The Unfur–tunate Valentine’s Scam
A Beatrice Young Cozy Cat Mystery (#6)
Alannah Rogers
Copyright © 2016 Alannah Rogers
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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1
The tabby tomcat yowling outside the Cozy Cat Café’s glass door was the first sign to owner Beatrice Young that she was going to have a bad day.
The sixty–two–year–old wasn’t in the best of moods anyway. Valentine’s Day was on the horizon and while Beatrice was typically a mega–fan of holidays, especially Halloween and Christmas, the official day of love didn’t do much for her.
Sure, she enjoyed the opportunity to pamper herself with fancy chocolates, a bubble bath, and a really nice bottle of wine—the wine especially. It was the overpriced flowers, the endless teddy bears in the drugstores clutching stuffed hearts, and the overall pressure to have a partner that made her grumpy. She loved her friends and her family in memory, but this romantic love business seemed just a shade silly to her.
In short, Valentine’s Day brought out the grinch in Beatrice Young.
Divorced in her twenties and without a serious relationship since that time, Beatrice wasn’t much of a fan of romantic love. She had her business in Ashbrook, New Hampshire; her three cats Hamish, Lucky, and Petunia; her snug converted barn house; and her best friend (and ex–husband) Matthew … well, that was a problem unto itself since she started having feelings for him again.
Beatrice forced herself to focus on the problem right at her door: the big, burly tomcat. He was muscular and oversized like Hamish but didn’t have the Maine Coon’s long coat.
Instead, he had very dense, short, and bristly fur that emphasized he wasn’t half fluff but a street fighter with the muscle on him to back it up. He had big yellow–green eyes rimmed in black, creamy fur around his whiskers and eyes, and a brown coat with distinctive black tabby markings.
He sat right at the café’s front door, yowling his head off at the thing that a tom would focus on: her precious, precocious, utterly lovely Himalayan Petunia. Of course, Petunia was completely oblivious to the effect she was having on her paramour. She sat in a slab of sunshine in front of the door, licking her paw, and washing her tawny head with it.
Slightly rotund, with ice–blue eyes, rounded ears, and chocolate–brown fur on her paws and ears giving way to creamy fur elsewhere, she was the ultimate pedigree feline. She smacked her lips blithely with her pink tongue and looked around the café with hooded eyes as if she wasn’t the center of attention.
What really concerned Beatrice, though, was Hamish. He stood straight in the tomcat’s line of sight, puffed up as big as a fluffy Maine Coon could. It made him look more blowfish than cat. His sharp white teeth were bared, his whiskers fully extended, his ears folded back, and he was hissing in between deep belly growls.
Normally, Beatrice found his attacks of rage slightly humorous. He was very territorial and any cat that strolled within eyesight of the café or her house was treated to this over–the–top reaction. But when it came to Petunia, Beatrice got worried.
Hamish had been attached to her ever since she’d strolled into their life just before Halloween, but the Himalayan hadn’t returned his affection. Sure, the two cats curled up together in the sun and washed each other, but otherwise Petunia seemed indifferent to Hamish’s presence. Strange as it seemed, Beatrice didn’t want his heart to be broken.
She strode up to the door with a broom and swung it in a threatening fashion at the tomcat.
“Shoo!” she yelled. “Why don’t you take your catcalling elsewhere? This lady’s already taken.”
The tomcat stopped his caterwauling and stared up at her with big, defiant eyes that told her he wasn’t going anywhere. So Beatrice opened the door and waved her arms at him as if trying to scare off a bear.
“Off with you! You think I’m not serious? Scram!”
The cat blinked at her contemptuously and sauntered off as if to say: I’m done here, anyway. But I’ll be back.
Beatrice sighed and shut the door against the still–frosty air. It had been a bitter winter and there were no signs of it letting up. That said, in addition to the frequent dumps of snow and freezing temperatures, there’d also been lots of sunshine. Despite her busy schedule at the café, she’d made plenty of time to enjoy the season by snowshoeing at the nearby White Mountain National Forest, skating at the local rink, and hosting board game nights at her house.
Thankfully no one had been murdered/extorted/robbed or anything else in the weeks following New Year’s Eve—meaning that Beatrice had no use for her amateur sleuthing skills. No matter. She was happy to have more time to enjoy the pleasures of a New Hampshire winter.
“Beatrice?”
She felt a hand on her shoulder and jumped about a foot before realizing it was only her pastry chef Zoe Murphy.
“Geez you’ve been jumpy lately,” she said, looking into Beatrice’s eyes.
Zoe was wearing her chef’s whites and her dark hair was firmly tied into a hair net. She was kind of mousy looking: pale, short, with an expression that tended towards sullen. But she was one of the people closest to Beatrice’s heart. In truth, the 23 year old was the closest thing she had to a daughter.
“I know,” Beatrice, said, rubbing her eyes. “Can’t tell you why.”
“Oh I can tell you. Ever since Christmas, when you and Matthew had that awkward moment, you’ve been acting like a cat who fell into a full bath tub and is desperately trying to crawl up the side.”
Beatrice looked around to make sure no one was listening. “There was no moment,” she hissed, steering her gossipy friend towards her office. She closed the door safely behind them and put her hands on Zoe’s shoulders.
“I just had this idea that maybe Matthew likes me in that way,” she said. “And maybe I could like him again in that way. And then my brain nearly exploded and I had to drink a lot of wine.”
“Sixty two years old and you still talk about love like you’re a sixth grader on the playground,” Zoe said, falling into a wingback chair. She pulled off her hairnet and her lank dark hair spilled out. “A sixth grader with too much access to wine. Listen Bee, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: you need to talk to him.”
Beatrice sat down at her desk and miserably swiveled back and forth in her chair, studying her moccasin slippers.
“And what am I going to say? It was just a moment of weakness. It was Christmas, I was feeling sentimental, and I let down my guard. You and I both know I don’t want to go back down that road. I’ve worked too hard to build this life for myself: my privacy, my comfort, my routine, my financial stability…”
“Boooorrrring,” Zoe was saying, fanning her mouth and pretending to yawn. “I’m falling asleep…” Then she saw Beatrice’s hurt expression, jumped up, and wrapped her arms around her friend.
“I’m sorry. I know this has been bothering you. But it’
s not good for you to just stop talking to Matthew. He keeps sending messages asking me why you’re suddenly so busy. And whenever you do see him, you’re stiff as a board.”
Scratching noises came from the other side of the door. The cats hated being barred from entering any room, especially one their owner was in. Beatrice got up and wedged the door open. Lucky came flying out in a burst of black fur and frantic paws. He stood on the carpet in front of her desk, green eyes bright, pink nose pointed upwards. Beatrice went over and scooped him up into her arms like a baby. He lay there passively, the pads of his pink feet askew in the air, his eyes blinking sleepily.
“I don’t know, this whole ‘ignoring the problem’ thing seems to be working out okay so far,” Beatrice said, jiggling Lucky gently.
Zoe rolled her eyes. “Rolling out stiff pastry is easier than talking to you,” she said and swept back into the kitchen.
Beatrice decided the best medicine for her grumpiness was to immerse herself into work. The January to March season was usually the sleepiest season for the café but, thanks to new cross–country skiing trails at the White Mountain National Forest, there had been a big uptick in customers.
Working alone in her office always calmed Beatrice. It felt like a sanctuary with its tall windows and pastel–green rugs, expansive white desk, and snug sleigh bed piled with cushions and blankets where she liked to catch forty winks on occasion.
No time to sleep at that moment. Beatrice sat at her desk and brought up her email. Orders for Valentine’s Day cupcakes. A Valentine’s Day e–card from her friend Hannah Moore. A draft of their Valentine’s Day newsletter that she needed to review and send out. Beatrice leaned way back in her chair. This seemed like the perfect day to pull out Candy Crush and work on that extra–hard level she hadn’t been able to beat.
But as soon as Beatrice pulled up her game on her phone, a message flashed on the top. From Abigail Freedman no less—her sworn nemesis who owned the Purple Lilac Café. Not only did she suspect Abigail of stealing many of her recipes, but they were longstanding rivals at the Ashbrook Fall Fair’s baking competition. Nor did their personalities click: Abigail was serious while Beatrice had a screwball sense of humor.
Still, Beatrice didn’t take the message as a bad sign. That Abigail was texting her at all was curious, and Beatrice liked anything out of the ordinary. She opened the message:
Listen, I didn’t want to send you this but I need your services. I want to hire a private investigator and you’re the only one I know of. I know I can also count on you to be discrete and if I can’t, I’ll pay for your discretion, not to mention your time. This is a very personal matter requiring your assistance immediately. Text me your schedule.
Now Beatrice knew what a private investigator was because she’d been binge watching Netflix’s TV show Jessica Jones over the past few days. Many times had she fantasized about having an office with a door that said: “Beatrice Young & Cats. Private Investigators.”
It was one thing to be an amateur sleuth helping out her friend Sheriff Jacob Roy on the side. But what if she turned it into a full–time business? She could handle cases all over New Hampshire, all over the country. She could be on Oprah. She could have her own TV show…
Beatrice shook her head. Focus, Bee, focus. She texted back: Drinks after work?
Sinking back into her chair, Beatrice reflected on this surprising message. What could Abigail possibly need her for? Was there some sort of fraud going on at her café? Did she want help adopting a cat? Was she trying to find a long–lost sister?
Whatever it is, she reflected, this is just the thing to distract me from all this Valentine’s Day nonsense.
There was a sharp rap at her door. Zoe poked her head in. “Matthew’s here to see you,” she said with a wide grin.
Beatrice sat up ramrod straight. “Curses,” she muttered. “Tell him I’m not in.”
“He already saw your car outside. Stop playing games and come out here.”
Beatrice anxiously straightened her blue cardigan and fluffed her long gray and white hair. She grabbed a vial of perfume out of her desk and misted herself before realizing that it wasn’t actually perfume but air freshener left over from Christmas—with a very strong apple–cinnamon scent.
Wheezing and coughing, she stumbled out of the office. Matthew stood by the counter holding his brown leather gloves in his hands. Light from the floor–to–ceiling windows at the front of the room backlit him. He was wearing his ranger uniform with a parka overtop. His longish silver–white hair was mussed as if he’d just pulled off a hat. He smiled wide, revealing his million–dollar smile. While once it had brightened her day, now it made her stomach twist into knots.
Then his smile disappeared. “Heck Bee, you smell like an apple pie got into a fight with a cinnamon stick.”
She waved her hand in dismissal. “Christmas nostalgia got the better of me.”
Matthew leaned in for his customary hug and cheek kiss but in her fluster, Beatrice leaned in the wrong way and they ended up knocking their noses together. Matthew reeled away clutching his nose.
“Bee! What’s up with you lately? It’s like you’re on another planet or something.”
“Sorry sorry,” she chirped, moving towards him.
He fended her off. “I’m fine, I’m fine. I just thought I’d take a break, get a coffee and say hi. Try out one of the Valentine’s treats you keep posting on Facebook.”
Beatrice rubbed her temples. “Sure. And believe me, it’s on the house.”
Because Valentine’s Day wasn’t really her thing, Beatrice had left all the specialty baking planning to Zoe, though she still had to do the promotion and approve the sweets on offer.
“Marbled red velvet cheesecake brownie?” she asked pointing at the display case. “That’s Zoe’s creation. She even cut them into heart shapes. They’re selling like hot cakes.”
Matthew eyed the brownies sceptically. “Bee, is this—your weird behavior, you're not replying to texts—is this about Valentine’ Day? I know you don’t really like the holiday but has something happened to make you hate it more than ever?”
“I don’t hate Valentine’s Day,” Beatrice said emphatically. “Hate is a strong word…”
Just then she saw a young couple canoodling at a corner table. The man had his arms around his girlfriend and was kissing her like the world was going to end in five minutes. Beatrice immediately felt her face settle into a heavy scowl.
Matthew stepped between her and the couple, his expression dripping with concern. “So it is Valentine’s Day that has you all tied up in knots,” he said. “Why don’t you just tell me what’s going on? Usually you don’t hold out on me like this.”
But you’re the reason I’m all tied up in knots, Beatrice thought desperately. How am I supposed to tell you that?
“It’s not that. It’s, uh, women’s troubles. Strictly female stuff.”
Matthew burst out laughing. “C’mon, I know everything there is to know about your hot flashes, night sweats…”
Beatrice felt herself go hot all over. “Okay, okay, the whole café doesn’t need to know about my menopause. Which by the way, was over years ago.” She sighed. “I really need to stop oversharing so much.”
“Okay what then, you’re pregnant?”
She looked daggers at him. “Why don’t you take your brownie and coffee to go, huh? I have a very important Valentine’s Day newsletter to edit.”
Matthew sighed and pursed his lips. “Okay Bee, but I worry about you. Stop hiding stuff from me.”
Beatrice promised she was okay and then went to hide in her office. She locked the door, even keeping the cats out, got on her daybed, pulled an afghan over her head, and played Candy Crush for an hour straight without pause.
2
The front door of the Purple Lilac Café clearly stated “No Pets Allowed” but Beatrice strode in with her three cats anyway. She wasn’t having the kind of day where she felt like following the rules,
especially those of her competitor: café owner Abigail Freedman.
While the Cozy Cat Café was shabby chic, this place leaned more towards chic than shabby. The space was long and narrow with exposed brick on one side and antique mirrors scattered all over the facing wall. An enormous lilac mural graced the wall behind the cash. It was all tasteful, if a little stiff for Beatrice’s taste.
The cats wound their way through the rickety tables, sniffing about and looking more than a little miffed as if they knew they were not wanted there. Beatrice sidled up to the glass display case at the back. Sure, she was there to talk about Abigail’s situation but it couldn’t hurt if she did a little scouting of the competition on the side.
Covertly taking out her phone, Beatrice snapped a few quick pics of the goodies inside the case. There were a few treats that bore no resemblance to her own: red velvet cream cheese thumbprints, a cherry bread with pink icing, and cupcakes topped in chocolate–dipped strawberries.
But there were also red velvet brownies. Not marbled. But cut in the shape of hearts. Just like Zoe’s.
“Curses!” Beatrice swore under her breath, snapping photos of the copycat sweets. “I’ll charge Abigail her weight in dollar bills for this!”
“What was that?” came a reedy voice from beside her.
Beatrice peered up to see a painfully thin woman looking at her sternly through heavy black plastic–framed glasses. She wore a black sweater set with a pearl necklace and her iron–gray hair was pulled back into a tight bun.
Beatrice straightened and glared at her. “Wouldn’t you say these brownies look suspiciously like something I have?”
Abigail shrugged. “Beatrice, I’ve never pretended to fight fair. You’re my main competition and I have a deadline to retire in Panama within the next five years. You know, when I think about whether I’d prefer to be nice to you or eat seafood night and day in a lounge chair by my private pool, there really isn’t much of a contest.”
“At least you’re honest about your deception.” Beatrice tucked her phone away in her bag. “Though since you asked for my help I’d rather you butter me up.”
The Unfur-tunate Valentine's Scam (Beatrice Young Cozy Cat Mysteries Book 6) Page 1
