“I thought an allergy killed her.”
“Her own food peculiarities must have been known. Or the killer mixed some poison in. We won’t know the cause of death unless your mother shares it with us, and I can’t see why she would. You’d think this suit was still ongoing, or she wouldn’t have brought it along. But look at the date.”
“Nineteen ninety-one. I wasn’t born yet.”
“This doesn’t make sense.” Temple ran her thin line of light over endless legal phrases, then paged back to the beginning. “The dead girl’s name has got to be in here somewhere. Maybe it’ll mean something.”
Mariah hung over her shoulder, reading along with her. “There!”
“Where?”
“Two lines below where you’re reading. ‘Chastity Cummings.’ Man, I’d like to die if my first name was Chastity! That’s worse than Mariah. I mean, think what the other kids would say the minute you got out of kindergarten.”
“Kids are teasing kids over words like ‘chastity’ in the early grades?”
“In Catholic schools they are. The thing about going to a religious school is you get all those nasty words like `lust’ and ‘adultery’ and `O-Nanism’ and stuff early. It’s all in the Bible.”
“Right. Being reared a Unitarian, I was .cheated of all that early lurid class content. Rats.”
“What’s a Unitarian?”
“Unitarian Universalist. We see God and the world as inclusive and tolerant.““You mean you wouldn’t stone or smite anybody?”
“Right. Ours not to judge.”
“Somebody has to, or my mom wouldn’t have a job.”
“That’s civil law. That’s different. Anyway, I don’t get why this old suit is still in her active files.”
Mariah had pushed herself up to her knees to root in the file drawer again.
“Look! Here’s a sheet of paper that caught in the fold-over part of the hanging file.”
Piece was right. Just a torn-off triangle from one corner of a plain sheet of white paper. Not typed, written on. Just a date and a few scrawled words, the ends of three lines.
Maybe somebody had removed a folder in a hurry and a page had caught in the cardboard seam and pulled off. Recently, or ages ago.
Oops. Very recently.
“Ah.” Temple sat back on her heels while her moving flashlight told a fascinating if somewhat staccato story. The date read February 14, 2005.
This scrap was as timely as today. Only months old. Valentine’s Day. A favorite one for expression of sentiments sweet, and perhaps bittersweet, maybe even sour. Maybe even poisonous.
“Is it a valentine?” Mariah sounded hopeful. “Lots of people keep them. We do valentines at school but everybody’s chicken and girls send friendship ones to girls and that’s all. Boys would rather die than send a valentine.”
“Just wait.” Temple advised her. She frowned at the penmanship. Maybe her fake green contacts were coloring the ink, making it harder to read. She deciphered the few words ending each line:
I’ll never forget … murderous bitch like you … incompetent on national TV.
“That’s it,” Temple said after murmuring the words to Mariah. “That’s the motive. We better get this to your mother.”
Temple held up the scrap by her plastic gloves. “Thank God neither of our fingerprints are on it. Can you find the equivalent of a plastic baggie in this office … without leaving fingerprints?”
“Easy.” Mariah hopped up. “Mrs. Klein handed out `healthful snacks’ in plastic baggies from the little fridge behind her desk. Sliced rutabaga, can you imagine? It is to gag.”
Mariah was soon back with a baggie of sliced … Temple peered at the browning contents. Looked like shredded turnip greens and sliced medulla oblongata, or possibly liver. She dumped the mess into Mariah’s palms as she dried the inside of the baggie on her T-shirt hem and placed the paper remnant inside.
“My mom’s going to wonder if you’re passing on evidence of a threatening note or a salad.”
“B oth.”
Mariah dumped her sticky handful into a second plastic bag of unknown nibblies. “We’d better throw this mess out upstairs.”
“Right. Now let’s hope we can make it back to headquarters without attracting any unwelcome attention.”
Mariah giggled. “You’re so funny. The way you talk. I don’t get why my mom considers you such an awful pest.”
“I haven’t a clue, Mariah. Sometimes moms are like that. Behind the times. Let’s blow this joint.”
First, they collected all their napkins. Then Temple used the flashlight beam to lead their way out. She shut it off before she edged the door open. Silence greeted the motion. She pushed the door open farther and heard nothing. Prodding Mariah out, she followed and slowly,slowly shut the door, turning to duck under the crime scene tape …
… and spied a black cat sitting right there in the hall, like a welcoming committee of one, feet primly paired, ears perked, eyes inscrutable.
For once it was not Louie. This cat was smaller, longer of coat, and gold of eye, not green.
But its face wore the same superior smirk! I see you. “Oh.” Mariah reached out to pet the lovely thing but it darted away like a feral.
“Forget the cat,” Temple whispered. “We need to get home without anyone noticing us.”
In a house full of cameras this was always a problem. Which was why they headed first for the kitchen, then up to the room.
If any camera did capture some part of their wanderings, they could always claim a raid on the refrigerator.
Chapter 48
Recipe for Murder
Temple called Mama Bear as soon as they returned to their room.
The cell phone didn’t produce the strongest signal in the world in the bathroom with the water running, but secret agents had to get used to adverse conditions.
Mariah was in the outer room, reading the paper fragment through the plastic baggie and munching on a stash of julienned raw carrots she was allowed as snacks. Yum.
The hour was late and Temple felt some unkindly satisfaction at getting Mariah’s mother up.
“Yes.” The voice was so sudden and stern that Temple momentarily couldn’t decide how to begin. She wasn’t used to being barked at.
While she hesitated, Molina’s voice came back on the line even more demanding. “Who is this?”
“Ah, Xoe.”
“Xoe?” Apparently, her alter ego hadn’t made an impression on Molina. So much for a chance with the judges.
“Right. I’ve found some fascinating papers in the dead dietitian’s office. You should have them right away.”
“You.” Molina actually sounded glad about that. “What papers?”
“A lawsuit involving Mrs. Klein several years ago.”
“We know about that. My detectives did a background check and it came up. So you woke me up for that?”
“And a scrap of paper dated last February fourteenth. It sounds threatening. It apparently was torn off the contents of a folder as it was being taken out. Someone didn’t notice.”
“Valentine’s Day hate note, eh? That sounds more promising. No nice and neat signature, like ‘Your Killer,’ I suppose?”
Temple didn’t bother answering that bit of sarcasm. “What were you doing in the woman’s office anyway? That’s still a crime scene.”
“I am, therefore, I snoop. I thought that’s what I was here for.”
“You’re here to keep an eye on Mariah. Where was she while you were on this law-breaking expedition?”
“Urn, in our room, studying some papers and snacking on carrot sticks.”
“Carrot sticks! Commendable if out of character. I suppose your prints are all over that office now.”
“No. I used a pair of latex gloves, just like the pros.”
“Where’d you get—” _
“They dyed my hair as part of the makeover but had their own gloves. And I never throw anything away, so …”
“They dyed your hair? All of it?”
“This is a makeover show.”
“What have they done to Mariah?”