The Time for Murder is Meow

by T. C. LoTempio

“Why is clearing my name so important, you ask? Well, for one thing, I doubt people will want to buy pet supplies from a person who’s a murder suspect.”

  Purrday cocked his head. “Ow-orr?”

  “Okay, okay. The main reason for me is so that Josh won’t look at me with that little bit of doubt in his eyes. I-I kind of like him, ya know. I mean, really like him.”

  The corners of Purrday’s lips tipped up, and he leaned in to my hand. I gave him a quick scratch behind his ear. “On the plus side, I met with Kathleen Power. She makes the most adorable dog and cat clothes. I can’t wait to feature them in the store. Maybe you could even model one of the outfits?”

  Purrday looked at me, then turned his back.

  “Or not,” I said. “Anyway, I know I can always count on you to sympathize. Not like the other men in my life.”

  Purrday turned around and butted his head against my knee in reply.

  I got up and wandered into the den, Purrday at my heels, where I found Gary hunkered over my laptop, his fingers flying over the keyboard. Kahlua was perched on the edge of the desk, watching him. I flopped into the chair beside the desk; Gary was so intent on what he had up on the screen that it was a few minutes before he even acknowledged my presence, which he did with a quick glance and a muttered, “Huh.”

  “Wow, what a greeting!” I scooted forward in the chair and placed my hands on the desk. Kahlua sauntered over, butted her head against my hand. “I can only imagine it’s because you’ve found something really, really interesting.”

  “You could say that,” he murmured. He tapped at the keyboard again, then reached for a pad and pen next to the monitor and started to scribble something down.

  I waited a few more minutes and when I got no other response, hitched my chair closer. “Care to share?”

  He stretched his arms wide, then laced his fingers behind his neck. “I found a few specialty shops in New York City that carry antique knives, but none of ’em had a Tuareg. One guy, though, recommended this store in New Hampshire. He said the owner goes on trips three times a year to find all sorts of odd knives, and if he didn’t have one, he’d know for sure where you could get one. I called, but I got an answering machine. I left a message.”

  “That sounds promising. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  “Maybe we will.” He gestured toward the pad. “I’ve got a couple more leads to track down and then we can think about dinner.”

  I rose, hands on hips. “Do you ever think of anything except your stomach?”

  He bounced both eyebrows. “Sure, but you told me those topics are off limits.”

  I made a face at him and returned to the parlor. I’d just started to sort through the day’s mail—advertisements, circulars, more advertisements—when the doorbell rang. I opened the front door and found a tall guy wearing jeans with holes in the knees and a well-worn sweatshirt standing there, holding a clipboard. “Shell McMillan? We’ve got a delivery for you from Secondhand Sue’s?”

  “Oh, right, thanks.” I took the proffered clipboard and signed my name by the X. The delivery guy took the clipboard, initialed the bottom, and then ripped off the pink copy and handed it to me. He hurried down the stairs to the large truck parked in my driveway, and a few minutes later he returned, a large box clasped in his arms.

  “Where do you want it?” he asked.

  I frowned. Since I’d planned on eventually bringing the bust to the pet shop, I hadn’t really thought about where to put it in the interim. I motioned to a small space by the staircase. “This’ll do for now.”

  He set the box down, then pulled a jackknife out of his pocket and slit open the lid. Out came the bubble wrap and Styrofoam, and a few minutes later Edgar Allen and his pal the Raven were sitting comfortably on my floor. I closed my eyes, visualizing where in the store I wanted to put it, and suddenly my eyes flew wide open.

  “Drat,” I said. “Now that I think about it, this bust is too big to fit behind the counter space.” I tapped at my chin with my nail. “I could set him up off to the side, by that display of cat wands, but I’ll need a really nice table to put him on.”

  “Sue has a tall, thin table with a marble top. That might still be there. Want me to have her hold it for you?” the deliveryman asked.

  “That would be great,” I said. “Please tell her I’ll try to get down there tomorrow or the next day to look at it.”

  He left and I stood for a minute, admiring the bust. It really was a terrific piece of workmanship, and it deserved to be displayed to advantage, not hidden behind a counter. Purrday ambled out of wherever it is cats amble from, walked over to the bust, put his nose next to Edgar’s, and sniffed.

  “Like him, Purrday? That’s Edgar Allen Poe. He wrote a famous story called ‘The Black Cat.’ They made it into a horror movie with Boris Karloff. As a matter of fact, I do believe the original lobby card is part of Aunt Tillie’s collection.”

  Purrday swiveled his head around to look at me, then returned to his sniffing. He circled the bust once, twice, three times, and then flopped on his side next to it and lay, his paw grazing Edgar’s chin.

  Gary emerged from the den, followed by Kahlua. He saw Purrday and the bust and grinned. “Looks like your cat has adopted Edgar.”

  I chuckled. “What can I say? He knows quality, right, Purrday?”

  The cat lumbered to his feet and started circling the bust again. He stopped when he got to the back and put his paw up, tapped twice at Edgar’s neck.

  “Purrday,” I said sharply, “stop that.”

  The cat looked at me, tapped the neck of the bust again, then stretched out beside it and glared at me with his good eye. Kahlua stared at Purrday, then turned and made a beeline for the living room, apparently distancing herself from her new brother’s strange behavior. Or else she just wanted first dibs on the back of the couch. It was hard to tell.

  I shook my head. “Why on earth is he tapping it?”

  Gary shrugged. “Who knows why cats do anything? Maybe he’s trying to decide if Edgar is edible or not.”

  “You’d better not scratch Edgar, Purrday. He’s going to be the official greeter at the Purr N Bark. If we ever open, that is.” I turned to Gary and gestured toward the papers in his hand. “Did that store call you back?”

  He shook his head. “Not yet. I tried a few more, but none of them carried a Tuareg knife.” He rolled the papers up and tapped them against his palm. “Looks like a dead end, at least for now.”

  I let out a giant sigh. “We seem to be hitting a lot of those.”

  “Yep. You know what they say, when you keep hitting your head against a brick wall …”

  I eyed him. “What’s that?”

  He grinned. “You eat a good dinner and suddenly the world seems brighter, everything gets put in perspective.” He unrolled the papers and passed the top one to me. “There’s an excellent Japanese restaurant two towns over, and a Thai one that got good reviews on the highway. What’s your pleasure?”

  “That was your research? Local restaurants?” I shook my fist playfully at him. “I suppose we could have an early dinner,” I said. “Maybe even swing by Melvin Feller’s house again on the way back.”

  Gary’s grin morphed into a frown. “I thought his neighbor said he wouldn’t be back until midnight.”

  “No, she said last time they got home at midnight because the van driver got lucky. So maybe this time Lady Luck will smile on us, and the driver will have a bad day at the blackjack table. It’s worth a shot, right?”

  “Would it do me any good to argue?”

  “No,” I said. “And while we’re at it, maybe we should pay a call on Londra Lewis too. I think we might get more out of her, especially if you turn on your charm.” I laid my hand on his arm and battled my eyelashes double time.

  “Okay, okay,” he grumbled. “Fine, we’ll pay both of ’em a visi
t. Right now, we’ve got a decision to make. Japanese or Thai? Oh, and there’s a good Chinese restaurant right in Fox Hollow, too. This food critic online gave it four stars.”

  “Fine. Let’s try that. I could go for some shrimp with lobster sauce and a nice egg drop soup.” I grabbed my purse and added, “You do realize that eventually we’re going to run out of restaurants, and I am going to cook dinner for us, right?”

  “I do,” he said. “I’m just trying to delay the pain. Hey, like you said, the Big Apple is only an hour away.” He smacked his lips loudly. “Hundreds of good restaurants there.”

  I shook my head. “Always thinking of your stomach, Presser?” My phone pinged and I glanced at it. It was a text from, of all people, Londra Lewis.

  Can you stop by museum early tomorrow and see me? Must talk to u in private.

  I showed the text to Gary. “Well, well. I wonder what she wants to tell you?”

  “I don’t know,” I said as tapped a quick reply and I slid the phone into my pocket. “But maybe we’re gonna catch a break.”

  ∞

  The Red Dragon turned out to be a small, quaint building located down the street from the library. The outside was done in red and gold, and the red and gold sign above the door featured a red fire-breathing dragon. The foyer had glass cases on either side, displaying statues and paintings of dragons in various stages: breathing fire, attacking a helmeted soldier wielding a sword, two dragons kissing (I kid you not). The interior of the restaurant was dark, as were most Chinese restaurants, and there was a smattering of tables with wooden chairs with red and gold seat cushions and red tablecloths with gold trim around the edges in the center of the dining area, and some red upholstered booths along one side. We asked for a table and the pretty Chinese hostess in a tight-fitting sheath (red and gold, what else?) seated us at one near the large picture window, then placed red velvet menu books in front of us before she smilingly withdrew.

  A Chinese boy who looked to be a teenager in a white coat appeared almost instantly, filling our water glasses and placing a huge bowl of noodles and dipping sauce in front of us. The waitress, also attired in a tight-fitting sheath, appeared a few minutes later. We ordered—shrimp with lobster sauce for me, four seasons for Gary—and I’d just finished pouring us each a cup of tea when Gary’s cell rang.

  He pulled it out of his pocket, glanced at the number, frowned, and answered it. “Gary Presser. Oh, yes. Thank you for calling back.” He listened for a few moments and then he said in an excited tone, “Are you sure? Can you email me the copy of the bill of lading? Oh. Okay.” He fumbled in his pocket, pulled out a pen, and thrust it at me. He tapped at his napkin and mouthed, “Fax number?” I took the pen and wrote down Aunt Tillie’s landline on the napkin. She had a fax machine in her den. He repeated it to the person on the other end of the phone and said, “Thanks so much. I’ll be in touch.” He disconnected and looked at me. “We just may have gotten a break,” he said, leaning back with a smug expression on his face.

  “What kind of break?” I asked, my curiosity piqued. “Who was that on the phone?”

  “That was one of the leads I was following. It’s the specialty shop out in Wyoming the Fox Hollow Museum bought a collection of rare knives for display from. Remember, Mazie Madison said the Tuareg knife was missing from the shipment?”

  I nodded. “She said that knife and two others.”

  “That was the store manager. He said that he’s positive all the knives were accounted for when the shipment left the store. He can’t find any record of the museum claiming items were missing—but he had a temp doing office work that week and a lot of his records have been misplaced. He said he had a request for confirmation from Bloodgood, too. He’s looking for the paperwork and as soon as he gets it he’ll fax us both a copy.”

  “Very interesting,” I agreed. “But assuming he’s correct, why would Mazie lie about receiving the knife in the shipment?”

  “I can give you three guesses,” Gary said dryly. “And the first two don’t count. She wanted to use that knife to ice Amelia.”

  I frowned. “It doesn’t make any sense, though. Mazie, a killer? She really has no motive that I’m aware of.”

  Gary inclined his head toward the doorway. “We could ask her.”

  I followed his gaze and saw Mazie herself standing at the take-out counter at the front of the restaurant. Never one to waste an opportunity, I scraped my chair back and hurried over to her.

  Mazie glanced up as I approached. “Ms. McMillan. How nice to see you.”

  “Hi, Ms. Madison. I was wondering if I could have a word with you.”

  “Certainly.” She glanced over my shoulder at Gary, who’d come up behind me. “You’re Gary Presser, right? I heard you’d come to town too. Fox Hollow is certainly overrun with celebrities these days.”

  “Gary is helping me investigate Amelia’s death,” I said.

  Mazie looked surprised. “You’re a detective now?” she asked Gary.

  He chuckled. “Strictly amateur. I’m trying to keep Shell out of prison, you know, just in case a new tv series opens up and I can talk her into coming back to the West Coast with me.”

  I gave his arm a hard squeeze and then turned to Mazie. “You told Detective Bloodgood that a Tuareg knife was supposed to be in a shipment you recently acquired for the museum.”

  She nodded. “Yes. That and two other knives were missing when it was unpacked. I was pretty upset, as we’d prepaid for the items.”

  “I checked with that shop,” Gary said. “The manager said he packed the items himself, and the shipment was complete.” He paused. “He said he has no record of you sending in a complaint.”

  “Then he’s mistaken,” she snapped.

  “He sounded pretty positive.”

  Mazie nibbled at her lower lip. She looked very uncomfortable. Finally, she said, “All right. I don’t advertise this fact, but Londra is the one who unpacks the shipments. She said the shipment was complete, and I trusted her. She had to leave early that day, though, so I did the unpacking and I noticed the three items missing. That’s when I sent the corrected invoice and request for refund. I’ve been meaning to speak to her about it, but what with all that’s been going on …” She spread her hands helplessly. “I guess I forgot. Truly, it didn’t seem that big of a deal. We deal with that store all the time.”

  “Are you saying Londra lied about the items in the shipment?” Gary asked.

  “I’m not saying anything. It could have been an honest mistake.”

  “Or she could have removed the items herself,” I said thoughtfully. “But why would she do that?” I gave Mazie a sharp glance. “To show them to someone, perhaps? Maybe she thought she could put them back before they were noticed?”

  Mazie shifted her weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “I’m not saying she did or didn’t. Londra has always been a very loyal employee.”

  Gary and I looked at each other, and I could tell the same thought was running through our minds. If Londra had taken the knives, perhaps that was what she and Amelia had argued over that day in the park. Amelia might have threatened to prosecute Londra for theft, and Londra might have taken matters into her own hands. After all, by her own admission she didn’t have an alibi for Amelia’s time of death.

  “Londra sent me a text earlier. She wants to talk to me tomorrow,” I said. “I can ask her about the shipment then.”

  “Or we can do it now,” Mazie said. “She doesn’t live far from here, and I’ve been meaning to talk to her about it anyway.”

  I looked at Gary. He sighed.

  “Might as well.” He glanced up, caught our waitresses eye, and motioned with his hand. “Just let me get those dinners to go.”

  ∞

  Fifteen minutes later we pulled up in front of Londra’s house, a small gray, white, and pink bungalow situated on the s
treet directly behind the museum. Mazie hadn’t been kidding when she said Londra lived close. I was certain she could see the museum parking lot from her back window. Probably one of the reasons she utilized it as a parking space, since her driveway was extremely narrow. It would have been hard to maneuver that Caddy into it.

  As Mazie exited the car, she glanced toward the dark front porch and frowned. “That’s odd,” she said. “She always leaves the porch light on. Always.”

  We quickened our steps and hurried up onto the porch. As I reached toward the bell Mazie shook her head. “It’s broken,” she said. She raised her hand and rapped sharply on the front door. “Londra? Are you home?”

  No answer. Gary stepped forward, tried the knob. The door swung silently inward, and we walked into a darkened foyer. The house was as still as death.

  “Londra?” Mazie called again. “Are you here?” She gave Gary and me an anxious look over her shoulder. “This is very strange,” she said. “Londra never forgets to lock her door when she goes out. Never.”

  We moved down the hall, peering this way and that. The living room was empty, ditto the kitchen. A room at the far end of the hall, however, had a thin sliver of light emanating from beneath the door.

  “She must be in her study,” Mazie murmured. With Gary in the lead, we hurried down the corridor. Gary pushed through the door first and then stopped abruptly when he was about two inches over the threshold. I was right behind him, and I had to veer slightly to the right to avoid slamming right into his back.

  “What’s wrong—” I began, but a quick glance toward the center of the room told me all I needed to know.

  Londra was seated behind a large desk, her head bent rakishly to one side, her tongue protruding from the side of her mouth.

  She sure looked dead to me.

  • Twenty-Four •

  I heard Mazie’s voice through the fog that permeated my brain. “What’s the matter? Why did you stop?” Then she made a strangled sound in the back of her throat and started to swoon. Gary reached out and caught her in his arms; otherwise she might have fallen to the floor.