Dial Meow for Murder

by Bethany Blake

  In my defense, though, who wouldn’t assume that a “gala” held in late October at a haunted mansion would at least be costume optional?

  “Have you seen the cat?” Piper asked Tamara. “I’m dreading telling Lillian that he’s gone.”

  “I hope I never see that beast again,” Tamara said. She adjusted a large tote that was slung over her shoulder, and her adorable little Maltese, Buttons, poked out her beribboned head just long enough to blink. Then the dog disappeared back into the bag, like something was spooking her. “I swear that cat was stalking Buttons and me the whole time we were inside.”

  “Most people think cats are aloof, but they actually like company,” I told Tamara. I felt like I had some authority on the subject since I was a professional pet care expert. “He was probably just lonely in that big, dark house and wanted to be friends.”

  Tamara shot me a look that said she wasn’t interested in my credentials or my opinions. “There’s nothing friendly about that animal. It’s evil.”

  Giving her hair one more dramatic toss with a hand smothered under heavy rings, Tamara took her leave of us without another word. We all watched her sashay off with the same hip-swaying stride she’d had back in her cheerleading days. Soon after graduation, she’d surprised all of Sylvan Creek by marrying much, much older—and very, very wealthy—attorney Larry Fox. Tamara hadn’t worked a day in her life and was considered heiress-apparent to Lillian’s informal title of “professional volunteer.” On days Lillian wasn’t in the Gazette, Tamara could usually be found smiling for the camera.

  “What does she have against cats?” asked Moxie, who had a wide-eyed kitten tattooed on her wrist. “They’re adorable!”

  “Actually, Tinkleston—née Budgely’s Sir Peridot Tinkleston—is a difficult animal, to put it mildly,” Piper informed us. “I’ve had to give him shots, and I have the scars to prove it.”

  I didn’t think it was fair to judge a cat based upon his behavior while getting stuck with a needle, but I didn’t mention that to Piper.

  “We’ll keep an eye out for the runaway and finish setting up the table,” I promised, waving my fingers to dismiss my sister. “You go oversee everybody else.”

  “Okay, thanks,” Piper said. “I actually need to track down an old CD player Miss Flynt promised we could use to play spooky music. That thing’s missing, too.” My sister eyed the table warily as she backed away. “You two do a nice job, okay?”

  I didn’t dignify that with a response. I just started arranging Batty-for-Pumpkin Cookies on a plate—a task that absorbed me until Moxie tapped my shoulder.

  “Hey, look,” she said. “Somebody else dressed up, as a priest!”

  “That’s not a costume,” I corrected Moxie. “That’s Pastor Pete Kishbaugh, the guy Piper was just talking about. He always wears a black shirt and a clerical collar. Don’t you know him?”

  “No,” she said. “He’s completely bald. How would I know him?”

  Moxie was the owner of Spa and Paw, Sylvan Creek’s unique salon, which catered to people and pets. She seldom met anyone who didn’t have hair. Or fur.

  “He’s kind of cute,” Moxie noted. “Some guys can pull off the shaved head.”

  “He’s also involved in a scandal right now,” I whispered. “You’ve probably heard the rumors about his church, Lighthouse Fellowship.” Moxie might not have recognized Pastor Pete, but she was the motor that turned Sylvan Creek’s busy gossip mill, and I knew she’d at least be familiar with the stories surrounding him. “I don’t know the details, but I heard something about embezzlement, or misappropriated funds.”

  “Oh, he’s that minister?” Moxie mused, just as Pastor Pete—thirty-something, with a gleaming white smile and kind eyes—noticed me and waved. I sometimes watched his golden retriever mix, Blessing, while Pete was on mission trips. He was a very peripatetic man of the cloth. “Yeah, I’ve heard about that mess,” Moxie added. “That’s probably going to be fall’s big story. I can just tell.”

  Feeling guilty because the subject of our discussion was still smiling at us, I told Moxie, “You know, Socrates—the logician, not the dog . . .” I often quoted the ancient Greek scholar, who’d been central to my doctoral dissertation, so I was always making that clarification. “Socrates once said, ‘Strong minds discuss ideas’—not people. I kind of wish I hadn’t even brought up the rumors.”

  Moxie waved off my concerns with a gloved hand.

  Why had I believed for a minute that she wasn’t in costume?

  “I’ve seen pictures of that old philosopher,” she informed me. “He could’ve used a haircut. And I bet he would’ve dished on Plato for hours, if he’d ever sat in my chair.”

  At my side, the canine Socrates lifted his big head and rolled his baleful eyes, as if he disagreed. At least, it appeared that way. Or maybe he was just sniffing the air, which smelled wonderful. The night was crisp and the breeze off the lake was fresh, but tinged with the bittersweet aroma of falling leaves. And somewhere inside the mansion, a fire burned in a fireplace. The smoke, coiling from the chimney, gave the air a distinctly autumnal tang. Raising my slightly upturned nose, I sniffed, too, and I was pretty sure I could also identify the scents of apple cider, cinnamon, and pumpkin.

  “Do you think we could take a little break and wander over to the table with the people food?” I asked Moxie. I glanced at my bin of treats, which was still pretty full, while the platters I needed to fill were mostly empty. “We wouldn’t be gone long.”

  “I could go for something sweet,” Moxie agreed. She was already heading across the lawn. Passing under a crabapple tree, she ducked and placed a protective hand on her blond bouffant while warily eyeing one of the ravens Pastor Pete had wired to a branch. Then she called back to me, “I’m pretty sure I see cookies for humans.”

  What could I do but follow, with Socrates in my wake?

  “You know, I’m actually surprised Lillian threw this shindig,” I said, when we reached another table that was completely stocked with an array of very clever treats, including meringue ghosts, chocolate cookie “spiders” with licorice legs, and cheese sticks decorated to look like severed fingers, with almond-sliver fingernails and marinara-sauce blood. That was sort of gross, but I took one anyhow, adding, “I know Miss Flynt loves animals, but I can’t recall her ever opening up her house for a party.”

  “She doesn’t love all animals!”

  Both Moxie and I started at the sound of an indignant, almost angry, voice, coming from right behind us.

  “Hey, Ms. Baumgartner,” I said, taking a step backward and greeting the head of the local cats-only shelter, Whiskered Away Home. Beatrice Baumgartner was also active with Fur-ever Friends and held a plastic-wrapped plate of snacks to donate. “We didn’t see you there.”

  Now that Bea was upwind, I could smell her. She carried the faint odor of a litter box that needed to be emptied. I didn’t understand that. I worked in lots of homes with multiple cats, and that smell was avoidable. It kind of put me off my cheese finger, and I had no intention of trying one of the chocolate-chip cookies she was unveiling from under the crinkled sheet of plastic, either.

  Moxie’s nose was wrinkling, too, but she wasn’t dissuaded from eating the meringue ghost she’d chosen. “Miss Flynt loves stray dogs, and she must love cats, too,” she said, pausing to bite off the specter’s head. “We were just talking about Tinkleston, who is supposedly on the loose.”

  For a woman dedicated to saving felines, Bea didn’t seem overly concerned about a missing prize Persian.

  “Lillian is no friend to cats—except purebred show animals,” she said, crossing her arms over an ample bosom. She had to be in her late sixties, and while I was definitely the least appropriately dressed person at that party, Bea wasn’t exactly up to code, either. She wore stained khaki pants that I was pretty sure came from the men’s department and a frayed sweatshirt that featured an appliqué of a black kitten sitting inside a pumpkin. I supposed I could at least give h
er credit for making an effort to honor the holiday. The expression on her deeply lined face was also suitably scary. “I am positive that Lillian only agreed to host this fund-raiser to get herself noticed by the media. Again.”

  I wasn’t sure I’d call the Weekly Gazette “media.” It was delivered free, whether anyone wanted it or not, and it only reached about two hundred homes. As I made my pet-sitting rounds, I found a lot of copies on floors in houses where puppies were being potty trained. However, I didn’t argue that point with Bea, who was excusing herself, anyway. She nodded at me, Moxie, and Socrates. “Enjoy the party.”

  “Well, that was awkward,” Moxie observed, when Bea was out of earshot. All at once, her eyes gleamed. “And while we’re on the subject of uncomfortable situations, what are you going to do if Dylan and Detective Black both show up tonight?”

  She was referring to one guy I sometimes dated, and another I hadn’t seen since I’d solved a murder for him, after numerous clashes.

  I really didn’t want to discuss either of those men.

  I was also suddenly distracted by something I could see inside the mansion, over Moxie’s shoulder.

  A shadowy figure, who stood at one of the tall windows, observing the party preparations from behind a curtain.

  I blinked twice to make sure my eyes weren’t playing tricks on me, then I got a funny, nervous feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  What was that person doing there?

  Chapter 2

  I wasn’t especially eager to enter Flynt Mansion. I’d only been inside the house once, years ago, when Piper had dared Moxie and me to trick-or-treat there.

  Kids never used to approach the property, which was said to be haunted by the ghost of a woman who’d been strangled there, decades before. Some people in Sylvan Creek swore that an elegant, dark-haired specter in a red evening gown floated past the windows on moonless nights.

  Moxie and I couldn’t bear to look like chickens, though, so we’d lumbered up onto the unwelcoming, unlit porch, both of us moving awkwardly, because we’d made a dinosaur costume out of a big cardboard box. I’d been the rear end. Moxie had rung the bell, and as I’d tugged on her green leggings, begging her to run away, the massive door had opened and someone had waved us inside. I’d tried to pull back, but Moxie had dragged us both into the foyer. I hadn’t been able to see a thing except a worn Turkish rug and my sneakers, but the house had smelled musty. A few minutes later, we were back outside, and Moxie’d informed me that we’d received a single, mushy apple for our troubles.

  Piper, dressed as Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz—right down to ruby-red slippers she’d hand-sequined—had enjoyed a rare fit of genuine laughter at our expense.

  I wasn’t any more keen on opening the huge, wooden, front door that night, in part because this time, I was pretty sure I knew who lurked inside. And that person was scarier than any unknown, potentially menacing entity.

  Still, I turned the knob, pushed open the creaking door, and poked my head into the foyer, which I was pretty sure had the same carpet I’d seen as a kid. Then I called softly, “Mom? Are you in here?”

  Chapter 3

  “You’re showing this house tonight?” I asked, confused by my mother’s presence in Flynt Mansion on a Saturday night. Or any night, for that matter. She wore a conservative, dark suit she called “the Closer” and moved quickly around the house, straightening up, like she always did before presenting a property to potential buyers. I followed after her, still asking questions. “And in the dark? During a party?”

  “It’s not exactly a showing,” Mom clarified, lighting a candle she’d dug out of her black canvas tote, which advertised her business, Maeve Templeton Realty. Unlike the tapers in the windows, her candle was scented, and I suspected that, more than to dispel the gloom, she wanted to mask a musty odor that I also recognized from my childhood trick-or-treating escapade. She set the glowing jar, labeled Autumn Breeze, on a rolltop desk that probably dated back to the mansion’s Victorian days. “The buyer has already toured the house and is returning for one last look before making an offer. But it’s really a formality. I can tell that she’s very eager to begin negotiating.” Mom adjusted a few knickknacks on the desk, then stalked off, talking over her shoulder. “I don’t know why you are so surprised by any of this!”

  “I didn’t even know the house was for sale,” I said, following her into a spacious kitchen, which actually had a lot of potential. Classic white cabinets lined the walls, and the countertops were appealingly worn butcher block that had obviously outlived quite a few passing trends. The cherry floors were also scuffed, but could easily be returned to their former gleaming glory. Best of all, a large bank of nearly floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the lake. The full moon had emerged from behind the clouds and was illuminating the water. The view was stunning, and I could imagine sipping tea while watching the sunrise. Then I turned back to Mom. “To be honest, I’m kind of shocked that Miss Flynt would move. Her family’s been here forever.”

  “I was also surprised,” Mom admitted, retrieving yet another candle from her bottomless bag. My mother—like my sister—was always prepared, which was no doubt why Templeton Realty had steamrolled most other competitors in Sylvan Creek. Well, Mom’s rather strong personality—to put it kindly—had probably helped her get ahead, too. “But when I told Lillian that I’d been approached by a potential buyer, she agreed that it was time to put this place on the market.” Mom lit the second candle and shook her hand, extinguishing the match. “This property is far too large for one older person.”

  “So, if the house is already essentially sold, why are you ‘staging’ it?” I asked, leaning against a counter and crossing my arms, so my cape swooped. Fortunately, Mom had been too preoccupied with preparing the mansion to lecture me about appropriate party attire. Although she had suggested that I take off my “ridiculous” hat. In retrospect, I wasn’t sure why I’d kept it on for so long. “And why did you schedule this meeting on a Saturday night?” I added. “During a big fund-raiser?”

  My mother shook her head and sighed, like everything I’d just said exasperated her. “And you expect me to believe that you sold Detective Black a property. Honestly, Daphne! You don’t seem to know anything about real estate!”

  I had convinced Jonathan Black to buy an A-frame log cabin that was perfect for a privacy-loving ex-Navy SEAL. But my mother would never believe me, and Jonathan apparently wasn’t corroborating my story, either.

  “The interested party is a very busy, high-powered executive in New York City, and she had difficulty working this meeting into her schedule,” Mom continued. “We finally settled on this evening, in spite of the event.” The countertop was messy, and as she talked, my mother stashed items in cupboards and drawers. “Unfortunately, she couldn’t leave the city until at least six p.m., and it’s a two-hour drive from Manhattan to the Poconos.” She shot me a pointed look. “Businesspeople often work weekends and well into the evening, you know.”

  I knew. I was a businessperson. One who had to take a Yorkshire terrier out to potty at ten o’clock that night, long after most nine-to-fivers were in their jammies.

  “Well, I still don’t understand why you’re making such a fuss about how the place looks—and smells,” I said, moving over to the refrigerator, where a single, typewritten sheet of paper was attached to the door by a magnet advertising a local pet boutique called “Fetch!” Scanning the document, I realized it was a schedule, titled Tinkleston—Supplements—October. Beneath that was a spreadsheet, arranged by date and listing all of the probiotics, omegas, and fish oils that Miss Flynt’s pampered feline apparently consumed on a regular and regulated basis. I kind of wished anything in my life was as organized as the cat’s vitamin regimen. Then I returned my attention to Mom. “Again, what’s up with the candles, if the offer’s essentially in the bag?”

  “Candlelight bathes everything in a warm, forgiving glow,” Mom said, with a glance at the ceiling. “To be honest, I find
the power outage rather serendipitous. The house looks even better than when I initially showed it.”

  I looked up at the ceiling, too, and saw a jagged crack in the plaster. I probably would have noticed the flaw sooner if the overhead light was working, and for just a moment, I pictured my mother creeping around a fuse box, cutting wires. Then I dismissed the image as absurd. Well, at least unlikely. “So you’re trying to trick this person into making a bigger offer?”

  “It’s no different than having dinner by candlelight, with a date,” Mom pointed out. “Aging ladies, like this lovely old girl”—she patted the countertop—“can benefit tremendously from a little ‘soft focus.’”

  I wondered if my mother had used that realtor trick to her personal benefit, too. Not that she had wrinkles or dated much since my father left town, ages ago.

  “As for the fund-raiser, that’s also beneficial,” Mom noted, with a smug half smile.

  “How so?” I asked warily. I was starting to worry that my mother was even more crafty than I’d thought.

  “The purchaser is an executive producer with the Stylish Life television network,” Mom informed me, sounding somewhat triumphant. I got the sense that my mother felt she’d personally reeled a big fish into our little pond. “How better to impress her than with a soiree, beautifully and atmospherically decorated by Piper?” Maeve Templeton rarely grinned—grinning caused creases around the mouth—but she couldn’t contain her glee at the prospect of a big sale. “I guarantee you, this particular buyer will take one look at the gathering, then another look at the lake, and write a check for the full asking price of one point five million dollars.”

  My greenish gray eyes nearly bugged out of my head. “Seriously?” I resumed walking around the kitchen, giving the mansion—and my theory about Mom cutting wires—more careful consideration. “That’s how much this place is worth?”