Maybe Murder Page 3

  “Poor Ben.” M’s turned her attention back to her computer screen. “I’ll get Ghost’s owner on the phone for you, but come check this map out first.”

  Kalico came over and looked at her screen: he saw an Austin city map littered with red x’s, seemingly placed at random. “What am I looking at?”

  “At what am I looking? Don’t end a sentence with a preposition.” M’s smirked.

  “Stop!”

  “Couldn’t resist.” M’s clicked, and an image of Ghost filled the screen with his profile. The husky was stunning: deep blue eyes, rich white coat with only a touch of blue-gray around the eyes and on his right side. “Ghost has been missing since the 6th—that’s four days.” M’s switched back to the map. “This is the husky’s home just outside of Dripping Springs. The x’s represent reported sightings—over twenty.”

  Kalico studied the map. If all the reports were accurate, the beautiful white dog had been spotted in Oak Hill, and near the Nutty Brown Café, and last night, in the Barton Creek Greenbelt. If even half of the sighting were accurate, Ghost had traveled at least twenty miles in his wanderings.

  “Excellent work, M’s. Give me thirty minutes to study this map—there’s a pattern, but I can’t quite see it. Then, get Mr. Skifford on the phone—I need to update him on Ghost’s progress. And I want you to canvas the Travis Country neighborhood above the greenbelt. The boy has to be hungry, so I bet he’s headed into a neighborhood.”

  “Will do. Remember, I have an Econ exam, so I won’t be in this afternoon. I’ll check the rescue websites before I leave and go straight to class after I canvas for Ghost. Be sure to check your messages.”

  “Great. Good luck on your exam, and again, great job on that map.”

  Hiring Melissa Montgomery had been a good move. He’d agreed reluctantly to give her the job because his youngest sister, Katie, had asked him to as a special favor—and he could never refuse her anything. Also, M’s had accepted minimum wage, did not need or expect health insurance, and appreciated flexible hours. Kalico had not recognized the serious, black-haired Goth who showed up for work on that first day. Where was the giggly, little, fair-haired girl he recalled playing in his sister’s room? “Call me ‘M’s,’” she’d said. “And I changed my last name to Moon. Don’t ask me about my family, and we’ll be fine.” And they had been fine, but he wondered what had happened in the Montgomery household.

  Kalico rubbed his chin and walked into the small bathroom beside his office to shave. Ten minutes later, clean-shaved and wearing a sky blue Polo shirt and sharply pressed khakis, Kalico turned to the work on his desk. It was going to be a busy day—so much better than the first long weeks in business when he had waited for clients, had tried to network, and had devised multiple marketing plans. He needed to revisit his marketing strategies, but not today.

  Today he had a dog to track, Carson Bolter to monitor, and a retired English teacher to pacify. He needed to observe the MacLeod household and interview Mrs. MacLeod about her accidents.

  His email pinged:

  From: Miss Emelia Winterjoy

  To: Mr. Benjamin Kalico

  Subject: N.M.’s Schedule

  Mr. Kalico:

  I assume that you will want to interview Mrs. MacLeod as soon as possible. She will be at the Hampton Branch Library from 9-12 this morning and will be home the rest of the day. (Connor has classes today, so he will not be present until suppertime). I trust you will be discreet. –E.W.

  Chapter Four

  Emelia Winterjoy marched out of the Kalico Detective Agency, feeling triumphant. Perhaps she had bullied the young man a bit—she smothered a twinge of guilt. Such a useless emotion, she thought. Guilt assuages our conscience so that we may repeat the shameful behavior. Guilt stops nothing. But at least he was still on the case, and, if the danger to Nancy proved to be an old woman’s over-active imagination, so much the better. But Emelia had a bad feeling, and she had learned not to ignore her notions.

  “Trust your woman’s intuition” was a directive that her mother and grandmother had repeated often. As a twenty-year-old budding feminist, Emelia had scoffed, “Women are rational beings. We can trust logic, not fall prey to unsubstantiated hunches.” Fifty years later, she heeded their advice and trusted her intuition. “The unconscious knows things before our conscious minds can process or prove them,” she affirmed.

  As she merged her red Honda Fit with the southbound Mo Pac traffic, she recalled January 6, the night of Nancy’s first accident. She had awakened at 2:47 a.m.––perhaps disturbed by the distant siren’s song, still too far off to hear consciously. Her calico cat, Perdita, meowed in protest at her change in position before settling onto her chest, purring softly. Usually, Perdita’s presence was sleep-inducing, but not that night. Emelia remembered pulling her soft, white comforter up because the room was chilly. A norther had dropped the temperature into the 20’s. Her mind had switched onto ideas for her spring garden. She wanted to establish a new perennial flowerbed that would eat up another piece of her thirsty St. Augustine lawn. She was picturing a showcase planting of Esperanza, locally known as Yellow Bells, when sirens screamed onto her street and red and blue lights flashed.

  For an instant she’d thought the ambulance had pulled into her drive; she could feel the rumbling of its engine in her bones. But no. It was parked in front of Nancy MacLeod’s house next door. Emelia jumped out of bed, sending Perdita flying; her corgis, Trey and Snowdon, scrambled toward the front door. She grabbed a robe, neglected slippers, ordered her boys to stay, and ran next door.

  A series of images flashed before her: EMT’s, serious and efficient and comforting, moving through the pulsating lights. Nancy, pale and so small under a navy blue blanket, carried out on a stretcher, calling out reassurances to Connor as the men lifted her into the ambulance. Nancy stretching out a hand to Emelia. And Connor, fully dressed, standing silently, backlit by the open doorway, his expression unreadable.

  “Which hospital?” Emelia demanded.

  “South Austin.”

  “Nancy, we will follow you. Breathe, dear. You’re going to be all right.”

  “Get my purse! My insurance. Take care of Connor…And Moody. She must be frantic.”

  Emelia watched the ambulance pull out, then she turned to Connor. “Give me five minutes, and we’ll go to the hospital. You drive. What happened?”

  “She fell. In the kitchen.” The young man did not move.

  Emelia recalled with a shiver rushing into Nancy’s home, calming her terrier-mix, Moody, finding Nancy’s purse, grabbing her plush lavender robe and fuzzy slippers. She’d glimpsed broken glass in the kitchen and, she thought, something shiny on the floor. Then she’d run home, pulled on black pants and shoes, and joined Connor on the never ending, fifteen minute drive to South Austin Hospital.

  Shaking off the memory, Emelia exited MoPac at William Cannon. 10 a.m. Nancy was now safely at work in the library. She had been lucky. She had sprained her left wrist, bruised her hip, and received a nasty bump on the head, but no concussion. Although a vague worry had nagged Emelia at the time, she had accepted the idea that Nancy had slipped when she had gotten up in the middle of the night for a glass of orange juice. Then three weeks later, accident number two had occurred.

  When she pulled into her driveway, Emelia surveyed the tidy tan brick house next door. All was quiet. Nancy was at work, and Connor must be in class. She greeted Perdita and the boys, then sat down to email Kalico. The young man needed direction.

  ***

  M’s poked her head into Kalico’s office. “Hey, Ben. I just got a text from Andy, one of the volunteers at Town Lake, and he’s reported the intake of a dog that may be Mr. Chips. I’ll stop by there on my way to campus.”

  Kalico looked up from his computer screen. His red hair stood on end, and his eyes looked bleary. “Thanks, M’s. Fingers crossed—that little guy has been missing for almost a week.” He opened their rescue webpage. The soft, brown eyes of a tiny, long-haired Ch
ihuahua gazed at him. The dog owner’s five-year-old son, Billy, had decided to walk the dog by himself. Apparently Chips had startled a sleeping cat, slipped his collar, and disappeared around a corner in yapping pursuit. An exhaustive search of the neighborhood had not uncovered the pet. Frantic, the family had called Kalico. “Text me, if you find him,” he called to M’s. “And good luck on your exam. English, is it?”

  “I wish,” she grimaced. “Econ. Anyway, I sent out alerts on Ghost and updated our site. I’ll check our accounts after the test and again this evening.”

  “You’re the best. See you tomorrow.”

  Kalico watched as she grabbed her backpack, a file of Ghost flyers, and left, closing his office door behind her. The eighteen-year-old was a godsend. She had designed the agency’s pet-rescue website, linked it to all of the rescue organizations in the Texas hill country, kept his calendar, and even helped furnish the small office. He knew that she had taken the job reluctantly—not wanting to work for her friend’s nerdy older brother. Initially, she had been efficient, but stone-faced and monosyllabic. But recently, he had glimpsed vestiges of the old Melissa.

  An hour later, his phone chimed, revealing a broadly grinning M’s, her face being thoroughly washed by an ecstatic Mr. Chips. Her message read simply: Found! Family is on the way.

  “Hey, Benj. What her name?” Katie Kalico, his youngest sister, walked quickly to his desk and peered over his shoulder.

  “It’s Ben, Kit Kat.”

  “Whatever.” She grabbed his phone and pinched the screen to enlarge the photo. “She looks almost like the old Melissa.”

  He took back his phone. “What are you doing here?”

  Katie dropped her book bag, pulled her long, red hair into a messy ponytail, and leaned her elbows on his desk. “Came to see if you wanted to take me out to lunch. Dorm food sucks.”

  “Can’t.” He purposely returned his attention to his monitor. “Go home. Mom has left over lasagna.”

  “I don’t dare.” Katie sighed hugely. “Dad is starting to ask why he’s paying for the dorm’s meal plan.”

  Ten minutes later, Kalico looked up, aware of his sister’s gaze. “Haven’t you left yet?”

  “Ben, has Melissa said anything to you? She’s shut me out—and I’m her best friend.”

  “Not really. I gather things are rough at home. Mr. and Mrs. Montgomery require check-ins. They call to make sure M’s is where she’s supposed to be.”

  Kalico had been interning full time at Lone Star, had his own apartment, and had been too busy to be all but tangentially aware of what was going on with his sister and her friend. He recalled giggling girls, always in motion, always talking. He conjured a picture of the Melissa of a year ago: long, silvery blonde hair, laughing brown eyes, thrilled with her parents’ gift of a butter yellow Volkswagen Beetle. (She now referred to the car as the vomit mobile.) Like Katie, M’s had been a straight A student, college-bound, a star on the high school’s volleyball team.

  “We were supposed to attend the University of Texas together.”

  “What happened senior year, Kat?” He pushed back from his desk and focused his attention on her. After all, this was a mystery worthy of his detecting skills.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Try. Go slowly and tell me what you recall.”

  Katie arched her brows. “Are you interviewing me, Mr. Private Eye?” She shrugged. “Fall semester was such fun: we ruled the school. Of course, college applications, AP classes, sports, and trying to get Bobby Martin to notice us meant serious sleep deprivation. But we figured we could sleep when we got old—like you.”

  “When did things change?”

  “First quarter of spring semester. I remember that Melissa missed several days of school and did not respond to my texts. When she returned, she had not completed her essay for AP English.” Katie shook her head as though failing to turn in an important assignment was inconceivable. “She stopped participating in class, dropped off the team, and received demerits for being out of dress code.” Katie’s eyes filled with tears. “And the worst: she would not talk to me.”

  Kalico was aware that the girl had had a fight with her parents, packed a bag, and appeared at his parents’ front door.

  “She looked like a zombie—no emotion. Nada. Zip. Nothing. Melissa just said that she’d left home, was dropping out of high school, and would not be applying to college. She didn’t even want the Fudge Brownie ice cream that I offered her.”

  “But she did return home.”

  “Yes. Mom acted, I think, as a mediator. Melissa agreed to get her diploma, find a job, and pay her parents rent. The next time I saw her, she’d cut her hair, dyed it flat black, and changed her name.”

  Kalico rose and enfolded his sister in a bear hug. “Don’t give up on her, Katie. Give her time and space.”

  “I just want the old Melissa back.” She sniffled. “Guess I’ll go home for lunch.”

  ***

  Stomach growling, Kalico stared dejectedly at the spreadsheet. He habitually caught up with paperwork at the end of each day, but he needed to kill some time before he interviewed Nancy MacLeod. He completed notes on Ghost and on Bolter, and catalogued expenses before turning his attention to the agency’s finances. Quarterly taxes and his insurance premium were due next week, and he was short—even with Miss Winterjoy’s check. He’d projected operating at a deficit for the first year, but…He grinned ruefully. Man, was his projection correct. He’d have to dip into his rapidly dwindling savings to cover M’s small salary. He ran his fingers through his hair, creating oddly angled spikes.

  Kalico leaned back in his chair and studied the crack that ran diagonally across his ceiling. He’d already cut his own salary to the bone. He could let M’s go. He sighed. Not an option: she was invaluable. Besides, the sad and stoic young woman he’d greeted on her first day was slowly transforming into the warmer, more confident person he now knew.

  His folks had offered him his old room at home—“just until the business gets on its feet.” That would save him over a thousand a month, and, God knows, they’d feed him.

  His phone buzzed. “Hi, Mom.” How did she know?

  “Hi, Ben. Sorry your Ghost hunt didn’t turn out better.”

  “How do you know about the Ghost sighting already? Don’t tell me: M’s updated our site.”

  “She did. That girl has flair. Listen: I wonder what that dog is running from.”

  “He’s just spooked—excuse the pun. His owner’s furious. Apparently, Ghost has a contract for a national commercial, and if the dog isn’t back in perfect condition by the end of next week, he stands to lose a lot of money.”

  “Maybe Ghost is running to somewhere.”

  “Maybe. This sighting was encouraging. All the pet rescue groups and volunteer searchers are on alert. We’ll find him. He’s got to be hungry: he’s been gone for over a week.” He pulled up the husky’s picture: the dog’s sky blue eyes stood out against his silvery-white face.

  “Speaking of hungry––Ben, your dad and I were wondering if you’d like to come over for pizza Friday night? Your sisters are coming, and we thought it would be fun to have a family pizza and movie night.”

  “Sure. I miss our Friday movie nights. Besides, I haven’t seen Karla, Karen, and the kids since Christmas. I’ll bring the popcorn.”

  “Save your money. We have Kettle Corn. See you at six.”

  Kalico resumed his contemplation of his ceiling. Moving home wouldn’t be that bad. His folks were suffering from empty nest syndrome since Katie moved into the dorm at UT. He’d really be helping them out. And it would be only temporary—humiliating—but temporary. But cutting expenses was a short-term solution. He needed income. He needed more clients. Revise that: he needed better paying clients. Pet retrievals would never generate enough income. And walk-ins like Miss Winterjoy were rare.

  Next week he had meetings with a local insurance agency and a new law firm. It would only take two or three contracts
to establish enough predictable income to break even. Soon he’d be able to bring on another detective or two. He envisioned a bustling agency with multiple detectives. He’d have teams that specialized in different areas: insurance fraud, missing persons, recovery of stolen items, and surveillance. He would personally take the most intriguing cases and let an office manager take care of the administrative details and marketing. If he could just hold on….

  He checked the clock: it was time to interview the intended murder victim, Nancy MacLeod.

  Chapter Five

  Downing a Red Bull, Kalico brought his Civic to a stuttering stop across the street from Nancy MacLeod’s tan brick house. The Honda coughed. Now, what? Kalico’s stomach clenched as he envisioned car repair bills. Right now, the best thing about his car was that it was paid in full.

  He sighed and focused his attention on the MacLeod house. A white Honda Accord was parked in the drive, and the front door stood open save for a screen door. Raised beds ablaze with wildflowers—bluebonnets, Indian paintbrush, coreopsis, and wine cups—gave the impression that nature had been let loose in the yard. Another raised bed filled with their first spring blooms graced the far corner of the yard. Kalico recognized the hand of a skilled gardener. He shifted his gaze to the white stone house trimmed in blue next door: the Winterjoy place. A curtain in the window moved. Like her neighbor’s, the front yard was meticulously landscaped, but with clean, geometric flowerbeds that left no doubt that nature was under the control of a practiced hand. Kalico turned on his tablet and pulled up his notes on Nancy MacLeod. He’d use the missing Pippa again as a way into his interview…

  A sharp rap on his passenger side window caused him to drop the tablet. Damn. He turned to see Miss Winterjoy motioning to him to unlock his door. He did so.

  “You can’t park here. I asked you to be discreet…Good afternoon, Gladys. Yes, it’s going to be hot today.” She smiled and waved at a large woman who was walking an elderly terrier, then turned back to Kalico with a frown. “See. You’ve already drawn the attention of the block’s busybody, Gladys Tatewell.”