Omens
Page 69
“Yes,” he said finally. “If that was your rationale, it would concern me.”
“Because you’d be working with a psychopath?”
He seemed to think on that, too. “I suppose that could be a problem.”
“Just maybe, huh?”
“If you displayed murderous intentions, I’m sure I could take care of myself. The point, however, is moot, because you did not kill Niles Gunderson. Nor, I believe, would you have unless it was a matter of necessity. Yet when I told you the other day that he was dead, you didn’t seem surprised.”
I took a deep breath. “Because I wasn’t. I went to his apartment last Sunday. I was going to pretend to know Anna, in hopes of getting her contact information. I found Niles there. Dead.”
“I see.”
“The door was unlocked,” I said. “I thought . . . well, I thought maybe he was out and I could slip in and find Anna’s information.”
His nod was almost impatient, as if breaking into someone’s home was such a natural response to the situation that it didn’t warrant comment.
“I left him there,” I said. “I found him and I didn’t do anything about it.”
“You think you should have?”
Now it was my turn to pause and consider. “I think I should have felt worse about not doing anything. I think it shouldn’t have been so easy to just leave him there.”
“Had you called me, I would have advised you to do exactly as you did. Witnesses saw him confront you only days before. You broke into his apartment. Even if his death appeared natural, there would have been questions. You instinctively made the right move, and I’m pleased to see it.”
Which was not particularly comforting. I didn’t say that, of course. Just nodded and waited until he’d pulled from the parking spot before I asked, “About the murder, though. Does it seem weird to you? Poisoning someone over a poker game?”
“Yes,” he said. And nothing more.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
When I stepped into my apartment, I knew something was wrong. It was like . . . I’m not sure how to describe it. Like the hairs on my neck rose.
I walked into the kitchen. There was no sign of the cat. Normally, when he wasn’t curled up on his towel, he was making the arduous five-foot trek to his water bowl or litter box. I’d tried several times to send him outside to play, but he seemed to think I was trying to kick him out. Which maybe I was.
When I heard a low growl, I followed it to my bedroom. Two yellow eyes appeared under my bed. The cat came out and rubbed against my hand.
“Big bad mice scare you?”
He slunk to the doorway and peered out. Then he craned his neck to look back at me, as if to say, “Is it safe?”
I walked out ahead, and he followed. Then, with a satisfied mrrow, he plunked down on his bed.
I looked around. Something had spooked him. I knew the weather could upset animals, but I’d seen no sign of a storm or high winds. I wandered through the few rooms. No sign of a break-in. The front door had been locked, and nothing had been moved. It didn’t appear as if . . .
Wait.
I headed down to Grace’s apartment and found her setting up on the front porch.
“You bringing my scone?” she asked as I stepped out.
“It’s my day off.”
Her look said that was no excuse.
“Were you in my apartment doing maintenance?” I asked.
“I don’t do maintenance.”
“Was anyone in my apartment?”
“Not on my say-so. I don’t hand over my keys to anyone, and I don’t waltz in whenever I feel like it. I know what’s right. You’ll get twenty-four-hours’ notice if I need to come in.”
“Thank you. It just looked like someone had been in there.”
“Probably that damned cat of yours knocking stuff over. They do that if you keep them cooped up. You should let him out. At least open a window so he can leave.”
“I’m on the third floor.”
She shrugged. Before I could walk away, she said, “I want a scone.” She held out two dollar bills.
“I really wasn’t going to the diner.” I paused. “I could use a coffee, but I’m low on cash.”
She glowered and exchanged the bills for a five.
“Thank you. I’ll leave in a minute.”
She squawked as I went back inside.
Once again, when I stepped into my apartment, the hairs on the back of my neck rose. I looked down at the cat.
“Someone was here, right?”
He stared at me.
“Come on,” I said. “Give me a hint.”
More staring at the crazy lady. I sighed and looked around. Nothing seemed out of place. If someone did break in, what would they be—
I checked where I hid my laptop. It was still there, untouched.
“What then?” I muttered.
I slowly circled the kitchen and living room. When I walked into the bedroom, I felt a twinge, as if a sixth sense was telling me I was getting warm.
I walked to the dresser. Cold . . . To the closet . . . Cold. To the nightstand . . . Warmer. I turned to the bed, and felt that now-familiar prickle.
Bingo.
One of the pillowcase openings faced inward. I always make sure mine face out. I could say it’s because it looks neater, but the truth is that it’s another superstition—if the pillowcase opening isn’t facing out, bad dreams will get trapped and disturb your sleep. Crazy, but I knew damned well I hadn’t left it like this.
I yanked off the bedsheets and looked under the bed. Nothing. I grabbed the mattress with both hands and heaved it up. A line of dark powder formed a semicircle on the box spring. No, not a circle. Some kind of symbol. The sight of it made the back of my head ache.
Get rid of it.
Get rid of it now.
I shook off the impulse, retrieved my cell phone, and took pictures. Then I scooped some powder onto a piece of paper and folded it up. I put that aside and examined the remaining powder. It looked like ashes, and smelled . . . like wood, I think, but not quite. Maybe something mixed with wood.
Just get rid of it.
I did. Then washed my box spring, replaced the mattress, and remade my bed.
Had someone really broken into my apartment? What if the symbol had been there when I moved in? A good luck charm placed under the mattress by the former tenant. I knew Grace hadn’t cleaned between occupants.
“Because you’d be working with a psychopath?”
He seemed to think on that, too. “I suppose that could be a problem.”
“Just maybe, huh?”
“If you displayed murderous intentions, I’m sure I could take care of myself. The point, however, is moot, because you did not kill Niles Gunderson. Nor, I believe, would you have unless it was a matter of necessity. Yet when I told you the other day that he was dead, you didn’t seem surprised.”
I took a deep breath. “Because I wasn’t. I went to his apartment last Sunday. I was going to pretend to know Anna, in hopes of getting her contact information. I found Niles there. Dead.”
“I see.”
“The door was unlocked,” I said. “I thought . . . well, I thought maybe he was out and I could slip in and find Anna’s information.”
His nod was almost impatient, as if breaking into someone’s home was such a natural response to the situation that it didn’t warrant comment.
“I left him there,” I said. “I found him and I didn’t do anything about it.”
“You think you should have?”
Now it was my turn to pause and consider. “I think I should have felt worse about not doing anything. I think it shouldn’t have been so easy to just leave him there.”
“Had you called me, I would have advised you to do exactly as you did. Witnesses saw him confront you only days before. You broke into his apartment. Even if his death appeared natural, there would have been questions. You instinctively made the right move, and I’m pleased to see it.”
Which was not particularly comforting. I didn’t say that, of course. Just nodded and waited until he’d pulled from the parking spot before I asked, “About the murder, though. Does it seem weird to you? Poisoning someone over a poker game?”
“Yes,” he said. And nothing more.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
When I stepped into my apartment, I knew something was wrong. It was like . . . I’m not sure how to describe it. Like the hairs on my neck rose.
I walked into the kitchen. There was no sign of the cat. Normally, when he wasn’t curled up on his towel, he was making the arduous five-foot trek to his water bowl or litter box. I’d tried several times to send him outside to play, but he seemed to think I was trying to kick him out. Which maybe I was.
When I heard a low growl, I followed it to my bedroom. Two yellow eyes appeared under my bed. The cat came out and rubbed against my hand.
“Big bad mice scare you?”
He slunk to the doorway and peered out. Then he craned his neck to look back at me, as if to say, “Is it safe?”
I walked out ahead, and he followed. Then, with a satisfied mrrow, he plunked down on his bed.
I looked around. Something had spooked him. I knew the weather could upset animals, but I’d seen no sign of a storm or high winds. I wandered through the few rooms. No sign of a break-in. The front door had been locked, and nothing had been moved. It didn’t appear as if . . .
Wait.
I headed down to Grace’s apartment and found her setting up on the front porch.
“You bringing my scone?” she asked as I stepped out.
“It’s my day off.”
Her look said that was no excuse.
“Were you in my apartment doing maintenance?” I asked.
“I don’t do maintenance.”
“Was anyone in my apartment?”
“Not on my say-so. I don’t hand over my keys to anyone, and I don’t waltz in whenever I feel like it. I know what’s right. You’ll get twenty-four-hours’ notice if I need to come in.”
“Thank you. It just looked like someone had been in there.”
“Probably that damned cat of yours knocking stuff over. They do that if you keep them cooped up. You should let him out. At least open a window so he can leave.”
“I’m on the third floor.”
She shrugged. Before I could walk away, she said, “I want a scone.” She held out two dollar bills.
“I really wasn’t going to the diner.” I paused. “I could use a coffee, but I’m low on cash.”
She glowered and exchanged the bills for a five.
“Thank you. I’ll leave in a minute.”
She squawked as I went back inside.
Once again, when I stepped into my apartment, the hairs on the back of my neck rose. I looked down at the cat.
“Someone was here, right?”
He stared at me.
“Come on,” I said. “Give me a hint.”
More staring at the crazy lady. I sighed and looked around. Nothing seemed out of place. If someone did break in, what would they be—
I checked where I hid my laptop. It was still there, untouched.
“What then?” I muttered.
I slowly circled the kitchen and living room. When I walked into the bedroom, I felt a twinge, as if a sixth sense was telling me I was getting warm.
I walked to the dresser. Cold . . . To the closet . . . Cold. To the nightstand . . . Warmer. I turned to the bed, and felt that now-familiar prickle.
Bingo.
One of the pillowcase openings faced inward. I always make sure mine face out. I could say it’s because it looks neater, but the truth is that it’s another superstition—if the pillowcase opening isn’t facing out, bad dreams will get trapped and disturb your sleep. Crazy, but I knew damned well I hadn’t left it like this.
I yanked off the bedsheets and looked under the bed. Nothing. I grabbed the mattress with both hands and heaved it up. A line of dark powder formed a semicircle on the box spring. No, not a circle. Some kind of symbol. The sight of it made the back of my head ache.
Get rid of it.
Get rid of it now.
I shook off the impulse, retrieved my cell phone, and took pictures. Then I scooped some powder onto a piece of paper and folded it up. I put that aside and examined the remaining powder. It looked like ashes, and smelled . . . like wood, I think, but not quite. Maybe something mixed with wood.
Just get rid of it.
I did. Then washed my box spring, replaced the mattress, and remade my bed.
Had someone really broken into my apartment? What if the symbol had been there when I moved in? A good luck charm placed under the mattress by the former tenant. I knew Grace hadn’t cleaned between occupants.
