Murder at Catmmando Mountain Georgie Shaw Cozy Mystery #1 (Georgie Shaw Cozy Mystery Series)

by Anna Celeste Burke

  “Thanks,” I hollered to Giselle, as we took off again. Doug had said nothing since we left my office.

  He had a grim look on his face. “Doug, are you okay?”

  “Yes, yes. I just hate it when the rumor-mill gets out ahead of us after an event like this one. Park Associates found the body and should have gone into ‘circle the wagons’ mode immediately. That means mum’s the word until we have the facts.”

  “That hasn’t happened?”

  “No,” he said, as he displayed his phone. “I’m already getting emails with rumors that are going around—asking me if they’re true.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like this was no accident. The woman found at the base of Catmmando Mountain was murdered.”

  “Geez Louise,” I said. “How could they know that if they weren’t at the scene?”

  “My point exactly—unless there’s a leak.”

  My mind began to race, and I felt a pit open up in my stomach. The only thing I could imagine that was worse than death in the park was a murder. No wonder Doug was white-knuckled as he drove the golf cart.

  “I suppose someone could have overheard the team members talking among themselves. News like that would travel like wildfire,” I muttered.

  “Yes, Murder at Catmmando Mountain is a perfect sound bite, isn’t it? On Valentine’s Day, no less! Not good. Let’s hope it doesn’t turn out to be some crime of the heart—a lover’s quarrel taken to the extreme.”

  “Yikes! The media would have a field day with it, given all the promotion we’ve done for our ‘Love is Purrfect in Arcadia Park’ holiday theme.” I tried to think of something reassuring to say. Murder resulting from a lover’s quarrel was bad, that's true. Would it be any better if this turned out to be a mugging or a random murder committed by a psycho killer on the loose in Arcadia?

  “Doug, I don’t think we should get out ahead of the facts. Whatever’s going on, we’ll deal with it. Once we’ve determined guests in the park are safe, we’ll handle the PR fallout. You know how short the news cycle is, no matter what’s happened. We’ll come up with counter-measures. There are always so many good things going on at Arcadia that we'll be able to shift the focus to those.”

  Rolling out the hearts and flower stories from Arcadia was our forte in the PR department. Not just on Valentine’s Day. Stories of people and their pets are a mainstay of Arcadia’s positive message. A portion of the proceeds from admissions goes to no-kill shelters. Twice a year the Park sponsors free pet care days where mobile vet hospitals offer essential services for free—like spaying or neutering, immunizations, and tagging pets. Arcadia hosts an annual pet show, too.

  Several romance-focused messages were in the works today. Those stories were part of an ongoing campaign to portray the park as a lovely setting for guests with more in mind than fun for kids. A “Bring your Valentine” Couples Rate was in effect for the day—two admissions for the price of one. Roving reporters would snap photos of lovers strolling hand-in-hand, buying roses for each other, or having their picture taken in front of a giant heart-shaped garland of flowers at Swan Lake. More than once, that spot had been chosen for a proposal of marriage—borrowing a moment from one of the more romantic movies, The Swan Prince’s Bride, in Marvelous Max Studios film archives. The swan boats glide through a modern-day tunnel of love, where the story of the sad swan prince who finds his soulmate plays out in a series of stunning tableaus that inspire proposals. After a death in the park, especially if it turned out to be murder, all those soft, sentimental stories would seem insensitive.

  “Maybe I should put a hold on the distribution of Valentine’s Day Love Notes from the Park—just until we know more,” I suggested.

  “Yeah, that’s a good idea. Send a message to Kelly, if you don’t mind.”

  “Will do.” I texted Kelly Larson, Doug’s executive assistant, and asked her to have all Valentine Notes held until after lunch. Next, I sent a text to my administrative assistant, Carol Ripley. “I’ve got Carol pulling together a crisis team meeting for us this afternoon, Doug.” I searched Twitter and saw tweets, dang it, featuring hashtag #Arcadiatroubles. Fortunately, there was no word yet about a dead body, and not so many tweets that the news about Arcadia was trending.

  “Glad you’re thinking! Clearly, I’m not at the top of my game.”

  “I’m sorry you’re taking this so hard, Doug. None of this is your fault—even if there has been a leak or the guys haven’t done a stellar job at containment. The timing stinks, given it’s a holiday.”

  “There is another rumor, Georgie.” My name is Georgina—a last minute choice because my parents had gone to the delivery room believing they were having another boy. Everyone calls me Georgie and that’s fine with me. When I was growing up, the name got me unwanted attention at times, but I liked the balance it brought to my sense of self. Georgina was rather regal and very girlish while Georgie seemed more down-home and made me feel more like one of the guys. I had lots of male friends, in addition to three older brothers. That has come in handy more times than I can count. Being able to hang around men without always feeling the need to defer or flirt has proved critical as I climb the ranks in management.

  “So Doug, are you going to tell me the other rumor?”

  Doug pulled into a parking spot beside another golf cart. Shut it off and looked straight at me. “The woman is someone we know.” Without another word, we hopped from the vehicle and headed to a nearby elevator. In less than a minute, the elevator delivered us to Catmmando Square, with Catmmando Mountain and Fortress Friendship looming. The doors shut behind us. The doors painted to blend into the building’s façade were no longer visible to passersby once they closed.

  “No more rumors, Doug. Let’s find out for ourselves.”

  3 Purrslla’s Panic

  Doug and I stepped out of the elevator onto the corner of Catmmando Boulevard and Shepherdsville Road. Each pedestrian roadway in Arcadia Park is paved in a different color and stamped in a distinct pattern for each area of the Park. A kind of “follow the yellow brick road” strategy, it's intended to help guests navigate the park. Doug made a beeline across the road, heading for the lead member of the containment crew. His team was busy cordoning off a playground and picnic area adjacent to Catmmando Mountain. Portable partitions were being put up to block the view of whatever was going on in there. A man of medium height and build, in a dark brown suit, stepped out from behind one of those partitions and held out his hand to Doug. I had taken two steps in their direction when a woman's shrieks stopped me in my tracks.

  “Arrghh! Cruella—it’s Cruella!” Those shrill cries came from a large, white, fluffy Purrsilla, Catmmando Tom’s lady friend in his cartoon adventures. She rushed toward me in a blind panic. The plush tail that towered above her head was pinned to her body so she could move quickly. That’s a no-no for anyone playing the role since the luxurious tail is Purrsilla’s most attractive feature. Apart from the gorgeous green, heavily-lashed cat eyes, anyway. Under normal circumstances, a park ranger would have taken her aside. Today everyone was distracted. Including me, given the shocking claim Purrsilla was making as she skittered my way. I snagged her before she could run headlong into a throng of guests.

  “Whoa, Purrsilla, slow down!” I didn’t exactly grab her by the scruff of her neck, but close. It took some doing to hang on to her. I’m strong, thanks to regular workouts. She was terrified, and her first inclination was to swat at me with a big paw—also a no-no in the associate handbook for those charged with bringing Marley’s beloved character to life.

  “Stop, Purrsilla. Take a deep breath, and, please, lower your voice.” She let go of her tail which almost whopped me in the face as it sprang back into place. Then she buried her big cat head into her oversized paws. I tried patting her on the back, hoping to calm her.

  “She’s okay, folks. Sorry for the trouble.” That dispersed the crowd that had gathered. Still hanging onto her, I walked Purrsilla toward the doors that
led backstage. Doug and that man in the brown suit were eying me. I waved Doug off.

  “Purrsilla’s just fine,” I called out loud enough for Doug and anyone else still standing around to hear.

  Doug waved in return.

  “Who’s inside there?” I whispered. Calling her Purrsilla wasn’t going to cut it if I wanted to reach the human having a meltdown. I hit a spot on the wall, and those hidden doors opened. Once we were underground, Purrsilla removed the top of her costume.

  “I’m so...” she hiccupped, “sorry. It was horrible. I lost it. Cruella’s dead!” The young woman who still had not told me her name reached out and grabbed me with those paws and sobbed on my shoulder.

  “Are you talking about Mallory Marley-Marston?” I felt a shimmy of fear run down my spine. Someone we know, Doug had said.

  “Yes. We called her Cruella de Vil. I know we shouldn’t have done that, but it fit. She was a mean person—always giving my friends who work in Snappy Treats a hard time. Nothing was ever good enough for that hag! They just hated her, and so did I,” she gasped. “Oh no! I don’t mean we hated her enough to do that to her—kill her! Who could do that to anyone?”

  “It’s going to be all right. Uh, I’m sorry, I still don’t know your name.”

  “Debbie. Debbie Dinsmore.”

  “Don’t worry, Debbie.” I looked around to make sure we were alone, lowered my voice to a conspiratorial level. “A lot of us called her Cruella.” Or worse, I thought. Debbie let out a huge sigh of relief. “I’m sorry you had to see her... had to see anyone in that condition. You need to put your feet up in the break room. Calm your nerves and then go home.”

  “But my shift’s not over for hours. I just came on duty...” Another round of sobbing cut off her words.

  “No problem. We’re going to shut down much of this area for a while. I’ll fix it with your supervisor, Megan Donnelly, okay?” Debbie nodded in agreement. “Does she know how to reach you later?”

  “Yes,” Debbie said with a puzzled look on her face.

  “Good! I’m going to have her call you with a referral for someone to speak to about what you witnessed today.” Her puzzled expression morphed into wariness. “Trust me. It’ll help—I went through something like this myself—years ago. I should have talked to someone right away. The company will pay for it, and we’ll cover a few days paid leave if you want to take it.” She didn’t respond one way or the other. What had she seen? I uttered a silent prayer that whoever had leaked information about what was going on also hadn’t taken pictures.

  “I’m calling Megan right now. You have to promise me you’ll calm down and that you’ll see the person Megan finds for you, please?”

  “Sure. I do need to take the day off. Talking to somebody couldn’t hurt.” She rubbed tears from her face with a paw—no-no number three, but who was counting on a day like today?

  Megan picked up my call on the first ring. I filled her in on the situation. Not that I knew much myself.

  I must have conveyed the seriousness of the matter because Megan sprang into action and insisted that Debbie stay with me. She planned to escort the young woman to the break room where she could change.

  Then she would transport Debbie to a pick-up spot where a company driver would take her home. I was impressed by Megan’s willingness to put herself out there for an associate. As Arcadia Park Operations Officer, staff management was an important part of her job. Not all she had to do, however, as she often pointed out when griping about her workload. Park operations did involve a lot of duties besides managing associates. It included finances, health and safety, and guest relations, too. In no time at all, Megan arrived in a golf cart.

  “Thanks, Megan, you’re on the ball! That was fast.”

  “No problem. I take my job seriously.” As she spoke, she stepped out of the golf cart and guided Debbie around to the passenger seat. Megan dabbed at her face with a tissue, before climbing back into the driver’s seat. “I moved little too fast and scraped my face when I jumped into the golf cart. See you later, Georgie.” Megan left as quickly as she had arrived.

  Once Megan had Debbie squared away, I had no choice but to go back out into the park and face whatever had sent Purrsilla running away in terror. No screaming characters when I stepped out of the elevator this time, but plenty of noise, and activity everywhere.

  People were streaming from Catmmando Mountain Conquest, a roller coaster thrill ride that took guests at breakneck speed through twists and turns inside and outside the massive mountain located in the center of Arcadia. Still whooping and hollering, riders blinked as they came to a stop. The last segment of the Conquest raced through the dark as Catmmando Tom battled evil-doers around them. Explosions lit up the darkness. Objects hurtled toward them in 3D, before Tom and his crack team won the day. In a cascade of fireworks and Catmmando Tom’s triumphant anthem, guests blasted out into the bright California sunshine once again. Crowd Control had roped-off exit lanes leading guests off of the thrill ride and away from that dead body by the most direct route possible.

  The scene of the crime, as they say on all those cop shows, was now well-contained. Those shields encircled the perimeter, and Park security guards stood watch at the opening. A swarm of people were moving about, but there were no flashing police sirens or lights—no police cars or rescue vehicles at all. Two uniformed police officers stood with our security team members at the entry point. I walked over and gave them my name, explaining I was with Doug. A guard noted my name in a log and moved aside so I could enter.

  County CSIs, as I could tell from the equipment they had with them, were working quickly on several fronts—taking pictures, making measurements, and collecting evidence. A woman who had to be the County Coroner bent over a body. I tried not to look at what she was doing or at the figure she was examining. Instead, I headed to where Doug was standing—off to the side, speaking to the same man in the brown suit I had seen earlier.

  “How’s Purrsilla?” Doug asked.

  “Better. Her supervisor will make sure she gets home safe. We’ll follow up with her later. I’ve asked them to keep this quiet until we can sort out what’s gone on here. What has gone on, Doug? Purrsilla claims it’s Mallory—is that correct? How did she find that out?” I realized I was pelting Doug with questions. The gentleman standing beside him peered at me; his head cocked to one side.

  “Meet Homicide Detective Jack Wheeler, Georgie. Jack, this is Georgina Shaw, Assistant Director of the PR Division. We all call her Georgie. You should, too, if you want to stay on her good side.”

  I mustered a smile, grateful that Doug was able to jest though he still wore that “hand-slammed-in-a-car-door” expression on his face.

  “Nice to meet you, Detective Wheeler,” I said.

  “Likewise, but if I’m going to call you Georgie, you need to call me Jack.” A smile spread across the man’s face, softening the lines that age and a whole lot of days like this one must have put there. His eyes drew me in more than his smile. There was depth in them, as you might expect from a fifty-something homicide detective who’s witnessed the worst in humans. More surprising to me was his steely vibrancy with no hint of cynicism or despair.

  “Will do, Jack,” I said, taking the hand he offered. Then, the oddest thing happened. I heard a funny sound in my head as he grasped my hand. Snap, crackle, pop, or something like that. I let go of his hand, but held his gaze a moment longer, wanting to hang on to the sturdiness he exuded. How did men like Jack Wheeler deal with murder and mayhem and still seem like such solid citizens? Doug’s voice interrupted my reverie.

  “Jack’s trying to help us figure out what’s happened. He can fill you in.”

  “I can tell you what we know so far, which isn't much. We have a lot of work ahead of us. What I can say at this point is that, yes, it’s Mallory Marley-Marston. She was murdered—stabbed many times. I could be wrong, but I’m guessing whoever committed such a vicious attack had a personal grudge against the woman. Do
you have any idea who might have had it in for Ms. Marley-Marston?” My head spun as I tried to make sense of the fact that Mallory was dead and struggled to respond to the detective's question. Images of almost everyone I knew at the office passed through my mind.

  “She was a nasty, unhappy woman, Jack. I can’t think of a single soul who could abide her. That’s not to say I know anyone who disliked her enough to kill her. Nor do I know much about her personal life, other than tabloid gossip and the fact that her father is the founder of Marvelous Marley World Enterprises.” He watched me intently as I uttered those words. I felt uncomfortable about speaking ill of the dead, but it was the truth—as I saw it, at least. I met his gaze.

  “Give it some thought, please, and make me a list of the people who disliked her. I’m asking Doug and others to do the same. Maybe if we cross-reference the lists, one or two names will stand out. It’s a break for all of us that the groundskeepers were in this location early. Probably not long after she was killed, according to the coroner. They called it in, and your team went into action before too many people could tramp through here and destroy any evidence left behind by the killer,” Jack said.

  “Unfortunately, we weren’t able to keep everybody out, Georgie. Purrsilla found out it was Mallory because she cut through the picnic area before we closed off access from the tunnels on that side.” Doug gestured toward the back of the picnic area close to another of those hidden entrances to the underground tunnels.

  “Nice job handling that big white cat’s freak-out. You must have done some fast talking to calm her down and get her out of the way like that.” The detective was peering at me again as he spoke. I found it disconcerting.

  “Thanks, Jack, what else was I going to do besides talk fast and act quickly to get her backstage? Slapping her across the face like they do in the movies doesn’t work so well in the real world—especially when that face is hidden behind an enormous polyurethane mask.” As I spoke, the detective’s brow furrowed. Had I sounded snippy?