Cat Got Your Tongue (The 9 Lives Cozy Mystery Series Book 3)

by Louise Clark

  I belong to myself.

  The voice was annoyed. Roy thought there was even a sniff to it.

  "Of course you do," Kim said, looking chagrinned. She turned and headed into the house. "Mitch is on the deck. We thought we'd have drinks there as it's such a nice afternoon."

  Roy looked at the cat. Wide green eyes stared back at him. "Well. I didn't expect this." He thought he heard the ghost of a laugh in his mind.

  The Crosier's backyard was a vast expanse of green, manicured and regimented. A swimming pool, still covered for the winter, sprawled across one quarter, while a hedge hid the fencing that surrounded the compound. Mitchell was seated on a cedar deck that ran the length of the building. A wooden portico, made of unstained cedar, extended from the house. Designed to keep off the rain, but leave the space open to the air, it covered the seating area. The patio furniture, as comfortable as any found in an inside room, and a built-in barbecue with a table that seated eight, was nearby. Beyond this the deck was open to the elements before steps descended to the lawn and garden. Roy rather grudgingly decided it was a nicely designed space, though more manicured than he liked.

  Mitch smiled and stood when he saw them step onto the deck. "Roy, good of you to come by." He shot out his hand.

  "My pleasure," Roy said, shaking it.

  "What's your poison?" Mitchell gestured to one of the luxurious couches that surrounded a built-in fire pit. A fire was burning there, creating welcome warmth against the cool of a spring afternoon.

  Roy sank into soft, yielding cushions. He felt as if he had been swallowed up in a great enveloping cloud. It was disconcerting. "I'll have a beer, if you've got it."

  "Of course. Kim, honey, can you get Roy a beer?"

  "Sure." Kim smiled happily and drifted off toward the cooking area, which apparently sported a refrigerator as well as the enormous barbecue.

  Stormy trotted off behind her. I'll help.

  "Why, thank you, sweetie."

  Mitchell frowned, but all he said was, "Where did the cat come from, honey?"

  "Roy brought her," Kim said, looking back over her shoulder. Her expression was mischievous.

  Him. I'm a him.

  She giggled. "Oh, I'm sorry. Him, Mitch. It's a boy cat."

  Mitchell's frown deepened. Roy said hastily, "Stormy likes to go for car rides. I didn't notice when I left, but he must have hopped in when I wasn't looking. I hope you don't mind, but if I leave him in the car he'll destroy the upholstery."

  "As long as he doesn't destroy my upholstery, I couldn't care less," Mitch said with a shrug.

  On the other side of the deck they could hear Kim talking chattily to the cat as she organized drinks. Roy could also hear Frank, and knew that she wasn't just talking about nothing. He was interrogating her about the evening of the concert, and he was having a lovely time doing it.

  Mitchell started talking about books, so Roy had to focus on what he was saying. When they spoke this morning Mitch had been vague about why he was inviting Roy over, but as the conversation unwound, Roy discovered the reason.

  Mitch wanted to do a deal. He was a man who liked to think big. He had envisioned a multimedia empire where a convergence of music, words, and film would create the ultimate cross platform marketing opportunity and he was looking for properties to fuel it.

  Kim brought a tray that included Roy's bottle of microbrew beer, a bottle of scotch, and glasses for both the beer and scotch. There was also a basket lined with a linen napkin and filled with small vol-au-vent pastries stuffed with some kind of creamy mixture. She handed out the drinks and glasses, set the basket on a side table between Roy's cloud-soft seat and her husband's, then said, "I'm going to show the sweet kitty the bird feeder."

  Any squirrels in the area? The cat prefers them to birds.

  Kim giggled. Mitchell didn't seem to notice. His gaze was on the vol-au-vents. "Sure, honey," he said, reaching for one of the appetizers. Kim and Stormy wandered off while Mitch ate a vol-au-vent with evident enjoyment that ended with a sigh. Then he splashed scotch into his glass, took a swig and continued, earnestly explaining to Roy that his novels would fit perfectly into the new arts and entertainment model he envisioned.

  Roy listened, drank his beer, and let him talk—in between moments of eating and drinking. The vol-au-vents were gone and the scotch in the bottle had lowered by a considerable amount when he finally wound down.

  "What do you think?" Mitch asked.

  "I'm overwhelmed," Roy said. He thought his mind was devious, at least when he was plotting, but Mitchell's thought processes boggled him. The man seemed to have no scruples at all. If there was a way to manipulate an audience and quadruple profits at the same time, he'd be there.

  Mitchell beamed. "I thought you'd like it."

  Not much, Roy thought. At the far end of the yard, he saw Stormy sitting at the base of a tree. His head was tilted up. Beside him, Kim was sitting cross-legged. Her head was tilted up too. Apparently Stormy had treed a squirrel and they were both waiting patiently for it to surrender and meet its fate. Time to get a move on.

  "I'm tied up in contracts," Roy said.

  "Most of the good ones are," Mitchell replied, looking glum.

  "I leave the business stuff to my agent."

  Mitch brightened. "Tell you what, why don't you let me have your agent's particulars? I'll give him a call."

  "Sure," said Roy. He'd send a text as soon as he was out of the house and tell the agent to blow Mitchell off. No way did he want to be involved in the man's convergence empire.

  "Great opportunity meeting you at the SledgeHammer concert," Mitchell said, after he had typed contact information into his phone. He shook his head. "I go to these events all the time, but usually I'm bored out of my skull."

  "A real shame about the girl's death," Roy said. He was relieved they were finally talking about the real reason he was here. He'd begun to think he would have to take off without broaching the subject. "I hate to think of it."

  Mitchell leaned forward to pour another slug of scotch into his glass. He waved it at Roy a little blearily. "The cops were on to me about it. Can you believe it?"

  "No! Really? Why?" This was too easy. He'd expected Mitchell would be cagier.

  "They wanted to know what I did after I left the suite. Someone told them that I'd been flirting with the girl all night and they wanted to know if I'd taken it any further. As if I'd be so stupid." He snorted and for a moment his face contorted. "It was probably that little shit who does good works down on the east side."

  Sydney Haynes. How intriguing. "What makes you think that?" Roy asked. He couldn't see any connection, but Mitchell did. Why he did would give Roy further insight into the way the man's mind worked.

  Mitchell stabbed his forefinger in Roy's direction. "Found God, didn't he? I heard tell he used to be a drugged-up punk who didn't have what it took to make it in this business. He dropped out and disappeared. Then suddenly he's a big man in the homeless crowd and full of righteousness. Guys like him want to stick it to guys like me."

  Possibly. Fascinating, but not what Roy wanted to know. He grinned at Mitchell and said, "I don't remember you going backstage with us, but since you're here and not in jail, I guess the cops were satisfied with your explanation."

  Mitchell downed the last of the scotch in his glass. He gestured defiantly with the empty glass, then put it on the table so he could top it up. Once it was full again, he took a drink before saying, "You bet. When we left the box, Kim and I went down to Erik's office. That's Erik Freeman, you know? The GM at the arena. I wanted to talk to him about my convergence ideas. Kim left when we started to chat, like she always does, and went down to the meet and greet. Erik and I talked for awhile, then his wife showed up and the three of us went down as well." He cackled. "I had impeccable witnesses for the whole time I was in the building."

  Roy wasn't sure Detective Patterson would be quite so positive about one of those witnesses if she could see Kim Crosier sitting at the ba
se of a tree communing with a cat and a squirrel, but he nodded and said, "Awesome, man," even as he stood up. "Well, thanks for the drink and the discussion. It was... enlightening."

  "My pleasure," Mitchell said. They shook hands, then he bellowed, "Kim! Bring the cat and come say good-bye to our guest."

  "Coming, Mitch!" She scooped up Stormy and trotted back to the deck. "So glad you could drop by," she said as she neared.

  I had a great afternoon.

  She handed Stormy to Roy. "So did I. It was fun."

  "Took the words right out of my mouth," Roy said, because Mitchell was frowning again. Though he had a feeling Crosier had consumed enough scotch that he wouldn't remember anything important about the visit, he thought it would be a good idea to keep the conversation as normal as possible.

  "Come back soon," Kim said, with a sweet smile that looked remarkably sincere.

  "Absolutely," Mitchell said heartily, ushering Roy and the cat toward the front door.

  They almost made it out without a further incident, but as Mitchell opened the door, Kim paused to scratch the cat under the chin. Stormy tilted his head up and purred. She winked and said in a conspiratorial tone, "Gotta keep those squirrels in line!"

  You bet!

  Speechless, Roy could only nod.

  Once they were in the car, he said, "Frank, you're going to kill me. What the hell was going on with that fruitcake?"

  She's not a fruitcake. She's bored, lonely, and way smarter than her husband.

  "Wouldn't be hard," Roy said. He started the car. He wanted to get out before the Crosiers locked down the gates and trapped him here forever.

  She doesn't like the way he does business, so she zones out.

  "What do you mean?" he asked as backed out of his parking spot.

  He schmoozes with the guys, flirts with the women. It's always sell, sell, sell. He doesn't know when to stop.

  "Why is she with him then?" He could see the gates opening ahead and he increased his speed to reach them.

  When they're alone he's different. He lets her be who she wants to be, not what people think she should be.

  Roy thought about that. About Kim Crosier's abundant good looks and the expectations they roused. Compassion curled in his stomach. As he drove through the gates, they were already closing behind him. He wondered if Kim Crosier felt trapped in her opulent home with the well-oiled gates or if, like Frank, she found them comforting. "Did she tell you what happened that night?"

  They went to the admin offices to find the General Manager of the arena. She says Mitchell called it a courtesy call.

  "What does she call it?" Roy asked, intrigued.

  Hounding him. She says Mitchell has this stupid idea he wants to use to take over the world. She says it won't work, and everyone but Mitchell knows it, but she can't convince him to drop it.

  Roy grunted. He was with Kim on this one.

  So she stayed in the office and listened to him babble—her word—about his pet project until she couldn't stand it anymore. Then she went down to the meet and greet.

  "Fits with what Mitchell said. He bent the GM's ear until the guy's wife arrived, then they all went backstage."

  One down. Who's next?

  "Not sure," Roy said. "I need to talk to Three and Ellen and see how they've done." He paused at a light, then did a quick right onto a side street so he could pull over and send a text his agent, telling him not to do business with Mitch Crosier. He looked at the cat. "Good work today, Jamieson." He grinned. "A little unorthodox, though."

  Stormy yawned at the same time Frank spoke. My pleasure.

  Chapter 15

  "Bring the cat."

  As she hung up the phone, Ellen looked down at Stormy, who looked back up at her with wide green eyes. "Roy just invited me for dinner, along with Trevor McCullagh. He says I should bring you too. Why would he want me to bring Christy's cat to dinner?"

  Jeeze, Aunt Ellen, of course I'm going over there for dinner. What's the problem?

  The cat's gaze didn't waver. She felt as if she was being stabbed by a jagged shard of bottle glass, allowing guilt and regret to overcome her. "This is crazy," she muttered to herself. She went down to the basement to check the cupboard under the stairs where Christy stashed her meager wine collection. If she was going to Roy Armstrong's house for dinner, she did not intend to arrive empty-handed.

  She found a reasonable vintage that must have come from the mansion. Not her first choice, but at least presentable. She pulled it out of the wine rack and turned to head back upstairs. And almost had a heart attack when she saw the cat standing in the doorway, hackles raised and tail lashing. A low growl rose in its throat.

  What are you doing? Put that back! That bottle belongs to Christy and she's keeping it for a special occasion. Choose another or go buy your own!

  Ellen looked at the cat, then at the bottle in her hand. There was no way a cat would care about a bottle of wine, especially a specific bottle, but still, she turned and replaced the bottle in the rack. She snuck a look at the cat. The wretched beast was now sitting down, cleaning a paw as if it had never acted like an attack cat. Cautiously, she pulled out another bottle, this one a popular everyday brand. The cat looked up, then once again began to clean itself, ignoring her. Hugging the bottle to her chest, she stepped over the animal without incurring any scratches.

  She sighed with relief. Living with Christy's cat these past few days had been surprisingly difficult. The creature either ignored her or hissed at her. There didn't seem to be any happy medium without Christy here to arbitrate.

  "Arbitrate," she said to no one in particular as she entered the kitchen and put the bottle on the countertop. She turned and saw that the cat had followed her in. "Cat..."

  His name is Stormy. Why can't you use it?

  "You will behave when you go over to Roy's house. No jumping on tables. Sit on the floor and be a proper cat."

  Typical! Always nagging me about the rules. I'll do what I want.

  The cat—Stormy!—stared at her with a coldness in its green eyes that made her uneasy. She knew it was just a cat, though apparently a very loyal one, since it had protected Christy from a burglar. She knew, too, that Noelle loved it. Perhaps she was being too hard on the beast. She sighed with a guilt she didn't understand and turned to leave the kitchen. Roy wanted to discuss their next move over dinner, so she went up to her room to collect the list she had made itemizing what they had discovered so far. The cat, she noticed, did not follow her.

  While she was in her room, she changed into a slim fitting dress with three quarter length sleeves that showed off her still-trim waist. The V-neck plunged just enough to make a certain man's eyes sparkle, and the horizontal pleats in the skirt made her feel fashionable and feminine. She redid her makeup, then slipped on a pair of heels. After a final glance in the mirror, she picked up some pens and her leather portfolio with its precious list, then headed back downstairs.

  The cat was no longer in the kitchen when she went to collect the wine, and she couldn't see it in the living room either. She went down to the front door and called. "Stormy! Time to go." She heard scratching in a litter box and wrinkled her nose. Christy expected her to clean out the box while she was away. The task was not one she looked forward to. If Christy hadn't been specific that it had to be done daily, or at least every two days, she wouldn't have done it at all.

  She opened the front door. The cat trotted up the stairs from the basement, then slid out the opening. It glared at her as it passed.

  The toilet needs cleaning! Don't you know cats have ultra sensitive noses? Don't you care?

  She felt vaguely guilty for absolutely no reason that she could fathom, and followed the cat out the door.

  At the Armstrongs' she was relieved to have people around her again. Roy had concocted some kind of chicken dish, which he served them all, including the cat, after they downed a round of drinks. The chicken had a sauce loaded with heat, so Ellen wasn't surprised that the cat's p
ortion consisted of chicken and rice only.

  Over dinner they shared a bottle of wine with their food as they chatted about things other than the murder investigation. Ellen had a sense that Roy wanted to prolong the evening, and wondered if he, like her, was missing the vacationers. The cat, thankfully, remained politely on the floor, where it should be.

  They retired to the living room with glasses of brandy for Trevor and Roy and a Grand Marnier for Ellen. Roy took his favorite chair, while Ellen and Trevor shared either end of the sofa. She thought she saw amusement in Trevor's eyes when the cat hopped up onto the couch and settled between them, but that was ridiculous. She reached out and stroked the creature's back. Stormy began to purr.

  Roy cleared his throat. "I've been thinking about what we've found so far, and none of it adds up to much."

  Ellen leaned forward to picked up her portfolio. She'd placed it on the coffee table when she arrived, along with her three favorite fountain pens, each filled with a different color ink. With the leather folder in hand, she straightened, then pulled out her list. It was precisely designed, with categories and groupings that provided the most clarity for the information they had discovered. She had gone through a dozen drafts, weighing the information, putting it together into a structure, then tearing that structure apart and beginning again. It had been much work, but this, the final result, was an informative document and it pleased her. She might not be much use searching out clues and interviewing people, but she was organized. She considered herself a vital member of their investigative team.

  "There were sixteen people in the box on the night of the concert," she said. She looked up from her papers and glanced from Roy to Trevor. "Would you like me to itemize them?"

  This could take all night.

  "Why don't we consider groups rather than individuals," Trevor said. He looked down at the cat and frowned. "For instance, you, Roy, Quinn, Christy, and I stayed together after we left the box. There's no way we could have harmed the girl."

  Ellen nodded. "Good point. All right, we can break everyone in the box into four groups. Us—" She glanced at Trevor and then Roy.