Cat Got Your Secrets: A Kitty Couture Mystery

by Julie Chase

  Jack had been looking into his grandpa’s death for more than a year. He’d specifically taken an interest in Tabitha, his grandpa’s former live-in girlfriend, but she was a ghost. So far, all we knew for sure was that she had no job, a mysterious bank account that never depleted, and a nearly untraceable past. I’d signed on last fall for a little friendly espionage assist. On the surface, I’d sold a few organic pet recipes to the Grandpa Smacker company and hung around infrequently to advise on branding and alternative ingredients that might save the company money during production. Secretly, I spent a couple hours a week on site hoping to overhear something Jack might find useful in his quest for truth. Sadly, so far I’d failed. I hadn’t seen or heard anything the slightest bit shady in months of working there. Either the employees were all Walt Disney–grade happy, or I was a lousy sleuth. For Dad’s sake, I hoped it wasn’t the latter.

  I’d get back to helping Jack once Mr. Becker’s killer was found. For now, all I could think about was keeping my father out of jail.

  Jack jerked his head around, double-checking for eavesdroppers. “No.” His expression was grim when he turned back to me. “Nothing since she moved out at Christmas. What about you? Have you overheard anything suspicious at my company?”

  “Nope. Everyone’s sugary sweet.” Almost to a fault, as if their hiring paperwork didn’t allow for any other emotions while on the premises. “Plenty of female employees wish you’d come by more often, but whatever.” I gave him a delicate smile to hide the irrational note of jealousy in my tone.

  Jack’s expression turned cocky. “Is that so?”

  “Yep.”

  He pulled the phone from his back pocket and stared at its screen. “I’ve got to go.”

  I hopped to attention. “Was that the ME?”

  He slid dark sunglasses back over his eyes and tucked the phone back into his pocket. “For the record, I know it was Chase who pulled that police report, and I’m proud of you for taking a step back on this case. It shows you trust me to handle it and that you’ve learned something from your last two run-ins with psychotic lunatics. There’s hope for you yet, kitten.”

  “Well, Karen’s definitely earned her pay,” I muttered. “And I don’t like when you call me that.”

  His eyebrows crowded together behind the dark lenses. “You’re still seeing the psychiatrist?”

  “She’s a licensed family counselor specializing in trauma recovery.” A hot poker of frustration burned through me. “You know if I had any idea how to help my dad, I would, and that has nothing to do with trusting you.”

  He lifted a palm and hovered it between us before shoving it into his front pocket, as if he’d considered touching me and changed his mind. “You’re helping him by letting me handle this. Don’t forget I said that.” He crossed the shop in four long strides and launched onto the sidewalk at a jog. A moment later, he and his big truck were nothing but taillights. Whatever was in that last text message had put a fire in his boots.

  I would’ve dwelled on the mystery longer, but something else he’d said sneaked back into mind.

  Mrs. Becker likes bourbon.

  * * *

  I parked across the street from the Beckers’ Greek Revival home and applied fresh lip gloss with the help of my rearview mirror. I’d gone home after work to drop Penelope off; feed Buttercup, my betta fish; and swap my lively pleated-skirt-and-blouse combo for a vintage black dress with a high collar and low hem. I’d even found stumpy but sensible two-inch pumps at the back of my closet for a more modest and unoffending look. After twisting my hair into a tight bun and stopping at the liquor store, I was ready to play the role of supportive neighbor to Mrs. Becker.

  I met a couple on the narrow sidewalk leading away from her home. They stepped into single file with matching sober expressions as I approached. The woman pressed a handkerchief to the corner of one eye. The man nodded.

  I climbed the front steps with controlled effort, staunching my desire to rush in begging for answers about the tragic night’s events. If anyone had all the facts, surely it was the widow.

  The front door swung open before I knocked. A trio of women spilled onto the porch with tear-stained faces. “We love you,” they sang in near unison. “If you need anything at all, don’t hesitate to ask.” They stumbled against one another, blowing air kisses and trailing the sweet scent of liquor in their wake.

  I pressed a hand to my nose, practically drunk on the air.

  A grim-faced woman stared at me from the interior side of a storm door. “Who are you?” she asked through the glass. Her gaze halted on my empty hands. “Are you an insurance agent or a lawyer of some kind?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Reporter?”

  “No. I’m a neighbor. I grew up in the area, and I wanted to pay my respects.” All true, but I also had some questions.

  She rocked back on her heels, crossing her arms over a threadbare Kentucky State T-shirt and jeans. “Name?”

  “Lacy.” I bit the insides of my cheeks to keep from adding the “Crocker” to my introduction as Mom had taught me. Normally, our last name was a point of pride that spoke volumes on our behalf. This time, those two little syllables were the surest way to get myself kicked to the curb.

  Mrs. Becker wiggled her ultrathin eyebrows, apparently waiting for something.

  “Oh!” I unzipped my handbag and reached for the bottle of authentic Kentucky bourbon inside. “I thought this might help with your day.”

  Her glassy eyes lit up. “Well, why didn’t you say so?” She pushed the door open and let me pass.

  “Thank you.”

  She accepted the bottle of amber liquid with eager hands and padded deep into the house. I followed, trying to imagine the narrow, middle-aged woman before me in cowgirl chaps.

  Wide wooden trim outlined the cavernous rooms with twelve-foot ceilings. Gray walls and white woodwork showcased brightly colored, magazine-worthy displays of fine art and local culture. Her home was a masterpiece where each item accented another. Either Mrs. Becker had an extremely talented interior designer or she was an artist. “Your home is remarkable,” I said, shuffling along behind her, taking in the beauty.

  She ignored my compliment. It was probably one she heard often.

  I paused to appreciate the high-polished beams underfoot. “These floorboards are magnificent.”

  “The floors are antique heart pine,” she said. “They were reclaimed from the port of New Orleans.” She stopped in a comfortable parlor and set two tumblers on an antique sideboard.

  A chubby gray cat pranced into view and led me to an armchair in the corner. Mrs. Becker extended a glass of bourbon in my direction. “That’s Dimitri Midnight Gregori. He’s a Russian Blue.” She sipped her drink. “Dimitri was sired by the award-winning Dominique Alek Gregori of Tampa.”

  “Ah.” I accepted the drink with a small smile.

  “Do you like cats?”

  “I love all animals. I have a tabby.”

  She finished her drink before falling onto an antique loveseat surrounded by castoff tissues. “You said you’re from the neighborhood?”

  “Yes. All my life.” I allowed my gaze to wander the room, taking in family photos on the broad fireplace mantle and hung in elaborate groupings on her walls. She and Mr. Becker seemed genuinely happy in every shot, often accompanied by a young man at various ages. I smiled at a photo of the man tucked between his parents and dressed in a cap and gown. “Your son?”

  “Yes.” She sighed. Her glossy eyes batted heavy tears as she poured and threw back another shot of bourbon.

  Something caught her attention, and she set the glass aside. She stretched the hem of her shirt for a better look at the seam. A fleck of hot pink protruded from the material, attached, it seemed, by little more than static electricity and misfortune.

  My heart leapt. Whatever it was looked a lot like the thing that had been on the floor of the reception hall freezer.

  Mrs. Becker frowned and tri
ed to flick the offender away, failing several times before it fluttered to the floor on its own.

  I rolled my glass between my palms, watching the little pink scrap and wondering if I really had seen it before.

  “Hello,” she drawled long and slow.

  I yanked my attention to her face. “Sorry. What?”

  “Did you know my son? You both grew up here. You must’ve known one another.”

  “We didn’t,” I assured.

  She shuffled her feet, successfully drawing my attention back to the floor. The little pink sticker had vanished among the piles of crumbled tissues. She must’ve cried all day to make such a mess.

  My heart broke at the thought. “I’m truly sorry for your loss, Mrs. Becker. I didn’t know your husband, but from what I understand, the world has lost a good man.”

  She finished shot number three and managed to look as if I’d shoved a lemon in her mouth. “A good man? Is that what you’ve heard?”

  “Yes. I think so. Why?” He must’ve been. Dad chose his friends with care. “Wasn’t he?”

  She poured another shot, though the others already seemed to have a good grip on her. “Everyone loves to hype up his accomplishments, but no one ever asks how he managed them. No one asks what the woman in his life has done to make those things possible.” Her speech slurred slightly. “I gave up everything to be his wife, and he had the nerve to cheat on me. And at his age? Shameless!”

  “I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

  Her head swayed and her eyelids drooped. “With some blonde woman half his age, no less.”

  I couldn’t help thinking of Jack’s grandpa and his too-young, blonde pinup girlfriend that had conveniently vanished when Jack began focusing on her as a suspect for murder. Was it pure coincidence that the district’s tight circle of wealth had experienced another unusual death so soon, and that the current victim also had an excessively young mistress? “Sure sounds like Tabitha,” I mumbled.

  Her eyes popped open. “Who?” A sliver of clarity slipped into her eyes. “What did you say?”

  “It’s nothing.” I patted my handbag. “I thought I heard my phone. Maybe I can make you some coffee?” I offered. “Are you staying here alone now?” Surely someone her size shouldn’t drink anymore. I silently cursed my decision to bring the bourbon.

  “I’m all alone tonight.” She made a weird face. “Wallace always had a thing for blondes like you. I used to color my hair, but once I learned he was a no good snake in the grass, I decided to wear it how I liked.” She combed the wavy, salt-and-pepper strands between her fingers. “To heck with him. Jerk.” She set her empty glass on the floor amid the crumbled tissues and a previously emptied bottle. A whimper bubbled free from her lips.

  “Are you okay?” I asked. “Maybe you shouldn’t be alone.”

  She cuddled the new bottle on her lap and tipped herself against the chair’s cushioned arm. “I’ve been staying here alone since the minute Wallace found out about his kidney failure. He started running off every night he could. Behaving like a fraternity boy.”

  “Your husband was sick? I’m so sorry. I had no idea.” Kidney failure was serious and hardly motivation for finding a mistress. Didn’t sick people cling to their loved ones? Get a new lease on life?

  “Wallace struggled with high blood pressure for years. Diabetes came later, but we got a handle on that with diet and exercise. He did well for a while, then everything changed.” She rubbed a wrist under her drippy nose.

  I slid to the edge of my seat for better concentration.

  “The same routines weren’t working anymore. He needed a new kidney.” She choked on a sob. “He told me he made a bucket list, but I never expected finding another woman was on it!”

  “Do you think his diminished health contributed to his death?” Illness might explain how one night in the freezer had killed him, if the blow to the head hadn’t.

  Mrs. Becker swiveled upright and latched her unsteady gaze on me. “No. His friend hit him over the head. Can you imagine? He’s fighting for his life with all these physical challenges, and a man he trusted knocked him dead.”

  I bit the insides of both cheeks. “I’m sure that’s not true. What could possibly be his friend’s motive?”

  “Who knows why criminals do anything? Maybe the guy’s a psychopath. Maybe he has rage issues.” Her bloodshot eyes narrowed into slits. “You look awfully familiar. What’d you say your name was?”

  “Uhm.” I sprang to my feet, purse in hand. I looked just like my mother, who Mrs. Becker had thrown out yesterday. “You know what? You’ve clearly had a terrible day. I’m going to see myself out.” Sweat beaded on my forehead. “Don’t worry about me. I remember the way.”

  She followed me through the house, weaving and bouncing off walls and furniture. “What’s your name?” she demanded in a loud, crackly voice. Boxes marked for donation scattered and slid over the polished floors as she barreled into a stack by the stairwell. “Lisa? Linda?”

  I moved more quickly, checking over my shoulder as she gained on me. Her small, pleasant features had morphed into a wild and dangerous expression.

  “Good-bye.” I waved to Dimitri Midnight Gregori, now perched in the bay window, and barreled onto Mrs. Becker’s porch, racing toward the sidewalk. “Sincerest sympathies.”

  “Lucy!” she screamed, barring her teeth. “It’s Lucy! Lucy what?”

  I ducked into my car and drove away. I could suddenly picture the whole bull-riding thing. The animals were probably terrified of her, especially if she’d had a few shots before her run. Bulls probably rolled over in submission.

  I slowed at a stop sign and heaved a sigh of relief. Slowly, a smile spread over my lips. The trip had been a little scary, but well worth the trouble. One bottle of bourbon had bought me two new suspects. An angry drunk wife and a mysterious young mistress. Not bad work for a pet clothing designer.

  Chapter Eight

  Furry Godmother’s advice on cocktails with your mother: Make yours a double.

  The alarm on my phone beeped and pulsed in my handbag. I fished it free at the next stoplight to see what I’d forgotten. A line of blue letters on the screen spelled: Operation Cheer Dad Up.

  In other words, dinner with my parents.

  Unlike most things in my life, this was excellent timing. I dropped the phone on my passenger seat and hooked the next right toward the Conti-Crocker abode. I couldn’t wait to see how much Dad knew about his friend’s poor health and sketchy extramarital behaviors. And had he ever seen Mrs. Becker liquored up on bourbon? Yikes.

  I added some pressure to the accelerator, easing over the speed limit. No wonder Dad had looked so troubled. He was probably keeping Mr. Becker’s secrets. Maybe they’d even argued about the affair. Dad had a zero-tolerance policy for infidelity.

  I cruised through the district on autopilot, mentally rehashing all I’d seen and heard at the Becker house and avoiding the main streets, already teeming with evening activity. The sky had marbled into a lovely gray-and-cobalt combination. The moon peeked from behind strips of fast-moving clouds, and a colony of bats swooped majestically through the cool evening air. I cast a wayward glance at my phone, lying idle on the passenger seat. Did Jack know everything I knew now? What did he think about another dead man with a blonde mistress who was half his age? Would Mrs. Becker have been so candid with the detective on her husband’s case? Should I ask him? I tapped my thumbs against the steering wheel as I pulled into my parents’ driveway. If I told Jack I’d visited Mrs. Becker, he’d gripe and complain and likely accuse me of messing with his investigation. Whenever I’d gotten the scoop over him in the past, he’d thrown around his favorite word: obstruction.

  I settled the engine and weighed my options. Jack needed the information, but wasn’t he a detective? Shouldn’t he know more than I did? I rolled my head against the seatback and groaned. I knew firsthand that wasn’t always the case. If he knew about the mistress and I told him, he’d complain that I was di
gging. If he didn’t know, how could he figure out who she was and look into her alibi? And if I didn’t ask, how would I know if he knew? Furthermore, given the mistress’s existence, Mrs. Becker’s alibi could definitely use a second look as well.

  I released my seat belt and brought Jack’s number up on speed dial, unable to motivate my thumb to press call. Did I really want to be yelled at five minutes before listening to my mom complain through dinner?

  “What are you doing?” Mom’s muffled voice warbled through the glass. “Are you planning to come inside or sit out here all night?” She peered into my window with one hand at her brow, working as a makeshift visor. “Are you ill?” Her apricot blouse brought out the flush in her cheeks.

  I cleared Jack’s number from my screen and hiked my purse over one shoulder. If anyone was doing anything she didn’t understand, she assumed they were ill, mentally or otherwise. She was obsessed with illness. Probably part of the reason she’d pushed me into premed at her alma mater.

  “Hi, Mom.” I climbed out and beeped my doors locked. “Sorry, I was thinking of calling Jack, but that can wait.”

  We ghosted into the dining room like two women with too much on their minds and sat silently at the table. The spicy scents of Cajun seasoning wafted from the kitchen and hung in the air around my head, inciting an immediate Pavlovian response. “Something smells amazing.”

  Mom glanced sadly at the kitchen door. “It certainly does.” She poured two glasses of ice water from the pitcher on the already set table. “Why are you dressed like that?”

  That was a story I’d hoped to tell her and Dad together.

  Something clattered in the kitchen.

  “Is Dad in there?” I stared at the door, willing him to appear. The most I’d ever seen Dad accomplish in the kitchen was tea.

  Mom waved her hand dismissively. “Imogene insisted on cooking so I could spend time with my husband.”

  I smiled. “I love her.”

  “Yes, but where’s my husband? I’ll tell you. He’s in his office tending to imaginary pets. Does he think I don’t know he’s alone in there?”