<< Go Back

A Vase of Mistaken Identity

By Cathy Elliott

Order Now!

Chapter 1


Startled, Thea James sat upright. Her gaze darted about the bedroom. Light flickered and bounced off the walls, which seemed to shudder with the sound of sirens and gunfire. And screams.
She massaged her forehead, narrowing her eyes. The form of her cat was silhouetted against the television as an old mobster movie burst from the screen. Thea’s fingers probed the bedcovers until they found the remote. She pointed it at the offender. One click, and it was dead.
Or was it? The wail of a siren pierced the momentary silence. A real siren, echoing in the night, bringing with it a haunting memory— her dad’s heart attack. The ambulance with siren blaring. The rush to the hospital and then, the great sadness of his death. A bad dream from which there was no awakening.
Didn’t sirens always mean trouble? She hoped it was only a . . . only a what? Burning inferno? Caved-in mineshaft? Car accident? Thea couldn’t think of an upbeat reason for a siren.
She squinted at the green glow of the bedside clock. Only 11:15 pm. It felt later. She switched on the Victorian lamp beside her bed, disturbing the glass-beaded fringe that rattled like chattering teeth. Shadows fled as delicate light bathed the room.
Betty, the fat ball of black and orange fur that was seldom more than a few feet away, hunkered in attack mode at the foot of the bed. Thea reached and pulled her close, feeling Betty’s pulse patter triple time.
“Poor kitty. Did the TV scare you?” She scratched behind Betty’s ear, which flicked in appreciation. “Or was it the sirens?”
Thea lay on her side for a moment, berating herself for falling asleep with the television blasting—again. She brushed back her bangs, then combed her fingers through matted hair. Though the down cover cocooned her body with warmth, Thea felt a sudden chill.
If everything were as it should be, she wouldn’t be alone. Or afraid. She groped the neck of her pajama top until her fingers found a thin gold chain. Thea pulled, bringing the attached ring to the outside of her collar. The gold felt warm in her hand, and the diamond twin- kled in the soft light. She’d worn the engagement ring on her finger for a year after Jeff’s death, until she couldn’t face one more question or comment from a well-meaning customer. She still wore it, just closer to her heart.
The siren’s long whine grew louder, jerking Thea from the memory. Seconds later, a red flash brightened her window, causing another shiver to race down her back. Then the wail weakened and faded. What now? She held Betty with both hands as the skittish cat tried to take flight.
“No you don’t. I’m keeping you safe with me. Where else will I find such good cat-panionship?” Thea kissed the furry forehead, still wondering about the siren.
“Maybe one of your kitty-sisters got stuck in a tree. That’s an emergency, right?”
Even as she spoke, attempting to comfort herself as well as Betty, another siren sounded. And maybe there had been more, disguised by the movie’s sound effects. She strained to see the street through thick lace curtains but without success. Not wanting to leave the comfort of her bed, she searched the bedside table for her glasses with a free hand. Thea found the frames, accidentally knocking them to the floor with a loud clink.
“I know. Let’s have a spot of tea, Betty,” Thea said, her British heritage taking over.
After a deep breath, she pushed away the comforter, slid off the bed, and dropped her feet directly into Winnie-the-Pooh slippers.
She clutched the cat and slalomed between moguls of dirty clothes piled on the floor. The mirrored armoire door reflected the passing image of frenzied blonde hair, causing her to pause. Not a pretty sight. The sides were plastered against her scalp, and the top jutted wildly upward like Lady Liberty’s flaming torch.
Thea shifted the cat in her arms and attempted to coax her cropped locks back into their usual tousled style. Soon, her disheveled do didn’t look so torchish, but its resemblance to the finale in a fireworks display was remarkable.
Below her eyes, grains of mascara made dark shadows. That’s what you get for skipping your cleansing routine, girlie. When she lifted her fingertip to wipe them away, Thea noticed her hand shook. It was only a siren. Well, a couple of sirens. Or so. She brushed at the mascara and wished she could brush away her agitation as easily. Losing her beauty sleep hadn’t helped, and she decided she looked well past her twenty-eight years.
She sighed and turned away. “You don’t care how I look, do you Betty?” Thea scratched under the cat’s chin, and Betty purred her response, relaxing into her mistress’s arms.
“I don’t either, especially at this hour.” She traveled toward the living room and deposited the cat on the sofa, moving a mountain of freshly laundered towels to the other end. She slogged to the kitchen and turned on the blue flame beneath the kettle.
Thea rummaged in the drainer for a cup, rubbing a water spot off its side as the teapot emitted a low whistle. She doused an apple- cinnamon teabag in boiling water, filling the tiny kitchen with a spicy aroma. Too bad she didn’t have any chocolate chip cookies. Thea heaped a spoonful of sugar into the cup, then added another to satisfy her cookie craving, and stirred.
She sat next to Betty, sipped the steamy tea, and considered the tower of towels. I could fold a few. She fingered the edge of one with- out enthusiasm. Or I could do it tomorrow. There would be plenty of time in the evening. What else did she have to do on a Friday night?
At least I have my quilting. She took another sip of tea, then picked up a large, green bag. Thea had just reached inside when she was startled by another siren, causing her to prick her finger on a needle.
“I’m bleeding,” she whimpered, showing her injury to Betty. But the cat’s attention was elsewhere. Betty was back on alert status, in pounce position, ready to run. No sympathy there.
The siren grew louder. Thea hurried toward the door, tripping over a guitar case and smacking her elbow on a computer monitor as she fell. She sprawled out on the floor amid masses of laundry and a stack of stored computer components. Brief flashes of light bled through the blinds, signaling another vehicle’s passage. Thea gathered herself and stood up, nursing her arm. Nothing broken, not even the monitor.
She picked her way across the clutter and stared through her front-door window. The siren’s wail was fading now, but still she tried to get a glimpse. A police car? A fire truck? Just not an ambulance. Please.
Thea squinted, trying to focus, then opened the door wide enough to peer past the panes. In a flash, Betty scrambled outside and sped down the driveway, veering left. Not a good sign.
“Betty, no!” Thea watched helplessly as her cat cleared the neigh- bors’ fence and raced toward their crooked oak.
“Not the tree, Betty. Not the tree!” Thea understood that her feline was frightened, but she hoped Betty was shrewd enough to stay on the ground.
“Here, kitty-kitty,” she called, hoping to lure Betty back home. Thea crept out onto her tiny porch and stood on slippered tiptoes, smashing bulbous Winnie-the-Pooh noses into the painted planks. There was no light coming from Mr. and Mrs. Durtle’s house next door or from the cottage to her right, which was unoccupied at the moment. Her own feeble porch light flickered like a bug zapper. The only evidence of a moon was muted behind heavy clouds. The street light would have to suffice.
If there were no more sirens, she could cajole the cat into her waiting arms, and they could both get some sleep. Thea stepped out into the grass, realizing with a pang that her Winnies might get ruined. But what else could she do? If she went inside to change her footwear, she might lose Betty to the streets. Or something worse.
“Sorry, Winnie. Sorry, Winnie,” she said to her slippers with each step.
Thea cut across the lawn and onto the gravel driveway. The sharp rocks cut into the bottoms of her slippers. She clenched her teeth, taking baby steps the rest of the way. “Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow.”
She dreaded walking by the Durtles’ house at night. It had the look of a mad scientist’s lair with its turrets and broken shutters. Murky windows occasionally framed the withered countenance of Mrs. Durtle, who was always watching. Or was that just Thea’s imagination?
Tonight, she had no choice. Betty was having a hysterical moment, and she’d chosen to have it in the Durtles’ yard. Thea hoped that their mega-herd of cats weren’t outside slinking around in the black night. She’d once estimated eleven feeding out of a plastic wallpaper tray, but when they were running amuck over rooftop and beyond, who could count?
Thea stopped. What was that sound? A footfall? A burglar? Maybe a cat burglar, she joked, trying to calm her nerves. She searched the darkness but couldn’t see anything. Or anyone.
She shivered, recalling the incident last year when the Durtles first moved to the neighborhood. She had only been rescuing Betty from a late-night lope around the Durtles’ freshly hoed garden when Mrs. Durtle called the cops.
A fresh wave of anxiety rushed over Thea, who remembered the police pounding on her door, questions fired her way, and the strong caution against trespassing on someone’s private property. Did the Durtles honestly think she was dangerous or something? Maybe it seemed more grueling because Uncle Nick used to be on the force, and until then, she had only received their affectionate ribbing.
Whatever their motive, Thea did not wish to be frightened by Larkindale’s finest tonight or any night. She didn’t want the next siren to be for her. She listened again, this time for the sound of a bony finger stabbing at a phone’s number pad. Nothing.
She sighed with relief. Mrs. Durtle must be asleep. Soon Thea would be safe inside her cozy cottage. But tell that to her hammering heart.
Where was that cat?
“Here, kitty.” Thea paused at the wooden gate and spotted the cat crouched between two gnarled roots at the base of the tree, her tail twitching nervously. When Betty didn’t respond to her mistress’s call, Thea gave the gate a shove, expecting a loud squeak in honor of the creepiness of the house. But it swung silently, and she crept through, making her way past unkempt flowerbeds. Wet weeds wound around her ankles like snakes. Thea had to clap a hand over her mouth to keep from crying out.
She slipped her hand under Betty, rescuing the cat from the damp dirt. Thea didn’t like to be judgmental, but she couldn’t help but think Betty was spending too much time on the wrong side of the fence. Seemed she always came home looking scruffy and unwilling to make eye contact.
Once the cat was confined to her loving but firm grasp, Thea hurried back home, detouring around the driveway to save her feet. She stole a glance at the Durtles’ window, then wished she hadn’t. Old Mrs. Durtle’s likeness floated toward the glass, then disappeared into the darkness like a coin tossed into a turbid pond.
Thea shuddered. What was the woman doing up at this hour? Surely not still feeding cats? So . . . what then? Calling the law? She hadn’t seen a telephone clutched between skeletal fingers, but no sense lingering. Thea rushed into her cottage, slammed the door, and locked it securely. Betty mewed, her golden eyes innocent, as if to say, “What’s all the fuss?”
Just another episode in the ongoing saga of life with Betty. Thea ruffled the feline’s fur and blinked sleepy eyes. She was unable to keep from yawning noisily, her mouth open wide, not making any attempt at the social graces that would please Miss Manners. Thea glanced about the rumpled room, knowing she should straighten it up a bit. Instead, she gave a light laugh and said, “I won’t think about that now. I’ll think about it tomorrow.” If it works for Scarlet O’Hara, it’s good enough for me.
She took one last look outside. No police car in the driveway. No sirens. No slinking cats. All seemed calm and correct with the world. But as often before, Thea reasoned that if she could see out the window, someone else could likely peer inside. Most likely a peeping Durtle. She felt exposed, especially tonight, and determined to buy a window shade tomorrow.
But for now they were safe, and she sighed in relief, looking at Betty.
“Too bad you can’t bark.” Some watchcat. Thea turned off the lights and, holding Betty over her shoulder, headed toward the bed- room, where comforter and comfort awaited.


When the alarm sounded at 7 am, Thea jumped out of bed, anticipating Curly’s Miner Diner breakfast special—famous in the foothills surrounding Larkindale. On weekdays, customers could eat for two dollars, provided they arrived before 6 am. The price went up twenty-five cents every fifteen minutes. Had to be the best buy in all of California. Thea’s behind-the-clock-lifestyle made taking advantage of the diner’s good deal a rarity. Usually, she had to wait until she had opened the family store, when another employee could babysit the business. But this morning, according to her calculations, she could score a great meal for under four dollars if she hurried.
Curly’s home cooking cast fragrant wafts outside the diner, reeling in hungry customers and hooking Thea as well. She contemplated the Gold Rush Special as she stepped over the threshold of the Miner Diner. Cheese, avocado, bacon, and mushroom omelet; deep-fried potatoes; and fresh fruit. She could feel her mouth salivating like a Pavlovian dog and glanced at the slate menu board, its choices cataloged in multiple colors of chalk. Her attention zoned in on the Rocky Mountain High Stack of apple-walnut pancakes. In stressful times like these, a girl could use the extra carbs.
Thea scanned the crowded tables and spotted Uncle Nick sitting toward the back, facing the window, mopping up the remains of his breakfast with a piece of toast. With his other hand, he unfolded the Larkindale Lamplight. He looked up from the newspaper and flashed a grin, his white teeth made more so by the contrast of his dark mustache. A wave of his toast served to motion her over.
She scooted onto the chair across from Nick and checked her watch. Four dollars and fifty cents on the dot.
“Morning, Princess.” Uncle Nick, a stocky man in his fifties, pushed the paper aside. “I don’t like to brag, but just let me say . . .” He pointed to his plate. “Two dollars and seventy-five cents.”
Nick Marinello was an ex-cop on early retirement after taking a bullet in the line of duty. He frequented Curly’s because the food was good and because he enjoyed the camaraderie of the townsfolk and officers. But on Fridays, he and his niece had a standing date for breakfast. Or brunch. Whichever best described Thea’s time of arrival.
Nick raised one dark eyebrow. “Isn’t this a little early for you?”
Thea knew he usually had a little more time for his first breakfast to digest before he shared a second one with his niece.
“I’m an early riser,” Thea said, rearranging her flatware.
“Since when?”
“I admit it’s a very recent change.” She noted that her uncle had finished his breakfast but couldn’t tell what it used to be from the spartan scraps on the plate. Apparently, a thick piece of toast had escaped Nick’s notice—but not Thea’s. She slid the dish across the table in a swift, stealth move. “What did you have?”
“The Gold Rush. Good stuff, Princess.” He patted his rounded tummy and, wearing a satisfied smile, leaned back in his chair and picked up the paper once more. “Have whatever you want. Breakfast is on me.”
“What’ll it be?” Morlene Pickett, Curly’s skinny waitress, pulled her pad from a pocket and wrote down the time. Thea was just pondering what appeared to be a starter mustache sprouting from Morlene’s upper lip when the woman pushed a menu Thea’s way and asked, “You lose weight or something?”
“I . . . I don’t know.” Thea never weighed herself, using the waist-band of her jeans as the judge in her ongoing trial against the scales. If she could figure out how, she’d gladly transfer a few of her pounds to Morlene. A short, black skirt revealed the waitress’s bony legs, like two slats in a fence. She had a skinny husband and a bunch of skinny kids. Six . . . eight? Thea couldn’t remember, but it was a passel of Picketts. Morlene probably didn’t have time to eat.
“Does the quiche come with fresh fruit?” Maybe she should re-think the Gold Rush Special. “I’ll have that. And some English breakfast tea, please. With milk.”
“You got it.” Morlene topped off Nick’s cup and disappeared.
Nick gulped his coffee and stared at the newspaper, his eyes widening.
“I knew it! Thea, remember I told you yesterday that something hush-hush was happening at the resort?”
“No. Did I see you yesterday?”
“You know you did. I brought in that old chest that I fixed. And I mentioned I’d heard about the resort ruckus while having a bagel with Detective Brewster.”
“Don’t you mean doughnut?”
“No. I mean bagel. These days, the men in blue even eat salads.” Nick gave her a look of fond exasperation. “Stay on the subject, Princess. Yesterday, I said the resort looked like a good place for a body to turn up. Remember?”
“You always say that, Uncle Nick.” Thea’s memory of the encounter consisted mostly of her pleasure at his fine workmanship on the chest and only a little about the resort.
“Well after all these years, I was right. Look at this.” He reached across and thrust the paper in front of her face.
Thea glanced at it without enthusiasm. “So what am I looking for?”
Nick shook his head and smiled indulgently, though there seemed to be a tsk-tsk look in his eyes. “Never mind. I’ll read it to you.”
He opened the paper and began reading. “‘During a major remodeling project, human skeletal remains were found buried at the base of a chimney at the Larkin Lake Resort, police said yesterday. They were discovered by masons renovating the foundation of the lodge.’”
Nick’s eyes were intensely bright. “Gruesome, huh?”
Gruesome, duh. Was he enjoying this? Thea opened a small jar of raspberry jam, emptying it onto her plate, then spread a thick coat across a piece of toast. She took a big bite, trying not to moan with pleasure, and closed her eyes for a moment.
“‘Although police did not say whether any identification was found with the body,’” he continued, “‘it was revealed that a forensic archaeology team has been called in to assist with the case. Foul play has not been ruled out.’”
His words brought her back to the unpleasant present, and she opened her eyes, staring at the mound of jam poised on her plate. It suddenly seemed to have turned into a glob of congealed blood. The knife, a blood-soaked murder weapon. Thea put down the toast. Eeuw.
Nick let out a low whistle. “Well, well. So much for the peace and tranquility of a small town. Maybe I’d better make a run to the station—see what’s up. They might need my help.” He started to gather his things, then, looking at her, stopped. He frowned. “I hate to leave you alone, Princess.”
Her uncle understood her so well. Once, it had been Jeff who had awaited her arrival at Friday breakfast. On the days she managed to make it, the couple sat with heads together, poring over the latest Lamplight, exchanging information not recorded on newsprint but written on their hearts.
Thea thought of that last breakfast—another one missed. She hadn’t known that Jeff would never return from his gig overseeing the Teen Scene snow trip; that he’d lose his life after the church van was hit by a sleepy truck driver. Thea was thankful that all the kids had been delivered home safely. Only Jeff was hurt. And how fortunate that the trucker came through it fine. How very, very fortunate.
“This isn’t upsetting you, is it?” Nick gave Thea’s hand a questioning squeeze.
She smiled a response. These days it was Uncle Nick who met her for breakfast, trying to replace her empty Friday mornings with a new memory. It was working too. There was no need to be so melancholy.
Still, a murder in Larkindale. How creepy. But certainly she wasn’t in any danger. And she was a woman, not a child. She didn’t need a babysitter.
“No . . . really. I’m fine. You go ahead.” Thea gestured toward the diner’s exit. “No one is going to gun me down at the antique store. Not over my cash drawer.”
“Attagirl. I’m off then. Later, Princess.”
Through the window, Thea watched Nick turn the corner toward the Larkindale police station, vanishing from sight. Without his comforting banter, Thea suddenly felt alone, set apart from the townspeople as they ate and visited. Could one of them be a killer?
An involuntary shiver sent Thea’s thoughts back to the night before. The sirens. She wished she had asked Nick if he knew anything about them. She’d meant to. Then today, there was the report of a body uncovered at Larkin Lake Resort. What did that mean? Just a coincidence? Or were the two incidents linked?
It occurred to Thea that maybe it was time to polish up her prayer life. No, wait. She wasn’t talking to Him anymore. What was the point?
I’m being ridiculous. Everything is just fine. But when had there last been a murder in her hometown? She couldn’t recall. Even so, a few sirens and an unidentified body discovered at the resort wouldn’t impact her life, would they?
Not unless there was a murderer on the loose in Larkindale.

Order Now!

<< Go Back