Free Killer Chameleon by Chassie West Page B

I’d said wrong. One thing I was sure of. Clarissa wasn’t sick. Something I’d said had pushed her button, the one marked “Panic.”

5
    â€œYOU SURE YOU WOULDN’T LIKE A LITTLE pick-me-up in your tea?”
    Gracie Poole hovered over me, a bottle of Jim Beam in one hand, a delicate cup and saucer in the other. My stomach was still feeling iffy, but I’d had to agree to have some Constant Comment since it seemed so important to her. Now that I saw that she used more than sugar, cream, and/or lemon in hers, I understood now why she’d been so insistent. And it wasn’t even noon! I’d known Gracie for several years and never suspected that any of the empty liquor bottles I saw going out with the trash on Tuesdays were hers.
    â€œNo, thank you, Gracie. It’s a little early for me.”
    â€œOh, well. Chacun à son goût .” She sat down opposite me, a butler’s tray coffee table between us, and poured a splash of the bourbon into her cup.
    I found myself a little disoriented by her apartment. The floor plan was a duplicate of my old unit, but that’s where the similarity ended. Our building was itself a senior citizen, built in the forties by someone trying to harken back to an even earlier day when high ceilings, deep-set windows, fireplaces with marble surrounds and mantels, and hardwood floors were de rigueur. Gracie had taught art history for forty years, and her love of the Old Masters formed the basis of her decor. Prints of Rembrandt, Leonardo da Vinci, Degas, Toulouse-Lautrec, van Gogh, you name it, filled her walls ceiling to floor in frames that had probably cost more than the prints. Miniatures of well-known statuary served as her knickknacks, although in my opinion the six-foot-tall replica of Michaelangelo’s David in the corner was a bit much, certainly more masculinity than would be good for my libido.
    Fortunately, Gracie’s living room furniture, while ornate, with gracefully curved arms and legs, was a dark wood upholstered in a neutral fabric, leaving all the prints and the thick Oriental area rugs to supply color in the room. Even her draperies, which swept to the floor under matching pelmets, and must have cost a mint, were a pristine snow-white. The effect was stunning and I liked it immensely. The only other contribution to color was her complexion, a delicate pink that matched the rosebuds on her cups and saucers.
    â€œGracie, you have to have the most beautiful apartment in the building,” I said, with genuine admiration.
    â€œWell, it’s home.” She patted her lips with a white linen napkin before folding it neatly across her lap. It seemed to disappear, since the pleated caftan she wore was also white. “Now. You’re interested in the members of my little class who were here yesterday.”
    â€œYes. You can understand why.”
    â€œOf course, Leigh. I’m so sorry about what happened to you. You must have been terrified. Lord knows the sight of all those policemen bursting into the lobby terrified us. It took a whole bottle of my Jim Beam to calm everyone down. But I’m sorry, I’m not comfortable giving you the list I gave to the policeman. It’s one thing to give it to him since he asked for it in his official capacity. But you’re no longer a member of the police force, so I simply can’t. Privacy issues, you understand. But I can assure you, none of my students would do anything so vicious.”
    â€œYou know all of them well?” I asked, disappointed but determined. More than one way to skin a cat.
    â€œWell enough. Most of them have been with me since I started teaching at the Seniors’ Center, and that’s been six years. Some come and go because of their health, a few have died, but there’s still a nucleus of a good dozen that are regulars.”
    â€œSo no one new?”
    â€œIn my class? No, but as I told the nice young man last