Black Cat White Paws_A Maggie Dahl Mystery Read online

  “Then you made the right move, and you found the right place.”

  “I believe we did,” Maggie said.

  Gerri slid the paper aside. “What’s your next move, Inspector Dahl? I know you have one. We didn’t have time to talk about much last night, but I can see the wheels turning.”

  “You always could,” Maggie replied. “I think it’s time to visit Cal Davies again.”

  “What for, Maggie? I thought you were going to leave this to the police.”

  “I am … for the most part. But I think rattling his cage might speed things up, shake something loose.”

  “Like a murder weapon? They already have that.”

  “More like a mistake,” Maggie said. “Get him nervous. Nervous people sometimes do stupid things.”

  “And sometimes they don’t. What if all you accomplish is letting him know you know he lied to you? And isn’t that really all you know at this point? You can’t prove he was the intruder. You can’t prove he killed Alice, or that he had anything at all to do with kidnapping that child.”

  “I had a sense when I woke up this morning,” Maggie said. “Call it prescience, or just this unexpected certainty. He is at the center of it, Gerri. And I’m going to put him on notice, that’s all. Get him sweating a little while Sergeant Hoyt takes the information I gave him and runs with it.”

  “But you don’t know that he is.”

  “And I don’t know that he’s not.”

  Gerri stood up from the table. “I don’t like it, Maggie, not at all. What do you think, Checks?”

  Maggie looked down and saw the cat sitting on its haunches between them. She’d not heard or seen him come in and she reminded herself to get used to having a living, breathing, phantom in the house. A shadow that meowed.

  Checks expressed no opinion but kept staring up at Gerri’s empty plate.

  “He wants food,” said Gerri.

  “He always wants food.”

  Maggie got up and walked to the pantry where she kept the cat food, a new staple in the house. Gerri headed out of the kitchen, saying as she left, “I’d tell you not to do anything foolish, but I’d be wasting my breath.”

  “Let’s make a deal,” Maggie called after her. “I won’t warn you off Tom Brightmore and you won’t warn me off finding Alice’s killer.”

  Gerri did not respond, heading quickly up the stairs.

  Looking at Checks, who had strolled up beside her, Maggie said, “So was that a yes or a no? She didn’t say.”

  The cat cried. He didn’t care about deals, dates or murder. He wanted food.

  She took out a can of chicken paté, thinking it was a ridiculous thing to call cat food, and reached for a clean bowl. Checks would have his breakfast, Gerri would have her romantic life, and Maggie would have her killer.

  CHAPTER Thirty-Seven

  MAGGIE WASN’T SURE WHAT HER plan was or if she had any. She only knew she needed to visit Davies Hardware again, steel herself for any eventuality, and get to it.

  She’d left her car at home and walked into town. After her visit, she would pick up the car and head to the factory. Everything was in place now, and the store opening was only two nights away. Fretting had never been in her nature, not even when they’d moved to Lambertville—easily the most stress-inducing thing she’d done since they’d been married, aside from having a child—but now it was part of her everyday experience. Stress over the business, stress over the store, stress over her sister, and, though she only admitted it to herself, stress over a life without her rock, without David. Whether it was true or not, she believed David would know exactly what to do in the circumstances in which she found herself. He would know how to confront a man she was certain had invaded her home. He would even know how to corner a killer, leaving the capture to those with experience and authority.

  She wondered if Sergeant Hoyt had done anything with the information she’d given him about Davies, or if he’d even considered it information, as opposed to speculation and possibly paranoia. She would not disturb him again, and suspected he would not let her. The time had come to do what little she could by herself and see what came of it, as long as it was not a hammer to her own skull.

  Cal was alone at the cash register when Maggie walked in. It was only her second time in the store and she was wondering if he had any employees when, looking at a list in his hand, he called out to someone in the back of the store, “Joey, we need two gallons of semi-gloss white for Mrs. Geller’s order. Her son’s coming by in an hour to pick it up. You got that?”

  A man’s voice called back, “On it, Cal.”

  Maggie couldn’t see the man in back but judged him from his voice to be young.

  Looking up from his list, he saw Maggie and said, “Morning, Mrs. Dahl. Back so soon?”

  “The house is a lot of work,” Maggie said. “Chip always needs something or other.”

  Maggie watched Davies’s expression for any change, any hint of wariness at the mention of Chip, but saw none. If she’d thought it would strike a nerve with him, she’d been wrong.

  “That’s the nature of the handyman business,” he said. “If it’s not one thing, it’s another. Anything I can help you with?”

  “No, I think I can find my way around.”

  Maggie headed into the aisles acting as if she didn’t know what she was looking for but would find it on her own.

  She heard a machine of some kind whir to life. Reaching the end of an aisle, she saw what it was: a paint mixer on a narrow table, shaking a can of what she assumed was semi-gloss white for Mrs. Geller, whoever that was. Standing next to it was the young man who’d called out a minute earlier.

  “Hello,” Maggie said.

  “Morning,” came the reply. He was not paying attention to her, instead looking at his smartphone, cupped in his hand and held by his side to better hide it from his boss.

  Maggie recognized him from town but didn’t know his name. Given his lack of interest in human interaction at the moment, she turned and headed back up another aisle, seeing midway along it what she was looking for.

  Back at the cash register, Maggie placed the hammer on the counter.

  Davies did not miss a beat.

  “Is that all for you today?”

  Maggie stared at him; he returned the stare with a smile.

  “You know,” Maggie said, “this hammer looks exactly like the one I found next to Alice Drapier’s body. I’m sure you’ve heard I’m the one who discovered her. The whole town knows by now.”

  Ringing up the hammer, he said, “I don’t really engage in gossip. But yes, I’d heard something about that.”

  “Maybe the person who killed poor Alice bought the hammer here.”

  And maybe that person was you, she thought.

  “It’s possible, Mrs. Dahl. I’m the only hardware store in Lambertville. But there’s always True Value in New Hope. And considering there are probably a thousand hammers exactly like this one floating around the county, it’s just as likely they got it somewhere else.”

  Maggie felt doubt creeping in as she handed him her credit card.

  “I think you were mistaken about the keys,” she said.

  Ignoring her, he replied, “Do you need a bag for this?”

  “No, thank you. I just want to let you know I don’t think Chip had two keys made.”

  “I may have been mistaken,” he said. “Chip’s had a lot of keys made over the years. Or maybe it was someone else. I apologize if I accidentally misinformed you. I could go back and check my receipts if you know what day it was.”

  Maggie’s uncertainty was now pronounced. “It’s perfectly all right. Mistakes happen. I just wanted to clear that up.”

  “And buy a hammer that looks familiar,” he said, sliding the claw hammer toward her.

  She stared down at it, at his hand, his fingers so close to the grip.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  She picked up the hammer and took the receipt from him.

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nbsp; “I hope to see you at the store opening,” she said.

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  The words stopped her for just a beat, something in the way he’d said them. No longer trusting her own instincts, worried they’d been clouded by her imagination, she took the hammer and left the store.

  She did not hear Cal Davies through the store window calling out for Joey. She did not hear him tell his young employee that he needed to leave for a while, that he had something to do. And she did not see him watch her walk away, wait several moments after she’d crossed the street, then leave the store himself.

  Something told her to look back, but by the time she turned around as casually as she could, there was no one there.

  CHAPTER Thirty-Eight

  “I DON’T LIKE IT,” GERRI said.

  Maggie had returned home after her trip to Davies Hardware, rattled but still convinced Davies was at the center of it all. She didn’t want her obsession with finding Alice’s killer to affect those around her more than it already had, with the exception of her sister.

  They were standing in the kitchen, with Maggie pacing back and forth while she sorted it all out in her mind.

  “It’s just a look-see,” Maggie explained. “A harmless stroll—”

  “Around someone’s private property!”

  “He won’t be there. He’s at work.”

  Gerri had grown increasingly alarmed as Maggie told her about her plan to visit Cal Davies’s house while he worked. She’d expressed her concern and cautioned Maggie to stop before it was too late.

  “Maybe he has a dog,” Gerri said, trying to dissuade her. “Or one of those motion alarms that goes off if you snoop around the yard.”

  “I don’t know that I would call it snooping”

  “Well for godsake, what else would you call it, Maggie? This has gone far enough. Too far, for my taste.”

  “Tell that to Alice. Tell that to Lilly Stapley.”

  Gerri sighed, exasperated. “You don’t know that he had anything to do with the girl’s disappearance, or your neighbor’s murder. But if he did, you’ve tipped your hand now, haven’t you?”

  Maggie stopped at the sink, her back to the window overlooking the yard. A week ago she might have seen Alice wandering around—a sight no one would ever see again.

  “That was the point, Gerri, to let him know someone was onto him.”

  “And what if you’re wrong? What if your imagination has run so wild it’s got you into a corner of your own making? Let’s say he’s innocent, Maggie, that he’s only a killer in your fantasies, then what? Think about the harm done to Chip McGill over that kind of speculation.”

  Maggie’s face fell. She had not taken that possibility into account. She’d assumed she was correct, believed she had to be. And even if she was wrong, or partially wrong (perhaps Cal Davies had killed Alice but had nothing to do with the child), she was not spreading rumors about him.

  “My mind is made up,” Maggie said. “I’m just going to take a look around. I’ll take something with me, a gift of some kind …”

  Maggie quickly searched the kitchen cupboards. She found an unopened jar of peach jam, one of their first efforts, with an early version of the Dahl House Jams logo on it.

  “It’s a prop,” explained Maggie. “Really for anyone who might see me—they’ll think I’m taking something to everyone’s favorite hardware store owner. And if someone answers the door, well, I just thought Cal might like to try some of our product.”

  “It’s too dangerous,” Gerri said. “I’m going with you.”

  Holding up her hand, Maggie said, “No, no, no. He’s not home, I’m telling you. He’s at work, I was just there. He lives alone. I’m going to ring the doorbell, and when he doesn’t answer, I’ll take a quick walk around the property.”

  Just like Alice did.

  The thought had been nagging at her ever since she’d concluded Cal Davies was a liar and probable killer. Alice had wandered into Maggie’s living room. Alice had wandered many places she was not welcomed or expected. It’s one of the things Alice did. And, Maggie now believed, it’s what likely got her killed. But where had she wandered? Whose home was the last she’d clumsily invaded?

  “I don’t like it.”

  “You don’t have to,” Maggie said, reaching for her purse.

  “Take the gun.”

  Gerri blurted it out. She’d never even seen a gun up close until Maggie had come downstairs with David’s in her hand.

  “I don’t know about that,” Maggie replied, hesitating. It had not occurred to her to take the precaution of being armed.

  “It fits in your purse, doesn’t it?”

  “Of course. It’s not a shotgun.”

  “Then take it,” Gerri urged. “Since you won’t take me. I’m serious, Maggie.”

  Thinking it through and deciding it couldn’t hurt—the gun would be in her purse, nowhere else—Maggie relented.

  “Fine. I’ll just look at it as taking a part of David with me. He was always good luck for me.”

  Until he died in his sleep and you woke up next to a dead husband.

  Giving in to the suggestion she take the firearm with her, she hurried upstairs for the gun.

  Coming back downstairs, her sister out of sight, Maggie left the house with a jar of jam in one hand and a purse slung over her arm that concealed a Glock. Anyone seeing her walking down the sidewalk would have no idea what they were really looking at.

  Maggie felt a strange calmness come over her, as if knowing everything had been set in motion and all she had to do now was prepare for an outcome she could not foretell.

  CHAPTER Thirty-Nine

  MAGGIE HAD PASSED CAL DAVIES’S house many times but had never known it was his. He lived on Clinton Street, just two and a half blocks from Maggie’s home. She and David had taken daily walks, rescheduled to evening walks after they started the business, and she’d seen the unassuming two-story home the way she’d seen many homes along her their route—as houses dotting a neighborhood like hundreds of others. Only the very large homes drew her attention, or ones with elaborate gardens or statements of some kind. (Just as the residents indulged in Halloween with great flare, many made their political views known with yard signs and porch decorations.)

  Davies’s house was in the middle of the block. It had been easy to find out which one he lived in with just a few minutes of online searching. The house was white with yellow trim, a modest front porch, a tall hedge in front, and a wooden fence encircling the property.

  Maggie stood on the sidewalk looking at the front window. There was no sign of activity inside. She had no idea what she would do if someone answered the door, but she needed to be certain she could quickly explore the outside of the house without raising suspicion from the neighbors. She took a deep breath, walked up onto the porch and rang the doorbell. No answer. Thirty seconds later, she rang again.

  Reassured there was no one home, she decided to be bold and peer into the picture window to the left of the door. “Yoo-hoo!” she called out, pretending to still try and get an occupant’s attention. “Anybody home!”

  The window looked onto a living room notable only for its blandness. It appeared Cal Davies had no affection for knick-knacks, photographs or books. There was a beige couch, a single book case with just a few volumes accented by several porcelain statues, the kind you’d find in a gift card shop. A passive television was mounted on one wall. Other than the obligatory recliner and a coffee table, that was it. She could see a hallway leading back into the house, a staircase case leading up, and what she assumed was a closet door.

  Stepping back from the window, Maggie glanced around the house. She tried to think like Alice. If Alice had come here and found herself in a deadly situation, what had she seen, and where had she gone?

  Keeping a smile on her face, Maggie glanced up and around, looking out at the street, across it to the houses on the other side, then directly to her left and right
. If anyone was watching her, they would see a neighbor stopping by with a small package. Then they would see a neighbor walk to the gate in the fence, discover the gate did not have a lock, then quickly and quietly disappear through the gate into the side yard, which is exactly what she did.

  So far there had been nothing and no one to see here. The yard was as unremarkable as the house. Maggie walked along the side, too low now to see in the first floor windows. She looked down, and was suddenly curious: the basements windows were boarded up. They were small and encased in window wells. Approaching one of them, she realized the wood was new. The windows had been sealed up recently.

  Strange, Maggie thought. Why would he board up the windows now?

  Is this what Alice saw? she wondered. Was Checks part of this, or had Alice simply gone exploring where she was not wanted, looking for her runaway cat?

  It was only after she’d walked along the side of the house, staring down at the boarded up windows, that she turned into the back yard and saw it: a cellar door, the kind few houses had anymore, raised slightly in a 30-degree angle from the ground. One of the door’s two sides was thrown back, and as Maggie approached it, she could see stairs leading down into darkness.

  Maybe he has an alarm system on the upstairs, she thought, surprised Davies would leave an entry to his house opened and exposed. Or maybe, like Maggie very recently, he simply didn’t think anyone would ever break into his house.

  Until Alice.

  She had to keep reminding herself of the seriousness of the situation.

  She stood just outside the cellar door looking down.

  After a moment, she called out, “Is anyone home? It’s Maggie Dahl. Hello?”

  Getting no answer, she debated with herself whether or not to enter the cellar. Then she heard it—a muffled cry, as if someone far off were calling for help.

  “Is someone down there?” she called. “Hello?”