Meow for Murder Mysteries Boxed Set

by Addison Moore

  I give a long blink before looking toward the bar and, sure enough, I spot a head, full of silver hair, tipped back while he pours a beer down his throat.

  “There he is,” I say. “Remember to play it cool. Let me do the talking.”

  “I didn’t come all the way out here to sit and look pretty.” Her cheek flinches as she gives me a look of dismay. “You gotta give me a fightin’ chance with the guy.”

  “Tilly, someone put a bullet in Craig Walker’s chest last night. The guy could be a killer.”

  Three, two, one…

  She smirks. “Hanging out at a bar like this, I bet he kills in the bedroom, too.”

  “How did I know that was coming?”

  Tilly and I navigate our way through the stumbling, far too noisy, crowd and thankfully land a set of stools on either side of Oliver.

  The bartender comes over, tall, spiked hair, a nose ring, two earrings that stretch his earlobes wide enough to stick a dime through them, and winks my way.

  “What’s it gonna be, sweet stuff?”

  I think on it a moment. “Tonic water with a twist of lime.”

  Tilly lifts a finger. “Whiskey neat, make it a double shot.”

  He takes off and I shoot her a look before accidentally on purpose bumping my shoulder to the silver-haired fox next to me, nearly causing him to spill his drink.

  “Whoa.” He gives a quick chuckle as he lands his bottle to the bar. His hair looks less silver and more chrome in this dull lighting and his features look more defined than I remember, giving him that cheesy soap opera appeal. He’s still wearing his construction duds, a dirty white T-shirt and ripped-up jeans that are so dusted and crusted they look as if they could walk off on their own.

  “Hey?” My voice rises to unearthly octaves, but only because I need to battle it out with the Bon Jovi song screaming overhead. “Aren’t you that guy?”

  Okay, so I could have gone in a different direction, taken my time, but I’m not getting a good feeling about this place. In fact, the longer we stay, the more it feels as if we’re about to meet up with a pickpocket or a predator. My trashy bar radar is generally pretty accurate, too.

  Oliver’s brows do a little waggle as he leans hard my way. “I can be any guy you want me to be, pretty lady.”

  Tilly gasps. “Hey, hey”—she presses a hand against his chest, effectively pushing him away from me—“save some of that silver charm for me, big boy.”

  The bartender drops off our drinks and I quickly pull a switcheroo. I figured Tilly would order hard liquor, so I opted for the designated driver delight, and seeing she’s the designated driver, the delight is all hers.

  She shoots me the stink eye. “As I was saying, big boy,” she licks her lips seductively, “spread some of the attention around, would ya? You’ve got an awfully lonely little dove sitting to your right.”

  I avert my eyes. “I’m on his right.”

  “On your other right,” Tilly corrects without missing a beat.

  “What’s your name, pretty girl?” Oliver doesn’t miss a chance to land himself a lonely bird.

  “Tilly Teasdale. And you would be? Let me guess, you look like you own the place.”

  He gives a husky laugh at the thought. “A friend of mine happens to own it. I’m Oliver Kincaid—of Kincaid Construction.”

  Tilly’s mouth rounds out. “As in you’re the owner of that construction outfit?”

  Why do I feel like a third wheel in the middle of someone else’s meet-cute? And how exactly am I supposed to segue us into the middle of a homicide investigation while the two of them are busy shooting arrows through their hearts?

  “That would be me.” He ticks his head. “I had a silent partner. He passed away yesterday. Gunned down at our fifteen year high school reunion.”

  Bingo!

  “You don’t say?” I garner his attention once again. “Out in Maple Grove? I was there. Hey? I think I recognize you. I’m Shep Wexler’s fiancée.”

  There.

  If that doesn’t get us up to speed, nothing will.

  The laugh lines around his eyes quickly smooth out and he motions to the bartender for another beer.

  “That’s right.” He gives a solemn wink my way. “Good old Shep always did land himself the cutie of the bunch.”

  “What does that make me?” Tilly squawks.

  His cheek flickers her way. “Oh, darlin’, you play your cards right and you’ll be my private preserve.”

  I’m pretty sure he meant reserve, but seeing that he’s got a head full of premature gray maybe he did mean preserve.

  He nods her way. “I only accept the finest of the crop and you’re lookin’ mighty ripe for the pickin’.”

  Tilly indulges in a husky laugh, although I’m not too sure he just doled out a compliment more than he did prove a point. Tilly’s been ripe for the picking since the moment I met her.

  “I’m sorry about your friend,” I say. “Did I hear you say Craig was a partner in your business?”

  He nods as he accepts the new bottle sliding his way.

  “Silent partner, but Craig Walker didn’t know the meaning of the word silent.” He gives a wistful tick of the head.

  “Oh? So he liked to have a say in things? Like how you delegated funds? Shep is that way.” I roll my eyes. “Always trying to squeeze a nickel until it screams.”

  Oliver glances to my chest. “It sounds to me, Shep is busy squeezing the wrong things. At least with you around.”

  I belt out a warm laugh.

  A vagrant thought drifts through my mind of Shep and me caught in a compromising position as he does his best to put the squeeze on me in all the right places. Too bad that couldn’t be a vision. Although, I’m not entirely opposed to trying to make it come true nonetheless.

  Speaking of visions, I distinctly saw Oliver here last night in my mind’s eye. A female was telling him that he didn’t get to tell her what to do, and Oliver replied something to the effect that they should both keep their mouths shut because he didn’t want to go down for this.

  Hey? That must mean this woman and he are in cahoots. He’s working at Kadie’s place. Maybe it was her? Come to think of it, the woman in the vision had dark hair graying at the roots. It was her.

  “So how’s the project coming?” I ask, trying to sound nonchalant. “The one at Kadie Beaumont’s place?”

  He inches his head back with a look of dismay. “It’s Kadie Ryan. But she still goes by Beaumont half the time.” He shakes his head as if the thought didn’t sit well with him. “She’s never taken to marriage. Nice husband, though. Skip’s a good guy. They’ve got two girls in middle school, good kids. They might escape the terrible teens.”

  Tilly plucks a cherry out of a bowl in front of her. “My girl’s sixteen and I sure as heck didn’t escape ’em.”

  Oliver gives a husky gurgle of a laugh her way. “That’s because the fruit most likely didn’t fall far from the tree.”

  I’d better move this along. Oliver is working overtime to score a home run. Little does he know he doesn’t have to hit one out of the park. With Tilly, he can pretty much walk the bases.

  She swoons his way. “It’s like you know me.”

  “I’d sure like to get to know you.” He spins his barstool her way, and I spin him right back around by way of his beefy arm and, my God, it’s the girth of a telephone pole.

  “Shep is really torn up about losing Craig.” I shrug and he gives a solemn nod.

  “I’m right there with him.”

  “For the life of him, Shep can’t imagine who’d want to do something like this. Shep really painted Craig to be a great guy.”

  “Great guy?” Oliver leans back, his chest bucking with a silent laugh. “I guess so. But then, Shep wasn’t around that much these past few years.”

  “So I take it you were close. Outside of being partners with you, did Craig do anything else for work?”

  “Oh yeah. He was a partner in Eatie Some Ziti, a restauran
t over in Sterling Lake. Kadie works there.” He glances to the ceiling, and I’m getting the feeling he and Kadie are on the outs, which makes sense according to the vision.

  The two of them are clearly trying to hide something—that is, if it was her in the vision. But what are they trying to hide? The fact they killed Craig Walker?

  Hey? If so, I bet that tube of SMACK lipstick belonged to her. It’s a long shot, but that’s all I’ve got right now.

  “Eatie Some Ziti?” I lean toward Tilly. “Ooh, that sounds Italian. What I wouldn’t do for some decent Italian food right about now.” I look to Oliver. “There was no better cook than my Nana Rose. She’d be awfully disappointed to see me slinging hash browns and hamburgers when there’s real food to be made.”

  “Wait a minute.” Tilly slams her hand down between us. “Why don’t you give Nana Rose a call and have her give you some of her recipes? The Manor Café has zero style, flair, or flavor, and I’m betting a few traditional Italian meals could really spice the joint up.”

  “Calling Nana Rose would require some supernatural finagling. She passed away a few years back. But I’ll see what I can do on the recipe front.” There might not be a way I can contact my poor sweet Nana, but I don’t see why I couldn’t swipe a few recipes from a cookbook or two.

  Oliver gives a lusty side-eye over to Tilly, and I figure I have less than two minutes to wrap this up.

  “Shep thinks someone who knew Craig did it.” I nod as if it were obvious. “He doesn’t think it’s random, that’s for sure. Did Craig have any enemies that you know of? Was there anyone angry with him? Anyone holding a grudge?”

  Oliver leans back and gives a vacant gaze to the mirrored wall in front of him.

  “Craig had a way of sticking his nose where it didn’t belong. Not just with me, with other people, too.”

  “Like who?”

  He glances past me. “All the wrong people.”

  And just like that, I’m positive Oliver knows something. He either pulled the trigger or can point a finger at whoever did just that.

  His face brightens as he looks at something behind me and he stands with a laugh caught in his throat.

  “Son of a gun, we’re two for two.”

  I turn in time to see a pair of pale blue eyes that stun me into submission—not an easy thing to do by a mile.

  “Sheppy.” Tilly bounces with a laugh. “Here to keep tabs on the little woman?”

  Shepherd Wexler looks drop-dead gorgeous in a flannel and jeans. His dark hair is slicked back, and his face is peppered in dark fuzz that only multiplies his comeliness. About six different women are fanning themselves in his wake, and I think I heard a woman propose from my right.

  “Keeping tabs on this one is proving darn near impossible.” He looks my way. “Why aren’t I surprised to see you here first?”

  My lips part a moment. “Because you’re notoriously late to date night.”

  He glowers my way. “All right, Sweet Cheeks. Bottoms up. I’ve got other plans for us this evening.”

  I take a sip out of Tilly’s whiskey and push it away. Liquor coupled with my gift is a no-go. It not only amplifies the visions. It gives them a haunted appeal, so I choose to abstain from the hard stuff, and the not so hard stuff, too.

  “Why wait?” I hop off my stool and wrap an arm around his waist. “Where are we off to, Honey Bunch?”

  Shep doesn’t bother to shed a smile. “I think I’ll keep it a surprise.”

  “Keeping the mystery alive. I like that.”

  We say goodnight to Oliver, while Tilly opts to hang around, much to my chagrin.

  And I’m off to an undisclosed location with Shepherd Wexler, my very ornery fiancé.

  I glance back at Oliver Kincaid and catch him gliding his arm around Tilly’s waist.

  That man is hiding something.

  One way or another, I’m going to shake it out of him.

  And soon enough, I’ll be shaking down Kadie while I eatie some ziti.

  Chapter 6

  There are a lot of things I’d like to do with Shepherd Wexler. Telling him the truth is not one of those things. Heck, it isn’t even on the short list. And before I’m painted a monster in this scenario, the God’s honest truth is, once he knows what I know, it will ultimately put him in danger.

  I’ve spent the last twenty minutes espousing those same words—from the time it took us to get from Scooter Springs to a pizza place in Starry Falls, and believe you me, I hardly came up for air.

  It’s as if Shep sank my feet into a pair of cement boots back at the Dirty Habit and now he’s ready to take me out on the lake and tip me over the boat. But being the stubborn mule of a man he is, he’s unrelenting in the shakedown that he’s about to pursue.

  “Ooh, are we stopping in for pizza? Bowie like,” I tease. My plan is to load him up with carbs and roll him home so he can hibernate for the rest of the year. It might take me exactly that long to figure out what to do with this situation.

  “We’re not.” He kills the engine and hops out. “I am. Don’t move.”

  Shep’s not gone ten seconds before he’s back with a steaming box of pizza pie goodness that has me swooning far more than I have for any man.

  Okay, so save for Shep, but I’m not interested in sharing that truth. There are just some secrets a girl has to take to the grave, and seeing that Shep has pried so far into my life that he’s unveiled my true identity, I think it’s only fair I keep a lid on the fact I might be crushing on him.

  “I called it in,” he says as he lands it in the back seat. “Hope you like half pep, half sausage.”

  “You called it in? When did you call it in?” I’m not sure why I’m taking umbrage with it, but it feels right, so I go with it.

  “While you were busy espousing all the salty language known to man. I’m hungry, so I put in an order. I thought you might like pizza.”

  “Oh?” I lean back to get a better look at him. “And why is that?”

  He shrugs as we get back on the road. “Because you’re Italian.”

  I suck in a quick breath. “You ordered me a pizza because I’m Italian? You do realize that’s an act of racism.”

  “What?” He bites the air with the word. “I’m not a racist.”

  “Sure you are. You racially profiled my dinner menu because you thought it would appease me on some level. Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate the effort, but that pizza back there? It’s basically a hate crime.”

  He groans. “Are you always this difficult?”

  “Only when I’m trying to impress a boy.” I scoff. “Look, I’m not the one that followed me to a dive bar in Scooter Springs and dragged me out of the establishment by the hair.”

  “By the hand,” he corrects.

  “And then you practically tied me to this seat.”

  “I was helping you with your seatbelt. It’s the law and you were trying to—”

  “Escape.”

  “Does that mean you’re not coming to my place for a quick bite?”

  “It depends what I’m biting.”

  His eyes flit my way.

  “Of course, I’m having a quick bite,” I say. “I have to know if this town has decent pizza. Tilly thinks I should add my own Italian flair to the menu at the café. And fair warning, I’m considering it. But FYI, I like a wide variety of food from many different countries. No need to pigeonhole me on a boot-shaped continent. What nationality do your people hail from? Maybe I can splash something on the menu for you.”

  “The Emerald Isle.” He takes a moment to frown over at me. “I’m Irish.”

  “Expect brisket and cabbage. In fact, I might just bake it like a calzone and call it a new twist on Shepherd pie. You’re welcome.”

  “Okay, I get your point.” His cheeks flicker. “Just so you know, I like my brisket well-seasoned. The pie sounds like a nice touch.” He pulls into his driveway before his blue eyes flash my way with a sober air of getting down to business. “Are you ready to face
the music?”

  “Boy, you really know how to sweet talk a girl before you take her to your place. Pro tip: women don’t like to be threatened.”

  “I’m not threatening you, Bowie. I’m asking if you’re ready to have a conversation with me. You don’t need to answer that. It’s already happening.”

  A hard groan comes from me as I follow him—or more to the point, the scent of that pizza to his porch.

  “Are you always this difficult?” I toss the question right back at him as he jiggles his key in his lock and swings the door open.

  “Only when I’m trying to impress a girl.” His lips twitch with a smile as he holds a hand past me and into the house. “Ladies first.”

  “Wow, I’ve gone from a girl to a lady in the very next sentence. I think that’s code for things are going to move fast once you get me inside.”

  Not that I’d object.

  Shep flicks on the lights and I’m treated to a mountain man wonder.

  I’ve never actually been inside Shep’s cabin, seeing that I’ve never been invited.

  It has a masculine appeal with its dark floors and dark furniture. Chocolate brown leather sofas sit in front of a rustic fireplace with round stones laid over it that reach the ceiling. This place is twice the size of my cabin and has butter yellow walls that give it a homey appeal. The slight hint of his cologne lingers in the air, warming the place, and it strangely gives me a false sense of safety.

  “Nice love den,” I say.

  “I try,” he says as he leads us to the sofa, and soon we’re gobbling down slices of pepperoni with extra cheese with the zest of two people who have never seen food before. He washes his down with a beer and I opt for a soda.

  Shep leans back as he examines me with those icy eyes as if he’s looking for dessert. And believe me, I’d much rather give him a piece of me physically than anything emotional that has to do with my past.

  “Okay, Stella”—he gives a slight nod—“I want you to know that you can trust me. I’m not turning you in. I’m not breathing a word of this to the authorities or anyone else.”