Chasing Can Be Murder Read online

  Tanya drained the last of her coffee, scraped her chair backwards and stood up. “I’m with Kat. I say we follow through with our original plan.”

  “If that’s what you want, let’s do it.”

  We split up. Tanya took the bedroom, Ben the bathroom and laundry and Tater and I decided to look for clues in the lounge.

  Five minutes into our search Tanya drifted from the bedroom, a pair of iridescent blue underpants featuring naked women in various obscene poses in one hand, a fluffy stuffed animal that could have been either a horse with a long neck or a stunted giraffe in the other. “Does anyone have any idea of what we’re searching for?”

  “Beats me.” Ben’s muffled voice came from the bathroom. “But I guess we’ll know if we find it.”

  Recessed into the far wall of the lounge room was a brick fireplace with the charred remains of a fire in the hearth. I picked up a blackened poker and jabbed at the grate, scrabbling around in the ashes. Who knows? I might find a half-burnt diary with all the good bits still intact. Or important letters. Or pages of a confession. In the last cozy mystery I’d read, Murder at Mistletoe Manor,vital evidence pertaining to the identity of the killer had been discovered in the fireplace. In that story the butler did it—naturally—although I had a suspicion no self-respecting butler would come within ten miles of Matt’s house.

  I blew at my bangs and leaned the poker up against the wall. The only burnt paper in Matt’s fireplace was an unpaid bill from a storage depot. Absently, I picked it up by one corner, shook off the worst of the ashes and stored the remains in the side pocket of my tote bag. Probably nothing. Then not knowing where to look next I flopped onto Matt’s cracked brown vinyl settee to think. What had I missed? Scratching my head, I ran analytical eyes over the room. Hmm. What about Matt’s answering-machine? Perhaps if I could find his land-line there might be something worth listening to on the machine.

  After burrowing into the mess like a terrier after a rat, I discovered the missing phone hidden under a brandy stained throw rug. Eager to hear any messages, I plugged it in and switched on the machine.

  Silence…

  Damn. The police—or whoever was responsible for this disaster—must have either wiped it clean or taken the tape.

  “No clues in here and there’s nothing on Matt’s answering machine,” I yelled and took a sip of cold coffee before spitting it out in disgust. “What about you guys?”

  “Nada,” came from the bedroom.

  “Bugger all in here,” Ben informed us from the laundry.

  “Okay, you were right,” I informed Ben as he trundled through the doorway, wiping grease from his hands onto a towel. “If there were any clues to start with, they’re well and truly gone now.

  “You know, what we really need to find is Matt’s mobile,” Tanya mused as she wandered into the room.

  “Good thinking, Watson.” Ben slung his arm around her shoulder. “Then we’d know who he’s been ringing.”

  “And who’s been ringing him,” Tanya finished, grinning like the proverbial cream-devouring cat.

  Ben turned to me and I sidled closer. “Hey, mate,” he said completely ignoring my proffered shoulder. “Can you remember if Matt had his cell phone with him on Wednesday night?”

  Humph! No hug for me. Just mate. With a sigh, I thought back to when Matt and I returned from the Gawler race meeting. We fed the dogs and settled them in the kennel-house for the night. He talked me into letting him come inside for a coffee. I tossed my jacket on the chair. Matt hung…

  “It’s in the cupboard in my hallway! Matt’s mobile is in the pocket of his sheepskin coat and his coat is hanging in my hallway cupboard.”

  “Well what are you waiting for?” Tanya grinned.

  “You do realize,” put in Ben, rubbing one hand across the beginnings of his five o’clock shadow, “if Matt’s coat was in the cupboard at Kat’s house, the cops have likely confiscated it by now.”

  I watched Tanya deflate like a pricked balloon at a kid’s party.

  “It’s okay, Tan,” I told her barely suppressing a whoop. At last something was going right for us. “Matt’s coat is still there. I noticed it hanging next to my Drizabone when I grabbed my parka this morning.”

  12

  All thoughts of Matt’s mobile skittered from my mind the moment I pulled up outside my gateway. There was a black Chrysler parked less than three meters from my front door. It hunkered down like a large cat waiting patiently beside a mouse hole. I had the sudden urge to twitch my whiskers and let out a frightened squeak. Instead, I narrowed my eyes to examine the dark figure using the car’s bonnet as a prop. Was my visitor a professional knee-breaker? A hit man hiding a pair of cement boots under the back seat of his car?

  The more questions I asked—the tighter my fingers clenched the steering wheel.

  From the roadway side of my open gate, I eyeballed the intruder more closely. Short and scruffy. Smoking a cigarette. Dressed in a long daggy overcoat…

  Columbo.

  For a split second I was tempted to flatten the accelerator, do a three point turn and make a break for it. But even if I managed to escape—where would I hide? And who’d look after my dogs?

  And hey, bottom line…I was innocent!

  I parked as close to the black car as I could without actually staving in its rear end and switched off the engine. With Tater sitting expectantly on my lap, tongue out, ears up, I wound down the window and put on my smiley face.

  “Well, isn’t this a pleasant surprise, Inspector?”

  When he didn’t answer I shook my head at him in mock disapproval. “I see you’re letting those nasty cigarettes rot your lungs again.”

  He shifted his body against the side of his car before taking another long blissful puff.

  “So, what brings you to my neck of the woods?” I went on, desperate for a response. Was he stringing me along, softening me up for the sudden flash of handcuffs? “Let me guess.” Although digging my nails into the palms of my hands I kept the smiley face in place. “You’ve found Matt’s murderer, you’ve arrested him and now you’re here to apologize for any inconvenience you’ve caused me. Am I right?”

  The Inspector ground his cigarette out on the sole of his shoe, dropped the butt in his pocket and strolled across to my open window. The closer he came to the car, the louder Tater growled.

  “Good afternoon, Ms. McKinley. I’m surprised you remember me. Last time we met, you were a little…shall we say—”

  “In shock?”

  “Yes. That too.” The corners of his mouth flickered. “However, in case you’ve forgotten, I’m Detective Inspector Garry Adams.” He produced his credentials and flashed them under my nose. “And this,” he turned around to indicate a steely-eyed policewoman, who had slithered out of the black car, “is Police Constable Belinda Chalmers. Do you remember her?”

  Remember her? Geez, how could I forget? Tater had ankle-raped the woman in my bathroom the morning of Matt’s murder—and surprise, surprise—she still looked like she was sucking on a lemon.

  “Out of the car, McKinley.”

  When I didn’t jump to her bidding Police Constable Belinda Chalmers adjusted her police-issue hat at a more aggressive angle. Her eyes bored into mine. “I said…out of the car, McKinley.”

  The woman’s hostility was so potent I could smell it.

  DI Adams flicked a warning frown at his subordinate before opening the car door for me. “If you don’t mind, Ms. McKinley, I’d like to ask you a few more questions. And as to your earlier query, no, we haven’t arrested anyone yet, but we’re working on it.”

  Did that mean I’d slipped down his list of suspects? Or he was here to officially hammer the final nail in my coffin? Muscles tense, I grabbed the open car door ready to swing my feet to the ground and that’s when I noticed the policeman’s gaze resting curiously on my face.

  “What is it, Inspector?” I asked, rubbing at the corner of my lips. “Lipstick smudged? A dollop of mayonnaise
left over from my lunchtime sandwich?”

  “Forgive my curiosity. It’s just…shall we say…you look…a little rumpled.”

  “Rumpled?” What sort of a word wasrumpled?

  He nodded then his eyes travelled slowly downward until they rested on my clothes. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

  “Huh?”

  How did he know I’d been looking for clues in Matt’s house? What was he—a psychic?

  “Have you been sorting through someone’s garbage?”

  I shook my head, totally offended. “Of course not.”

  I’d given that special job to my mate, Ben.

  Curious as to what Columbo was on about, I adjusted my rear vision mirror and squinted at my reflection. The face squinting back at me had smudges of black soot on both cheekbones, another smudge on my nose—and were those streaks of sauce, strawberry jam, or blood in my hair?

  I transferred my gaze from the mirror to my clothes. Rumpled? Geez…I could have taken out the Bag Lady of the Year award. It didn’t make sense. How come I was the only one with jam and soot on my T-shirt? No wonder Ben pitched his arm around Tanya’s dirt-free shoulder and gave mine a miss.

  Embarrassed, I scrubbed at my face with a spit-wet finger and took another peek in the mirror. Now I looked like one of those boot-camp guys. The ones in camouflage gear who hide in the bushes and load paint-bombs ready to take out the enemy.

  “Shall we go inside, Ms. McKinley?” the Inspector persisted. “I have a few more questions for you.”

  Standing ramrod straight beside him, PC Chalmers’ sour smirk reminded me of the parson’s nose. “And I intend to examine your shoe closet.”

  Shoe closet?

  Hiding confusion behind saccharine sweetness, I replied, “I’m sorry, Constable, but your feet are much bigger and flatter than mine. I’d love to lend you a pair of shoes but nothing I have would fit you.”

  By now, Matt’s three greyhounds were crashing around in the dog-float, scratching at the doors, yodeling and voicing their displeasure at being forgotten. If I didn’t get them out soon they’d wreck my trailer.

  “Okay, but dogs first—questions second,” I said and snaffling three dog leads, scrambled from the car.

  I opened the first berth and quickly fastened a collar and lead on the dark brindle bitch inside. When she jumped out, I passed her lead across to Inspector Adams. Hands free, I opened the door on the second berth. After tacking up a virile looking white dog that almost knocked me on my butt in his exuberance, I handed his lead to PC Chalmers.

  “Just let the dogs loose in the galloping runs,” I instructed, in what I hoped was a laisser-faire voice. I hid a grin behind the act of collaring the last greyhound. “They’ll look after themselves in there.”

  I must admit DI Adams handled his charge like a real pro. Although, when I asked if I could give him a call next time I needed a handler at the track, he didn’t respond. PC Chalmers, on the other hand, had a torrid time getting her over-friendly greyhound across to the galloping runs. Seemed like the dog wanted to hump her leg. Guess it had something to do with the woman’s pheromones.

  By the time we entered the kitchen, I was glad to see both Columbo and Chalmers looked a bit rumpledthemselves. I filled the kettle with water from the Pura-tap. “Coffee? Tea?”

  PC Chalmers grunted and stood in front of the door, arms folded, face like pigeon’s poo. I quickly deciphered this as a no.

  DI Adams settled comfortably on a kitchen chair. “Nothing for me, thank you. The reason we are here, Ms. McKinley, is because we have new evidence in the Matthew Turner homicide.”

  Well…well…perhaps it was the police who’d ransacked Matt’s house after all.

  “In your earlier statement, you indicated that when the dogs barked you woke up, climbed out of bed and walked down the stairs so you could press a button that connects with the kennel-house. Is that correct?”

  “Yes. That’s right. A guy called George installed the system a few weeks ago. How it works is—I leave a disc in the dogs’ CD player and when I press the button inside the house it sets the music off in the kennel-house.”

  “Do your dogs often bark during the night?”

  I nodded. “That’s why I paid George to install the system. Sometimes it’s possums on the roof or feral cats that get them going. However, the night in question, the new dog must have set them off. You see, I’d taken over the training of Cleo, one of Matt Turner’s dogs, because she was too noisy for his backyard and his neighbors were complaining. Anyway, that night, Matt followed me home after the race meeting, settled Cleo into one of my kennels and—” I stopped, realization hitting me like a two-by-four to the ribs. “It wasn’t Cleo at all, was it?” I croaked. “The dogs heard Matt’s murderer skulking around outside.”

  “Maybe,” said Colombo. “Now, this is very important, Ms. McKinley. I want you to think carefully before you answer. When you came downstairs after hearing the dogs bark, was your back door open?”

  I closed my eyes, tried to picture the scene on the stairs but came up with nothing. “I’m sorry, Inspector, I really don’t know. You see, I didn’t turn the light on and I only went as far as the landing at the bottom of the stairs.”

  “And tell me again…why were you walking around in the dark?”

  “I didn’t want to wake Matt up.”

  “Yet, when you returned to your bed you discovered a knife in his chest. If you didn’t turn on the light, how did you know about the knife?”

  “I told you before. I felt it.”

  “You felt it and then turned on the light?”

  “Yes. I couldn’t believe what my fingers were suggesting, so I fell out of bed, crawled to the other side of the room and switched on the light. And there it was. The largest of my kitchen knives…and…and…it was stuck in Matt’s chest.”

  My hand shook. Sugar sprayed onto the counter top as I added a spoonful to my coffee.

  “While you were downstairs, did you see or hear anyone else in the house? Feel anything brush past you?”

  I shivered as the recurring nightmare ate its way through my mind in full 3D Technicolor. “No. Nothing. The killer was already in my bedroom when I woke up, is that what you’re saying?” I gulped down what felt like a truckload of concrete. “If I had turned on the light, before going downstairs, I’d have seen the murderer?”

  And I wouldn’t be here talking about it now.

  “Are you certain it was the dogs that woke you and not a movement in the room?”

  “I don’t know, Inspector. I guess I merely assumed it was the dogs.”

  I’d been through these same questions over and over—at home and later at the police station. Why wouldn’t they accept my answers and move on? Go find the murderer before he struck again?

  “Any reason why the noise didn’t wake the deceased?”

  Oh, god, not again. I may as well bang my head against the refrigerator door.

  “I don’t know,” I growled through gritted teeth. “Perhaps his one attempt at pathetic sex exhausted him.” I crashed the kettle back on the stove, stirred the spoon around in my cup sloshing hot coffee over the sides. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”

  DI Adams stood up and moved towards me, concern on his face. “I’m sorry, Ms, McKinley. I know this must be difficult for you, but we found a size 10 ripple-soled shoe print in the mud outside your front door and the same footprint and traces of mud on your bedroom carpet. This leads us to believe the murderer used the copy he’d made of your spare key to get in the front door and may have already been in the room when you woke up. It seems like while you were downstairs, he stabbed his victim, waited on the upstairs landing for you to go past and then let himself out again.”

  And since then he’d been playing mind games with me. “Does that mean I’m not a suspect anymore?”

  He smiled. The warm crinkles around his eyes and mouth making him appear almost human. “Well,” he drawled. “I wouldn’t leave the country
just yet.”

  PC Chalmers barged forward. Evidently hell-bent on breaking up this tender little interlude, she said, “I need to examine all your shoes, Ms. McKinley.”

  “Be my guest,” I told her and tipped the dregs of my coffee down the sink. “And if you find anything that really takes your fancy, please, help yourself. But as I said, your feet are too—”

  “Ms. McKinley,” she broke in, herding me towards the stairs. “Your shoes! Now!”

  The policewoman inspected every shoe in the bottom of my wardrobe. She got down on hands and knees and crawled under the beds. She discovered farflung shoes in forgotten corners. She even found my long-lost hot pink wellington boots underneath a dusty upended box on the back porch.

  But no muddy size tens.

  The aggressive odor under the policewoman’s arms grew steadily stronger, her cheeks redder, her mood blacker. At last, in clear desperation, she stomped down the stairs with me tagging along behind and banged a beefy hand on the closed door of the hallway cupboard.

  “What’s in here?”

  “No shoes in there,” I put in quickly. “That’s for coats.”

  “Open it.”

  “But—”

  Chalmers pushed past me and flung open the door.

  “See.” I shrugged. “Just coats.”

  DI Adam’s warm breath tickled the nape of my neck. “And whose coat would that be, Ms. McKinley?” he asked, pointing to a large brown sheepskin coat squashed in between two much smaller denim jackets.

  “Umm…”

  “Matthew Turner’s?”

  I nodded.

  Damn!

  “Take it as evidence PC Chalmers and tag anything you find in the pockets.”

  Chalmers, eyes gleaming, slowly drew on a pair of rubber gloves, inserted one hand into a pocket of the brown sheepskin jacket and pulled out Matt’s mobile phone.

  As I said before...

  Damn!

  For every step forward we seemed to take three steps back.