Purr M for Murder

by T. C. LoTempio

  Chapter Fourteen

  The scent of overly sweet flowers—lilies, no doubt, accompanied by gardenias—assaulted me the moment I stepped inside the vestibule of the St. John Funeral Home. Organ music played softly in the background, and I paused to get my bearings. A dead body could drop at my feet, and I wouldn’t blink an eyelash, but wakes and funerals never failed to creep me out. “Must be the organ music,” I muttered; then I jumped as I felt a sharp jab in my ribs.

  “Looks like the weeping widow went all out,” Leila whispered, adjusting the jacket of the tailored black suit she had on. “It smells like the botanical gardens in here.”

  I noticed a wooden podium with a white guest book resting on top and moved toward it. “I guess not too many people are here yet,” I murmured. There were only a few names entered, and none that I recognized.

  “I doubt there will be a very large crowd at all,” Leila said dryly. She’d moved over to stand in front of a jungle of potted plants to my left. “Ten bucks says none of the other shopkeepers show up.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I think Grace will make an appearance. Possibly Devon. Right now, though, I’m more interested in the widow, the stepson, and the partner. I’d love to shift Bennington’s focus off Kat and onto one of them.”

  “How’s Kat doing?”

  “Okay, considering. I have the feeling Bennington would love to arrest her, but so far, he doesn’t have enough to make a murder charge stick.” I picked up the pen, scrawled my name in the book, and then set the pen back down. “Buying that gopher poison isn’t going to help her case.”

  “No, but maybe one of the other suspects made a similar purchase,” Leila suggested.

  “Maybe. It would help if Will would share some information, but every time I see him, either he says something that pisses me off or he’s with Bennington and summarily ignores me.”

  “Well, that certainly doesn’t sound like your Will,” Leila said teasingly. “The Will Worthington I know would never deliberately ignore you.”

  “The new and improved Will Worthington doesn’t have a problem in that area. What I need to do is come up with something to show him that I’m an asset in this investigation, not a liability.”

  “Good luck with that. I take it you have a plan?”

  “I’m working on it.” I angled a glance at Parlor A, which bore a sign that read “Trowbridge Littleton.” “Shall we venture in?”

  We stepped through the arched doorway into a room that felt more like the freezer aisle at Wegmans. It was done in soft shades of muted burgundy and pink.

  “Oh, Petra definitely had a hand in this,” Leila whispered. “These are two colors I’d never associate with Littleton.”

  I nodded in agreement and let my gaze wander to the front of the room. I moaned softly, and Leila’s head swiveled swiftly in my direction. “What’s wrong?”

  “Open casket,” I muttered. I glanced up sharply as Leila started to snicker. “What’s so funny?”

  “I was just thinking . . . The gal who can sit through six Saw movies in a row gets cold feet over seeing a body in a coffin. One that you saw up close and personal in the throes of death, too.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s why. I’m really not looking forward to seeing his corpse again.”

  “Too late now. We might as well get it over with.” Leila took my elbow and steered me along. I rubbed my palms, slick with sweat, against the sides of my black pants. Flickering white candles stood atop gleaming tapers at either end of the ornate brass coffin. There were dozens of sweet-smelling flowers banked behind it, lilies and geraniums and carnations. A purple satin cloth covered the bier. Leila gave me a little push, and I was propelled forward to the casket’s edge. I steeled myself and looked down.

  Littleton looked a lot better now than he had the other morning when he’d practically fallen at my feet. The bluish tinge was gone—now his skin just appeared fragile and waxy-looking. As I turned away, my gaze fell on the front row of chairs not three feet away and the woman seated right in the middle. I recognized Petra Littleton instantly from the picture I’d seen. She looked much more sedate than glamorous right now, her head bowed, makeup perfect. She wore a simple black suit that probably cost more than I’d made at Reid and Renshaw in a year. The man seated next to her had a well-tailored suit on as well. Dark, close-cropped hair framed a tanned face with a sharp nose and chiseled jaw that just missed being handsome. He bent over, whispered something to Petra. She looked at him and nodded.

  “Dior,” I heard in my ear.

  My head jerked up. “Huh?”

  Leila gave me a swift nudge and nodded toward Petra. “Dior. That’s a two-thousand-dollar suit she’s wearing. I saw a similar one in Vogue last month.” Her lips parted, and she emitted a strangled sigh. “Must be nice, being the wealthy widow.”

  “Hmm. Who’s the guy next to her? They seem pretty chummy.”

  “I’ve only seen his photo once, and not a very good one at that, but if I’m not mistaken, that is Mr. Colin Murphy—Littleton’s business partner in the gallery.”

  “So that’s Colin Murphy.” I leaned in for a closer look. “He’s a lot better looking than his former partner, I’ll say that.”

  “You got that right. Looks like he and the widow are pretty well acquainted, if you ask me.”

  I looked at the two of them, their heads bent close together. Murphy whispered something to Petra and patted her shoulder. She laid her hand on top of his and looked up at him with what my mother would have described as a “Scarlett O’Hara simple”—an almost worshipful gaze. Murphy gave her hand another squeeze and rose. As he stood there, his back to her, I saw Petra’s expression change into one of thinly veiled contempt. He turned back toward her, and the expression once again morphed into one of dewy-eyed appreciation.

  Hmm, I thought. Perhaps Petra was a better actress than people gave her credit for.

  A tall, beak-nosed man wearing a Roman collar and carrying a Bible approached them—the minister, no doubt. He sat down on the other side of Petra and started to speak to her in low tones. Murphy stood there awkwardly for a few seconds, then turned and walked off toward the rear of the viewing room. When he reached the podium where the guest book lay, he paused. I saw his head swivel to and fro, almost as if he were searching for someone, before he turned and walked into the hall.

  “Now’s our chance,” I hissed, and I started up the center aisle. When I reached the door, I suddenly realized that I was alone—where was Leila? I scanned the room and then saw that she’d been waylaid by Jim Wantrobski. I recalled her mentioning him as one of the new junior reporters she and her colleagues had taken to dinner the other night. Jim had no doubt been assigned to cover the tragic event. I hesitated, then decided Leila could catch up with me later. I hurried out into the hallway. It was deserted. I walked back to the main door, pushed it open, and went out onto the porch. Colin Murphy was at the far end. I caught sight of a glowing ember in one hand and realized he’d come outside for a smoke. As I drew closer, I realized something else: he wasn’t alone. A figure stood in the shadows just off to his left. The two of them were conversing in low tones, and then the shorter figure squeezed Murphy’s arm and moved off toward the side door of the funeral parlor. As the door opened, light splashed across an object on the person’s left hand. The large stone twinkled and glittered in the pale light, and I bit back a sharp cry as I recognized Natalie’s ring.

  I hesitated. Should I approach Colin Murphy or go inside and try to grill Natalie? As I stood pondering, Murphy’s head suddenly swung in my direction, and his eyes widened slightly as he caught sight of me standing half in, half out of the shadows. “Yes?” he barked. “Can I help you?”

  Gathering all my courage, I squared my shoulders and walked over to stand in front of him. “Colin Murphy, I presume?” At his nod, I continued. “I—ah—I just wanted to say I’m sorry for your loss. I know Mr. Littleton and you were partners in the gallery.”

  One side of his mouth twit
ched with—what? Curiosity? Amusement? “Do you now? Well, thanks.” He looked me up and down again. “Did you know Bridge?”

  “I only met him once. He was more or less acquainted with my sister.”

  “Your sister?”

  I held out my hand. “I’m Sydney McCall. My sister is Katherine McCall.”

  His brow puckered slightly, and then his expression cleared. He took my hand. “Ah, yes. The shelter director. You work there too?”

  I nodded.

  “Yes. I work there as well.” He released my hand, and I let it drop to my side.

  “That’s a fine undertaking, saving defenseless animals,” he said. “You two should be commended.” He regarded me with hooded eyes. “I understand you and your sister found the body. That must have been . . . shocking.”

  “To say the least. We’d gone over there hoping to have a discussion with him about the cat café event. He’d been in Dayna Harper’s shop the day before, and things . . . well, things got a bit heated.”

  “A bit?” Colin Murphy leaned back against the porch railing, folded his arms across his chest. “I heard that your sister threatened him. Well, I can’t say as I blame her. Bridge had a way of pushing people’s buttons.”

  I held my head up high. “I’m afraid you’re misinformed, Mr. Murphy. My sister didn’t threaten Littleton.”

  He waved his hand in a careless gesture. “Whether she did or didn’t is immaterial in the grand scheme of things, I suppose. My partner wasn’t famous for his ability to win friends.”

  “Did Littleton have any enemies you’re aware of?”

  He eyed me, then jabbed his finger in the air. “Oho, I see what’s happening here. Your sister is high on the suspect list, so you’re—what? Fishing around for someone to take her place?” He leaned in a bit closer to me. “Is this the part where you ask me, ‘Mr. Murphy, just where were you on the morning of the seventh?’ And I answer, ‘I was on a plane coming in from San Francisco—red-eye flight. I’d just returned from a buying trip to the Summerfield gallery out there.’ The police have already vetted my alibi, Miss McCall. The airline records show that I was on that plane, circling to make a landing at Raleigh-Durham at the time they estimate my partner was killed.” He looked me up and down. “I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

  “What makes you think you’ve disappointed me?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” He threw back his head and let out with a rich baritone of a laugh. “I suppose I should be flattered you’d think I’m the killer type, but . . . though there were many times when I might have wished him dead, I did not kill Bridge.” He paused. “And then there’s the question of motive. I may have disagreed with my partner on the running of the gallery, but that’s as far as it went.”

  “I heard it was a bit more involved than that. That Littleton was against some improvements you wanted to make to the gallery.”

  He brushed a hand through his hair. “Yes, well, Bridge always was resistant to change—even when the change would have netted him more money. We disagreed on a few key points, but I assure you, it was nothing serious. The gallery was thriving with or without my improvements. I had no reason to want him dead. If anything, his death is a giant pain in the you-know-where for me. Bridge took care of most of the day-to-day management issues. Now I’m stuck with everything.”

  “I understand his stepson works at the gallery,” I offered. “Surely he will be a help to you.”

  Colin Murphy threw back his head and laughed. “Hardly, Miss McCall. One thing Bridge and I did agree on—Trey’s a lazy so-and-so. He takes after his mother. He’d rather spend money than make it.” He glanced at his watch. “As lovely as this chat has been, I’ve got to go, sorry.”

  “One last thing.” My arm shot out, and my fingers dug into his forearm. “Does the name Kahn Lee mean anything to you?”

  “Kahn Lee? Never heard of him,” Murphy said in an irked tone. “Should I have?”

  “I don’t know. I thought perhaps he might be an artist that Mr. Littleton dealt with, or perhaps a customer?”

  “Well, Bridge had his own listing of select clientele so . . . maybe. Who knows? Name’s not familiar to me.” He started to brush past me, then stopped and looked me directly in the eyes. “Want some advice? If you’re dead set on finding a good suspect, I suggest you go back in there and give dear Petra a grilling. Our grieving widow is putting on quite a show, but that’s all it is, trust me—a show. She’s ecstatic the old boy is dead—now she’s got her hands on his fortune and no longer has to account for every penny. Plus, Bridge had a nice insurance policy that she was named as beneficiary on. So it’s a win-win for her. As for that son of hers, well, he and Bridge absolutely hated each other. Bridge hated his spendthrift ways, and Trey hated his stepfather for—ah, for oh so many reasons.” He paused. “Two hundred fifty thousand reasons, to be precise. And mommy was in no position to help. I’ll let you in on a little secret, Ms. McCall. Bridge was getting ready to divorce Petra. He had an appointment with a lawyer set up, and he told her she should watch her step. She didn’t take that threat very kindly.”

  I swallowed. “Have you mentioned any of this to the police?”

  He shrugged. “I told those two detectives all this when they questioned me. I’m not sure they’ll do much about it, though. The one who looks like a sorry bulldog didn’t seem too interested in what I had to say. Perhaps you can convince them to take a closer look.”

  He turned on his heel and started to go back inside, then paused and fixed me with a piercing gaze. “You know, Petra and Trey both had their reasons for hating Bridge, and she and her son, well—they’re thick as thieves. They’d do anything to help the other. It wouldn’t surprise me if they planned his murder together.”

  And with that, Colin Murphy touched two fingers to his forehead in a salute and strode off around the side of the building. As I turned to go back inside, I caught a flash of movement out of the corner of my eye. I turned my head just in time to see a curtain in one of the windows slide back into place. Someone had been watching me with Colin Murphy.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I stood on the porch for a few minutes after Colin Murphy departed, mulling over what he’d said. I’d never even considered the possibility of two people working in tandem with each other, but . . . heck, it was possible. It even sounded plausible. My thoughts wandered briefly to who might have been watching us. One possibility came to mind: Natalie. I had to speak with her too, as soon as possible.

  I retraced my steps back to the viewing room and saw a harried Leila still engaged in conversation with Jim Wantrobski. She caught my gaze over his shoulder and bounced both eyebrows, her usual signal for Help me. I moved swiftly over to where they stood and tapped Leila on the shoulder. “Hey, there you are,” I said cheerfully. “I’ve been looking for you.”

  Jim Wantrobski smiled as he reached up to brush an errant blond lock of hair out of his eyes. “Sorry, my fault. The paper sent me to do a story on Littleton’s service, and since I’m a relatively new resident of Deer Park, I was just picking Leila’s brain about the local color.” He made a sweeping gesture with his arm. “She’s all yours now,” he said, and there was no missing the reluctance in his tone. He tossed Leila an almost worshipful gaze. “Thanks for all your help.”

  Leila flashed Jim a wide smile. “No problem,” she murmured. Her fingers dug into my arm as she propelled me toward the back of the room. We reached the large potted plant next to the podium, and she pulled me behind it. “About time you showed up! God, can that man talk.”

  “I noticed. I also noticed he seems pretty interested in you.”

  Leila’s expression turned horrified, and she waggled her finger to and fro. “In me? Oh, no, no, no. He’s just new, and he wants to make a good impression on Seth Warner—that’s his editor. He wanted to know stuff about Littleton, his business, what he did for the community, that sort of thing.”

  “I’m surprised he didn’t ask the widow.”

  �
��I think he tried to, but she blew him off—and then he got me in his sights.”

  I shot her a sly grin. “It looked to me like he might have had you in his sights for quite a while. I got the feeling his questions weren’t entirely fueled by business. Take it from me—I think he’s got a crush on you.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Great, just what I need. Another clingy male, like Jackson.”

  I remembered Jackson Hornsby, Leila’s ex-boyfriend, and had to agree. He’d been extremely needy, the total opposite of my friend. I’d always wondered what she saw in him other than his movie-star good looks. Aloud, I said, “Your ex? No way. Jim Wantrobski didn’t seem clingy to me. He seemed kind of . . . sweet.”

  Leila grimaced. “Yeah, well, he’s not my type. Anyway, what took you so long to rescue me? I kept looking around for you, but I couldn’t find you.”

  “I followed Colin Murphy outside.”

  “Ah, so you got your chance to talk with him. Learn anything?”

  “Actually, I think I might have.” I hit the highlights of my conversation with Murphy, ending with his insinuation that Petra and her son might have jointly plotted Bridge’s demise. “What do you think?”

  Leila tapped at her chin with her forefinger. “Not sure. I know Petra and her son are close, but plotting a murder together seems a bit over the top. Are you sure Murphy wasn’t just trying to blow smoke, maybe divert suspicion away from himself?”

  “Well, he said the police checked out his alibi. It’s kind of hard to kill someone when you’re in a plane forty thousand feet above the ground. Besides, he’s right. Littleton’s death is more of an inconvenience for him than anything else. He doesn’t benefit at all that I can see.”

  “But the widow definitely does,” Leila said. “His estate and an insurance policy! She’s rolling in it now.” She placed her hand on her hip. “So now what? Or are we done here?”

  I glanced toward the front of the room. A slender man with dark hair dressed in a three-piece suit had taken the seat on Petra’s right. Their heads were bent close together, and I saw him slip a protective arm around her shoulders. “I see Trey has come to console his mother,” I whispered. “I’d sure like to have a little chat with one or both of them, if I could only think of a good reason.”