Bound for Murder, page 11
“Hopefully you are not speaking from experience.” I fought to keep my tone light.
He looked away without replying. “You should stop helping anyone with this particular investigation, Amy. It is not prudent to take it any further.”
“Because you think I might be in danger?” I slid closer and tapped his arm. “I didn’t know you cared so much.”
His fingers landed over mine and gripped with such force that I squeaked.
“I do, which is why I am giving you this direct warning.” He stared at me in a way that made me shudder. “I do care, about you, as well as Richard and Lydia and others. But …” He pulled his hand back.
In for a penny … “But if we do anything to endanger your interests, you can’t promise what might happen?”
Kurt reared back, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “That isn’t what I meant.”
“Isn’t it?”
Twisting his lips, Kurt stared at me for a moment before answering. “No. But you would be wise to avoid digging into the pasts of men like me. They have not all changed as I have. But like me, they do all have secrets they do not wish to share.”
I noticed that his eyes were glittering like sapphires—brilliant but cold. “If you know something about the dealers who may have supplied Jeremy Adams, you should inform the sheriff’s office. It could provide crucial info, especially if the same person or organization killed Ruth to cover up their past crimes.”
“Who says I haven’t? Or won’t eventually. Anyway”—Kurt dropped his arms to his sides—“the bottom line is that you and the Fields family should stop poking around in this particular case. Leave it to the professionals.”
“I am leaving it to them. I’m just assisting with some research. It’s not like I’m going to track down those former dealers and try to force a confession out of them.” I drummed my fingers against the seat of the bench. “Except for you, of course. I might continue to try to pry more information out of you.”
“I wouldn’t,” Kurt said, in a tone that could’ve frozen mercury. He stood and moved to loom over me. “Now, I’ve said my piece. I leave the rest to your common sense and discretion.”
I couldn’t hold back a nervous burst of laughter. “You’re sure that’s wise?”
“No,” he said, as he turned to go. “Which is why I’ll continue to keep an eye on you.”
He strode away before I could form any decent response.
I sat for a moment considering his warning, before I stood and crossed the garden to reach the arbor—and the entrance to Richard’s backyard. Jogging up to his back door, I knocked loudly, hoping he could hear me through the porch and into the house.
The door to the kitchen popped open and Richard rushed out. “Amy! Something wrong?”
“No.” I wrapped my arms around him and leaned into his chest. “I just needed a hug.”
“Anytime,” he said, returning my embrace. “But I thought you said you were working in the garden and wouldn’t be coming over this evening.” He pushed me back, still holding on to my arms. “You look a little flustered. Sure nothing’s wrong?”
“I’m fine.” I debated telling him about Kurt’s warning.
But if you do, he’ll be very unhappy if you continue to help either Brad or Carol and P.J. And you know you will …
A yowl pierced the air.
“Not again.” Richard dropped my arms and stepped back, glancing over his shoulder. “Loie is not happy.”
“I told you she wouldn’t welcome the addition of a new cat,” I said, biting back a smile. I didn’t want to embarrass him over his shock that Loie and Fosse hadn’t become buddies the minute he’d brought the new kitten into the house. I knew Richard was unaccustomed to dealing with pets, since his parents hadn’t allowed any animals in their home when he was growing up. “Where’s Fosse now?”
Richard ran one hand through his short dark hair. “Upstairs, in the spare room. But even though she can’t see him, Loie is still ticked off.”
“Of course she is, but she’ll get over it. You’ll see.” I followed Richard into the house. “Here, let me entice Loie with some treats while you go and fetch Fosse. Maybe with the two of us supervising, we can keep them from killing each other while they get better acquainted.” I pulled the clippers from my pocket and dropped them on the kitchen counter before grabbing a packet of cat treats and heading into the living room.
While Richard jogged upstairs to grab Fosse, I located Loie, who was crouched under the coffee table, her dark pupils almost filling her green eyes and her tail thrashing from side to side.
I sat in an open spot on the floor, near the point where the wooden dance floor butted up against the living room area, and spilled some of the cat snacks into one palm. Leaning forward, I held out my hand. “Come here, girl. You know you want a treat.”
Loie eyed me with suspicion.
I wiggled my fingers. “Don’t be such a diva. Come out and get a snack.”
The tortoiseshell cat twitched her little black nose and inched forward.
“That’s right,” I cooed, in a voice I used only on pets. “Have a nice little treat and get over yourself, you silly fluffball.”
Loie reached me and thrust her face into my palm to nibble on the treats. Just as I leaned in to pet her head, Richard clattered down the stairs.
Instantly, Loie knocked aside my hand and jumped straight up in the air. I fell backward, and cat treats went flying in all directions.
Loie landed on her paws with her back arched and her tail fluffed out like a bottlebrush. Her eyes, slitted into shards of emerald, were fixed on something over my shoulder.
There was a shout and a thud, and I spun around on my backside to see Fosse—who’d obviously leapt free of Richard’s arms—racing toward Loie.
Richard pursued the ginger kitten, but stumbled when his bare sole made contact with a couple of the hard cat treats. Swearing, he hopped on one foot, while Fosse stopped short as Loie arched her back higher and hissed.
I scooted to a point where I could place my body between the two cats. “Now Loie, let’s not lose our cool.”
“I think it’s long gone.” Richard plopped down on the floor next to me.
My gaze darted from Fosse, who appeared fascinated by this vicious new toy, to Loie, who was growling in fits and starts like a dying car battery. “She just needs to get it out of her system. Once she realizes that the kitten poses no danger, she’ll calm down.” I sat up and slid closer to Richard.
Danger, I thought. Far too much talk about danger today. But the kittens were helping ease my anxiety after my talk with Kurt, so I focused on them.
Richard draped one arm around my shoulders and pulled me to his side. “I hope you’re right.”
“I am. This happened every time we introduced a new pet to our existing ones,” I said. “They have to establish who’s in charge, and then everything is fine.”
“You mean Loie wants to make sure Fosse knows who’s the boss?”
“Of course. Now look—her tail is back to its normal size and she’s just staring Fosse down, not hissing at him.”
Richard tightened his grip on me. “Because he’s not making any aggressive moves.”
“Right. Because he obviously isn’t stupid.” I gazed at the kitten, whose amber eyes were half closed as he leisurely licked one of his copper-and-yellow-striped legs. “He’s showing her he isn’t going to attack, which is why she’s calming down.”
Loie’s tale was still twitching, but the fear and fury that had vibrated her entire body had ceased. She settled down on the floor, her paws curled up under her, as she stared intently at Fosse.
“If we just sit here a while and let them work it out, I think they’ll be okay,” I said.
“I don’t mind.” Richard leaned in and kissed the top of my head. “I didn’t think I’d see you this evening, so this is a bonus. By the way, since I won’t see you much this next week, what with all the rehearsals for the scholarship recital, I wondered if I could take you home after the performance on Saturday night. If Lydia doesn’t mind driving back by herself, I mean.”
“Oh, she won’t be alone. Sunny’s coming along with us. Now look at that.” I pointed at the two cats. “They’re just eyeing one another now. No hissing or growling.”
Fosse lay flat on the floor, his limbs relaxed, while Loie kept her legs curled up under her body. But she didn’t back away when the ginger kitten reached out a paw and left it lying just inches from the patch of sleek black fur on Loie’s breast. Casually, as if he weren’t at all interested in her response, Fosse batted one of the spilled treats toward Loie.
“It seems Fosse is a rather clever devil,” Richard said, as Loie sniffed at the treat.
“Just like his daddy,” I replied, patting his thigh.
“Now wait a minute, I’m not devilish.”
“I meant clever, but now that you mention it …” I leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. “Sometimes you can be quite a charming devil, I admit.”
“Good to know,” Richard said, pulling me into his arms. “Do you think we can take our eyes off the kittens for a moment?”
“Only a moment?” I asked, before he kissed me and we stopped talking for quite some time.
At that point, Loie and Fosse were no longer glaring at each other. They were both gazing at us in fascination instead.
“It appears that they’ve bonded over the peculiar habits of humans,” Richard said, reaching out to pat Loie’s sleek back.
I just smiled and petted Fosse.
Chapter Twelve
After breakfast on Saturday morning, I called Emily Moore, hoping to arrange a meeting with her sometime during the upcoming week.
She surprised me by suggesting I stop by that day.
“I’m free this afternoon,” she told me. “And I’m always happy to make time to talk with a librarian.”
“Well, this has to do with something other than the library,” I warned her. “Just to be fair, I think I should tell you that my primary goal is to convey a message from P.J. and Carol Fields. If you are indeed the Daisy Miles who once lived on their commune, which I suspect you are.”
I wouldn’t have blamed her if she’d hung up on me, but after a long silence she responded. “I see you’ve discovered my alter ego. Very well, I suppose I should listen to what Carol and P.J. have to say. They were always good folks, so I imagine their hearts are in the right place with this.”
“Let’s make it after lunch,” I said. “I’d hardly expect you to feed me, especially on such short notice.”
We agreed to meet at two o’clock, which gave me time to do a little work in the garden before grabbing a shower and changing into some decent clothes.
It was a warm day, so I could get by without a jacket. Donning a copper-colored silk blouse and black jeans, I decided to wear my black leather sneakers instead of my loafers. After my talk with Emily, I thought I might walk to the other edge of town and back, just to fit in a little more exercise.
Reaching Emily Moore’s address, I paused on the sidewalk leading to the porch to admire the fine lines of the brick bungalow. Climbing the stone steps, I surveyed the porch, which stretched the full width of the house. It was decorated with an assortment of comfortable outdoor seating and wicker plant boxes filled with geraniums that picked up the pink tones in the brick. I looked up, noticing the fine woodwork evident even in the porch’s ceiling. As I pressed the antique bronze doorbell, a melodic chime rang through the house.
Emily opened the door and greeted me with a smile. “Hello, Amy. Please come in.”
I offered her an answering hello and followed her into the house. She was a woman of average height, but chunky, with the solid, muscular bulk of someone who participated in sports or worked out. Her hair, cut in a short bob, was dyed a rich brown.
Not the typical image of a poet, for sure. When she stopped in the center of the room and turned to face me, the stereotype was further shattered by the strong line of her jaw and her piercing dark eyes. Dressed in a plain ivory cotton blouse over chestnut-brown pants, Emily Moore didn’t fit my imaginary picture of the woman who had risen to fame in the flower-power sixties and psychedelic seventies. No bohemian chic clothes, filmy floral scarves, or long hair. Which was, I had to admit with a mental slap, an example of my own biases. I often railed against the depiction of librarians as skinny older women with their hair pulled up in a tight bun, wearing cardigans, glasses on a chain, and pearls. Yet here I was, making similar snap judgments.
I stepped through the front door, which opened directly onto a large room that obviously served as both a living room and dining area. There was a stone fireplace on one wall. Emily, with another smile, directed me to one of the oversized armchairs flanking the hearth.
“Thanks so much for talking with me today,” I said as I sat down. “I know it may have come as a shock, having me mention your connection to Vista View out of the blue.”
The poet’s wide, dark eyes were soft as pansy petals behind her large glasses. “It did, at first. Few people have ever connected me with the Daisy Miles who lived at Vista View all those years ago.” Emily took a seat across from me. “How did you figure that out?”
“Oh, that was my fiancé. He remembered something Clarion had recently published about you in a news release. It referenced you using the nickname Daisy during your time at Warhol’s Factory, and when I mentioned that the girl at the commune was an aspiring poet, he put two and two together.”
“Who is your fiancé, if I may ask?”
“Sorry, I should’ve said. It’s Richard Muir. He teaches dance at Clarion.”
“Ah yes. And of course I know who he is.” Emily’s smile broadened. “Hard to miss, isn’t he?”
A flicker of heat rose up the back of my neck. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“Lucky you,” Emily said, her tone light as meringue. “I saw him dance once, when I still lived in New York. He was a bit younger at the time, of course. A Twyla Tharp piece at Lincoln Center, I believe it was. Anyway, he was quite brilliant. And that body. Ooh-la-la, as they say.” Emily shot me an amused glance. “No need to be concerned, dear. I’m not going to move in on your beau. It’s just a natural admiration for beauty from a woman old enough to be his mother.”
“Well, of course, I didn’t think …” I rubbed at my face with the knuckles of one hand to hide the color that had risen in my cheeks. “Anyway, before I say anything more, I want to tell you again how grateful I am that you’re willing to take time out of what must be a very busy schedule to talk with me. Especially on such short notice.”
Emily Moore stretched out one leg and stared at her foot, as if examining her expensive leather pumps for scratches. “Oh, I’m not as busy as all that. In fact, I’ve slowed down considerably in recent years.”
“You still write, though. I bought your most recent volume of poetry for the library just last year.”
Emily waved one of her ringless hands through the air. “I manage to put out a book every couple of years. But I no longer write for literary magazines, and my teaching schedule has been reduced to two courses.” She pursed her lips. “I’m almost seventy, you know. Time takes its toll.”
As I recalled Carol and P.J. still planting and harvesting in their midseventies, something in her statement jangled through my mind. “Wait—I actually thought you’d be a few years older. I mean, if you were on the commune back in 1963 and ’64 …”
Emily Moore’s broad smile transformed her rather blunt-featured face, and for the first time I could see why, as a young person, the nickname Daisy might’ve been appropriate. “I lied about my age.”
I shifted in my chair. “You were actually a minor?”
“Yes, I was barely fifteen when I showed up at Vista View. I said I was eighteen, though, because I immediately realized Carol and P.J. wouldn’t allow me to stay if I told them my true age. They would’ve tried to find my parents or called social services. They were sticklers for things like that.”
“As they should have been.”
“Perhaps. But they didn’t know my family. I was better off at the commune, underage or not, believe me.” Emily Moore sat back in her chair and surveyed me with a glint of amusement in her eyes. “So now, tell me, what is this information you’ve been commissioned to share? I believe that’s why you’re here.”
I straightened as much as I could in the nest of soft cushions. “Carol and P.J. asked me to find you, along with some of the other former commune members. They wanted to warn you that the authorities might come calling and asking questions.”
“A little late. I prepared myself for that eventuality as soon as I heard they’d found Jeremy’s body at Vista View. I assumed it was only a matter of time before I’d be questioned. My old nickname is not as hard to discover as I had hoped. It certainly didn’t take you and your fiancé too long to figure it out.” Emily leaned forward, clasping her hands together to form a church-and-steeple gesture. “Not that I’m worried. I never really tried to disassociate myself from my Daisy persona completely. I simply reverted to my real name when I embarked on a more conservative career path. At any rate, it doesn’t matter. I have nothing to hide.”
“I hope finding out Jeremy was dead wasn’t too much of a shock.” I summoned up a sympathetic smile. “I assume you were well acquainted, since you lived together for a year or so.”
Emily tapped the tips of her fingers together. “I knew everyone on the commune fairly well, but you can save your condolences. Jeremy Adams and I were not close friends.”
I stared at the poet. This didn’t mesh with what I’d already heard. “Really? I talked to Peter O’Malley just the other day, and he seemed to think that most of the commune members were … close.” For some reason, I decided not to mention my talk with Ruth.
“Oh, Pete.” Emily sank back in her chair. “I’m sure he wishes that were true. But that was all in his head. Drug-fueled fantasies.”
