by Cate Conte
Lucas was still sound asleep with JJ snuggled next to him, right in between us. I wanted to go back to sleep with them, especially since Lucas was leaving early tomorrow and who knew when he’d be able to get back, but there was no way my overactive mind would let me. I needed to find out why Grandpa had hidden his friend from the cops and why he had been talking to that woman.
I slipped out from under the covers. Neither my boyfriend nor my cat batted an eye when I got up. Clearly, they weren’t as curious as I was about last night. I pulled on my giant fleecy sweatshirt and my slippers and headed downstairs. I could feel the cold despite the new windows and furnace that we’d installed at the start of the season, and thought again about why I’d moved back here. No one in their right minds wanted to spend winters on a little island off the coast of Massachusetts, where the temperatures were frigid at best and a good nor’easter like the one the weather people were predicting could leave you stranded out here for days with no hopes of even a taste of civilization. Not even Amazon Prime could combat those events. Nope, no one could prefer this. Not when California was an option.
Then again, I often questioned my sanity in life.
I heard music playing in the cafe area before I even hit the last flight of stairs. Piano. Mozart, probably. I’d learned that was Adele’s favorite cleaning music. Which was an odd match to me, knowing Adele, but it just proved you couldn’t simply look at people on the surface.
Adele was a good lady—rough around the edges, sure, but she had a big heart. Which belonged mostly to cats. She was single and had been most of her life, as far as I knew. Rumor had it she’d had a boyfriend once who had moved in, but she threw him out when he eventually started complaining about the numerous cats she brought home.
Now she lived alone, drove a taxi on the island during the summer months, and worked as a crossing guard. She’d also recently picked up a part-time bus driver gig during the school year. In her spare time, she volunteered for Katrina and me and went around the island collecting stray cats and feeding feral colonies. Of which there were way more than anyone would expect in such a contained setting. And when she met people who mistreated cats, whether on purpose or simply because they were clueless, her claws came out. She was tense, quick to anger, and always spoke her mind. Or shouted it, to be more accurate.
Yet she listened to classical music.
“It calms me,” she’d told me once. “Takes the crazy out of my head for a while.”
Who knew?
I poked my head in and saw her sitting on one of the floor pillows surrounded by cat food bowls and a box of litter. Flower, the little tortie terror who usually tore around the place like she was possessed, knocking things over and generally wreaking havoc, sat in Adele’s lap like a perfect angel. Adele stroked her fur and hummed softly along with the music in her gruff voice. Her Brillo-pad-style hair flared around her head like a steel halo.
Adele looked up at me and grinned. “It’s the music. I told ya.”
“I didn’t doubt you for a second.” I glanced around, automatically taking inventory to see if everything was in order. Today’s menu—Ethan made a new one every morning with his specials of the day—was already inserted into the cat-shaped metal holders on the tables. I flipped one over to see who he’d selected as the cat of the day. Every day he printed a picture of one of the cats, along with their story, on the back of the menu in hopes of getting adoption applications. He’d picked Sebastian today.
Blankets had been fluffed and the rest of the floor pillows, minus the one Adele sat on, had been strategically repositioned around the room. Sometimes the cats rearranged them overnight into their favorite spots. Once Adele was done with breakfast and cleaning the litter boxes, which were all set up in different pieces of “cat furniture,” a way to try to hide them in plain sight, the place would be open for business.
And even though business was, admittedly, slower now than in the high season, I was continually surprised by the people dropping in during our limited hours. Island regulars who just really liked to play with cats, usually. Like Mr. Gregory, who visited at least twice a week and was regularly devastated when his favorite cats were adopted. He always managed to find a new favorite. But I also got people coming to the island for some temporary reason—kind of like Jason Holt—and even people who worked here and lived on the mainland. Every now and then, people who lived off-island came over specifically to visit the cat cafe, which never failed to amaze me. I knew there was at least one similar establishment in Boston, with more soon to be popping up. But here on the island, it was definitely a novelty.
The cat cafe concept was fairly new to the States and virtually unheard of on a small island like ours. Usually reserved for urban areas, the cafes served as places where people who either couldn’t have cats or didn’t have time to properly care for them full time could come and get their cat fix, with a cup of coffee or a pastry on the side, for a minimal amount of money. I’d seen a couple of needs to fill on the island—those who were here for summer vacations and missed their pets, and those who simply couldn’t afford pets. Which, given the problem of the winter months and the roller-coaster economics of island life, was more than you would think.
It seemed to be working. Our opening had been well received, and we had people clamoring for slots every day. Even now, I was busier than I’d thought I’d be—which meant I had some customers instead of the none that I’d been afraid of.
Our cafe was definitely different from most businesses. First of all, we had created it in our family home, which people always found charming. Second, Grandpa’s involvement was a big draw. A retired police chief dedicating his retirement to helping homeless cats and working with his granddaughter was almost more endearing than the cats themselves. It had garnered us some media coverage outside of Becky and the Chronicle. I shamelessly utilized my grandpa as a fabulous marketing tool. I’d even convinced him to start doing some Facebook Live videos about the cafe. He was good at it, once he’d gotten the hang of how to hold the camera. He’d even come home with a selfie stick a few weeks ago, so he could do them without having to worry about moving the camera around too much. I’d almost gotten him to say yes to a podcast, too: “The Man Behind the Purrs.” But it looked like I’d have to wait on that until after this new problem was solved.
I turned my attention back to Adele. “I should always listen to the resident cat expert.” I leaned against the doorjamb and surveyed the room. “Want help?”
“Nah.” Adele waved me on. “Go have your coffee. Read the paper. Interesting happenings here on the island last night, if you hadn’t heard.”
My ears perked up. “I heard a little,” I said, hoping I sounded casual. “Something about a guy in the water. What happened? Did they say yet?”
“They don’t really know, but there sure was a guy in the water. A dead guy,” she added, in that matter-of-fact tone I’d come to appreciate. “Hey, did you see that the new cat has some knots? Can that man of yours shave him down?”
“Of course,” I said impatiently. “But the guy. What happened to him?”
“Newspaper said he was floating in the water in front of the marina. Cops haven’t said much else.” She shrugged. “Not a local, neither. Probably got drunk and went wandering and fell off into the freezing water. Stupid tourists.”
I bit back a laugh that ended up coming out as a snort. She looked at me curiously.
“I’m going to go get that coffee,” I said, clearing my throat.
“Go on. We’re gonna sit here and enjoy a sonata.”
I went into the kitchen, where Ethan was in his usual spot, manning the oven. No one else was around. “Morning,” I said.
He glanced over his shoulder. “Hey, sunshine.”
“Where is everyone?”
“Val’s in the shower. Your grandfather took off early. Coffee’s fresh.”
“You’re an angel.” I poured a mug.
“How’re you holding up?” he asked.
<
br /> “What do you mean?”
Ethan shrugged. “That woman who came in here asking about JJ. I figured that would be bothering you.”
“Yeah. For sure. But hopefully she’s gone now. Where’d Grandpa go?” I asked casually.
“No idea. I heard him heading out about an hour ago. He didn’t even stop in to see if I’d baked anything yet.”
“Really.” That was odd. Grandpa had gotten quite used to Ethan’s role as cafe chef. It definitely didn’t do his waistline any favors, but he’d always loved his sweets. And without Grandma here to keep an eye on him any longer, he tended to indulge more often. I looked around. “Paper?”
“Hmmm?” Ethan had his head in the oven, sticking a toothpick in one of his muffins to test its readiness.
“The newspaper,” I said. “Where is it?”
“Probably on the porch.” He shut the oven door and reset the timer. “I haven’t seen it.”
I left my mug on the table and went out to get it. It was far enough outside that I had to trade my fuzzy slippers for whoever’s boots were lying in the doorway. And my sweatshirt wasn’t nearly warm enough. I held my breath and made a mad dash.
It was worth the trip. When I hurried back inside and pulled the paper out of its plastic wrap, kicking the door shut behind me, my mouth fell open. Adele had failed to mention one major detail about the dead man in the water.
It was Jason Holt. The famous author.
Who had spent his last day in my cat cafe.
Chapter 12
I stared, disbelieving, at the headline and the photo splashed across the front page. How had he ended up dead in our ocean? He’d been here working on his next masterpiece mere hours before.
I fled back into the kitchen, forgetting to trade the boots for my slippers. They had to be Ethan’s—he was a giant beanpole with matching giant feet, and my own size eights slid around inside them with enough room to add another person. But I barely noticed, despite my not-very-graceful entrance.
“Do you know who died?” I burst out, waving the paper at him. He turned around again, curious now.
“No. You mean last night? The person in the water died? Who was it?”
“Jason Holt!” At his blank stare I let out a sigh of impatience, conveniently forgetting that I hadn’t known who the guy was when he’d been sitting right in front of me day after day. Although in fairness, I was well acquainted with his work, I just didn’t recognize him in person. Which had to be in my favor, right? I was more impressed with his output than his looks. “The author? The guy who was here in the cafe yesterday? And like every day before that for the past couple weeks?”
Now Ethan’s eyes widened. He rubbed his red beard, a sure sign he was thinking. “You’re kidding. The one who’s been coming in here to work?”
I nodded.
“Wow.” He leaned against the counter. “I didn’t really pay attention to his stuff, but wow. What happened?”
“I figured you probably haven’t read him. Don’t you just read self-help stuff?” Ethan was very devoted to his spiritual practices and improving himself. I think it’s what kept him able to deal with me and my tendency to run manic. He’d been telling me about the benefits of meditation for years. And I believed him. Honestly, I did, but sometimes it was really hard to put into practice.
“Hey. So what if I do?” he asked, indignant. “You should try it more often, Maddie. It really does help. Especially when you’re struggling with … issues.”
I frowned. “Subtlety is not your strong suit. We all know I have issues. And I didn’t mean to say it’s a bad thing. I’m just saying, I didn’t figure crime writers topped your list. And I don’t think we know what happened yet.” I scanned the article, bits and pieces of the story jumping out at me. It was basically the same as the online article I’d refreshed to death last night. A call around 7:30 p.m. about a man in the water near the marina. Anonymous. Cause of death as yet undetermined. Police are searching for witnesses who may have been in the area. The author hails from the West Coast.
A West Coaster. Who felt the need to come to a nearly desolate island during the cold weather, likely to work. Why hadn’t he picked a remote corner of Hawaii or somewhere warm? Maybe the nice weather would have been too much of a distraction. Either way, it was terribly sad. How had this happened? Had it truly been a tragic accident? I thought of Adele’s flip comment earlier about stupid tourists drinking and walking along the water. Of course I hadn’t known Jason Holt, but my gut said that wasn’t right. A suicide? Maybe.
It was hard to believe an acclaimed author like Holt, who’d enjoyed so much success of late, would kill himself, but I knew outward success wasn’t always a good barometer when it came to these things. It wasn’t crazy to imagine that Holt could’ve had demons buried beneath those stacks of best-selling books. And anyone not accustomed to the isolation of hanging out here on the island during the winter—well, it wouldn’t do wonders for a bruised psyche.
This was probably why the police had wanted to talk to Leopard Man. Maybe they knew he’d been in the area and thought he might have seen something. Maybe Leopard Man had witnessed this guy having an altercation with someone. Maybe the crazy woman had caught up with Holt after she’d left here. She had seemed to recognize him.
Or maybe he’d seen Holt walking along the wall above the water chugging from a bottle of whiskey, just like Adele said. Anything that could help them understand what had happened to our erstwhile guest. But something about that didn’t add up for me.
Ethan still watched me, waiting to hear if I had anything else to say. “No good answers,” I said, tossing the paper on the table and picking up my abandoned cup of coffee. “Jeez. I can’t believe this.”
“Believe what?” Val came into the kitchen, already perfectly coiffed and ready to go, probably to another meeting about table settings with Ava-Rose. Her eyes locked with Ethan’s and she blushed a little as she smiled at him.
It was funny watching Val go all gooey over a guy. She hadn’t been that way about her ex-husband, at least not for a long time. Before Lucas, it probably would’ve made me vaguely ill, but since I was kind of mushy about him—at least for now—I thought it was cute.
Everything in Val’s life seemed to be going right these days. I’d always known she’d been wasting her talents when she married Cole and gave up her dream of moving off-island and working in the fashion industry, but now it looked like she’d found her true calling—planning parties.
I focused on her, wondering what this news would do to her mood. “Jason Holt. He’s the dead guy in the water,” I said.
Her eyes widened and her hand flew to her mouth. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m not.” I pointed to the paper.
She grabbed it off the table and skimmed the story, making little noises of dismay as she got further along. Finally, she looked up at me, still clutching the paper. “That’s terrible. They have no idea what happened?”
“You know what I know,” I said.
“What about Becky?”
“Obviously, Becky only knows that, too,” I said. “Given that her staff wrote the piece.” Which might or might not be true. Becky could be sitting on a scoop waiting for permission to print it. And she’d be all over this one. It was a high-profile story and would attract national media, given Holt’s celebrity. She would definitely want to be the lead outlet breaking this story despite the heavy hitters from all over probably flying in right now to get a piece of the action. In fact, if she wasn’t, I fully expected heads to roll all over the island. Breaking this story would give her mad credibility. And possibly get the paper some award or another. “But I don’t know. I haven’t talked to her since last night, and she was just hearing about the guy in the water, too.” I didn’t mention the whole Leopard-Man-in-hiding piece of the puzzle. Val wasn’t known for her discretion, although she’d become much more thoughtful about those types of things after being the brunt of a lot of gossip over the summer.
<
br /> Come to think of it, Grandpa would probably want me to tell her and Ethan to stay quiet about Leopard Man’s visit last night. I wouldn’t put it past Ellory to corner them with a seemingly innocuous question.
“That’s really sad.” She spun around to Ethan, her eyes going wide again. “You know, his last meal could’ve been what he had here! Something you made. Do you remember what he had?”
Ethan shrugged and looked to me for help. I thought for a second. “Coffee,” I said finally.
Val frowned. “That’s it? I’d hoped he had something he at least enjoyed.”
“Why wouldn’t he have enjoyed my coffee?” Ethan asked. “I make excellent coffee. Don’t I, Maddie?”
“Of course you do. And why does it matter?” I asked, exasperated.
“I don’t know. Becky could do a story on it. How this was the last place he spent time at before his tragic death.” She shrugged. “It could get you some more publicity.”
“I don’t need that kind of publicity,” I muttered. “‘Cat Cafe: Last Stop Before Death’ isn’t exactly the type of headline I’m going for.”
Chapter 13
I traded in Ethan’s boots for my slippers, heated up my coffee, and accepted a plate of scrambled eggs with spinach that Ethan had whipped up, sensing I would need food to combat this news and what would surely be a long day. The last time someone who’d visited my cafe had died it became quite the tourist stop. Although we were mostly lacking in tourists these days.
Val declined the plate Ethan slid in front of her. “Can’t. I need to meet Ava-Rose promptly at nine. If I’m late I’ll never hear the end of it. I’ll just have some juice.”
“Hey,” I said before she could go. “Did Grandpa talk to you at all about last night?”
