“MEEEEOOOORRRWW!”
Grimalkin’s shrill cry pierced my ears. She stood in the center of the rug, her back arched, her fur poofed up to twice her size. She shot us both an evil glare, then turned on her heel and trotted toward the hallway.
“I think she wants us to follow her.” I stood up.
“So we can admire an eviscerated rodent? Pass.” Heathcliff picked up his book.
Grimalkin waited in the doorway, her gaze accusing. As soon as she saw me heading toward her, she trotted away, heading down the entrance hallway to a stack of books by the door. She pawed at something sticking out of the corner of the shelf, sandwiched between two volumes ofThe History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.
“What have you got there, Grimalkin?” I bent down and pulled out the piece of fabric, holding it up to the light streaming through the stained glass panels either side of the front door. It was a silk scarf, decorated with a pattern of bright leopard spots. Something about it looked familiar.
The scarf had been wound tight around itself. It unfurled as I shook it out. I turned it over in my hands and gasped.
Several small, round stains were dotted across the hem of the scarf.
Drops of blood.
My heart pounded in my chest. I knew where I’d seen it before. It was the night of Danny’s book reading, and the scarf had been around Beverly Ingram’s neck.
Chapter Twelve
Only minutes after I spoke to her on the phone, Jo arrived at Nevermore, her clothes soaked in sweat and her breath coming out in sharp gasps.
“I left the autopsy in-progress, but I wasn’t about to trust such an important piece of evidence to one of the guys,” she huffed as she pulled on her gloves. “Not when they missed it the last time they searched the shop. Let me see it.”
So you’ll leave an autopsy to come to collect a scarf, but not to clean up the murder scene in our kitchen?I thought but didn’t say. I showed Jo where I’d laid out the scarf on the table. Grimalkin scratched at the Events room door, howling about the injustice of being locked away while I claimed her moment of glory for myself. “Sorry, kitty,” I called out. “You’ll contaminate the evidence.”
“Meeeerrrww!” Grimalkin wailed.
Jo smiled. “I hope you gave her a saucer of cream for her troubles. She was the one who found it.”
“Meeeerrrww!” Grimalkin concurred, throwing herself at the door.
“I think we can agree that we don’t need to encourage any more amateur sleuths about the place. Besides, cats aren’t supposed to have cream. She did get lots of ear scratches, though. Grimalkin was tugging at this corner,” I showed Jo where there were a few small teeth marks in the fabric. “I touched the scarf in these top corners when I picked it up. The rest of it, where the blood is, shouldn’t have our fingerprints on it.”
“Thanks.” Jo placed the scarf into a paper bag. (As I’d learned, plastic Ziploc bags looked good on TV, but they were only used for dry items. Anything that contained blood stains, semen, or potential DNA evidence went into paper bags or cardboard containers, as sealing in plastic could degrade the evidence. And yes, I did spend far too much time grilling Jo for crime scene info over wine.) “Now, show me where you found it.”
I showed Jo the space on the shelf by the door, between the two books. She photographed the area, then used a magnifying glass and swabs to search for further trace evidence. “This makes sense. We found a couple of blood stains on the carpet here.” Jo pointed to a spot on the wooden floor in front of the shelf. “It looks like our killer garroted Danny, then shoved the scarf in here. You said it was Beverly Ingram’s scarf?”
“She was wearing it at the reading. If you ask others, they might remember it as well. It’s quite distinctive, especially since it clashed with her gingham coat.”
“If by ‘distinctive,’ you mean ‘garish beyond belief’.” Jo smiled as she dropped the bag into her crime scene kit. “Did Beverly touch anything in the shop that you remember? I’d like to be able to get some samples to compare DNA.”
“I don’t think so… wait, yes.” I beckoned Jo to follow me into the Events room. Although we'd cleaned the space and arranged the chairs in a circle for the writing workshop that would never be, some of the displays from the reading were still up. I pointed to Quoth's picture on the wall beside the window. "She was leaning against this when she screamed. I think her hair got caught around the corner of the frame.”
"That’s one of Allan's, isn't it?" Jo peered at the painting. "I recognize his work anywhere. I hope he won't mind if we take this as evidence. I'll make sure we don’t damage the image."
I glanced up at the rafters. Only the faintest glint of light revealed Quoth’s presence in the gloom. “Croak,” he agreed.
I smiled. "He’s not here right now, but if it helps catch a killer, I’m sure he'd be happy to help."
"Thanks." Carefully, Jo removed a couple of hair with tweezers, then took down the painting and slipped it into another, larger paper bag.
“Anytime. Listen, Jo, about the kitchen—”
“Yes. Sorry, sorry.” Jo picked up her crime scene kit. “I promise I’ll clean it all up just as soon as I get home. I’ll probably be late tonight, what with all the evidence to process.”
“But—”
