“It’s an historic lakefront property in a quaint tourist town,” Mom reminded me. “I think the price Lillian is asking, based on my expert advice, is very fair.” She looked around, too, but with sudden concern. “Speaking of Lillian . . .”
“I think she’s out of town,” I said, stopping near the sink, because I’d noticed something my mother hadn’t yet cleared off the countertop. A note, weighted down by a can of Cleopatra’s Choice Cuts cat food. Although I fed a lot of cats, I didn’t recognize the brand. “She left instructions for the care of Tinkleston.”
“What. . .? But I just met with her. . .” My mother hadn’t been bothered by a power outage, but she seemed genuinely alarmed by my news, which had surprised me, too.
Who didn’t stick around for her own party?
However, the note made it pretty clear that Miss Flynt was not only away, but out of reach.
I read the message again, thinking Miss Flynt’s handwriting was atrocious.
While I am away, please feed the cat at least once a day and change the litter when necessary. I have been advised that cell phone reception is poor where I’m traveling. Therefore, I will be extremely difficult to contact during my absence. If you have any trouble, please call a veterinarian. LF.
“Give me that,” Mom demanded, plucking the paper from my hand and silently reading by the light of the moon. She frowned, which almost never happened, and I saw two faint lines form between her knitted brows. “Oh, no . . .”
“Where the heck did she go?” I wondered aloud. “Timbuktu? Where can’t you get cell service these days?”
“I don’t know, but this is very inconvenient,” Mom grumbled, handing the paper back to me. “And there’s no indication of when she’ll return. What if I receive an offer tonight, as I expect? What will I tell the buyer if she doesn’t agree to the full asking price? That I have no idea when I’ll be able to negotiate?”
I noticed, finally, that my mother kept referring to the potential purchaser as a “she.” So another single woman wanted such a big place? And just how “high powered” was this producer? What would bring her to sleepy Sylvan Creek?
“Well, there’s nothing I can do,” Mom said, tossing up her hands. “It’s too late to cancel everything now.” She surveyed the room, giving it a final once-over, then sniffed and pointed to something on the floor behind me. “Daphne, please set that outside.”
I turned to see that she was gesturing to Tinkleston’s litter box, which was placed next to a door that led to the sloping lakeside backyard. “Why me?”
“You are a pet sitter,” Mom said. “This is the type of task you enjoy, correct?”
Once again, there was no use arguing with Maeve Templeton, so I sighed and went to get the kitty potty. Realizing that I was still holding the note, I started to slip the paper into the pocket of my black, skinny, hopefully witchy pants, with the intention of replacing it under the cat food when I completed my task. Then I paused and read the instructions one more time, thinking there was something odd about them. But I couldn’t put my finger on what was wrong.
Well, I could pinpoint one big problem with the message. It should’ve been addressed to me, a professional pet sitter. Miss Flynt knew what I did for a living.
Heck, everybody in Sylvan Creek knew. My van was really hard to miss.
“Daphne, hurry, please,” Mom said, glancing at her wristwatch. She fidgeted with the candle she’d placed in the kitchen, as if its proper placement would be key to getting that full asking price she craved. “And set the box far away from the house. Someplace it won’t be seen.”
“Sure,” I promised, finally cramming the note into my pocket and picking up the litter pan, which was a mess. Two bowls that should’ve held food and water were empty, too. Whoever was watching Tinkleston—who was aptly named—wasn’t doing a very good job. Then I carefully opened the door, telling Mom, “This litter box really needs a good cleaning—”
That observation was cut short when something ran past my feet, nearly tripping me, which would’ve been a disaster, given what I was carrying.
My mother had spied the black blur darting across the kitchen, too, and she cried, “Forget the litter box, Daphne! Get that awful cat out of here!”
Chapter 4
“Daphne, you must find that nasty creature and corral it safely away,” Mom said, shooing me with her hands. “And hurry. I can’t have that thing hurling itself off the refrigerator, attacking someone during a tour of the house!”
That scenario was strangely specific. “Did that happen to you? The first time you showed the house?”
My mother’s sculpted cheeks turned a rarely seen shade of red. “Just find the cat!”
I turned away before she could catch me laughing at the image of Maeve Templeton under assault from a feline whom I still couldn’t blame for misbehaving. My mother brought out the worst in animals. Even Socrates, who barely took notice of most people, had chosen to wait outside and risk having to mingle with other dogs rather than spend time with my mom.
“Just relax, okay?” I urged, picking up the candle Mom had just carefully adjusted on the counter. The scent was Falling Leaves. “I’m sure I can find Tinkleston and keep him calm.”
“Lillian said he likes to hide upstairs in the closets when he’s not on top of the refrigerator,” Mom advised me, as I left the kitchen. “He also lurks under beds.”
That was pretty typical cat behavior. Unfortunately, Flynt Mansion probably had about fifty closets, and the place was very dark once I left the kitchen, with its bank of windows. The rest of the first floor had lots of windows, too, but most of them were smothered under heavy velvet drapes. Passing through a formal dining room, I paused in a parlor and held the candle lower, near my waist, trying to let my eyes adjust to the gloom.
The room was filled with furniture that had to be original to the house. The chairs, scattered randomly around the space, were carved of dark wood and covered in either more velvet or needlepoint. Almost every flat surface was shielded with a lace doily, and the floors were smothered under scattered, threadbare Persian carpets. Yet the place had “good bones,” as my mother would say. The ceilings soared and each wall was defined by wide, wooden crown molding. It was easy to imagine the space swept clean of lace, freshly painted, and the windows thrown wide open to let in a cleansing breeze.
All at once, the hairs on the back of my neck prickled, like I was being watched, and I turned slowly to discover the source of the eerie feeling: a large portrait that was propped against a wall. The painting, which was partially covered by a tarp, depicted a gorgeous but severe-looking woman in a red evening gown with an angular neckline. Silky gloves covered her arms up past the elbows.
Moxie always wore vintage 1950s fashion, and I felt confident that the portrait dated roughly to that decade.
I studied the woman’s face. Clearly, the painter hadn’t suggested that she say “cheese” while her image was committed to canvas. Her mouth was drawn down and her eyes radiated disapproval.
“Are you the ghost in the gown?” I asked her quietly. “Because you are a little frightening.”
She didn’t answer—thankfully—so I raised the flickering candle again and headed toward a wide flight of stairs I’d seen when I’d entered the foyer.
Resting one hand on a wobbly banister, I set a foot on the bottom step, only to hesitate.
The second story was really dark.
“Don’t be a fraidy cat,” I muttered, resuming my ascent.
The stairs squeaked underfoot like dying mice, but I kept going.
What could be scarier than returning to the kitchen and telling my mother I’d failed my mission to find Tinkleston?
Nothing that I could imagine.
However, when I reached a landing, halfway up, I paused again, this time to push aside a curtain and gaze out the window, because I could hear the reassuring sounds of a party outside. And, indeed, guests were starting to arrive.
Not surprisingly,
between my involvement in Fur-ever Friends and the fact that Sylvan Creek was very small, I knew most of the people who’d gathered on the lawn. Piper and Moxie were conferring about something, while Pastor Pete and Bea Baumgartner lingered awkwardly alone, on the fringes. Socrates and Pastor Pete’s golden retriever, Blessing, were also ignoring each other. Socrates stared at the gate, like he wanted to go home, while Blessing sniffed at the treat table I hadn’t finished stocking.
Fortunately, someone was doing that job for me. Martha Whitaker, head of the Sylvan Creek Public Library, was unpacking the plastic bin. Her delightfully doleful bloodhound, Charlie, whom I sometimes walked, was asleep under the table, obviously not bothered by the fact that Martha and her husband, Asa, were arguing. I could tell by the hurried, heavy-handed way Martha slapped the treats onto the platters that she was upset. She paused now and then to jab a finger at Asa, who worked at the library, too, as an archivist. He was also president of the Sylvan Creek Historical Society and had written a new book about the town’s past, according to a recent article in the Weekly Gazette.
I raised my free hand to my mouth, suddenly struck by the need to yawn.
Asa, meanwhile, seemed to be crumbling under his wife’s anger. He was a slight man to begin with, and his curved spine, probably earned by poring over old texts, bent more deeply into a question mark each time Martha pointed that finger at him. Her auburn, sharply cut bob swung in time to her gestures, while Asa repeatedly flinched and stroked a tribute-to-Freud gray goatee.
I’d had a few run-ins with Martha myself, and I felt sorry for her husband. She usually wore outfits that appeared cheerful—like her sweatshirt that night, which featured an embroidered owl sitting on a pile of books, under a thought bubble that said, Reading is a hoot! But Martha Whitaker was deadly serious about libraries. Woe to the person who had an overdue book. Or twenty . . .
“Daphne? Did you find the cat yet?”
My mother’s distant, muffled call compelled me to drop the curtain—but not before I saw someone I didn’t know. A slight, young woman who stood alone under one of the oak trees. She was pale and wore a flowing, gauzy, white tunic over black pants, so she appeared almost spectral. There was a haunted aspect to her face, too. Her eyes were sunken, and the shadows cast by a chandelier above her head created the illusion that her sockets were empty.
Who was she?
And did she just turn to look at me, as if she’d felt me watching her . . . ?
“Daphne!” My mother spoke more sharply. I could hear her moving around the first floor, no doubt stuffing clutter into her tote bag. The final step in her staging ritual was always to make a clean sweep of the property, and she sometimes walked away with the things she’d picked up. We’d never lacked for pens, catalogs, and umbrellas when I was growing up. “The cat!”
“I’m getting him,” I called back. “It’s under control.”
Mom didn’t reply, but I could imagine her muttering under her breath, so I grabbed the banister and resumed my upward trek.
When I reached the last step, I knocked into the decorative top of the newel post, and the heavy chunk of wood tumbled to the floor.
“What is this?” I mumbled, bending to pick up the finial and balance it back in place. “It’s a Wonderful Life—The Haunting?”
Then I peered in both directions down a long hallway that was lined with doors, most of which were closed. But, to my surprise, the corridor wasn’t quite as dark as I’d expected. Faint light glowed from behind a door that was slightly ajar at the far end of the hall, to my right.
All at once, I recalled the smoke I’d seen spiraling from one of the mansion’s several chimneys.
I was surprised that Miss Flynt would leave a fire burning while she was out of town, and confused about why the flames hadn’t sputtered out by then. Surely, Lillian had been gone at least several hours, if not longer. Piper had mentioned trying to contact her.
Then again, maybe whoever was caring for Tinkleston had lit a fire for the cat. If Miss Flynt really spoiled her furry housemate, as the supplements chart indicated, she might want him to have a warm hearth to curl up near, in her absence.
“Here, Tinkleston,” I called softly, making my way down the corridor. “Here, kitty, kitty.”
I didn’t really expect a response, and I was pleased when I heard a soft “meow,” coming from behind the door.
Pushing it open, I looked around the room, which was lined with busy floral wallpaper. Lace curtains fluttered when the breeze blew through a window that had been left open, perhaps so the room wouldn’t get too warm as a stack of wood—and papers—burned in the fireplace. Whoever had built the fire had tossed what appeared to be a manuscript in with the logs. The edges of the document were singed and curling, and as I watched, part of a flaming sheet drifted upward into the chimney.
“That’s odd,” I noted softly.
Then I resumed my search, first bending down and lifting the bed skirt.
Sure enough, Tinkleston was there. The pure black Persian, who had tucked himself into a slipper, was perhaps the cutest cat I’d ever seen. He was small, but as fluffy as a duster, with paws like tiny, ebony pom-poms and the widest, most intensely orange eyes I’d ever seen. His smushed-in face reminded me of a toddler’s pout, and I couldn’t resist reaching for him.
“It’s okay, Tinkleston,” I promised, certain that he was misunderstood. “Come here, sweetie . . .” I really wanted to comfort that poor, lonely little guy, who’d probably been terrified when he’d wandered outside amid all the commotion at his house, and I reached farther under the bed. “Can I pick you up?”
Wearing a witch outfit to a non-costume party was a pretty big gaffe on my part.
But trying to cuddle Budgely’s Sir Peridot Tinkleston. . .
That was my worst mistake of the evening.
Chapter 5
“Tinkleston, wait!” I called, hurrying after the Persian and shaking out my hand, which he’d slashed with a set of tiny but sharp claws before darting out from under the bed and through the bedroom door. “Come back here!”
Being a cat, he didn’t listen to me, and I followed him down the corridor, hoping that he wouldn’t run down the steps. My mother would never forgive me if he ruined her meeting.
Fortunately, Tinkleston stopped in the middle of the hallway. I’d forgotten my candle, but I’d left the bedroom door wide open, and I could see his orange eyes glowing, reflecting the light from the fireplace. Then he spun around and slipped through a door I hadn’t realized was also open, just a crack.
“Tinkleston!” I said, following him and closing the door behind us both, to trap him inside. “Easy, little guy!”
I didn’t hear a sound, and I stood quietly, too, trying to figure out what kind of room I’d entered.
Then my ears picked up a faint dripping noise, and my eyes grew accustomed to the dim glow of moonlight through a window.
A bathroom. We were in a bathroom.
I blinked and found Tinkleston, who was perched on the edge of a claw-foot tub. His back was arched and his tail stood straight up, so he looked like a much fatter version of the ceramic cats on the table outside.
“Easy, there, Tinks,” I said, moving closer. Water dripped from the faucet into the tub. “There’s nothing to be scared of. . . .”
Even as I made that promise, I realized I was lying. There was plenty to be frightened of in that room.
Leaning over the tub to twist the old porcelain knobs and stop the drip, I saw someone staring back at me, with wide, wide, lifeless eyes.
Lillian Flynt, in a sopping wet bathrobe.
And there was something big, black, and boxy at her feet.
I rested my hand against my stomach, feeling queasy.
I was pretty sure I’d just found the CD player Piper was looking for—and the reason the power was out.
Chapter 6
“I can’t believe you found another body,” my mother said, in a somewhat accusing tone. She paced back an
d forth in the mansion’s kitchen, where Piper, Moxie, Socrates, and I waited while coroner Vonda Shakes, some EMTs, and a few uniformed police officers tromped around upstairs. Needless to say, the fund-raiser had come to an abrupt end when the ambulance had arrived. “And you had to do it when I’m trying to sell a house,” Mom added. “Really, Daphne!”
“I helped you by catching Tinkleston,” I reminded her, raising my hands, which an EMT had been nice enough to wrap in bandages. I looked like a boxer—which was appropriate. The cat had really put up a fight when I’d tried to capture him so he wouldn’t get lost in what I’d known would be inevitable excitement. I’d barely managed to carry him a few feet down the hall and secure him in the bedroom with the fireplace. “And don’t you think it’s best that I found Miss Flynt before your big-city socialite buyer arrived? What if she’d asked to see the bathroom again? I don’t think finding a body on a house tour bodes well for getting that ‘full asking price’!”
“Daphne’s probably right,” Moxie said. “I wouldn’t be able to even think about the wallpaper if there was a dead person in the tub.”
My mother gave Moxie one of her signature funny looks.
Then the reality of Miss Flynt’s death began to sink in for me, and I suddenly felt sad.
“Could we all stop talking about Miss Flynt like she’s an object? Or an inconvenience?” I requested. “She wasn’t the easiest person to deal with, but she did a lot for Sylvan Creek and animals.”
“Daphne’s right,” Piper agreed. “I think, in our shock, we’re acting a little callous.” She rubbed her arms like she was cold, although her silk shirt had finally dried, leaving behind a water stain. “And where is this ‘buyer,’ anyhow, Mom?” she asked, taking a seat on an upholstered bench that ran the length of the bank of windows. It really would be a lovely spot for morning tea. Then my sister checked the wristwatch she always wore, in case her phone ever died. Which never happened. “It’s getting late.”
Dial Meow for Murder Page 3