Dial Meow for Murder

by Bethany Blake

  “Actually, I checked the fireplace in the bedroom,” I confessed, pouring a big glug of cream into my mug. The coffee was very dark. “I sifted through the ashes.” Jonathan’s frown deepened, and I quickly defended myself. “Before I knew for sure that Miss Flynt was murdered!”

  Jonathan took a sip of black coffee and made a face, but not because the brew was bitter. I’d confused him. “Murder or no murder . . . why would you dig through cinders?”

  “I was curious about something I’d seen burning in the fireplace, the night Miss Flynt died,” I said. “A manuscript. I thought I might find remnants that didn’t burn.”

  Jonathan was still unhappy with me, but he was also intrigued. I saw a spark of interest in his blue eyes. “And . . . ?”

  “Parts of the document didn’t burn,” I said. “Although, what little I could read was incredibly boring historical stuff about Sylvan Creek. Like when we got a second mill, two hundred years ago.”

  Jonathan observed me over the rim of his mug. “I get the sense that you found something of interest, though.”

  “Yes,” I said. “One piece of paper had fragments of a sentence on it. Something about a man named Benedict, whose last name started with the letters f-l-y-n. And the word ‘scandalous.’ Or, at least, most of the word.”

  Jonathan took a moment to consider what I’d just told him. “I’m not sure if that small fragment is important,” he finally said. “But the burning manuscript, overall, could be significant.”

  I was somewhat pleased to think I might have found a clue.

  “I’m pretty sure it was a copy of Asa Whitaker’s soon-to-be-published history of Sylvan Creek,” I added, cradling the warm mug again. “You know him, right? The archivist from the public library?”

  Leaning against the counter, Jonathan nodded. “Yes, I questioned him the other night.”

  He didn’t say more, but I could tell that he’d already judged slight, meek Asa an unlikely killer. And I had to agree. Still, I ventured, “What if Asa unearthed some scandal involving the Flynt family? He and Miss Flynt might’ve argued about him printing the story for the whole world to read.”

  Jonathan set down his mug and crossed his arms over his chest, covering a nearly worn-off Navy logo on an equally worn sweatshirt. “First of all, I doubt the ‘whole world’ will read a history of Sylvan Creek—intriguing as the community is.” He was being sarcastic, and I started to argue that his ex-wife considered the town interesting enough to feature it on TV, but he spoke over me. “And, second, I don’t know if some old scandal is worth killing over.”

  I cocked my head and dared to ask a personal question. “Where are you from?”

  He didn’t answer right away, and I rolled my eyes. “Oh, come on. Your past isn’t that secret!”

  Jonathan didn’t dispute that he kept a pretty tight lid on his personal history. But he did respond, in his clipped, reluctant way. “My father was in the military. We moved around a lot. Everywhere from Berlin to Norfolk.”

  Given my own love of travel, I found that snippet of information very interesting. But it wasn’t the right time to share stories about places we’d visited.

  “So you don’t know what it’s like to be rooted in a small town, like Miss Flynt?” I asked.

  Jonathan watched me warily, like I was trying to trick him. “No . . .”

  “Her family lived in that house for generations,” I reminded him. “The Flynts are . . . were . . . like royalty here. Lillian’s whole life was Sylvan Creek, and I guarantee you that her family’s reputation was a very big deal to her.”

  “You have a point,” Jonathan conceded. I noted that he didn’t say I’d made a good point, but he did promise, “I’ll check the fireplace. And talk to Asa Whitaker again, if I think it’s necessary.”

  I sipped my coffee, my thoughts drifting back to the dark bathroom where I’d discovered Miss Flynt’s body after chasing Tinkleston down the hallway.

  “How do you know Miss Flynt was murdered?” I asked. “How can you be sure that she didn’t just fall in the tub with the CD player?”

  Which Piper had been looking for, that evening. I wondered if Jonathan knew about that.

  “There was a struggle,” he told me. He’d already finished his coffee and shifted to rinse his mug in a spotless, stainless steel sink. Shutting the tap, he faced me again. “And . . .”

  He hesitated, as if he thought he’d already said too much.

  “Oh, just tell me,” I urged. “I’m watching Vonda Shakes’s dog next week. If you don’t explain what happened, she probably will. Or I’ll have Moxie drag the story out of her, the next time Vonda gets her hair cut.”

  “Ah, yes. Moxie Bloom.” Jonathan grinned and rubbed his jaw, where he had that intriguing scar. “Provider of great shaves and collector of Sylvan Creek’s secrets.”

  “She’ll know everything soon—and call me,” I warned him. “So you might as well give me the correct story. Because sometimes facts get blurry when filtered through Spa and Paw.”

  Jonathan paused again, then said, “If you must know, and I guess you must, Miss Flynt had a head injury inconsistent with a fall. And the way the water was splashed around the bathroom . . . There was clearly a struggle.”

  “But the bathtub was almost empty when I found her,” I pointed out.

  “The drain plug on the old tub didn’t fit properly,” he explained, picking up my mug, which was also empty. The dark brew, made richer by the heavy cream, had really grown on me. He set the mug in the sink. “The water probably leaked out between the time she was killed and the time you found her.”

  I wanted to make sure I had the scenario right. “So somebody first conked Miss Flynt on the head, then shoved her in the tub and tossed in the CD player, zapping her.”

  Jonathan nodded, and in spite of the grim topic, I saw a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. “That’s not how I’d put it, but, yes.”

  “Interesting.”

  Still close to laughing, he raised a hand. “Please. Don’t be too interested.”

  I was pressing my luck, but I ventured to request even more details. “So, was Miss Flynt electrocuted? Or was she dead before that?”

  Sometimes, when Jonathan didn’t plan to answer me, he just . . . didn’t. This was one of those times.

  I could only surmise that he had a reason for keeping that sequence of events secret. I was also fairly certain that I wouldn’t get any more information out of him that night. And since we’d both finished our drinks, I hopped off the stool, telling him, “Thanks for the coffee.”

  “My pleasure,” he assured me, leading the way toward the door. “And thank you for the information about the manuscript.” He looked over his shoulder. “But please don’t go back inside Flynt Mansion, which is cordoned off as a crime scene now.”

  I didn’t expect to return to the property, but I didn’t want to make any promises either, so I stayed quiet until we reached the foyer, where a low, upholstered, steel bench was now the centerpiece of the space. “Before I go, can I ask one more question?” I requested. “Please?”

  Jonathan nodded. “Yes. One more.”

  “What happened to the bear?”

  I had hoped the majestic animal had been provided a decent burial. But that wasn’t the case.

  “I sold it to a hunting lodge in Colorado.”

  I reared back. “Colorado? ”

  “Elyse filmed a show there once,” he explained. “Something about ‘great inns of America.’ She contacted the owner and convinced him the bear belonged in his lobby.”

  I felt my eyes widen. “Wow. Talk about selling ice to Eskimos!”

  “Yes, Elyse can be very persuasive,” Jonathan agreed, with a barely suppressed grin. “Now, I suppose we should check on the dogs. It’s not like Artie to leave me alone for very long.”

  I’d almost forgotten that Socrates was outside with Artie and Axis, and I moved to grab the doorknob.

  “But before you go. . .” Jonathan reached pa
st me and rested one hand on the door, stopping me before I could open it. “I’d like to ask a question or two of you, with your vast knowledge of Sylvan Creek society.”

  He’d definitely grabbed my attention, and I looked up at him. “Yes?”

  Jonathan grew thoughtful and spoke more quietly. “If Lillian Flynt was so rooted in Sylvan Creek, and the town was ‘her life,’ to use your own words, why was she selling her ancestral home? Why now? And where was she going?”

  “I’m afraid I have no idea,” I admitted. “And you should probably ask my mother those questions. She told me she didn’t know much about Lillian’s plans. But she might know something.”

  Jonathan was already shaking his head. “Your mother doesn’t seem to know anything about Lillian Flynt’s motives for selling the house. I get the sense that, once Miss Flynt agreed to put the mansion on the market, your mother cared primarily about the financial side of things.”

  “Yeah, that sounds like Mom,” I agreed. Then I searched his eyes, trying to gauge his reaction when I asked, “Is my mother a suspect? Or Piper?”

  “You know I can’t answer that.”

  Yet, he already had. Jonathan was great at hiding his thoughts, but I’d glimpsed something in his eyes right before he’d responded. He definitely considered my mother, or Piper, or both of them, potential killers.

  We stood staring at each other for a long moment. He was obviously well aware that he’d again revealed more than he’d intended, if only for a split second. And I hoped that I wasn’t giving away too much, because sometimes, on those rare occasions when I stood close to Jonathan, like I was doing right then, I couldn’t help but find him not only irritating, but very attractive.

  Who wouldn’t?

  Unfortunately, we were complete opposites and would grate on each other like nails on a chalkboard.

  As I was imagining that awful sound, I actually heard a scratching noise, caused by someone who was outside the door, trying to get in.

  Jonathan and I had been staring pretty intently into each other’s eyes, but we suddenly exchanged quizzical looks.

  Then I opened the door—and gagged a little, into my hand.

  Chapter 17

  “I have no idea how Socrates managed to get ‘skunked,’ while Artie, who is usually—let’s face it—a magnet for disaster, came away smelling perfectly fine,” I complained to Moxie, whom I had on speaker phone. My cell was actually working after resting and charging all day, although I expected it to conk out at any moment. Probably before I had a chance to check several waiting voicemails, which were most likely from Detective Doebler. Taking a cue from my mother, I lit a scented candle while offering a very glum, chastened, and still somewhat stinky basset hound a sympathetic glance. Socrates was hunkered down in his favorite spot by Plum Cottage’s arched stone fireplace, where a fire roared in the grate. The looming storm had finally hit during our chilly ride home from Jonathan’s house, and by the time we’d reached Winding Hill, cold rain was driving in through the van’s windows, which I’d had to keep open. Socrates really reeked. I placed the candle, which smelled like spicy sandalwood, on the mantel. “I wanted to let you know that your peroxide and vinegar mixture helped, though,” I told Moxie, whom I’d consulted the moment we’d arrived home, after a wet, miserable walk through the woods. Now that the crisis had passed, I was calling again to thank her for giving me the recipe for a home remedy. “He’s starting to smell marginally better.”

  “If there’s one thing I know about, it’s getting the stink out of dogs,” Moxie informed me cheerfully. I could picture her in her cozy garret apartment on the top floor of the turreted Victorian building that housed Sylvan Creek’s specialty bookstore, the Philosopher’s Tome. It was getting pretty late, so she almost certainly wore one of her many pairs of vintage Doris Day–inspired pajamas. I had also changed into my jammies, a warm flannel pair, after bathing Socrates. “I once had to clean up a sheepdog that was playing off leash in Pettigrew Park,” Moxie noted. “He somehow managed to roll in three different piles of—”

  “No need to go into detail!” I interrupted, with a glance at Socrates, who cringed. “I get the picture.” I suddenly recalled my interesting encounter near that same park, and I added, “By the way . . .”

  I was about to ask Moxie if she’d seen anyone unusual lurking around town recently when all at once my phone died, just as a huge gust of wind slammed into the cottage and caused the plum tree outside to scrape against the already rattling window.

  The coincidence was kind of creepy, and I looked nervously at the window, half expecting to see a ghostly figure hovering outside. But no one was there, and the spooky mood was quickly broken by the cheerful sound of a timer dinging in the kitchen.

  I wore an oversized pair of fuzzy slippers that matched my pjs, and I shuffled across the wood floor to take a tray of Batty-for-Turkey Treats out of the oven before they burned, ruining them for the cats at Whiskered Away Home, who probably deserved a reward after spending time with Tinkleston.

  Opening the oven door, I bent down and saw that the little bat-shaped cookies, made of ground turkey, Parmesan cheese and crushed crackers, were lightly browned, just like I’d hoped.

  I removed the cookie sheet from the oven and set the treats on the counter to cool, next to an apple and cheddar pie I’d baked for myself earlier in the day.

  Pulling open a drawer, I found a fork and dug right into the pie, cutting through the flaky top crust to reveal thinly sliced, tender Cortland and Granny Smith apples and sharp cheddar cheese. Then, while I savored a big bite, I picked up the can of Cleopatra’s Choice Cuts cat food, which I’d also left on the counter to weigh down the extensive list of supplements Tinkleston was supposed to take. Squinting, I studied the label, turning the can so I could read the food’s ingredients, which were printed in tiny type.

  Corn gluten meal . . . soy . . . propyl gallate . . .

  “What the . . . ?” I mumbled through my bite of pie. I furrowed my brow. “This is all junk!”

  Confused, I kept staring at the list of fillers and artificial flavorings. Then I turned the can over, checking the bottom, and saw a price sticker that was nearly worn away. But I could still read that the food cost only forty-two cents.

  “This makes no sense,” I mused quietly, still holding the can, but digging my fork into the pie again. “Why would Lillian feed Tinkleston cheap, unhealthy food, when she was concerned enough to give him a bunch of expensive vitamins?”

  All at once, my heart sank as I recalled that I’d taken more than just the supplements schedule and curious can of food from Miss Flynt’s kitchen.

  Dropping the fork, but taking the cat food and schedule with me, I hurried across the living room and climbed the spiral staircase up to my loft bedroom, where I tossed the can and paper onto the bed before dumping out a basket full of clothes that were waiting to be washed at Piper’s house, since the cottage didn’t have a washer and dryer.

  Rooting through the pile, I located the skinny black pants I’d worn under my witch cape and dug through the pockets. I quickly found the note I’d accidentally removed from Miss Flynt’s house, in all the confusion surrounding her death.

  Climbing onto the bed, I sat cross-legged, smoothed out the crumpled paper, and reread the instructions for Tinkleston’s care, although the awful penmanship was almost illegible.

  . . . please feed the cat at least once a day and change the litter when necessary.... cell phone reception is poor where I’m traveling.... call a veterinarian. LF.

  “Something’s weird about all of this,” I said quietly, my gaze roaming from the cat food to the supplements schedule to the note. Above me, rain pelted the tin roof, so I could hardly hear myself whisper, “Something doesn’t add up. . . .”

  I’d thought I was talking to myself, until I caught a faint whiff of skunk. Looking up, I realized that Socrates had joined me in the loft. He was watching me with a look of concern, mingled with disapproval.

  “I kn
ow I’m in trouble,” I told him. “I’m starting to think the food and the papers might be clues—which means I shouldn’t have taken them, and Jonathan Black is going to be furious when I turn them over.”

  Socrates sighed loudly and lumbered up onto his purple, velvet cushion. Within minutes, he was sound asleep and snoring. Setting the can, the schedule, and the instructions for Tinks’s care onto my nightstand, I checked my clock and realized it was nearly midnight. Yawning, I climbed under a down comforter Piper had given me as a cottage-warming gift. Just above my head, rain continued to clatter on the tin roof. But as the storm weakened, the sound grew soothing, and I soon found myself drifting off to sleep, too.

  And as my mind relaxed, I finally realized what was wrong with the note someone had left on Lillian Flynt’s counter.

  “Jonathan is going to kill me,” I grumbled, half asleep.

  Then I burrowed deeper under the comforter and soon fell into a deep slumber. One filled with vivid dreams about dark, lonely lakes that were charged with crackling electricity, mysterious figures who moved through a haunted mansion late at night, and yowling black cats, trapped in cages.

  I woke up at dawn, my eyes snapping open and the sound of those cats still echoing in my mind.

  Sitting up, I looked over at Socrates, who was awake, too, and said, “I’m really sorry, and you’re going to hate me, but I have to go get Tinkleston.”

  Chapter 18

  The Whiskered Away Home cat shelter was housed in a sagging, gray barn that was tucked away in a wooded valley about five miles outside Sylvan Creek.

  As my van bumped over the rutted, unpaved road that misty, chilly morning, carrying me deeper into the forest, I seriously considered turning back. The trees that arched overhead were already bare, and their naked, gnarled branches, which twined together across the narrow path, felt like fingers trying to trap and crush me. The woods smelled of decay, too.

  Which was not half as bad as the odor that assaulted me when I got out of the VW.