Dolled Up to Die (16 page)

Until she was tying the two murders together for Uncle Joe, and she became aware of peculiar sounds coming from under the end table. She leaned over to look.

“Octavia!” she gasped. “What are you—”

Octavia already had the bag ripped open. Her claws were caught in the long brown hair of the wig. Several strands decorated her head and ears. Cate snatched at the wig, but Octavia raced off, wig flopping around her paws and over her back. She leaped on the sofa, then tore around Uncle Joe’s recliner and behind Rebecca’s rocker, wig flying. Cate jumped up and dashed after her, but Octavia was in one of her SuperCat episodes. She dusted the coffee table with the long brown hair. Cate crashed into the table trying to catch up with her. The white and brown streak whipped through the open door of the office and skidded across the glass top of the desk. Cate was too late to catch her.

The wig finally came off when it caught on a leg of the
dining room table. Cate picked it up and looked at the tangled strands in dismay.

Hairy confetti.

Octavia jumped up on the kitchen windowsill and washed a paw, complacently announcing in deaf cat terms,
My work here is done.

“This is coming out of your cat food allowance,” Cate warned.

Octavia did a big-deal flick of her tail.

Cate stuffed what was left of the wig in a fresh plastic bag and went back to the living room to finish telling Uncle Joe about the evening. She took the bag with her, clutching it in both hands just in case Octavia was contemplating a second attack.

When Cate finished, Joe’s only comment was, “I’m glad you took Mitch along with you.” Although he did add, with a glance at the tangled mass in the plastic bag, “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a cat in a wig before.”

It was not, Cate thought with regret, something easily forgotten.

Next day, before Cate and Mitch were scheduled to meet at the police station, she was still trying to decide how to approach Rolf Wildrider. Marching up to him and suggesting that it was National Muscle Appreciation Day, and she’d really like to see his right arm—hey, wait, it was a
left
hand that had tried to choke her. He was a leftie!

But being too open about inspecting either of Rolf’s arms for incriminating tattoos was hardly a workable idea. Hey, but there was another way to do it. She didn’t necessarily have to inspect Rolf’s arm in person. She looked up the Lodge Hill number and punched it in.

“Lodge Hill Weddings. LeAnne Morrison speaking.”

“LeAnne, this is Cate Kinkaid—”

“Oh, Cate, have you heard? Celeste was killed last night. Murdered right there at the Mystic Mirage! It was on the news as I was coming to the office.”

The words almost slipped out.
Yes, I know. I found her body.
She prudently reined them in. Better no one knew that. An unpleasant possibility hit her. Would the identity of the person finding Celeste’s body make it into the news reports? If it did, all the killer had to do was turn on the TV to identify who could identify
him
.

“Have you talked to Kim?” Cate asked.

“No. I called the home phone, but calls there are going to voice mail, and I don’t have her personal cell phone number. I’m not sure I should book any more weddings. I have no idea what will happen to Lodge Hill.”

“Kim owns everything now, not Celeste.”

“Well, yes. But Kim, isn’t, you know . . .”

“A take-charge person?”

“I’ve sometimes thought she must call Celeste every morning to ask if she should put her left or right shoe on first.” A peculiar sound, as if LeAnne instantly regretted the snide comment and had clapped her hand over her mouth. “Actually, poor Kim. First her husband. Now her mother. It almost looks as if someone really has it in for her.”

The idea that both murders had been vengeance against Kim hadn’t occurred to Cate. Was the killer punishing her for something she’d done by going after the people she loved?

Could the motive for both murders be in some past or present relationship of Kim’s? Maybe a relationship with Rolf?

“Did you call for some particular reason?” LeAnne asked.

“Well, um, this probably sounds odd, but do you know if Rolf’s arms have tattoos?”

“What a strange question!”

Cate didn’t intend to reveal why she was asking. She didn’t want LeAnne, or anyone else, knowing she knew the killer had tattoos because she’d seen them at the murder.

She’d have to look at those arms herself. Another lightbulb idea. She leaped to it without explaining her question about Rolf’s arms.

“Actually, the reason I called, I’m wondering if Rolf ever gives tours of the vineyard? I know someone who’s interested.”

“Why would anyone want a tour? There isn’t a winery, just all those rows and rows of grapevines. But they could call him, I suppose. I can give you the number at the manager’s cottage. I don’t have Rolf’s personal cell phone number. He guards it as if it were some international secret.”

Available only to clients of a pot-growing sideline?

“That’d be great. Thanks.”

Cate scribbled the number on a scratch pad when LeAnne gave it and thanked her again. Another thought. “Do you think Celeste’s death will affect my friend Robyn Doherty’s wedding?”

“Good question. Under the circumstances, I’m thinking perhaps I should start looking for another job myself.”

Cate didn’t immediately try to contact Rolf. She wasn’t about to go after an arm inspection solo. Mitch? No. He was big and male and could be intimidating. Rolf would be on guard around Mitch. So who?

Of course!

She looked up another phone number. She recognized the voice that answered. “Calypso Florists. May I help you?”

“Hi, Robyn, it’s me, Cate.”

“Oh, Cate, hi. Are you wearing the wig? I think you’ll feel more comfortable with it the more you wear it.”

Robyn apparently hadn’t yet heard about Celeste’s death, or she’d surely be bouncing off the walls. Cate wasn’t going to tell her. The death wouldn’t necessarily affect Robyn’s wedding anyway.

Hold that thought.

“I haven’t been wearing the wig, but I’m sure it will be fine.” Although Robyn’s question reminded her the wig needed some serious damage control after the attack of the furry tornado. “The reason I’m calling, you know that beautiful vineyard out there at Lodge Hill? I was thinking we could ask the manager for a tour. Wouldn’t photos of the vineyard make a lovely addition to your wedding album?”

Robyn didn’t enthusiastically jump on the idea, and Cate rushed on, using her own enthusiasm to extol the virtues and beauty of the vineyard.

“Cate, I’m sure it’s lovely,” Robyn interrupted with polite impatience. “But, honestly, I haven’t any interest in seeing a bunch of grapevines or taking photos of them.”

“I’d really like to see the vineyard, but I don’t want to go alone.” Cate let a hint of reproach seep into her voice.

“Get Mitch to go with you.”

“You know men. They never want to go shopping or anything.” An irrelevant comment, since shopping and grapevines were about as connected as weddings and mud wrestling. Fortunately, Robyn didn’t seem to notice that.

“That’s true,” she agreed. “But . . .”

Cate didn’t come right out and say, “Look, when you were desperate I agreed to be your bridesmaid, and I’m wearing this wig for you. You owe me.” But she wasn’t above giving a strong hint in that direction, and Robyn finally agreed. Cate said she’d get the tour set up and call her.

Next a call to Rolf. Cate let the phone at the cottage ring ten times. No answer, and not even an answering machine picked up. She tried twice more before heading out to meet Mitch at the police station at 2:00.

There, Cate offered the officer the additional information that she thought her attacker was left-handed. She also pointed out a similarity between the doll being knocked to the floor at the Mystic Mirage and the dolls being shot at Ed Kieferson’s murder scene. The officer thanked her, but she could almost see his mental roll of eyes.
Just what we need. Another crackpot with a nutty conspiracy theory
.

There was another brief article about Celeste’s murder in the Eugene newspaper that day, including what looked like a publicity photo of a smiling Celeste holding a copy of her book. It did not mention a connection between her death and Ed Kieferson’s murder, and, to Cate’s relief, the person who found Celeste’s body was not identified.

Cate spent the next couple of days trying to serve another subpoena. Like Elvis sightings, lots of people knew someone who’d seen the guy she was looking for, but no one could pinpoint where he was now. She drove all the way up to Corvallis on a tip he might be there.

She didn’t find him there, but along the way she started noticing high-handled motorcycles. She’d thought they might be a rarity that would link Rolf and the guy coming out of the Mystic Mirage that day, but she lost track of how many she saw on the freeway. She also spotted a middle-aged couple outside Walmart loading groceries into the saddlebags of a high-handled bike. And a high-handled bike ridden by a dark-suited guy with a briefcase strapped on behind was ahead of her in the drive-up window at the bank. Not a rarity after all.

She finally nailed the guy on whom she needed to serve the subpoena at a girlfriend’s apartment. She also saw two high-
handled motorcycles in the parking lot there. When she got home, on a whim she Googled “high-handled motorcycles” and learned they had a name: ape hangers.

Ape hangers. She giggled all evening about that one.

She gave calling Rolf one more try a couple evenings later and was so surprised when someone actually answered that she stuttered a moment before she got out what she wanted to say.

“I’m, uh, calling about a, um, tour of the vineyard. My friend is getting married there at Lodge Hill, and we thought some vineyard photos would be nice. Would that be possible?”

“I’ve showed people around a few times, but the situation here at the vineyard is . . . unsettled.”

Unsettled. A nice euphemism for disruption caused by two murders connected with owners of the vineyard? Perhaps murders he’d committed?

“We wouldn’t take much of your time.” Just long enough to check out your arms.

“I guess I could do it.” Nothing flirty about Rolf today. Perhaps not surprising, if he had murders on his mind. And, figuratively at least, blood on his hands.

“Tomorrow morning?” Cate suggested.

“Sure, if you don’t mind bad weather and mud.”

They settled on 10:30 as a time, and he said he’d meet her at the cottage out behind Lodge Hill. Cate immediately called Robyn. She agreed, with all the enthusiasm of an appointment to see a display of belly-button lint, to meet Cate there.

Cate drove through the gate at Lodge Hill and parked at the manager’s cottage at 10:28. The motorcycle was there, complete with ape hangers, but no Rolf came out to meet her. At 10:33, still no Rolf, and no Robyn zipping up in her
Subaru. At 10:37, Cate was still alone. Did Rolf expect her to knock?

The day was cloudy and cool, and the wind, as sometimes happened in these inland valleys, carried a hint of raw coastal scent. The cell phone rang in her purse, and she whipped it out. Robyn’s number on the screen.