The Second Mouse - Archer Mayor [4]
It turned out that the ex-schoolhouse was owned by Newell Morgan, father of Archie Morgan, the man of the beard and blue eyes, and Michelle’s last companion, who’d died of a heart attack, no doubt brought on by sharing some of her enthusiasms.
Archie had been the local high school custodian and was not in a position to own a house like this. It seemed Newell had made a provisional gift of the place to his son, in exchange for Archie’s functioning as a live-in caretaker who also did carpentry.
Clearly, however, that deal hadn’t extended to Michelle. Joe found an eviction notice, signed by a judge five months earlier, bundled with a sheaf of increasingly angry letters, informing her that she had until two weeks from today to vacate the premises.
That notwithstanding, the one thing they hadn’t found in all their poking about was packed bags, or empty cardboard boxes, or any other indicators that such a move was being contemplated.
A showdown had been brewing.
Three hours after his arrival, Joe settled on the living room couch—having made some effort to clean up the cat deposits, and therefore the air—and flipped open his notepad as Doug sat in an armchair opposite. Compared to some of the settings both men had worked in, this was unrivaled for serenity and comfort. What remained to be done in the short term was some follow-up digging while they awaited the autopsy results. For the ME, in large part, would dictate who got the case.
In the meantime, both men were treating it as a homicide.
“This is a funny one,” Joe began vaguely, referring to the unattended death, and still sensitive to his unofficial presence.
“They all are a little bit,” Doug only half agreed. “I haven’t done one yet that didn’t have a few questions we could never answer.”
Joe didn’t argue the point. “True, but this one will have a bunch of them if all the ME finds is liver failure.”
Matthews pushed out his lips in contemplation. “I could still live with it. What’s bugging you most?”
“How convenient it is. Newell Morgan loses his son and wants the house back; the girlfriend digs her heels in; the girlfriend dies. Pretty handy.”
“She was no health nut,” Doug countered.
Joe stared at the floor for a few moments. “True,” he admitted.
Matthews waited patiently, expecting something more.
“What I would like to know,” Joe finally said, “is what happened to the cat.”
Doug laughed briefly, impressed by the older man’s persistence. “Maybe it was an indoor-outdoor cat. Or maybe it found a way out.”
“How?”
“I noticed a torn screen by the back door, near the garbage cans off the kitchen,” Doug said patiently. “It wasn’t much of a hole, but I’ve seen cats go through less. And we don’t know how big it was. You gotta figure, with its owner dead, it must’ve freaked. That’s why it shit all over the place, and why it’s gone now. You know cats.”
In fact, Joe doubted if many people truly knew cats. He supposed that was part of their appeal. But he’d recognized the tone in Doug’s voice, and let the matter drop.
“You talk to the mother?”
“Yeah.” Doug didn’t sound too happy about it. “Kind of unavoidable, given that she raised the alarm, but I hate breaking the news to family members on the phone. She was pretty good, though. No hysterics.”
“And the friend who discovered her?”
“Linda Rubinstein. She’s an artist. I met her face-to-face, since she stuck around until I got here. Told me she didn’t touch anything, that she could tell Michelle was dead right off.”
“How? Most people can’t.”
“I wondered the same thing. She’s only an artist nowadays. She used to be an ER nurse in the city. Gave it up to find her muse.” He laughed.
“Is that you or her?” Joe asked.
Doug laughed. “The muse thing? Hey, I’ve got some artist in me. You should read my affidavits.”
“Oh, great,” Joe joined him. “I bet that goes over well. How did Rubinstein strike you?”
“Like, did she strangle the woman before calling us?”
“Stranger things have happened.”
Matthews shook his head. “You should meet her. You