Five Mews for Murder (Pet Shop Cozy Mysteries Book 5)

by Susie Gayle

  She smiles wide. “Oh really?”

  “Mm-hmm. Super-secret. Very special.”

  “Okay,” she says slowly, scanning my face for any hint or clue. “You don’t want my help planning anything?”

  “Nope. All under control.”

  “Huh. Alright, then.” She sits back, seemingly satisfied, and then asks, “Is it a pony?”

  “What? No.”

  “Rats. Okay. Is it… a trip?”

  A trip. Now that’s not a bad idea. But can I pull that off inside a week? “Maybe,” I say with a shrug.

  “Maybe a trip someplace warm?” she goads, biting her lip. Early April in coastal Maine is technically spring, but still somehow not.

  I shrug again. “You’ll just have to wait and see—”

  I’m interrupted by what sounds like a mini-siren going off, and it takes me a moment to realize it’s coming from my pocket. I pull out my cell phone and frown.

  “I’ve never heard your phone make that noise before,” she comments.

  “Yeah,” I mutter, “that’s because it never has. I have to go.”

  She blinks in surprise. “Duty calls?”

  “Yeah… are you going to be okay?”

  “Sure,” she says. “I can call Karen for a ride if need be. No biggie.”

  “Thanks. Hopefully I won’t be long.” I give her a kiss and hurry out of the Runside.

  From his place at the bar, Sammy does too.

  CHAPTER 3

  * * *

  Almost four years ago, I went through a pretty rough divorce. The divorce itself wasn’t the rough part; it was more that the woman I loved, and that I thought loved me, left me for another man. When I was at my lowest, Sammy swooped in, picked me up, brushed me off… and forced me to join the Seaview Rock volunteer fire department as an auxiliary member.

  In hindsight, it was really good for me. It got me out of the house, taught me some cool emergency medical techniques, and coerced me back into the world and among people. The trade-off, of course, is that sometimes I have to, you know, do things.

  As a reserve member, I’ve only ever been called in once before, and that was when a boat crashed onto a jetty in the middle of a freak blizzard and most of the town’s emergency personnel couldn’t get out there. Sammy and I could, and we saved a man’s life that day.

  Recently, Seaview Rock mandated that all of its personnel, reserve or not, install an alert app on their phones that would screech at them whenever there was a call—which was the siren that emitted in the Runside. It gives the address and the severity of the incident so we can be on the scene in minutes.

  As I hurry out to the parking lot to get to my SUV, I see Sammy doing the same, running toward his truck nearby. We both pause and glance at each other, and then I motion towards my car with a jerk of my head. He jogs over and gets in the passenger seat.

  “It’s easier if we just go together.”

  “Agreed,” he says simply.

  “What’s the address?”

  He starts to read it off his phone, but then frowns. “It’s… Dalton Manor.”

  “Jeez. Okay.” I practically peel out of the parking lot and drive parallel to the shore, really wishing that they’d give us reserve members those little flashing light domes to stick on the top of our cars.

  Despite the situation, the tension between us in the cab of my car is palpable. Neither of us speaks, and we both obviously know why.

  Finally, when I can barely stand it anymore, I clear my throat and say, “It must be pretty bad if they’re calling us in.”

  “Must be.”

  More awkward silence.

  “How have you been?”

  “The usual,” he answers. “You?”

  “So-so. I, uh, have a snake.”

  “You hate snakes.”

  “You know me. I like to keep things interesting.”

  Sammy grins. “Yeah.”

  The rest of the ride goes by in nearly excruciating silence.

  Dalton Manor is a huge Victorian house, practically a mansion, which sits atop a small bluff overlooking the ocean about a quarter-mile beyond the Goose Point lighthouse. Once upon a time, the Dalton family owned and operated one of the three fish hatcheries that turned Seaview Rock from a little colony into an established town. Unfortunately, the last of their direct descendants died out more than fifty years ago, and these days the place is owned by somebody distantly related to the original Dalton family. Probably through marriage. I’m not really sure.

  What I do know is that Dalton Manor has been declared a historic site, and these days it operates mostly as a museum dedicated to the history of Seaview Rock, the fish hatcheries, and the other local attractions. It’s a pretty good tourist draw in the warmer months; the rear-facing balconies offer some of the most spectacular views of the Atlantic on the whole coast of Maine, and the kitchen and dining room serves tea and finger foods every afternoon.

  So if our emergency alert is to be believed, and the place is on fire, that’s bad news all around.

  The first thing we see as we round the long, winding drive that leads up to Dalton Manor is the flashing red and blue emergency lights of a police cruiser parked long-ways across the asphalt, blocking our approach about fifty yards from the building. We both jump out and jog the rest of the way.

  Two fire trucks are parked outside the manor, one halfway into the lawn, as a crew of six firefighters work to quell the blaze. Smoke plumes from broken windows and, beyond the spray of the powerful fire hoses, orange flames flicker and dance as they consume furniture and century-old wood.

  Our chief of police, Patty Mayhew, stands a safe distance away with her arms folded across her chest, watching the firefighters work. A stocky, pragmatic woman whom I’ve known for a long time, I can honestly say that I feel safer at night knowing someone like her is watching out for our town.

  “We came as quick as we could,” I tell her by way of greeting, practically panting after even the short jog. I really should start running again.

  “Thanks, guys,” she says, not taking her eyes off the burning house, “but I may have been a little premature in calling you in. Looks like they have a handle on things.”

  “Oh. Okay,” I say dumbly, swallowing the urge to add, can we at least stay and watch?

  “It seems like the fire was limited to just the west wing of the manor,” she continues.

  “Was anyone inside?” Sammy asks.

  She shakes her head. “The museum was closed for the day, and all entrances were locked when we got here. The place is rigged with a pretty fancy alarm system; as soon as the smoke detectors went off, it alerted the fire department.”

  “Well, we can at least be thankful no one was hurt,” I venture.

  “Yeah, but the township is still going to have a field day with this one,” she says. “They’ll be at least partially responsible, financially, since this will fall under restoration of a historic site. And if I know Birnbaum, he’ll chase down every penny he can get.”

  “Birnbaum?” I repeat quizzically.

  “Ezekiel Birnbaum,” Sammy mutters. “The guy who owns Dalton Manor.”

  “Ah.” I’ve never met him, but I’ve heard the name Ezekiel murmured here and there, usually not under very favorable circumstances.

  “He’s also on the town council,” Patty adds, “so you can bet he’ll use that to his advantage.”

  I shoot Sammy a sidelong glance, mostly just because a mention of the council is bound to crank up the tension between us, but he avoids my gaze.

  And even though I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting this Mr. Birnbaum, the suggestive screech of halting tires behind us in the long driveway of Dalton Manor tells me I’m about to.

  CHAPTER 4

  * * *

  “What in the blazes is going on here?!” Ezekiel Birnbaum shouts, his hands outstretched at his sides and a scowl on his face, as if Patty herself had set the fire.

  “
Ouch. Bad choice of words,” I mutter. Beside me, Sammy snorts, holding in a laugh. Despite everything, I miss having him around.

  Birnbaum is not in the slightest bit what I would have imagined him to look like. He’s tall, with salt-and-pepper hair and inexplicably, a deep tan. I peg him to be either around his mid-fifties, or just young-looking for his age. (Am I the only one who hears a name like Ezekiel and thinks of a wrinkled old man sitting in a rocking chair with a shotgun across his lap? No? Just me?)

  And at the moment, he’s extremely irritated. I expect smoke to plume out of his ears at anytime, to match his burning manor house.

  “Mr. Birnbaum,” Patty tries to placate him, “please try to stay calm. We’ve managed to constrain the fire to just the west wing—”

  “Just the west wing? Just the west wing?! That’s the art gallery! All those paintings… Are they okay?”

  “I don’t know. We have to wait until the fire is out before we can assess any damage, structural or otherwise—”

  “Structural? Oh, lord.” The man looks like he’s about to have a heart attack, so I step in to try to help.

  “Mr. Birnbaum,” I suggest, “perhaps you should sit down somewhere—”

  “Who are you?” he demands, as if just now noticing me and Sammy. “The peanut gallery? Spectators, come to watch my manor burn?”

  Patty steps between us, pointing her finger and says sternly, “These are reserve members of our fire department. They have every right to be here. Now step back a moment, and let us handle this. I don’t ask twice.”

  Birnbaum’s lip twitches, and I can tell some choice words are running through his head, but he does so—takes one step back, and that’s it, muttering all the while.

  “You can bet the town’s covering this,” he grumbles. “If anything is lost in there, so help me, I’ll sue the culprit so thoroughly their grandkids will be paying for it…”

  Patty rolls her eyes, facing away from him so he doesn’t notice. “Nine times out of ten, something like this is electrical. Chances are high there was no ‘culprit.’”

  “Electrical? Are you suggesting the manor wasn’t up to code? Because I assure you, everything within those walls is as legitimate as—”

  “Mr. Birnbaum,” Patty interrupts forcefully. “Please. I don’t know any more than you do right now.”

  The man continues to grumble behind us. Inside the manor, thick smoke continues to roll from the windows, but the flames appear to be stifled. The smell of wood smoke fills the air, a scent that I normally appreciate, and I can’t help but wonder if the next time I smell it if it’ll hearken back to burning buildings instead of late summer campfires.

  A firefighter in a heavy yellow jacket jogs toward us. She pulls off her helmet and respirator, leaving clean lines on her otherwise soot-covered face, and I can see it’s Allison Morris, the deputy fire chief. Halfway to them, she waves Patty over, and they have a brief conversation in hushed tones.

  “What are they saying?” Birnbaum hisses over my shoulder. “What are they talking about?”

  “I don’t know,” I tell him, a little annoyed. “I’m standing in the same place as you. I can’t hear them either.”

  He frowns at me in a way that reminds me of my mother finding a bug in the house, and I decide I don’t care for this Ezekiel Birnbaum and his pompous attitude.

  Patty takes off her hat and pinches the bridge of her nose. Whatever it is, it’s bad news. Then she nods, and starts back toward us somberly.

  “Oh, no,” Sammy practically whispers.

  “What? What’s ‘oh no’? What’s it mean?” Birnbaum is practically apoplectic behind me.

  Tired as I am at having this guy hiss in my ear, I have to admit I’m equally lost.

  “I think it means someone was inside,” Sammy tells him quietly.

  Even through his deep tan, Birnbaum’s face goes ashen. “No. That’s impossible.” He shakes his head as if the firefighters must be mistaken. “We were closed. Everyone had gone home for the day. There was no one there.”

  Patty reaches us and says, “I’m sorry, but I have to make some calls. You should probably just head home.” Though she directs her gaze at Birnbaum, I can’t help but feel like she’s telling all of us. She moves past the three of us and heads towards her cruiser.

  Birnbaum, apparently not content with that, follows her, and we follow him.

  “Was there someone inside?” he insists.

  “Yes,” Patty answers without turning.

  “Who was it?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say.”

  “I bet whoever it was started the fire.”

  “We can’t make any assumptions until there’s a proper investigation,” Patty declares.

  “Are they… dead?”

  Suddenly she spins, her face a hard scowl. Though Patty is all of five-foot-five, she’s quite imposing when she’s angry. I’ve got more than a half a foot on her, and she’s made me feel very small at least once or twice in the past.

  “Mr. Birnbaum. As I said before, you should go home.” She punctuates each word sharply as if it’s its own sentence.

  “This is my property,” he shoots back, swelling a little. “You can’t kick me off.”

  “Actually, this is now a crime scene—so yes, I can kick you off. Or I can have you removed. Your choice. Now I have to call the ME and the county fire investigator. So shoo.” She waves her hand in his face, and then turns again and strides to her cruiser.

  Birnbaum, I assume, is not the kind of man who’s used to being spoken to that way. He just stands for a long moment, a shocked expression on his face.

  “Did she just… shoo me?”

  “Sure did,” I tell him. “All of us, I think.”

  “Why... I can’t… I never…” For a moment, the guy is at a total loss for words. “I’ll… I’ll have her badge for that!”

  Sammy puts a hand on Birnbaum’s shoulder, like a reassuring old friend. He sighs. “No, you won’t. Come on, Will.”

  With nothing more we can do there—well, nothing we actually did anyway—the two of us head back to my SUV. Though if I’m being honest, I have to admit that I’m just as curious as Birnbaum to find out who they found in the fire.

  CHAPTER 5

  * * *

  “I don’t like you,” I remind Petunia the next morning when I open the Pet Shop Stop. It’s been my routine every morning for the past week or so to unlock the door, let Rowdy and Basket in first, hang up my jacket, put on my apron, and then remind the snake that its very presence offends me.

  I figure if I can’t physically remove it from the shop, maybe I can wear down her self-esteem to the point that she’ll stop looking at me with those beady little eyes like I’m lunch.

  The night before, after leaving Dalton Manor, Sammy and I headed back to the Runside, where the conversation was dominated by what a first-class jerk Ezekiel Birnbaum is. I was glad to not have an awkward gaping silence between us, but even our light banter at Ezekiel’s expense was tense with the understanding that we were both avoiding a very sore subject.

  I really hope it’s not that way forever between us. When I discovered—or partially discovered, I should say—the blackmail scheme, I told Sammy that the best thing to do would be for him to end it. And now, every day, I hope that he’ll come to me and simply say, “It’s done,” and we can go back to the way things were. But until that happens, I’m not sure our friendship will ever be the same.

  And even if it does, I’m still not sure our friendship will ever be the same.

  I go about my morning duties of feeding the animals, making sure they have fresh water, letting the pups for sale run around the shop for a bit and stretch their legs, all the while occasionally checking up on Petunia to make sure she’s still firmly and securely in her cage. Every now and then she curls up in the sand beneath the thick gnarled tree branch in her habitat and I lose sight of her, and then I panic for a solid ten or fifteen seconds
before I spot the relief of her scales against the grain of the wood.

  I think she does it on purpose.

  Sarah comes in around eleven a.m., having done a brief morning volunteer shift at the local animal shelter. Instead of a hello or a hug, she slaps a newspaper down on the counter next to the snake’s cage, effectively scaring the crap out of me.

  “Good morning,” I say loudly. “Was that necessary?”

  “Mario Estes,” she announces.

  For a moment, I have no idea what she means. “Is that ‘good morning’ in some language I’m not familiar with?”

  “No, Will. It’s the name of the man who died in the fire last night. Look.” She unfolds the paper and hands it to me—which she could have done in the first place, instead of slapping it down dramatically.

  After returning to the Runside last night, I told Sarah all about what had happened at Dalton Manor. We’d both decided that neither of us had much of an appetite anymore and headed home, but it seems that Sarah, watchdog that she is, wasn’t done thinking about it.

  I scan the article quickly, but nothing of note really stands out to me. “Mario Estes, local developer and Seaview Rock resident… blah, blah, blah… police are not yet releasing details regarding his death…” I look up at her. “Okay. So the guy has a name. What’s the big deal?”

  She blinks at me a few times. “Mario Estes? That doesn’t ring a bell?”

  I shake my head, no.

  “Estes?” she repeats.

  “Oh. Oh!” It clicks. Some time ago—jeez, nearly a year now—a local real estate agent named Sharon Estes murdered the CEO of a pet store chain that was trying to open a store in Seaview Rock. I don’t mean to sound cavalier about it, but I did kind of solve the murder and get her to confess. (She also almost threw me off a cliff-side balcony, but that’s beside the point.) “Is he—was he—related to Sharon?”

  “Her brother.” She shakes her head. “Such a shame. He seemed like a really nice man.”