by Zara Keane
“None of us could stand Theresa,” Ann replied. “Apart from stealing my husband, she had a reputation for being light-fingered, and bad-tempered. No way would anyone mind her spare key.”
“We don’t need a key to get into the caravan.” Lenny reached into his pocket and withdrew a Swiss Army knife.
“Are we adding breaking and entering to our long list of crimes for the day?”
He grinned at me. “Looks like it.” After a few seconds of fiddling, the lock gave way. Lenny stood back, triumphant. “Wanna see what’s in there?”
I regarded the closed door warily. “No, but I guess we have to.”
Lenny opened the door and stood back. For a moment, nothing happened. And then, with a blood-curdling yowl, a very large, very orange, and very angry cat hurled itself through the air, and flattened my assistant.
I peered at it in disbelief. “Quibbles?”
31
Danger was part of my job description, but none of my contingency plans had anticipated an attack by a Maine Coon.
“Get it off me,” Lenny howled. “It’s going for my face.”
I turned to Ann, who stood frozen and horror-stricken by my side. “Do you have a hose?”
“I’m afraid not,” she replied, not taking her eyes off Lenny and the cat. “Will a bucket of water do?”
“It’ll have to.”
Ann disappeared into her caravan in search of the bucket, and I grabbed a child’s plastic spade from the ground. I hurled the shovel at Quibbles. It bounced off the cat’s arched back, landing just out of Lenny’s reach.
“Maggie,” he yelled. “Do something.”
“I just did something,” I groused. “And it didn’t work.”
Lenny’s howls of pain were attracting a crowd. Children gathered around, fascinated by the sight of an adult tussling with a cat. “Is that a tiger?” a small boy demanded.
“It’s a Maine Coon,” I replied. “The breed is known for its size.”
“Is it known for its viciousness?” Lenny demanded. “This thing’s insane.”
Ann hurried out of her caravan, straining under the weight of a large bucket. “Out of the way,” she shouted at the onlookers.
The kids parted to let her through, then, sensing more drama was to come, jostled for the best viewing position. Panting from the effort of lifting the bucket, Ann hurled water over Quibbles. The enormous cat arched his back, hissed, and dug his talons deeper into Lenny’s face. Yowling in a chorus, Lenny and Quibbles rolled across the ground, but the cat didn’t loosen his grip.
Ann let the bucket fall and looked at me. “Now what?”
“We’ll have to try to pull the cat off him.”
“Not me,” she said, taking a step back. “What if it goes for my hearing aid?”
I indicated my sling. “I have one arm, Ann. How am I supposed to remove the cat one-handed?”
“I don’t care which of you does it,” Lenny shouted, “as long as someone gets this creature off my face.”
“Fine,” I muttered. “I’ll do it.” Squaring my shoulders, I prepared for battle. I circled the cat, looking for a proper angle to tackle him. I inserted my left arm under the cat and pulled. Lenny pushed, his movements frantic. After a tense minute, we succeeded in detaching the cat from his face.
I staggered back under the weight of the cat and tried to let the creature drop to the ground. Instead of reclaiming his freedom, Quibbles applied his sharp claws to every exposed piece of flesh he could find. “Get him off me,” I screamed.
Lenny struggled to his feet and helped me to detach the cat’s claws from my arm. Quibbles fell to the ground in a snarling, hissing rage.
My arm and Lenny’s face were covered in jagged, bleeding claw marks. Lenny jabbed an accusing finger at Quibbles. “What is that thing? Is it a wild cat?”
“Quibbles,” I replied, struggling to breathe through the pain, “is a prize-winning show cat.”
“More like a hellcat,” Lenny growled. “How are we going to get it back to Mrs. Nelson?”
Good question. We regarded the cat. Quibbles glared back at us, back arched, teeth bared.
“Will this help?” Ann emerged from Theresa’s caravan, holding an enormous cat carrier.
It took three of us to wrestle Quibbles into the cat carrier. By the end of our hairy first encounter, I’d established two facts: one, Ann, Lenny, and I were all out of antiseptic, and two, Quibbles was not a nice cat.
Once I’d removed the cat’s talons from her arm, Ann beat a hasty retreat into her caravan, declaring the cat as insane as Theresa. I was inclined to agree. Bleeding and battered, Lenny and I hauled the cat carrier to the van and installed it on the backseat. We’d no sooner closed the door of the van when Quibbles undid the latch on his cage’s door and escaped. Neither Lenny nor I could cope with the idea of wrestling the cat back into his carrier, so we left him where he was.
The journey back to Smuggler’s Cove wasn’t fun. Hungry, angry, and scared, Quibbles hissed and scratched and defecated on the backseat. After five minutes of going on the rampage, he finally settled down. Still, he continued to glare menacingly at me whenever I caught his eye in the rearview mirror.
“What was Theresa doing with Quibbles in her caravan?” Lenny demanded as we exited the caravan park and bumped down the dirt road. “She didn’t strike me as a pet person, not even for that mangy furball.” His face bore the brunt of Quibbles’ attack. Several red scratches formed a jagged pattern across his face, and his nose had seen better days. I doubted that I looked much better.
“You heard what Ann Russell said,” I reminded him. “Theresa had a reputation for being light-fingered. Maybe she discovered that Quibbles was a prize-winning cat and figured he’d be worth a few bucks.”
“You think she stole him from Trudy Nelson’s house, intending to sell him?”
“Either that or Quibbles really did sneak out, and Theresa happened to catch him and decided to use the opportunity to her financial advantage.” I turned to the cat and tried to tempt him with a piece of sliced beef Ann had given us before we left the caravan park. The cat snarled and snapped his teeth, forcing me to snatch back my hand. “Seriously, dude,” I said to the cat. “I only have one working hand. Don’t take that one out too.”
“Didn’t Trudy describe that creature as sweet-natured?” Lenny looked at the cat over his shoulder and returned its glare. “It’s possessed.”
“Perhaps he’s better behaved for her,” I suggested. “He’s probably also traumatized from being locked in the caravan and running out of food and drink.”
“What was Theresa thinking?” he demanded. “She went off and left that thing alone.”
“When I peeked into the caravan, there were two empty bowls. It looks like she left out enough cat food and water to last a day. As far as she was concerned, she was going to be back on Whisper Island after she finished filming the dance scene.” I put my head on the dashboard. “Sammy Brennan was right. He did see Quibbles at the caravan park. I owe that brat a fifty-euro apology.”
Shooting the cat a final death glance, Lenny focused on the road. “So, what’s the plan?”
“Drop me at the harbor, and I’ll return Quibbles to Trudy Nelson. Meanwhile, you find Liam, give him the bag of crystals. Tell him Tom Russell is both Theresa’s lover and her probable accomplice in the jewel smuggling case. Maybe Theresa double-crossed Tom, and he snapped and killed her.”
“Or perhaps Ann is the killer,” Lenny continued, “and she lied to us about not visiting Dolphin Island this summer to put us off the scent.”
I nodded. “It’s possible. Either way, Liam needs to know, preferably before Sile gets back to Whisper Island and raises hell.”
A few minutes later, Lenny dropped Quibbles and me at the harbor. Having protested at being in the van, Quibbles showed no inclination to get out. In the end, Lenny forced the issue, earning himself more scratches in the process. Battleworn and swearing off cats for life, he fashioned a leash out
of a piece of rope that he unearthed in the back of the van. The strap enabled me to walk Quibbles. This, at least, was the idea. Whether or not Quibbles would cooperate remained to be seen. Carrying such a large cat one-armed was out of the question, with or without a cat carrier. Given the cat’s size, I wasn’t optimistic I could haul him with two.
After Lenny roared off in search of Liam, I dragged Quibbles to a bench next to the harbor’s car park, where Trudy’s car was still parked. I put the strips of roast beef on the ground. Maybe he’d eat them if I ignored him for a while.
I found Trudy’s number in my phone’s address book and dialed. The number rang and rang, but no voicemail switched on. I exhaled heavily. That would’ve been too straightforward for today. I’d have to hope she returned to her car soon, and I could reunite her with her pet.
In the meantime, I checked my messages and my emails, something that’d been difficult on Dolphin Island. The only message on my phone was from Liam, asking me to call him urgently. I hit his number and was rewarded with a connection to his voicemail. Instead of leaving a message, I opted to write him a text. There were too many people around for me to feel comfortable discussing Theresa, Tom Russell, and the bag of crystals.
After I’d hit send, I checked my emails. Newsletters I’d subscribed to at some point and never read; more bills to pay; an invitation to my lawyer friend Jennifer’s housewarming party. I checked my junk mail folder, just in case a client inquiry had gone astray. People wanting to give me money. People wanting me to provide them with cash. And…wait a sec… I peered at an email sent to me at seven-fifteen yesterday evening from an unfamiliar email address: [email protected]
TC…1972…Theresa Crawley. It couldn’t be, could it? Why would she email me on the evening she’d collapsed?
My finger hovered over the open button. What was the worst that could happen? I opened the email and unleashed a virus that wiped my phone clean? I had backups for everything related to my business. I was meticulous about that.
I clicked on the email.
Maggie,
I have a proposition for you, one businesswoman to another. Your sister has led an exciting life. Con Ryder wants his new star to project a clean and wholesome image. What would the gossip columnists say if they knew your sister stole one million dollars from a friend and destroyed that girl’s career? That she lied and cheated and took credit for other people’s work? How will that tidbit help launch her film career?
Unless you want me to email details to every gossip columnist from Dublin to Hollywood, I want five thousand euros in cash by five o’clock Saturday evening. Delivered in-person to my caravan. And if you throw in an extra five hundred, I’ll tell you the whereabouts of that cat you’re looking for.
Theresa C.
My hands shaking, I read the email through twice, and then once more for good measure. “That horrible witch,” I said at last. “If she wasn’t already dead, I’d kill her myself.”
I hadn’t realized I’d spoken the words aloud. Quibbles stared up at me and bared his teeth in a hiss. He had, I noted, eaten the beef.
The wheels in my mind whirred, absorbing every detail of the message. Had my sister stolen one million dollars? And from a friend? Beth had a ruthless streak and a sharp tongue, but I didn’t see her committing a crime on that scale.
Playing devil’s advocate, what if Beth was guilty of theft, either financial or creative? Had Theresa approached her and threatened her personally? Did that give my sister a motive to kill her? Beth had, after all, stood right next to Theresa at the party.
I shivered. This was insane. My sister wasn’t a killer. She was expecting a baby for heaven’s sake.
Which also gave her a strong motive for wanting to defend herself…
I didn’t hold out much hope for getting through, but I hit Beth’s number. To my astonishment, it rang. Even more surprising, she answered on the second ring.
“Maggie?” Beth’s voice was fraught with tension. “Where are you? There’s a police officer here accusing you and Lenny of all sorts of crimes.”
“Never mind all that. I need to ask you something, and it’s urgent.”
A muffled sound in the background crackled down the line. “Um, yeah, go ahead.”
“Have you ever stolen one million dollars from someone? From a friend, maybe?”
“Oh, not that again.” My sister sounded exasperated. “Hang on a sec, Maggie. I need to move away for some privacy. I’ll go deeper into the woods.” Much rustling of leaves underfoot passed before she came back on the line. “I did not steal anyone’s ideas,” Beth said, keeping her voice low. “All the ideas that made it into the palette were my own. My goodness, I thought she’d gotten over that. She told me she had.”
“Palette?”
“My eyeshadow palette,” Beth reminded me, her tone sharp. “I even gave you one for Christmas.”
I sucked in a breath. Of course. My sister had released an eyeshadow palette in collaboration with a well-known makeup brand. “Who’s this ‘she’? And why does she think you cheated her out of money?”
“It’s all so ridiculous,” Beth said, clearly bored of the topic. “First, I wasn’t paid anything near one million dollars. And second, it wasn’t my idea to nix her from the collaboration. She’s got awesome makeup skills, but she’s no good at creating a usable palette for the average consumer.”
“Storm,” I breathed, the fog in my brain finally clearing. “You’re talking about Storm MacKenzie.”
“Well, who else?” My sister sniffed. “She was my channel partner, after all.”
My breath caught in my throat. “Oh, no…” This was what I got for studiously avoiding my sister’s famous makeup tutorials video channel for years. My fingers trembling, I opened the video channel’s app and searched for Eliza Donati, my sister’s influencer name.
And there was the answer to the entire case. Because I was now convinced that the saboteur and Theresa’s killer was one and the same.
I scrolled through video after video of Eliza and Storm applying makeup to each other to show their viewers new makeup techniques. Storm disappeared from the channel around a year ago. A couple of videos later, Eliza announced her upcoming collaboration with Frooty Tooty Makeup, a brand beloved by twenty-somethings.
“I was always more popular than Storm when we made our videos,” Beth continued. “I was the one who got a huge following on other social media platforms, and the channel became synonymous with my name. I didn’t deliberately exclude Storm, but she hated the attention and was glad to leave the social networking to me. She only got interested in the collaboration proposal because of the money.”
I hauled air into my lungs and steadied my racing mind. “Beth, I don’t want to freak you out, but you need to find Sile and tell her to arrest Storm. I think she’s the person behind the on-set accidents and Theresa’s death.”
“What? No, Maggie. That’s not possible. I was trying to call you to say I think Judd poisoned Theresa. Did you know he has an associate degree in complementary alternative medicine?”
“Although I’d love Judd to be our killer, I don’t think we can pin the blame on him.” I stared out at the expanse of clear water between me and my sister. “Please find Sile Conlan and tell her to arrest Storm.
“That doesn’t make sense. The accidents started when we were in Belfast, remember?” Beth pointed out. “Storm only started working on the movie set this week. Besides, we talked earlier and cleared the air. Everything’s fine between us now. I mean, we’re even—”
“What if the accidents in Belfast really were accidents?” I suggested. “Haven’t you noticed how they escalated this week? You said the whole time that whoever was behind the accidents was targeting you. What if you were right all along?”
A rustling sound came through the phone.
My heartbeat kicked up a notch. “Beth, where are you?”
“That’s what I was trying to tell you. I’m on a walk with some of the makeup arti
sts. Lenny was supposed to join us, but then you guys took off.”
“Is Storm with you?” My words were frantic, high-pitched.
“Yeah. That’s why I moved away for privacy. But I honestly don’t see—”
A rustle of noise erupted at the other end of the phone, and suddenly, the line went dead.
32
A wave of nausea swept through me. I dragged air into my lungs and forced myself to hold it before exhaling. Now wasn’t the time to panic. I punched Liam’s number on my phone. “Come on, come on,” I muttered.
Voicemail.
I tried Lenny next, but he didn’t answer. I looked up, facing the expanse of blue water that divided me from my sister. I had no more time to waste.
I swallowed, ripped off my sling and brace, and tossed them to the ground. I scooped up Quibbles, ignoring the slicing pain in my wrist and the cat’s yowls of protest. He was a horrible cat, but I couldn’t abandon him. Surely someone on the pier would look after him?
Paddy Driscoll leaned against the ferry booth, chatting to the ticket seller. I ran over to him, wincing when Quibbles clawed my hands. “Paddy,” I shouted. “Will you look after the cat?”
The farmer turned, took in the situation, and recoiled. “That thing’s a cat? It looks half tiger to me.”
“I don’t have time to argue. Please take him.”
“Don’t do it, Paddy,” shouted a second man. “That’s Trudy Nelson’s beast. It bit me the last time I delivered vegetables to her house.”
“Will one of you at least call emergency services?” I threw over my shoulder, already running to Noel’s boat. “There’s a killer on Dolphin Island, and she’s after my sister.”
Paddy was not my favorite Whisper Island resident, but he got the message. He was punching numbers into his phone before I reached the speedboat. I leaped into the boat and dumped a yowling Quibbles onto the floor. And then it hit me. I had no key.
