Dial Meow for Murder

by Bethany Blake

  My nose wrinkled as I caught a big whiff of cat urine.

  Then I pulled the hood of my sweater up over my curls, tucked a container filled with Batty-for-Turkey cat treats under my arm, and tramped through a thick carpet of wet leaves to a door with a hand-lettered, sloppy sign that said CALL AHEAD TO SEE CATS!

  I knew a thing or two about encouraging pet adoption, and I didn’t think Bea Baumgartner was using quite the right approach. The shelter’s name was cute, but I half feared someone was going to swoop down and “whisker” me away—to a shallow grave.

  Which was probably why I nearly jumped out of my cowgirl boots when someone behind me snapped, “Step away from the door, missy. Or else.”

  Chapter 19

  “I’m sorry, Daphne,” Bea Baumgartner said, as she unlocked the barn door. “I didn’t recognize you with your hood up. And living out here alone, I don’t like trespassers.”

  “The mist is making my curls a disaster. . . .” I started to explain why I’d semiconcealed my identity when I glimpsed my van out of the corner of my eye.

  Hadn’t the pink VW with the misshapen dog—and my name—on the side given Bea a clue as to who was visiting? Hadn’t she noticed my van when she’d stepped out of her trailer home, which was nearly hidden in a huge thicket of huckleberry about twenty yards from the barn?

  “Your hair looks just fine,” Bea assured me. She continued to fumble with padlocks. The shelter was sealed like Fort Knox. Wasn’t she in the business of giving cats away? “You young girls all worry too much about how you look,” she added, shaking her head and tsk-tsking.

  I agreed, in theory, that people shouldn’t put too much emphasis on appearance. But I thought Bea might want to worry a tiny bit more about how she looked. Her outfit that day consisted of gray sweatpants with dirty elastic around the ankles, a shapeless Sylvan Creek High sweatshirt that had seen better days, to put it mildly, and a knit cap with three large holes near its fluffy puffball top. All in all, Bea looked like she’d just come from playing a game of touch football at which she’d been attacked by moths.

  “I suppose you’re here for Tinkleston,” she said, stepping aside so I could enter the barn first. “Or Sir Peridot Budgley . . . whatever Lillian called him.”

  I caught what sounded like a sneer in her voice when she said both those names. But I didn’t check to see if Bea’s expression matched her tone. I was too busy gawking at the barn’s interior. Although the light that filtered through some high windows was dim and made hazier by floating bits of hay and dust, I began to locate cat. After cat. After cat.

  They were hidden everywhere. I spied a calico behind a small tractor I’d probably be able to repair with the help of Mr. Peachy’s old manual. A gray tiger sat upon a crossbeam, high above me. And three white kittens played in a stall that would’ve once housed cows or horses.

  I started to set the container of treats on a messy desk that Bea must’ve used for the completion of paperwork, if any cats were ever really adopted, only to be startled when a fat orange tom rubbed against my knuckles.

  Each time I blinked, I found more felines. It was like they multiplied in the moments I had my eyes closed.

  “Wow, you’ve got a lot of cats here,” I said, resisting the urge to cover my nose with my hand. The smell of urine that I’d noticed outside was almost overwhelming inside. Nearly as bad as the previous night’s skunk smell. “A lot of cats.”

  “It’s a shelter,” Bea reminded me flatly.

  Was it, really?

  And had Dylan seriously thought this barn was a good place to drop off Tinkleston, whom I hadn’t located yet?

  I watched as the gray tiger trotted across the beam, which dripped with old cobwebs. For a second, I thought Bea had decorated for Halloween, then I shuddered as I realized the drifting strands were the real thing.

  And the crowding.

  Not to mention the smell . . .

  The great German philosopher Immanuel Kant once said, “We can judge the heart of a man by his treatment of animals.”

  What did Bea’s shelter say about her?

  “Are you sure you want the Persian?” Bea asked, interrupting my thoughts. “He seems mean—like a lot of purebreds—and I have lots of other friendly cats you could adopt.”

  “I don’t think purebreds are necessarily mean,” I objected, turning to see that Bea was surrounded by felines. They twined around her legs like furry snakes. I loved cats, but the image was unnerving. “And I’m not adopting Tinkleston,” I told her. “I’m just keeping him for a while. I feel responsible for him, for some reason.”

  “I don’t know why so many people give preference to purebreds,” Bea complained, misunderstanding my comments. “Lillian, who worked for every charity in town, wouldn’t support Whiskered Away. I had to beg her for a few pennies, here and there, to support non-pedigreed cats. She had no time for us!”

  I noted that Bea seemed to lump herself right in there with the cats. Clearly, she felt neglected, too.

  “Lillian didn’t like anything without a pedigree,” Bea added, two little pink spots forming on her lined cheeks.

  She was way too agitated, but I felt like I had to defend Miss Flynt. “I don’t think that’s true. Lillian was a great supporter of Fur-ever Friends. Most of the dogs who pass through there are mixed breeds and strays with no papers. But she was a huge advocate.”

  That was the wrong thing to say.

  “Yes,” Bea agreed, her mouth set in a firm line. “She did dote upon Fur-ever Friends—and earn a lot of recognition for supporting that more prominent organization. Otherwise, she was obsessed with bloodline.”

  I didn’t believe that. I suspected that—like me—Lillian hadn’t been sure if Bea was helping, or hoarding, cats.

  “I tried to show her how desperate we are here,” Bea noted, her voice rising again. “Pleaded for support, because this shelter is in trouble.” That was obvious. I blamed poor leadership. “I told her that I was reduced to feeding the cats this!”

  Bea bent down out of my sight for a moment. Then she hoisted a whole crate of cat food up from the floor and thudded the box down onto her desk, sending the orange tom running.

  My heart jumped at the sound, too—and at the sight of eighty cans of Cleopatra’s Choice Cuts.

  Make that seventy-nine cans, because one was obviously missing. There was a hole in the plastic wrapping, and an empty spot in the cardboard packaging.

  All at once, I got a tickly feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  Just how much had Bea hated Lillian?

  Enough to push her into a bathtub for refusing to support Whiskered Away Home?

  And when, exactly, had Bea confronted Miss Flynt?

  I was afraid to ask, because I could tell that, as Bea’s anger faded, she realized that she’d just admitted to arguing with a murder victim.

  We stood watching each other warily. Bea probably wondered if I’d share everything she’d just told me with the police, while I hoped she wouldn’t silence me for good, right there in that barn.

  “I’ll get your Persian,” she finally said quietly.

  “Okay,” I agreed, taking a step backward. Toward the door. “Thanks.”

  I didn’t dare breathe until she tromped away from me through the hay, her heavy work boots thumping on the wooden floor.

  “I’m afraid that I couldn’t let him out with the others,” she grumbled over her shoulder. “He’s still in his crate. You’ll have to clean it.”

  My hands were scratched up, but my heart suddenly ached, too, for a cat who might’ve had a bad temper, but who had to be confused and terrified, not to mention dirty after a night in a small, enclosed space.

  Poor Tinkleston.

  Was he really that bad, or had Bea taken her anger at Miss Flynt out on an innocent—okay, somewhat innocent—animal?

  “Here he is,” Bea said, emerging from one of the stalls, carrier in hand. Trudging back through the hay, she handed Tinks to me. “Good luck.”

&
nbsp; I accepted the crate and raised it as high as I could, so I could see inside.

  Tinkleston was curled in a ball, so I couldn’t see his unusual eyes, but I didn’t think he was sleeping. Then, without warning, he erupted, rushing at the bars of the carrier, yowling shrilly and swiping his paws at me. I nearly fell over backward and barely managed to keep from dropping him.

  “Good luck,” Bea said again, deadpan.

  “We’ll be okay,” I assured her, although I wasn’t positive about that. I was certain that I’d done the right thing by claiming Tinkleston, though. Still, I wanted to be polite, and said, “Thanks for watching him.”

  Bea didn’t say, “No problem.” Or, “My pleasure.” She didn’t respond at all.

  I moved toward the exit, backing up so I could keep an eye on Bea. Then I finally turned and pushed open the door, again noticing the note that warned people to call before visiting.

  The handwriting was very sloppy.

  Was there a chance it matched the scrawling script on the note in Miss Flynt’s kitchen? The one I’d found under a can of Cleopatra’s Choice Cuts?

  I really didn’t want to be murdered in a lonely barn, but my curiosity was so strong that I couldn’t help but risk getting killed among cats. I paused, halfway out the door, then asked, as casually as I could, “So . . . did Lillian donate anything, the last time you talked to her?”

  Because if she hadn’t, Bea might’ve gone berserk....

  Bea gave me a funny look, like she didn’t understand the admittedly nosy question, so I added, “If she didn’t, and you’re totally strapped for cash, I could bake and sell some pet treats, to help you raise money.”

  Bea still didn’t respond to what I thought was a pretty generous offer, and I started to worry that she was about to reach for one of the many farm implements that hung on the barn walls. The shelter was filled with sharp, rusty, old things that I probably should’ve thought about, before provoking a possible killer.

  Then all at once Bea answered, telling me, through gritted teeth, “No. Lillian wouldn’t give me another dime—even though I threatened to finally tell the whole world that we were sisters!”

  Chapter 20

  “I hate to admit it, but I sort of miss you living in the farmhouse,” Piper said, sitting down on my former bed, which was stripped to the bare mattress. Socrates also tried to make himself comfortable on a rug, in the absence of his velvet cushion. The bedroom where I’d “squatted,” to use Piper’s term, was nearly empty, with the exception of a few boxes of clothes, some of which I needed for my date with Dylan at the Wolf Hollow Mill that night. “It’s very quiet here now,” my sister added. “Especially since Artie is gone, too.”

  I was sweeping my hair up into a loose updo, but I turned from my intricately carved Thai mirror, which I also planned to take to the cottage, to smile at Piper. “I could easily move back in. Or I could bring Tinkleston to stay with you. He certainly livens up a room!”

  “Umm, no,” Piper objected, too quickly. “I’ll get used to the calm soon. You just keep packing.”

  I wasn’t sure which potential roommate she found more disagreeable—the ill-tempered cat or her own sister.

  “How’s Tinkleston doing?” Piper asked. “Is he settling in?”

  Socrates answered that question before I could, with a barely audible, but low and menacing, growl.

  “Can Socrates stay here while I’m out?” I asked Piper. I gave the disgruntled basset hound a worried glance. “I’m afraid to leave him alone with Tinks. So far, they aren’t getting along.”

  “Sure,” Piper agreed. “Even the most sedate dogs have been known to get aggressive when a cat encroaches on their territory.”

  “I’m actually afraid Tinkleston will hurt Socrates again,” I said, slipping a wide, silver cuff around my wrist. I also wore a jewel-toned teal, velvet, sleeveless top that I thought went well with my grayish green eyes, and a long black skirt that was fitted through my hips but had an understated mermaid flare near the hem. I hoped the outfit was fancy enough for Wolf Hollow. “When I left Tinks, he was hunkered down on top of the icebox, and he had a funny gleam in his eyes. I think he’s plotting revenge for the sponge bath I tried to give him.”

  “You did the right thing, removing him from Whiskered Away,” Piper assured me. I’d filled her in on my strange encounter with Bea. “She couldn’t keep him in that crate forever.” Piper frowned. “Do you really think Bea is Lillian’s sister? Or is Bea getting delusional, living alone out there with all those cats?”

  I swept some blush onto my cheeks. “I’m honestly not sure. But it sounds like she tried to use her claim of sisterhood to blackmail Miss Flynt into supporting Whiskered Away. Then Bea started mumbling about that ‘bloodline’ thing again, which seems to be her obsession. . . .” I shrugged. “I have no idea if she was making sense. I just started moving toward the van, so I wouldn’t end up buried behind a barn.”

  Piper’s fingers flexed around the edge of the mattress. “You don’t really believe Bea could’ve killed Lillian, do you?”

  I glanced at my sister again. “You didn’t see how angry she got when she talked about Miss Flynt.”

  “Daphne . . .” I saw concern in Piper’s brown eyes. “Please let the detectives solve this case. Don’t go to cat shelters in the middle of nowhere and ask potentially unstable people questions that make them angry, okay?”

  I was touched that she was worried about me. “I promise I’ll stay away from cat shelters,” I said, thinking that should be easy enough. There were plenty of other places to snoop around, if I felt the need. Then I finally spun away from the mirror, my arms outstretched for inspection. “So, how do I look?”

  “Really nice,” Piper said. “But aren’t you a little overdressed for the Lakeside? Or Franco’s, even?”

  Franco’s Italian restaurant, a former 1920s speakeasy that retained its ambiance and its collection of straight-from-the-Old-World recipes, was our other favorite Sylvan Creek hangout.

  “Actually, Dylan’s taking me to the Wolf Hollow Mill,” I informed Piper. “Did you give him a raise or something?”

  I’d been joking. Piper was more likely to fire Dylan than increase his pay. But my sister grew very serious. “No . . . No, I didn’t do that.”

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” she said, with a smile that seemed forced. “I guess being involved in a second murder has me feeling unsettled.”

  “I really don’t think you and I are serious suspects this time,” I reassured her. Then I remembered that momentary, but telling, look in Jonathan’s eyes when I’d asked him if my mother or Piper were under investigation. “At least, Jonathan hasn’t said anything that gives me too much cause for concern.”

  Piper narrowed her eyes at me, with suspicion. “When did you talk to Detective Black?”

  “I stopped by his house yesterday to tell him about some things that might be related to Miss Flynt’s death.” I didn’t have time to explain everything, so I just said, “Stuff I found when I went to the mansion to pick up Tinks.”

  Piper and Socrates exchanged looks of mutual frustration. Then Piper said, “I am not going to lecture you again about the dangers of meddling in a murder investigation. But don’t call me when someone threatens you with a hammer. Not that your cell phone will work!”

  For someone who hadn’t planned to deliver a lecture, she’d packed a lot of preaching into a few brief comments.

  “Thank you, as always, for your concern,” I said, because I knew that her annoyance was rooted in worry. “But I will be fine.”

  “I hope so,” Piper said, sounding less irritated. She stood up and moved to the door, so I assumed our discussion was over. But before she left the room, she ventured, hesitantly, “Daph, I have to ask. . . . You’re not expecting anything tonight, are you?”

  I was opening a box that held a pair of black suede vintage heels Moxie’d loaned me, but I raised my face to give Piper a confused look. “What
in the world are you talking about?”

  She cleared her throat, then spoke more directly. “It’s just that a lot of people get engaged at the Mill. And, in your own weird way, which I don’t understand, you and Dylan have been together for awhile. I just wondered if you might be hoping . . .”

  Piper was somber, but I laughed out loud as I hopped around, trying to get my foot into Moxie’s shoe. “No, Piper! I am not expecting—or hoping for—a proposal. Trust me!”

  Was she crazy?

  Had I not told her and my mother, many times, that marriage wasn’t for me? Or Dylan?

  “Okay,” Piper said. She seemed relieved.

  What was that all about?

  Finally steadying myself on the heels, I looked at Socrates, who had also stood up, like he understood that we were all dispersing soon. “Would you mind giving him a snack in about an hour?” I asked Piper. “He likes something before bedtime. I left some Boo-Berry Biscuits in the kitchen for him.”

  Piper furrowed her brow. “Boo-berry?”

  “They’re made with blueberries, quinoa flour, and egg.” I grinned. “I guess I’m getting into the holiday spirit with the name.”

  “You should consider selling your pet treats,” Piper observed. “You really seem to like baking for animals. And you’re good at it.”

  She sounded like Lillian Flynt. And she wasn’t too far away from wearing old cardigans and sensible shoes, either. It wasn’t even eight o’clock, and Piper was already in pajamas and thick, wool socks.

  I knew she wasn’t grieving the loss of her deceased ex-boyfriend, Steve Beamus, anymore, but was she starting to give up on her social life? Because I couldn’t recall the last time she’d gone out to dinner, let alone had a date.

  “Hey,” I suggested, on a whim. “Why don’t you come with me? Dylan won’t mind. We’ll have fun.”

  Piper’s smile was definitely forced. “No, you go ahead. I have some work to do here.”

  That was the last thing I’d hoped to hear, but I knew better than to pressure my strong-willed sister.

  “Well, if you change your mind, you know where we’re at,” I said. “And we’d love it if you’d join us.”