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CHAPTER THREE

SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

TUESDAY, MARCH 14, 2023

9:00 A.M.

Donna Jean Plummer sat in her tiny Wallingford apartment waiting for the cops to show up. They had called her first thing that morning, asking if she would be willing to come to the station to be interviewed.

Since this was a homicide investigation, she couldn’t very well say thanks, but no thanks, so naturally she had said yes, even though it meant having to call her Tuesday customers, Mrs. Applebaum and Mrs. Wilson, and let them know that she wouldn’t be coming in today.

The TV was off. She’d watched as much of the morning news as she could stomach. Gritting her teeth, she had sat through the first part of a local station’s segment concerning the murder—a repeat from the previous evening’s newscast—one where the street outside the Brewsters’ house was still blocked off with crime scene tape and cop cars were parked every which way. When the reporter started to introduce Mrs. Homewood—the nosy old battle-ax who lived next door to the Brewsters, Donna Jean had switched it off. Dead tired, almost numb from lack of sleep, and with her heart filled with dread concerning the upcoming interview, she simply sat and waited.

Pearl was nowhere to be seen. Donna Jean expected that the cat was hiding under the bed in her bedroom, but at least she was quiet for now, and that was a huge improvement. The poor animal had howled to the high heavens most of the night. No wonder Donna Jean had barely slept.

Sitting in the back of a patrol car, Donna Jean had watched the action unfold in Edmonds the day before. Shortly after Mrs. Brewster had been driven away in an unmarked car, a van marked Animal Control had turned up on the scene. When Donna Jean realized they were about to take poor Pearl away to the pound, she had intervened, telling them that she’d take the distressed animal home with her.

“Fine with me,” the guy from the pound had said with a shrug.

At that point the house had been a designated crime scene, and Donna Jean wasn’t allowed back inside. A cop had gone in and collected her purse and jacket from the laundry room so she could drive herself home, but they had drawn the line at bringing out any supplies for Pearl. As a result, Donna Jean had been forced to stop off at PetSmart on her way home to pick up a carrier, a litter box, food, and litter for the displaced and still nightmarishly blood-stained kitty. Knowing how skittish the cat was, once she was parked outside her apartment, Donna Jean stuffed Pearl into the carrier before opening the car door.

It had taken time for Donna Jean to lug Pearl and all her gear up two flights of stairs to her third-floor apartment. Once finished with that, she had called Amy, letting her daughter know that she wouldn’t be attending the celebratory dinner that night after all, and that someone else would need to retrieve Jacob’s birthday cake.

“What’s wrong, Mom?” Amy asked, her voice filled with concern. “Are you not feeling well?”

“Something happened at work today,” Donna Jean said. “Mr. Brewster died last night.”

“Mr. Brewster?” Amy repeated. “Oh, my goodness! You’ve worked for him for years.”

“Yes, I have, and I’m heartsick about it. Please tell Jacob I’m sorry, but I’m just not up to it.”

“Of course not,” Amy agreed. “I know Jacob will understand, but are you all right? Do you need any help?”

“No,” Donna Jean said. “I’m fine.”

It turns out she was wrong about that. When it came to bathing Pearl, she really had needed help.

Aware of how skittish the animal could be, Donna Jean didn’t open the carrier until they were both inside the bathroom with the door closed behind them and with a bottle of No More Tears shampoo readily at hand. Closing the door had been a good decision. Realizing she was about to be placed in a tub full of water, Pearl had gone into an absolute frenzy—fighting, biting, and doing her best to scratch Donna Jean’s arms and hands. Fortunately, Donna Jean had been smart enough to put on a pair of rubber gloves and her long-sleeved bathrobe before tackling the project.

Once covered with shampoo, Pearl had escaped Donna Jean’s grasp and leaped out of the tub. After a five-minute chase and with the aid of a bath towel, Donna Jean was at last able to capture the elusive animal and return her to the tub for a final rinse.

Almost a full hour after entering the bathroom, the two of them emerged with the still dripping cat wrapped snugly in yet another damp towel. Exhausted by her part in the ordeal, Donna Jean sank gratefully into her recliner where, upon examination, she was forced to admit a partial defeat. Even now Pearl’s ears remained a pale shade of pink. Eventually the cat fell asleep in Donna Jean’s lap. At that point, she had mistakenly assumed that the worst was over. Unfortunately, it wasn’t, not nearly.

At bedtime, Donna Jean left the litter box and an open-doored carrier in the bathroom, but the moment she closed the door, the animal had launched off into an earsplitting chorus of ungodly yowls. Ten minutes later, with Pearl still howling piteously in the background, Donna Jean’s phone rang. The name showing in caller ID was that of Sylvia Portillo, Donna Jean’s next-door neighbor. Although the two women knew each other, they weren’t exactly the best of pals.

“What the hell’s going on over there?” Sylvia demanded. “It sounds like someone’s being murdered.”

Although the comment came several hours after the fact, it was nonetheless a little too close to the truth for comfort, because someone had indeed been murdered.

“I brought a cat home from the Humane Society,” Donna Jean sputtered into the phone. “I’m fostering her.”

“How about if you try fostering the damned thing a little more quietly?” Sylvia demanded. “Otherwise I’m not going to get a wink of sleep.”

In the end, the only solution had been for Donna Jean to take the bereaved animal into her bed.

By morning, Pearl had vanished. Donna Jean finally located her under the bed. She had been on her knees, using a dish of cat food to try and coax the cat out, to no avail, when Amy called.

“Mom,” Amy said excitedly. “I just saw on the news that Mr. Brewster was murdered. Why didn’t you say that in the first place?”

Donna Jean thought for a moment before she answered. “I didn’t want to wreck Jacob’s birthday.”

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

That was a lie, but evidently Amy didn’t notice.

“All right, then,” she said. “Jacob wants to talk to you before he goes to school. Hang on.”

“Hey, Grammy,” the boy said when he came on the line.

“Happy birthday,” Donna Jean said. “Sorry I missed your party.”

“That’s okay,” Jacob replied. “It was only the family party. The big one, the one with all my friends from school, is on the twenty-fifth at the Woodland Park Zoo. Do you want to come to that one?”

“I’ll have to see about it,” Donna Jean said, “but if I can make it, I will.”

“Okay,” Jacob said. “Bye.”

The next words out of Amy’s mouth were addressed to her son. “Go get ready, sweetie. I’ll be there in a minute.” Then she came back on the line. “I know you usually work for the Brewsters on Fridays and Mondays. Were you there when it happened?”

Donna Jean took a breath. “Not when it happened, but I was there when Mrs. Brewster found the body, and I’m the one who called 911.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

“How awful for you. That must have been dreadful. Are you sure you don’t want me to drop by?”

“No,” Donna Jean said quickly. “No, please. I’m fine.”

One of those statements was true. One was not. She certainly didn’t want her daughter to be on hand when the cops showed up, but she was anything but fine.

“You go on to work now,” Donna Jean said. “I don’t want you to be late for school on my account. We’ll talk soon.”