He frowned and took off his glasses. He had intelligent green eyes, and without his glasses, he looked no older than Phillip. “You know, I have seen a man like that. I noticed him the first time because he was standing next to a car, looking into it like he might be thinking about breaking into it. When I drove up, he walked off and went around the corner to the side of the building. Then I saw him again a couple of nights later. He was just leaning against the wall near the front door like he was waiting for something. Not like he was waiting for somebody, but for something, like something to happen. Why? Was that who beat Phil up?”
“It might be. Somebody in the neighborhood saw a bald-headed man running along beside the woods right after Phillip was attacked.”
“Do you think he was hanging around the Crab House to watch for Phil?”
“I think he might have been, yes.”
“But why?”
“Greg, has Phillip talked to you about the murder that happened in the house next door to him?”
“A little.”
“He saw a woman come out of the house on the morning the murder was committed. I think somebody wants to make sure he doesn’t tell who the woman was. Do you have any idea who it might have been?”
He looked shocked. “He hasn’t said a word about it.”
His surprise seemed genuine, and so was mine. I thought Phillip would have confided that secret.
Greg said, “You know, he’s been awfully quiet since that happened. Maybe that’s why.”
“Quiet?”
“Withdrawn, not himself. I was afraid it was something to do with us, but maybe it was because of the murder.”
“Did he mention seeing a black Miata next door?”
He shook his head. “I can’t remember anything about a Miata ever coming up. All he said about the murder was that you’d found a dead man in the next-door neighbor’s house and took the woman’s cat over to his house to stay for a while. He said his mother was annoyed because she not only hates the woman, she hates cats. That’s when I understood what a cold woman his mother must be. I know some people like dogs better than cats, but to hate cats?”
I studied him for a minute. He had a kind, intelligent face that I liked. “You have a cat?”
“Not anymore. I left her with my mother when I went off to school, and now they’ve bonded and Mom won’t let me move her. Actually, she was supposed to be the family cat when we got her, but she sort of adopted me, and after a while the whole family thought of her as my cat. She got really depressed when I left for college, but my mother spent a lot of time with her and she got over it. We got her when I was eight, so she’s pretty old now.”
“Maybe it’s time for you to get another cat, one that’s all your own.”
“I’ve thought about it, but I’ll have to wait until I can afford one. You know, the vet bills and the food and all. I still have a school loan to pay, so it may be a few years before I can take on that kind of responsibility.”
The more I knew about this young man, the better I liked him.
“Greg, if Phillip knows who the killer is, his life is in danger. I don’t want to alarm you, but if the killer has seen you and Phillip together, he may think Phillip told you what he knows. Until this whole thing is over, make sure you’re not alone in a secluded spot.”
He gave me a wide-eyed stare. “I can’t believe all this is happening.”
“It should be over soon. Just be careful.”
Twenty-Eight
Greg and I promised to stay in touch, and I left him staring out at Sarasota Bay. For the next couple of hours, I was too busy with my afternoon pet visits to think about everything that had happened. To tell the truth, I was on sensory overload. I couldn’t take in much more. The wonder was that I had been able to withstand as much as I had. I took it as a good sign. I must have gotten stronger without even knowing it.
It was almost sunset when I got to Tom Hale’s apartment and ran with Billy Elliot. When we got back upstairs and I took his leash off, I went into the kitchen and sat down at the table where Tom was pushing buttons on a calculator and writing numbers on a form of some kind. He gave me a puzzled look over his glasses, and then laid down his pen.
“What’s wrong, Dixie?”
“Tom, did you know that Marilee Doerring had a living trust that left her house to her cat?”
He did one of those blinking head jerks that people do when they hear something shocking, and then he laughed.
“I didn’t know it, but I’m not surprised. She had a kind heart.”
“You were her CPA. How come you didn’t know that?”
“Because it had nothing to do with how she paid taxes.”
I picked up a pencil on the table and studied it intently. Nice point. No teeth marks.
I said, “She made me trustee.”
“Why is it that I don’t think you’re happy about that?”
“Because it sucks, that’s why. I don’t want that responsibility, Tom. I don’t want the house, I don’t want the car, I don’t want the cat. I don’t think it’s fair that she could just dump it on me without my permission.”
I sounded a lot like Shuga Reasnor, but it was how I felt.
“Being trustee doesn’t mean you have to take care of the cat personally. You can hire somebody else to do it. There must be a thousand people right here in Sarasota who would jump at the chance to move into that house and take care of the cat for you. Hell, if I didn’t think Billy Elliott would be jealous, I’d do it.”
Hearing that affected my brain like I’d just had a slug of double-caffeine coffee.
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. You’re only responsible for seeing that her wishes are carried out. You don’t have to take on each responsibility personally.”
“Will you take care of all the financial stuff for me?”
“Sure. You decide what you want to do and how you want it done, and I’ll take care of it. I’ll pay myself a fee from the estate. I’d recommend that you sell that Ferrari right away. I can handle that for you.”
I was feeling better and better. Maybe Marilee hadn’t played a dirty trick on me after all. Except that a lot of people would consider having the trust a huge bonanza for me. A lot of people might also think I had known about the trust all along. A lot of people might consider it a motive for murder.
When I left Tom, I drove to Bayfront Village. The woman at the front desk saw me when I came in the door and immediately picked up the phone to call Cora. Cora must have answered on the first ring, because the woman waved me on before I got to her desk.
“She’s waiting for you,” she chirped, as if my visit were a magnificent gift. I suppose in a retirement home, all visitors are considered a magnificent gift.
Cora had opened her door a crack again, and I rapped on it with my knuckles and pushed it open. No lights were burning, and the apartment had the dreary look of space where sunlight had recently withdrawn its warmth. Cora was sitting in a wing-back chair by the glass doors to the sunporch, still in her nightgown, her wispy white hair sticking up in the gloom like apparitional floss. I switched on a lamp and sat down in a chair at an angle to her. Neither of us said anything for several minutes, just sat there in the half-lit room and breathed in and out.
After a while, Cora sighed. “They say God never gives us more than we can handle, but sometimes I think God has overestimated what I can take.”
I said, “Have you eaten anything since this morning?”
She looked startled, as if the idea itself was foreign. “Well, hon, I don’t remember if I did or not.”
I got up and went in the little kitchen, switching on fluorescent lights that made harsh reflections on the white countertops. I found a can of vegetable soup, and while it heated, I made a pot of tea and got out cups and saucers for two. I poured the soup into a pretty blue pottery bowl, added crackers and butter, and carried the supper tray to the living room.