The Time for Murder Is Meow Page 8

  “Good Lord, don’t do that.”

  “Sorry. Will you come with me, please?”

  I stole a quick glance out the window, but both the sedan and SUV now appeared to be deserted, the occupants having gone around the building to the main door. I followed Riley down the hall, past the partially closed office door, and into a smaller cubbyhole with a desk, filing cabinet, and a small printer set up on a low table. A Keurig coffee maker was on top of the filing cabinet, and there were some napkins, paper cups, a bottle of Cremora beside it. There were two chairs, one behind the desk, one in front. Riley motioned me to the one in front. “Detective Bloodgood will be in shortly,” he said. “Help yourself to some coffee, if you want. I think Londra keeps it in the top drawer.”

  Londra had to be Londra Lewis, the woman I’d seen arguing with Amelia yesterday in the park. I leaned back and shifted my position in the chair. God, had that only been yesterday? It seemed a lifetime ago. I got up, walked over to the file cabinet, pulled open the top drawer. Sure enough, there were a half dozen boxes of different Keurig coffees neatly stacked there. I plucked a Dark Magic pod out of the mix and was just about to put it in the coffee maker when I heard the creak of the door behind me.

  “Crishell McMillan?”

  Something about his voice struck me as familiar. Oh, no, it couldn’t be, could it? I turned around, very slowly, to gaze at the other occupant of the room. Yep, the same dark wavy hair, tanned skin. Only now he wore black slacks and a black shirt under a black and tan jacket that molded to his muscular frame and fit him like a second skin. “You-you’re Detective Bloodgood?” I eked out.

  Josh started at seeing me, and then he did something totally unexpected: he smiled. “And you’re Crishell McMillan? Some detective I am, huh? I should have suspected you were Tillie’s niece when you said your nickname was Shell.” He swiped at his forehead with the back of his hand. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I never pegged you for an actress.”

  “Don’t feel bad.” I offered him a lopsided smile. “I’d never have figured you for a homicide detective and yet you are.”

  “You certainly have had an exciting first few days in Fox Hollow, haven’t you?” The smile vanished, the eyes narrowed, the conversational tone of a few seconds before replaced by one that was cool, impersonal. I recognized the signs, even though my prior experience with it had been on a soundstage. Josh Bloodgood had morphed into cop mode. “So, you found the body?”

  “That’s right.”

  He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small notebook that looked almost identical to the one Riley had. Standard cop issue, perhaps? He pooled his tall frame into the chair behind the desk and leaned both his elbows on the desk, pen poised over the notebook. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

  “Okay, well, as I told Officer Riley, Amelia Witherspoon called and asked me to meet her at the museum in an hour. She—”

  “And what time was that?”

  “Around ten.” When he remained silent I went on, “She said that she’d leave the side door open for me. I arrived here at precisely eleven ten—I know because I checked my watch against the dashboard clock—and saw a black Cadillac that I assume was hers parked at the other end of the lot.” I let out a deep breath. “I went to the side entrance but it was locked, so I went around to the service entrance. That door was open, so I came in. I called out her name but she didn’t answer, so I walked down the hallway and saw a light in the room at the end of the hall. I went in and found her, lying there . . . dead.”

  “Did you touch the body?”

  I stared at him, wide-eyed. “Good Lord, no. I could see she was dead. There was nothing I could do for her.”

  “Touch anything in the room?”

  I scrunched up my lips as I thought. “The door was ajar, and I pushed on it so I could enter. I saw the body almost immediately, so, no. I didn’t touch anything else.”

  He scribbled quickly in the book. “Why did Amelia want to meet with you?”

  I hesitated. “I can’t say for certain.”

  He looked up. One eyebrow winged skyward. “Pardon? She asked you to meet her here but didn’t tell you why?”

  “Oh, she told me why. It’s just, it didn’t make any sense.” He continued to stare at me, so I went on, “I offered to loan the museum my aunt’s Cary Grant poster collection to showcase here in a few weeks.”

  Bloodgood’s hand paused in midair. “There was a photograph of a Cary Grant poster in her hand,” he said.

  “That must be the one I gave her. I thought maybe it might convince her she was making a mistake.”

  “Mistake?”

  “The museum board voted against displaying my aunt’s collection. I had a feeling that Amelia might have been behind it.”

  “That was the reason she called you and asked to meet? To straighten all that out?”

  I flexed my fingers. “As I said, I’m not sure. Her reasons for meeting me seemed vague.” Suddenly I felt cold, and I folded my arms across my chest. I could just imagine what my mother would say if she could see me now: Don’t say anything without a lawyer! Which might not be bad advice. I was just about to ask Josh if I needed one when Officer Riley stuck his head in the door. “Detective Bloodgood? The coroner would like to see you. He found—”

  “Tell him I’ll be right there.” Josh cut the officer off, pushed back his chair and stood up, jamming his notebook into his jacket pocket as he did so. “You can go, Sh—Ms. McMillan.” He caught himself and then paused, stared intently at me. “I might have some more questions for you later, though. You’ll be available?”

  I nodded. “Yes. I’ve no plans to leave town. After all, I only just got here.”

  He looked at me and didn’t say a word. So much for my little attempt at humor. I felt myself flush, and then Josh made a dismissive motion with his hand. “Thanks for your cooperation.”

  I nodded curtly and had to force myself to walk, not run, down the hall. When I passed the library, I noticed the door was wide open, and I couldn’t resist taking a sidelong glance.

  I saw the edge of a white sheet on the floor, and my stomach roiled again.

  • • •

  Purrday lay sprawled across the rug by the love seat and Kahlua was sprawled across its back when I got home. He was chewing on something, and as I entered the room he looked up with a Home so soon? expression on his flat, furry face.

  I set my bag down and crossed the room to kneel beside him. “What do you have there, Purrday?” I asked. In answer, he put both his paws on top of whatever it was he’d been feasting on and blinked his good eye at me. I shook my head and gave him my sternest expression. “Let me see.”

  He dropped his head and lifted one paw. Kahlua leaned forward, watching with interest, probably rejoicing in the fact her new brother was getting a scolding. I could see a rounded edge peeping out from under the other paw. We stared at each other for a few moments, and then he lifted that one too. Purrday’s prize was a round piece of wood. I snatched it up for a better look, and he let out a plaintive meow. The object in question was a button. The edges appeared to be well-chewed—thanks to Purrday, no doubt—and there was a carved initial in the center that could have been either an M or a W. It was faded, so it was hard to tell. I looked at the cat again. “Did you find this in the house somewhere?”

  He leaned forward and gave me a head butt. I took that as a yes.

  “Where?” I asked and then stopped, realizing that I was, indeed, sitting here talking to a cat, and worse yet, expecting him to somehow answer me. Purrday lumbered to his feet and set off at a brisk canter down the long hallway. Kahlua was up like a shot, racing after him. I followed the cats into the kitchen. Both walked right over to the spot under the picture window where I’d set a place mat with food and water bowls for both of them, now that they were mostly getting along. Purrday tapped at the empty one twice with his paw, hesitated, then tapped at Kahlua’s as well. Both cats shot me a reproachful look designed to
shame me for not tending to their needs above all else.

  “Yes, I know. Time for a refill.” I slid the button into my pocket and reached underneath the sink to pull out the sack of kibble. No doubt the button had belonged to my aunt, but how had Purrday gotten his paws on it? He’d shared the house with Aunt Tillie. No doubt he knew many nooks and crannies where things might be secreted. Then again, how did cats get their paws on anything? It had probably popped off one of her dresses or coats, and the cat had claimed it as a toy. Purrday bumped my hand as I finished filling the bowl. “What else of Aunt Matilda’s have you got stashed around here?” I asked him.

  He ignored me and stuck his head in the bowl. I gave myself a mental slap. Had I really thought the cat could understand me and would answer?

  Umm . . . yeah.

  Once both cats had their noses happily buried in their bowls, I walked up to the third floor and opened the door to the room that held my aunt’s private collection. I had to admit she’d done a beautiful job in here. The walls were painted a soft green, a contrast to the mauve rug that covered the floor. There were two glass cases that stretched the length of the room, and they contained what a collector would regard as unique items: an ashtray that had been used by Vivien Leigh, a handkerchief that had belonged to Lawrence Olivier. There were movie scripts autographed by famous actors, among them Jimmy Stewart, Kirk Douglas, Douglas Fairbanks, and of course Cary Grant. Some of my aunt’s extensive collection of movie posters and lobby cards were framed and graced the walls, while the rest were in shallow bins along the back of the room. I walked over to the large framed poster of His Girl Friday and looked at it, pausing to run my finger over Cary’s scrawled signature in the corner.

  A rumbling purr at my feet made me look down. Purrday squatted beside me, his head cocked, his good eye fastened right on the Friday poster. He raised a paw and pointed at the poster, letting out another rumbling purr.

  I couldn’t help but laugh. “You know you were named after that movie, right?” I said.

  “Merow.”

  I bent down and gave him a scratch under his chin. Purrday rumbled his thanks, and I picked him up and cradled him against my chest. “I imagine you and Aunt Tillie spent a lot of quality time here, huh? I hope to as well, once things get settled down. They must,” I said with determination. “It would be a shame not to be able to share any of these pieces with the world.” I sighed softly. “I’d planned on going to the pet store tomorrow, looking through the stock, start getting things set up for reopening, but right now . . . I hate to say it, but my heart’s just not in it.”

  Purrday snuggled in more comfortably, almost as if to say, Who could blame you? I took another long look at the room, sighed, then closed the door and, still holding Purrday, retraced my steps into the parlor and dropped down onto the sofa. The afternoon’s events had been puzzling, to say the least. Bloodgood had said Matilda had been holding the photograph I’d given her. Had that been the reason for her call? I dismissed that thought as quickly as it entered my mind. She’d said what she wanted to discuss had nothing to do with the collection, but then why had she been holding that photo?

  My iPhone buzzed and I picked it up. It was a number I didn’t recognize. I hesitated, intending to let it go to voicemail, but then figured that with my luck it might be Bloodgood, so I’d better answer. I tapped the Answer button. “Hello?”

  “Crishell McMillan! Or should I say Shell Marlowe? Quentin Watson here.”

  Oh, great. Time to get an unlisted number. “Mr. Watson,” I said through clenched teeth. “What can I do for you?”

  “I understand there was some excitement down at the museum today, and you were right in the thick of it.”

  Good God, was the man a stalker? How did he know my every move? “That’s correct,” I said.

  “Can you share some details?” He paused. “Or do I have to clear that through your agent, too?”

  It took all my willpower not to go off on the man. “I’m sorry,” I said, “but I really think you should contact the police department if you want details.”

  “I understand Amelia Witherspoon was murdered, and you found the body?”

  OMG! News traveled that fast? “I’m not at liberty to say.”

  He paused. “Well, then, could you tell me why you were at the museum on a day when it’s closed to the public?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Watson, but I don’t have authorization to release any details. Those have to come from the detective in charge.”

  Another brief silence, and then, “Well, then, can you verify that you accused Amelia Witherspoon of influencing the board members to vote against displaying your aunt’s poster collection?”

  Good God, how had he found that out? “I—no, I can’t.”

  “Then it’s not true?”

  I took a deep breath, slowly exhaled. “You really should contact Detective Bloodgood if you want details. I’m not at liberty to say.”

  “Detective Bloodgood will know the details of you accusing Ms. Witherspoon of influencing the board?”

  No wonder people thought this guy was annoying. He certainly was tenacious, I had to give him that. “I have no idea what Detective Bloodgood knows or doesn’t know,” I snapped.

  “I see. Then perhaps you’d care to comment on why the deceased was found holding a photograph of one of the posters in your aunt’s private collection?”

  I bit down hard on my lower lip. “No comment. And that will be my answer to all your questions, so you needn’t bother asking any more.”

  “Fine.” His tone was decidedly frosty. “Thanks so much for your . . . cooperation.”

  “Don’t mention it,” I grumbled, tossing my iPhone next to me on the sofa. I glanced over at Purrday, who’d hopped up on the sofa beside me. “Yes, yes, I know. Max would have told me to bite my tongue and be chillingly polite. Now I suppose Quentin Watson’s next little snippet will paint me as suspect number one.”

  The cat blinked, and then let out a loud meow.

  “Well,” I sighed, “Josh was right about one thing. It has been an exciting few days in Fox Hollow. Excitement of this nature, though, I could definitely do without.”

  Purrday jumped off the sofa, stretched out his hind legs, then butted his head against my ankles.

  I reached down and stroked his head. I couldn’t control what Quentin Watson might write about me, any more than I could control what those gossip magazines always used to print. Except in those instances, none of that drivel had ever been one hundred percent true.

  I had argued with Amelia Witherspoon and accused her of influencing board member votes. I’d intimated to Larry Peabody and Andy McHardy that they might be being blackmailed by her. And I had found her dead body.

  Why had Amelia wanted to see me? To clarify details about a certain matter, she’d said. But what matter? Whatever it was, she’d thought I’d known, but I hadn’t. I needed to know just what this information was, and what, if any, connection it might have to me.

  The question was, how was I going to find that out?

  Nine

  I changed out of my pantsuit into a sweat suit and decided my time might be well spent making a call list of my aunt’s old suppliers. I thumbed through her old-school Rolodex, writing down businesses, names, and any other little notes from Tillie that might be useful. Takes payment up front, ask about overstock discounts, only ships full cases. I smiled. I could practically hear her voice. Then I found a card for Scott Aviary, Carl Scott proprietor, that had the note try to call outside store hours, likes to chat. Figuring four o’clock on a Sunday was a nice time for a chat, I tapped the number into my cell and then hit Send.

  A few seconds later I was connected with Mr. Scott, a pleasant-sounding man with a broad Southern accent. He was thrilled I was taking over Tillie’s store, because, as he put it, she was “one fine lady” and “a terrific customer. She paid on time!” I assured him I’d be taking over in every category, and just as soon as things got a bit more settled,
I’d set up a meeting to discuss stock. I hung up hoping that meeting would take place sooner than later. I started to thumb through the Rolodex again when I saw my iPhone start to whirl around in a circle on the desk. I hesitated, afraid it might be Quentin Watson again, but it might also be Josh Bloodgood; he’d said he might have more questions. I snatched the phone up and looked at the number.

  Lord, it was worse. It was Gary. I sighed. If I didn’t answer, he’d only keep calling back. Best to get it over with, else I might find myself taking his call behind bars.

  “Hello, Gary.”

  “Finally!” My ex-costar’s usually well-modulated voice held more than a trace of irritation. “Tell me it’s not true, and you haven’t lost your mind. Tell me this is all just a fit of temporary insanity, and you’re coming back here on the next plane.”

  “Sorry, no can do. I’m a permanent resident of Fox Hollow, Connecticut, now.”

  “Oh, Good Lord. Max was right. You’ve lost your mind. Look, if it’s top billing on the reboot you want, well then, you’ve got it, sweet cheeks. Just say the word and Max can get that contract ready by tomorrow. I checked, and there’s a ten p.m. flight out of LaGuardia. Is Frog Hollow near LaGuardia?”

  “It’s Fox Hollow and I have no idea, but it doesn’t matter. I’m not coming back to LA. At least not right now.”

  “No? Then your decision is final? You don’t want to do that series on cable?”

  “No, Gary, I don’t. But you feel free to go for it,” I said, trying to put a note of enthusiasm in my voice. “Look on this as a golden opportunity. You can get a hot new starlet as your costar. It’ll give the new series a fresh look.”

  “Yeah, well, seems the producers don’t want a fresh look. They want you.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “Aw, Shell, you know what I mean. Look, babe, if you don’t return soon, you might as well kiss your acting career goodbye.”