Dial Meow for Murder

by Bethany Blake

  “I don’t know where she is,” Mom said. “I’ve been trying to text her, to postpone, but she’s not responding. I suppose she’s still en route. Traffic between Manhattan and the Poconos can be dreadful, even on a Saturday evening.”

  That was true. A lot of city folks had weekend homes in the mountains, and the commuter route was perpetually backed up, even at odd hours.

  “I’m stepping outside for a moment,” Mom told us, tapping at her cell phone. “Reception is sometimes bad in these old houses. Maybe she’s not even receiving my messages.”

  Piper, always restless, rose again as the back door shut behind our mother. “I’m going outside, too, to clean up.”

  Either Moxie or I—or both of us—probably should have offered to help gather up the jack-o’-lanterns and take down the chandeliers, but neither of us volunteered.

  Moxie began fidgeting with her nails, pretending she hadn’t heard Piper, no doubt so she wouldn’t miss any gossip-worthy news from the coroner or police.

  Socrates, sitting quietly at my feet, also averted his gaze.

  “Come on, Moxie,” Piper finally prompted. “I’m sure you won’t miss anything if you’re on the lawn.”

  Moxie stuck out her lower lip, like she doubted that. Then her shoulders slumped. “Oh, fine. I’ll help.”

  Piper turned to me, her eyebrows raised over her wire rims. “Daphne?”

  Before I could answer, the doorbell rang. “I need to get that,” I said, grabbing the Falling Leaves candle off the counter again. Resourceful and brave Piper had located a fuse box in the basement, but she hadn’t been able to restore the power. “It’s probably Mom’s big commission.”

  “Oh, fine,” Piper grumbled, taking Moxie by the arm. “We’ll see you in a few minutes, though, right?”

  I didn’t make any promises. I just hurried toward the foyer, with Socrates lumbering along behind me, and opened the front door. “Welcome to Flynt Mansion . . .”

  I started to greet the visitor in a way I assumed my mother would. Then I realized who was actually standing on the porch, and the words died on my lips.

  The person waiting to come inside wasn’t speechless, though.

  “So, you’re mixed up in another possible murder,” Detective Jonathan Black said, shaking his head and marching right past me into the house. Then he looked me up and down, frowning. “And are you dressed as a boxing witch?”

  Chapter 7

  “Why didn’t you just come in?” I asked, as Jonathan walked around the first floor of Flynt Mansion, studying everything by the feeble light of my candle. Socrates remained in the foyer, sitting on his haunches and observing my reunion with a detective who frequently infuriated and, I had to admit, always intrigued me. “Since when do homicide detectives knock on the door at a crime scene?”

  All at once, I realized that Jonathan’s arrival meant that, at the very least, Vonda Shakes suspected foul play. Up until that moment, I’d assumed that Lillian’s death had been accidental.

  “The door was locked,” Jonathan informed me. He studied the portrait of the dour lady, and I wasn’t sure who looked more stern. “What else could I do? Climb in through a window?”

  “That’s weird,” I said. “I thought I left the door open.”

  Jonathan faced me. He definitely looked more grim than the lady in the painting. “Please—please—don’t start speculating about this potential homicide,” he requested. “Old houses can be quirky. The lock probably malfunctioned.”

  “Okay, fine,” I agreed, backing up a step and raising my bandaged hand in a gesture of surrender. “I just thought it was odd!”

  I fully intended to check that lock later, though.

  I also had about a million questions for Jonathan, whom I hadn’t seen since August, when I’d helped him solve a murder and compelled him to take custody of two dogs.

  The first, a chocolate Labrador retriever named Axis, had been left homeless by the homicide. I’d known that Axis, a prize-winning agility dog, would be a great match for Jonathan, who’d had a canine partner when he was a SEAL. I’d also believed Jonathan would come to love the other rescue I’d convinced him to take home. Artie—a one-eared Chihuahua with a severe overbite—was as lawless and exuberant as Jonathan was regimented and reserved. But the little dog had a way of winning people over, and I believed that, under his tough exterior, Jonathan was a big softie who would eventually cave to Artie’s unique charms.

  “How are Artie and Axis?” I asked, as Jonathan handed back the candle and headed for the staircase. I knew he didn’t have time to talk, but I kept pestering him anyhow. “How’s the house working out?”

  “The house is fine, thanks,” he replied, ignoring my question about the dogs. That worried me. Maybe he wasn’t the softie I’d hoped. He paused at the foot of the stairs, and I followed him, holding up the candle so I could see his face better. He was even more handsome than I remembered. He wore a suit, as he always did when on duty, but his black hair was a little longer than usual, like he hadn’t been to see Moxie in awhile. His incredibly dark blue eyes hadn’t changed, though. They were still difficult to read. I’d spent a decent amount of time with Jonathan during our joint murder investigation—not that he’d wanted me as a partner—and he’d only really let his guard down with me three or four times.

  Jonathan was studying me, too, and I suspected that I was failing to pass muster, as usual. I’d once appalled him by sniffing a boot covered with guacamole, and on another occasion, he’d had to pluck cheese from my hair. I doubted that my cape impressed him.

  Then all at once his expressions softened, and he nodded to my bandaged hand. “Are you okay? Do you need me to send down one of the paramedics?”

  “They already fixed me up,” I said, raising my hand again, so he could inspect the mummylike wrap. “This is their professional handiwork.”

  “I suppose I’ll have to ask what happened, later,” he noted.

  I wasn’t sure what he was talking about, and I cocked my head. “Later?”

  “Yes. If I question you. And whoever else had access to this house recently.” He must’ve seen the gleam of interest in my eyes, because he raised one cautionary finger. “Assuming that Miss Flynt’s death is determined to be a homicide. Vonda Shakes isn’t certain yet. I’m only here based upon her early suspicions.”

  My interest had been piqued, but all at once I got a cold knot in the pit of my stomach.

  Piper had probably been in and out of the mansion all day while setting up for the party. If Lillian Flynt had been murdered, would my sister be a suspect again?

  Then I realized that my mother also had access—and probably keys—to the mansion, not to mention a killer instinct.

  “Oh, no,” I muttered. “Here we go again.”

  Jonathan leaned closer. “What was that? Do you have something to say, Daphne?”

  Jeez, it almost seemed like he considered me a potential suspect. Which probably made sense, since I’d found the body.

  “Nothing,” I said, for once holding my tongue. “I’ve got nothing to say.”

  “Why don’t I believe that?” Jonathan asked, with the slightest glimmer of amusement in his eyes. Then he glanced over his shoulder, up the staircase. The whole time we’d been talking, the second floor had been creaking under the weight of the EMTs and police officers, and the corridor had been splashed with light from the moving beams of flashlights. “I need to get upstairs. But don’t go anywhere. And tell your sister, whom I saw out front, to stick around, too.”

  “You should probably know that my mom is also here somewhere,” I said, thinking there was no sense in hiding that fact. “And Moxie.”

  Jonathan was halfway up the stairs, but even by the dim light, I saw his back stiffen. Then he sighed and turned to face me again. “How about Taggart? Is the entire gang here? Is this a reunion of people involved in the last murder?”

  He was referring to Dylan Taggart, a vet tech with my sister’s practice whom I sometimes date
d.

  “Dylan was supposed to come to the fund-raiser,” I said. “But you know that he tends to run late. He’ll probably show up around midnight.”

  Jonathan didn’t reply. Like Piper, he probably didn’t know what to make of Dylan’s refusal to live by the dictates of a clock. My sister sometimes threatened to fire Dylan—a California-transplanted surfer—for wearing board shorts to work and showing up pretty much whenever he pleased.

  “Just tell everyone to stay here,” Jonathan urged. “Moxie, your mother . . . everyone.”

  Before I could respond, the doorbell rang again and he resumed climbing the stairs.

  “That’s probably Detective Doebler,” he added, addressing me over his shoulder. “Please send him upstairs.”

  “Sure,” I agreed, glad for a chance to be genuinely helpful, if only in the smallest way.

  Then I turned around and opened the door, prepared to greet Jonathan’s older partner, who acted more like a subordinate than an equal.

  I couldn’t blame Detective Doebler. Who wouldn’t be cowed by Jonathan?

  Yet, I was again surprised by the person waiting on the porch.

  Far from being a frumpy, middle-aged man in an ill-fitting suit, the visitor was female, gorgeous, blond, and accompanied by two regal greyhounds, who sat completely still on either side of her, like those dog statues that sometimes flank driveways.

  Although I’d never met her before, the woman was also familiar. I’d seen her in several photographs when I’d been snooping around online. In one picture, she’d been kissing Jonathan at a fancy party. And in another she’d stood at his side, wearing a wedding dress.

  I froze like I was carved out of stone, too, and stared stupidly, until she took the initiative to greet me, holding out her hand, smiling broadly, and saying, “Hi. I’m Elyse Hunter-Black.”

  Chapter 8

  “I can’t believe Jonathan’s ex-wife still uses his name,” Moxie noted, rolling cream-colored paint onto the walls of my new cottage’s living room. She wore a vintage men’s blue work shirt, the sleeves rolled up, and she’d secured her hair with a red and white polka dot scarf, so she looked very much like Rosie the Riveter. Apparently, she was going through an “homage” phase. “And Elyse honestly wanted to look at the house again? With a dead person in it?”

  “I only spoke with her for a minute or two, but I got the sense that Elyse Hunter-Black doesn’t let much—including the occasional body—stand in the way of getting what she wants,” I said, pouring more paint into my roller pan.

  Straightening, I took a moment to appreciate how the tiny house was evolving. It had been adorable when Winding Hill’s former caretaker, Mr. Peachy, had occupied it, but now that he was headed for something even smaller—a jail cell—I was brightening the place up a bit. I’d taken down dusty drapes that had all but enveloped the living room, allowing soft light to stream through arched, leaded glass windows. I’d also removed a bunch of worn rugs and polished the wooden floors until they gleamed. Old beams crossed the ceiling, making the house feel sturdy and secure, and a cheerful fire burned in the stone fireplace, dispelling the chill on that gray, gloomy day. I already felt very much at home in the fairy-tale space, and Socrates clearly agreed. He dozed on the single antique Turkish rug I’d placed near the hearth, his big, dappled paws twitching now and then when he dreamed.

  “What do you think she wants?” Moxie asked.

  “What?” I’d lost track of the conversation and had no idea what she was talking about.

  “Elyse Hunter-Black.” Moxie dropped her roller and wiped her sleeve across her face, like she was ready for a break. “What do you think she wants?”

  I put down my roller, too, and led the way to the itty-bitty kitchen, which I didn’t intend to change at all. I loved the soft blue-green color on the cabinets, and the farmhouse sink was perfect for the room. I was even maintaining Mr. Peachy’s windowsill herb garden. It wasn’t the plants’ fault that he’d tried to kill me with a hammer.

  “Elyse definitely wants Flynt Mansion,” I said, putting a pot of water on the stove. Moxie, always able to identify vintage goods, dated the cute, two-burner oven to the mid-twentieth century. But it was in perfect condition. I turned a knob, and gas flames jumped to life with a small whoosh. Then I cut a few pieces of still-warm pumpkin bread from a loaf I’d baked that morning and set them on two small, olive-green plates shaped like oak leaves. “Although Elyse couldn’t really tour the house again last night, except to poke around the first floor a little, Mom’s still confident she’ll make an offer.”

  “I think Elyse wants more than the house,” Moxie said, taking a seat at a spindle-legged, two-person table I was also keeping. Accepting one of the plates from me, she immediately tore a piece off her share of the pumpkin loaf, which smelled deliciously of cloves and nutmeg. “I think she wants Jonathan back.”

  “You haven’t even met her,” I reminded Moxie. Deciding to make chai tea, I dropped some crushed ginger into the water. I’d learned the technique in India. “Elyse left while you were still trying to pry fake ravens out of trees.”

  “I think Piper assigned me that job on purpose,” Moxie complained. She lightly touched a few strands of her still-blond hair, which peeked out from under the kerchief. “Those birds were freaking me out.”

  The water came to a boil, and I added sugar and loose Indian tea, too. A moment later, I streamed in some milk. “Getting back to Elyse . . . Mom says she wants a place away from the city.”

  Moxie rolled her eyes. “And she just had to pick Sylvan Creek? Out of all the little towns in America? She just had to choose the one where her handsome ex-husband lives?”

  “Apparently, she’s also considering shooting a TV show here,” I informed Moxie. Grabbing the pot off the stove, I strained the tea into two earthenware mugs I’d picked up in New Delhi. The tea’s warm, spicy aroma was the perfect antidote to the dreary day. “I told you she’s a high-powered producer with Stylish Life Network, right?”

  “No, you didn’t mention that.” Moxie accepted her mug, lifted it to her lips, and blew gently across the steaming surface. “That’s a pretty big deal.”

  Yeah, it was a big deal. I didn’t aspire to be a New York City power broker or live in a mansion on a hill. I was quite content in a cottage, enjoying a snack with my best friend and a still-sleepy basset hound, who yawned as he entered the kitchen, looking for something to eat. But I had to admit that I’d been a little intimidated by Elyse Hunter-Black, with her hyphenated name, her dark suit and low-cut silk blouse that exuded authority but managed to be feminine, too, and her matched duo of sleek, silver-gray greyhounds, who reminded me more of accessories than companions. Socrates was quiet, but Elyse’s dogs had seemed to float on air, like ghosts. Their toenails hadn’t even clicked on the hardwood when they’d followed Mom and Elyse around the mansion’s first floor, Elyse nodding approval at most features and quickly assessing how to fix those that didn’t meet her standards.

  And then Jonathan had come downstairs to discover the woman he’d married at one point....

  “Daph?” Moxie’s voice brought me back to the present. She snapped her fingers. “You’re daydreaming. I asked what the show’s about.”

  “Something about America’s most pet-friendly small towns,” I said, opening the refrigerator, which was a square little cabinet that Moxie said was more accurately called an icebox. Digging around, I found a container of Liverin’ It Up dog treats I’d made from pureed chicken livers, chicken broth, wheat germ, and eggs. “Apparently, Spa and Paw is one of the businesses that caught her attention,” I added, putting two treats on a plate for Socrates, whose tail quivered in a restrained wag. He really loved liver. “You might help put Sylvan Creek on the map.”

  “I don’t know if I want to be ‘on the map,’” Moxie noted. “I like things the way they are. We have just enough tourists, right now.”

  I kind of agreed.

  “I still think Elyse mainly wants to be near Jonathan
,” Moxie added, sipping her tea. “It’s pretty transparent.”

  I sort of agreed with that, too. But I wasn’t going to speculate with Moxie, who would start spreading rumors all over town. And fortunately, she’d already moved on to a new topic.

  “Do you really think Detective Black might consider Piper, or you—or me—suspects in Miss Flynt’s murder?” she asked. “He hinted at that last night. And he didn’t seem pleased by the fact that your Mom had keys to the place, either.”

  My heart sank every time I thought about being forced to solve another murder before Jonathan could pin it on a Templeton or my best friend. But Moxie’s eyes gleamed, as if she was pleased by the prospect of getting interrogated by Jonathan.

  “As far as I know, Miss Flynt’s death still hasn’t officially been declared a homicide,” I reminded Moxie—and myself. “Jonathan said the coroner’s inquest could take a day. But yes, I assume that if Miss Flynt was murdered, we will all be questioned again. Detective Doebler hardly asked me anything last night.”

  And Jonathan hadn’t questioned me at all, like he’d said he would. I’d been disappointed, because I’d had a few things to tell him, and a lot of questions of my own. Which was probably why Jonathan had assigned his subordinate to debrief me.

  “Well, in the meantime, what do you think about adding a mural to the living room?” Moxie asked, abruptly changing the subject yet again. She turned and swept her arm in the air, as if painting across the wall near the fireplace. “I was thinking that a single, stark, twisty branch, echoing the plum tree outside, might be a cool way to incorporate nature into the space.”

  Moxie was an incredibly talented artist, but her other attempt at large-scale painting, on my van, had gone pretty awry. “Thanks, but I’m going to stick with plain walls for now,” I said. She looked crestfallen, so I added, “I think you might’ve just christened the house, though. How about Plum Cottage?”

  She immediately brightened, and I looked down to see that Socrates had stopped eating for a moment. He also seemed to approve.