Free Killer Chameleon by Chassie West Page A

“Fragile.”
    Clarissa appeared in the doorway. “What was that? Are you all right?” She still held the phone to her ear. Evidently her conversations with her sister amounted to telethons.
    â€œFine. Just lost my grip on this boy,” I said, nudging it aside. “Trying to figure out which one is missing.” I waved the list.
    â€œNothing serious,” Clarissa pronounced into the phone and backed out. “Trying to solve the mystery of a missing box. She’s so organized, just like you. Has a list of the things.”
    I turned the bottom one around, checked off its number.
    â€œAsk her what?” Her voice drifted back down the hall, and when she didn’t return to ask me whatever, I tuned out.
    At the end of the exercise, the only one left unchecked was the carton with the contents of my desk drawers. Granted, I wouldn’t need them any time soon, but it was the principle of the thing.
    It occurred to me that I should check the tea kettle. I hadn’t heard the whistle, but it was past time that the water should have come to a boil.
    I found Clarissa in the kitchen, the table set for two with plates, flatware, and all. “Sit yourself down,” she ordered. “The barbecue’s in the microwave. I was just waiting until you finished.” Punching in the time, she pushed start and stood back to make certain it would. “Um, how’d you and your list make out?”
    I explained the problem. “I’ll give Duck a call later. Maybe he put it in the storage room off the balcony. Can’t imagine why he would, but it’s the only place left to look. I don’t have the key or I’d do it now. By God, if he took that box to the Dumpster with the stuff of his he threw out, I’ll sue his pants off. All my financial records are in it.”
    Clarissa stiffened, then turned to watch the window of the microwave as if she could see what was going on under the lid of the bowl. “So it’s just one box? And you’re sure it’s not back at your place? Or still in your car or something?”
    â€œPositive. It was in that room the last time I was here two weeks ago. I think I’ll have Lemon Zinger.” I got up and poured the water in both cups since Clarissa seemed to be determined to babysit the barbecue. “I couldn’t help overhearing some of your conversation with your sister.” She stiffened again, and I rushed to explain. “When I came to ask you whether you wanted tea. You’ve been a teacher? Clarissa? What’s wrong?”
    She hadn’t moved but her olive complexion had paled a couple of tints. A pudgy hand covered her mouth, and she turned away.
    â€œUh . . . I’m not feeling very well. I’ve . . . I’ve got to go.” She rushed out of the kitchen.
    I followed her to the living room and watched, concerned, as she wrestled her shoes onto her feet. She pulled on her coat and grabbed her purse, her hands trembling.
    â€œIs there something I can do to help?” I asked. “Would you like a ride home?”
    â€œNo. No, thank you,” she said, bustling to the door. “Tell Dillon he won’t have to pay me for today. Maybe I can come back tomorrow. I . . . I’m sorry, I just . . .” She gave up on whatever she’d intended to say and turned to fumble with the deadbolts.
    â€œHere,” I said, coming to her rescue. “I’m sorry you aren’t feeling well. It was nice meeting you.”
    Her hazel eyes widened, and she emitted a sound somewhere between a moan and a whimper. “Yes. Yes. Nice to meet you too.” She practically ran to the elevator. She pushed the call button, then, not waiting, shook her head and took the stairs.
    I stood in the doorway, wondering. Perhaps I shouldn’t have asked about her having been a teacher, although I couldn’t imagine why. I rewound my mental tape, trying to figure out what