Literally Murder (A Black Cat Bookshop Mystery)

by Ali Brandon

  Mildred, meanwhile, gave Darla a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Buck up, dear. I know we’ll find him. Be sure to look underneath the tables as well as in the cages.”

  They spent the next little while separately scouring the exhibition area. Some of the exhibitors recognized Darla and already had heard the rumors about Hamlet. They offered advice and condolences, and all vowed to keep an eye out for the missing cat.

  As she continued the search, it occurred to Darla that maybe they’d been looking for motives in all the wrong places. Maybe the person who’d taken Hamlet had no agenda other than wanting to own a famous cat. The feline’s appearance at the cat show had been well advertised; heck, she had even helped spread the word all over social media that Hamlet was going on tour. It would have been easy enough for the catnapper to buy a ticket to the show and simply wait around for an opportunity; then Hamlet’s video had proved the distraction needed.

  By the time Darla and Mildred finally met again in the predetermined center point, both of them empty-handed, Darla was feeling discouraged and more than a little fearful that she might never see Hamlet again.

  “I’m sorry, my dear,” Mildred told her. “Hamlet wasn’t hidden away in any of the cages, and none of the exhibitors has seen tail or whisker of him.”

  “I didn’t have any luck either. Maybe I should try outside, in case he did get away and is waiting for me to find him.”

  “That’s a good idea, dear. I’d join you, but I really have to get back to work,” Mildred explained, looking faintly guilty at the admission.

  Darla nodded. “I understand, and I’m grateful for all the help you’ve given me.”

  “You can thank me when we’ve found your kitty. Now, you know the Riverwalk, which runs right behind the convention center? I suggest you go down to the corner and turn right”—the old woman pantomimed the route Darla would take—“and you’ll run right into the walkway. The city has done a lovely job of landscaping there, and you’ll find all sorts of bushes and groundcover for Hamlet to hide in, if he’s out there.”

  Leaving Mildred to her volunteer duties, Darla exited the exhibition hall and started in the direction the woman had indicated. She wondered if she should try to recruit someone else from the show to help her, but then she decided against it. Hamlet was touchy enough when things were going well. If he had escaped his presumed abductors and was outside the hall, he’d probably be wary of any stranger attempting to catch him. She’d likely have more success alone.

  She came across the Riverwalk almost immediately, a broad concrete path that ran parallel to the water. Rather that the bird’s-eye view she’d had the previous afternoon, this look at the New River was up close and personal. Darla could hear the rapidly flowing water lapping against the banks, and actually saw a fish or two flash by in the clear water. The river smelled of rain, overlaid with faint notes of mud and fish and the ocean. Many of the bushes lining the walk were in bloom, and their perfume, carried on a cool breeze coming off the water, bathed her in a bit of calming aromatherapy.

  On the opposite side of the river, Darla could see homes—some charming, others elegant, almost all with their own private boat docks. As with the other structures she’d passed the day before, the homes spread along the riverbank were painted in tasty sherbet hues that contrasted with the pewter-colored waters. On her side of the river were commercial buildings interspersed with the occasional vintage home. Most of the latter were fenced off and appeared to have been converted to businesses and—in at least one case—a museum. Maybe later in the week, if things got back to normal, she’d take a closer look.

  The walkway was busy with clutches of wandering tourists. Normally, Darla would’ve summoned a smile and a nod as she passed each group, but for the moment her attention was focused at a lower level. Not caring how it looked, she crouched here and there to peer beneath a clump of greenery and call Hamlet’s name.

  More than once, she was startled when a green or brown lizard popped out. Most of those reptiles were cute enough, reminding her of the so-called chameleons that many of her classmates had kept when she was in grade school. A few, however, were decidedly less cute—fat and the size of small rats, with long tails that curled over their backs as they scampered past. It took all her effort not to let out a girlie shriek every time one of those creatures skittered across her path.

  Darla spent a good hour pacing up and down the Riverwalk, growing more discouraged with each passing minute. Surely if Hamlet had escaped to the great outdoors, she would have spotted him by now; that, or he would have heard her calling and ventured out. Whoever had taken him must still be holding him captive, she told herself stoutly, forbidding herself to speculate on any other potential fates.

  The sun had dropped behind the taller downtown buildings, leaving her in partial shadow, and the temperature had dropped as well. Darla wished she had a sweater to toss over her polo shirt. She glanced at her watch and saw that it was already five o’clock. The cat show would be over for the day, with all the exhibitors gathering their cats for the trip back to their respective homes or hotels. Even though she and Mildred had already combed through every owner’s spot searching for Hamlet, Darla wanted to take one more look about the place before they locked the doors for the night.

  Darla bent to check behind a final green-and-yellow-foliaged bush before she headed back, when she heard an unexpected beep beep behind her, and Jake zipped up beside her in a golf cart. Darla stared at her friend in surprise. Her first thought was to hope Hamlet had been found; her second, that Jake had no business tooling around in any sort of vehicle after that blow to her head.

  “Mildred told me you were out here on the Riverwalk searching for Hamlet. I guess you haven’t seen any sign of him?”

  “No. Any news from anyone at the cat show?”

  “None.” Jake shook her head, her expression grim. “They’re closing the hall down for the night, so I figured we’d take another look around the place. Come on, hop in.”

  Darla did as she was told, and Jake wheeled the cart around, retracing the route to the convention center. Darla clung to the pole supporting the overhead canopy as Jake negotiated the curves at a swift clip.

  “So, what are you doing driving around? I thought you had a concussion,” she demanded, trying to use righteous indignation to distract herself temporarily from thoughts of Hamlet. “Does Nattie know you’re out here?”

  “First, getting hit on the head does not equal concussion,” Jake countered. “I was just a little woozy for a couple of minutes. And, second, what Ma doesn’t know won’t hurt her. I left her napping in the room with her beloved throw pillows.”

  Before Darla could come up with a retort to that, Jake drove up the handicapped ramp to the exhibition hall entrance. She halted the cart there, since a steady stream of cat owners was moving out of the building now and pretty well blocking any incoming traffic. Some of the participants were wheeling their cats in carriers similar to the one Darla had used on the plane, while others had several cages stacked on luggage carts. The scene had a Grapes of Wrath vibe to it . . . at least in that hunger definitely drove these travelers, Darla thought with a fleeting smile, hearing the meow chorus of kitties ready for their suppers.

  Shelley Jacobson and two male volunteers stood in the doorway supervising the exodus. The former looked up at Darla and Jake’s approach.

  “No luck, ladies?” she asked in sympathy. When Darla shook her head, Shelley added, “If you want to give the exhibition hall another look, we’ll have the doors open for another fifteen minutes or so.”

  While Shelley played traffic cop, Jake fired up the golf cart again. She dropped Darla off at the stage. “I’ll check out the judging area. You take another look back here, and at concessions. Who knows? If Hamlet really is on the loose, maybe he found some leftover hot dogs to chow down on and has been napping all afternoon.” The women exchanged wan smile
s and went their separate ways.

  They were still searching a quarter of an hour later when the overhead lights began shutting down. Darla scrambled out from beneath one of the vendor tables, and Jake zipped over to pick her up again.

  “Don’t worry,” Jake said as they headed back to the main doors. “That Hamlet is a smart, resourceful cat. He can take care of himself, even in a strange town.”

  Darla nodded, doing her best not to give in to defeat. “When we get back to the hotel, I want to talk to Chantal at the front desk and let her know what’s going on in case the catnapper leaves a message for us.”

  “Good idea.”

  Making their good-byes to Shelley, Darla and Jake rode off in silence toward the hotel. The shadows were gathering in earnest now, with the setting sun throwing a final blanket of pink light across the surrounding buildings. The stress of the afternoon weighed on Darla, and once again she found herself blinking back tears. After all that she and Hamlet had been through together the past year, how could he suddenly be gone from her life?

  “Jake, what are we going to do?” she softly wailed as they approached the hotel. “We don’t even have the beginnings of a clue as to who took him. And you know the police won’t do anything to find him, not without some sort of solid lead to follow.”

  “Hang in there,” Jake reassured her. “Remember, I was a cop for almost twenty years. I’ve solved cases starting out with less than we have now. When we get back to the hotel, I’m going to see if I can’t call in a few favors. There’s got to be someone down here who can—”

  She broke off and hit the brakes on the cart, so that Darla had to grab the canopy pole with both hands to keep from sliding out. “What’s wrong? Why are we stopping?”

  Jake held up a cautioning hand. “Shh, listen. I swear I heard . . . maybe it’s just because I’ve been listening to cats crying half the day . . . but it sounds like—”

  Me-ooooow!

  “Hamlet!” Darla exclaimed and pointed up to the sixth floor. “There, on the balcony! No, not our room, the one at the corner. Look on the railing.”

  Despite the gathering dusk, there was still sufficient light for Darla to make out a dark shape crouched upon the balcony, the silhouette familiar.

  “Hang on,” Jake said and stomped on the accelerator.

  The golf cart rocketed toward the valet stand at the corner of the breezeway. The same balding bellman who’d carried their luggage the day before was chatting with a young Hispanic valet. Both men looked up in alarm as Jake stopped the cart inches from where they stood.

  “Hey, Jake, they teach you to drive like that in Jersey?” the bellman demanded with a grin, fluttering his hand over his heart in mock palpitations. “Last time I let you—”

  Jake interrupted his banter as she scrambled from the cart, Darla on her heels. “Clyde, quick, we’ve got to get into a room on the sixth floor! You know the stolen cat I told you about earlier? I’m pretty sure he’s on the balcony up there!”

  Joking forgotten, Clyde followed them out from under the breezeway to the curb beyond so that he could look up and see for himself. Another meow—this one more demanding—drifted down to them.

  Definitely Hamlet, Darla thought in fearful relief, clasping her suddenly sweaty hands together as she saw the cat take a few impatient steps along the railing. How in the heck he’d gotten up there, she couldn’t guess. All that mattered for the moment was getting him down again.

  “That’s room 624,” Clyde confirmed after doing a quick count of rooms and floors. “C’mon, I’ll get one of the housekeepers to let us in there.”

  Leaving the valet to deal with the golf cart, the trio hurried inside the lobby, where Clyde grabbed up a staff phone behind the bellman’s desk and quickly dialed.

  “Rita, it’s Clyde. I need you to meet me at room 624 right now with your master keycard. No, I don’t care if you’re in the middle of eating supper. It’s an emergency. Thanks.”

  He slammed down the phone and gestured them toward the elevator. “She’ll meet us up there. Let’s go.”

  Earlier, Darla had found the art deco–style elevator’s leisurely pace quaintly amusing, but this time the ride seemed excruciatingly slow. She was almost screaming with impatience when they finally reached the sixth floor.

  “This way. Room 624 is one of our luxury suites. I think one of the cat judges is staying there,” Clyde said as they exited the elevator.

  He motioned Darla and Jake down a corridor in the direction opposite their room. For the moment, the hall appeared empty, no doubt because it was the supper hour. Chances were the cat-show folks were all gathered in a bar or restaurant somewhere. Even the earlier feline chorus was subdued, with only a single mew coming from behind one of the closed doors. But as they rushed past the bend in the hallway, they spied someone fumbling with a door at the corridor’s end . . . leaving or entering, Darla wasn’t certain.

  “Is that the room we’re looking for, where that woman is standing?” Jake demanded as they headed down the hall at a brisk pace.

  Clyde nodded. “Yeah, corner room.”

  Darla broke into a run. Hamlet’s perch on the railing was precarious enough. All they needed now was for the woman to barrel unexpectedly into the room. Her sudden appearance might startle the cat enough to send him tumbling off the balcony.

  “Wait!” she called, waving her arms to get the woman’s attention. “Don’t open the door, not yet!”

  The woman jumped and spun about. Only then did Darla get a clear look at her face. The Martini Lady . . . aka Alicia Timpson!

  Darla stared at her in surprise. This was Alicia’s room? Still, it made sense that, as the chair of the show committee, Alicia might want to stay onsite for the duration of the event.

  “I beg your pardon,” said Alicia as Darla halted in front of her, panting a little from her sprint. “Is there something I can do for you, Ms. Pettistone? If it’s about your cat, I can assure you that we are continuing the search for him.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to yell,” Darla breathlessly explained. “But we found Hamlet. He’s out on the balcony of your hotel room. I didn’t want you to frighten him when you walked in.”

  Alicia gave her a look of cool astonishment. The look went on to take in Jake and Clyde, who had now joined Darla there at the door.

  “You say your cat is on my balcony? But I’m staying on the fifth floor. This room is my father’s.”

  “Okay, then Hamlet is on your father’s balcony,” Darla said with an impatient shake of her head. One would think that the show’s chairwoman would be relieved to know that Hamlet was alive and presumably well, if only to preserve the organization’s reputation. It couldn’t be good publicity for the FSA for an invited feline guest of honor to go missing under their watch. But the woman seemed almost reluctant to resolve the matter.

  “I don’t understand. What would he be doing in there? Are you suggesting that my father is responsible for Hamlet’s disappearance?”

  Darla hesitated. She wasn’t suggesting that, was she? She reminded herself that she’d seen both Billy and Alicia at the front of the crowd the entire time that Hamlet’s “Eye of the Tiger” video was playing. Therefore father and daughter could surely be eliminated from her suspect list.

  “Of course not,” she assured Alicia. “I’m certain Hamlet ended up there by accident. But could you please ask your father to let me inside so I can collect my cat?”

  Alicia shrugged. “I don’t think he’s in there. I already knocked and he didn’t answer, so I presume he’s at supper. But I can hardly let you waltz in without his permission simply because you claim your cat is inside.”

  Darla exchanged a swift look with Jake, who, from her irate expression, appeared ready to go all bodyguard on Alicia. But for the moment, they needed diplomacy, not brawn. Even on short acquaintance, Darla knew that Alicia wasn’t the
type to be intimidated into cooperation, even by an ex-cop. She’d frostily dig in her heels and deny them access to the room, just because she could. But Darla suspected that the woman thrived on feeling herself to be magnanimous. All Darla had to do was exploit that weakness.

  “Maybe you can call Mr. Pope and get his okay,” she suggested.

  Alicia shook her head again.

  “I already tried calling him, and he didn’t answer, so either he’s busy or else he left his phone here in the room.” Then, with a thoughtful moue, she added, “But if the cat’s inside, I suppose I can bring him out to you.”

  Darla swiftly assumed a conciliatory air. “I don’t claim to be as experienced as you are at handling cats, Mrs. Timpson, but I understand Hamlet. For all his tough attitude, he’s really rather skittish. I know you understand how delicate the situation is. The fastest way to resolve this is simply to let me and Jake go in to retrieve him by ourselves. Don’t you agree?”

  Alicia’s response wasn’t quite as gracious as Darla might have hoped, but it would have to do.

  “Fine,” Alicia huffed, sounding not fine at all as she slapped the keycard into Darla’s hand. Then, with a genteel snort, she settled onto one of the pair of sleek padded benches at the hall’s end. “Good luck getting the key to work. It doesn’t seem to want to open the door for me.”

  “Let me try, ma’am,” Clyde smoothly suggested, holding out a hand to Darla and then adding to Alicia, “You know, sometimes people put the keycard in their wallets, and that can demagnetize them. So I’m certain it’s nothing you’re doing wrong at all.”

  He tried the card a couple of times himself, but the tiny red light on the automatic door lock remained unchanged. In the interim, however, Darla heard the elevator doors down the hall ding as someone else arrived on the floor. A moment later, a very large Hispanic woman wearing an abundance of red lipstick came jogging toward them, waving a keycard.Rita, Darla decided, her guess confirmed when the woman drew closer and Darla saw her name embroidered on her uniform.