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Previously:  Debra Padget, an elderly invalid, has been found murdered in her bedroom. The body is posed for coffin placement, and garish make-up applied to her face.  Detective Jana Burke has been sent out by her commander, Sheriff Oleson, to canvass the neighborhood for witnesses.

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Detective Jana Burke possessed a golden talent of combining pointed questions with
purposeful silence to incite criminals to confess. Cracking cases gave her a wicked high. But the interviews she'd conducted that morning produced no such euphoria. She'd carried the virus of fear into the homes of Debra Padget's neighbors. Her presence represented the sickening realization the bogeyman had materialized in their own back yards.

She mounted the steps of the last home on her list, desperate for a solid lead. Dot Minski's neighbors had used descriptions ranging from the colorful to the profane. But everyone agreed on two things: she was a voracious gossip and crazy about cats.

Firm knocks and shouted identification brought no response from inside Dot Minski's house. After a decent period passed, Jana underscored the name in blue, her code for an incomplete interview, and headed for her patrol car.

She punted pine cones while mentally rehearsing her report of failure for Sheriff Oleson. Startled by the sound of a whistle, a mourning  dove fled a tree branch, nearly colliding with Jana's head. Reflexively, she reached for her side piece.

"Yoo Hoo, Officer! I need to talk to you." Jana relaxed the hold on her gun and turned toward the source of the sound. Dot Minski stood in her doorway waving a light square of fabric.

The detective approached the elderly woman, surprised to observe she was a hunchback - something not one of her neighbors had mentioned. Bent at the waist, she struggled to lift her chin and head. Around her neck was a whistle, and in her arms lay an obese tabby.

"I'm glad I caught you, Officer. Didn't hear you knocking right away 'cause I was using my grabber to get Delilah's squeezie toy out from under the bed. She got so excited she jumped on my back and knocked me on my patout." Jana pressed fingers to her lips to cover a smile. "I suppose I should ask you for some form of identification," the woman cocked her head in a sassy manner, "but you don't look like the kind of person to murder a poor old lady in her bed. You're a real policeman, right?"

"Yes, ma'am. I'm Detective Jana Burke with the Granite Mountain Sheriff's Department," Jana assured her. "It's wise of you to be cautious when a stranger comes to your door." 

The old woman beamed like a child who'd worked out a mathematical equation on a blackboard and was rewarded with the teacher's praise.

"Well now that we've settled that, come in, Detective." The smell of cat urine permeated the inside of the terrace-level apartment. A crescent-shaped faux marble entryway trimmed in tarnished gold neatly severed the connection of the living room and hallway. At the center of it, a welcome mat displayed the caricature of a howling choir of calico cats.

Directing her guest toward the living room sofa, she said, "Have a seat, won't you?"

Jana mumbled, "Thank you," and dutifully seated herself on the sagging sofa. She watched as the old lady arranged her sparse frame in the middle of a large rocker with room enough for Delilah to lay beside her and sleep. Once settled, the woman continued her train of thought. "I'm sure this will come as no surprise to you, Detective, but you are a rather tall lady, and I like to look people in the eye when I'm talking with them. But I suppose your height is helpful in your line of business?"

"Yes, ma'am, being tall does have its advantages."

Detective Burke did a quick read of the lady's body language, and recognized that sparrow-faced Dot Minski relished the limelight. The fervid glow in the old lady's eyes was a phenomenon the young woman observed often in murder cases. She saw in it a fascination with violence that permeated the white man's world. Though it was personally repugnant to the Sioux part of her, at least she wasn't expected to play grief counsellor with this woman.

In fact, Dot Minski had a passion for true-crime novels, and believed herself attuned to the thoughts of the investigator. Word had travelled quickly of Debra's suspicious death, and the old lady had scoured her memories of past conversations with the victim. Finally, like a miner pulling gold from a soup of sludge, she recalled an odd conversation.

A telephone rang from an area Jana guessed to be the kitchen. "Excuse me a moment, it's probably my home-care aide checking to see if I need any groceries," Dot said. She rose from her seat, dropped Delilah on the sofa next to Jana and disappeared. The cat sniffed Jana's leg, dismissed her as snooty and moved to the corner of the couch to groom herself. Due to the spread of her belly, the cat was only minimally successful in touching fur with her tongue.

Tendrils of a one-sided conversation floated in from the kitchen and then there was a silence broken only by the chink of colliding crockery. When the old lady returned, she had a tray with two black mugs imprinted with 'Don't Whine' in gold and a plate covered by a checkered napkin.

Jana was about to tell the woman that she didn't have time for pleasantries and was expected at the police station. But she stopped short and berated herself mentally for the shame this would cause an elder. Oho-wa-laka, Wakanka - to respect elders - she could hear her mother's voice impart the essential importance of this command.

When the old lady reached the lamp table next to the sofa, she shoved aside a large tote to make room for the tray. The tote dropped to the floor, disgorging a black and white feline who screamed in surprise, then shot out of sight.

"Oh dear, please excuse Montrose's bad manners, Detective. He likes to tangle himself in my yarn and I sometimes forget he's even there."

"Have many cats?" Jana asked, on the alert for feline bullets.

"Too many, I suppose." The woman nodded yes, but her eyes said no.

Jana took a bite of banana bread and sipped green tea giving Dot time to re-focus. Then she set the food aside and retrieved a notebook and pencil from her pocket.

"Mrs. Minski, do you recall seeing any strangers hanging around the neighborhood recently or had anyone approach you in a suspicious manner?" Jana kept her eyes on the notebook waiting for Dot Minski to answer.

"I don't recall seeing anything out of the ordinary, Detective. And it's very upsetting to think a murderer could blend in so well without anyone the wiser. Makes you wonder if it wasn't an inside job?"

The investigator lifted her head sharply at the suggestion. "What makes you say that, Mrs. Minski?"

"Oh, I have my sources," she snapped. "I would suggest you talk to Debra Padget's niece. I hear there was no love lost between them."

Undeterred by Jana's lukewarm reception of this information, Dot Minski continued to lay the groundwork for the coup de grace.

"You know, Earl Padget and my husband, Marvin, worked together in the same factory for years. The four of us played bridge regularly. But after our husbands passed, time between visits became longer. This last June, I decided to have my care-giver take me to Debra's house and that's when she told me."

Jana forced her jaw muscles to relax while the old lady relished center stage. Finally, patience shed, she brusquely commanded, "Time is of the essence in a murder investigation, Mrs. Minski, especially the first forty eight hours. If you have information that could shed some light on this terrible event, it's important for you to tell me now."

Neither fazed nor cowed by the admonishment, Dot steepled her fingers in her lap and looked into the distance. Finally, she continued her monologue. "It was obvious Debra's health was deteriorating. She wanted to talk about death, like so many people my age. Frankly I find it boring, but Debra needed to get something off her chest."

The old lady paused to take a bite of her bread and a sip of tea. She had a faraway look in her eyes which Jana suspected was all for show. "Hmmm ... what was it she said ... oh, yes ... Dot, I'm going to go to my grave with a terrible secret, God forgive me."

The detective's bullshit barometer told her Dot's information was legitimate and, at the moment, their only real clue. She turned eyes that had become searchlights on the old woman and demanded, "Did she give you any indication of the nature of that secret, Mrs. Minski?"

"No, she didn't, Detective." The old woman, still in character, pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of her house dress to dab the corner of her dry eyes. With affected penitence, she added, "I'm sorry now that I didn't ask her to explain. If I had, she might be alive today." 
 

~~~ to be continued