Lethal flip, p.7
Lethal Flip, page 7
“You said a bird attacked him?”
“Yes. There are great horned owls in the neighborhood. One attacked Boots.”
“They’ll rush a human if their young are vulnerable.” He reached over and stroked the cat’s head.
“I’ve heard that, too.” Don had said the same, when news of Sarah Anderson’s death broke.
“Dr. Katz, is it possible an owl could rush and attack a person, wounding them, like the bird did with Boots?”
“Anything is possible.” He rubbed his chin, considering the idea. “They would be lucky to escape.”
“Sort of like someone being mauled by a mountain lion?” I asked.
“It would be rare to see a mountain lion in Minnesota,” he said.
“Of course. It was something I read. A mountain lion attacked a woman in Arizona, and she evaded the animal.”
“It could happen with an owl. Not the norm, but a possibility.” He breezed out, saying. “I want to see Boots in a week. Until then, watch him, keep the cone on, and carry on.” He gave a brief salute.
I loaded the cat into his crate and grumbled as I paid the bill, cursing Eddy under my breath. He promised to pay, and I vowed I’d collect. Why did he come to the renovation, anyway?
It was about noon when I called Don for a ride. I was in luck, and he was on a lunch break. My stomach melted; he’d become my knight. I waited in the lobby and pondered the possibility that Sarah’s death wasn’t a murder. Could an angry owl have rushed the woman into the house where she’d collapsed?
Fernando said he came home and discovered her in the kitchen. Randy’s version was they found her in the bedroom. Could both be true? Had she staggered into the kitchen, and disoriented, made her way to the bedroom? That would mean she left the bedroom and returned to the kitchen. I mulled over the scenario. It seemed unlikely that she’d go from kitchen to bedroom, then back to kitchen. Who was telling the truth about where Sarah was discovered?
Don arrived and again helped me into the back seat with the cat. I could get spoiled with this much attention. The goth-looking receptionist had slipped out for a cigarette and grinned, watching from the clinic’s back entrance. She caught my eye and winked. I smiled and surveyed Boots. He was on his haunches, sleepy, his chin resting on the cone.
“Back to Warbler Street?” Don asked.
“Yep.” My car was at the rehab. “Why were you in the hood this morning?”
“Patrolling the neighborhood. There was a report of another prowler.”
“Oh?” I frowned.
“Yes. Probably kids. Lock the doors while you’re working, be safe.”
“Sure. I appreciate this.”
“Glad to help.”
“Do you think a great horned owl attacked Sarah?”
“What?” His brows raised, and he stared at me through the rear-view mirror.
I winced and repeated, “Maybe an owl attacked her? She was disoriented and staggered to the kitchen, hit her head, then continued to the bedroom?” Don’s shoulders stiffened, and he peered at me with resignation.
“There must have been a trail of blood from the kitchen, if she crawled to the bedroom, and back?” I submitted.
“Katelyn,” his voice heavy with forced patience. “We’ve been through this before. No snooping, and I cannot discuss an ongoing investigation.”
“It was just an idea. I was curious, that’s all.”
He parked on the street in front of the rehab and bounded out.
“A possibility?” I exited the squad, leaned in to grab the crate, and twisted to face him.
“Can’t say.” He shut the door with more force than necessary. “No snooping, Katelyn!” He got in, shaking his head, and drove away.
“Harrumph.” That hadn’t solved the discrepancy between Fernando’s and Randy’s accounts. Randy had said Dewey told him Sarah had been found in the bedroom. How would Dewey know? Or was that important? Maybe it was a misunderstanding? What carpeting had Fernando replaced, and why?
I went indoors with the cat asleep inside the carrier. Boots was zonked from the effect of the drugs.
It was past lunchtime, and I was starving. I wrinkled my nose at the squished peanut butter sandwich I’d packed, and tossed the hastily made lunch in the garbage. Pizza sounded good. Strong coffee, even better. I didn’t know why Eddy had stopped earlier. I wanted to give him the bill and tell him about Boots’ condition. He’d texted, after all.
I retrieved the cat and left, locking the entry. The yellow cleaning gloves were scattered on the front lawn and I set the crate on the stoop to recover them. In my frenzied chase of the bird, I’d trampled the light snowpack. While I collected the gloves, I glanced to the planting area beneath the front window. The arborvitae bushes had been crushed; the bottom branches broken.
A metal object caught my attention; I moved in closer, pushed aside the bushes, and peered. It was a garden hand rake. Fresh shoots of crocuses were visible in the dirt beside the tool. Someone had planted bulbs last fall, anticipating spring flowers, and forgot the tool. I plucked out the rake, unlocked the front door, and left it in the foyer.
Chapter 9
I blew into my townhouse loaded down with my bag and Boots’ crate. The cat stirred. I spread an old towel on the sofa to protect the furniture, and set him down. After a halfhearted attempt to remove the cone, he curled up and fell asleep.
First order of business, I started a strong pot of Colombian coffee and ordered a Hawaiian pizza delivered, an addiction I’d tried to quit. Gluten, dairy, and carbs. A trifecta of all the evil food categories. While I waited for the food, I called Eddy.
“Hey, Katie,” he crooned. “How’s the kitty?”
“He’s on meds now, asleep. Thanks to modern science and a big bill. Which is why I’m calling.”
“You’re calling about a bill?” he asked, and tried to kid, saying, “You know how to hurt a guy.”
“Why were you at the house, anyway?” There was a silence from his end of the telephone and I braced myself for what would come. More often than not, silence with Eddy meant trouble.
“Lola wants to get hitched.”
“Oh.” My stomach churned. I gulped. “Do you want to marry Lola?” He’d suggested at one point that we remarry. I’d had to remind him we weren’t the happiest wedded couple.
“The Bluebird house is too big for one person. It’s nice having someone around.”
I was quiet as I digested his logic. It didn’t sound as if he were madly in love and couldn’t live without her. It was practical.
“People get married for different reasons.” I tried to sound diplomatic, but failed. “It sounds like a roommate.” I was past Eddy taking up with Lola when we were married. Been there. Done that. But I still cared if he got into a bad situation. Especially since he was renting the house on Bluebird Street, I wanted whatever decision he made to be good for both of us. Our agreement, despite a few hiccups with his employment history, had worked. If he married her, would she want to live in a place that his first wife (yours truly) owned? If they remained roommates, she could move out on a dime. Wedded would be different.
“How does Lola like the house?”
“She likes it.”
“Would she buy it with you?”
“No.”
“Do you want to end the rent-to-own agreement?” With a sinking feeling, I thought, I’ll lose my tenant and have to get the property on the market again. Exactly why I hadn’t wanted to be a landlord. But, with the chaotic housing market and buyers in scarce supply, it’d been logical to rent it out.
“Not yet,” Eddy said.
Great. The thing that had driven me nuts about him is that he could go with the flow and not make a decision. My disposition wouldn’t allow for indecision with Eddy. Okay. Don was different, still unknown.
“Let me know ASAP.”
“Thanks, Katie. I’ll stop by with the rent check and pay the vet bill.” It was the end of the month. April’s rent check was a few days away. It could wait. “Really sorry about Boots, too.”
I had a tiny twinge of guilt about insisting he pay for the veterinarian. After all, I was responsible for Boot’s care, and it was an accident. He couldn’t have known the cat was with me. It occurred to me that I was steamed about Lola moving in with Eddy at the Bluebird house, and this was payback. I mumbled, “Thanks.” Maybe, at some point, I could forgive myself for tolerating Eddy’s antics, and forget the bill. Maybe.
The pizza arrived and I scarfed the warm soul food, fortifying myself with strong coffee. Being with Don that morning had reminded me of his daughter, Olivia. I was curious about Felicity, but still needed a married or maiden name to do a Google search for Olivia. I’d tuck that away for another time.
Fernando said he’d met Sarah in Arizona, when she was married to Randy’s father. She was unhappy. He was unhappy. His visit to the rehab that morning puzzled me too. Had he come to warn me about Randy? To defend himself because he knew Randy was angry with him about Sarah leaving his father? Did Randy blame Fernando for causing his father’s pain?
I had to get back to the property and get on with the renovation. Time was money, especially when it was possible Eddy might end our rental agreement.
I loaded a sleepy Boots back into his carrier, deciding he’d stay in his crate while I worked and could monitor him.
Back at the Warbler Street renovation, the glass was propped against the living room wall, taunting me, as I headed to the bathroom. I viewed my progress. In my haste to answer the door and rescue Boots from the owl, I’d left the mixture of vinegar and soap on the bathroom tile. The mix had dried to a blue goo. I sprayed water on the surface and started wiping the bath surround. The solution had done the trick, and a light scrubbing cleaned the tile until it shined. Pleased, I stood back to survey my progress. The sink and toilet fixtures would be next.
Rap, rap, rap! I answered the door to Fernando waiting on the stoop, surveying the roll-off dumpster.
“Hello?” I hesitated.
“Katelyn, I came to say I am sorry for your kitty’s injuries and to ask if there is anything I may do to help you?” His eyes were soft and soulful. His dark hair stuck out from under a stocking cap. The wind was up, and the temperature was in the low 40s.
“Boots is recovering. He’s asleep.” Impulsively, I opened the door. “Do you want to see him?”
“I would like that very much. I love kitties.” He entered, and his foot hit the small hand rake in the foyer. “So sorry. Are you gardening? It is a little early to garden.”
“No. I found it in the planting bed out front.” I gingerly reached for the garden claw, stepped to the main level, and placed it on the kitchen counter. He followed at my heels.
“Someone planted crocuses and must have forgotten it.”
“Ah. I love the scent of the crocus flowers. They are the first blooms of spring.”
“Yes. Some are quite fragrant. And, it has been a long winter and a slow spring,” I commented.
“Too long,” he agreed.
“Minnesota weather must be hard for someone from the West?”
“It is, as you say, challenging,” he grinned. “I spend part of the winter in Arizona. I have family there.”
“Good for you. It must be great getting out of this climate during the winter.”
“Poor kitty,” he cooed, spying the crate. He kneeled by the cage. “Can I pet him?” I unlatched the top. I had propped the mirror against the wall a few feet from the crate. Fernando’s image was reflected in the glass as he patted the cat. I admired his gentle touch as he fussed.
“He’ll mend. I’m grateful it wasn’t worse. The owl could have killed him.”
“Yes. That is true.” He sat back on his heels, “But we have much worse in the desert. Mountain lions have attacked humans. One got my Sarah. It is a miracle she wasn’t killed.”
“Really?” That confirmed my Google search that it was his wife, and Randy’s stepmother, in the news article on the internet.
“Yes. It was before our union. It was why she left her husband for me. She was sure he had lured the animal into the yard.” Union is a funny term. I put it down to his heritage.
“Really!” I watched his expression. He was pensive as he recounted Sarah’s fears.
“Yes. She told me he left fresh meat behind cactus plants, beyond the patio area. About dusk, the lions hunt for prey. She went outside and surprised an animal feasting. The cougar attacked her. But my Sarah was fierce, and she fended off the animal with a long barbecue fork. She escaped and ran inside suffering only minor injuries.”
“Amazing!”
“Yes. After that, she filed for divorce. She was certain her husband was behind the attack and wanted her dead.”
“Why?” I was incredulous.
“His business was failing. He’d taken out large policies on both of them. She thought he wanted her life insurance money.
“What kind of business did he have?”
“He built residential homes.”
“Okay.” I nodded––the housing debacle.
“Yes. The market was tanking. People were defaulting on mortgages. The bank lent out too much money. It was how you say,” he raised his arm, “very high?”
“Peak?” I asked.
“Yes, that is it, the peak of the housing crisis. The economy was broken. Construction stopped, builders laid off workers, people couldn’t afford to buy, stores went out of business. It was a terrible time for many people.” He shook his head, recalling the years.
“Yes.” I knew about that. “That’s why I’m a home rehab specialist.” I said with a wry smile. “How did you meet Sarah?”
“I am a painter. I can paint anything––interior, exterior, appliances, cars. You name it. Sarah’s husband had hired me to paint their home, inside and out.”
Fernando rose and wobbled; his foot lodged behind the mirror. He caught himself as if were an acrobat on a high wire. Attempting to regain his balance, he reached out and the glass bounced off the wall and landed face down. I heard the glass crack. Boots woke and yowled.
I dashed to help him, gripping his arm and steadying his back.
“Are you okay?” I held his elbow. Boots hissed from his cage. His body hunched and rounded, he backed to the farthest point of the carrier, resting on his hindquarters. He yowled again.
“Katelyn, I am so clumsy.” He inhaled. “I got up too quickly and lost my balance. Please forgive me. I will pay for a new mirror.” He spread his hands, contrite.
Numb, I looked at the remnants of the plate glass. “If I was superstitious, I’d say this means seven years of bad luck.” I snapped out of it. “It’s probably for the best.”
“What do you mean?” He attempted to upright the glass. The cracked face gave way, and the shards of glass slid. I stepped in, “Leave it be. I’ll get it,” I said, and he left the broken glass face up.
“My handyman had a method for framing mirrors. It was slick. I was going to try another DIY method,” I said, as I gestured to the lengths of framing material. “It wasn’t going well.” I shrugged. “So, a new mirror, it is.”
“I will be happy to pay for the damage. Please, I will help you clean up this mess.” His soft eyes pleaded. His head was down, his shoulders slumped.
“No. That’s okay. It isn’t your fault.” I was already cheered because I wouldn’t need to chisel out the wood for clips or get the mitered corners to match up. The project had become easier. I’d buy a mirror, already framed.
“I insist. I will purchase the mirror. Please allow me to do this,” he implored.
“Are you sure? I don’t blame you. I might have done the same.”
“No, Katelyn. I insist.” He was firm.
“All right. Thank you. I would appreciate it.” If Fernando replaced the mirror, it would help with the bottom line of the renovation project.
“I will go now. I have done enough damage for you. Your kitty is angry, too.”
Boots squirmed at the rear of his cage and pawed at the plastic cone. Fernando ambled to the exit and backed out. “I am so sorry.”
“Uh huh.” I nodded, wincing at the wreckage and the cat’s protestations. I got out a liver treat, hid a pain pill in the snack and fed it to him. I stroked his body until he was calm enough to hunker down and close his eyes.
Now, to dispose of the destroyed mirror. I found a roll of masking tape in a bin of painting supplies in the Festiva. I put on gloves and taped over the large sections of glass to keep the pieces together. Carefully, I folded the mirror into smaller sections, then placed the sections into heavy duty garbage bags and trekked the bags to the dumpster. I swept the floor, pondering Fernando’s visit.
He said he’d been a painter in Arizona. Did he do the same work now? He was too much of a klutz to be on a ladder. During his visit, he’d kicked the garden claw in the entry. Then he’d broken a mirror. All in the space of about a half hour. I hoped he was more coordinated on a work project.
“Boots, let’s call it a day.” I gathered my messenger bag and the crate with the sleeping cat and headed out. I glanced at the counter for the garden tool. It was gone. Puzzled, I put the carrier down to search for the hand rake and found it on the floor next to the dishwasher. I must have brushed it when I carried out the remnants of the glass. Relieved, I picked it up, noting a tinge of color, and placed it on the counter. In my haste to put the tool aside, I hadn’t seen a residue of red clay dirt clinging to the tines.
I trekked to my car, trying not to stare at Fernando’s home. In a sea of beige and gray houses common to the area, the deep sienna stood out. I’d considered it a happy, warm color when I met him. Now, it stood out like a sore thumb. His clumsiness left me uneasy about the soft-spoken man. Had breaking the glass been an accident? I shook it off. There were times I was a klutz, too. The exterior of his residence had a desert vibe reminiscent of his Arizona home turf, and you couldn’t hold that against anyone. I shrugged, shook my head, and cheered by the idea of shopping for a mirror, motored home.
Chapter 10
