The Time for Murder is Meow

by T. C. LoTempio

  “I do,” I said miserably.

  “You could have fooled me. After all, Shell—”

  The rest of his sentence was cut off by a loud thunk! from the hallway. I froze. “The bust,” I cried. We hurried out, and both of us gasped as we saw Edgar Allen and the Raven, lying on its side on the floor.

  “How did that fall?” Gary asked. He pointed to the low table I’d set the bust on. “That was square in the center, I know it was. Good thing it fell on the rug. It doesn’t look chipped.”

  I glanced over at the staircase. Kahlua sat on the top step. She raised her paw, pointed to the back of the bust. I shifted my gaze, saw a blur of white move. “I have an idea,” I said.

  Purrday peeped around the corner of the bust.

  Gary stared, then burst out laughing. “Oh, man. The cat knocked it over? He’s pretty strong.”

  I went over and stood over Purrday, my hands fisted on my hips. “What do you have to say for yourself, young man?” I asked the cat. “What’s the fascination with Mr. Poe?”

  Purrday let out a loud yowl, then lifted his paw and started clawing at Edgar’s neck.

  “Purrday,” I admonished the cat, stooping to grab him. “Stop that. You’ll get scratches on it.”

  The cat let out another sound, somewhere between a howl and a hiss, that had me backing off. Then he lifted his paw and smacked Edgar full across the neck. The bust rolled a few inches and stopped right at my feet.

  “Bad boy!” I said, shaking my finger at Purrday.

  “Ow-orr,” said Kahlua, from her perch on the top step. She seemed to be enjoying her brother’s plight. Of course she was. She’d given him up, hadn’t she?

  Purrday merely swished his tail, hopped up on the table, and sat straight, his blue eye trained on me. “Merow,” he yowled.

  “Say, look here.” Gary had dropped to his knees next to the bust. “Purrday did break old Edgar after all.”

  I followed Gary’s pointing finger and saw a portion of Edgar’s neck had separated from the rest of the bust. I kneeled as well to examine the damage. Curiously, the cracks were straight lines.

  “It’s not broken,” I said. “It looks as if whoever made the bust put a hidden compartment in it.”

  “Clever,” said Gary. “Like a hiding place for valuables. And it seems as if your cat’s taken full advantage of it.” He pointed to the cavity and I could see the tail end of Purrday’s catnip mouse protruding. Gary reached inside the cavity and pulled out the mouse, two soft balls, and the wooden button.

  Purrday jumped off the table and walked over to Gary, his tail erect. He lifted one paw and pointed to the hand that held the button. “Merow.”

  Gary dropped the button in front of the cat. “Picking the button over the mouse? That’s a switch.”

  “Not really. The button might still have my aunt’s scent on it,” I said. I looked at Purrday. “You still miss Aunt Tillie, don’t you? I do too. I bet she’d agree with me on this case, too.” I rolled my eyes heavenward. “Aunt Matilda, if you agree with me, give me a sign.”

  “Oh, geez.” Gary started to laugh, then stopped abruptly as Purrday started to push the button in my direction. From where we were standing, the initial carved into it looked more like an M than a W.

  “M,” I said triumphantly, bending down to take the button out of Purrday’s claws. “It seems to be the initial du jour of this case. M stands for murder … mayor … museum …”

  “Matilda,” said Gary practically as he pushed the compartment back into place and set the bust back on the table. “Your aunt had double duty initials. MW. Matilda Washburn. It’s a practical button, just like your aunt sounds like a practical woman.”

  “Exactly the reason why she would have agreed with me,” I said, bending down to give Purrday a pat on the head, and his button back. “Take this and stop hitting poor Poe.” My head was swimming with information. I couldn’t help but feel all the pieces of this jigsaw puzzle were there, I just had to put them into place. But where to start?

  I turned to Gary. “Did you get that fax from the specialty shop yet?”

  “Nope. Why?”

  “Can you contact them and ask them to fax over both bills of lading—the original marked complete as well as the amended?”

  “Sure,” he said in a puzzled tone, “but why?”

  “Just do it, please. I’ve got a hunch.”

  He shook his head and started back toward the den again. I sat down on one of the stools, my thoughts whirling. It was just a hunch, but a good one, I thought. And if I was right …

  I flicked my iPhone back into call mode and scrolled down to Secondhand Sue’s number. A few minutes later I had the assistant manager, Iris, on the line.

  “Hi, Ms. McMillan. Don’t worry, Sue’s holding that table for you.”

  “Great. I’ll be down in a day or two to pay for it, and then I need it delivered to the Purr N Bark. By the way, is Sue there? Could I speak with her?”

  “She went to the City on a buying trip for a few days. Can I take a message, or help you?”

  I explained what I wanted. Iris didn’t know offhand, but she promised to have Sue get back to me as soon as she could. I had to be content with that and rang off. I leaned against the kitchen counter, tapping my iPhone against my chin. The pieces were falling into place now.

  Gary came back a few minutes later. “Okay, those papers should be here within the hour. Care to share your brainstorm slash epiphany with me?”

  “Not yet. Still too many ifs.”

  He studied me closely. “But you’re onto something, aren’t you?”

  “Maybe. I can’t be positive until I see that first bill of lading.” I pushed the heel of my hand through my hair and took a long breath. I had a feeling I knew who the real murderer was.

  But I had no idea in hell how to prove it.

  • Twenty-Seven •

  While Gary worked on the leak in the sink in the upstairs bathroom (hey, I didn’t force him—he offered), I called the newspaper office and inquired about the price of placing an ad. As it turned out, there wasn’t a heck of a lot of difference between a quarter page ad and a half, but there was a substantial jump between a half and a full page one. Seventy-two hours’ notice was required if you didn’t have your own artwork, forty-eight if you did. I thought I could handle that.

  With Gary still busy being Mr. Handyman, I got in my convertible and drove over to Sweet Perks. Olivia, Rita, and Ron were huddled at a table in the back when I entered. Olivia waved to me, and I got a mocha latte from Rita’s niece and then made my way over to the table. Rita jumped up almost immediately to give me a hug.

  “Oh, Shell! It’s so terrible, isn’t it? To think Londra would kill Amelia and then herself, why I just can’t believe it.”

  “Neither can I,” I said. Rita released me from her grip. I set my latte—which, thankfully, had not spilled—down on the table and settled myself next to Olivia. “But as Josh says, the evidence appears to point that way.”

  “Appears? It’s not a done deal?”

  I froze at the voice behind me and turned slowly to face Quentin Watson. I arched a brow at him. “Are you following me?”

  “And good morning to you, too.” He bowed to the others at the table and then turned his attention back to me. “Am I to understand the investigation into Ms. Lewis’s death is still ongoing? I thought, what with the suicide slash dying confession, both cases were pretty much wrapped up.”

  “It would appear so,” I replied.

  Quentin frowned. “Why do you keep saying it like that?”

  I shrugged. “No particular reason. As you know, I’m not a detective or a trained investigator, I just played one on tv. If you have questions, I suggest you contact Detective Bloodgood.”

  His lip quirked. “I should think you’d be happy with the outcome, Shell. Your name
’s cleared, and now you can reopen your aunt’s store.”

  I shrugged and turned away, but the newsman wasn’t about to be put off so easily. He pulled a chair over from the empty table across from ours, pushed it next to mine, and straddled it. “Listen,” he said, his finger jabbing the air, “you owe me. I tipped you in that direction, didn’t I?”

  “As I recall, you were pushing me to interrogate Melvin Feller.”

  “And you did, didn’t you? How’d that go?”

  “About as well as I expected it would.” I took a sip of my latte and looked at him over the rim of the paper cup. “I got a definite sense that the Fox Hollow gossip chain might have slipped up.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning I’m not buying Londra and Melvin as a couple of star-crossed lovers.”

  Quentin’s brow furrowed, giving him the appearance of an angry beaver. He tapped at his chin with his forefinger. “You think Londra was, what? A cover for his real affair?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know anything for certain.”

  He leaned a bit closer. “I hear she committed suicide by peanuts.”

  “Yeah, and that’s another thing. Melvin had no clue she was allergic. I would think if they were as close as everyone thought, he’d have had a clue.” And then, because I just couldn’t resist it, I added, “Off the record, I don’t think Josh entirely bought it either.”

  Quentin pounced on my words, just as I knew he would. “Are you trying to tell me,” he said, his tone grating, “that the authorities don’t believe Londra Lewis killed either herself or Amelia Witherspoon? That the murderer is still at large?”

  His tone had risen. I saw several heads at nearby tables turn in our direction, and was surprised to see the museum board at one of them: Mazie Madison, Ginnifer Rubin, Andy McHardy, Garrett Knute … and yes, Mayor Carolyn Hart. All their eyes were popping, especially the mayor’s.

  I dropped my own voice and said to him, “This is hardly the place to discuss this. I’m sure once Josh Bloodgood has all the facts straight, he’ll be glad to make a statement.”

  Quentin, however, wasn’t accepting my dismissal with good grace. “What facts?” he asked. “Is there something the police found at the murder scene that hasn’t been made public yet?”

  I forced a light laugh. “You know very well the police never reveal everything to the public.”

  Josh chose that moment to walk in the front door of Sweet Perks. He had on black slacks and a black jacket, a white dress shirt, and a black and white striped tie. His hair was slightly damp, as if just from the shower, and his eyes were flat and cold as they scanned the room, then warmed slightly as his gaze rested on me. He moved toward us and I thought Quentin Watson might leave, but he only scooted farther down in the chair, his gaze firmly fixed on Josh.

  “Detective Bloodgood,” he said before Josh could greet us. “What’s all this about an ongoing investigation? I thought Londra’s unfortunate suicide resolved Amelia’s murder?”

  Josh’s lips thinned. “Don’t worry, Watson, the case is almost closed. Just a few loose threads to tie together.”

  “What’s to tie together?” His voice started to rise again. “What, a signed confession isn’t enough these days? Are you planning on holding a séance, calling up Londra’s spirit to get a formal confession?”

  Mazie left her seat and walked swiftly toward us. The expression on her face was stony, to say the least. “Mr. Watson,” she said, in a tone that I’d heard last from my third-grade teacher, “if you can’t speak well of the dead, please do not speak of them at all. Crishell and Detective Bloodgood are right. This isn’t the place to talk about this.”

  Quentin didn’t seem intimidated by Mazie’s manner in the least, but he did push back the chair and stand up, albeit somewhat reluctantly. He looked Mazie straight in the eye, which was easy for him to do, seeing as they were both the same height. “It’s a sad day, madam,” he said, “when the police cannot even close a simple case of murder. The lead detective here”—he indicated Josh with a sweep of his arm—“says there are still loose ends to tie up. I ask you, how can there be loose ends when there is a confession, a note, irrefutable evidence?”

  Mazie’s gaze slid to Josh. “Is that true, Detective? I mean, I thought the case was closed.”

  “Not yet, ma’am. There are still a few details. But I expect it’ll be marked closed within twenty-four hours.”

  “That long? It should already be closed,” spat Quentin.

  Mazie reached out and touched Josh’s arm. “Please understand, Detective. This has all been greatly upsetting to us on the board. The museum was Amelia’s whole life. They’re just acclimating themselves to what happened and now you say it’s not resolved?”

  Josh nodded curtly. “There are a few issues that have to be dealt with.”

  Mazie frowned. “Are you saying there’s a chance that Londra didn’t murder Amelia? That she was an innocent victim?”

  “I really can’t comment on anything right now, Ms. Madison. All I can tell you is I expect to have everything resolved shortly.”

  Mazie’s eyes flashed, and for a moment I thought she was going to argue further, but then she shrugged. “If you say so, Detective,” she said. She turned on her heel and walked back to her table. She sat down and immediately all the heads converged on her.

  I turned my attention away from them and back to Josh. “Want to sit with us?”

  He shook his head. “No thanks. I’m on my way to the next town to consult with the lieutenant there on one of their cases. I meant what I told Mazie, though—this one should be wrapped up very, very soon.”

  He gave my hand a quick squeeze, then walked away. I looked after him for a long moment, and then realized Quentin Watson was still standing there.

  I gave him a thin smile and raised two fingers. “Twenty-four hours,” I said.

  “I’ll be counting the minutes,” Quentin sneered, then turned on his heel and walked away.

  Olivia leaned toward me. “Cheery soul. What bug got up his butt?”

  “He’s just annoyed because he thinks he gave me a lead and I know more than I’m telling,” I replied.

  Olivia studied my face a moment. “Do you? Know more than you’re telling?”

  I picked up my latte and took another sip. “I guess we’ll just have to wait and see,” I said mysteriously.

  The front door opened again and Mel Feller shuffled in, wearing the same suit and jacket I’d seen him in yesterday. My, my, it seemed I’d picked the right spot for a bit of surveillance, at least.

  Rita leaned over and said, “Look at Mel. He looks as if he hasn’t slept for days.”

  “Late night at the casino,” I said dryly. “I still can’t picture him and Londra as lovers.”

  “Well, who then?” demanded Olivia. “What other woman at the museum? Not Dolly Fitch. She’s a hundred if she’s a day.”

  I inclined my head toward the museum board’s table. “How about the mayor?”

  They all looked at me, and then Ron burst out laughing. “Carolyn? And Mel? You’re kidding?”

  “Actually, I’m not. When Gary and I went by Mel’s place the first time yesterday, his neighbor described Mel’s ‘friend.’ The description fit Carolyn Hart.”

  “The neighbor had to be mistaken,” Rita said firmly. “Carolyn Hart wouldn’t get within six inches of Mel.”

  “She might have to.”

  I sighed. Quentin had returned and was standing behind me again. I glanced over my shoulder. “And why is that?”

  “Because Mel is Amelia’s replacement. They voted him in this morning.” He grinned as my jaw dropped, and then added, “They also voted to display your aunt’s collection, but don’t let on you know. You didn’t hear it from me.”

  ∞

  After I left Sweet Perks, I ambled over to Secondhand Sue’s.
I knew Sue wasn’t back from New York yet, but Iris was behind the counter.

  “Hey, Iris,” I said as I approached the counter. “I’ve got the check for that table.”

  “Great. Kyle can bring it over next week.” She took my check and reached for the receipt pad. “I talked to Sue last night. She said that bust was from the Pierre School of Art in the city. There were three total. The one of Poe that you bought and two others: Shakespeare and Thomas Edison.”

  “Great. Can I ask another favor? Will you be speaking to Sue today? Can you ask her who bought the other busts?”

  “I might be able to tell you that,” Iris offered. “Let me check the sales ledger in the back.” She vanished through a curtained alcove and returned a minute later bearing a large black ledger, which she set in front of me. “The one of Edison was purchased by the Edison Library in Edison, New Jersey. Appropriate, right? And Shakespeare …” She ran her finger down the list of items, flipped a few pages and then said triumphantly, “Here it is. It was bought by the Fox Hollow Museum for their library.” She glanced at me. “Does that help?”

  “It certainly does. You wouldn’t have a copy of the bill of sale for that Shakespeare bust, would you?”

  “I’d assume so. Let me check.”

  She returned in a few minutes and laid a receipt on the table. “Is this what you wanted? Mazie Madison signed for it.”

  I looked at the signature and then pointed to the n in Madison. “She might have ordered it, but Londra accepted the order. See that little mark?”

  Iris squinted at where my finger pointed. “Barely.”

  “Londra told me that’s how she could tell what she signed for and what Mazie signed for—” I broke off as a mental picture appeared in my mind’s eye. “Checkmarks,” I murmured. “Of course.”

  Iris looked at me. “Are you okay, Ms. McMillan? You look a little flushed.”

  “I’m fine,” I said, grabbing my purse. “Iris, can you do me a favor? Can you send a copy of that receipt to my fax at home? I think you’ve got the number.”