Cat Call (Crazy Cat Lady Cozy Mysteries Book 4)

by Mollie Hunt

  Now the thing throbbed like a pulsar inside its little foot corset; between that and a few stinging scrapes and irritating bruises, I was having a hard time falling asleep. I noted one good thing about my throbbing, stinging, irritating physical state however: as long as I concentrated on that, I wasn’t thinking about hexters, hexes, and what horrible catastrophe might befall us next.

  I eased my foot into a slightly more comfortable, or maybe I should say less painful, position. The cats didn’t move an inch. Cary Grant was snoring softly. I tuned in to the rhythm of his breathing. Slow as whale song, the tension began to slip away.

  * * *

  I woke with a start. For a moment, I couldn’t remember where I was, then a big cat stretched out along my side, flipped over, and with his blunt mrow, it all came pouring back.

  I didn’t know what had wakened me but I had the dream echo of a loud noise lingering my head. I listened, but now all was quiet and normal: cats breathing; refrigerator humming; water running through the basement’s big pipes. For the most part, sounds from the upper floors didn’t penetrate into this subterranean cavern, which meant if it had come from above, it must have been a real boom.

  Or...

  I sat bolt upright, dislodging Clark Gable from my left arm. The more reasonable explanation was that the sound had come from nearby. Call me paranoid, but after all the weirdness, the idea of someone creeping around outside the trailer gave me a chill.

  I slipped on my glasses and slowly inched from my bed. I shuffled to the window and stared out into the semi-gloom. Overhead lights, dimmed for the night, showed the trucks, vans, catering tables, and a few scattered cars. I waited, breath held, but I detected no movement. Whatever it had been—‌if it had been anything at all—‌was over, at least for now.

  The lights still off, I stole into the little living room and checked the locks. For someone who claimed never to lock her door, Rhonda had it well equipped with a hefty slide bolt and a chain. I hadn’t bothered with them before I’d gone to bed. At the time, I’d been too tired to worry, but now, at the hour of the wolf, I decided it was a heck of a good plan.

  I quietly set both locks and limped back to the bedroom, trying to shake the feeling I was being watched. As I sat on the edge of the bed I felt a warm nose nuzzling my hand and looked down to see Clark.

  “Hi, sweets,” I whispered, scratching his sideburns. “I wish I could be as calm about things as you. A few hours ago, you were trapped by a madman in a tiny cage, but now that you’re home and safe, it’s as if it never even happened.”

  He gave my hand a final caress and went to curl up beside his brother. Smart cat. I’d be smart to do the same.

  I stretched out on the bed and stared up at the rounded ceiling, but I was full awake, on edge, still listening. And still there was nothing. I had almost given up, turning my thoughts to sleep when I heard it again.

  Muffled as it was through the floors of the old building, I would recognize that sound anywhere. Not a backfire, not a Fourth of July cherry bomb; that blast could only be one thing: a gun shot.

  Portland is a growing city and we have our share of shootings, but this was too close, too clear, too much skyward to be coming from the street. There was an echo, a physical sensation that reverberated through the ancient building frame, even down into the bowels of the basement. There was no doubt in my mind that its origin was somewhere upstairs.

  My first instinct was to call 911. I snatched up the phone Gerrold had lent me until I could get mine in to the Verizon store. It was nothing fancy, one of the prepaid models provided by the production, but it worked fine for calling. I began to dial and then hesitated. Was I so sure it had been gunfire? Was I so sure it had come from Big Pink and not somewhere outside? I’d be wasting police time if it were a false alarm, someone moving sets or preparing sound effects. I punched the off button, and the screen returned to glossy black.

  For a few moments, I wondered what to do. There still could be danger. It wouldn’t hurt to gather up the cats and make a run for it. Even with my bad ankle, I could probably manage the drive out of the parking garage to somewhere safer. I was about to get going on that when I heard a scream, long, high-pitched, vulnerable. This put a whole new light on things; if someone had been shot, they might need help. If I left them there to die, I would never forgive myself.

  I grabbed the closest thing handy, one of Rhonda’s caftans, and pulled the voluminous jersey over my head. I slipped into my sandals, waggling the left one up over the compression bandage. I decided I needed a weapon and chose a decorative carved staff from the umbrella stand which I optimistically dubbed a cudgel. Dropping the little phone into a caftan pocket and using the staff as a cane, I slunk out of the trailer, locking the cats in behind me. I don’t know what had happened to my original plan to call 911.

  The scream had sounded like it was right on top of me but logic insisted it was probably a trick of the building’s vast heating and ventilating system. I hobbled up the stairs to the main floor and listened. From the lobby with its open spaces that rose all the way to the fourth floor ceiling, I should have been able to hear where the scream originated, provided it happened again. It did, a short cry, more of a sob that a shriek.

  Sound was deceptive in the cavernous structure but I was almost certain it came from farther up. I started for the elevator, then hesitated. The ancient cage shook and rattled like a garbage truck; if I wanted to keep my presence secret, I’d be better off taking the stairs.

  Waddling up the wide wooden treads, I kept eyes scanning for motion, ears tuned for the softest whisper. I was to the third floor before I heard anything more, a muted weeping.

  I shrunk back into the shadows, trying to decide if I really wanted to go on. I’d finally remembered plan A, to run away and call the pros to deal with it. Suddenly that seemed like the best course of action. Someone was crying so they obviously weren’t dead. No more bangs, no crashes or bashes. Since the conflict seemed to be over, I could reasonably assume no one else was going to get hurt.

  But what if they were hurt already? I didn’t think a wounded person would have such a soft and steady cry, but what did I know? Just because I shouted and swore like a protester when I was injured didn’t mean everyone else did. I’d made it this far; I should at least go on to check it out.

  Gripping the cudgel stick tighter in my hand, I resumed my climb. My ankle was killing me but I was almost there. At the top landing, I paused again, then turned right toward the penthouse. The padlock was off and the ornate door stood open wide.

  I peeked through and found myself staring into an expansive entrance hall and the grand living room beyond. The space was bare of furniture but the hardwood parquet floor had been recently polished to a shine, the scent of wax and orange blossoms lingering in the air. The far wall was fitted with a series of windows. A vast glass-paneled door opening onto the rooftop patio was currently thrown wide.

  The scenery gnomes must have been busy since Seleia’s tour the day before because the swimming pool, circa 1920's, now sparkled aqua. Reflections from underwater lighting made ripples in the glossy surface, but at one end, a dark shape masked the undulating glow. There, a shadowy stain was rising through the blue water, turning it purple. A fedora bobbed like a dark brown duck in the tainted froth.

  Shock surged through me as I ran my eyes over the scene. The lights were set low, romantic. Soft music was playing from some hidden sound system. On a nearby patio table sat two wine glasses and an open bottle of champagne. Could that have been the bang I heard? Not a gunshot at all? But no, that would not explain the bleeding body.

  Then I registered the figure kneeling by the mosaic-studded pool under the cover of a great potted fern. I gasped, and it turned to me, mouth open, face a mask of woe. I had to blink to be sure of what I was seeing; then when I was irrefutably certain, I had to look again.

  Now it made sense. Now I understood what I had failed to catch before. The argument between the two men that I’d
overheard from the psychedelic room hadn’t stopped there; they had taken their quarrel to the ultimate level, and now one of them was dead.

  By his stocky build and the telltale fedora, the man in the water had to be Jason Prince. The other man, the one who now crouched by his prey in a pale blue raw silk suit and meticulous makeup, was Angela T. Moore.

  * * *

  I made to run.

  “Lynley, wait!” she—‌he called to me.

  I should have gone while I had the chance. There was a whole twenty feet of living room between us; I would have had plenty of time to get out, slam the door, and set the lock box in place with him on the inside. He would never have caught me, would still be sitting pretty when the authorities came to haul him away for murder. But there was something in his voice, the same husky voice as Angela’s but a few notes lower, that made me stop. I’d heard that tone before; it was unmistakable. He was in absolute anguish.

  I took a step toward the grisly scene. “Angela? Or should I call you Andy?” I charged.

  He rose to his feet, still wearing the designer pumps. “My birth name is Davit Morton. Angela T. Moore is a nom de plume.”

  “Okay, Davit Morton,” I said slowly. “You can be whoever you want to be, that doesn’t bother me. But what does bother me is the dead body in the swimming pool. That bothers me a lot.”

  He gave a little sob. “That was how I found him.”

  He paused. If he were waiting for me to feel sorry for him, he might have a long wait.

  “Maybe you should tell me what’s going on,” I conceded.

  “I can’t.”

  “Then I’m out of here,” I said, turning for the door.

  “No, Lynley, I can’t because I don’t know.” He hesitated, then continued, his voice so low I could barely hear him.

  “I was in my private study with the door closed,” he finally continued, “when I heard the noise, the... shots. There were two. I ignored the first, you know—‌the ‘it can’t happen here’ syndrome? After the second, I realized it really had come from nearby. I still didn’t comprehend how it could be,” he lamented woefully. “So blind, so blind!”

  “Are you saying you just came in and there he was?”

  “I didn’t see him initially, I didn’t see anyone, but then I caught a disturbance in the water and the terrible reality began to come clear. My first thought was to dive in and save him. I even started...” He nodded his nearly bald head to a pile of silver fluff on the floor that must have been the Angela wig. “But I could see he was already gone. There was nothing, nothing I could do.”

  “And you don’t have any idea what happened.”

  His penciled brows rose. “I don’t. Honestly, Lynley. I don’t know who would do such a thing.”

  “Well, you, for one. I overheard you arguing with Jason earlier today. I should have recognized your voice but I guess I wasn’t thinking in that direction.”

  He looked away. “Yes, I admit it. We argued. Jason and I had our differences. We used to collaborate—‌it seems like another age now. We were both very young and starry-eyed, but he preferred drinking to working so I had to go my own way without him.

  “We came up with the idea of McCaffrey & Jack some twenty years ago. Just bar talk, the skeleton of a plot involving a detective and a crime-solving cat. I went on to write the first book. When it was published and I signed the contract for the second, I bought him out, even though he’d really done nothing more than scribble a few notes on a napkin. I was being generous, so I thought.”

  He took a deep breath and his onyx eyes squeezed shut as if looking back in time. Then they popped open again.

  “The stories, the writing was all mine, I swear. And Jason was satisfied with our agreement until I was approached by the production company for a television deal. Then suddenly there he was again, demanding a ridiculous cut. There was no way I was about to succumb to his pressure, but still I gave him credit; I even gave him a job. I cared about him, Lynley. I really did.”

  He put his head in his hands and began to sob again. The pain on his face would have seemed incongruous on Angela, but on Davit Morton, it seemed impossible.

  I edged a little closer. “But Jason Prince was the hexter. He was trying to ruin your show.”

  “I know. I knew, or at least I suspected, it was he all along. I confronted him about it, but he told me he had given up the sabotage after the cameraman was killed. But then you probably already know all that since you were eavesdropping on our private conversation,” he huffed, a little of Angela’s arrogance creeping back into his tone.

  “It makes no sense. Why would someone else copycat the hex hoax? Do you have another old partner who wants a cut?”

  “I can’t imagine who it might be, if not Jason. Or why.”

  “For someone to take up exactly where the hexter left off seems a bit farfetched, don’t you think?”

  “Maybe he was lying. I don’t know, I don’t know!” That last turned into a wail.

  “Well, what I do know is we have to call the police.”

  “No, you can’t!”

  “But if you’re innocent...” That was the wrong thing to say; I knew it the moment the words escaped my lips. Had I so easily accepted Angela-slash-Davit’s story that he was not the killer, or had I been so wrapped up in his revealing monologue that I’d forgotten?

  Davit Morton gave a war cry and rushed at me. I turned to run but got caught up in the hem of Rhonda’s ample caftan and went down on one knee. I heard something clatter to the floor—‌my cell phone. I reached for it and, still tangled in jersey, and fell hard on my elbow. There was a gruesome pop. I let out a cry of pain and dropped the cudgel which skittered across the room. So much for my weapon.

  Davit Morton was on me in a heartbeat. He grabbed the front of the caftan and wrenched me to him. I saw his hand pull back, ready to slap me in the face. I ducked to one side and his blow glanced off my shoulder. With a swift move I’d learned in my women’s self-defense class and fueled solely by adrenaline, I lurched to my good foot and whipped around. His grip loosened and then I was standing over him.

  I didn’t wait for him to move but kneed him under the jaw. His head jerked back and he made an oof sound. He fell on the hard parquet, looking dazed. I dove for the cudgel, but his hand snaked out and caught my ankle, the bad one.

  I screamed and lost my balance, tumbling down beside him. He moved to straddle me but I rolled sideways, kicking out at his abdomen. He caught it square in the gut and since my aim wasn’t so great, a little below that. He curled into a fetal ball of pain.

  I scrambled to my feet, this time putting as much distance between me and him as I could. Lurching clumsily for the door, I ran smack into a set of muscled arms. Still fighting like a wildcat, I raised my foot to stomp the daylights out of the newcomer’s dorsal. Then through the red haze of fight lust, I heard my name. Pausing, still poised for attack, I glanced up at my adversary, into the deep brown eyes of Ray Anderson.

  Chapter 24

  If your cat is finicky about her food, try giving a treat as an appetizer.

  “Lynley, settle down. It’s me, Ray. You’re okay. Everything’s okay. Tourney and me, we’re here now.”

  The litany of comforting phrases trickled into my psyche. “Ray?”

  “Yeah, honey. It’s just us. We heard the ruckus and Tourney’s called the police. They’ll be here any minute.”

  Ray still held me close and I let him. Then I cast a glance over my shoulder. “Angela,” I gasped. “Prince!”

  Tourney was staring down at the prostrate form of Angela who was still writhing and whimpering on the floor. “What the heck? Ms. Moore...?”

  “Angela’s a man,” I panted. “Her name is Davit Morton.”

  “Ooo-kay. So what’s going on with you two?” He turned on me. “What did you do to Ms. Moore... I mean Morton?”

  “He attacked me, so I hit him.”

  “Yeah? Really?” Tourney said doubtfully. “You hit him? W
hy?”

  I pointed to the swimming pool. The two men followed my gesture to the form of the floating man.

  “Olaf! In the pool,” Ray Anderson blurted.

  Tourney looked from the pool to Morton to me and grunted. “Doesn’t that take all! What the heck went on here?”

  “He’s dead,” I whispered.

  “Yeah, I can see that.” The security officer’s hand went instinctively to his weapon. “Who is it?”

  “Jason Prince.”

  “You sure?”

  I nodded and the hand moved to the cell phone clipped to his duty belt. He punched a single number. “Get me homicide.”

  Tourney stepped away from us, speaking low and fast into the phone. Replacing it on his belt, he eyed the scene once more. Davit Morton had recovered his breath sufficiently to squirm into a sitting position, ladylike, his high-heeled feet tucked under his skirted haunches. He may have been male but he had that woman thing down to a tee. Transgender? I was beginning to think that was the most likely explanation.

  Reaching toward the stunned security man, he said in Angela’s voice, “A little help, please?”

  Tourney stared at him. “You just stay down there for now. I don’t know what the deal is but no one’s going anywhere until the authorities arrive.”

  Morton stood up on his own. “This...” he proclaimed, casting a nail-polished finger in the general direction on the pool “...has nothing to do with me. I’m not staying a minute longer.”

  He wriggled a satin pump back onto his foot and began to mince toward the door—‌toward me. I cowered against Ray Anderson’s ample chest.

  Tourney tensed. “That’s not a good idea, Angela whoever-you-are. There’s a dead man in the other room and the police will decide when—‌and if—‌you can leave.”

  Ray stepped out in front of Morton, pushing me behind him. For a moment I thought Davit was going to fight him too, but the writer backed down.

  “I didn’t do it,” he whimpered. “I found him, just like that...” He gestured to the floating body.