Fat Cat Takes The Cake

“Detective Olson? Could I ask you a couple of questions?” Quincy, who had been dozing on the floor of the office, decided Chase’s lap was too empty. So he jumped into it and bumped his head against her arm, almost jostling the phone out of her hands.

“You can always ask.”

“I guess that’s right.” And he was free to not answer. “I just learned that it was Langton Hail’s car in the parking lot Sunday morning.”

“Yes, we know that. He admitted leaving his car there when we asked him.”

“He was in it.”

“He was in the car? You saw him?”

“No, Eddie Heath saw him waking up in his car, like he’d been there all night. He didn’t know who it was on Sunday. Now Mr. Hail has started going into Eddie’s shop and he recognized him.”

There was a pause. That was a good sign, Chase thought. The detective was considering her information. “That doesn’t exactly jibe with his statement.” It sounded like he was talking to himself. “He and Snelson both said they spent the night together at Snelson’s house. Hail was too drunk to drive. Snelson’s wife backed him up at first, but both of their statements have fallen apart. I’ll be damned. I think you’ve got something there, Chase.”

She grinned. She had given the detective something useful. He would soon find out Julie did not kill anyone. “I have another question. Does Dickie Byrd’s alibi stand up?”

“Do you know what his alibi is?”

“No, but if Mona says he was with her . . .”

“I always take a spouse’s protection with a grain of salt.”

“If Dickie wasn’t home all night, was he with his mistress?” Quincy became more insistent with his head-butting.

“Why do you call him Dickie? Is that what most people call him?”

“Probably not, nowadays. It’s a nickname from high school.”

“Does he prefer it?”

“I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure he dislikes it.”

“Then why do you use it?”

That was a good question. Maybe she shouldn’t. She had rarely called him anything else, but they weren’t kids anymore. He didn’t even remember her. “You’re right. I should call him Richard.” One more good bump from the cat and her phone flew to the floor.

She dumped Quincy off her lap and snatched up her phone. “Are you still there?” The battery had fallen out and was on the floor. She put it back together, but the detective didn’t answer her call. She didn’t know much more about Dickie’s alibi now than before she called.

“You little dickens,” she scolded, picking Quincy up and stroking his back. “You’ve had plenty of exercise. Why are you so feisty today?”

A sudden sneeze sent the cat to the floor and Chase grabbing a tissue from the box on her desk.

She abandoned her work on the inventory and took the cat upstairs so he could use up some of his energy batting a Go Go Ball around the apartment. It was her day off, after all, and she shouldn’t be working. She’d only been doing it to occupy her mind, since she wasn’t getting anywhere replacing Julie as the main murder suspect on Olson’s list.

A gentle snowfall started. It was about three in the afternoon. Her throat felt a bit scratchy, so she made a cup of decaf English Breakfast tea and poured a generous amount of honey into it. She snuggled into the corner of her comfy chair, sipping her sweet home remedy, and watched the flakes, falling straight down in the absence of even a breath of wind.

At four, she jerked her head up, suddenly awake. The doze had felt good. She was energized. But what had awakened her? Her doorbell sounded. That must have been what she had heard. Her cell phone signaled distress that the battery was low, too, so she plugged it in first.

She stepped into her slippers and ran down the stairs. When she opened the door, Professor Anderson Fear stood there fidgeting, his shoulders frosted with snow. His fat-tire bicycle leaned against the wall behind him, which meant that he had pedaled over in the snow.

“Ms. Oliver? Can I speak with you?” His pinched face showed worry.

“Of course. Come on in.” As she spoke, she realized her throat didn’t feel much better. She had caught Grace Pilsen’s cold, curse the woman.

She led him up the stairs to her apartment and pointed him to the leather couch. It would be less affected than her chair by the snow that would melt off him. After taking off his coat and draping it over the arm, he sat. Quincy eyed him, but didn’t jump up beside him. The cat very much disliked being wet.

Professor Fear’s dark, disheveled hair was coated with white flakes as well. He took off his glasses and polished the thick lenses on the tail of his mud-brown sweater. “I’m worried about Hilda.”

“Is she all right?” Chase also knew that her health wasn’t excellent.

He drew a shaky breath. “Physically, yes. I’m not sure about her mind lately, though.”

“What’s happened?” Chase unwrapped a cough drop and popped it into her mouth.

“I went to check in on her this morning and a man was leaving her house. I’m certain he’s the one who was there before. The man she said looked like an egret.”

“Van Snelson, the high school principal.”