Meow for Murder Mysteries Boxed Set

by Addison Moore

  He shows me a picture of a note with the words, are you going to stay or keep running?

  “Oh my God.” The words stream from me in a panic.

  Shep nods. “I’m sorry, Bowie. It looks as if someone has found you out.”

  “Oh no.” I drop my head between my legs, and Pixie hops off my lap before getting squished like a tin can.

  “Hey”—Shep rubs my back—“I think it’s going to be okay.”

  “Says the one who isn’t staring down the barrel of life in prison.”

  “You’d hardly get life—maybe twenty years, tops.”

  “Well, there’s a consolation,” I riot as I tip backward into the cushion of the sofa. “You do realize there’s no way to comfort someone with the idea of going up the river.”

  “I’m not trying to do that, Bowie.” He gives my shoulder a quick squeeze before attempting to slink away, but I put that catcher's mitt of his right back where it belongs.

  “Oh my word, yes.” I turn my back to him and point to my other shoulder. “Come on, Wexler. I made you lasagna and shook down a suspect for you. It’s been a long day.”

  “Fine.” He moves his body close to mine, and that woodsy cologne of his ensconces me while his strong, capable hands get right to work.

  “Oh yes,” I moan a little too enthusiastically. “Now we’re talking. No slacking. I’ll let you know when you’re done.”

  “A woman who gives orders,” he muses. “I’m not used to that.”

  “Really? Nora looks as if she had a list of demands tattooed to your forehead.”

  A dark laugh bounces from him.

  “Maybe so.”

  “Is that what went wrong?” I turn my head to the right. “You can’t handle strong women?” If he says no, I’m dust. As much as I’d like to fake a demure persona, it would only last as long as my next cup of coffee.

  “Don’t worry, Kitten.” He gives my shoulder a quick tweak. “I can handle strong women.”

  “Then can I ask what happened with Nora?” I know I shouldn’t pry, but a part of me wants to know if he’s still hung up on her.

  “I ended it,” he answers flatly as if reading my mind. “Nora and I were going through the motions. I figured if we let it play out it would have been a disaster. She agreed with me. And that’s all she wrote.”

  “And then you tagged and bagged everything that moved.” I sneak a quick glance his way. “Tilly filled me in on all the dirty deets. I’m not judging you. It was your right.”

  “That’s an awfully crude estimate, but surprisingly accurate. But I’m done with that now.”

  Shoot. No sooner does Sexy Wexy put the goods on lockdown than I wander into town.

  “Good to know.” I glower over at Pixie who’s currently seated on the edge of the sofa watching the two of us as if we were her nightly entertainment.

  “So who do you think left the note? I’m thinking it’s someone you know well. Like your ex, maybe?”

  “Johnny?” I spin around and inadvertently end my spontaneous rubdown from the good detective. “But I turned him in. Isn’t he behind bars by now?”

  Shep shakes his head. “He made bail. But don’t get too worked up over it. The envelope it came in was mint green—and the handwriting? That belongs to a woman.”

  “Let me see it again.”

  Shep pulls out his phone, and I frown. “It’s written in block letters. Any block head could have done that.”

  “Maybe. But look at the A. It’s a bit flowery. And the envelope, only a woman would choose that color. My guess is it’s from a female. Your mother, maybe?”

  “Unlikely. My mother is far too busy herding young men into her bedroom. She might not notice I’m missing until the gifts she gives me for Christmas remain unopened.”

  “Have you got a sister?”

  “My mouth falls open. Aw? You think it’s Stephanie? I mean, we’re not close, but we’re not strangers. And, of course, my brother and I were close once, about ten years ago. But regardless of the bleak family picture I just painted, we always got together for Sunday dinner.” I sag at the thought. “I miss Sunday dinner.”

  Shep leans in with those blue eyes pinned to mine. “If it’s any consolation, I’ll let you cook for me on Sundays.”

  “So it’s a standing date.”

  “Call it what you want.” He rises to his feet, and so do I. “Great dinner. Thank you for that.”

  “Thanks for the massage. I’ll have a hearty meal ready this Sunday for you. Have I mentioned that I barter for body rubs?” I’ll leave which parts to his imagination.

  “It’s a deal I can live with.” He’s halfway out the door before he pauses and examines me one last time. “I’ll do my best to retrace where that letter came from. There wasn’t a return address, but I’ve got my ways.” He takes a full breath while his gaze drills into mine. “Don’t run, Bowie.”

  I nod, afraid to utter anything about my old life with that door wide open.

  “Night.” He nods my way before taking off.

  Shep doesn’t want me to run.

  Everything in me says I should.

  But everything in me knows I won’t.

  Is Shep Wexler the reason I’ve nailed my feet to Starry Falls?

  Is he worth the risk of serving hard time?

  I’m afraid the answer to both is a strong maybe.

  Chapter 7

  “We can’t only serve lasagna,” Regina howls at me in the middle of the Manor Café. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail and her lips are a bright cherry red—a shade I’ve never quite been able to pull off—and don’t for a minute think I’m not envious.

  “We don’t only serve lasagna. It just turns out it’s a really big hit,” I say as I make my way behind the register. It’s the middle of the afternoon and Regina has spent the last few hours testing my authority every which way. I’d like to think her controlling nature is simply a castoff of the fact she used to be the manager, but I’d be sorely wrong. “Look, I know you were the manager up until a few months ago and—”

  “Up until several weeks ago.” Her lips harden as if to enunciate the point. “I’ve been here since the beginning. I thought up the menu.”

  “And”—I move out of striking range—“I’m reworking a few things.”

  Tilly trots over with a large box marked autumn along the side of it.

  “Opal wants the café wearing its fall duds before sundown. Her words, not mine.” She opens the box and pulls out a string of festive fall leaves and quickly begins to line the lip of the counter with them. “Mud has this place peppered with nails, so dressing it up for fall won’t take but a few minutes.” She looks my way. “So who are we off to investigate today?” She leans in hard, her chunky highlights spilling over her shoulders, brittle as hay.

  I glance to the entry in the event a certain thriller writer turned detective happens to wander in.

  “Sophia Hathaway,” I whisper.

  “Sophia?” a deep voice strums from my left and I jump three feet, nearly landing in that box laden with a bushel of faux fall leaves and plastic pumpkins.

  Jackson steps into our midst, dapper per usual, with a full suit, his dark wavy hair slicked back, his features particularly sharp and comely. And striding up behind him is his mother.

  Opal has on a delightful rust-colored lace dress, matching lipstick, copious amounts of black kohl around her eyes, and enough silver jewelry bedazzling her neck and arms to outfit every soul in Starry Falls with an ounce or two.

  “My apologies.” He gives a slight bow. “I wasn’t trying to pry, I just thought I heard Sophia’s name. Are you headed to the fall wine festival out in Sterling Lake?”

  Opal gasps as her mouth falls open. “You don’t say.” She extends that last word out unnaturally. “Well, why not? Certainly you girls could use a day by the lake sipping fine wine and watching the fashion show.” She flicks a wrist our way. “And what a treat it will be to have you there. Nothing bonds women better than win
e.”

  “And men.” Jackson winks my way and both Tilly and Regina sigh.

  “Well then”—I slide the box of fall decorations toward Regina—“I guess I’m headed to the fall wine festival out in Sterling Lake.”

  Regina gives the box a yank. “Come on, Tilly. We can have this place plastered with fake leaves in ten minutes.” She scowls my way. “Don’t even think of taking off without us.”

  No sooner do Jackson and Opal take off than I help decorate Manor Café until it looks as if a fall flurry just blew in.

  And just like that, we blow out of there.

  * * *

  Sterling Lake shimmers as the deep blue water winks in the sun.

  A large banner hangs across the span of two rolling oaks that reads, welcome to the annual fall wine festival and llama fashion show! And in smaller letters just below that it reads, presented by the Hathaway Foundation.

  “Llama fashion show?” I say as Tilly, Regina, and I stand on the rolling green lawn that leads into the event.

  Regina sniffs. “It’s just like Opal to leave out a significant detail like that. So much for setting the bar for my fall fashion standards.”

  Tilly snorts. “Your fashion standards consist of a little black dress that happens to be easier to take off than it is to put on.”

  Regina shakes out her long dark hair. “Everything’s easier to take off when there’s more than one person involved in the effort.” She strides past us. “Excuse me while I find someone suitable to assist me in the matter.”

  I lean toward Tilly. “Should we keep an eye out on her in the event she passes out drunk and some billionaire tries to take advantage of her?”

  Tilly’s eyes spring wide. “They’ve got billionaires here?” She gives a little hop. “I’d better head in there before it’s slim pickings. You don’t know what Regina’s capable of. She collects men the way I collect bottle caps.”

  She stalks off with her shoulders back and that little red dress she’s donned riding up her thighs.

  “Bottle caps?” I mumble just as a glass of wine gets thrust my way, and a thick, expensive, scented cologne engulfs me. “Oh!” I jump back a notch before looking up at the handsome courier. “Jackson,” I say as I take the glass of sanguine liquid that some chivalrous grapes had to give their life for.

  Not that I can imbibe.

  My not-so-sweet supernatural gift likes to have its way with my mind if I just so happen to take a sip.

  “Why thank you.” I bat my lashes at him. Not because I’m trying to butter him up for a naughty good time, but because I’m trying to butter him up to help land me in more fortuitous places. “Please—take me to the mistress of ceremonies. I never attend a party without expressing my gratitude to the host first.”

  “Not only is she beautiful, but she’s polite, too.” He winks as he holds out his arm and I gladly hook it with mine.

  The rolling green lawns at Sterling Lake are artfully lined with trees of every shape and size—maples, beeches, oaks, and ash, most of them with their leaves already turning stunning shades of citrine. The air is crisp, but the sun is still strong enough to warm our shoulders. It’s that strange time between summer and fall where one season blows a kiss to the next as it proudly takes the seasonal helm.

  Throngs of elegantly dressed women in tea-length gowns and odd pillbox hats with netting and feathers strut about with laughter in their mouths and a glass of vino in their hands. The men look a bit more casual. Not many suits, but plenty of chinos and chambray dress shirts. A great white tent is set up by the lake, and beneath it it’s teeming with bodies, as the rich and infamous struggle to refill their glasses with every type of glorified grape juice man has to offer.

  Jackson touches his lips to my temple and a shiver ripples through me.

  “There she is,” he whispers as he points with his wineglass toward the water’s edge.

  Sure enough, the redheaded socialite stuns in a pale pink gown, a daring color choice given the fact she’s swilling a glass of red wine. She’s donned a triangular looking hat with what looks like a Christmas ornament hanging from the top. Her hair glows like fire as it cascades down her back while she regales a trio of women before they disband.

  “Sophia,” Jackson calls out and she lifts her nose our way.

  The redhead chortles our way. “I see you’ve found someone to imbibe with.” She gives me a wink. “Sophia Hathaway. Charmed to meet you.” She holds out her hand and I shake it.

  “Actually, we’ve met—the other night at the masquerade,” I say. “I’m Bowie Binx, the manager at the Manor Café. How are you holding up?”

  Sophia closes her eyes. “As best as can be expected.” She shoots a wry smile to Jackson. “Maddie had a saying—the show must go on. She was supposed to be hosting this event on behalf of my father’s foundation. And I’m sadly taking her place. Of course, I would have been here regardless, but it’s an honor to step into Maddie’s shoes one last time.” She sighs as she looks to Jackson. “This entire event is officially in her honor. I’ve put a picture of her near the llama pen for those who wish to pay their respects.”

  “That’s very…kind of you?” I didn’t mean for it to come out as a question, but I’m not too sure there was any other way.

  She nods as she takes a step in. “The llama fashion show was her baby. It’s strictly hats, you know, thus the Kentucky Derby feel.” She points to the triangle sitting on her head with its shiny red ball bouncing back and forth. “This is a Kaminski with a hand-blown bauble that’s set me back a Bentley or two.” She and Jackson share a monstrous laugh and I’d join in, but I get the feeling she’s not kidding.

  Jackson wraps an arm around my shoulders.

  “Bowie, please pick out a chapeau. It’s on me.” He dots a kiss to the top of my head just as Opal calls to him from a distance. Opal gleams like the punk rock princess she is while standing with a circle of women about her age. I bet those are her friends. I’ll admit, it’s kind of nice seeing Opal in her element for a change.

  Jackson bows my way. “Pardon me, ladies. I’m afraid I’m being summoned.” His lips land close to my ear. “Don’t forget about me while I’m away.” He winks over at Sophia before taking off.

  Sophia scoots in close. “So what do you think of the tawny port?”

  “Tawny port?” I squint over at her. “Is that some fancy way of saying stud muffin?” I point in the direction Jackson took off in. “Because if it is, Jackson Mortimer is one tawny port I don’t mind having by my side.” I belt out a laugh, but Sophia doesn’t join me in the endeavor.

  “The tawny port in your hand.” She grimaces a moment before chuckling. “Although, Mr. Stud Muffin isn’t so bad either.” She flicks her finger my way. “Go on, drink up. It’s rude to nurse a drink in front of the host.” She toasts me with the glass in her hand. “Bottoms up!”

  “Bottoms up,” I say with markedly less enthusiasm. I suppose one glass won’t hurt. And I do want to stay on her good side.

  I quickly guzzle the precious few ounces afforded to me and feel the burn all the way down my esophagus.

  “Fire,” I say a touch too loud as I sputter and cough. “Sorry.” I fan myself a moment. “It’s been a while since my last drink.”

  She gasps. “You’re not on the wagon, are you?”

  “No, I mean, not really.” Although, that would have been a brilliant excuse not to imbibe.

  “Good.” She points to a woman striding our way with a tray full of white wine, and Sophia quickly replaces our glasses with a pair of new ones filled to the brim. “Because this chardonnay is to die for.”

  Great.

  She toasts once again, and it’s second verse same as the first.

  Burn! Gah!

  Let’s just hope the alcohol level is relatively low in these, but in the event it’s not, I’d better pull my proverbial magnifying glass out before I’m too sauced to remember anything.

  “Sophia, have you heard anything about what may have
caused Madeline to pass so unexpectedly?”

  She leans in. “Word going around is”—her lips twist as she shoots a quick glance over her shoulder—“she was poisoned.”

  I take in a quick breath as if the idea caught me off guard.

  “Poisoned?” I wince. “That’s terrible. Who in their right mind would want to poison someone? Let alone at such an elegant function teeming with all of her friends?” I know exactly why the killer would choose an action-packed venue. It’s a tried-and-true tactic preferred by DIY executioners everywhere. The more people, the more suspects, the easier the getaway—not that they couldn’t have stuck around to observe the sheriff’s department theatrics.

  She frowns at the thought and stops a waitress and refreshes our wineglasses once again before proceeding.

  “Believe me, I know exactly who’s responsible.” She holds up her glass, prompting me to do the same, and we quickly knock ’em back like a pair of seasoned sorority girls.

  “Who? Who?” My mouth feels numb as I do my best impersonation of an owl. The ground beneath my feet feels as if it’s pulsating, and I accidentally stagger toward her.

  She giggles, bumping her shoulder to mine, inadvertently steadying me.

  “Okay”—she leans in— “but don’t tell Jackson I mentioned this. He despises a rumormonger. Jackson is a lover, not a fighter. But I’m sure you’ve figured that out by now.” She’s right back to giggling, and this time I join her—even though I don’t seem to have much say in the situation. It feels as if my entire body is malfunctioning one giggle at a time.

  Hey? I think I’m tasted—toasted. Wait? Is it tasted or toasted?

  “Well?” I rock into her and nearly send the glass sailing right out of her grasp. “Who did it?”

  “The butler with a candlestick.” She shrieks with laughter, and I cackle right alongside her. “Okay, seriously.” She pulls herself together far better than I seem to be capable of. “Madeline was doing some work at Biogen.” Her lips turn down a moment. “My boyfriend Parker is the owner.”

  That’s right.

  When I saw Kiera at Goober, she mentioned that Sophia here was having an affair with Madeline’s boyfriend Lucas. And that Madeline was maybe doing the naughty hokey pokey with Sophia’s boyfriend Parker.