Fat Cat Takes The Cake

Quincy came to a stop at the end of that block and let Chase put the harness back on. When she had to take off her gloves to make sure she got the harness fastened securely, she realized how cold it was. Her fingers were stiff as she pulled her holey gloves over them.

“Why did he stop?” Eddie asked. Chase noticed that he still wasn’t breathing hard. She was panting so much she could barely speak. All that health food probably was good for a person. It just wasn’t . . . good.

“Who knows why a cat does anything?” A couple more deep breaths, and she was back to normal.

“I’m telling you, a gym membership is the way to go. You get muscles without that scary steroid bulk.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know. People like Bart Fender. He’s got that look. Those lumps between his neck and his shoulders, know what I mean?”

Yes, that’s what Bart was like. Lumpy. Very solid lumps, but unnatural.

“What was that all about?” Eddie asked.

“I think I didn’t get it fastened all the way. I was in a hurry—”

“No, I meant that business with Dickie Byrd and . . . whoever that was with him.”

“I’m not entirely sure.”

“He wasn’t eager to introduce us, was he?”

“Have you ever seen her before?”

Eddie shook his head. “Maybe she’s his niece or something. Looks like she lives in those apartments.”

Or something. Chase was sure the voluptuous woman wasn’t Dickie Byrd’s niece.

TWENTY-THREE

Chase raised her face and closed her eyes, loving the baking aromas that always lingered in the Bar None. It was pleasant to be in the shop when no one else was there. She wandered through the kitchen into the salesroom. Even with the lights off, the clean glass in the display case glinted in the late afternoon light. The pink shelves held boxes of dessert bars, standing at attention and lined up like little pink-striped soldiers. Small round tables held stacked boxes, but the supplies there were low. She would have to remember to have either Inger or Mallory replenish them.

Quincy wound through her legs on her slow amble. It was chilly in the shop with the heat turned down for the day, so his furry rubs felt warm and nice.

She was at loose ends. Maybe she would get some work done in the office. Sitting at the computer, she pulled up the Bar None webpage to admire the handiwork of Tanner, then opened the screens she needed and got to work.

Chase paused partway through going over her inventory to think about Van Snelson and Langton Hail, the men she had considered the two best suspects for Ron North’s murder. They both had perfectly good alibis. The principal, even though he was part of a shady real estate exercise and was being blackmailed by Ron, probably for the real estate swindle, was at the high school all night. Chase had less and less respect for the man. Learning that he actually disliked the students and couldn’t stand to be around them contributed to her negative feelings. He might also be skimming money from the school system. But it didn’t look like he had murdered Ron.

Langton Hail, because he was also part of the real estate deal, and had probably roped Snelson into it with him, was such a good possibility. He, too, was being blackmailed, if they interpreted the notebook correctly. For the school funds or the real estate deals. But he had slept in his car that night.

So why had they given each other false alibis? Even to the extent of involving Snelson’s wife? Chase’s best guess on that was because they were trying to keep their true whereabouts hidden for other reasons. Van Snelson didn’t want it known yet that he was leaving the high school job. How did that tie in, though? Maybe his marriage was in trouble even then? Divorce seemed to matter more for a school principal than for some other folks. Hail wouldn’t want everyone to know that he was an alcoholic and had drunk too much to drive. At least he had the good sense not to take to the road when he was inebriated. Maybe he had lost his license in the past. He was truly trying to fight his addiction, according to Eddie Heath.

There was, she thought, still a slight chance that one of these two crooks had murdered Ron North, but it was becoming less and less likely. So who did that leave?

The name in the notebook under PRINCE (Principal Van Snelson) and PHOTO (real estate developer Langton Hail) was BIRD. Richard “Dickie” Byrd. He hadn’t started giving Ron blackmail money yet, it appeared, since no numbers accompanied his code name, but he was on the list. Maybe he was determined not to let himself be blackmailed and refused to fork over money? At this stage of his political career, a mistress wouldn’t do him any good. What was Dickie Byrd’s alibi?

Did his wife alibi him, too? Was Dickie with her? Would Detective Niles Olson tell her?

There was one way to find out.

He answered his cell phone on the first ring, for once.

“Hi, Chase.” He sounded easy and friendly today, not uptight and official, as he sometimes did.