Crime & Punctuation Read online

  It wasn’t yet light out on the day after my lunch with Mike when something jerked me out of a sound sleep. I lay there, heart pounding and breath coming in short gulps, trying to figure out what had awakened me. It was Saturday, so it couldn’t have been the alarm clock. I stared blearily at its illuminated dial. I’m nearsighted without my glasses, so the numerals were fuzzy, but I could see well enough to determine that it was a little after five in the morning.

  I listened hard but heard nothing. I sniffed. No smoke. Deciding that the sound that disturbed my rest had probably been Calpurnia jumping down from the bed, I closed my eyes and willed myself to drift off again. Naturally, that didn’t work. Tired as I was, a vague sense of unease kept me from my rest.

  “Cal?” I whispered.

  No cat appeared.

  That she wasn’t nearby was odd. She usually slept at the foot of my bed . . . when she wasn’t trying to insinuate herself under the covers for warmth.

  I rolled over and thumped the pillow into a more comfortable shape, but it was no use. I wasn’t going to be able to go back to sleep until I figured out what had caused me to wake up. Odds were good that it was something Calpurnia had done. Maybe she’d knocked something over. If it had broken, there’d be a mess to clean up, and she might have been spooked into going into hiding.

  I hoped she hadn’t flooded the kitchen again, but that, at least, seemed unlikely. Matt the plumber had gotten a good laugh out of my story, and then he’d fixed the faucet so that anyone lacking opposable thumbs would have found it impossible to turn on.

  With a sigh, I threw the covers back, thinking that I might as well check for damage now as later. I fumbled on the nightstand for my little flashlight and the cases containing my glasses and hearing aids.

  From force of habit, I didn’t turn on the bedside lamp, but by the time I’d shoved my feet into slippers and pulled on my robe, I was awake enough to remember that I didn’t have to worry about waking anyone else. Once I’d tied the sash, I flicked the wall switch. I had to close my eyes against the sudden glare when the overhead light came on.

  “Cal?” I called again, raising my voice.

  Still no cat.

  Beginning to be alarmed, although I couldn’t have said why, I headed for the stairs, turning on more lights as I went. The landing was noticeably colder, so much so that I glanced toward the window, wondering if I’d opened it during the day and forgotten to close it again. I couldn’t think why I would have. The weather hadn’t been that mild, and now that it was October the nights could get downright nippy.

  Then it hit me—the obvious source of the chill. I pelted down the stairs and skidded to a stop at the bottom.

  “Oh, no,” I whispered.

  My front door should have been closed and locked. I’d checked it right before I went to bed. I knew I had. I always did. I squeezed my eyes shut but when I opened them again nothing had changed. The door still stood open.

  I eased forward until I could peer around the jamb. The screen door, too, was ajar. Whoever had left that way hadn’t cared if the latches caught. Suddenly I was more angry than afraid. I’d been so careful about keeping the outside doors closed. I’d had to be. Ever since I moved into this house, Calpurnia had been trying to escape to explore the big wide world beyond the windows. Fearful for her safety, I’d gone to great lengths to make sure all the workmen knew that she was an indoor cat.

  The realization that Calpurnia was still among the missing threw me into confusion. I guess I wasn’t as wide awake as I’d thought I was. I dithered, unable to decide what to do first. What if my cat hadn’t escaped? Barring the possibility of a poltergeist, it was obvious someone had broken into my house. That was bad enough, but if they’d hurt Cal . . .

  I didn’t stop to think that I might be running into danger. Calling Calpurnia’s name, I raced from the downstairs hall through the archway that opened into the living room. Stopping only long enough to turn on the lights and peer under the furniture, I crossed to the pocket doors, flinging them wide and scrabbling at the light switch for the dining room. My heart was thudding so loudly that I was sure the neighbors could hear it. My hands were shaking, too.

  I took one step into the room and froze. My jaw literally dropped at the sight that met my eyes. Someone had tossed papers everywhere. They’d pulled files out of my file cabinet and emptied the bin where I kept mailers for recycling. Worse, my laptop was not in its usual place on the dining room table. It wasn’t anywhere.

  “Calpurnia!”

  No cat appeared, but I spotted my cell phone lying on the floor. Grateful that the thief hadn’t stolen it, I picked it up and punched in 911.

  After I reported the break-in and the theft of my laptop, I went on to check the kitchen. Still no cat. By the time a police car pulled into my driveway, I’d turned on every light in the house, indoors and out. I kept calling Calpurnia’s name, but she didn’t come running. I didn’t realize I was crying until the young policewoman who was first on the scene handed me a box of tissues. By that time, another officer, this one male, had arrived and was checking the house to make certain the thief wasn’t still on the premises. I could have told him there was no one there, but I suppose he had to see for himself.

  “She’s never been an outdoor cat.” I dabbed at my eyes. “I’m afraid she’ll get lost. Or hit by a car. Or run into an animal bigger than she is.”

  “We’ll keep an eye out for her, ma’am. Now I think you need to sit down and tell me what happened here.” She coaxed me out onto the porch and into one of the wicker chairs, settling herself in the other one . . . just where Detective Hazlett had been sitting when he told me Tiffany was dead.

  My gaze slid to her name tag. It said Blume. Old English teacher that I am, a literary connection popped out of my mouth. “Not Judy?” That just shows how rattled I was.

  Fortunately, she understood the reference. “Ellen,” she said. “I’m a cop, not a writer, but I loved her books when I was a kid.”

  “Some lowlife stole my laptop,” I said after a moment.

  “Is anything else missing?”

  “I . . . I haven’t really looked. I think the television and DVD player are still there.”

  “Do you feel up to taking a look now?” Her partner had completed his search and signaled that it was safe to go back inside.

  We walked from room to room. At night I take my purse, with my credit cards and cash, into the bedroom with me, so I knew they were safe. As it turned out, nothing was out of place anywhere except in my temporary office. It was a mess and getting messier by the minute as the male officer applied a coat of fingerprint powder. When the magnitude of the cleanup job I faced sank in, I felt tears well up all over again.

  “You run a business from here?” Officer Blume asked.

  Her brusque question helped put me back on an even keel. I sniffled once, blew my nose, wiped my eyes, tightened the sash on my bathrobe, and focused on answering her question. “Yes, I do. Editing services. Losing my laptop would ruin me if I didn’t have—”

  “Insurance?” Blume asked.

  “I was going to say backups, but I do, in fact, have insurance.” I could see the policy from where we stood. It was on the floor along with other carelessly tossed documents that should have been neatly stored in my file cabinet. What I did not see was the fireproof storage box designed to keep my electronic copies safe.

  I was cussing under my breath as I conducted a frantic but thorough search of the ransacked room. It was a futile effort.

  “I don’t get it,” I said. “The box is clearly labeled BACK-UPS. I keep the key in the lock. All the burglar needed to do was open it to realize that there was nothing of value inside.”

  Unless the copies of my electronic files were what he was after in the first place.

  I staggered back into the living room and collapsed onto the loveseat. After a moment, I looked up to meet the sympathetic but bewildered gaze of Officer Blume. She’d been efficient and helpful, but she
wasn’t the cop I wanted to talk to.

  “You need to call in Detective Hazlett.”

  “He’ll see the report, ma’am.”

  “Please don’t call me that. I’m not even seventy yet. And you’re missing the point. This break-in is connected to the murder of Tiffany Scott.”

  Blume’s eyes widened, although she still sounded doubtful. “You want me to wake the detective?”

  I could understand her reluctance, since it was still an hour or so short of sunrise, but I insisted. She let me listen in when she phoned him. I caught enough of his side of the conversation to comprehend that Hazlett was not a morning person. Concluding that he’d need coffee when he arrived, and aware that I could do with a jolt of caffeine myself, I headed for the kitchen. As I went, I was glad to hear Officer Blume mention that the case also involved a missing cat.

  Fifteen minutes later, I heard my front door open and close. There was a short, muffled conversation in the hallway, and I braced myself for a difficult interview, but as I turned to greet the detective a huge wave a relief washed over me. Cradled in his arms, apparently unharmed, was Calpurnia.

  “Where did you find her?” I took her from him, holding her tight, heedless of the fact that she was filthy.

  “Her eyes reflected my headlights when I pulled into your driveway. She was hiding under the porch. She’s probably been there the whole time.”

  “I wish you could talk,” I said to Cal.

  She squirmed, making it clear she wanted to get down to inspect the contents of her food and water bowls. Reluctantly, I let her go, fixed the detective an oversize mug of coffee, and settled in at the dinette table to explain why I’d been so insistent that Blume call him.

  “I have a confession to make,” I told him. “I loaded the entire contents of Tiffany Scott’s thumb drive onto my computer. I’m convinced that’s what the person who broke into my house tonight was after, since the only things he took were my laptop and a box of backups.”

  “He?”

  I took a deep breath. “There are two people who may have something to fear from what’s in Tiffany’s files. One is Greg Onslow. The other is Alan Van Heusen, who works for him.”

  “Mr. Onslow has no reason to go to such lengths to get a look at the contents of that thumb drive,” Hazlett interrupted. “He already has possession of the original.”

  “You gave it to him?”

  “He’s his wife’s heir. Do you have a problem with that, Ms. Lincoln?”

  “You know he’s a crook, right?”

  “I know Mr. Onslow is . . . unpopular in some circles.”

  “That’s a careful answer.”

  “I’m a careful person. Before I arrest anyone, I need proof of guilt, and I prefer to get the go-ahead from the district attorney, too. Otherwise, any judge worth his salt is likely to refuse to hear the case and dismiss it out of hand.”

  “Then it’s a pity you didn’t bother to read Tiffany’s manuscript and her notes.”

  For just a second, something that resembled amusement flickered in Hazlett’s eyes. He wasn’t about to admit that he’d made a copy of the thumb drive before he turned it over to Onslow, but I was positive that he had. His next words made me even more certain of it.

  “Is there something specific in those documents that you’d like to call to my attention?”

  “Three of the characters in Tiffany’s novel are thinly disguised versions of Onslow and Van Heusen, two of Onslow and one of Van Heusen. Anyone who reads the manuscript and knows both men can spot the resemblance.” A light bulb went off. “Oh. That could be why Onslow stole my laptop and backups, or ordered Van Heusen to. He wants all the copies, not just the one you gave him. He intends to destroy them.”

  “And why would he imagine that you made copies, Ms. Lincoln?” Hazlett asked. “I certainly didn’t tell him, since I didn’t know.”

  “You suspected. Don’t try to convince me you didn’t. And so would he. Suspect, I mean. Onslow may be a lot of things, but he’s not stupid.”

  “Breaking in here and calling attention to your electronic files strikes me as a pretty dumb move.”

  “Nobody’s perfect.” I felt as if I was banging my head against a brick wall. “Let me tell you about some of the shady deals he’s been involved in.”

  He listened attentively and even took notes while I filled him in on everything Darlene and I had discovered about Onslow’s past business dealings, but he remained stone-faced throughout. I had to wonder how much of it he already knew. He didn’t ask me any questions about the material on Tiffany’s thumb drive. I couldn’t decide if that meant he’d already read it, or that he intended to go back to his office after he left my house and take another look at the copy he’d made, or that he didn’t think my suggestions were worth the time it would take to follow up on them.

  “Don’t you think this information is suggestive?” I demanded when he returned his notebook to his pocket. “Especially when you add in the fact that Tiffany sided with her grandmother against her husband?”

  Instead of answering my question, he said, “We’ll keep an eye out for your laptop, but I don’t hold out much hope of getting it back. If you had personal information stored on it, you should change your account numbers and passwords.”

  “I didn’t.” My faith in cybersecurity doesn’t extend to using electronic banking or bill paying. I don’t store passwords online, either, and my address book is the old-fashioned handwritten kind. “I only use the laptop for work and email. Fortunately, I have backups of my clients’ files off site, and there are printouts of most of them in that mess scattered all over the floor of the dining room.”

  Hazlett’s voice grew stern. “I trust you don’t have a printout of Tiffany Scott’s novel.”

  “Of course not. I gave you the only manuscript copy.” I didn’t mention the thumb drive I keep in the glove compartment of my car or that Tiffany’s files were also backed up in that nebulous thing called the cloud. Detective Hazlett had no need to know that just as soon as I got my hands on a new laptop, I would have access to all the information she had left behind.

  He stood, looming over me as I sat at the dinette table. “Ms. Lincoln, we will investigate this burglary and do our best to recover your property, but I think it highly unlikely that this crime has anything to do with Ms. Scott’s death. Whether it does or not, you need to stop meddling in matters better left to the police.”

  “I only—”

  “You’ve been investigating Mr. Onslow’s business dealings.”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “Stick to your editing, Ms. Lincoln. The Lenape Hollow Police Department can do its job without your assistance.”

  Chapter 32

  The next morning I skipped church and went shopping for a replacement laptop. I stocked up on thumb drives, too. Then I spent the rest of the day trying to find various functions in the newest incarnation of the word processing software I use. Can you say frustrating? I come from a long line of folks who believe that “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” The computer industry has obviously never heard that saying.

  By nightfall, I had everything installed. Downloading files from the cloud had hit a snag—why didn’t that surprise me?—but I’d successfully copied them from my glove-compartment backup and was back in business.

  I went to bed late and got up early in the hope of putting a dent in the work I’d let slide over the weekend. It was Columbus Day, but when you work for yourself, there are no holidays. On the bright side, the workmen had the day off, and the house was deliciously quiet. I was so pleased with my progress by noontime that I decided to treat myself to lunch at Harriet’s.

  Since the weather was fine and I needed the exercise, I walked there, relishing the peacefulness of the day. There was no hint of the winter to come, just a light, refreshing breeze and the faint smell of mulched leaves.

  At the café, nothing was calm, quiet, or peaceful.

  “Did you hear?” Sonya calle
d to me from a table she was sharing with three of her friends. “Ronnie North has been arrested for Tiffany’s murder. They took her into custody last night.”

  To say I was startled would be putting it mildly. I’d been hoping for an arrest, but it was not supposed to be Ronnie who was carted off to jail. I’d expected Detective Hazlett to get the goods on Greg Onslow or, failing that, to find charges to bring against Alan Van Heusen. I’d been so confident of Ronnie’s innocence that I couldn’t quite take in the news of her arrest. My thoughts swirled as I picked my way through the lunchtime crowd to a small table in the corner.

  Ada materialized at my elbow. “You look like you could use a drink.”

  “For once, I wish you had a liquor license.”

  “Coffee?”

  “That’ll have to do.”

  Maybe it would help clear my brain. I couldn’t seem to think straight. Why on earth had they arrested Ronnie? What could they possibly have found to use as evidence against her?

  While I sat there waiting for my hit of caffeine, I tuned in to the conversations at the other tables. One thing was immediately obvious: It was impossible to separate fact from speculation. Turning in my chair, I addressed Sonya, who seemed to have the best connections for local gossip.

  “What happened to make the police take such a drastic step?” I asked.

  “They searched her house. I guess they found something.” The words themselves were ambiguous, but Sonya spoke in such an authoritative tone of voice that most people who heard her were convinced that she knew what she was talking about. The three women sitting at her table, none of whom I knew by name, all nodded earnestly.

  I remained skeptical. “Found what, exactly?”

  “No idea, but it must be pretty good.”

  “A bloody knife?” I asked. “Poison? A signed confession?”

  Sonya did not appreciate my sarcasm. She retaliated by ignoring me, and her friends did the same. Despite the cold shoulder, I might have tried to engage her in further conversation had Ada not set a steaming cup of coffee in front of me. My nose wrinkled as I caught a whiff of something that was not half-and-half or Splenda. At my startled look, she winked and walked away.