Meow for Murder Mysteries Boxed Set

by Addison Moore

  Opal chortles. “Yes, well, she’s definitely his type.”

  Tilly rolls her eyes. “Everyone is Shep’s type. Have they knocked boots? Maybe. Shep does love the ladies.”

  Opal offers a sorrowful look my way. “You’ll get sick of him soon enough. He uses this place like an office. So where are you from? Where are you staying?”

  Tilly leans in. “You’re new in town, aren’t you?” There’s a dazed look in her eyes as if she’s seeing a slab of fresh meat—me.

  I’m about to answer when an all too familiar warm, fuzzy feeling takes over and spreads throughout my limbs, rendering me disabled for a moment. The room blinks in and out of focus as I get a serious bout of tunnel vision. And in my mind’s eye, I see Opal looking at me with fright as a gun dangles from her fingers. “Oh my God,” she says. “He’s dead.”

  The room snaps back into focus and a cool breeze washes over me as Opal shakes me by the shoulders.

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake, Tilly, get the girl a chocolate chip cookie. She nearly passed out.”

  “No.” I shake my head as I look to the sweet, somewhat kooky older woman beside me. “I saw something. You were standing there with a gun and you said, ‘oh my God, he’s dead.’” I glance to Tilly then Opal. “Look, I’ll leave town. On foot apparently. But sometimes I see things, and I think you’re too nice to do some serious time. Don’t do it. Whoever this man is, he’s not worth wearing an orange jumpsuit for life.” I should know, I’m working hard to avoid the same wardrobe malfunction.

  Tilly makes a wheezing sound as she comes in close. “You’re one of those psychics, aren’t you? The kind they advertise at two in the morning? What’s going to happen to me tonight? Am I getting lucky with Perry Flint?”

  “What? No, I’m not a psychic. That’s horrible stuff. It’s witchcraft. It’s from the devil. Believe me, I know. I’m just—” I pause long enough to decide there’s no point in spilling all the supernatural beans. “I’m just a girl who sometimes sees things, and it gets me in trouble more often than not. And please do me a favor. Don’t tell anyone.” I look Opal in the eye. “And whatever you do, don’t kill him.”

  Chapter 3

  It turns out, this rickety old café really does have customers.

  Lots of them.

  In fact, it has a healthy staff, too, that consists of four cooks and three waitresses. Not to mention me—the oddball out calling the shots. Although, in what’s turned into a bit of a surprise, nobody actually listens to me.

  Tilly stands in the corner, filing her nails over the food that’s waiting to be delivered to the tables at hand.

  There’s a guy named Mud Miller, who is more or less the handyman at the manor but occasionally pinch-hits with the customers. Currently, he’s doing a majority of the waiting and the bussing, while the other waitresses play on their phones and argue with their boyfriends.

  Mud is tall and scrawny and has a sharp aversion to food touching on the plate even if he’s not actually going to eat the food. He’s got choppy, short, blond hair that looks as if a vengeful ex-girlfriend attacked him with scissors in the dark. But he’s got a good game face with the customers and a mischievous twinkle in his eyes that makes me feel as if he’s going to be a natural ally.

  “Ooh.” Tilly takes off her apron. “It’s time to go. Perry Flint is probably taking the stage as we speak. Come on, Bowser. You won’t want to miss this one.”

  “Bowie.” I shoot her a look as I glance around the café. “And I can’t go. The sign says we close at nine. That’s two more hours of torture for me.”

  Tilly clucks her tongue, her watery blue eyes pinned right to mine. “You don’t have to close. You’re the manager. Make one of the peons do it. That’s how Regina did it.”

  “Shouldn’t I count out the register?”

  “That’s what we got Mud for.”

  I glance down. I’ve already counted out the cash drawer ten times.

  All right, so I was eyeing those greenbacks in an effort to scoop them up and run like heck. And believe me, if Wanda was feeling better, I would have. But with no car, and no mechanic to work a miracle, it looks as if I’m stuck at the catnip café. Honest to God, there have been at least a half dozen adorable felines sniffing around the door outside just begging to be let in.

  “I’ll be there in a minute,” I say. “Can I ask what the deal is with all the cats around here? Did someone dump a can of tuna on the carpet outside? Because for the life of me, I can’t seem to figure out what’s going on.”

  Tilly chuckles as she waves me off. “Opal is Starry Falls’ resident certified crazy cat lady.”

  “Oh,” I drawl the word out as the message comes in clear. “I get it. My Nana Rose loved cats, too. She had three before she passed away.”

  Tilly rolls her eyes. “Yeah, well, Opal’s got your granny beat. She has at least three hundred. She has a trough she feeds them from out back every night. And at about four o’clock she starts what she calls her kitty run.” She leans in. “The trunk of her car is loaded with kitty kibble. And she drives to at least six different locations and scatters food in bulk. People hate her for it. They say it’s a nuisance.” She shrugs. “I say let the poor woman have at it. Cats are one of the few things that give her pleasure anymore.”

  “Anymore? What happened?”

  “First, her husband left her for the baton girl in the Fourth of July freedom parade out in Sterling Lake, then he was arrested for tax evasion and securities fraud. He’s out now and doing pretty good again, but he kicked Opal to the curb. Opal was once a fat cat herself, and now all she has left in this world is this dump.”

  “This dump? This dump is basically a mansion in the event you haven’t noticed.”

  Tilly shakes her head. “It’s plagued with problems, and it keeps sucking what little money she does have out of her. She refuses to take in boarders. And she tries to bilk the townspeople for all they’re worth whenever she can, but she’s no good at it. She’s lost everything but the cashmere sweater off her back, and the feds are constantly breathing down her neck.”

  “Wow. Opal and I really have a lot in common.”

  Tilly blinks my way.

  “I mean, we’ve both fallen on tough times.” Not to mention that whole feds and lousy ex thing. “Hey! Do you think Opal would let me spend the night here? I have nowhere else to go.”

  She lifts her brows as she links her arm to mine. “Why don’t we go ask her, little miss.”

  Tilly leads us through the manor, which is now teeming with bodies as everyone struggles to cram themselves into a set of double doors in the back.

  We weave our way through the crowd, and soon enough we’re in a cavernous ballroom, dimly lit with pink and yellow spotlights twirling up above. There’s a bona fide stage up front with a giant framed poster that reads Welcome Perry Flint!

  A single chair and a microphone sit on stage with a single white-hot spotlight over it.

  It’s elbow-to-elbow room only in this dance hall, and without putting too much effort into it, I spot Shep, the cranky walking suitcase, standing near the stage talking to a man with a cowboy hat, far too many teeth, and a smile that doesn’t quit.

  I’m about to point them out when Opal crops up wearing a houndstooth fitted blazer, a matching long skirt, black stilettos, and a hot pink scarf. Her silver hair is slightly frizzy yet curled under, and she’s wearing that same dark lipstick she had on this afternoon.

  “What do you think of the turnout?” Opal claps her hands softly to herself. “Every single person here paid ten dollars admittance.” She looks my way. “They’re collecting at the entrance to the manor. You can pay me later.”

  My mouth opens a moment. A part of me respects her hutzpah.

  “I’m your employee,” I point out. “And speaking of which, you wouldn’t happen to have a room I can rent, do you? The only place I have to lay my head at night is my car.” It might be spring, but given the fact the rear window won’t roll all the way u
p, it makes for an icy night’s sleep that I don’t care to repeat.

  “A room to rent?” Her penciled-in brows curl together. “I’m afraid the manor is full. I have a suite to myself, and the rest of the rooms are unavailable. I was fortunate enough to keep my entire winter collection and had to store them somewhere.”

  Tilly wrinkles her nose. “She’s got a six room suite.”

  Opal waves her off before turning her attention back to me. “The car sounds wonderful, dear. I’m glad to know things are looking up for you.” She starts to walk away and I block her.

  “No, actually, they’re not. Can I at least spend the night in the café? I’ll curl up in a booth. And on the bright side, I won’t be late for work.”

  She gasps as she looks to Tilly. “That’s a wonderful idea! A twenty-four hour café. Why didn’t you think of that?” She gives one of Tilly’s chunky highlights a tug before putting in another earnest attempt of dissolving into the crowd, but I stand my ground.

  “I hear you want to make some money off this joint.” I tip my head her way. “Well, guess what, Opal? I’m your girl. I’ll have you swimming in Benjamins by the end of the month or my name isn’t Bowie Binx.” It’s not, but that’s beside the point. “What do you say? Let me spend the night under that microscopic desk in the office? Or in your winter closet. Take your pick.”

  Pick the closet. Pick the closet.

  Her ruby red lips twitch back and forth. “Fine, you can talk to Shep about his outhouse. Tell him it’s a favor to me.” She grunts as she looks to the ceiling. “I’d better see Mud about brewing some comfort pronto.”

  “Comfort?” I look to Tilly. Truthfully, it’s the outhouse I should be questioning.

  “It’s code for something just a touch stronger,” she says, navigating us through the crowd. “Come on, I can’t wait to see the look on Shep’s face when you ask if you can live in his outhouse. And more to the point, I can’t wait until Perry Flint sees me.” She pauses a moment to pull her blouse apart until a few more buttons loosen under the duress of her bosom.

  We bump our way past bodies until we’re standing before Shep, the man in the ten-gallon hat, and a leggy blonde curled up by his side.

  Shep has ditched the suit for the night and traded it for jeans and a white T-shirt, his dark hair is slicked back, his stubble looks thicker, and those Siberian husky blue eyes take a moment to glare over at the two of us. A mob of women seems to be circling him, whispering amongst themselves while they work themselves into a fervor. He is a looker, I’ll give him that.

  “Hey”—Tilly gives a quick wave to the country crooner, clearly swooning in his midst—“I’m Tilly Teasdale.” She lays a heavy emphasis on her last name, and now I’m starting to wonder whether or not we’re both sporting fabricated monikers.

  I lean in. “And I’m Bowie Binx.” I blink a smile to the couple before me. The man of the hour has a rugged appeal with a carefully trimmed goatee and the aforementioned toothy grin. The girl is all curls and hot pink lips. Her body keeps gliding over his as if he were a greased pole she was riding for tips.

  “Perry Flint.” The man shakes both our hands. “And this here is my little lady, Devin O’Malley.”

  She shrugs. “Nice to meet you, girls. I’m just so proud of Perry. His song, ‘Come Back to Me’, just hit number one on the country charts this afternoon.”

  “Wow,” I say. “Congratulations.”

  A dark-haired woman with a bun and black-rimmed glasses steps up. She’s wearing a white buttoned-down blouse, black pencil skirt, and heels, and if we were at a club back home, I would have asked her for a vodka tonic even though I don’t drink. Some things simply drive you there, and being homeless and on the run both qualify me to drink a bottle of vodka straight without stopping. Not that I would. With my preexisting supernatural condition, all sorts of things could and would go wrong with that scenario.

  The brunette in the pencil skirt gives a shy smile to the blonde. “Devin, your brother just walked in.”

  Devin cranes her neck before squealing, “Bud!” She takes off and wraps her whole body around a man with a scraggly beard.

  She sure looks happy to see her brother. The man looks a bit older than me, red hair, heavily etched crow’s feet around his eyes, and I can’t help but note his hands are riding up and down her back. It looks as if he’s happy to see her, too.

  Fun fact: I have never hugged my brother that way. But something tells me if I ever get to see him again I might just come close.

  I make a face before turning back to the woman.

  “You’re on in ten minutes,” she tells Perry as she irons out his plaid shirt with her hands. “Let’s get you backstage.”

  He belts out a hearty chuckle. “Shep, girls, this is my personal assistant, Nicki. She’s been keeping me in line for the last solid year. If it wasn’t for her, I’d still be sleeping in the back of my car.”

  “We’ve got that in common,” I mutter mostly to myself. “Nice to meet you, Nicki. I work here at the manor. I’m the manager of the café.”

  “Oh.” She whips out a business card as thick as a matchbook and hands it to me. “Here’s my number if you guys want to book him again. He’s actually in demand until Christmas, but he always makes exceptions for shows close to home, so we can probably work something out.”

  “Great,” I say, glancing to the card, and her name glints back at me in gold foil: Nicki Magnolia, personal assistant.

  A tall gentleman with a shock of gray hair and a ruby-lipped smile leaps into our small circle.

  “Hey-ho.” He slaps Perry on the chest. “Hope you’re not telling any tall tales about me.” He gives a quick wink our way and his eyes make a pit stop at Tilly’s bosom.

  “Tilly Teasdale,” she says it sultry while swaying her hips.

  “Richard Broadman.” He takes up her hand and kisses the back of it. “I’m the man in charge around here.” He gives her a little wink. “If you’re looking for someone to keep you in line, I’ll be on call all evening.”

  Perry belts out a mournful laugh. “Ignore him. Richard is my manager. He’s overworked.”

  “And underpaid,” Richard adds while smacking Perry in the gut. He winks over at Tilly once again. “I meant what I said.” The three of them take off in haste and a shudder rides through me.

  “Don’t even think about it, Tilly,” I say. “You can’t trust a man who winks twice in a thirty second time span. Not to mention the fact he was far more interested in what sits below your chin than above it.”

  “So what?” Her shoulders give a little bounce. “I like a man who knows how to focus on two of my finer points.” She flashes a tight smile to Shep, and it has me wondering if he’s focused on her finer points, too. “Hey, hey, Shepherd Pie. You’ll never guess who is spending the night in your outhouse.”

  Shep’s T-shirt expands to unnatural widths with his next breath and my stomach squeezes tight.

  He nods my way. “My apologies, Barley. I don’t have an outhouse.”

  “Bowie,” I say with a touch of irritation as I look to Tilly. “Why is that so hard to remember?”

  Tilly shakes her head. “You don’t get it, Shep. Opal wants you to do it as a favor to her before the poor girl tries to sleep in the back of the café.”

  Shep dips his chin a moment, and those lucent blue eyes set on mine before he turns to Tilly. “Take her to your place.”

  “What? No!” Tilly inches back as if he threatened her with roaches. “I’ve got”—she waves her hand—“a bit of a mess on my hands. And company. With any luck, I’ll have Richard Broadman to entertain until the wee hours. No can do. She’s the hot potato and Opal says you’re it.”

  “What about your sofa?” I ask her, because apparently, I no longer have any qualms about inviting myself to spend the night where I’m clearly not wanted.

  And hot potato? Well, hey, at least I’m hot.

  “Sorry.” She tips her head to the side, her bottom lip pursed. “The
sofa’s sort of taken, too. That’s for Jessie’s boyfriends. They like to stay the night.”

  Great. I look back to Shep and the pink and yellow lights are hitting him just right, making him look monstrously handsome. It’s safe to say I couldn’t be trusted in that outhouse of his. I’m pretty sure I’d try to find his bedroom window and climb on in.

  A pair of slender arms land around his chest and a brunette that looks vaguely familiar glides next to him with a cherry red smile budding on her lips.

  “Looks like I haven’t missed the party.” She looks to Tilly. “I heard Opal filled my position with some homeless nutcase. Ten bucks says she robs the place and is gone by morning.”

  This must be Regina. She looks a touch more put together than I remember from this morning, but then, this entire day has been a bit of a blur. I shoot Shep the stink eye before ditching this trio. I’m on the hunt for the restroom, but my feet are twitching to make good on Regina’s quasi-prophetic words.

  I make a right toward the stage, down a narrow hall, and the rise of male voices garners my attention. I peer in that direction and spot Perry Flint having it out with a man a touch shorter than himself, prickly facial hair, and bug eyes that give him that crazy look people tend to stray from.

  “I’m telling you now, you’ve gone too far,” the man says while giving Perry a nice shove to the chest. “I’ll make sure I get what’s mine.”

  Perry nails the guy to the wall and leans in hard. “You better watch your back, boy.”

  A small gray cat slinks past me and lets out a rather quiet meow as if it didn’t want any part of this action. And, believe you me, neither do I.

  The man gives Perry a violent shove off of him. “You better watch your back.”

  He stalks off past me and Perry glances my way before disappearing through a door to the right.