The Cats that Cooked the Books (The Cats that . . . Cozy Mystery Book 11)

by Karen Anne Golden

Salina apologized, “I’m so . . . so . . . sorry. I shouldn’t have done it without asking you. I’ll delete it. Right now.”

  Rachael shifted from the counter-height stool and let Salina sit down in her place.

  Salina keyed in a few keystrokes and deleted the video.

  Rachael didn’t speak but had a frown on her face.

  Stevie understood the expression and said, “We’re going now. I’m taking Salina home and then, I’ll be back.”

  “Oh, that won’t be necessary,” Rachael said.

  “It will,” Stevie countered.

  He took Salina by the arm and led her back to the truck. “I’m going to drop you off at the house, then I’m going back.”

  “But, Dad, I don’t think she wants to see you. She said she had a headache.”

  “I just want to talk to her for a minute.”

  “Talk to her about what?”

  “For starters, I’m going to make sure she doesn’t sue us for invasion of privacy.”

  “Sue us. Why?”

  “Because you didn’t ask her permission before you posted your video. You gave personal details in your narrative.”

  “Dad, she won’t sue us.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “She likes you.”

  Stevie glared at his daughter. “How do you know that?” he asked again.

  “Because she seems so happy around you.”

  “Is that a fact,” he said, not convinced.

  Changing the subject, Salina asked, “What am I supposed to do about dinner? It’s your turn.”

  “Grill yourself a cheese sandwich, and by all means, do not post anymore videos on YouTube or anywhere else.”

  “I won’t,” she said under-her-breath.

  “I mean it,” he said firmly.

  “Okay! Okay! I promise!”

  “I might be late, so go to bed at your regular time.”

  “I will, but Dad, can I go?” Salina asked in a pleading voice.

  Stevie misinterpreted the question. “Why? We just left there.”

  “No, Dad. I need your approval so I can go to Julie’s party. She needs to know.”

  Stevie said angrily, “Absolutely not.”

  “But, Dad, please. I promise I won’t do it again.”

  “You’re not going. No ifs, ands, or buts.”

  Salina burst into tears.

  Stevie didn’t try to console her.

  After they got back to the house, Salina ran to her room and slammed the door. Stevie went to his bedroom and changed out of his work clothes. He put on a summer t-shirt and a faded pair of jeans. Lacing up his sneakers, he made a quick call. “This is Stevie Sanders. Are you open?” he asked.

  “Yep.”

  “Good. What ya got cookin’ tonight?”

  “BBQ.”

  “How late you stayin’ open?”

  “Till ten. Now why don’t you stop flappin’ your jaws and get on over here?” the owner asked. “Can’t you see I’ve got hungry mouths to feed?”

  “Will do,” Stevie said, hanging up. He chuckled at the owner’s abruptness. The owner, Chester, was a no-nonsense sort of guy.

  Outside, he backed his service van to the front of the garage, and unlocked his Dodge Ram. He loaded up a couple of lawn chairs and a can of insect repellent.

  When he parked in front of the storefront, Rachael’s Tercel was gone. “Damn,” he said, frustrated. “Where did she go?”

  He didn’t have long to wait because she returned shortly. He sat in his truck and waited for her to get out of the car. She was carrying a fountain drink in a Styrofoam container.

  Stevie climbed out and approached her. “Still got that headache?” he asked.

  “No, not really. I think I was having caffeine withdrawal.”

  “Have you had dinner?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Good, me either. Why don’t I carry you out for the best barbecue you’ve ever had?”

  Rachael looked up at his handsome face. She started to say no, that she had other plans.

  “You’ll really be doing this ole boy a favor. I haven’t eaten since breakfast. I’m starving,” he said. “I bet you are, too?”

  She hesitated. “Well, I don’t know.”

  “Let me put it this way,” Stevie said. His blue eyes twinkled. “I appealed to the higher power and arranged to have your schedule cleared.”

  “I don’t have a schedule. Remember, I don’t have a job?”

  “I also cleared your social calendar as well.”

  “How did you manage that?”

  “Intruder told me she’d take care of it.”

  “My kitten talks?” she asked, amused. “When did she tell you?”

  “Earlier.”

  “She couldn’t have.”

  “Why?”

  “She’s at the vet being spayed.”

  “Oh, she told me a few days ago.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  A car passed by, creeping along at a slow speed. Inside, the male driver watched out the window. Stevie waved at him. Then the driver sped off.

  “Is that someone you know?” she asked, not looking at the driver’s face.

  “No, just being friendly. Now, how about that barbecue?”

  Rachael laughed. “You don’t take no for an answer. Which chariot are we taking?”

  “My truck.”

  She headed to the truck’s passenger side. Stevie opened her door.

  “How do I get up in this thing?”

  He pointed, “Step up on this bar and haul yourself in by pulling on this.”

  “Okay,” she said, doing exactly what he said.

  Stevie moved to the other side, hopped in and fired up the engine.

  “Can you turn up the air? It’s hot in here.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, fiddling with the controls. He drove several miles out of town, then turned onto a pot-holed road.

  Rachael asked, “Where are we going?”

  “I thought we’d go on a little drive in the country.”

  “Is the barbecue place in the country?”

  “Yes, it is. In fact, it’s across the road from my place.”

  “You have a second home?”

  “No, I meant to say, that Chester’s kiosk is across the road from the land I own. I inherited property from my late father.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “I’m not,” he muttered.

  “How long ago did he pass away?”

  “A few years ago.”

  “Cancer? Heart attack? Old age?” she quizzed.

  “He was shot.”

  Rachael gasped. “What? Shot? Who shot him?”

  Stevie grabbed his sunglasses from the center console and put them on. “Let me explain it this way. Katz Cokenberger has a best friend named Colleen. She’s married to a Deputy Sheriff named Daryl. Daryl shot my dad, who’d pulled a gun on him.”

  Rachael scrunched her nose up in disbelief of what she’d just heard. “Was your dad innocent?”

  “Never,” he snickered. “My dad was the biggest criminal in these parts.”

  “He was? What kind of crime?”

  “Meth labs, whore houses, other kind of drugs.”

  Rachael turned in her seat to study Stevie, then asked, “Are you a criminal, too?”

  “Nope. I was, but I’m not now.”

  Stevie came to Chester’s ramshackle kiosk, which during the winter months was known as the Snow Angel Farm, and also known for Chester’s decadently delicious hot cocoa. In the summer, Chester served mouth-watering barbecue and heavily sweetened iced tea.

  “It’s really crowded. I might not find a parking space,” Stevie observed. “Oh, here’s one,” he said, pulling in.

  Rachael wasn’t paying any attention to Stevie or to Chester’s weather-beaten kiosk. Instead, she was busy looking out the window at a number of wind turbines. “Oh, wow, I heard Indiana had wind turbines.”

  “Yes, I’ll explain after I g
et the grub.” Stevie cut off his engine and got out.

  “Should I get out?”

  “Normally, I’d say yes, but people around these parts don’t care for me much. There’s an ugly rumor going around town about me and Katz.”

  “Katz? The woman in the pink Victorian?”

  “I’ll explain that, also. Now, what kind of sauce do you want on your sandwich? Mild? Hot? Flaming hot?”

  “Mild,” Rachael answered. “And fries.”

  “Chester doesn’t make fries. How about chips?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Want more to drink?”

  “I’m good.”

  While Stevie was standing in a queue to order the barbecue, Rachael yanked her burner phone out of her purse and called the veterinarian’s office. The office was closed, but the night cleaning staff was there. She talked to a woman named Eva. She explained, “My kitten, Intruder, was spayed today. Could you check her cage and see how she’s doing?”

  “Ma’am, I’m not allowed to do that.”

  “Please. I’m a worried cat mom. Can you please go look? I won’t tell anyone.”

  “Well, okay.” There was a pause while the woman checked, then she returned to the phone. “She’s okay. She’s curled up in a little ball. Cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “Thank you so, so much.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Rachael hung up and looked at Stevie, now first in line and ordering the food. She thought, He’s the nicest man I’ve ever met. Should I spoil the evening by telling him I have to leave? That, by this time tomorrow, Intruder and I will be miles from Erie.

  Stevie returned to the truck, carrying two bags. He handed the bags to Rachael. “Keep ‘em warm,” he teased.

  “It’s really hot outside. I don’t think we have to worry about the food getting cold.”

  Stevie drove out of Chester’s lot and pulled across the road. He drove several feet onto a paved lane and stopped. He pointed, “See those wind turbines?”

  “Yes, I noticed them when we first got here. I find it surreal, in a kind of good way.”

  “Do you know why they’re so tall?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Because the higher up they are, the windier it is. More wind equals more electricity.”

  “They are gigantic. I never knew they were so big.”

  “You’re looking at about two hundred tons of steel.”

  “Amazing.”

  “I own the land that the wind turbines sit on.”

  “Okay, but who owns the wind turbines?”

  “A big energy-conglomerate. They lease my land.”

  “How does it work?” she asked curiously.

  “For every wind turbine you see out there, I get paid rent.”

  “Rent for each one?”

  “Yes, each turbine.”

  “Excuse me for being nosy, but can you make a decent living off of—”

  Stevie finished, “I earn a good living.”

  “How much?”

  “I get paid about eight thousand per turbine.”

  “Per month?” she gasped at the figure.

  “No, per year.”

  Rachael counted twenty turbines. Twenty times eight thousand dollars equals one hundred and sixty thousand dollars, she thought.

  Stevie put the truck in gear and drove down the lane. “Over there,” he pointed, “was a meth lab. When I inherited the land, I had it bulldozed.”

  “Was it your meth lab?” she asked, afraid of the answer.

  “No, it was my father’s.”

  “Can you answer me one thing. You said that there was a rumor about you and Katz? What was it?”

  “That we’re having an affair.”

  “Are you?” Rachael asked abruptly.

  “Nope. She’s a friend, a very good friend. I even took a bullet for her.” Stevie held up his hand and showed his scar.

  “I have a feeling there’s a lot about you I need to know.”

  “Like my tabloid-worthy secrets,” he laughed, stopping the truck. “I can let you in on a little secret right now.”

  “What? I’m all ears.”

  “Come closer so you can hear me,” he whispered.

  Rachael leaned in.

  Stevie took the back of her head and pulled her toward him. He kissed her several times, then she kissed him back.

  Chapter Eleven

  Meanwhile at Rachael’s Storefront

  “Marko” Bruno, the hitman the New Jersey mob assigned to track down Emma, couldn’t believe his luck. Finding her was a piece of cake. After identifying her outside the place where she lived, he checked out the guy she was talking to. He looked like a blond-haired country hick. Marko drove around the block. Heading back to where he sighted Emma, he saw her climbing into a red Dodge Ram with the hick. He discreetly followed them for a few miles, then assumed they were headed somewhere and wouldn’t be back to the building in a while. He backtracked and parked in a parking lot behind her building. He identified which gate was Emma’s and put his breaking-and-entering skills to use.

  He broke into the courtyard, then kicked open the rear door. He began to search kitchen drawers, looking for the pink flash drive. When he found the drawers empty, he walked over to the laptop sitting on top of the butcher block island. He picked it up and scrutinized it, looking for a port where the flash drive could fit. Not finding one, he set the computer down and made a mental note to take it with him when he left.

  He walked into the front of the storefront, looked around, and found nothing but a nightlight sitting on a bistro table.

  He moved upstairs to the second floor. The kitchen and living room were devoid of furniture. There were dirty dishes in the sink, nothing in the refrigerator, except a bottle of seltzer water. Annoyed at not finding anything of interest, he climbed the stairs to the third floor. In the smaller bedroom there wasn’t a stick of furniture and the closet was empty. In the larger bedroom there was an air mattress on the floor. The closet held only the bare necessities of a person who hadn’t lived there very long. There were no clothes hanging up, but on the floor a suitcase lay. He picked it up and threw it on the mattress. Then he opened it and dumped the contents on the bed.

  He rummaged through Emma’s clothes and toiletries. Searching diligently, he was frustrated he didn’t find the flash drive. Annoyed and in a fit of rage, he threw the empty suitcase across the room.

  He stood in front of the window, which faced the street and looked below for the Dodge Ram. Not seeing it, he called his boss.

  When the boss answered, Marko explained, “I found her. She’s living in a three-story building on Main Street in Erie. I searched her place, but I didn’t find the flash drive.”

  The boss yelled into the phone.

  Marko moved the cell from his ear and waited for his boss to calm down, then said, “All right. I’ll wait until she gets home, then I’ll search her. I’ll call you when it’s done.”

  Marko didn’t elaborate on what exactly when it’s done meant. His job was to find the flash drive. He didn’t know why it was so important to his boss. He wasn’t curious enough to ask what was on it. He wasn’t being paid to know. If he had to rough Emma up to get it, then so be it. If he had to kill her, he would.

  He patted the butt of the handgun in his shoulder holster. He knew that if things got complicated, he’d have the necessary tool. He’d gotten the gun from a mob connection in Indy. In the back of his mind, he wondered why the guy in Indy wasn’t hired to find this woman and why he had to fly from New Jersey to do the job. But it wasn’t his place to question a direct order. It was all part of his job of creative problem-solving.

  * * *

  Gladys Kramer, a woman in her late sixties, lived in an apartment with her husband, Al. Their two-bedroom flat was on the third floor of a storefront on Erie’s main street. Since she’d retired as a grade-school teacher, she was bored out of her mind. A friend recommended that she join the neighborhood watch group, who
se members kept an eye out for criminal activities and contacted authorities if they suspected something. She agreed and had taken her civic duty seriously. She had nothing else to do. Al watched TV all day, and she passed the time looking out the picture window at the street below. Al called her gawking out the window spying; she called it surveillance.

  Adjusting her thick-lensed glasses, Gladys spotted something of interest across the street at the third-floor building of the woman who had recently moved into town. She brought her binoculars up to her eyes and rotated the focus ring so she could get a better look at the man standing in front of the new owner’s bedroom window.

  Still viewing through the binoculars, she called to her husband, who was sitting in his recliner watching TV. “Al, something funny is going on across the street.”

  Al was used to his wife spying on everyone who lived on their block. He ignored the comment.

  “Al, I said, there’s a man standing in that new woman’s bedroom.”

  “What new woman?”

  “The one who’s gonna open a café. She just moved here. She drives an old Toyota. You didn’t notice her car when you parked your truck? It’s in front of her building.”

  “Maybe it’s her boyfriend.”

  “Why would a boyfriend be in her room, when she left with Stevie Sanders several hours ago.”

  “You mean the electrician?”

  “Yes. He picked her up in his truck. They’re not home yet.”

  “What’s the man doing now?” the husband asked, punching a button to mute the TV.

  “He’s just standing there, talking on his phone. He keeps looking out and checking the street. I think he’s up to no good. I’m calling the police.”

  “Gladys, we’ve been over this. The police are tired of your false alarms. Chief London said so himself.”

  “That’s not true. The chief commended me for reporting those high school kids that were breaking into the shops.”

  “Call the non-emergency number,” he suggested.

  “Why?”

  “So, you don’t tie up 911 with your fairytale.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Back at the Pink Mansion

  Friday Evening

  While Katherine sat in the living room on a blue wingback chair, her cell rang. The phone was stuck beside the chair’s seat cushion, so she reached down and unwedged it. Putting the phone up to her ear, she didn’t look to check the caller ID but assumed it was Jake, letting her know what time he’d be home. He was at the university attending a meeting regarding his new promotion. When he left, he said he didn’t know how long the meeting would last. He suggested she eat dinner without him. She’d done that hours ago and was now watching her seven cats do what they always did before being put to bed. Abby and Iris were taking turns, rooting around in the lining under her chair. Nearby, Lilac was on the coffee table, leaning over like a vigilant vulture, watching them. Dewey and Crowie were taking turns batting a pink object across the wood floor. And last but not least, Scout and Abra were off doing their routine reconnaissance of the house before their bedtime.