Purr M for Murder Page 8

  “You had issues with him?”

  She barked out a short laugh. “Who didn’t, love? Every shopkeeper in this complex had an unpleasant dealing with the man at some point or another. Devon, Buck, Dayna, Grace, me, Antonio . . . all of us.” She picked up a pen, scissored it between her long fingers. “He was in all the shops about two months ago, letting us know that when our leases were up—and most of them are up at the end of this year—he was raising the rent. By 30 percent.”

  My hand fluttered in the air. “Wait a minute. I’m missing something here. How could he raise your rent?”

  “Easily. He is—or rather he was—our landlord.” She studied me for a moment. “You didn’t know?”

  “I had no idea. I mean, I knew he was rich, but I didn’t realize he dabbled in real estate.”

  “Oh, it’s a bit more than dabbling. His father owned a good bit of Deer Park. Practically all commercial properties, too.”

  I leaned back in my chair. Wow, talk about a shock. And about a motive. If Littleton had been about to raise everyone’s rents exorbitantly, then that meant there were a whole bunch of suspects in his death, indeed. I leaned forward. “Did he ever ask you to sign a petition to evict the shelter?”

  Her eyes widened. “No, but then again, he probably figured he didn’t have to. Once he hit the town with the increase on the shelter, he’d more than likely achieve that goal anyway. The shelter would most likely have to move, and he could get double the rent the town was paying on that building. Kill two birds with one stone, so to speak.”

  “What? Wait a minute.” I gave my head a brisk shake. “Littleton owned the shelter building too?”

  She gave a swift nod of assent. “His father, unlike him, was an animal lover, and he gave the city a long-term lease on that building right before he died, and it’s up this year. I know your sister wasn’t too happy about the prospect of the shelter’s rent increasing, either. Not too happy at all.”

  My stomach gave a little lurch. I’d been right . . . Kat had been keeping something from me, something pretty important. I leaned forward, intent on quizzing Natalie more, but just then we heard the bell above the shop door tinkle.

  “Ah, customers. Tonight’s my late night.” She pushed her chair back, walked around to me, and patted my shoulder. “I’m sorry I had to bring up such an unpleasant subject, dear. I hate to say it, but it’s such a relief as well to know that—codger—won’t be making our lives miserable anymore. You don’t mind seeing yourself out, do you?”

  * * *

  Back out on the street, I paused, letting Natalie’s words sink in. I was particularly distressed to learn Littleton had owned the shelter building. I wondered if Bennington knew; if so, it would explain a lot. I whipped out my cell and punched in Will’s number once more, and once more I got voice mail. I decided not to leave another message and slid the phone back into my tote bag. I stood for a moment, debating my next move. My appetite, which had been tenuous before my chat with Natalie, had diminished even more—fish and chips was definitely out now.

  I started up the block at a fast clip. As I approached the top, I noticed the police tape stretched across the front of The Brush and Canvas swaying in the light breeze. A swift movement off to my left made me turn my head just in time to see a dark shape ducking under the crime scene tape. I stared openmouthed for a few seconds. Who would be stupid enough to do that? I whipped out my cell, intending to punch in 9-1-1—and then I hesitated. According to Natalie, practically everyone was curious about the circumstances surrounding Littleton’s demise—was one of them taking their curiosity a step too far? I hated to get someone in trouble, and if truth be told, I was a bit loath to make another 9-1-1 call to the police. With my luck, Bennington would show up and be as happy to see me as I would to see him. I punched in Will’s number, and when the voice mail kicked in, whispered, “Will, it’s Syd. I thought I saw someone enter The Brush and Canvas. Please, if you’re anywhere in the area, come over.”

  I rang off, slid my phone back into my pocket, and hurried up the block. I dipped under the yellow tape and up to the front entrance. I tried the door. Locked. I glanced around, then quickly made my way around the side of the building to the rear entrance. More crime scene tape covered the glass-and-wood door. I ducked underneath, turned the handle—and just as it had this morning, the door creaked open. I frowned. Had the police neglected to lock this door, or had the intruder somehow managed to open it?

  I stepped cautiously across the threshold and stood for a minute, letting my eyes adjust to the abject darkness. If someone else was inside, I reasoned, they must have eyes like a cat’s, because it was dark as Hades. I tiptoed over to the corridor and stood silently for a moment. I was just about to retrace my steps when I saw a bright circle of light suddenly explode at the far end of the corridor, right about where the office door was. Either the intruder had found one of the lamps, or they’d turned a flashlight on. Holding my breath, I inched down the corridor until I came to the office entrance. I peered in.

  The small lamp on the desk had been turned on. A figure, clad all in black, was hunched over the desk, pulling open the drawers. Without thinking, I cried out, “What are you doing?”

  The figure turned around. In the dim light from the desk lamp, I saw her face—I also caught a glint of blued steel. Without a second thought, I cried out, “Devon McIntyre, what are you doing with a gun? Did you kill Trowbridge Littleton?”

  Chapter Seven

  Devon McIntyre cocked her gun toward my chest and said in a shrill tone, “Me? Kill Littleton? What are you, crazy?”

  “No,” I said, inclining my head toward the weapon in her hand, “but what else am I to think when you’re waving that thing at me?”

  “Oh.” She stared at the revolver as if it were the first time she were seeing it and then slowly lowered it to her side. “Sorry. I carry it for protection. A gal can’t be too careful these days.”

  I eyed the gun. After all, what did I know about Devon McIntyre? She was a nice-looking woman in her midforties with an hourglass figure who liked to dress as if she were still twenty-one. I’d been in her shop a few times, admiring the lovely jewelry she had for sale, and she’d always been pleasant—then again, most shopkeepers were pleasant in light of a potential sale. Devon’s manner had always seemed restrained, almost as if she were keeping a secret. I looked the woman straight in the eye. “Do you even know how to shoot that? It might go off accidentally.”

  “Wouldn’t matter even if it did.” She raised the gun, pointed it at the wall, and pulled the trigger. I heard a click but nothing else. “It’s not loaded,” Devon admitted. “I just thought if I carried one and someone went to attack me, it might scare them off.”

  “Not too bright,” I said dryly. “What if they also had a gun and shot first?”

  Devon’s face paled beneath her heavy makeup. “Ooh—I never thought of that.”

  I shook my head. “What are you doing here, anyway? This is still a crime scene.”

  Devon set the gun down on the desk and dropped into the chair. She folded her arms across her chest and looked at me. “You’re here,” she said, her tone slightly accusing.

  “I followed you.”

  She slapped her palm against her temple. “You followed me, but you thought I might be the killer returning to the scene of the crime? Now that wasn’t very bright!”

  “No, I guess it wasn’t,” I confessed. “I thought it was just someone curious about Littleton’s death.” Inclining my head toward the open desk drawers, I added, “You weren’t just curious, though, were you? You came here looking for something.”

  Devon’s lips twisted into a grimace. “Why would you think that? Maybe I was just curious to see the place where Bridge—where Littleton died. The whole town’s talking about it.”

  “He didn’t die inside one of those drawers,” I said dryly.

  Devon gave her head a quick toss, and a black ringlet spilled across her eyes. Brushing it away, she sai
d, “If you must know, I lost my medical identification tag. That’s a—”

  “I know what it is.” I was well acquainted with the item, since both my parents and two of my aunts had had them. A medical identification was a small emblem usually worn on a bracelet, on a neck chain, or pinned to an article of clothing that advised that the wearer had an important medical condition that might require immediate attention. The tags were often made out of stainless steel or sterling silver, shiny metals that a first responder would immediately notice and then become aware of the condition. I raised a brow inquiringly. “What makes you think you lost it here?”

  “I had an appointment with Bridge the other day, and I know I had it on my bracelet then. When I went to put it on this morning, I realized the tag was gone, and the last place I actually remember seeing the tag was here.”

  My eyes narrowed. “Wouldn’t Littleton have called you if he’d found it?”

  She shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. Knowing him, he just might have shoved it in one of these drawers, and since I can’t ask him now . . . I had no choice but to come and look for myself.” She turned a pleading gaze my way. “I’m a diabetic, so it’s important I find it. Will you help me?”

  I hesitated. Her story didn’t ring quite true to me, but I had no way of disproving anything she’d said. “Okay, but let’s make it quick.”

  “No problem.” Devon turned and resumed pulling out drawers. “Thanks for helping me, Sydney. I can understand why you don’t trust me, but believe you me, if I’d killed Bridge, I’d have made sure I didn’t leave anything behind that might point to me. Besides, there’s a long line of better suspects in front of me. Take that trophy-licious wife of his, for one. Don’t the police always look to the spouse first?”

  “Usually.” I started flipping cushions on the small love seat, ran my hand beneath them. “But why would she want him dead? From what I understand, he turned a blind eye to her spending and ah, other activities.”

  Devon glanced up from rummaging through the middle drawer. “There was no love lost between him and his stepson, either. Trey hated him and vice versa.” She let out a hollow laugh. “If you thought his mommy was a spendthrift, then you haven’t seen anything yet.” She slammed the drawer shut, jerked open one on the right.

  Since Devon seemed in a talkative mood, I decided to press on. “What do you know about his business partner, Colin Murphy?”

  She shrugged. “Not a whole lot. Bridge brought him on to do the buying for the gallery. He came highly recommended. Lately, though, there was trouble in paradise.”

  “What sort of trouble?”

  She shrugged again. “I’m not sure. Bridge was pretty closemouthed about it. All I heard him say once was that Colin’s ideas would sully the gallery’s reputation—whatever that meant.”

  I pushed the cushions back into place and straightened them. “So this appointment you had with Littleton—was it about the rent increase?”

  She shut the last drawer on the desk and started running her hand under the cushion on the chair behind the desk. “Yes. I was trying to work out a deal with him.”

  “It doesn’t look like your tag’s here, Devon.” I hesitated and then added, “You know there is the possibility that perhaps the police might have found it when they were here.”

  Her eyes popped, and her whole body sagged. “Oh, swell. That means they’ll want to question me right?”

  I walked over to her and laid a hand on her arm. “You were having an affair with Littleton, weren’t you?”

  Her head snapped up, and a sigh escaped her lips. “Had. Past tense. How did you know?”

  “Not too many people call him Bridge. The name just seemed to roll off your tongue.”

  She bit down on her lower lip. “Damn. I’ll try to remember that. Anyway, the affair’s been over for months, but we were still friendly—or at least I thought we were.”

  “You came here to try to talk him out of raising your rent?”

  She nodded. “I thought I could trade on our past relationship and get a more favorable lease, but—it was a no go. He was alive when I left, though,” she added quickly. “I swear. Getting involved with him, well, it’s not something I’m proud of. And I certainly don’t want Harry finding out.”

  “Harry?”

  “My husband. Ex-husband,” she amended. “We were separated for a few years, but he’s back in town now. We’ve been trying to work out our problems. Something like this . . .” She waved her hand helplessly. “Well, this could put a real damper on things.” She shot me a beseeching look. “Bridge could be a scoundrel, but he had a soft side, too. I didn’t kill him, Syd. I couldn’t.”

  Oddly, I believed her. “I won’t volunteer anything,” I said at last, “but my advice to you, if the police should ask about your relationship with Littleton—don’t lie.”

  We walked out of the office and back down the corridor. When we reached the anteroom, I pulled the note out of my pocket and held it out to her. “Have you ever seen this before?”

  She peered down at the note and shook her head. “It sounds foreign. Possibly an artist Bridge might have dealt with? I know he had a lot of Asian art on display.”

  “Maybe. Thanks.” I slid the note back into my pocket, then stiffened as I saw a police cruiser glide up and park. Devon saw it too, and her face paled. “Oh my God. What are they doing here?” She looked around like a trapped rabbit searching for a means of escape. “I can’t face them now. I just can’t.”

  I felt a sudden surge of sympathy for the woman. Against my better judgment, I heard myself say, “Maybe you can let yourself out that side door. I’ll go talk to them.”

  Devon reached out, grabbed my hand, and squeezed it. “You’re a good egg, Syd. Anything you need, anything at all—just let me know.” And then she was gone.

  I walked over to the back entrance and opened the door just as Will bounded up the steps. He took one look at me and said, “Syd? I got your message. Are you okay?”

  I nodded. “I just feel foolish. I was certain I saw someone cross the barrier and come in here, so I followed, but . . . I was wrong. There’s no one here. I must have seen a shadow or something.”

  Will was looking at me speculatively. “That was a foolhardy thing to do,” he chided. “What if it had been the killer? What if he or she had a gun?”

  “I know, I know. My inner Nancy Drew kicked in. It won’t happen again,” I assured him.

  “See that it doesn’t.” He pushed past me into the foyer. “I suppose I should have a look around, though. Just in case.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  He hesitated, then nodded. “Fine. But stay behind me.”

  We walked down the hall. I stayed a short distance behind Will. When we reached the office, he stood for a minute on the threshold, looking all around. I held my breath. Would he notice that the drawers on the desk were slightly ajar or that I hadn’t pushed the love seat cushions all the way back? Apparently not, because he holstered his weapon and turned to me. “You’re right. Looks like no one’s here.”

  “Told you.” I paused and then said, “Your partner paid a visit to the shelter earlier.”

  Will had moved over toward the desk, was looking around again. “So he said.”

  “Did he mention he asked if Kat and I were aware removing anything from a crime scene is a punishable offense?”

  Will glanced at me sharply and then shook his head. “No, he didn’t. I can’t think why he’d do that, unless . . .”

  “Unless?” I prompted as he fell silent.

  Will shrugged. “I probably shouldn’t say anything—Bennington will hit the roof—but it could be because of something his widow might have said.”

  Oho, I was right! “So she did show up at the office.”

  He shook his head. “Nope. We went to see her at home when we were finished here. I must say, she didn’t seem very broken up about her husband’s demise. She even offered us tea.”

  “So she’s go
t manners,” I observed. “How nice.”

  He chuckled. “Under the circumstances, we didn’t really think it was appropriate, but—who knows. Grief affects people differently.”

  I glossed right over that. “So what did she say that made Bennington race right over to question us?”

  Will looked me straight in the eye. “I can’t say.” As I opened my mouth to protest, he held up his hand. “Really—I can’t say, because I don’t know. I got a call from the ME, and I was out of the room for most of the time. Bennington was finished with her by the time I got done.”

  My brow puckered as I thought. From the questions Bennington asked, it seemed as if Petra must have inquired about some object in her husband’s office, but what? I somehow doubted it was the mysterious note. Aloud, I said to Will, “What did the ME have to say? I’m assuming the cause of death wasn’t natural causes.”

  “It doesn’t look that way.” I continued to stare at him, and finally he threw up both hands. “Okay, fine. I can tell you this much. It looks like you might have just missed being an eyewitness. ME set the time of death between five and six AM.”

  I gulped. “I suppose you want to know where Kat and I were between those hours, right? At home, asleep—at least I was until five thirty. But I have no witness to prove it. Leila was dead asleep.”

  Will glanced at his watch. “Well, since there’s no intruder here, I have to be getting back to the station. Can I drop you off at your house?”

  “Thanks, but my car’s back at the shelter. You could give me a lift over there, if you don’t mind.”

  “If I minded, I wouldn’t have asked. Let’s go.” As we walked out of the store and over to the police car, my hand dipped inside my jacket pocket and closed around the note. I stopped dead in my tracks. “There is something else,” I said.

  He turned toward me. “What?”

  I pulled the note out of my pocket and held it out to him. “I found this in the hallway of Littleton’s store. So I guess your partner was right. I did take something from the premises.”