The Cat That Got Your Tongue
The Cat’s Paw Cozy Mysteries - Book 2
Fiona Snyckers
Copyright © 2018 Fiona Snyckers
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without prior written permission of the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Produced in South Africa
Contents
Untitled
A note on the text
A note on the history
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
The Cat’s Paw Cozy Mysteries Will Return
About the Author
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A note on the text
This novel uses American spelling and idiom, conforming to Standard American English.
A note on the history
Eleanor of Castile is a real historical figure. She was the Queen Consort of Edward the First of England. Everything about her in this novel is true, except for her secret dowry. Edward and Eleanor fell in love at first sight and were married for thirty-six years. After her death, the king mourned her until the end of his days and ordered the twelve Eleanor Crosses to be constructed in her memory.
Eleanor was highly educated and a great patron of the arts. She supported the art of tapestry-making and created her famed Scriptorum, where scribes sat and transcribed stories in order to make them more accessible to the public.
Chapter 1
“Aha!”
Fay Penrose clapped a hand over her mouth when she realized she had said this far too loudly for her surroundings. This was a library, after all.
She took the book she had spotted off the shelf and turned it over to admire the cover. The Murder at the Vicarage by Agatha Christie. She had first read it as a child and had been looking for a chance to revisit it ever since. Reading the blurb on the back cover, she found that she still remembered who the murderer was, but not why they had done it. But that wasn’t the point. The point was watching Miss Marple piecing together the clues and coming to the right conclusion.
Fay looked around for somewhere to sit. She had a little time before she was due back at the Cat’s Paw - the bed and breakfast she had recently inherited from her grandmother. The village library was small but well supplied with squashy, inviting-looking armchairs. She noticed a blue wingback chair facing the window and decided that it would do nicely. It was a dull and rainy Friday. What could be cozier than curling up in an armchair with a good book while the sea heaved outside, and the rain hurled itself against the window?
Fay had almost lowered herself into the chair when she noticed the embroidered sign that had been sewn onto the back of it.
This is Mr. Macavity’s chair. Please don’t sit here.
Fay looked around the library. Who was Mr. Macavity and why was this his chair? Was he invisible? Had she almost sat on his lap?
Laughing quietly to herself, she took her pile of books to the checkout counter. She should probably be getting home anyway.
“Morning, Fay love,” said the librarian.
“Morning, Mrs. Tribble. I was so pleased to see that you had this.”
“Ah, The Murder at the Vicarage. One of my favorites. Do you know that was the first appearance of Miss Marple?”
“Well … Miss Marple was actually mentioned in a couple of Agatha Christie’s short stories before this. But this was the first full-length novel that she starred in.”
“Why, I do believe you are right. I stand corrected. It seems you are a true fan.” She went through the pile of books, date-stamping each one. Her eyebrows rose when she saw the titles. “My goodness, what varied tastes you have, Fay. George R R Martin and Agatha Christie. Those are very different, aren’t they?”
“The gory thrillers and fantasy books are for Morwen. The cozy mysteries are for me. Morwen likes her books with a big helping of scary. I’m the exact opposite. I think it’s because I worked in the South Bronx. My life was scary enough. When I curl up with a book, I want to be soothed, not terrified.”
“I’m the same, dear. Absolutely.”
“By the way, who is Mr. Macavity and why is that his chair?”
Mrs. Tribble laughed. “Mr. Macavity is my cat. You must have seen him around. He likes to sit in that armchair, so I try to keep it free for him.”
“Oh, your cat! You mean that …” Fay stopped. She had been about to say that fat one, but something in Mrs. Tribble’s expression warned her not to go there. “That grey one?” she finished.
“Yes, indeed. My big grey boy. I got him from your grandmother. He was a stray that she fostered. I believe he was quite wild when she got him, but she turned him into a tame and loving sweetheart. He’s my life now. We can’t bear to be apart. That’s why I bring him with me to work every morning.”
They turned as a ghostly noise reached their ears. It sounded like the wailing of a lost soul.
Mrs. Tribble frowned. “That’s Mr. Macavity now.”
“He doesn’t sound very happy, does he?”
Mrs. Tribble made clicking noises with her fingers and her tongue. “Here, Macavity. Here, boy.”
After a moment, the large grey cat appeared from behind the non-fiction section. His ears were flattened, and he dragged his tail behind him.
Fay bent to stroke him. “You look a little spooked, Macavity.”
The cat jumped onto the counter and pawed at his owner’s sleeve. He uttered another one of those heart-freezing wails.
“What’s wrong, my love?” Mrs. Tribble sounded tearful.
The cat jumped off the counter and ran back to the non-fiction section. There he uttered several more wails.
“What is he up to?” said Fay. “He’s acting like Lassie trying to tell us that Timmy fell down the well.”
The cat emerged again, this time to paw at Fay’s ankles. Then he turned and went back to the stacks.
“I think we’d better follow him. There’s something in there that’s upsetting him.”
“I do hope someone hasn’t pulled half the books off the shelf again,” said Mrs. Tribble. “He knows how I hate that.”
Fay stood back to allow Mrs. Tribble to lead the way. The cat’s yowls were becoming increasingly unsettling.
“Where are you, Mr. Macavity?” called Mrs. Tribble. “What have you found, my boy?”
She led the way past the cookery section, the crafting section, and foreign languages. They found Mr. Macavity in the medieval section.
He was flattening his ears and sniffing at the body of a dead man lying on the floor.
“Oh, Doctor. Is there nothing to be done? He can’t really be dead, can he?”
/> “I’m afraid he is, Mrs. Tribble.” The doctor turned the body over to examine the back of the head. He looked up when Fay appeared from behind the stacks.
“Miss Penrose.”
“Dr. Dyer.”
“Why am I not surprised to see you here?”
“Because my reputation as a bookworm precedes me? I was checking out a stack of library books when Mrs. Tribble’s cat became agitated. We went to investigate and found this unfortunate man lying here. It had nothing to do with me, I assure you.”
“Hmm.”
He sounded so skeptical that Fay nearly launched into an explanation about how she and Morwen had run out of books to read at the same time, so she had volunteered to pop into the library while she was in the village. Then she reminded herself that she had nothing to be defensive about and it was none of his business anyway.
“I told Mrs. Tribble he was dead,” said Fay. “But she has faith in your skill. She thought you might be able to revive him.”
“He’s no Lazarus, I’m afraid. This man is very much deceased.”
Mrs. Tribble uttered squeaking sounds and clutched her hands to her bosom. “Was it a heart attack, Doctor?”
“Nothing so simple, unfortunately. This man was struck from behind by a heavy object. He fell forward and hit his forehead against that low shelf there, breaking his neck in the process. You can see the blood on the wood.”
As he pointed, Mrs. Tribble retreated behind the stacks squeaking some more. Fay stepped forward to have another look.
“What was he hit with?”
“I don’t know. Whatever it was, it seems the attacker took it with him when he left. Or she left.”
“The moment we discovered the body, I locked the front door,” said Fay. “I thought that whoever did this to him might still be in here, but the place seems to be empty. It was just Mrs. Tribble and me.”
“What about Mrs. Tribble’s assistant?”
“I didn’t know she had one. I’ve never seen anyone else working here.”
“He works downstairs in the basement.” Dr. Dyer raised his voice. “Mrs. Tribble, what’s the name of the lad who works in referencing?”
Mrs. Tribble’s face appeared around a corner. “Oh, dear. I forgot all about poor Paul. I’d better go and tell him about this.”
Fay jumped to her feet. “Not to worry, Mrs. Tribble. I’ll go. You’ve had a nasty shock. You should sit down and let me bring you some sweet tea. But first I’ll tell your assistant what has happened.”
“Thank you, dear.” Mrs. Tribble sank into an armchair next to her cat.
Fay found the stairs that led down to the basement. She had never noticed that there was another level below the main library. It was clearly not open to the public.
The stairway led to a low-ceilinged room full of old journals stacked close together. It appeared to be empty. Then Fay noticed a desk wedged into a corner. A young man was sitting at it poring over some old books.
“Hello!”
He jumped and looked up. He hadn’t heard her coming down the stairs. The floor was covered with the same sound-deadening carpet as the main section of the library.
“I’m sorry,” the young man said, rising to his feet. “Members of the public aren’t allowed down here. If you go back upstairs, Mrs. Tribble the librarian will be glad to help you.”
“Mrs. Tribble sent me down here. Are you Paul?”
“Yes, I’m Paul Leblanc. Assistant librarian. How can I help you?”
“I’m Fay Penrose. Mrs. Tribble wanted you to know that there’s been an incident upstairs. A man is dead.”
Fay watched him closely. His face registered nothing but shock and disbelief.
“How awful! Poor Mrs. T. She must be terribly shocked. Did he just collapse?”
“Unfortunately, he seems to have been attacked.”
Paul glanced over his shoulder. “Attacked by who? What happened?”
“That’s what we’re not sure of. He may have been hit over the head. His attacker escaped before either of us knew a thing. Can you tell me if there is a way out of this basement?”
He stood up and closed the book he was working on. Fay caught a glimpse of faded calligraphy and a hand-drawn picture of a dragon. It seemed to be a children’s storybook.
“You mean apart from the stairs back up to the main library?” he said. “There’s a fire escape on this level. Health and safety regulations. I’ll show you if you like.”
He led her to a corner of the basement and showed her the fire door. It could only be unlocked from the inside and opened onto a flight of stone stairs that led up to street level.
“Is there any possibility that someone came through this basement in the last half hour and went out the fire door?”
“I … I don’t think so. I don’t remember anyone. It’s just that I get so wrapped up in my work that I don’t always pay attention. But I’m sure I would have noticed a person running through here. I should go upstairs and see if Mrs. Tribble needs me.”
“She needs all the support she can get. She’s had a terrible shock. I’m about to make her some sweet tea.”
They went upstairs, and Fay set the kettle on to boil. She could hear Mrs. Tribble talking to Dr. Dyer. She still sounded upset. It didn’t take Fay long to realize that they were talking about her.
“That’s the part I don’t understand, Doctor. I got such a fright when I realized that poor man was dead, it brought on my worst palpitations. And she started taking photographs. Photographs! Why would she do such a thing?”
Chapter 2
Fay sighed. She knew Mrs. Tribble had been shocked by the speed with which she had pulled out her phone and begun documenting the scene. She probably thought Fay was a thrill-seeker or the kind of weirdo who wanted to keep a picture of a dead body on her phone. And now, no doubt, Dr. Dyer was about to confirm her worst fears.
“The thing to remember, Mrs. Tribble,” he said, “is that Fay Penrose was a police officer in New York City for several years. She joined the force when she was eighteen and served for twelve years before her grandmother died and she moved to Bluebell Island to take over Penrose House. She was a homicide detective and received several medals for bravery. She would have realized at a glance that this man had died from unnatural causes. Her first instinct would have been to preserve and record the scene. If I know anything about Miss Penrose, those photographs will be emailed to Sergeant Jones at the police station within the hour.”
“Goodness gracious,” said Mrs. Tribble. “A homicide detective? I had no idea. Are you sure?”
“My father told me himself.”
“Well, then it must be true. Doc Dyer knows everything that happens on this island. I suppose that makes more sense then.”
Fay arranged the tea on a tray along with a plate of butter cookies. Apparently, Dr. Dyer didn’t disapprove of her quite as much as she thought. She took the tray to Mrs. Tribble. The librarian was sitting up and had more color in her face than she had earlier. Paul Leblanc hovered over her, looking solicitous.
“Thank you, Fay love.” Mrs. Tribble took the tea and began to sip it.
“I’ll phone the police station now,” said Dr. Dyer. “Sergeant Jones and Constable Chegwin must take over from here.”
Mrs. Tribble moaned. “Those two! I’d rather have Laurel and Hardy clumping around in here. They’ll track mud all over my nice new carpet with their dirty boots. Is it really necessary to call them, Doctor?”
“I’m afraid it is, Mrs. Tribble. A man has been murdered. It’s not clear whether his assailant wanted to kill him or merely to knock him out, but the result was the same. This is a police matter now.” He took out his phone and moved to one side to make the call.
Mrs. Tribble grumbled some more about the clumsiness and general incompetence of Bluebell Island’s finest.
“They’re not that bad, Mrs. T.” Fay knew her voice didn’t carry much conviction.
“But they are, dear. Just you wait. Any mo
ment now they’ll be accusing me of having killed that poor man.”
“We’ll be each other’s alibis, Mrs. T. You were with me when the murder took place and I was with you.”
“Yes, hello, Mrs. Jones,” said Dr. Dyer. “It’s David Dyer here. No, Mrs. Jones. Not old Doc Dyer. It’s young Dr. Dyer.” He lowered his voice. “Uh … yes, Mrs. Jones … the handsome one.”
Fay threw him an amused look. His cheeks were tinged with red.
“I’m very well, thank you, Mrs. Jones. And how are you? Good … good. No, I hadn’t heard that. Is that so? The reason I’m calling is … Did he indeed? I wonder if I might speak to … Is that what she said?”
Fay could only sympathize. Sergeant Jones’s mother dearly loved to chat. It was almost impossible to make her get to the point. She was the very last person who should be answering the phone at the local police station, but she had held the job for more than twenty years.
“Who is the dead man?” asked Paul Leblanc. “Has anyone thought to check if he has identification on him?”
“What a good idea, Paul,” said Mrs. Tribble. “Why don’t you do that now?”
But when he tried to touch the body, he found Fay in his way.
“Absolutely not. Nobody touches him except the doctor. When the police get here, they can do what they like, but until then the scene remains intact.”
The Cat That Got Your Tongue Page 1