The Time for Murder Is Meow Read online

  I was just about to leave when I remembered something. I hurried back into the den and rummaged quickly through the top drawer. I found what I was looking for and tucked it into the pocket of my sweatshirt. I found Purrday lounging on the chair and Kahlua stretched out across the back of the sofa. Well, at least they weren’t killing each other. With a quick goodbye to both I hurried out the door.

  Aunt Tillie’s house was only a stone’s throw from the center of town, so I decided to walk rather than take my convertible. I glanced at my watch. Fifteen minutes to go. If I cut through the park, I’d just be on time.

  The path was wide enough for two people to pass comfortably. It was a beautiful day, the sky was clear and blue, and the sun was shining. There were a lot of people out on the path, either jogging, power-walking, or just meandering about. I saw an elderly man walking his basset hound, and twin girls whiz by on roller skates. A double stroller passed me, a tiny woman wearing earbuds behind it. I rounded a bend and saw two figures up on the grassy knoll. Two women. One was short, with shiny brown hair cut in a chin-length bob that swung around her face. She had on a bright pink track suit that matched the large glasses perched on the bridge of her nose. The other woman had long white hair that streamed across broad shoulders. She was tall and rangily built, almost like a linebacker. Her face was thin and pinched, and a mental image of Margaret Hamilton in The Wizard of Oz flashed through my mind. They looked to be in the middle of an argument. The shorter one started to turn away, but the white-haired woman put her hands on her shoulders and spun her around. She towered over her, her finger jabbing right under the shorter woman’s nose. I was too far away to hear what was being said, but from their stances I could tell that it wasn’t good.

  Suddenly the white-haired woman turned and her gaze fixed right on me. I gasped. The gaze was filled with such hatred that I instinctively glanced over my shoulder, but there was no one else on the trail at that moment. That look had obviously been aimed at me, but why? I’d never seen either woman before in my life. I started to move away when I heard a sharp “Rocco! No!” behind me. The next instant an enormous dog bounded into my path. I started to swerve, but the dog leapt toward me. He jumped up and put his front paws on my shoulders. I staggered slightly but managed to retain my balance. Then I felt a wet tongue caress my cheek.

  “Rocco! Down!”

  A man jogged across the grass. He wore a Giants cap backward over longish, coal black hair, and a dark green T-shirt, stretched taut against what appeared to be a muscular body. His skin was tanned and a dark stubble was visible on a strong jawline. The dark glasses he wore hid his eyes, but from what I could see, he was cute . . . no, scratch that. Very cute.

  He approached, panting slightly, and grabbed the dog’s collar to force him into a sitting position. “Bad dog, Rocco. You don’t do that to strangers.” He pulled the glasses down on the bump on the bridge of his nose, and now I could see that his eyes were hazel, with little flecks of gold and green. “I’m very sorry, miss. Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.” I reached up to adjust my ponytail. “Rocco didn’t hurt me.” I gave the dog a once-over. “He looks like a mix.” I studied the face. “Pit bull?”

  “Yep.” The stranger nodded. “Pit bull and golden retriever. I know, I know. Unusual, right?” He ran his hand over Rocco’s thick, mottled brown coat. “He’s got retriever personality and pit bull coloring. Granted, the pit bull face scares a lot of people off, but he’s basically harmless—unless you count maybe getting licked to death.”

  “Yes, he certainly seems friendly—oh!” I gasped as Rocco pounced on me again, and this time I did lose my balance. I would have fallen right on my derriere on the grass if the stranger hadn’t grabbed my arm and pulled me against his chest to steady me. His rock-hard chest.

  His head swiveled in the dog’s direction. “That’s enough, Rocco,” he said in a commanding tone. “Sit! Now! Or no treats for you.”

  Apparently, the dog understood the meaning of treats, because he sat back on his haunches, tongue lolling. The stranger rolled his eyes and turned to me. “I apologize again. I can only say in my defense that Rocco’s not my dog.”

  I looked at the dog, who now had stretched his long body out across the grass and was lying on his side. “He’s not?”

  He shook his head. “No, he’s my sister’s pride and joy. She got called to work unexpectedly, so I’m dog sitting.” He laughed. “She always calls me as a last resort. I’m Josh, by the way.”

  He still held my arm. I directed a pointed look at his hand, and he let it go with a grin.

  “Hi, Josh. I’m Shell.”

  The grin turned into a frown. “Shell? That’s an unusual name.”

  “It’s a nickname,” I said. I didn’t elaborate further, and there followed a brief, awkward pause. “Well, it was nice running into you,” I said. I glanced at the dog. “And you too, Rocco.” I turned and started down the trail, and a moment later, Josh fell into step beside me, Rocco trotting along obediently at his side.

  “Are you from around here, Shell? Or just visiting?”

  I gave him a sidelong glance. “I just moved here this week,” I said.

  “You did? Odd. Usually people move out of Fox Hollow, not into it.”

  I laughed. “That’s not a very good advertisement for the town.”

  His fingers reached up to rub casually at the nape of his neck. “No, I guess it isn’t, is it?” He chuckled. “I hope Rocco here didn’t leave you with an unfavorable impression of our little town.”

  I laughed. “Hardly. I think Rocco is rather . . . sweet.” I swiped at the wet streak on my cheek. “He’s certainly enthusiastic.”

  Josh chuckled. “Wait till you get to know him better, and then we’ll see what you have to say.”

  The way he said that gave me a warm feeling in my belly. I paused, floundering for something witty to say, but he spoke again. “I’ve got to get going. It was nice to meet you . . . Shell.”

  “You too,” I said. I liked the way he’d lingered over saying my name, sort of like a caress. I hesitated and then blurted, “Maybe we’ll run into each other again.”

  His lips split in a wide smile, revealing white, even teeth. “Maybe we will,” he said, and then he tugged at the dog’s leash, pulling him in the opposite direction. I glanced at my watch and groaned as I realized I had exactly three minutes to get to Sweet Perks.

  As I rounded the bend, I cast a quick glance in the direction of the grassy knoll. It was deserted. The women had vanished.

  • • •

  It wasn’t too hard to find Rita’s shop. The coral-and-white-striped sign that read Sweet Perks was by far the biggest and most colorful on the block. The large front window offered a tantalizing glimpse of the baked goods within. A bell tinkled a greeting as I pushed the door open and I stood on the threshold for a moment, drinking in the delectable scents of baked goods and fresh brewed coffee, feeling like I’d died and gone to heaven. There were a few customers scattered at the small tables, eating muffins and slurping down coffee or coffee drinks. A few looked at me curiously as I made my way to the register.

  There was a woman standing there, her back to me. As I approached, she turned and I saw that it was Olivia. She glanced at her watch and grinned. “You’re punctual, I see. Find us a table,” she said. “I’ll get us something to drink. My treat. What’ll you have?”

  The blueberry muffins looked tempting, but I patted my stomach. “Just coffee,” I said. At Olivia’s puzzled look, I added, “It’s hard to break years of watching your weight.”

  Olivia gave me a once-over and sighed. “You’re not on camera anymore, sweetie, but I know what you mean. How about a double mocha latte with skim milk? That won’t expand your waistline too much,” she added with a wink.

  I wandered over to a café table all the way in the back, sandwiched in between a shelf filled with brightly colored mugs and another display case filled with necklaces, earrings, and bracelets, many of int
ricate design.

  Olivia appeared a few minutes later and set a tall, frothy glass in front of me. She slid into the seat opposite mine and raised her glass. “Here’s to—what?”

  “How about success? That’s always good.” I took a long sip of the latte, sighed contentedly, and settled back in my chair. I glanced around the quaint store. “Where’s Rita?”

  “She always takes Saturday afternoon off. Drives her husband for his arthritis treatment in Boyne. Poor guy, he’s got it bad, especially in the hands.” She curled her own fingers into a clawed fist. “He used to be an accountant. He must have gotten his condition from punching all those adding machine keys. Her niece usually watches the store for her.” She inclined her head toward the apple-cheeked girl behind the register.

  I nodded toward the display case. “And she sells jewelry too?”

  Olivia glanced at the case. “Yep. Some she makes, some she picks up at estate sales and resells. Jewelry’s always been a hobby with her.” She leaned forward. “So, now, let’s get to it. Just what did old Mazie say, exactly?”

  I leaned back in my chair, wrapping my hands around my drink. “The board didn’t approve showcasing Aunt Tillie’s Cary Grant poster collection. They voted four to three against.”

  “Hm.” Olivia gave a small sigh. “That sounds about right.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She glanced quickly around the shop, then leaned midway across the table and said in a whisper, “It sounds as if a certain board member is up to her old tricks again; the one who possesses the superpower of being able to sway votes.” Her tongue clicked against the roof of her mouth. “The wicked witch of Fox Hollow herself: Amelia Witherspoon. Very few people in this town—or on earth, for that matter—get along with her.” Olivia stretched her long legs out in front of her and cradled her cup in her hands. “If she knows the posters belonged to Tillie Washburn, that could have something to do with it. As the gossip goes, she and your aunt had a falling out some years ago. Over what, I’m not sure. But whatever it was, it must have been a doozy. The two of ’em always went out of their way to avoid each other.”

  “You’re kidding! She’d turn down something that would only benefit the museum in the long run over an ancient feud?”

  Olivia nodded. “It’d be just like her to do something like that, out of spite.”

  Great. In some ways, Fox Hollow seemed just as political as Hollywood. “Do you know the names of the board members who would have voted with Amelia?”

  “Sure. Lawrence Peabody, Ginnifer Rubin, and Andy McHardy. It’s sickening, really. Everyone thinks that Amelia must have something on them. They always side with her.” Olivia shot me a sympathetic look. “Not a great start to your first week in Fox Hollow, is it?”

  “It sure isn’t.” Abruptly I straightened up. “I can’t just take this lying down, Olivia. I have to do something.”

  “And by ‘do something’ I’m guessing you mean talk to Amelia.” As I nodded, Olivia shook her head. “That’s like chasing unicorns, sweetie. Once that old bat makes up her mind about something, it takes practically an act of God to change it.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve run up against some pretty tough producers with the same attitude in my day.” I puffed my chest out. “Not to brag, but trust me, I can handle it.”

  “You think so?” Olivia glanced significantly out the large picture window. “Okay, then, there’s your chance.” She made a jerking motion with her thumb. “See the white-haired crone standing on the corner, talking to the short, stout guy? That’s Amelia.”

  I peered out the window and almost fell off my chair.

  Amelia Witherspoon was the white-haired woman I’d seen earlier in the park. The one who’d given me the dagger eyes. Lovely.

  Four

  Olivia reached over and tapped my shoulder. “Everything okay, sweetie? You look a little pale.”

  I pointed out the window. “I saw her when I was on my way here. She was in the park, arguing with another woman with short dark hair. And from the looks of things, Amelia was winning.”

  Olivia tapped at her chin. “Short dark hair, you said? It couldn’t be Ginnifer. Her hair is almost as red as Rita’s.” She stared off into space for a few minutes. “It could have been Londra Lewis. She’s the museum administrator, Mazie’s right hand. She’s wanted a docent position for a long time, but whenever one becomes available, Amelia just happens to have a better candidate. Plus, it really irks Amelia how loyal Londra is to Mazie.”

  I fiddled with the edge of my napkin. “I couldn’t hear anything, but it certainly seemed more serious than some disagreement over a job. Amelia was really in the other woman’s face.”

  “Who knows?” Olivia spread her hands. “Arguing is what Amelia does best. If you don’t believe me, take another look outside.”

  I did. Amelia was now bent over the shorter man, her fingers curled into a fist. She was waving the fist in front of the man’s face. To his credit, though, he didn’t shrink back. He held his ground, and I could tell from the set of his jaw and the way he held his shoulders that he was probably just as angry, if not angrier.

  “Who’s the man?” I asked. “Lawrence Peabody or Andy McHardy?”

  “Neither. That’s Garrett Knute. He’s on the board too.” Olivia squinted out the window. “I wonder what that’s all about. Garrett’s face looks like a thundercloud, and he’s usually pretty easygoing.”

  “He might welcome an interruption, then.” I pushed back my chair and stood up. “Wish me luck.”

  Olivia gave me a careless wave. “That’s a given. You’ll need it.”

  I took a last large gulp of my latte concoction, set it back on the table, and made my way to the front door. As I stepped out onto the sidewalk, I noticed that Amelia and Garrett had taken their battle to the street corner diagonally across from Sweet Perks. The argument was still in full force, as evidenced by the raised voices that floated across the street toward me.

  I crossed the street and quickened my steps. As I drew closer I saw a large manila envelope clutched tightly in Amelia’s right hand. Garrett reached out to snatch it, but Amelia slapped his hand away and then started to laugh. The other man’s face twisted into an expression of fury, and he gestured again toward the envelope.

  “Over my dead body. Or yours,” he hissed, and then he glanced up. Our eyes locked for the briefest of instants and then he clamped both lips together, turned on his heel, and stormed off in the other direction without so much as a backward glance. Amelia’s thin lips twisted in a triumphant expression that vanished almost immediately as she caught sight of me. She thrust the envelope into the plaid tote she carried and I fully expected her to storm off as well; instead she advanced toward me, hand out, finger pointing, eyes blazing with the same naked fury I’d seen earlier in the park.

  “What are you, spying on me?”

  The accusation was so sudden that all I could do was gape. Amelia took my hesitation as assent and plunged ahead with both barrels.

  “Don’t try to deny it. I saw you in the park, watching me. Who put you up to it? Wait, don’t tell me, let me guess. You’re one of Watson’s interns, right?”

  She moved closer, her hands raised threateningly. I took a step backward and found my voice. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, and the only Watson I know is in Sir Arthur Conan Doyle novels. I just wanted to talk to you for a minute. You are Amelia Witherspoon, right?”

  She stopped, her eyes narrowed. “Yes,” she said slowly, a note of suspicion evident in her tone. “I am. And who, might I ask, are you?”

  I started to extend my hand, thought better of the gesture, and let my arm fall limply to my side. “My name is Crishell McMillan.”

  Her thin lips quivered slightly. “And that’s supposed to mean something to me?”

  “It should,” I snapped, “since I understand you voted against displaying my aunt’s collection of Cary Grant posters.”

  She stared at me and then suddenly flung h
er head back and laughed. “Oh, my stars! You’re Tillie Washburn’s niece!”

  I thrust my shoulders back and lifted my chin. “Yes, I am. And I’d like to know why you voted against displaying the collection.”

  She raked me with her gaze again. “Simple. Every museum within a twenty-five-mile radius will be displaying some sort of Cary Grant memorabilia during that week. We want Fox Hollow to stand out from the crowd.”

  “That might be true, but I greatly doubt they’ll be displaying a collection like my aunt’s. She has posters from every one of Grant’s seventy-plus films, and there are even stills from some of the older ones that would complement the posters nicely. Plus, I understand the kickoff movie is His Girl Friday, and there’s a lobby poster autographed by Grant that would certainly be a stand-out piece.” My hand flew to my pocket, and I pulled out a photograph I’d gotten from the den and handed it to her. “This is a photograph of the His Girl Friday posters. You can see Grant’s signature on the bottom on the center one, right there.”

  Amelia stared at the photo, her brows drawn together. “Is that authentic?” she said at last.