One Corpse Open Slay

by Dakota Cassidy

  “Oh, yeah. That was me, wasn’t it?” I said with a giggle, still ridiculously pleased I’d figured it out. “Anyway, we don’t know Yule Wolfram was murdered. We shouldn’t rush to make a call like that.”

  “So you think he somehow cut his own jugular, bled out, and died in a sled on purpose?”

  “No. I think we don’t know if he died because his jugular was cut and…” That was when my prior vision hit me upside the head. “Wait!” I pulled him close and whispered, “Remember my vision, Hobbs? The sled with the blood? It was a red sled. A big one.”

  “Right. You said it was the size of a car, though.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I think I’ve told you my visions can sometimes be exaggerated. Maybe that was just such an exaggeration. However, the sled he was in was red…”

  “But there was no gray kitten in the middle of it,” he reminded me.

  “But there was blood.”

  “A jugular bleeds a l—”

  In the middle of Hobbs finishing his sentence, Stephen King began to bark and tug on his leash.

  I looked down at him and saw the determined look in his soft brown eyes, his nostrils flaring. “What the heck is going on with you today, buddy?”

  Now he began to growl and strain, pulling at Hobbs and demonstrating exactly how strong he was. He managed to yank Hobbs forward on a path that was a bit slippery.

  Hobbs gave me a confused look before he yelled sharply, “Stephen King, knock it off!”

  But a grunting Stephen was on another mission, pulling Hobbs down the path that led to some of the food trucks, until he reached a small pink-and-white backpack, stuffed into one of the corners between two closed food carts.

  He began to paw at it lightly, nudging it with his nose. Hobbs managed to grab him and haul his stout body upward, but he wiggled for all he was worth, making me wonder what was in the back pack that was so interesting.

  I knelt beside it and picked it up, hoping to find something to identify the owner, but there was nothing on the insert for the nametag. No real identifiers. It was just a pink backpack like any other backpack.

  As I rose, I heard the tiniest of sounds.

  Apparently, so did Stephen King. He snorted and struggled against Hobbs something fierce.

  I didn’t want to invade someone’s privacy, but there was no one around to ask about the backpack—so I made an executive decision. Propping it on my raised knee, I pulled the zipper open—and quite suddenly a tiny, fuzzy head popped out and meowed with healthy lungs.

  “It’s a…”

  Hobbs and I looked at each other. “A kitten,” we said simultaneously.

  Exactly like the one in my vision.

  CHAPTER 4

  “Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens…”

  “What in all of Notting Hill is that, Halliday?”

  I held up the kitten and scratched her under her teeny-tiny chin, smiling at a disapproving Atticus. “This is Barbra, and you’re going to love her as much as you love Phil.”

  “Which is to say, not at all,” he groused in his deep Lou Rawls voice.

  I snuggled little Barbra under my chin, her soft body and paws finally warming up after being in a cold backpack for who knew how long. “How can you not love something this cute, Atti? I mean, come on, Stodgy Pants. This is an adorable kitten, for Goddess sake, and she was almost freezing to death when we found her.”

  Atticus scoffed in deep British disdain as he buzzed in front of my face, his wings flapping furiously fast. “Surely you can’t mean to bring another animal into our home, Halliday. Isn’t one torturous heathen with salmon on his breath enough for me? Must you impose yet another?”

  Barbra swatted at Atticus, her tiny paw awkwardly reaching out to tentatively swipe the air, making me giggle. “She would have been the only one at the shelter. I told you last week, Bitty successfully adopted out all the animals at an adoption fair, and there was no way I was going to let this little cutie be left all alone with no one to cuddle. How could you even consider something so cruel? And at the holidays, Atti? I thought I knew you better,” I said, adopting my best haughty tone to shame him into getting onboard the Barbra train.

  “Does the little she-then even know it’s Christmas, Halliday? I think not.”

  I held her sweet face up to Atticus and affected a baby voice. “Please, Atticus, please don’t send me back to the cold, smelly shelter. I’ll be good, I swear.”

  “Bah!” he bellowed in disgust. “I’m certain Bitty doesn’t allow anything cold or smelly at her shelter, and you well know that, Halliday.”

  Tucking Barbra under my arm, I brought her to the kitchen island and set her down momentarily so I could gather the things we’d bought for her at the pet store.

  She instantly zeroed in on the bowl of red and white Christmas ornaments with greens spilling out of it and attacked, using her little paws to poke at the ornaments, getting glitter everywhere.

  “Well, guess what? You’re going to have to learn to love her—or at the very least, tolerate her, or whatever it is you do in that judgmental world of yours, because she’s staying. Now, I’ve had a perfectly murderous morning, moving directly into early afternoon, and I mean that quite literally. Which I’m sure you already know.”

  “I’ve been privy to a conversation or two as I took one of my morning flights about the park.”

  Atticus made a big deal about his dislike for mortals, but he didn’t mind mingling amongst them when it benefitted his cardio. He often flew about Marshmallow Hollow, despite the cold and his warm-blooded nature.

  “Good, then you’ll be glad to hear I’m not going to put up with you complaining about a wee kitten who’s as sweet as she is cute.”

  “Whom you’ve named Barbra? What sort of name for a kitten so tiny is Barbra?”

  I smiled fondly as I dragged a piece of fake greenery across the counter for the kitten to chase. “It’s after Barbra Streisand. She was Mom’s favorite, don’t you remember? In fact, I think we have one of her Christmas albums, and if not,” I snapped my fingers and the sound system in the house struck up her rapid-fire version of ‘Jingle Bells,’ “we do now.”

  Atticus didn’t even blink at the use of my magic. He was too focused on little Barbra and all the trouble he was sure she’d bring.

  “You do realize I’ll have yet another toxic waste of a cat litter pan to clean, don’t you, Halliday?”

  “Staaahp. I’ll clean it, Atti.” I scooped up Barbra Streisand and cuddled her close. She needed to see Dr. Francine ASAP for a checkup and possibly shots, if she was old enough, that is. “Besides, it’s not like you actually clean Phil’s anyway. You use your magic to clean it.”

  “That doesn’t change the fact that I can smell it, Halliday. I do have an impeccable sense of smell. I’m a hummingbird, for Prince Harry’s sake! Have you ever taken a deep whiff of your beloved Phil’s fetid delights?”

  I smiled as I cuddled Barbra close and walked toward the windows in the kitchen overlooking the ocean, still wondering who’d leave an adorable kitten in a backpack when they could have easily dropped her off at the shelter.

  I’d asked several people who’d been strolling through the ice festival, but no one seemed to know anything about her or who owned the backpack, and to be honest, I was glad—because I’d instantly fallen in love.

  “Well, then I absolve you of all cat litter duties. I’ll do it with my magic from this day forward. You want a signed document you can wave under my nose as proof?”

  Atticus sighed with a deeply aggravated rasp. “Of course I don’t. I can still take you at your word, can’t I?”

  I chuckled. “Oh, Atti. You’re such a grumpy old man.”

  “Humph,” he bellyached. “And where, might I ask, did you come upon this ragamuffin of fur and sure destruction, Halliday?”

  I ran my fingertip over the top of her fluffy gray head. “Someone left this sweet baby in a backpack at the ice festival. Who’d do such a thing?”

&nb
sp; “Someone who doesn’t like the scent of ripe cat poo, I imagine.”

  My head tipped back as I laughed and snuggled her even closer to my neck, where she curled into me and let out a contented sigh.

  I went back to the kitchen island and reached for the backpack we’d found her in, to examine it again. We hadn’t found anything in the backpack to indicate its owner. Not a single thing.

  No way was I leaving this little bundle of love muffin anywhere but right where she’d landed, and Hobbs had agreed. If someone showed up to claim her, they’d have to have a pretty sound explanation for leaving something this tiny in a zippered prison when it was cold out.

  And even then, I’d dare them to take her from me. While we’d strolled the pet store, picking up things for her, I’d fallen madly and irrevocably in love. As Barbra and I stared into each other’s eyes, even Hobbs had commented on our mutual adoration.

  She liked Hobbs just fine, but it had been my arms she’d wanted to hop back into the moment she could.

  I set her in the soft pink and white princess bed we’d bought her at the pet store before pulling my phone from my back pocket to see Stiles had texted me an urgent message to call him.

  As Barbra slept soundly, I buzzed Stiles. When he picked up, I asked, “Hey, what’s up?”

  “Hal? Do you have a kitten?”

  Now, let me be clear. I know every inflection, every range of decibel in Stiles’s voice, and this one said, “I know you have a kitten, and I’m going to give you bad news about the kitten and you’re not going to like it, but I have no choice. Please don’t hate my guts.”

  I know that probably sounds like a lot to read into a tone, but we’ve been friends for a thousand years and all I can tell you is, I know what I heard.

  Also, to note, Stiles knows me and my range of decibels equally well, and he’ll know I’m lying, but only with good reason.

  “A kitten?” I asked, playing dumb.

  “Yes. A kitten.”

  I twirled my hair around my finger, looking around guiltily even though I knew he couldn’t see me. “Why would you ask me that, Stiles? I mean, I love kittens. You know I love kittens. Kittens are awesome. I’d have a hundred, but you also know how Atti feels about Phil. A kitten would only further exacerbate our already combative relationship.”

  “Hal…” That was the warning decibel. You’d better knock it off now, Hal, or I’m going to be really angry with you. “People saw you with a kitten.”

  “People see me with lots of things, Stiles. Why, just yesterday, they saw me with a big old wad of cotton candy hanging out of my face at the ice carving tent while you tried to make a blob of ice look like Darth Vader. I was shoving it in my mouth like it was my last meal. If they saw me with a kitten, that would be the least of things they saw me with.”

  “Hal, that kitten could be part of this investigation into Yule Wolfram’s murder.”

  So Hobbs had been right. He’d been murdered.

  I winced, then I shuddered as I looked at tiny Barbra Streisand, snoring softly in her bed, and I knew exactly what that meant for her. They’d confiscate her as evidence and stuff her in a cold cage with nothing but some dry cat food and the occasional glance her way.

  One time, a chicken was involved in a murder in Minnesota. I watched it on one of my true-crime shows, and they kept the chicken in police lockup as evidence for six months. Six months.

  Not on my watch.

  Not at Christmas. And I don’t care if little Babs doesn’t know it’s Christmas. I do. Everyone should be safe and loved on Christmas.

  “Evidence how?” I asked, hedging.

  “There was cat hair on Yule’s neck, dried in the blood of his wound.”

  “Yule Wolfram had a kitten? He sure doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d have a kitten, does he? He was so snotty and rude,” I deflected.

  Stiles cleared his throat, his voice crackling through the phone. “Hal. Where’s the kitten?”

  “Do you think a kitten is capable of killing someone? Seriously, Stiles. How could a kitten possibly cut a man’s throat? Because that’s what happened, right? His jugular took a hit? Can a little kitty do that?”

  His sigh was long and put upon. “Listen to me, Hal. I know you have the kitten. I don’t know if the kitten is a necessary part of this investigation or not. I only know, it feels very suspicious to me that you found a kitten and cat hair was found on the murder victim.”

  I drummed my fingers on the countertop as Barbra slept like the dead. “How do you know it was cat hair on the victim? Maybe it’s llama hair, or dog hair? Or maybe that Blanche Ritter he was escorting around the festival wears wigs made out of cat hair and that’s where it came from. She sure was dramatic enough when she saw his body. She fell all over him. Remember that?”

  He sighed again, and it was the sigh that said he was annoyed. “Because one of the techs mentioned it was cat hair, Hal. You know it’s cat hair because you have the cat.”

  I sucked in my cheeks. “I can neither confirm nor deny the existence of this kitten. On that note, what do we do now?”

  Because while I realized Barbra could play an important role in the investigation into Grouchy Butt’s murder, I didn’t think keeping her in some cold, sterile cage was going to help them solve the case. She didn’t kill him.

  It served literally no purpose at all.

  “I’m only warning you that if it becomes an issue, if someone mentions it, I know nothing about you and the kitten, and you’re going to have to relinquish said kitten if the investigating team finds out you have a cat with hair that matches the hair on Wolfram’s neck.”

  I rolled my eyes. “If the time comes—and I’m not saying it will because that would mean I have a kitten, and I’m not saying I do—then I’ll deal with it.”

  “Hal…”

  Tears started to sting my eyes. “Don’t Hal me. You know how much I love animals. I would never willingly impede an investigation, Stiles, but you also know as well as I do, if I had a kitten, and they think it’s somehow involved in that meaniebutt’s murder, they’ll confiscate the alleged kitten and keep it for months in some cold cage with no one to really care for it because it’s evidence,” I sneered with a clenched jaw. “And you know that’s true.”

  “You’re doing that thing you do,” he warned.

  And he was right. I was getting attached. But that’s all part of who I am. Maybe it was silly, maybe it was irrational, but I’d lost a lot of things these past few years—my grandmother, my mother, my cheating fiancé—and maybe that made me clingier than usual, but I wouldn’t apologize for falling in love with a helpless kitten.

  I all but stomped my foot when I said, “That’s too bad. It’s what I do. It’s what makes me…me.” And then I hung up the phone, my face hot with anger.

  Atticus buzzed into my sightline. “Poppet? What’s the matter? Have you and Stiles had a row?”

  I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from crying. I’m not normally so emotional, but Barbra—her sweet little face, her blue eyes, her soft purr when she cuddled against me—made my heart clench in my chest. The same way crabby Phil had, and any animal in distress or pet I’d had since as far back as I could remember.

  I thumbed away a tear. “I guess we sorta did, Atti, but I’m not going to get into it now because I’m frustrated and upset and prone to bad language. So if you give me one more second of grief about Barbra, I’m going to scream. I’m not letting them take her away from me. Understood?”

  “Then I suppose one must find out who killed this meaniebutt, yes? This way, there’ll be no need to keep the kitten due to the fact that the murder has been solved. That means we don’t cry and throw our hands up in the air. We straighten our spines, pull up our pantaloons, and get to work. It’s what all Valentine women do. I suggest you do as such, as well.”

  I looked at him for a moment—a long moment. I don’t know if that’s how investigations worked. Maybe they’d still need Barbra as evidence even if we
did figure out who killed Yule Stupidface Wolfram, but I had a better leg to stand on if I got this right.

  Pausing for a moment, I girded my loins and mentally pulled up my big-girl panties. If I could manage to avoid the police finding out I had Barbra, and not impede their investigation in the process, and figure out who killed Yule Wolfram, there was a better chance they wouldn’t need her. Would they?

  I grabbed my phone and texted Hobbs.

  “Hey! Solve a murder, save a kitten. You in?”

  CHAPTER 5

  “All I want for Christmas is you!”

  Hobbs sat with me at what had become our usual crime-solving spot—the dining room table. Five minutes after I’d texted him about Barbra, he’d knocked on the door with Stephen King at his side on a thicker, stronger leash.

  Now, as Barbra lie in my lap (and don’t think Atti didn’t give me grief for having her at the dining table during a meal), and Stephen King—who really liked Barbra—sat at my feet, and we finished up our lunch of grilled ham and brie sammies with a side of lobster bisque, he looked at me, his dreamy eyes warm.

  “So, Operation Save Barbra begins! Hashtag #HAH on the case. Where do we start?”

  My heart clenched as Barbra stirred and tucked herself into me, such a stark contrast to Phil, who’d rather have his eyeballs scooped out with a melon baller than let me cuddle him, and I smiled. HAH was our names shipped together, like Brangelina, and it cracked me up every time Hobbs used it.

  The moment Hobbs had come into the kitchen and I’d told him—I’ll admit, tearfully—that Barbra could be taken away from me for evidence, he’d taken off his coat, hung it up in the mudroom, kissed me on the tip of my nose, then told me to sit while he made lunch and we’d figure it out.

  Rolling up the sleeves of my thermal shirt, I smiled at him in gratitude. “I guess where we always begin. Online. Get our thoughts together before we go question anyone at the ice festival. While we do, we can look up Facebook pages, Twitter feeds and so on. I’m sure there are tons of articles about Yule, him being so famous and all.”