Dial Meow for Murder

by Bethany Blake

  My mother coughed into her hand, like she was choking on Elyse’s comment.

  “Yes, I’d be happy to watch the dogs whenever you need me,” I said. In fact, my schedule had a big gap, now that three rottweilers I used to walk had been adopted by a loving family with a huge yard and three kids who did agility work with them. Macduff, Iago, and Hamlet got plenty of exercise without me. I glanced at the greyhounds. “I’d love to take care of these two. They’re beautiful. And so well behaved.”

  “Yes, they are well mannered,” my mother agreed, although I knew she wished the dogs weren’t even there. “They are lovely animals.”

  I resisted the urge to roll my eyes, while Elyse beamed proudly and stroked Paris’s—or maybe Milan’s—head.

  I would have to learn to tell the dogs apart. They were nearly identical in color, shared the same placid expressions, and even wore matching three-inch-wide, chokerlike, jeweled collars.

  “Thank you for the compliments,” Elyse said. “But I have to confess that Jonathan trained them, back when we were . . .” Her eyes clouded over, and she didn’t finish her sentence, even though it was pretty obvious she’d been about to say “married.” Then she forced a smile and extended her hand to me. “Do you have a business card, Daphne?”

  “I do have cards,” I said, with a quick glance at my mother, so I could see her look of disapproval when I admitted, “But I have no idea where they are.”

  “No problem.” Elyse reached into a handbag with a familiar designer pattern. I’d seen it on bags sold on Manhattan street corners. I doubted Ms. Hunter-Black was toting around a knockoff, though. She pulled out a phone. “I can just add you to my contacts.”

  “Um, my cell phone isn’t working very well lately,” I said. My mother, who knew that, groaned softly, and I tried to explain to both of them, “I’m kind of in the middle of moving. Things are a little chaotic.”

  “You’re moving, too?” Elyse smiled more broadly. “We have that in common.”

  That was probably the only thing we shared. And we didn’t even have that yet, as my mother reminded Elyse.

  “We need to write up that offer first,” she said. “And determine who is in charge of the estate.” A shadow of concern darkened my mother’s eyes as she finally grasped that her sale might be jeopardized. She’d apparently been so blinded by dollar signs, and the potential to score a local real estate coup by selling Sylvan Creek’s most fabled lakeside property, that for once she’d overlooked an important detail. “I haven’t heard anything about the mansion being taken off the market,” she added. “But I suppose that’s possible, depending on Lillian’s provisions for the house in her will.”

  “I’ve considered that possibility,” Elyse said. “But I refuse to believe that this lovely home isn’t destined to be mine. I’m very eager to take possession of it.”

  Yup, she was definitely used to getting what she wanted.

  “Are you really going to shoot a television show in Sylvan Creek?” I asked. “I heard something about a series on America’s most pet friendly towns.”

  My mother, who had spread that rumor, cleared her throat and fidgeted with some oversized rocks on a chunky necklace that covered half her chest. “Daphne, where would you hear something like that?”

  Mom clearly feared that she’d broken “realtor-client privilege”—a thing I was pretty sure she’d made up—but Elyse just laughed and assured my mother, “It’s okay. It’s no secret.” She addressed me. “Yes, Daphne. I am producing a show about pet friendly communities for my network, Stylish Life. And I really think Sylvan Creek would be perfect for the series. It seems as though animals are very central to life here.”

  “That’s true,” Mom muttered, without much enthusiasm.

  I still wasn’t excited about the prospect of national exposure for Sylvan Creek, but I said, “Well, good luck with the show!”

  “Thanks.” Elyse turned to my mother. “So, what do we do next, about the house?”

  “I’ll contact Larry Fox,” Mom said. “He’s a local attorney. I’m fairly sure he’s in charge of the estate.”

  They were starting to talk serious shop, so I took that as my cue to leave. I picked up the carrier, being careful to avoid paws that were reaching through the bars, swiping at my legs. “There’s some paper in the kitchen,” I said, backing away. “I’ll leave my landline number and some other contact information on the counter, Elyse.” Piper probably wouldn’t mind me handing out her cell number until I fixed the situation with my phone. “Let me know whenever you need help with Paris and Milan. And good luck with the house, too.”

  My Mom and Elyse were already deep in conversation and barely acknowledged my departure, so I headed downstairs, where I found Socrates in the parlor. He still sat in front of the painting, and I glanced at the gorgeous, imperious woman, too.

  Why did she give me such a bad case of the heebie-jeebies?

  “Let’s go,” I said, because Socrates wasn’t moving. He sat with his back to me, but he turned his head, so he could give me—and the carrier—a dubious look.

  Tinkleston seemed to understand that he’d been nonverbally insulted. He made a low growling sound. I’d never heard a cat do that.

  “That’s enough, you two,” I said. “Let’s all try to get along.”

  Socrates reluctantly rose and joined me and Budgely’s Sir Peridot. But he gave the carrier a wide berth.

  I couldn’t blame him. A little paw kept poking out of the side air holes, patting at my jeans. Every few swipes, Tinks’s tiny claws pierced the fabric.

  “Ouch,” I complained, setting the crate on the kitchen floor. Then I began to search for a pen and paper, so I could leave the promised contact information for Elyse.

  That was when I noticed the can of cat food on the counter—and the chart that listed all of the supplements Tinks was supposed to take, hanging on the fridge.

  Hesitating, I pulled the paper from under the magnet, thinking that I should at least try to make sure Tinks got his vitamins, although the regimen looked pretty expensive.

  “Hopefully, Piper will tell me most of this stuff isn’t necessary,” I told Socrates. “Don’t you think a natural diet is usually sufficient?”

  Socrates snuffled agreement. Still, I folded the paper and tucked it into my back pocket. Then I grabbed the can of Tinks’s special food, too, before bending to pick up the carrier and leading the way to the foyer.

  Just as I opened the front door, I heard the sound of vehicles pulling up outside and car doors opening and closing, loudly and decisively.

  I couldn’t ever recall Dylan Taggart slamming a door, and I stepped out onto the porch to discover that a black and white squad car and a plain, dark sedan were parked behind my van, my mother’s SUV, and a sleek pewter BMW that obviously belonged to Elyse.

  Opening my mouth, I started to greet Jonathan Black, who strode toward the mansion, with Detective Doebler and some uniformed officers trailing in his wake.

  But before I could even say hi, Jonathan asked, with ill-concealed frustration, “What in the world compelled so many people to visit the scene of a homicide?”

  Chapter 12

  “Sorry you had to catch this little guy alone,” Dylan said, accepting the cat carrier from me. Inside, Tinkleston hissed and thrashed, so the portable kennel swung wildly. Dylan didn’t seem to notice, nor did he explain why he was so late. His ancient, rusted-out Subaru had pulled up to the mansion just as my mother’s SUV and Elyse’s BMW were driving away. My mother had been in a huff about Jonathan’s apparently curt dismissal, while Elyse had paused at the gate to consider whether she’d tear out the crabapple trees once she took possession of the property. I’d urged her to leave the trees alone. “He really did a number on you, huh?” Dylan noted, setting the carrier on the curb, so he could take one of my arms in his hand and examine it. “You look like you hit a reef without a rash guard.”

  Dylan Taggart often talked in surfing parlance. And he was, as usual, dressed
for the beach that day. In spite of the late-October chill, he wore a pair of blue and red striped board shorts and a T-shirt that advertised a surfing competition he’d participated in two years ago in Maui. The white shirt made his ever present tan appear even deeper and framed his biceps pretty well, too. His sun-streaked hair was pulled back into a ponytail. All in all, he looked like he was ready to jump into the ocean.

  “Can you keep Tinks for a while?” I asked, withdrawing my arm and glancing at the mansion.

  Would Jonathan and his crew check the fireplace?

  Should I go back inside and suggest that they do that . . . ?

  “Sorry, Daph.” Dylan interrupted my speculation. “I’m in a new place for a while. The landlord says no pets.”

  I was so stunned by that news that I forgot all about murder. “You moved ?”

  Dylan grinned, so the corners of his eyes crinkled. “Only a block. It was no big deal. My old lease was up, and I didn’t want to sign on for another year.”

  One block wasn’t too far. But the fact that he’d picked up his few duffel bags’ worth of stuff and switched apartments without even telling me was more proof that people like Dylan and I weren’t cut out for commitments. I hadn’t exactly sent him a change of address card since I’d shifted residences, either.

  “Where should I take the cat?” he asked, more seriously. “Your place?”

  “I don’t think so.” I eyed the carrier warily, worried that Tinkleston might somehow escape. And sure enough, a black puffball of a paw was fiddling with the latch. Then I looked down at Socrates, who stared up at me with disbelief, like he couldn’t fathom why Dylan had made the suggestion. “I disrupt Socrates with a lot of fosters, but I’ve never foisted an aggressive cat on him,” I told Dylan. “I don’t know if that would be fair.”

  “I’ll take Tinks over to Whiskered Away Home,” Dylan said, picking up the carrier. The cat whose fate was in question hurled himself around again, causing the crate to bang against Dylan’s bare leg. He still didn’t seem to notice. That was why Piper didn’t fire him from Templeton Animal Hospital. He always remained calm, which eventually helped frightened patients to do the same. “Bea Baumgartner’ll know how to handle a fractious cat,” Dylan added. “She’s seen everything at the shelter.”

  I wasn’t sure she’d seen the likes of Tinkleston. And I didn’t really like that plan, either. But I didn’t seem to have a choice.

  “Okay,” I agreed. I suddenly recalled how Bea had been so dismissive of purebred, pedigreed cats. “But please tell her it’s only temporary. I’ll find a home for him soon. Or maybe there’s some provision in Miss Flynt’s will.”

  I felt a small shiver go down my spine as I again pictured Miss Flynt’s body in the tub. For some reason, knowing that she’d definitely been murdered made the image even more haunting.

  Dylan’s mind must’ve turned to the homicide, too.

  “I wonder what poor Tinkleston saw the night Miss Flynt got killed,” he mused, shaking his head sadly. He opened his car’s hatch and placed the crate inside. “If only cats could talk, huh?”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “I guess the mystery would be solved.”

  Stepping behind the car, I bent down and peered at Tinkleston’s face, which was pressed against the bars. His naturally downturned mouth was even more severely inverted than usual, and I swore I saw sadness and accusation in his eyes.

  My heart tugged, and I straightened, then took a step backward so Dylan could shut the hatch.

  “Hey, sorry I was late,” he finally apologized, wiping his hands on his shorts to clean them of dirt from his car. There was probably some California sand on the bumper of that wreck, which was even worse than my van. The body was riddled with corrosion, the plastic on one of the headlights was cracked, and the window on the rear passenger side had a bad habit of sliding down into the door if Dylan drove more than a mile, as he’d done that day. I hoped Tinks didn’t get too cold on his ride to Whiskered Away. “I’d like to make it up to you,” Dylan added. “Especially since you got so scratched up.”

  I waved off the suggestion. “Don’t worry about it. I’m fine.”

  “No, really,” he said. “How about meeting me for dinner at the Wolf Hollow Mill? Tomorrow night?” Dylan and I usually split the check when we went out, and he must’ve seen me mentally calculating the cost of a meal and drinks at Sylvan Creek’s most expensive restaurant, because he assured me, “It’s my apology, so my treat.”

  I didn’t know how Dylan could afford dinner at the Mill. And I wasn’t sure that I wanted to meet up at a place known for its romantic, classy atmosphere. Usually, Dylan and I went to the Lakeside, a seafood shack that teetered on a pier above Lake Wallapawakee. A vegan, he ate lettuce and tomatoes normally used as burger garnishes, because there wasn’t even a salad on the menu, and I ate whatever cheese was available that night, usually in the form of gooey, melted mozzarella sticks or nacho topping.

  Were we really going to eat thirty-dollar entrées in a gorgeous stone house dating back to the 1700s?

  My continued reluctance must’ve been written all over my face. “They have a really cool bar, if you don’t want to eat in the fancy dining room,” he said. “You’ll recognize lots of people from the Lakeside.”

  I still didn’t understand how he planned to pay. Even pub food would be expensive at Wolf Hollow. But what he was suggesting did sound fun. And he did owe me.

  “Okay,” I agreed, with one last glance at the mansion. I couldn’t help wondering what was going on in there. But I knew that Jonathan wouldn’t want me to so much as peek in the windows, and I faced Dylan again. “I’ll meet you there.”

  Dylan grinned and opened his mouth to respond. Then something to my right caught his attention, and for the first time I could recall, his eyes widened with alarm.

  Needless to say, I spun around, and a moment later cried out, “Tinkleston! No!”

  Chapter 13

  “You’re going to be just fine,” Piper promised Socrates, dabbing antiseptic onto his nose, which Tinkleston had scratched after escaping from his carrier and jumping out of the Subaru’s perpetually open window. Fortunately, Dylan had quickly scooped up and crated the fearsome little Persian, suffering a few minor injuries in the process. However, Dylan hadn’t bled like poor Socrates, who was, of course, acting stoic. I knew that he was mainly pained to be the center of attention—and he hated visiting Piper’s office, too. But he sat quietly, enduring my sister’s ministrations until she backed away from the silver exam table, stepped on a pedal at the base of a shiny trash can, and disposed of a few soiled cotton balls. “Honestly, it’s just a deep scratch,” she assured me, moving to the sink to wash her hands. “Dogs’ noses and ears tend to bleed a lot, if nicked.”

  “Well, thanks for taking care of him,” I said, pressing a different foot pedal. One that lowered the table so Socrates could jump off without assistance. Nothing would have mortified him more than to be lifted. Even the slow ride toward the floor clearly embarrassed him. But he kept his muzzle high as he descended at a snail’s pace. I pretended I didn’t even notice. “I got worried when he was still bleeding now and then, after hours had passed.” Socrates stepped off the table with as much dignity as possible and walked directly to the door, signaling that he was ready to leave. Then I gave my sister a quizzical look as I removed my foot from the pedal. “And speaking of time,” I added. “What are you doing here so late on a Sunday evening? You can’t have that much paperwork, can you?”

  “There’s always paperwork when you run a business with high liability and several employees,” Piper said, drying her hands with a paper towel. She tossed that into the trash can, too. The lid clanged shut. “And since I was summoned to town anyway, to speak with detectives Black and Doebler, I stopped in here to get some things done.”

  I drew back. “You were already questioned?”

  Piper nodded. “Yes. Briefly.”

  “So, what did they ask you about?” I inquired, feelin
g strangely slighted. Not that I wanted to be interrogated under a spotlight, but I had been at the scene of the crime. I was also concerned for my sister. “Are you a suspect?”

  “I don’t think so.” Piper leaned against the exam room’s counter and crossed her arms over the lab coat she’d donned when I’d brought in the day’s only patient. “They were both curious about my wet shirt, since Miss Flynt struggled with whoever pushed her into the bathtub, but Pastor Pete apparently corroborated my—true—story about moving the tub full of apples.” She shrugged. “Plus, I had no motive to kill Miss Flynt.”

  “Yes, I guess motive is always the key,” I noted softly.

  Then I grew preoccupied, trying to picture everyone I’d seen the previous night.

  Tamara Fox, who was tired of playing second fiddle as a philanthropist.

  Bea Baumgartner, who’d complained bitterly about Miss Flynt’s preference for purebred cats.

  Archivist Asa Whitaker and his wife, librarian Martha.

  That spectral young woman in the shadows . . .

  “Daphne, you’re getting a funny gleam in your eyes,” Piper said, snapping me back to reality. “And I bet you did more than retrieve Tinkleston from Flynt Mansion. You snooped, didn’t you?”

  Socrates, still waiting by the door, made a grunting sound to let Piper know that she’d guessed correctly.

  “Hey!” I cried, glancing down at him. Then I turned back to Piper. “I just looked around a little.”

  “Daphne . . .” There was admonition in my sister’s tone. “There’s no reason for you to investigate this murder!”

  All at once, I pictured one more person who’d been inside Flynt Mansion the previous night.

  “What about Mom?” I noted.

  My restless, perfectionist sister had begun straightening up the already tidy counter, but she turned to shoot me a quizzical look. “What about her?”

  “Mom was in the house with Miss Flynt, preparing to seal a million dollar real estate deal,” I pointed out. Not that I believed my mother was capable of murder, but a plausible scenario quickly came to mind. “What if Miss Flynt had changed her mind about selling her ancestral home? What if she was about to cost Mom a big commission and ruin our mother’s chance to brag about being the realtor who sold Flynt Mansion?”