Helen Thurwell was a few inches shorter than Garza. Her cropped, dark brown hair was straight and shining, her black suit neatly tailored. She wore flat black shoes, simple gold earrings, and she still wore her thick gold wedding band. Dulcie watched her cover that now, with the cotton gloves that Dallas Garza handed her.
"We've fingerprinted and photographed," Garza said. "Even with the gloves, please handle the papers by the edges.
I'd like you to go through them, tell me if anything looks strange, or if you think anything is missing."
Watching the detective, Helen was quiet for a long moment. "As if someone… As if this wasn't an accident?"
"Until we learn otherwise," Garza said shortly.
"I'll have to sort them into some kind of order."
Garza nodded.
Standing at the desk, Helen began sorting through Quinn's papers, arranging them into stacks, each atop one of the empty file folders that were mixed in with loose sheets. "He was always so neat, he never made this kind of mess. Each sale has its file with several pockets for offers and counteroffers, for miscellaneous notes, for the inspection and related work. He… he used to tease me about my haphazard ways." She compared several sheets, stood thinking a moment, then put the papers in their proper files. When she had finished, she moved away from the desk, turning toward the window. The cats could see her face now, her dark eyes filled with distress. She looked up at Garza.
"I see nothing missing, all the clients we were working with are here. Their files seem complete. His field book is here and doesn't look tampered with. The only thing that's strange, outside of the mess, is a notebook seems to be missing. Not part of our work but a small personal notebook. Maybe it's somewhere else in the house. I don't know what it was for, I'm sure it didn't have to do with business. It wasn't anything that the rest of us kept."
Helen shook her head. "I didn't see it often, and he never shared it with me. Occasionally I would see him making an entry, but it seemed a private thing. A small brown notebook maybe three by five inches. Sometimes he carried it in his coat pocket. Reddish brown covers… what do they call it? Deal? A slick mottled brown, sort of like dark brown parchment, but heavier. Black cloth tape binding. The kind of notebook you'd get in any drugstore or office supply."
"Did you ever see the entries?"
"No. When I came in he was usually just putting it away. Not hiding it, but as if he'd finished whatever he wrote there. Possibly something to do with his clients' personal likes and dislikes, that was my guess. Not about what they wanted in a house, that we kept in a mutual binder. But maybe for little gifts, you know? What kind of flowers or candy. We send a little gift when a sale is completed.
"And yet that does seem strange," Helen said, "to take that much care with those routine presents. He usually let me handle that."
She looked with desolation at Garza. "James was a very matter-of-fact guy, not a lot of imagination. Honest-a good person to work with." But as she said this, her face colored and she turned away.
Watching from the shadows, the kit put out a paw as if to comfort her, then quickly drew it back out of sight. Dulcie considered Helen with interest. Had mentioning James Quinn's honesty embarrassed her because of her own cheating? Why else would she blush like that?
When Detective Garza and Helen had left the house, the cats trotted to the far end of the living room and leaped to the sill of an open window, ready to follow them out. But, hitting the sill, they saw who was out there and dropped again to the floor. Dillon Thurwell stood in the shadows not six feet from them.
Unwilling to miss anything, the two cats hopped up onto an end table that stood behind the dusty draperies. Crowding together, they could just see out where Dillon and three of her girlfriends were giggling and whispering rude remarks-as if they had been there for some time watching the coroner and ogling the dead man, as if they had seen Quinn taken away to the morgue and found the tragedy highly amusing. In the morning light, Dillon's red hair shone like copper against the dark hair of two companions, and against the long, pale locks of the one blonde. The girls were dressed in low-cut sleeveless T-shirts that showed their bellies. Their remarks about the pitiful dead man were filled with rude humor.
Dillon seemed so cold and hard, Dulcie thought sadly, compared to the young girl she knew. Last year, Dillon had been among the first to suspect the murders of those poor old people at Casa Capri Retirement Home. Acting with more compassion and more responsibility than most of the adults involved, and far more creatively, she had helped to uncover the crimes. Then this last winter during the Marner murders, when Dillon was kidnapped by the killer, she had again kept her head better than many adults would have, defying her captor, and quick to move when Charlie and the cats helped her escape.
Now Dillon seemed not at all in charge of herself, as if suddenly she was letting others totally rule her. She was no longer someone Dulcie wanted to be near, no longer a person whom a cat would love, whom a cat would go to. Dillon Thurwell seemed now ready to explode into an emotional hurricane.
And one of Dillon's friends greatly puzzled Dulcie. Consuela Benton was not a classmate, but was several years older, a beautiful Latina, her long, black, curly hair rippling in a cloud around her slim face. She must be at least eighteen, to Dillon's fourteen. In every way she seemed a world apart from the other three.
Consuela's lipstick was nearly black. She wore such heavy eyeliner that she looked more like a vampire than a human girl. Why would an older girl like this bother with younger children? What did she gain from their company? Dillon and her friends, even with their attempts at sophisticated dress and cool makeup, compared to Consuela, were like scruffy kittens next to a battle-hardened alley cat.
These last months, Consuela had surely become a leader for the oldest junior high girls. Dulcie had seen her hanging around Dillon's school or with a crowd of young girls in the shops, where they were loud and rude. Both Dulcie and Joe, following the girls casually, had seen them shoplifting.
The first time, Dulcie didn't want to believe that Dillon was stealing. By the third time she followed them, she was trying to figure out where they were stashing the stolen items. At one of the girls' homes? Neither she nor Joe wanted to call Captain Harper. As proud as they were of their impeccable record of solving local crimes, they didn't want to tell Harper this. Dillon was Max Harper's special friend. Harper had taught her to ride, on his own mare, Redwing. He had helped her to become a capable horsewoman, had tried to help Dillon move easily and surely through her teen years without falling.
But then the kit had followed the girls and, apparently, had seen something so upsetting the kit would not talk about it. Dulcie had found her at home curled up in a little ball beneath the blue wool afghan looking wan and forlorn.
Pawing at the knitted throw, Dulcie had nosed at her. "Are you sick, Kit? Are you hurt?"
"Fine. Not hurt."
"Sick?"
"No."
"Then what's the matter?"
"I don't want to tell."
"You must tell me. I can help."
"Must I? Can you?" That was all the kit would say.
"Did someone hurt you? Did someone do something to you?"
The kit had shaken her head. Dulcie, having seen Kit following the four girls earlier that morning, could only suspect that she was upset about something Dillon had done. But Kit refused to get Dillon in trouble or to dismay the captain.
Well, Dulcie had thought, no one could force her. Kit would have to decide in her own time. Now, as she glanced at the kit, the tall, broad-shouldered girl with the black braids laughed loudly. "I bet he killed himself. Turned on the gas and sucked it up and croaked." She clutched her throat as if strangling, gagging and sticking out her tongue. Leah, Dulcie thought. The girl's name was Leah. Dulcie wanted to claw her.