have sworn she mumbled, “You don’t look much like a lawyer,” as I passed.

  We were shown into a room even drabber than the last time, with only two benches and a long table, no windows. A few minutes later a guard appeared with Lacey. She wore the same navy pants and shirt, and her hair appeared just as unkempt as the prior time. I wondered if they’d ever let her shampoo it at all. I noticed an angry pimple popping up on the middle of her forehead as she sat down. Her expression, oddly enough, appeared hopeful.

  Once the guard had moved across the room, she leaned forward slightly. “Have you got good news? Are you close to finding out who really killed Pitt?”

  I gave a little shake of my head, and my stomach plummeted as her face fell. “That’s why we’re here, Lace. The investigation seems to have stonewalled. Unless we can come up with something, things don’t look good.”

  She slumped back on the bench, the corners of her lips drooping farther down. “Oh.”

  I cast a cautious look across the room at the guard and then leaned forward a bit. “Lace, I just know deep in your subconscious there’s some sort of clue. I know it. We need you to think
, and think hard. Is there anything you can remember about that night—even that day—that was odd, out of the ordinary?”

  My sister let out a deep breath. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about it. I was just so upset, you know. At that low grade, at what he said . . . I think I blocked everything else but my anger out of my mind.”

  “And now?” I prompted as she grew silent.

  “Now I’m trying to remember just what else happened. Details, anything, you know. But it’s hard; it really is.”

  “Sometimes when one feels pressured, or under great stress, it can have an adverse effect on their memory,” Peter interjected.

  “Well, sitting in a jail cell sure is stressful.” Lacey shot Peter a grateful look. “I’m sure I have you to thank, though, for the fact I’m in a solitary cell.”

  He smiled. “I may have had a bit to do with that. Can’t promise anything, though, if you get sent to Chowchilla.”

  “We won’t let it get that far,” I cut in, and reached a hand out to Lacey. The guard saw me and turned. I pulled my hand back, twisting it with the other in my lap. “I know it’s hard, but you’ve got to try and think. I know you. Something’s buried in your subconscious, I can tell. You’ve got to try and dig it up.”

  “I’ve been trying, honest.” Her hand fluttered up, pulled at a strand of hair. “Don’t you think I’d like to take a decent bath, start looking halfway human again?”

  “You look fine,” Peter assured her.

  She managed a smile. “Aren’t you kind. But I know the truth. I want nothing more than to get out of here.”

  I looked at my sister simpering at Peter. I looked at Peter almost beaming at Lacey. Wow, I hadn’t seen this coming. They were attracted to each other, not that it was necessarily a bad thing. Rather, I thought Peter might actually exert a calming influence on my sister, provided she didn’t have to spend the rest of her life in an orange jumpsuit making license plates.

  “We both want you out,” I said. “So think! Help us get you free, please.”

  She coughed lightly. “I think Julia was standing there when Pitt told me to come by his office later. As a matter of fact, the more I think of it, the more positive I am. Julia had to overhear.”

  I shook my head. “That’s not a viable lead anymore.”

  Lacey frowned. “Why not?”

  “Because—” I glanced over at the guard and then leaned over as far as I dared. “Because Julia is dead,” I whispered.

  “Dead!” Lacey and Peter both cried out together. The guard’s neck snapped around, and we all got a scathing look. “Dead?” Lacey repeated in a softer tone. “Good Lord, how?”

  “Strangled, apparently. She was found in the Billings Warehouse last night.”

  “Are you certain?” Peter asked. “It hasn’t been on the news yet.”

  “I’m positive. I’m the one who found the body.”

  “You?” they chorused again. This time the guard took a giant step forward.

  “You’re going to have to contain yourselves,” he said stiffly, “or we’re going to have to conclude this interview early.”

  Peter made the appropriate apologies, and that seemed to mollify him. When he was once again safely on the other side of the room I continued, “Julia was my prime suspect. As it turned out, she was working with the police. Did you know they suspect Kurt Wilson is dealing in forged paintings?” I’d addressed the question to Peter, but it was Lacey who answered.

  “Really? Wow, that might explain it then.”

  I pinned her with a sharp gaze. “Explain what?”

  “I saw Taft one day in town, at the public library. He was engrossed in a book. I thought it was odd, because Taft isn’t exactly the type to frequent the library. He got up to go back down one of the aisles, and I walked over and took a quick peek at the cover.” She wrinkled her nose. “It appeared to be a book about art. The title was odd, Provenance.”

  I shook my head. “Never heard of it.”

  “I have,” Peter said excitedly. “It chronicles an investigation of art fraud. Specifically, paintings. Provenance refers to the paper trail that establishes a work of art’s authenticity.”

  I frowned. “You’re right. That is an odd choice of reading material. I wonder why he would be interested in that.”

  Lacey shrugged. “I don’t know. I thought it might be because he worked at the gallery.”

  I stared at her. “What? He works there, too?”

  “Oh yeah. You didn’t know? Taft is the one who got Julia her job there.”

  Well, that was an interesting development indeed. “Are you sure?”

  “He bragged about it often enough. How much money he made on the side, how this could open up new opportunities for him, yada yada. Julia said she was struggling, so he got her in. He offered to get me in, too, but I turned him down.”

  “Which was probably a good thing.” I tapped my finger on the table, thoughts racing. Why would Taft be so interested in a book on art forgery, unless . . . Was he also working undercover? Or could he have something to do with the actual forgeries? Either seemed a good bet.

  I switched to the reason I’d come to the jail. “I happened to be in your room the other day, Lace, and you had a visitor. Jenna Whitt.”

  Lacey’s eyes widened slightly. “Jenna? What’d she want?”

  “She said she thought she might have left something in your room, but I got the impression she was just there to snoop around.”

  “Oh geez,” my sister grumbled. “I told her I didn’t have her damn leather pouch. I guess she didn’t believe me.”

  “A leather pouch?”

  “Yeah. She cornered me right before Pitt’s class, the day of the murder. She wanted to know if I’d maybe picked it up by accident when we’d left the Modern Art History class. I told her no, and if I had, I would have reported it to lost and found. I guess she didn’t believe me.”

  I drummed my fingers on the table. “You’re certain this pouch was leather? It couldn’t have been made of something else, say burlap, perhaps?”

  Lacey gave her head an emphatic shake. “Nope. It was leather. I know because I saw her with it a few times.” She held up her palm. “About so big, and really old and grubby looking. You know how leather can get. All faded and scuffed.” She let out a huge sigh. “She said she needed to find it but it wasn’t even hers.”

  “It wasn’t?”

  “No. Said it belonged to a friend of hers, and it had his medicine in it. He’d be real upset if she lost it.”

  “Medicine?”

  “Yeah, tranqs, I think. She said her friend had panic attacks.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense. If her friend needed the tranqs for his attacks, why would he give her the pouch?”

  “Supposedly he’d misplaced it a few times, and she was hanging on to it for safekeeping. It sounded pretty fishy to me, but . . .” Her eyes rolled skyward. “I told her I didn’t have it, and she should go ask Julia. I’d seen her with a similar pouch earlier that day. It might have been Jenna’s or it might have been hers. Who knows? I really didn’t care.” She paused. “And now that Julia’s dead, I guess we’ll never know, will we?”

  SIXTEEN

  I let myself in the back door of Hot Bread a little after two. The store itself looked deserted, and Chantal was nowhere to be seen. Nick trotted off to his favorite spot in front of the refrigerator, and I set my overnight bag down in a corner and slipped out of my light coat. I was just making my way over to the register when the side door opened and Chantal walked in. “Chérie, you are home!” She hurried forward to envelop me in a bear hug to end all bear hugs. “I was not expecting you until later.”

  I extricated myself from her grasp and gave her a smile. “Thanks for watching the store for me. I thought I’d get home in time for the lunch crowd, but it took a bit longer at the jai
l than I expected.”

  “Ah. Well it is good to see you. Both of you.” She turned to Nick, beaming. “Guess what! I have finished half a dozen new collars, Nicky. Just for you! What do you say to that?”

  His rotund bottom gave a brisk wiggle, and then he dive-bombed underneath a table.

  I laid my hand on Chantal’s arm. “He’ll get over it.”

  She waved her hand carelessly. “Oh, of course he will. Once he sees what I have whipped up, he will be anxious to wear them. At least I hope he is. Remy is planning to take some photos of Nicky to use in a brochure he designed. He plans on sending it to all the top retailers in the county.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the tablecloth move ever so slightly, and the tip of one black ear emerge. Modesty is definitely not one of my feline’s virtues.

  “I’m sure if you offer Nick some catnip he might be persuaded.”

  Satisfied purring sounds rumbled beneath the table. I chuckled. “He can be bought so easily,” I whispered.

  Chantal took my arm, and we walked to the table farthest in the back. Once we were seated, she looked me straight in the eye. “How is Lacey holding up?”

  “Not bad, considering. Peter and I visited her this morning, and then we found out the DA’s pushing for the trial to start this week.”

  Chantal’s eyes widened and one hand went to her throat, rubbed lightly. “Mon Dieu! That fast?”

  I nodded grimly. “The circumstantial case against her is airtight, according to the DA. The fact she was found standing over the body and then fled the scene carries a lot of weight. Peter was going to file a motion to delay, but he didn’t think it would do much good. As of now, the trial is scheduled to start Thursday.”

  “Eeks. That’s only three days from now.”

  “Yep. Which gives me even less time to figure out who really murdered Pitt and Julia Canton. I’ve got a very strong feeling the two are connected.” I sighed. “What have you been up to? How was business?”