Melanie Veleaux began an asthmatic wheezing as soon as she walked into my office. Sinking into a chair, she dug in her oversized canvas bag for her medication, inhaled a long dose from the blue L-shaped tube, and sat, holding her breath for a minute.
I waited without comment, taking a moment to observe her and to wonder if peasant necklines, nipped-in waists, and full skirts had come back in style when I wasn't looking. I sincerely hoped not. The fashion suited Melanie, however. She looked like she belonged on a verandah down in Georgia, holding a parasol. Early thirties, I thought, but knew I might be off by as much as ten years. Long blonde hair curled around a delicate heart-shaped face. She had big smoky-blue eyes and the kind of petal-soft skin that meant she'd spent her life smearing on sun screen and moisturizers.
When she exhaled, I said, "You okay?"
She nodded. "It was your stairs. And so much stress. Besides, I usually don't go out this time of year because of the acacia."
"You mean the yellow stuff that's in bloom?"
"Yes. I've very allergic to it."
"But not to cats?"
"How did you--?" She touched her dangling earrings-- cute little enameled kitty faces.
"And I think that's cat hair on your purse," I said.
Okay, I admit it. I'm not above showing off.
"I am a little sensitive to Miss Bee Bee," Melanie said, "even though I've had shots. Still, I can't be without her. I adore cats."
Just thinking about the fuzzy little furballs relaxed some of the tension in her face. Not a bad thing because I did not want a medical emergency on my hands.
The respite didn't last long, however. She took another shaky breath and said, "I think somebody tried to kill me last week, Ms. West."
"Delilah," I said. "Tell me what happened."
"An attack--only much worse than this one. I always have an inhaler in my purse, but it wasn't there, and I nearly died."
"You think somebody deliberately removed it?"
She nodded. "I'm compulsive about checking for my medication, Delilah. I've learned to be. So I know it was there that morning."
"Who has a reason to want to kill you, Melanie?"
"Until this happened I would have sworn nobody did. But now--" she broke off, her eyes shining with tears.
"You suspect some one."
"Two people," she said miserably. "My husband and my best friend."
As a private detective I'm a skillful liar. Subterfuge is my life. So I'd readily agreed to come to Melanie's house a week or so later for Sunday afternoon tea, pretend I was working with Melanie on some charity function, and meet her two prime suspects. As a matter of fact, I'd jumped at the chance since I'd spent the intervening time digging for dirt on Kenneth Veleaux and Jennifer Lowry and finding them both so squeaky clean they could have posed for a detergent commercial.
The two both may have had opportunity, but motive? As far as I could tell Jennifer had nothing to gain by killing her friend; Kenneth stood to inherit a substantial amount of money if Melanie died, but he already had a substantial fortune, enough so it appeared he taught history at the University of California, Irvine, because he enjoyed it and not for the salary.
Melanie met me at the door in another Southern belle cotton print dress. A fluffy gray cat wound around her ankles, studying me with eyes nearly as blue as her owner's.
"I feel so terrible about my suspicions," Melanie said, looking even more tense and haunted. "You have to find out if I could be right."
She led me into a room with overstuffed chintz-covered furniture, tasseled lamps, and baskets of silk flowers. French doors opened on to a patio where I could see what had to be wisteria climbing over a lattice-work trellis. Since I'd been following them around most of the week, I had no trouble recognizing the two people who greeted me with warm smiles.
Kenneth was a lean, homely man, but one who looked as comfortable in his own skin as he was in the tan chino slacks, blue cotton knit turtleneck, and well-polished loafers. Sturdy and trim in jeans and a pullover sweater, Jennifer exuded health and an easy-going good nature.
After introductions, she said, "Sit, Mel, visit with Delilah," and hurried off to bring in dainty little crustless sandwiches, petit fours, and tall glass of tea garnished with sprigs of mint--iced, even though it was a cold, rainy February day.
While we ate, the cat, Miss Bee Bee, played with a toy mouse until Melanie took a tissue from her purse and accidentally dropped a lipstick. The cat pounced on the silver metal tube and batted it with the skill of a hockey player skimming the puck across the ice.
"Miss Bonnie, you scamp," Jennifer said with a laugh and grabbed the lipstick away.
Despite Melanie's obvious strain and the fact that I was a stranger, Kenneth and Jennifer managed a graceful, lively conversation. My job was to observe and what I saw was a solicitous friend and a husband who was constantly brushing Melanie's arm or her hand, that touch telling me more than all the dossiers I could put together.
Finally, Jennifer said she had plans for dinner and gave Melanie a good-bye hug. Kenneth excused himself, saying he had papers to grade.
When we were alone, Melanie looked at me with dread pinching her face. "Do you know who tried to--who took my inhaler?"
"Let me ask you something first," I said. "Your cat, Miss Bee Bee, Jennifer called her Bonnie."
"Miss Bonnie Blue," Melanie said. "Like Scarlett and Rhett's daughter."
I was afraid of that.
"My mother named me for one of the characters in Gone With the Wind," Melanie said. "I guess it's no wonder I just adore the book and the movie. But I don't understand what that has to do with anything. Do you know who hid my inhaler or not?"
"Yeah, I know."
I began to lift up the skirted edges of the chairs, finding the blue L-shaped tube on the second try. "Remember when you dropped your lipstick?" I fished out the inhaler and tossed it on the floor where the cat immediately pounced and began to bat the thing around, right under the chair again.
"Bonnie Blue Butler," Melanie cried. "She did it!"
Thank God she said it, not me.
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© Maxine O'Callaghan 1996. All rights reserved.