Cat in Wolf's Clothing (9781101578889) Read Free Page A

added: “As a consultant.”
    I didn’t respond at first. I started mentally listing all words that I knew beginning with retro: retrorocket, retrograde, retrospective, retroactive . . . not many at all.
    â€œWhere is the cat?” I then asked.
    â€œWhat cat?” Rothwax replied.
    â€œThe Siamese cat who lives here.”
    â€œRelatives took him,” Rothwax replied.
    â€œWell? Will you become part of Retro?” Arcenaux got back to the point.
    Why would a murderer give his victim’s cat a mouse toy? So strange! “Of course,” I replied to the detectives, “I’ll attend as many meetings of Retro as you wish me to attend. I want to help. I will try to help.”
    I stood up and started walking toward the door of the apartment. My eye caught a picture on the far wall—the north wall of the apartment.
    It was odd that I had been sitting in that apartment for more than thirty minutes and I hadn’t noticed anything on the walls. Of course, it was because the windows were overwhelming—the walls just a pathetic respite from the glass and the view.
    My God! The painting was a print—of Van Gogh’s painting
The Sunflower
. It was the same print that had hung in the kitchen of my grandmother’s dairy farm in Minnesota.
    I walked halfway across the large room—my head suddenly filled with memories of childhood . . . of seeing those wondrous Van Gogh yellows. How many millions of farm children over the years had watched those colors hung on their grandmothers’ walls? It was all so sad.
    I walked closer. Something was wrong with the print; it was crooked.
    It hung crooked on the wall. That was all. I closed the distance between myself and the wall quickly and righted the frame. When I turned around to walk back across the room toward the apartment door, the two detectives were staring at me.
    Their stares were discomfiting. “The picture was crooked,” I explained.
    The intensity of the stares didn’t diminish. What was the matter with them? Lusting? Vengeful? Suspicious? Angry?
    It was hard to tell. They weren’t, after all, felines.

Chapter 4
    We were in the subbasement of a massive New York state courthouse building on Church Street in Lower Manhattan. The temporary home of Retro consisted of seven dark, dismal rooms. Everything was old and thick and damp—dark wood, stained marble, massive oaken furniture, huge doors with old-fashioned brass knobs.
    â€œAnd this is the computer room,” Arcenaux said, ushering me into a high-tech fantasy. The room was filled with whirring, cackling terminals and printers and phone lines. Several earnest-looking individuals in the room, working at their trade, ignored us.
    â€œAny kind of information you need—they’ll print it out for you,” Rothwax said. He picked up a small blank slip from one of the desk trays and held it up for me to see.
    â€œJust fill out what you want . . . name of victim . . . type of information sought . . . they’ll do any kind of computer search you want. Just sign your name and put your number on the slip.”
    â€œNumber?” I was confused.
    Arcenaux dug into his pocket and pulled out a small clip-on badge.
    â€œYou better put this on,” he said. I stared at the small card: “ ALICE NESTLETON. RETRO CONSULTANT . #106.”
    I pinned the card on above my right breast.
    When I looked at them to signal I was ready to proceed, the two detectives averted their eyes. I was making them uncomfortable again. Maybe it was my dress—maybe they thought I had dressed inappropriately for my first appearance at Retro. I was wearing a dress I hadn’t put on in more than ten years. It was a long, thin, flannel shift—white with red flowers around the shoulders. In fact, it looked suspiciously like a nightgown, with sleeves and all.
    Why I chose it, I don’t know. The last time I wore