Claws for Alarm Read online

  “And you’re not sure my sister is guilty?”

  Her lips twitched. “Let’s just say I want the right person convicted of this crime.” A slight pause and then, “No matter who it is.”

  I took a sip of the tea and balanced the cup on my knee. “You said on the phone you knew something. Is it about his murder?”

  She let out a long sigh. “Thaddeus and I were happy, back in the day. We lived here when we were first married—oh, this was a grand house, full of life and love, and objects d’art. I love art in all its forms: paintings, sculptures, antique books, everything. It was one thing Thaddeus and I had in common. Unfortunately, over the years I’ve found it necessary to . . . part with some of my treasures.”

  Well, that explained the faded squares on the wall and the empty places on the bookshelf. “That’s a shame,” I murmured.

  Her eyes took on a dreamy look. “Fame does things to people, my dear, especially to ones who are not prepared for it, and Thaddeus wasn’t. He started believing his own press, and I didn’t exactly support him back then. The fact my marriage ended was my own fault. Our son was grown, and the common bond of art we’d always shared was overshadowed by his commercial fame. Thaddeus was ripe for the plucking, and Giselle saw a golden opportunity. My husband was smack-dab in the midst of a midlife crisis, and she saw a chance to grab the brass ring.” Her hand fluttered carelessly. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to bore you with what is obviously not your problem. The current state of this house is in no way Thaddeus’s fault. He gave me a generous settlement when we divorced—guilt will often be a benefactor—and gives a generous monthly allowance still.” She shook her head. “I couldn’t complain about him in that respect.”

  “Funny, Mother. I could.”

  I turned toward the doorway. The speaker was a tall, thin man in his late twenties, with close-cut red hair, deep green eyes, and a firm jaw. He wore a navy suit, which I judged to be an Armani, and a light pink and undeniably expensive shirt. He moved over to the bar and poured himself a brandy, downed it in one gulp, then poured himself another.

  Althea’s eyebrow rose. “A bit early isn’t it, darling?”

  He shrugged. “Not really. What is it they say? It’s five o’clock—or happy hour—somewhere.” He raised the glass. “Cheers,” he said, and downed the second.

  Althea’s lips twisted into a half smile that in actuality resembled more of a grimace. “This is my son Philip. Philip, this is Nora Charles.”

  “Ah.” He moved forward and extended his hand. I took it, noting as I did so the long, tapered fingers and the nails, which were impeccably manicured and shone with just a hint of clear polish. Somehow that didn’t surprise me. “They arrested your sister for my father’s murder,” he said, and raised his empty glass. “Well, Mother and I believe in the old adage, innocent until proven guilty.” He refilled the glass and settled himself in a high-backed Queen Anne chair. “Especially when there are so many other more likely candidates.”

  “Really? Who?” I couldn’t resist asking.

  He bit out a laugh. “The wicked stepmother, for one. Actually, the only one, in my book.” He slid his mother a glance. “I still think Giselle is the reason Dad got cold feet about the painting.”

  I looked questioningly at Mrs. Pitt. Her finger toyed with the hem of her skirt. “Allow me to explain,” she said. “As I started to tell you, the current state of my home is not Thaddeus’s fault. Other expenses cropped up he didn’t know about. No, let me amend that statement. To be quite honest, and I intend to be nothing less with you, dear, I didn’t want Thaddeus to know about those other expenses.”

  Philip coughed lightly. “She means me, Ms. Charles.”

  Althea nodded. “My son has always been headstrong, impetuous, and outspoken.” Her laugh tittered out. “His father’s son, no doubt about it. A smart boy, but lazy.” When Philip made no move to protest, she continued, “I can say that about my son, because he is my son. He has the mental capability to do something really great with his life, but he has no ambition, no direction.”

  Philip coughed again and shot me an apologetic look. “Do excuse the cough. I just can’t seem to shake it.”

  “You’ve got to stop smoking,” his mother admonished. “I told you, that only makes it worse.”

  “But Mother, I’ve got to have some vices, after all.” He pulled a package of Newports from his pocket and tossed them on the table. “I even switched to menthol. Doesn’t help. Anyway, getting back to my mother’s assertion. It’s rather harsh.” He turned to Althea. “I have lots of ambition, Mother. You and Father just don’t appreciate what the ambition is for.”

  “Yes, racing and blackjack.” Althea spit the words out and then turned to me. “I blame Thaddeus and myself for the way he turned out. I couldn’t have any other children after he was born, so I’m afraid we spoiled him rotten—”

  Philip cut her an eye roll. “Not this again,” he muttered.

  Althea ignored him. “He knows it’s true. He’s never had a real job, never worked at any hard labor. He plays at things. Right now he’s playing at investment banking.” She leaned forward and dropped her voice to a whisper. “And he’s terrible at it. It’s only a matter of time until he gets fired, and then he’ll move on to something else. The only constant in his life is gambling.” She bit the last word out as if she’d spit out a hot pepper. “There were times when he’d be quite lucky at it, but more often than not he ended up owing extravagant amounts of money, amounts my monthly income can no longer cover.”

  Philip rose out of the chair and walked over to where I sat. “And before you ask,” he said, “they thought about sending me to GA—Gamblers Anonymous—but my shrink told them it wouldn’t do any good. One has to want to be cured, and quite frankly, I don’t want to be. I enjoy it too much.”

  Althea slid me a look that said more plainly than words, You see what I have to put up with? “It’s true,” she gritted out. “My son refuses to admit he has a problem. I’ve sold whatever I could to help him out, but in recent months the well has, as they say, finally run its course.”

  “Yes, Mother insisted she couldn’t support my habit anymore, so . . . last month I swallowed my pride and took the problem to the old man. After all, I’m the fruit of his loins, too.” Philip spread his hands. “Imagine my shock when he agreed to help me.”

  Now I raised both eyebrows. “He did?”

  Philip nodded. “Yep. He said he’d give me one of his paintings to sell. There was a condition attached, of course. I had to pay off my debt and then put any surplus in the bank and not touch it for a period of two years. He wanted me to leave it to grow, try and accumulate a nest egg.” He paused. “He also wanted me to give up gambling entirely for the same length of time. Father thought if I could do that, well, there might be a chance I could give it up for good.”

  “And did you agree?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Sure. What choice did I have? It was either agree to the old man’s terms or get my kneecaps busted. The people I owed this money to aren’t exactly the forgiving type. I was to meet with him last week, sign an agreement, and he was going to turn over the painting to me. Then I got a call, informing me the deal was off.”

  I swallowed. “You must have been furious.”

  “I was.” He twirled his now empty glass in his hand. “But not enough to kill him, if that’s what you’re thinking. Besides, I have an alibi for the time of death. I was at a fund-raiser the entire night.”

  That jibed with what Samms had told me. “But you did argue with your father.”

  “Yes. I couldn’t understand why he so abruptly changed his mind. I wanted—needed—an explanation.”

  “And did you get one?”

  He shrugged. “He seemed very evasive. Just told me he’d changed his mind and that was that. The entire call lasted about five minutes.” He blew out a breath. “I was ang
ry and disappointed, but in the long run it didn’t matter.”

  “Why not?”

  Althea answered, “Because the following day a check for the exact amount of Philip’s debt arrived by special messenger. It was drawn on the school account. So I knew, right then and there, my husband’s decision had nothing to do with Phil’s situation, but rather with the painting itself. I’m positive of it.”

  I let out a low whistle. “That is interesting. Do you happen to know which painting?”

  Both shook their heads in unison, and then Althea answered, “Thaddeus never said which painting it was to be, but I have an idea it might be one he recently acquired. There were two. A Cezanne and an Engeldrumm.” Her lips twisted into a rueful smile. “Engeldrumm is a modern artist, a bit out of Thaddeus’s comfort zone but very rare and hard to get. It would have been just like him to gift Philip with that one.”

  “And you think his current wife had something to do with his decision?”

  “My father was besotted with that witch,” Philip spat. “And she hates me and Mother. It would be just like her to insist Father not give me the painting. She’d love to see me squirm and suffer.”

  Althea nodded. “She would indeed, and as much as I’d like to lay the blame at her feet, I can’t shake the feeling there’s more to the story.”

  “I honestly don’t know why Father stayed with her—oh, wait, sure I do. Giselle’s great in the sack.”

  “Philip,” Althea remonstrated. “Don’t be crude.”

  He thrust his lower lip out. “It’s true, though. That’s why he married her but maybe not why he kept her around. I never could figure that out. I mean, it’s not as if she could rake in the dough in a divorce. She signed an ironclad pre-nup. And she was cheating on him.”

  “Tit for tat.” Althea sighed. “He was cheating on her, too.”

  I looked at her. “You know about his affair?”

  She laughed. “Oh, of course. He told me. We always told each other everything, even after the divorce. We were married for so long, you know. We just never got out of the habit of confiding in each other.”

  “Do you think his current wife knew he was unfaithful?”

  She smoothed the hem of her skirt with her long, tapered fingers. “Believe me, if she did, she wouldn’t care a whit. Thaddeus knew she was cheating on him, too. He told me. He’d found it out a few days ago, but he didn’t know with whom. He was determined to find out, though. And when he did—” Her shoulders lifted in an expressive shrug. “Let’s just say Giselle wouldn’t have been a happy camper.” She rose, crossed to the piano, and plucked the photograph that nagged at me from its space. She returned to her seat and held the photo out, one long nail tapping at the female face. “This is her, in the Bahamas with Thaddeus. He gave this photo to Philip. I was going to destroy it at first, but Thaddeus looks so handsome I just didn’t have the heart.” Her hand moved across the frame in a caressing motion. “She called him Teddy. Can you imagine? The first time I heard her say it I damn near threw up. You could soak a load of pancakes in her tone, it was so . . . so dripping with phony affection. It was an Institute party—I still sit on the board, so I attend—and she sat there like a queen, dripping diamonds, more on display than anything else. ‘Teddy, get me a glass of wine,’ in that breathy voice of hers. I always called him Thaddeus, which is, after all, his given name. But he ate it up, didn’t seem to mind a bit, so . . .” She let out a long sigh. “I guess that old adage is true: There’s no fool like an old fool. And now he’s a dead one.”

  I moved closer for a better look at the woman leaning on Pitt’s arm. With her long, lustrous, perfectly coiffed mane of blond hair and her perfectly shaped, pouting, pillowlike lips, Mrs. Pitt the second made Angelina Jolie look like a scullery maid. Althea’s voice broke into my thoughts. “She looks like a woman used to living the good life, right? Well, with the pre-nup she signed, if he’d divorced her, she’d have gotten nothing. As his widow, she’ll get millions. Now if that isn’t a splendid motive for murder, I don’t know what is.”

  “I thought the same, but apparently the police seem satisfied with her alibi.”

  Althea Pitt picked up her teacup and took another sip. “They gave up a bit too easily. Her alibi can be broken, trust me. It will just take one tenacious person to do it.”

  “You sound very sure of that.”

  “She might be involved, or she might not. I can’t say for sure, but one thing I do know. If you want to clear your sister, find out why he reneged on his promise. I’ll bet more than likely it will lead you straight to his killer.”

  I set down my teacup. “That’s a pretty tall order.”

  “Tall, but not impossible. I can even tell you who might be able to help,” Althea offered. “Julia Canton.”

  My eyes widened. “His mistress?”

  She glanced at her son, and then the two of them started to laugh. “Goodness no,” she said at last. “Thaddeus wasn’t sleeping with Julia. Far from it. Their relationship was focused strictly on objets d’art.

  “Julia’s not only a model, you see. She’s also an art broker. She works part-time at the Wilson Galleries, in Pacific Grove. She’s the one who got Thaddeus the Engeldrumm and Cezanne.”

  NINE

  “Now there’s an interesting turn of events. Julia Canton works for Kurt Wilson at Wilson Galleries and recently acquired two valuable paintings for Pitt. Pitt offers one to the son, then reneges on the deal. It all means something. I just need to figure out what.”

  It was Sunday, and the Institute was closed for the day in honor of Pitt, with a brief service planned for late that afternoon. Since there wasn’t too much I could do right now in the way of investigation, I had returned to Cruz late Saturday night, intending to use my free time to outline a plan of attack. Unfortunately, at the moment I just wasn’t quite sure what I should be attacking. Chantal had come over early, and it was a good thing, since the Sunday breakfast crowd seemed a bit more hefty than usual. Now it was the lull between breakfast and lunch, and we sat grouped around the counter in the kitchen. I had the fixings for a brand-new sandwich in front of me, and Nick lay on the floor at my feet, hopeful of swiping a paw at any little bits that might inadvertently find their way to the floor.

  “You will, chérie. But you must exercise caution. I am certain this person would not hesitate to kill again if they thought they were on the verge of being exposed.”

  “That’s a given.” I picked up the bowl with the mayo and Italian dressing mixture and started spreading it on a hoagie roll. “I must confess, though, that it’s much easier for me to imagine Julia Canton in the role of scorned mistress than it is art broker. Maybe it’s because I saw her naked.” At Chantal’s raised eyebrow, I gave a quick shake of my head. “Don’t ask.”

  My friend’s lips quirked, but she said in a bored tone, “Wasn’t going to.”

  “Liar.” I spread spicy mustard on the roll and then arranged a layer of turkey, speck (an Italian meat made from boned pork leg), and Colby-Jack cheese, topping it with fresh dill pickle slices. I closed the sandwich and brushed the bread liberally with olive oil. “It’s good to be home and talking to you about all this. Every time I mention anything about Lacey or the murder around Aunt Prudence, she starts to get hysterical.”

  “Well, you really cannot blame the woman, chérie. After all, she is not as used to murders and criminals as you are.”

  “True.” I set the sandwich brush down and wiped my hands on a nearby dishcloth. “Her friend Irene seemed much more interested in all the gory details. Now there’s a character.” I rolled my eyes. “It’s hard for me to fathom just how those two became such fast friends.”

  “Opposites attract.”

  “Those two are polar opposites, all right. Irene seemed to actually enjoy speculating on whether or not they’d give Lacey the death penalty or just life imprisonment. I kind of got the
feeling Irene’s a closet shamus; you know, the sort who watches reruns of Murder, She Wrote and CSI and tries to figure out just who the killer is.”

  “Maybe you should have discussed the case with her, then,” Chantal suggested. “Who knows? Perhaps she might actually have given you some good insight.”

  “I might have except I got the distinct impression she thinks Lacey’s guilty. Getting back to the original topic, though, what would make a man like Pitt think twice about letting his son have a valuable piece of artwork, to virtually deny him a second chance at making something of his life other than a hot mess?”

  “Um . . . finding out his son was involved with his current wife?” Chantal suggested.

  I cut her an eye roll. “That’s pretty good, but considering Philip Pitt thinks of his stepmother as the plague, not very likely.”

  “That could have been just talk, designed to throw people off the track.”

  I paused. “Maybe,” I said after a second. “But I don’t think so.”

  I walked over to the stove and slid the sandwich into the skillet I’d had heating there. I placed the press down on top of the sandwich and set the stove timer for a minute and a half. “Pitt and his son didn’t get along too well, so his offer to help wasn’t one made lightly. It had to be something really, really big that caused him to rescind. But what?”

  I stepped away from the stove and let out a gasp as I felt something crunch underneath my shoe. Looking down, I saw four Scrabble tiles.

  “Nick,” I said, bending down and scooping up the tiles. “Damn that cat. He always seems to get his paws into these no matter where I put them, and I was certain they were in my nightstand drawer.”

  “Well, maybe he wants to play,” Chantal suggested wickedly. “His former master was teaching him, right?”

  I didn’t answer. I was looking at the tiles in my hand. EKAF. Rearrange them and they spelled out—