Her Sister's Keeper. Julia Penney

an exhausted sigh that turned into a moan as her eyes fixed on a broken bowl on the kitchen floor. Her shoulders slumped. “Oh, no. That crazy cat of mine thinks he has the right to sample anything I accidentally leave out on the counter.” She knelt to gather up the broken pieces, her hair tumbling around her face in a soft glossy fan. “Trust Shakespeare to help himself. He knows the counter’s off limits, but apparently Anatanyia’s Mexicali shrimp dip was too much of a temptation. Never cared for it myself—too spicy. I’m sorry about the mess.”

      “I’d like to check out your apartment before I leave, just to make sure everything is okay,” Kent said.

      She glanced up at him, hands full of broken shards, and nodded. “All right. Thank you.”

      It didn’t take him long to figure out that nobody lurked in the closets or hid in the bathroom, and no murderer lingered in the bedroom, but something caught his eye beneath the bed. The tail of a cat protruded from beneath the dust ruffle. “I found your dip thief,” he called to Melanie, “hiding out under the bed.”

      “Typical,” he heard Melanie say, and he stood for a moment, wondering why the tail didn’t move. Cats were cautious creatures by nature. Kent knelt and lifted the bedspread. The cat was lying on its side—big, orange and unmoving. He reached his hand to touch the animal. There was no response, and he was not surprised. The cat was quite dead and he noticed a bit of white froth around the animal’s mouth.

      With a surge of adrenaline Kent was on his feet, running to the kitchen. “Don’t touch that!” he snapped. Melanie had a wad of paper towels in her hand to wipe up the remnants of the dip that soiled her kitchen floor. She froze, then rose slowly to her feet.

      “What’s wrong?” She stared at him, her eyes widening. “Where’s Shakespeare?” Kent closed the distance between them, as if by being near her he could protect her from the next bad shock of her horrible day.

      “He’s dead,” Kent said. “I’m sorry. Wash your hands immediately and don’t touch the dip. We’ll need to get a sample of it to the lab and get it analyzed….”

       “Dead?” she echoed faintly. “Shakespeare? Dead?”

      “Did you eat any of that dip yourself? Even to be polite?”

      She shook her head. “No. Like I said, I never cared for it. It was supposed to go in the trash this morning but I forgot to take it out with me when I left.”

      “Where did it come from?” Kent asked.

      “Stephanie dropped it off here the morning after the dinner party….” Her eyes filled with tears that spilled over onto her cheeks.

      “Who is this Anatanyia? What dinner party? When?”

      “Victor Korchin’s wife,” she said. “The party was at Blackstone the day before yesterday. It was held to celebrate the birth of Ariel’s baby. I was invited but I didn’t go, I didn’t want to go. I wasn’t ready to see her yet, I wasn’t ready to forgive her, and so Stephanie brought me the dip to tell me about the party and how beautiful Ariel’s daughter was and…” Melanie’s voice choked off for the second time and she leaned into him, pressing her hands to her face and drawing a deep, shuddering breath. She was trembling like a leaf in high winds. Kent supported her with one arm, while his other hand reached for his cell phone.

      Murphy answered on the fourth ring. “This had better be important, Kent, because I’m in the middle of an interrogation that you should most definitely be witnessing.”

      “I may have just discovered what killed those two women,” Kent said. “Send a crime team to Melanie Harris’s apartment, would you? Tell them there’s a dead cat in the bedroom and some dip on the kitchen floor that may contain a poisonous substance. And Murph? I think we’d better assign twenty- four-hour surveillance of her apartment, as well as an officer to stay with Melanie. I don’t think she’s safe here by herself, but she insists this is where she wants to be, in case her sister tries to contact her.”

      Kent felt Melanie stiffen in his arms as he stuffed the cell phone into the holder on his belt.

      “Dr. Mattson,” she said, drawing away from him and drying her cheeks. “I really don’t want to stay here now. Not after what’s happened to Shakespeare. If you could drop me at a hotel….” There was a flicker of dread on her face as she remembered that Stephanie had died in a hotel room surrounded by people. She shook her head, a small, helpless gesture. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know where else to go.”

      Kent hesitated. He could take her to a safe house. That could certainly be arranged. But he sensed that she needed more than just a safe place. She needed a sympathetic ear and companionship. “I know where,” he said. “You’ll come home with me tonight. Chimeya may be too remote and rustic for your Hollywood tastes, but you’ll be safe there.”

      She shook her head. “I can’t do that,” she said. “Thank you for the offer, but it’s too much of an imposition.”

      “Then I’ll assign Sergeant Bertha Dewburgh as your bodyguard. No one’ll bother you with Big Bertha nearby, and she’ll stick with you like glue. Takes her job real seriously. Guaranteed, Big Bertha and two plainclothes detectives’ll keep you safe in any hotel room. I’ll make the call, if you’re sure that’s the route you want to take.”

      Kent reached for his cell phone again, and Melanie stayed him with a touch of her slender hand. “All right,” she relented. “I’ll go with you to Chimeya.”

      Kent tucked the phone away for the second time with an abrupt laugh. “Good choice. Come on. If we hustle, we can be at Chimeya before dark.”

      “All right, just give me a few minutes to pack some things,” Melanie said.

      “I’m sorry, but that’s a negative. Nothing can be removed until the crew from the crime lab gets a look at it.”

      “Crime lab?”

      “Yes, unfortunately, your apartment has been classified a crime scene. But don’t worry, by tomorrow you should be able to send for a few things.” Kent offered a cryptic little grin. “In the meantime, I have a strong hunch you will be well taken care of and outfitted once my housekeeper gets a hold of you.”

      KENT’S LOVE AFFAIR with flying had begun at an early age, and he attributed that love to strong genetic encoding on both sides of his family. His father had flown in the Navy and survived two tours and eighty-six missions in Vietnam. He called those his years spent “downtown.” His grandmother on his mother’s side had been one of the women pilots who served the United States military in World War II. In 1942 she’d been the youngest pilot in the Air Transport Auxiliary, ferrying planes and supplies to frontline airfields in Britain and France. She’d flown Spitfires for the most part, though she’d been rated for multi-engine aircraft as well, and had piloted nearly a thousand planes with only one forced landing.

      Kent had toyed with the idea of joining the military after graduating from college and following in his father’s footsteps, but as strong a temptation as flying the most sophisticated fighter jets was, his love of freedom was even stronger. Having grown up in faded Levi’s and worn cowboy boots, he couldn’t picture himself in a crisp white uniform, smartly saluting his way up the ladder. So he opted for the next best thing: first, his private pilot’s license, and then commercial training at the best facility in the nation. He could have landed a job flying for one of the big airlines, but again, his love of freedom won out. He’d bought his own plane and piloted his own dreams.

      Kent was aware of Melanie’s trepidation as he pulled the unmarked police car into a parking space near the terminal at the small airfield.

      She sat up, smoothed her hair and glanced out the window. “Oh, God,” she said, eyeing the fleet of private aircraft parked beyond the buildings.