Shitake Happens: (A Shitake Mystery Series Prequel)

by Patricia Mason

  Talley—a fluffy, black Main Coon—strained against his harness, trying to get to a squirrel at the base of the nearby live oak tree. The squirrel scampered toward Talley and then cut back to the tree before running up the trunk. He stopped three feet above the ground. His tail twitched and his teeth chattered in excitement, taunting the cat.

  "Mrrrrrrrrrow," Talley protested against Mo's restraint.

  "Don't pull. I'm trying to clean up here," Mo shouted at the cat as she bent to pick up a stinky pile from the grass with a paper towel. Once she had the mess in the towel, she straightened and started to push the bundle into a plastic baggie. Talley tugged again, trying to make a break. The jolt on her hand caused the bundle to flip out of her grasp. It sailed two feet before landing on the sidewalk near the park bench on which she'd been sitting minutes earlier.

  "Shitake!"

  The homeless guy lying on the park bench on the opposite side of the sidewalk lifted his head and opened one eye to cast a glare in Mo's direction.

  "Haven't you ever seen someone walk a cat before?" she asked, placing a hand on her hip.

  "You don't have to yell. A man's trying to sleep here," he said before closing his eye and settling back against the bench's slats.

  In order to get the poo off the sidewalk, Mo would have to get the cat. Without releasing tension on the leash, she grabbed Talley up by the midsection before he knew what was happening and then headed back to sidewalk.

  This morning was chilly by Savannah standards—fifty degrees. And staying in one place was a cold business. Stupidly, Mo hadn’t worn a hat or coat. She should give up. Surely, Wallace Williams, being a weatherman and all, was smart enough not to go jogging in these conditions. Besides, it was after ten a.m. If Wallace was going for a run today, she must have already missed him somehow.

  Mo sat Talley down next to the bench and retrieved her coffee cup from where she'd set it before beginning the clean-up operation. The stink pile could wait a minute. When she took a sip, she found the coffee bitter and tepid. Might as well dump it. She’d be able to hit the trashcan five feet from here. Lining up her shot, she pulled her arm back in an arc and then swung it forward, giving her wrist a flick at the end of the motion. But before her fingertips released the cup, a tug from Talley on her opposite arm pulled Mo off balance. The cup hit the rim of the basket and then fell to the ground.

  "Pickles," she swore

  “Mrrrrrrrrrrrrow," Talley yowled.

  “Shit,” a male voice shouted.

  Mo looked back to see a runner stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, inspecting the rubber sole of his shoe. Unfortunately, she could also see a brown stinky substance mashed into its treads.

  “Mrrrrrrrow,” Talley cried from where he cowered under the park bench.

  “Dammit,” the runner shouted again. “These were new shoes.”

  The angle obscured his face as he contorted to view the mess on his sole. She couldn’t tell the color of his hair because of the scull cap he wore. Finally, the runner lifted his head and straightened, turning furious blue eyes on Mo. Without the red face, the guy would have been called handsome.

  “Are you the one responsible for this crap, lady?” He pointed toward the partially flattened pile of doo-doo on the sidewalk in front of him.

  “Of course not. I didn’t make that mess,” Mo lied. Gumballs! She hadn't cleaned up the stuff before dealing with the coffee.

  “Don’t be deliberately obtuse,” the runner said.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Obtuse means slow to understand.”

  “I know what obtuse means," Mo replied. "I just don’t know what you're implying by calling me obtuse. Are you saying I’m stupid?”

  “Well, if the shoe—or in this case, shit covered shoe, fits—” He took off his scull cap in one sweeping motion, revealing damp blond hair.

  “You don’t have to be so rude,” Mo said.

  The runner was good looking but seriously lacking in the charm department.

  Hey. Wait a minute.

  The runner looked like—Oh my goodness. It couldn’t be him. Not Wallace Williams. But the features were too much like those in the magazine for this to be anyone else. This was her target. She was certain of it.

  Crêpe.

  Wallace Williams huffed in exasperation. “Is that your cat or not lady?” He made a stabbing gesture toward the tail that was now the only visible part of the Maine Coon under the bench.

  “I’m holding his leash aren’t I? Now who's being obtuse?”

  “Then you’re responsible for this mess on my shoe. And you’re a lawbreaker. The law requires you to scoop poop. And why in the hell do you have a cat outside on a leash anyway?”

  "How do you know it was my cat? It could have been any dog or cat because I know you didn’t see my cat poop that poop."

  His gaze narrowed on her. “How do you know I didn’t see it?”

  “If you’d seen it, you wouldn’t have run through it." Mo asked. "And if you did see it, and still ran through it, then you’re more stupid than you want to claim I am.”

  “Touché.” For a few moments he stood there silent. He cocked his head as he examined her up and down. Finally, a smile spread across his lips. “I’m sorry about the yelling. I’m sure I can clean the shoes.”

  “I’m sorry, too,” she said, smiling back at him. “The poo was just there for a few seconds.” She indicated the pavement and then held up the plastic baggie. “I really was going to get it.”

  “What’s his name?” Wallace squatted down and tried to lure the frightened cat out with a smoochy sound and snapping fingers.

  “Ummm…" Mo's mind raced for a few seconds before finally sputtering, "Bonaparte. His name is Bonaparte.”

  “Really?” His head snapped up and his eyebrows rose.

  “Yes of course,” she said in what she feared was an overly defensive tone. “I do know my own cat’s name.”

  “I’m sure you do. It’s just that our family had a dog named Bonaparte when I was a boy."

  She grinned. “What an amazing coincidence.”

  "We thought it was cute because of dogs loving bones,” Wallace said. "Seems unusual for a cat."

  "He was named because...ummm...I'm such an admirer of Napoleon."

  Wallace stared at her, blinking a couple of time. Then he laughed and crouched down in front of the bench where Talley Bonaparte continued to quiver in hiding. “Bonaparte, Bonaparte,” Wallace coaxed to no avail so he rose to a standing position. “I don’t think he likes me. Either that or he doesn’t know his own name.”

  “He certainly does know his own name. He’s probably just scared. He—”

  “I was joking,” he interrupted.

  “Oh sorry,” she said. “Too much coffee is making me a spastic mess today.”

  “I don’t notice any spaz or mess.”

  She felt herself blush as she murmured, “Thanks.”

  “What’s your name?” Wallace asked.

  She hesitated. As with the cat name, her mind raced. What should she use?

  “I’m not a stalker or anything.” He chuckled.

  “I know,” she said, stalling for time.

  “You do?”

  “What?” Mo asked, startled.

  “You said you know I’m not a stalker and I wondered how you know.”

  "Oh. Well...I recognize you from television. You're the weather guy, Wallace Williams," Mo explained.

  He seemed pleased. “I feel at a disadvantage. Since you know who I am, will you tell me your name?”

  "Ummmmm." She hesitated, her mind a complete blank. She couldn't tell him her real name could she? Mo gazed off into the distance again for a few seconds before answering. She held her hand out in greeting. “My name is Angelina Jolie."

  Why did I say that?

  "Interesting name," he said with a broad grin. "I bet you get lots of comments about it. There are built-in expectations with that name."

  She laughed. "No six
kids for me. Just one cat."

  "Any Brad Pitt?"

  "No. I'm single," Mo said.

  Wallace Williams smirked. "Two expectations down. But you are beautiful. So you live up to at least one."

  This guy was a player, all right. He was definitely flirting with her.

  "Thank you," she said, looking at her shoes to appear as if she was embarrassed but pleased.

  "Can I see you again?" he asked.

  Mo glanced up. If she was too easy, she might loose him. She had to work this hook just right not to lose the fish. "I don't know. You're still kind of an unknown. I've already violated my Mama's rule about not talking to strangers."

  "Fair enough," he said. "There's an art opening tonight at the Metropolis gallery downtown. You'll be safe with all those people around to protect you from me."

  "Okay. I'd like that," she said, trying to conceal her total glee.

  Clarence's stupid plan—with her accidental modifications—had worked out after all. Not that she was ever going to tell him that.

  "Seven?" Wallace asked, his eyes twinkling and his voice seductively low.

  She nodded.

  "See you then...Angelina."

  * * * * *

  Mo arrived at the gallery promptly at seven, wearing a pale pink cocktail dress with a short-sleeved, fitted top and ballet-style tulle skirt. The neckline showed just enough cleavage to keep Wallace interested.

  Her gaze scanned the interior as she stepped through the door. The space was the typical white box with the floor-to-ceiling paintings hung in predictable rows. A smattering of other partygoers stood about talking to one another or staring at the art.

  Mo didn't stop to examine the work but instead went straight for the refreshments. Near the entrance, in front of the plate-glass window, a linen-covered table had been elegantly arranged with platters of finger foods. At one end, manned by a bartender, a selection of hard liquor and wines were on offer. Adding to the ambiance was an eight-taper candelabra used as a centerpiece.

  "White wine," she said to the bartender. Although Mo felt like she could use a stiff drink, it would probably have her sliding under the table after only one sip given the day she'd had.

  Just as she'd been handed a glass of shimmering golden white liquid, Clarence walked in. Their glances met and he acknowledged her with a swipe of his forefinger against the side of his nose.

  Mo rolled her eyes. Aghhhhhhhh. How many times do I have to tell this guy not to use signals from The Sting?

  Clarence pointed to his watch. The idiot was practically telling people he was going to take photos with that thing. Next he'd announce she had a microphone built into her heart necklace. Just then he touched the small plug in his ear before giving a tiny thumbs up.

  Oh my Gouda! If he doesn't stop, I'll scream, Mo thought, whirling away. I don't know him. I don't know him, she chanted in her head.

  "Angelina," Wallace called from over her shoulder. "You came."

  Mo turned to him with a mega-watt smile. "Of course. I wouldn't miss it."

  Wallace reached her side accompanied by an older woman dressed in a flowing multi-colored dress. Her graying black hair hung long over her shoulders.

  "This is Lucianne Dreshel." Wallace inclined his head toward the older woman. "She's the artist who painted this wonderful work."

  "Yes. Lovely." Mo said.

  "And Lucianne, let me introduce you to Angelina Jolie," Wallace continued.

  "Angelina Jolie?" the woman pinned Mo with a fish-eyed stare.

  "Not the famous one, obviously," Mo joked.

  "Obviously," Lucianne said. She pointed to the glass in Mo's hand. "How's the wine? Have you had any of the food?"

  "Ummm," Mo began.

  "That ridiculous caterer," Lucianne interrupted. "This is the last time I'm using him. Cheap wine. Hors d'oeuvres that came out of a Chex Mix box...I paid for good quality." Lucianne gestured at the table wildly as the volume of her voice escalated.

  "The wine seems fine," Mo said.

  "You don't have to lie," Lucianne shouted at Mo. "I'm going to find that caterer right now." Then she was off toward the back of the gallery.

  Wallace chuckled. "Don't mind her. Lucianne is a little highly strung at the best of times. Artistic temperament, I suppose. And this opening has really made her tense."

  "How do you know Lucianne?"

  "This is embarrassing." Wallace's gaze fell. "I don't like to talk about it."

  "Now I have to know," Mo said with a laugh. "You can't leave it there."

  "Well...I saved her life. She was trapped in her car during a flash flood and I got her out before she drowned."

  Mo had to force her jaw closed when she realized it was hanging open. Her thoughts raced "Wow. Do you do that a lot? Save people in flash floods?"

  He chuckled. "No. Just the once. Does it require more than once to qualify for something?"

  "No," she choked out a laugh. "Once is enough for hero status. Really. That's fantastic."

  The silence between them started to feel uncomfortable and Mo searched her brain for a topic. "When did you move here?"

  "About three months ago," he answered. "I used to live in California."

  "Why did you choose to leave?"

  A frown knotted his brows. "Not something I like to talk about."

  "Oh. Sorry."

  "No," he assured her putting a hand on her arm. "It's just that there are some crazy fans in California. In fact, when you told me your cat was named Bonaparte, like my dog, I wondered about you."

  "Huh?" The sudden tension in Mo's stomach made a Gordian knot of her intestines.

  "I wondered whether you were some kind of stalker who'd researched me. Like a fan deliberately trying to meet me."

  "Ha," Mo said, trying for a teasing tone. "Funny."

  He chuckled. "Yes. I could tell after talking to you for a bit that you weren't that kind of nut."

  Suddenly, thoughts of two different flash flood victims nagged at Mo.

  "Wallace? Would you mind getting Lucianne? I would love to hear more about her art."

  The request seemed to startle him but he said, "Sure. Be right back."

  The minute he was out of sight behind a cluster of chatting people, Mo marched over to Clarence, grabbed him by the arm, and whispered. "I think the story your friend, Tracy, told us isn't right somehow."

  "What do you mean?" Clarence asked.

  "She lied about Wallace saving her from drowning."

  Clarence snorted a laugh. "Who cares? That doesn't matter."

  "There's something wrong," Mo said. "I think we should just cut our losses and leave."

  "We can't do that," Clarence said. "I already told Tracy you had a date with Wallace tonight."

  "What?" Mo whispered a shout. "You shouldn't have done that."

  His eyes fell. "How would I know not to tell her? She asked me. And..."

  "And what?" Mo tugged on his arm, pinching as hard as she could.

  "I'm supposed to report back to her the minute I get home."

  "Shitake."

  Clarence continued to stare at his feet.

  "You didn't tell her where Wallace and I would be, did you?" Mo asked.

  "No. Of course not," Clarence sputtered.

  At that moment Mo spotted Wallace weaving his way around the increasing crowd. He had Lucianne at his side. After releasing Clarence, Mo replaced her frown with a smile and returned to the food table.

  "Here she is," Wallace said with a nod to the artist.

  "Yes...Ummm. I was hoping you'd tell me about...ummm...that painting over there." Mo pointed to the nearest one she could see. "The one with the dog running through the field."

  Lucianne's lip curled with displeasure. "That's a horse."

  "Oh."

  When the artist's gaze traveled past her, Mo breathed a sigh of relief.

  "No, no, no." Lucianne waved her hands heavenward as she marched around Mo to the food table. "I asked for caviar not cheese whiz on the crackers."
Lucianne continued arguing with the bartender about the food with the poor man trying to explain he had nothing to do with that and only knew about the wine and liquor.

  "Hmmm," Mo said to Wallace, pointing at the painting. "Horse."

  Wallace leaned toward her and whispered conspiratorially, "Looks like a dog to me too."

  As Mo was about to take a sip of her wine, Wallace stopped her.

  "Wait," he said. "We need to make a toast."

  She smiled up at him. "Okay."

  Once he had his own glass of wine, they stood glass-to-glass.

  "What shall we toast to?" Mo asked.

  "First dates," he replied, giving her a suggestive waggle of his eyebrows.

  "Is that what this is?" she teased.

  "Absolutely."

  They clinked glasses and each took a sip.

  Wallace reached out a hand and caressed Mo's jaw line. "And I want to know if we're going to have a second date."

  "That will depend on the quality of the first kiss," she replied in a seductive tone.

  His lips slowly spread to a smile. "Well. Let's see what I can do?"

  Leaning down, his hand moving from her cheek to cup the back of her head. Wallace slanted his head as he came closer. When their lips were within an inch of touching, Mo let her eyes drift shut as she waited.

  Instead of a kiss, a bang shook the window. Startled, Mo's eyes snapped open. Then another bang sounded. Mo's head jerked around to the front of the gallery. Tracy stood outside with her nose pressed against the window as she knocked on the plate glass.

  "Cheater." Tracy's screech, even though muffled, echoed through the gallery as every guest went silent and came to attention. "You're a cheater, Wallace Williams."

  Crêpe on a shingle!

  Wallace seemed frozen with a look of wide-eyed horror on his face.

  Setting her wine glass on the food table, Mo strode to Clarence. "Get her out of here."

  Clarence nodded.

  But before he could move, Tracy rushed inside. Panting, Tracy grasped Wallace's arm. "After all we've meant to each other, how could you do this to me?"

  "All we've meant to each other?" Wallace tried to shake off her hold. "I thought I'd left you back in California."