Dial Meow for Murder

by Bethany Blake

  Even as I speculated, I realized that my scenario was almost too plausible. And Piper’s cheeks got pale. “Daphne,” she cautioned me again, more gravely. “Don’t ever say anything like that to Detective Black. He’ll no doubt look at money as a possible motive, but don’t give him any ideas.”

  “I won’t,” I promised, raising my right hand. “I will keep my big mouth shut. I swear.”

  Piper, Socrates, and I got quiet for a moment, and I knew that we were all guiltily wondering just how ambitious Maeve Templeton really was.

  Then I shook off the image of my mother arguing with Miss Flynt and reached into my back pocket.

  “If I promise you it has nothing to do with investigating, and everything to do with proper cat care, would you take a look at something I found at the mansion?” I requested, unfolding the list of Tinkleston’s supplements. I offered Piper the chart. “It’s Miss Flynt’s attempt to keep track of all the extra vitamins and minerals she gave Tinkleston.”

  Piper was clearly skeptical, but she accepted the paper. Then she frowned as she read aloud. “Probiotic. . . salmon oil . . . immune booster . . .”

  “Does he really need all that stuff ?” I asked. All at once, I started to worry that maybe something was wrong with Tinkleston, in which case he probably shouldn’t be in a cat shelter, even temporarily. “Is he sick, that you know of ?”

  Piper shook her head and handed the paper back to me. “No. He’s a very healthy cat. I just saw him a few weeks ago. These supplements probably aren’t harmful, but they are overkill. A young cat like Tinkleston should be able to have his nutritional needs met with food. Especially the kind of high quality stuff I’m sure Lillian buys.”

  “She feeds him something called Cleopatra’s Choice Cuts,” I said, wishing yet again that I’d remembered to give Dylan the can of food I’d taken from the mansion. In the excitement over Tinkleston’s near escape, I’d accidentally walked away with it. “I’ve never heard of the brand,” I added. “Have you?”

  “No, I haven’t.” Piper moved to the door, opening it for Socrates, who trotted into the hallway. “Which probably means it’s ridiculously expensive.” Piper must’ve seen that I was still concerned about how Tinks would fare at Whiskered Away. “But, trust me, he’ll be fine with cheaper food for a while.”

  My sister obviously wanted to return to work, so I followed her and Socrates out to the waiting room, where she unlocked the front door. Socrates couldn’t get outside fast enough, although the street was unwelcomingly dark by then, and the air was pretty chilly.

  “Well, thanks again for taking care of Socrates,” I said, stepping out onto the sidewalk, too. “You’ll send me a bill, right . . . ?”

  “Good night, Daphne.” Piper moved to close the door without answering my question, but she told Socrates, “And don’t bother your nose. It could start bleeding again, and I know you want to be spared the indignity of a bandage.”

  The door clicked shut before either of us could reply, leaving me and Socrates alone on Market Street. The town was closed down for the night, but most of the businesses’ windows glowed with holiday-themed lights, and I took a moment to look around at the displays.

  Tessie Flinchbaugh’s pet emporium, Fetch!, was perhaps the most elaborately decorated shop, and I found myself walking across the street to get a closer look. “Come on, Socrates,” I said, smiling. “Let’s go check out Tessie’s handiwork.”

  Socrates didn’t appear too intrigued, but he followed along, his toenails clicking on the quiet street.

  When we reached Fetch!, we both stopped in front of two large windows, which were even more impressive up close.

  On one side, Tessie had dressed the store’s mascot, a life-sized, plush Irish wolfhound, as a were-wolfhound. The big stuffed dog wore a shredded men’s shirt, so it looked like he’d ripped his clothes while transforming, and Tessie had put a set of menacing teeth in his open mouth. The other window had a feline theme. Tessie had painted and carved about ten pumpkins to look like black cats, and she’d placed lights inside each one, causing their eyes to glitter orange from within.

  I couldn’t help but think of Tinkleston and, feeling guilty, I glanced down at Socrates. “I hope Tinks really is okay at the shelter.”

  Socrates pretended he didn’t hear the comment, so I returned my attention to the display, which wasn’t just for aesthetic purposes. Tessie was also trying to sell premium cat food. Expensive cans of organic Natural-Path Salmon Filet Dinner were stacked in pyramids, with the promise of a discount for anyone who bought ten at a time.

  I tried to look past the display into the store, wondering if Tessie sold Cleopatra’s Choice Cuts. But I couldn’t see anything, and Socrates was growing restless. He moved to the street, so I followed him back toward the van, which was parked between Piper’s practice and one of Sylvan Creek’s few empty storefronts.

  I still missed Giulia Alberti’s Italian coffee shop, Espresso Pronto, which she’d abandoned while fleeing an abusive relationship with local banker Christian Clarke. I couldn’t blame Giulia—she’d done the right thing—but I’d loved her biscotti and the atmosphere in the café, which was decorated in a Tuscan style, with warm, terracotta-colored walls and a rustic stone floor.

  Although Socrates was waiting impatiently by the VW, I took a moment to cup my hands around my eyes and peek into the shop, standing on tiptoes so I could see over a Templeton Realty FOR RENT sign—and a poster someone had tacked up, advertising a haunted hayride to benefit Pastor Pete Kishbaugh’s Lighthouse Fellowship Church. I drew back for a second and studied that ad more closely. The flyer featured scary pictures of maniacal clowns and zombies, and the challenge, Ride . . . If You Dare! Followed by, All proceeds benefit Lighthouse Fellowship community service projects. For more information, or to be a volunteer ghoul, contact Tamara Fox at tfox@lighthouse.com.

  Wasn’t a macabre hayride a strange fund-raiser for a church?

  When Lillian Flynt was in charge of Lighthouse Fellowship’s treasury, she used to set up a bake sale table at Sylvan Creek’s annual Howl-o-Ween Pets ’n People Costume Parade to raise money for the church’s soup kitchen and Pastor Pete’s missionary trips.

  “Oh, well,” I said softly, trying to look inside the bistro again. By the light of a street lamp behind me, I could see that Espresso Pronto’s dark, wooden tables were still scattered around the small dining area, and the glass case that used to be filled with delicious Italian pastries remained in place.

  “This is such a cute space,” I mused aloud, causing steam to form on the glass. I wiped away the cloud with my sleeve. “It could be a bakery again, for people—or pets. . . .”

  All at once, Lillian Flynt’s words echoed in my mind.

  “Well, get to it, Daphne!”

  Then my thoughts were interrupted by a low “woof,” coming from behind me.

  Pulling back from the window, I turned to see that Socrates, who almost never barked, was standing at attention. His body was stiff, and his tail pointed straight up. His hackles were raised, too.

  I’d only seen Socrates look like that once before, on the day old Mr. Peachy had tried to bludgeon me.

  The hairs on the back of my neck stood up, and I tried to find whatever was bothering my normally unflappable canine friend.

  For a moment, I didn’t see anything moving except swirling leaves, because the wind was picking up.

  Then I noted that Socrates’s nose pointed like the needle of a compass down the street, toward Pettigrew Park’s entrance, which was lined with bodies impaled on sticks.

  “They’re just scarecrows,” I told Socrates, nearly laughing with relief to realize that he was spooked by a display erected every autumn by the Sylvan Creek Garden Club—Lillian Flynt, former president. “They’re not really people.”

  Socrates didn’t seem reassured. He continued to stare in the direction of the park, and the ridge of fur that ran along his long spine remained raised.

  I was about to laugh at him aga
in when I looked at the park one more time—and one of those scarecrows slipped into the shadows.

  Chapter 14

  The wind continued to rise in advance of a storm as Socrates and I walked down a heavily wooded driveway, shortly after watching a scarecrow seemingly come to life, and I couldn’t help jumping every time the branches overhead creaked and the fallen leaves rustled, as if disturbed by unseen feet.

  “I know I’m edgy,” I told Socrates, who had resumed his normal, placid demeanor. In fact, he seemed somewhat amused by my fears, and I reminded him, “You were nervous, too, back at Pettigrew Park. Not to mention a wreck at Piper’s office!”

  Socrates swung around to look up at me, his doggy eyebrows raised, as if he disputed those statements.

  I knew that he was also skeptical about my decision not to go straight home to Plum Cottage. At the last moment, I’d skipped a crucial turn in the road and gone straight, headed deeper into the Pocono Mountains, driving about twenty minutes until we’d arrived at our current destination.

  The wind gusted again, and I was glad to see lights glowing in an A-frame cabin just a few yards ahead of us.

  Still, I looked over my shoulder, half expecting to discover a somewhat familiar person following us.

  I hadn’t gotten a good look at the individual who’d lurked amid the scarecrows, but I was pretty sure Socrates and I had been observed by the young woman I’d seen at Flynt Mansion, right before I’d discovered Miss Flynt’s body.

  The ghostly girl in the flowing tunic had stood alone then, too.

  Who was she?

  And what was she doing in a lonely park, after dark?

  Last but not least . . .

  Socrates and I had arrived at the house, and I raised my hand to knock on the door, which swung open, as if our visit had been anticipated.

  I probably should’ve greeted Jonathan Black, who stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed, but instead, I blurted the final question that kept nagging at me.

  “Why in the world haven’t you asked me anything about the murder?”

  Chapter 15

  “Detective Doebler tried to contact you several times,” Jonathan informed me, still leaning against the door frame. The entrance was also blocked by Jonathan’s chocolate Lab, Axis, who sat quietly by his person’s side after trying to greet Socrates with a sniff. Socrates had politely declined, although he liked Axis well enough. “But apparently, you don’t answer your cell phone or respond to voicemail,” Jonathan continued. “And, from what I understand, you don’t have an answering machine connected to your landline, either.”

  I suddenly pictured my unreliable cell phone, which was sitting on my kitchen counter, where I’d left it charging all day while I’d been out and about. And I wasn’t sure how I’d hook up an answering machine to the old rotary dial phone that Mr. Peachy had left behind at Plum Cottage.

  “But still . . .”

  “Moreover, our first priority was to interview all of the people who were roaming around Lillian Flynt’s property in the hours before her death,” Jonathan added, talking right over me. “By all accounts, you arrived pretty late on the scene, compared to quite a few other people.”

  I was about to argue that I had nevertheless observed a lot that night, when I was distracted by a soft yipping sound, coming from deep inside the house.

  I looked down at Socrates, whose ears were keener than mine, and saw his tail twitch slightly as the noise grew closer, accompanied by the click of toenails on hardwood, right before a one-eared Chihuahua with a severe overbite darted out from behind Jonathan and launched himself at Socrates.

  “Artie!” I cried, bending down and scooping up the exuberant little dog, to prevent him from crashing into a much more subdued basset hound. Artie didn’t skip a beat and immediately transferred his affection to me. Within seconds, my face was covered with the tiny canine’s trademark drool. “It’s good to see you, too,” I promised him, wiping at my cheeks with my sleeve. Grinning, I again looked at Socrates, who appeared pleased to see his only true nonhuman friend. I hugged Artie, who squirmed with glee. “We’ve both missed you!”

  Artie wiggled harder, and I set him down so he and Socrates could finally have a more restrained reunion. The two dogs bumped muzzles, Artie shivering with happiness, while Socrates’s tail took a few uncharacteristically wide swings. Then Artie gazed up at Jonathan with wide, hopeful eyes.

  I had been worried about whether a reserved detective and a hyper Chihuahua would find a way to communicate, but apparently Jonathan and Artie had connected on some level.

  As the high-spirited pup continued to stare up at him, Jonathan rolled his eyes, sighed, and said, “Fine.” Then he stepped aside and extended the invitation I’d been waiting for, the whole time I’d been standing on the porch, trying to see past him into the house I’d first shown him months before. “Won’t you all please come inside?”

  Chapter 16

  The dogs chose to play outside, to the extent that Socrates would play. But I accepted Jonathan’s invitation and stepped past him into the house, where I had to stifle a gasp of surprise, to see how he’d transformed the A-frame cabin, which had previously been owned by womanizing dog trainer Steve Beamus.

  When Steve had occupied the property, the furniture had been made of deer antlers, the only artwork had been an oversized painting of an elk, and worst of all, Steve had used a taxidermied grizzly bear as a coatrack.

  But as I walked into the home’s expansive, open living space, I realized that all of the man cave decor was thankfully gone.

  “This is incredible,” I told Jonathan, who closed the door behind us.

  The log structure was still masculine, but the furnishings were modern and sleek. Industrial-looking wood and metal stools flanked the breakfast bar, which had an updated concrete countertop. A deep gray, clean-lined sectional defined the living room, which was anchored and softened by an oversized, artfully worn antique rug in muted shades of red and pale blue. I also noted that two matching dog beds—one large and one small—were placed right next to the couch, within reach of anyone who might absently pat a retriever, or a Chihuahua, while watching TV.

  Then I noticed that the huge flat screen that used to dominate the room was also missing. In fact, there was no television at all. The new focal point was the stone fireplace, in which a large stack of logs burned, warming the house.

  But the biggest change, aside from the absence of the grizzly bear, was the addition of a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf that took up most of one wall. The shelf was so tall that Jonathan had installed a ladder on wheels, so he’d be able to reach the volumes at the top.

  I was very interested to know what Jonathan Black read in his spare time and hoped I’d get the opportunity to explore.

  In the meantime, I told him, “This place looks amazing. You have a real talent for decorating.”

  He smiled. “Thanks, but this is all Elyse’s handiwork. She insisted on helping me—for which I’m grateful. I’d probably still have the bear in here if it weren’t for her.”

  I should’ve known that the stylish woman who produced shows for a network that was all about decorating and living well had planned the space.

  “Is that how she found Flynt Mansion?” I inquired, trailing Jonathan toward the kitchen. “While she was redecorating your place?”

  Jonathan nodded. “Yes. Elyse saw the property and decided that it had to be her next project.” He gestured for me to take a seat on one of the tall stools at the breakfast bar. “Along with creating a show about pet friendly towns. But I think she’s most excited about tackling the mansion’s renovation.”

  “My mother is actually worried about whether she’ll be able to sell the house now,” I noted, thinking that, if Moxie’d been there, she would’ve informed Jonathan that Elyse also wanted proximity to him. I didn’t mention that, though, and added, “I guess a lot depends on how Miss Flynt disposed of the property in her will.”

  �
��I have a feeling Elyse will end up with the house,” Jonathan said. Opening a cupboard, he took down two mugs and filled them with coffee from a shiny, black and silver machine. Then he set one of the drinks in front of me. “Now, why don’t you tell me why you were snooping around the day after you found yet another body?”

  “First of all, it’s my mother’s fault that I found Miss Flynt,” I said, wrapping my hands around the mug and inhaling the slightly bitter, almost chocolatey scent of the coffee. “She sent me upstairs to find Tinkleston—”

  “What is a Tinkleston?” Jonathan interrupted me.

  “That’s the cat’s name,” I said, holding out my arm to show him the old and new red tracks. “The one that scratched me.”

  “Really? ‘Tinkleston’?” He arched an eyebrow. “No wonder he lashes out.”

  “Yes, everyone seems to agree that Tinkleston’s name contributes to his foul temper.”

  Jonathan moved to the refrigerator to get some cream, and he spoke over his shoulder. “And you returned to the house . . . ?”

  “Because I was worried about Tinks,” I explained. “I went back to make sure he wasn’t still locked away in Miss Flynt’s bedroom.”

  Jonathan closed the refrigerator door. When he turned around, I saw that he was frowning. “But you did more than check on the cat.”

  I felt my cheeks flush. “How did you know . . . ?”

  “I didn’t.” Jonathan set a container of cream in front of me. “I just assumed. Plus, your face and jeans were smeared with dirt, for some reason.” He studied my cheeks, perhaps trying to recall how I’d looked the previous day, then guessed, “Maybe you crawled around the attic? Or basement?”