The Time for Murder Is Meow Page 11

  I sighed. “I guess you’re right.”

  “Of course I am. Are you going to the town memorial for Amelia tonight?”

  I blew a stray curl out of my eyes. “You’re kidding. Why would I want to attend that?”

  “For one thing, to get out and show these people that you don’t hold any sort of grudge against the woman. What did we just talk about, being the bigger person? You showing up will take some of the sting out of that little snippet of Watson’s, and maybe take him down a peg or two.”

  As much as I hated to admit it, Olivia was right. “Okay, count me in.”

  “Great. We’ll be by for you at six.” She paused. “Wear something simple. And black.”

  • • •

  With an entirely free afternoon, I decided to make some more calls to suppliers. I made great progress, checking off nearly half my list. People said kind things about Tillie and looked forward to receiving my orders in the near future. I found the number for Kathleen Power, the woman who knit items for the store, and she answered on the second ring. I explained who I was and the nature of my call, and she was more than delighted to hear from me. “I was wondering what would happen,” she confessed. “I was planning to come down once I saw the store was open with a few samples.”

  “We could do that now. Say, early next week?” Hey, I’m nothing if not optimistic. I told Kathleen I’d get back to her with a definite date, then shut my cell off and tried to take a nap; however, I wasn’t very successful. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Amelia’s body on the museum office floor, her chest covered with blood.

  At five o’clock I got up, showered, did my hair and makeup and pulled out a simple pair of black linen slacks, black T-shirt, and a gray and black animal-print jacket. Kahlua and Purrday were both sprawled across my bed, albeit at opposite ends. While Kahlua napped, Purrday watched me dress, and when I’d finished, let out a soft meow of approval, then flopped on his side and a few minutes later started snoring. I left the cats to their snoozing and made my way to the kitchen, where I heated up a bowl of Rita’s gumbo and ate it along with some saltine crackers. I sighed. I really had to get to the supermarket, but after recent events, I confess I was afraid to go. I just knew I’d be recognized and whispered about, just as I’d been in the weeks following Patrick’s betrayal.

  Gosh, this was Hollywood all over again.

  Promptly at six o’clock my doorbell rang. Olivia and Rita, both wearing black maxi dresses, stood on my front porch. Rita wore a purple shrug around her shoulders and matching flats; Olivia was bare-armed and had her turquoise sandals on. We engaged in a brief group hug on my stoop before I asked, “Where’s Ron? Isn’t he going?”

  Olivia shrugged. “Amelia wasn’t his favorite person, either, but I’m sure he and his wife will be there. Whether they come with or without their dogs remains to be seen.”

  “Oh, the whole town will show up,” Rita said. “Even though most of ’em are glad the old bat is dead, they’ll still come with their flowers and candles and what have you. It’s a tribute to the hypocrisy of small towns.”

  For the first time, I noticed that Olivia and Rita each held a small plant in their hands. “Wait just one moment,” I said. I hurried back into the house and grabbed a silk peony plant that one of the crew had given me on the last day of shooting Spy Anyone. I hurried back onto the porch, pulled the door shut behind me, and held the plant aloft. “Now I’m ready.”

  We walked the short distance, cutting through the park to get to the other end, near the library and congregational church where the memorial was being held. We passed the spot where, only two days before, I’d seen Amelia arguing with Londra Lewis, and I remembered that I’d forgotten to mention that to Josh. Or maybe I’d wait until I had a chance to talk to Ms. Lewis myself.

  We approached the hill overlooking the library. A group of teenaged boys were setting up a makeshift podium where three women and two men stood. Two of the people I recognized. One of the women was Mazie Madison, and the tall man was Lawrence Peabody. I touched Olivia’s arm and nodded toward the podium. “Mazie and Larry are here.”

  Olivia nodded and pointed to three other figures standing off to the right. Even at this distance I recognized Ginnifer’s red hair. “All the board members are here. See Andy over there, dabbing at his eyes with his handkerchief.”

  “Crocodile tears, or real?” I asked.

  “A mix of both, maybe. Welcome to small-town America, hon. No matter how much a person might be disliked, it’s appropriate to pay one’s respects. Unfortunately, it’s noticed when you don’t.” She glanced significantly toward the fringe of the crowd on the opposite end, and I recognized the curly headed figure in his peacoat, leveling his camera at the crowd. “He’d sure have noticed if you didn’t show up, and then you’d have made tomorrow’s special edition too.”

  Two more figures made their way onto the podium, a woman and a man. The woman was slight of build and had light hair the same color as Mazie’s. Olivia saw me looking and nudged me. “That’s Carolyn Hart, our mayor. The other guy is Melvin Feller. He used to work with Rita’s husband and Garrett at the accounting firm.” She leaned over and whispered in my ear, “He was a member of the Screaming Eagles, One Hundred and First Airborne. I think Garrett thought it lent a bit of prestige to the firm, but they let him go after a few months.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “He’s a bit of a gambler, and I think it affected his work. He freelanced for a while after that, and now he only does occasional work.” She winked. “He seems to be better at gambling than accounting. No love lost between him and Amelia, either. Mazie nominated him for a spot on the museum board, but Amelia campaigned vigorously against it. That’s how Andy McHardy got on.”

  I peered at the small group, paying particular attention to Melvin Feller. He was a short man, rather squat, with a receding hairline, a large nose and even larger ears. He wore an ill-fitting jacket and slacks. He looked nondescript, like someone you’d pass over in a heartbeat. I wondered how deep his hatred of Amelia had run. Enough to kill, perhaps? Then again, was being passed over for a board chair enough of a motive?

  People had been killed for less.

  My attention was diverted by the roar of a dark maroon sedan careening up the street. It skidded to a stop, half on the grass, half off. A tall woman with short black hair shot with streaks of purple emerged from the driver’s side. She turned her face toward me and I could see that she was quite young, late teens. She had on skintight jeans and an even tighter top, and a pair of leopard heels that had to be at least five inches high. A boy slouched out of the passenger side, hands jammed into his pockets. He didn’t walk with the assurance of the girl, but rather more into himself, almost as if he were afraid. His hair was shaggy and a large pair of dark sunglasses covered most of his face, so it was hard to gauge his expression. He wore jeans too, but his were far from tight; rather, they almost looked as if they’d fall off his frame at any given second.

  Olivia nudged me. “Who ya lookin’ at? Oh, the Hart kids.” She waved one hand dismissively. “Those are Carolyn’s kids, Selena and Kyle. No doubt they’re here to support their mother. It’s an election year, after all.”

  The crowd fell silent as Carolyn Hart approached the podium. I took a moment to study her. She was a nice-looking woman: ash blonde hair cut stylishly short, a trim navy suit and heels, slender build. She tapped the microphone and the crackle blared through the stillness of the evening, silencing the last of the talkers.

  “Good evening, everyone.” Her voice was crisp, cool, a tone that commanded attention. “Thank you all for coming. Tonight, we are gathered to pay homage to a woman struck down in a horrific way. A friend, a neighbor, a woman with a rich heritage from Fox Hollow. Amelia Witherspoon.”

  She bowed her head and the crowd did the same. The rest of the little group stood around her as she offered up a nice, tidy little speech. It was a mixture of praise, remembrance, and sorrow, extolling her generosity, her
contributions to various charities, and the committees and boards she’d served on. By the time Carolyn was done, she had Amelia sounding almost like Mother Teresa.

  I got bored halfway through and let my gaze wander. I started as I spied a familiar face on the fringe of the crowd—Josh. He stood, arms folded across his broad chest, scanning the crowd with his flat cop gaze. Looking for the murderer, no doubt.

  A chill shuddered through me, and I gripped my jacket more tightly around me to ward off the evening chill. Sure, it was possible the murderer might be here. Why not? Josh’s last words came back to me, full force: There’s a murderer out there. It could be someone hoping that you’ll take the fall for what he or she did. If I were you, I’d be doubly cautious dealing with people.

  Olivia nudged me. “What’s wrong? You look a little sick.”

  I shook my head. “No, I’m fine.” My gaze traveled up to the podium, skimming over the people clustered there before they settled on Andy McHardy. I recalled his words to Larry Peabody: We can’t go on like this, her expecting us to jump whenever she snaps her fingers. Had he perhaps decided he’d had enough, and there was only one way to end it? Or what about Londra Lewis? That hadn’t been just a small disagreement I’d witnessed in the park. Had it escalated to the point of no return?

  Mayor Hart finished her speech and then everyone on the podium joined hands for a moment of silence. And then it was over. I glanced around and saw Quentin Watson, camera in hand, clicking away. He looked up, and our gazes locked. Then he very deliberately snapped my picture.

  My chest suddenly felt tight, as if I couldn’t breathe. I felt like rushing over and ripping the camera out of his hand, but such a foolhardy action, I knew, would do more harm than good. As the crowd started to disburse, I touched Olivia’s arm. “I’m going to go home,” I said.

  Olivia and Rita both moved toward me. “Do you want us to come with you?” Olivia asked. She inclined her head in Quentin’s direction, and I knew she’d noticed him snapping my picture.

  I shook my head. “No. I’m okay. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  She pulled me into a quick hug. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

  Even with all that had happened, I was glad to count these women as my new friends. I gave her a weak smile. “I won’t.”

  I moved off to the fringe of the crowd and stood for a moment, taking in great gulps of air. Tomorrow I was making a suspect list, and then . . . well, then I wasn’t sure just what I was going to do. But if Josh was right, and someone was setting me up to take the fall for their crime, it was in my best interests to find out who it was as quickly as possible, so I could get on with my life.

  I scrubbed at the goose bumps that had popped up on my arms underneath my sheer jacket when the hairs on the back of my neck suddenly started to stand up. I was being watched, I knew it. Slowly, deliberately, I turned my head.

  And saw Josh, staring right at me.

  I touched my fingers to my forehead in a salute and then deliberately turned away and started for the park. But I could feel his eyes still on me, watching, all the way to my front door.

  Twelve

  The next morning I awoke to the rumble of a B-52 in my ear courtesy of Purrday, who seemed to have adopted my chest as his new bed. When he saw I was awake, he jumped to the floor, stretched, and started for the door.

  “Good idea,” I said approvingly. “I slept better than I thought, but I could use a cup of coffee and I bet you’re hungry.”

  “Ma-row,” he said.

  I pulled on my robe and we went downstairs and into the kitchen, where I opened my refrigerator to two eggs, a half-full carton of milk, and a jar of jelly. My larder was practically bare.

  I really had to get to that supermarket.

  Purrday leapt onto the counter and watched me, white plume swishing. Kahlua appeared also, coat freshly groomed, and rubbed against my ankles. I opened the cabinet and pointed to the neat rows of cans I’d packed before leaving the store on Saturday. “Don’t worry,” I told them. “You two have plenty of food. It’s me who’ll starve.”

  Both cats let out loud meows. I wasn’t sure if they were pleased with the fact that they both had plenty of food or that I would be the one doing the starving. I opted for the former.

  I set out bowls of tuna and water for them and then sat down at the kitchen table to make a list. A half hour later I jumped into my convertible and pointed it toward town. Instead of the larger A&P, I opted for a grocer I’d seen yesterday called the General Store. As I pulled into the parking lot I realized that this was certainly not like the convenience stores I was used to in LA. This place definitely had more of a homey feel to it. There was a large sign right at the front door, announcing the store’s hours. A small stand cluttered with various plants and flowers occupied one end of the porch, and there was a long bench off to one side that looked hand-carved. A small group of teenagers converged by the entrance, snapping their fingers as they bebopped to and fro to whatever tune was coming out of the devices they all had hooked up to their ears. I pushed open the screen door and stepped inside. A bell jingled, signaling my arrival. The inside of the store was busy—not with people, but with things crammed on shelves, peeping out from odd angles everywhere. I could smell the aroma of fresh-perked coffee in the air, mixed with the faint scent of fruit. A gray-haired woman wearing an oversized sweater looked up from behind the counter and beamed at me.

  “Welcome to the General Store! Can I help you with something? I’m Agnes, the owner.”

  I held out my list. “Just about everything, I’m afraid. I just moved to Fox Hollow, and like old Mother Hubbard, my cupboard is bare.”

  Agnes plucked the list out of my hand and studied it, adjusting her wire-rimmed glasses on her pug nose. “We have meat over there”—she made a motion with her hand—“and Rodney, our butcher, just put out fresh steaks and chicken thighs about an hour ago. The cleaning stuff’s down aisle five, and we have a nice selection of fruits and vegetables right by the freezer case.” She pointed down the middle aisle. “If you’d like, I can have the stock boy put together a box for you of all this household stuff, while you pick out your meat and veggies.”

  “Oh, would you?” I cried. “That would be wonderful.”

  “Sure, no problem.” She leaned over the counter and shouted, “Kyle! Come out here. A customer needs some help.”

  A few minutes later a thin, sullen boy wearing faded jeans and a plaid shirt emerged from the back room. He seemed vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t quite place why. He walked up to us, and Agnes handed him the list. “Make this young lady up a box of those sundries. I’ll help her with the rest.”

  He nodded. “Yes, Mrs. Dinwiddie.”

  He loped off down the middle aisle, my list in one hand, his shoulders hunched, and it suddenly struck me where I’d seen him before. Last night, at the memorial for Amelia. I stared after him wonderingly. “Kyle Hart?” I murmured.

  Agnes had started down the side aisle toward the meat case and now she turned and looked at me. “You know Kyle?”

  I shook my head. “No. I was at a memorial service last night and he was there with his sister.” I glanced quickly down the middle aisle again, but Kyle had disappeared. “I’m a bit surprised to see him here now,” I admitted. “Shouldn’t he be in school?”

  “Probably,” she chuckled, “but seeing as he’s homeschooled, he can make his own hours.”

  That surprised me. “He’s homeschooled?”

  Agnes nodded. “He was in some fancy prep school, and then one day he just showed up here.”

  “Was there some sort of trouble?”

  She shrugged. “Not that anyone knows of. I heard his grades were poor, and his attention span wasn’t what it should be. Carolyn thought it’d be better if he had private tutoring, so she pulled him out of school.”

  “That’s a shame,” I said, but my thoughts were racing. Was there more to Kyle’s being yanked out of school than met the eye, and had Amelia known the re
ason? Could that have been her bargaining chip with the mayor?

  Agnes reached out and patted my arm. “Well, dear. Did you want to see those steaks now?”

  “I sure do. And do you sell notebooks here too?”

  “Stationery’s in aisle three.”

  • • •

  Twenty minutes later I paid for my purchases, which included a vinyl-covered spiral notebook, and Kyle carried the large box out to my car. He deposited it in my backseat, and as he turned away I pressed a five-dollar bill into his hand. He looked at the bill, then at me.

  “It’s a tip,” I said. “Thanks for carrying the box out for me.”

  “It’s my job,” he muttered, “but thank you.” He shoved the bill into his back pocket and hurried back inside the store. I felt a pang of sympathy for the boy as I watched him. He was a bit sullen, true, but he seemed like a good kid.

  I opened my car door and slid behind the wheel. I was anxious now to get home, unpack my purchases, and start writing down a list of suspects and motives in my brand-new notebook. I was just about to turn the key in the ignition when a sleek maroon sedan like the one Mayor Hart’s daughter had driven to yesterday’s service pulled into the parking lot and slid into a space near the front entrance. It wasn’t Selena Hart who exited the car, however.

  It was Garrett Knute.

  Garrett slammed the car door shut, and as he turned toward the entrance, glanced my way. His gaze fell full upon me, and his expression hardened. He changed direction and walked toward my car with purposeful strides.

  “You! You’re Crishell McMillan, right?” he shouted as he came abreast of me. “I’m Garrett Knute. We’ve never met before.”

  I shook my head. “No, we haven’t.”

  His lips slashed into a thin line, and his eyes were dark with suppressed fury. “Then would you mind telling me why you suggested me as a murder suspect to Detective Bloodgood?”