Purr M for Murder

by T. C. LoTempio

  I nodded and rose. Our little conversation with Petra had given me a lot to think about. I had to admit, her remark about the diary had thrown me a curve. Did such a book exist, or had she made it up to divert suspicion away from herself?

  In any event, the identity of Littleton’s murderer was as much a mystery as ever.

  * * *

  I was just finishing up a proposal for an event at Natalie’s bookshop when I heard the back door of the shelter open and close. A few minutes later, there was a tentative knock on my office door. “Come in,” I called.

  The door creaked open, and Diane Ryan popped her head in. “Hey,” she said.

  “Hey, yourself,” I answered. “I thought you weren’t volunteering tonight.”

  “I thought I might have to work overtime, but it ended up not being necessary. They caught the two guys who were breaking into those homes over on the west side. One less thing we all have to worry about.”

  “Um, that’s true.” I propped both elbows on my desk. “The real news of the day, though, is the reading of Littleton’s will. Kat and I ran into Petra at Rosie’s. Apparently, she inherited everything.”

  “She sure didn’t waste any time spreading the news,” Diane murmured. “I’ll say one thing for her—she’s sure got timing on her side.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Diane leaned forward. “I heard Bennington on the phone this morning. Apparently Littleton had a meeting set up with Pete Faversham for the morning he died. He called it rather suddenly.”

  I drew in my breath sharply. Pete Faversham was one of the highest-priced lawyers around. “He did? About what?”

  Diane’s eyes gleamed. “Faversham said Littleton didn’t say why, but . . . my friend Sasha works in the law office right next door. She’s pretty tight with Faversham’s law clerk. Faversham had her doing last-minute research that afternoon on clauses for wills and also dissolutions of partnerships and prenups.”

  Now that was interesting. “Was all that for Littleton?”

  Diane shrugged. “She didn’t know what client it was for, but it’s certainly a coincidence, if you ask me. Petra made out like a bandit.” She tugged on her jacket. “So did Colin Murphy, from what I understand.”

  I glanced at her sharply. “Colin Murphy? He was in the will?”

  Diane leaned forward. Even though she and I were the only two around, she lowered her voice to a half whisper. “Littleton willed his share of the gallery to him. So Murphy now has complete ownership.”

  I let out a low whistle. “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. He lucked out too, just like Petra did. Think about it. Littleton was fed up with both of ’em and made an appointment with his lawyer—and now he’s dead, and they’re sitting pretty. Some people really step in it.” She moved a bit further into the hall. “Well, Maggie said they’re backed up in the cattery, so I’d better start my shift. How’s Toby doing?”

  “Fine,” I answered absently. Diane gave a wave and closed my door, and I leaned back in my chair. I wasn’t a big believer in coincidence. Had Littleton made that appointment with Faversham because he was going to change his will to cut out both his wife and Colin Murphy? Why else would Faversham be researching those particular topics? Both of them stood to lose a great deal if that was Littleton’s intent.

  It suddenly occurred to me that perhaps Murphy’s assessment about Petra coplotting her husband’s murder might not have been that far off after all. And what if Petra’s partner in crime wasn’t her son but Colin Murphy?

  And, as they say, the plot thickens.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Shortly before two o’clock, Sissy popped her head inside my office. “Hey! How would you like an iced cappuccino? I picked one up for Maggie at Dayna’s, but she decided she didn’t want it.”

  I grinned. “Are you kidding? Iced cappuccinos are my favorite thing in this whole wide world, next to animals, that is.”

  Sissy reappeared a few seconds later and laid a large Styrofoam cup on my desk. I took off the lid and saw the mound of whipped cream drizzled with caramel, then took a sip. “Caramel. My favorite.”

  “It’s my new favorite drink,” the teen laughed. We sipped our iced cappuccinos in silence for a few minutes, and then she asked, “How’s Toby enjoying his new home?”

  I laughed. “He definitely rules the roost. He’s even mastered a way to finagle extra treats out of Leila.”

  “No more wandering, eh?”

  “Not that I can tell.”

  She nodded wisely. “Maggie always said once Toby found his perfect human, he’d settle down. By the way, some people were asking if we’re having another cat café event.”

  “We’re hoping to, maybe the end of next month. Kat said the new kitties should be ready to show by then.”

  “Great.” Sissy drained the last of her drink. “At least now we won’t have to worry about that horrible man making trouble. I don’t blame Kat at all for the way she answered him. He deserved it.” She paused. “I don’t mean . . .”

  “I know what you meant.” I hesitated, unsure of how to broach what was on my mind. Finally, I decided to just have out with it. “Sissy, you didn’t call the police station and tell them Kat threatened Littleton, did you?”

  The teen stared at me, wide-eyed. “Of course not! I would never do something like that! Where did you get such an idea?”

  I sighed. “Sorry. I didn’t think so, but I had to ask. I found out that someone told the police, and since you and Dayna were the only other two people in the café at the time . . .”

  “Wait a sec.” Sissy held up a finger. “There was someone else around. She was standing right outside the door when I came in, and she might still have been there when Littleton pushed through. He and Kat were shouting pretty loud. Maybe she overheard and reported it.”

  I pounced on her words. “You said ‘she.’ Did you recognize the person?”

  “Yeah. The woman who owns that lovely vintage jewelry shop. Starts with a ‘D’ . . . Dara, Denise, no—Devon. That’s it. Devon McIntyre.”

  * * *

  City Jewel was the type of shop I’d love to own if I were into vintage jewelry—or anything vintage for that matter. Devon had given the place a homey feel with its whitewashed walls and ceilings and the thick shag carpets scattered across the hardwood floors. Even though the shop was jammed to the rafters with a spectacular array of inventory, it didn’t seem cluttered. Busy was more the word I’d have chosen to describe it. Glass showcases displayed rows and rows of bracelets, necklaces, earrings, and rings, most of them estate pieces that Devon picked up for a melody and sold for a song. She carried other articles too: silk handbags, flowing scarves, jeweled opera glasses and gloves—there were even a few tiny lamps with beautiful stained-glass shades. The shop was empty when I entered—no big surprise, seeing as it was nearly six o’clock. As I approached the main counter, a pair of curtains parted, and Devon emerged, lugging a large cardboard box. She glanced at me, then slammed the box down on the counter. I heard a rattle as she did so and hoped that whatever was inside hadn’t broken.

  “Sydney. Hello. What can I do for you?” Devon brushed a curl out of her eyes with the back of her hand and eased one hip against the counter.

  “I got off a little early tonight, and I just thought I’d come by and check out your shop,” I lied. “I’m afraid I haven’t really been able to do too much exploring in all these lovely shops. The shelter keeps Kat and me hopping.”

  “That’s not a bad thing.” Devon pushed the box off to one side. “Are you looking for something in particular?”

  “Um, I just thought I’d see if anything catches my eye.” I gazed into the jam-packed counter and pointed to a pin of a cat sitting up tall and straight, wearing a bow tie. The cat’s body was made up of white-and-orange crystals. “Oh, that’s cute,” I exclaimed. “He reminds me of Toby—my new cat.”

  “That’s a nice piece. Costume jewelry. Those crystals aren’t Swarovski, but they�
��re very nice.” Devon reached inside the case and plucked the pin from its velvet cushion. She turned it on its side, and I could see a tiny white sticker fastened to the cat’s back. “$39.99. A bargain, actually. The craftsmanship is very good.”

  “Yes it is.” Impulsively, I reached into my tote bag and pulled out my wallet. “I’ll take it.”

  I passed Devon my American Express card, and as she rang up the purchase, I glanced again at the case and pointed to a large brooch in the shape of some sort of bug. It had a massive dark-blue stone for its belly. “That’s beautiful. I love the shade of blue.”

  Devon reached down and pulled out the pin. “You have good taste. That stone is lapis lazuli. In ancient times, it was known as the stone of royalty.”

  “It’s striking. It reminds me of the color of the dress Petra wore to Rosie’s Diner earlier.” I reached up to slap my forehead with my palm. “Oh, duh. That’s right. You weren’t there.”

  “I had to pick up a shipment,” Devon said shortly. She placed the cat pin in a small velvet-lined box and slid it inside a burgundy-colored paper bag before passing me the credit card receipt to sign. “Grace filled me in on what I missed. So Petra got everything, eh? That figures.” Her expression turned stormy. “It’s so unfair. She didn’t love him, and I know he didn’t love her.”

  “How do you know?” I signed my name to the slip and passed it across the counter. “Did he tell you that, Devon?”

  Her eyes flashed. “Not in so many words, but I could tell he’d reached his limit. I don’t know how to explain it—it was as if he’d had an epiphany of sorts. He was tired of living a lie with Petra. He realized she’d never be the wife or companion he wanted or needed.” She tossed my credit receipt copy into the bag and held it out to me. “I confess I saw red when we broke things off, but it wasn’t long before I realized he’d done me a huge favor.”

  I took the bag, tucked it into my tote, and looked her right in the eye. “You called the police and told them that my sister threatened Bridge, didn’t you?”

  Devon’s eyes bugged. Her lower lip started to quiver. “How—how did you know?”

  “That’s not important,” I said, making a dismissive motion with my hand. “What I’d like to know is why on earth you would do that. My sister never did anything to you.”

  Devon let out a sigh. “You’re right. Okay, I admit it. I did it, and I’m sorry, but . . . I had a good reason.”

  I arched a brow. “And that would be?”

  “I had to direct their suspicions to someone, so they wouldn’t look too closely at me.” She started to wring her hands. “I know, I know, it was horribly selfish, but I honestly couldn’t think of any other way. I knew his witch of a wife probably couldn’t wait to name me and Grace as women her husband had an affair with, and I—I just didn’t want to get in the middle of a murder investigation.” She looked at me defiantly. “I know Kat wouldn’t hurt a fly, and I knew they wouldn’t turn up anything on her. I just didn’t want them looking at me, stirring things up, and making things uncomfortable. Not now . . . not when Harry’s back and things are going so well.”

  I sighed. “Your convoluted logic certainly has made both my sister and me very uncomfortable around that detective, not to mention the spotlight that’s being thrown on Kat.”

  “Yeah, well, think how you’d feel if you really had something to hide.”

  I eyed her. “Do you have something to hide, Devon?”

  She goggled at me and pointed a finger at herself. “Me? Not if you don’t count the fact I was foolish enough to take up with Bridge in the first place. He caught me at a vulnerable time in my life. He caught all his women at vulnerable times. If only . . . never mind.”

  I decided to take a chance. I leaned forward and said in a gruff tone, “You weren’t looking for a medical ID tag when I caught you in his office that day, were you? You were looking for his diary.”

  Her head snapped up. “You know about that?” At my nod, a sigh escaped her lips. “I guess there’s no sense denying it, then. I did lose my ID tag, but not in his office. Yes, I was looking for his stupid book. I wanted to see if he’d written anything in there about me, and if so, what it was.”

  “And if you’d found it?”

  Her eyes widened. “Why, I’d have turned it over to the police, of course.”

  “Before or after you ripped out the parts that mentioned you?”

  She gave me a shrewd look. “You’re pretty good, aren’t you, Syd? Of course, after. But I didn’t find any book, so it’s a moot point.”

  “But one does exist?”

  “Oh yeah. I saw it. It’s a dull saddle-brown leather, about yea big”—she outlined a small rectangle with her hands. “His initials—TL—are in the left corner, and the lower-right corner is pretty worn. I think it’s got a small tear. Mark my words, Petra probably found it after she iced him. She’s probably got it tucked away somewhere, just waiting to blackmail people to do her bidding, just like Bridge did.” She waggled her finger. “But he was wise to her.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I spoke with him a week before his death. He said he was going to have a chat with his lawyer. ‘Devon,’ he said, ‘I’ve had it. I’m sick of all these leeches in my life feeding off me and making a shambles of everything I hold dear.’ He could be pretty cryptic, but I knew what he meant. He was going to see his lawyer about a divorce.”

  “Are you certain? It couldn’t have been he was thinking of drawing up a new will?”

  Devon rested a finger against her cheek. “Say, I never thought of that. Maybe. That would certainly have been a blow to Petra, too.”

  “Have you told the police this?”

  Devon’s eyes popped. “Heck no. I’m no squealer.” At my pointed look, she threw up both hands. “Heck, I’m not doing a single thing that might piss Petra off. That woman hates me as it is, and now she’s my frigging landlord. I don’t need to add any more fuel to that fire.”

  * * *

  After a quick snack, I went upstairs and sat at the desk in my room—pad in front of me, pen poised above it. Toby squatted on the floor at my feet, nibbling on a sardine-flavored kitty treat. I tapped the edge of my pen against the pad and closed my eyes, marshaling my thoughts. The fact that no one seemed to be able to account for Petra’s exact whereabouts at the time of her husband’s death spoke volumes to me. I needed to know if she could be guilty, one way or the other, and since the police didn’t seem to be following that lead . . . maybe it was time they had some outside help.

  I scraped back my chair, startling Toby, who dive-bombed under the desk. I picked up my purse from where I’d tossed it on the bed and reached for my car keys. “The gym’s open till ten tonight,” I told him. “I think it’s time I checked out the possibility of signing up for Zumba lessons—what do you think?”

  Toby gave me a slow blink. “Ow-orrr.”

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, attired in sweats and an old T-shirt, my hair pulled back into a ponytail, I parked my car in the parking lot of Gold’s Gym. I glanced around as I walked up to the entrance. One wall was made up entirely of plate glass, and I could see the people on the different machines, exercising their little hearts out. Exercise has never been my strong suit; I’ve always had a thin frame, an inheritance from my mother’s side of the family. Running on a treadmill or doing reps wasn’t how I liked to spend my free time, but hey, whatever floats your boat. I imagined this was how Petra kept that movie-star figure of hers. I walked inside and took a quick look around. There was a wide desk off to one side. A girl with blonde hair done up in two pigtails and wearing a tank top was behind it, slurping down what looked like some sort of pink frothy drink, probably loaded with vitamins. She glanced up as I approached and set the drink down after taking one long, loud slurp on her straw. “Good evening.” Her smile was wide, revealing nice, even white teeth. “Can I help you?”

  “I hope so”—I glanced at the name tag pinned to one of her ta
nk straps—“Judy.” I leaned both my elbows on the counter. “I’ve been a bit remiss with my exercise program, and I heard this was just the place to get back in the swing of things.”

  “It sure is.” Judy reached beneath the counter and came up with a fistful of brochures. “We offer a wide range of group exercise classes.” She held up her hand and started to tick them off on her fingers. “Pilates, Step Aerobics, Mixed Martial Arts, Yoga, Tai Chi, Core, Aqua, and Zumba—we’ve got it all.”

  I stared at the brochure. “Yes, I can see that. I have to admit, though . . . I’ve never been much for group exercise. I’m the type who needs to be pushed, and well, I just don’t feel I get enough impetus when I’m in a group.”

  Her head bobbed up and down, making her pigtails shake to and fro. “I can totally understand that. You’d be surprised how many women—men too—thrive much better when it’s a one-on-one experience. If you prefer, we can assign you a personal instructor.” Her finger tapped against the brochure. “If you’re unsure, you can sign up for a free seven-day VIP membership. Try before you buy.”

  “Hmm.” I took the brochure, turned it over in my hand. “It’s tempting, but I don’t know . . .”

  “Can I be of some help?”

  I glanced up and into the eyes of the freckle-faced dishwater blonde who stood in front of me. She looked very trim in her black-and-pink exercise leotard and tights. Her hand shot out, gripped mine. “I’m Dorrie Cavanaugh. I work here. If you have questions, maybe I can answer them.”

  Ah, Dorrie Cavanaugh. I remembered Leila mentioning the judo instructor more than once. “That might be very helpful,” I said.

  “Great. Okay, shoot. What do you want to know?”

  “Actually . . .” I took Dorrie’s arm and steered her away from the reception desk. “I’m more interested in getting some information than I am in a gym membership. I’m a friend of Leila Addams.”