Meow for Murder Mysteries Boxed Set

by Addison Moore

  “Why not?” I set my drink down and wipe my hands down over one another.

  He gives a long blink. “I have nothing to gain, and I don’t want to hurt you.” There’s a sincerity in his voice and it slices through my solar plexus in the sweetest way.

  Shep doesn’t want to hurt me.

  Okay, I’ll admit, that little tidbit made me swoon, but in my defense I’ve just indulged in a carb-fest that is shooting off all sorts of happy endorphins in my brain.

  I take a deep breath. “Fine. I’ll trust you. But while I’m in Starry Falls, and from here on out, my name is Bowie Binx. I’m sorry, Shep. I have too much to lose if anyone hears you.” Regina comes to mind. “And believe me, I’ve already ticked off all the right people in town. Regina Valentine would love to send me back to wherever I came from.” I give a little shrug. “She still has the hots for you.”

  His brows depress at that thought. “Regina and I have a past. But I don’t want to waste any time talking about her.”

  My lips curl on one side when he refers to Regina as a waste of time.

  “Let me guess,” I say. “You want me to tell you all about my life and where it went wonky?”

  He bears into me with that intense gaze of his. “I know all about your life—on the surface. I know you have a brother, a sister, a mother, a father in prison for a RICO charge. I know that the feds think you and your boyfriend—”

  “Ex,” I practically shout the word as I hold up a hand to stop him from including that donkey as a part of my life.

  “Your ex-boyfriend—I know that you were laundering money.”

  “Wow, you’re good. And you’re all up to speed. Does that mean detention is over because I have a cross-stitching project I really need to get back to.”

  He shakes his head, his heavy gaze never wavering from mine.

  “Bowie”—he nods as he says my name as if acquiescing to my wishes—“I’d like you to tell me about your life—as a friend.”

  “Oh, we’re friends now?” I meant for it to come out sarcastic, but something deep inside me warms at the thought. “Okay.” It comes out a touch softer. “But I don’t want you to treat me any different than you have been. I like you grouchy and aloof. No need to change on my behalf.”

  “I’m not changing,” he says it with just the right ornery inflection to assure me of this. “Start with your family.”

  “My family.” I take a quivering breath. “My brother, Lorenzo—he’s a couple years older than me—works on the waterfront. He is your quintessential Italian stallion. He likes fast cars, fast women, and even faster horses. He’s a bit of a gambler. Stephanie, my sister, she’s a year younger than me and works at a nail salon owned by her boyfriend’s mother.” I leave out the part that she’s transmundane like me. I doubt Shep is ready to hear about my ability to pry into the future, not that it’s ever done me any favors. “My favorite family member, Nana Rose, just so happens to be dead. My mother, Marie, is a maneater who likes her handbags new and pricey. And my father”—I close my eyes an inordinate amount of time—“Angelo Santini—he got a bad deal. He’s been in prison for almost a decade on that RICO you mentioned. He tried to cut a deal, wore a wire to do it, and now he’ll pay with his life if he ever gets out. Sadly, he’s safer where he is than he ever will be on the outside. My brother once said that if he does get out, it will be his last day on the planet. But you know all that because you write thrillers loosely based on my family.” I’ve been doing a little research myself.

  He sheds a crooked smile. “What makes you think they’re about the Santinis?”

  “You mentioned last month that you interviewed my father in prison as research for one of your books. The mobster math wasn’t hard.” Only at that time Shep didn’t know Angelo Santini was my dear daddy.

  “Tell me about the rest of it. What’s your version of your father’s incarceration story? How did you get to be Bowie?”

  “There are only two families in New Jersey who matter as far as the mob is concerned, the Fazios and the Morettis. Dad and his buddies were smuggling drugs into the country via Latin America for the Fazios. And thanks to my father’s misstep to wear a wire, the Fazios imploded. He took them down like a house of cards and the Morettis stepped up to fill the void. They essentially became deities in and of themselves overnight. It just so happened that my slimy ex, Johnny Rizzo, belonged to the Morettis—the exact family he thought fit to steal from. Of course, I helped.”

  I glower at the fireplace as if it had just morphed into Johnny’s likeness with that hair he shellacked into a turtle shell and those bedroom eyes he used to lure women into his love den with.

  Not only was Johnny cheating the Morettis, he was cheating me.

  “Anyway”—I clear my throat—“we cleaned money for the mob through a donut place and a chop shop. Johnny thought we should go one step above and beyond in our illegal activity and steal a little for ourselves. We hopped over to a few other businesses with some of the dirty money and paid them to clean it for us. Come to find out, all of my fancy cars, clothes, and bags attracted the attention of the feds who were sniffing around.”

  He nods. “And as soon as you and Johnny found out you were about to be arrested, you took off. Then what happened?”

  I cinch my lips shut a moment. “Then my Uncle Vinnie stepped in to save the questionable day. He thought of my name—part ode to David Bowie, part sheer imagination of his three-year-old granddaughter. He gave me my walking papers, and Bowie Binx is very much alive and well and seated before you. I have the documentation to prove it. He gave me Wanda and strict instructions to get to Canada. Wanda had other plans.”

  His chest doubles in size with his next breath as he takes it all in.

  His brows meet in the middle. “How do you communicate?”

  I think on this a moment. It’s as if I’ve shed my skin before him. Shep knows more intimate details about me than he would have if I had taken off all my clothes.

  “Our code word for my safety is meow. Opal and Tilly taught me how to cross-stitch last month, and I made a small pillow with the word on it. Tilly mailed it for me when she went to Canada for the weekend. He doesn’t know where I am, but he knows I’m safe.”

  His lips curve into a brief smile. “I’m glad. If you need help mailing anything, I’ll volunteer.”

  “And are you also volunteering to turn my life into one of your crime novels? Am I going to pick up the next bestseller by S.J. Wexler and find a character by the name of Zoey Zinx?”

  He tips his head back and inspects me from that cocky angle.

  “No. But you might find a Laurie Sphinx.”

  “Shep.” I swat him with one of the throw pillows from the couch.

  “I’m kidding.” He settles his gaze on me once again. “Thank you for sharing all of that with me, Bowie. I appreciate it.”

  A thick moment of silence slices by.

  Shep is a handsome man, intelligent, just the right amount of cocky to make me pay attention.

  How I wish I wasn’t attracted to him.

  How I wish things could be different for us in so many ways. But I’m damaged goods. A felon on the run. He shouldn’t be having this conversation with me. Heck, he shouldn’t be having this pizza with me.

  We wrap it up and he walks me out.

  “Bowie”—he says and I pause before hitting the stairs—“do me a favor, would you?”

  “What’s that?” I look up at him while I drink down the body heat radiating from him.

  He leans in a notch, and for a second I think he’s going to kiss me.

  My heart thumps wildly, my adrenaline skyrockets to unsafe levels, and suddenly it feels as if I could pass out.

  He inches his lips closer to mine. “If you’re ever about to take off in the night, I don’t want you to leave without saying goodbye.”

  I swallow hard and nod. “You bet. Goodnight, Shep.”

  “Goodnight, Bowie.”

  I head back to my tiny cabin
and surf the internet as unchaste thoughts of Shep Wexler filter through my mind. I can’t help it. He’s gorgeous and I’m lonely. It’s too bad he’s bad at math or he’d be here keeping my lips company with his.

  I stumble upon one of my sister’s social media sites and see a picture that chills me to the bone. It’s a picture of my father in his orange prison garb holding a sign that reads free Stella Santini. Below that is a link to an article and I click into it, reading at lightning speed and groaning all the while.

  “Oh God,” I whimper as I carefully close my laptop.

  My father thinks I’ve been kidnapped by what’s left of the Fazio family in retribution for that little wire tap-dance he pulled off.

  Worse yet? He believes the Morettis are willing to pay a mighty fine ransom to have their way with my body—my soon-to-be dead body.

  And the absolute worst—he’s put a bounty out on me.

  My father wants me found alive, and he’s willing to pay a cool million to whoever brings me home safe.

  Home where? Prison?

  I have to put a stop to this.

  I have to speak with my father.

  Chapter 7

  I forgot to ask Shep about Hilary last night. Specifically about the fact she came sniffing around the café yesterday afternoon and he took off to an undisclosed location with her. Not that it’s any of my beeswax. But let’s be frank—or Bowie, or Stella to be exact—I’ve been known to buzz around a hive or two I had no business sticking my stinger in.

  It’s the very next day after the gab session Shep and I had at his place, the café just had its usual breakfast crowd, and now the usual lunch crowd is slowly meandering in. But it’s safe to say I’ve been more than a little distracted. The food or the customers aren’t at the forefront of my mind—it’s Shep.

  He’s seated in the back with his laptop and coffee, and I’ve been eyeing him for the last hour straight as if he were about to rob the place—not because he looks suspicious, but because the company he chooses to entertain this afternoon looks suspicious.

  Hilary Campbell strutted in like she owned the place in a pale blue dress that looked more like a nightie, and she swung her hips all the way to his table. She’s been jabbering away since the second she landed across from him and hasn’t come up for air yet.

  And being the vindictive manager that I am, I’ve given both Thea and Flo strict orders not to tend to that table. All of the unhappy tension in the room belongs to me.

  Hilary didn’t even have the decency to reciprocate my quasi-warm greeting when she waltzed in like a woman on an ovarian-based mission. I don’t see why I should make this a comfortable experience for her.

  Opal waves at me with the paw of the tiny sweet kitten in her hand, a white tabby with faint gray stripes named Princess.

  “What kind of Italian food are you thinking?” She lifts an overdrawn brow my way. Opal is overdrawn in just about every capacity this afternoon, with her bright red sundress, her matching lipstick, and the giant red rose clipped to the side of her head. She’s also donned long white gloves and a chunky necklace that has the world’s biggest piece of turquoise hanging off her neck. Honestly, Opal and her out-of-hand accouterments are the bright spot in this otherwise dismal day no thanks to Hilary.

  “Pizza.” I shrug. I spent the last five minutes sharing my idea of jazzing up the menu to both Thea and Opal.

  Thea squints over at me as if she’s never heard of the round cheesy sensation before. Her red hair is up in pigtails, and that dusting of freckles is highlighting across the bridge of her nose with a slight sunburn. It’s so hot out she could have garnered that burn simply walking to the manor from her car.

  “I don’t know.” Thea shakes her head. “Don’t you need a brick oven to make those?”

  “Now we’re talking,” I say. “We should renovate the kitchen and put one in.”

  Flo walks by with a tray full of dirty dishes, her hair sitting on top of her head in a jumble like a black mop. She’s clad in black with a collar made of spikes, and that black lipstick she’s wearing screams future doomsday cult member—or better yet, it screams present day coven leader.

  “You don’t need a brick oven,” she says. “Just pop a frozen disk into the toaster oven and be done with it. That’s what I do.” She pauses a moment. “You might want to have a fire extinguisher handy.”

  “Now there you go.” Opal snaps her fingers after her as Flo disappears into the kitchen. “Flo has always been the reasonable one. When Regina wanted to invest in a waffle iron, it was Flo who suggested we buy out the frozen section at the market. And look where our breakfast menu is today.” In general, Opal over annunciates every other word when she speaks, so in a strange way she’s made that entire waffle-based speech sound like something right out of Broadway.

  I cock my head at her. “Do you really want me to tell you where the breakfast menu is today?” I go to pet the tiny kitten in her arms and Opal twists her body away abruptly.

  “No,” she flatlines.

  “No what?” My voice hikes a notch. “No pizza?” That right there might be the deal breaker regarding whether or not I spend the rest of my life on the run.

  “No cat-napping Princess. She’s a part of my private reserve.”

  “Pfft.” Thea swallows down a laugh. “You’ve said that about all forty-six cats roaming the grounds.”

  Opal rolls her eyes. “I do not have forty-six cats roaming the grounds.”

  “You’re right.” Thea slings a dishcloth over her shoulder. “That just happens to be the number I was at when I stopped counting.” She smiles my way. “Good luck with the pizza,” she says as she helps seat a small crowd that just wandered in through the door.

  Opal sighs over at me. “Okay, fine. Have your pizza. Just no brick oven until you come up with a way to make us a little more cash.”

  “I’m on it.” I’m about to extrapolate my latest scheme involving a walk-up window that serves cold drinks and donuts when a far too handsome writer strides up holding an empty mug in his hands.

  He blinks a dry smile my way, and no sooner does it crest his stubborn lips than it dissipates to nothing.

  “What’s a guy got to do around here to get a refill?”

  I scowl over at him. “Who filled your cup to begin with? I’ll have her fired on the spot.”

  “What’s this?” Opal chortles as she pulls Princess close to her cheek. “A lover’s spat so soon?” She shimmies her shoulders at us.

  “Bowie?” Shep’s face brightens with a touch of amusement. “What’s going on?”

  “Oh, don’t you play coy with me,” I hiss. “You’re parading that woman around as if you couldn’t wait to get her back to that Lincoln Log love shack of yours. And to think I agreed to a faux engagement. You’re making a fool out of me and you don’t even care. It’s as if you’ve forgotten all about us.” I just threw in that last sentence in hopes to make him feel bad.

  Opal sucks in a breath so hard and fast, I wouldn’t be surprised to see a kitten’s tail dangling from one of her nostrils.

  “Shepherd,” she says his name like an admonishment. “How dare you play the role of a cad.” She cranes her neck to the table where he was sitting and frowns once she spots Hilary primping into her compact mirror. “I expected more out of you. And Hilary Campbell?” Opal groans when she says her name. “If you’re going to stray, there’s a better caliber of women to do it with.”

  “Opal”—I lean in—“do you know Hilary?”

  “I used to lunch with her mother. New money.” She averts her eyes. “Rumor has it, they burned right through it and they’re right back to living million to million.”

  I make a face. “So she’s still on easy street.” I despise people on easy street. Always have, always will. Okay, so despise is harsh, but I seem to have a natural aversion.

  “Heavens no.” Opal waves it off and nearly sends poor Princess flying across the café. “Her mother made it clear the children were cut off as s
oon as they turned twenty-five. I’m afraid she’s had a rough go of it these last few years.” She wrinkles her nose. “If she asks for free coffee, have Mud evict her. We can’t start with panhandlers. Once you feed them, you never get rid of them.” She drops a kiss to the sweet cat’s forehead before taking off to spread her socialite glory to the rest of the establishment.

  “What do you want?” I take a moment to glare at my philandering fiancé.

  “Coffee,” he says with an indignant air about him.

  I’m about to deny him his caffeinated rights when Tilly staggers in looking as if she just did a tour of duty in every war on the planet. Her hair is mussed, her mascara has liquefied and dripped to her nose, and she’s sucking down a giant blue frozen concoction that looks as if she picked it up at the gas station.

  “Morning.” She groans as she makes her way over.

  “Afternoon,” I correct. “Glad to see you survived the serial killer meet and greet at the Dirty Habit last night.”

  A greasy grin glides over her face. “Survived or conquered? Let’s just say I had an interesting night that began in the alley and ended in the back seat of a windowless van.”

  “Good Lord.” I shudder. “Do you own a stun gun?”

  “Nope.” She gives Shep a quick wink.

  “Then I know what to get you for Christmas,” I say.

  “So”—Tilly bops to my side, the slight scent of booze still emanating off her—“where to next? Your little adventures are virtual good luck charms for me. My little Jaime wants me to thank you, too. She liked having the entire house to herself last night. It turns out, teenagers have more fun without their parents around.”

  “Go figure.” Shep blinks a smile her way.

  I choose to ignore Shep’s stab at sarcasm even if it wasn’t directed at me. Instead, I turn my full attention to my new bestie.

  “I’m glad you asked what’s next, Tilly. Get your appetite ready because we’re headed to Sterling Lake for dinner.”

  “Ooh!” Tilly’s eyes grow ten times their size. “You mind if I bring Butch the bartender along? He’s already begging for more.”