Till the Cat Lady Sings (Bought-the-Farm Mystery 4)

by Ellen Riggs

  After a delicious cider cocktail of Jilly’s own creation, we sat down to dinner. Hazel ran her gnarled fingers over the oak surface and pressed her lips together. I knew she was thinking about how her heirloom dining table had been relegated to Portia’s cats. Tonight, I would do my best to distract her from what had happened. She deserved a respite.

  For once, I felt quite comfortable at the head of the table. Generally I was insecure about my hosting skills, especially as we’d really only had two difficult groups. The Binghams, on the other hand, were all that guests should be. The conversation flowed easily as they asked questions about getting the inn up and running, and then shifted to the “olden days” of Clover Grove.

  “Did you grow up here?” I asked Michael.

  He shook his head. “My mother, Aunt Hazel’s sister, left when she married my dad. But Mom and I visited often from Philadelphia and I always enjoyed it. There was a tree house and a creek where I could fish. Or pretend to fish.”

  “You were such a good boy,” Hazel said, with a fond smile. “Your mother and I could sit on the porch and talk while you entertained yourself till sunset. Cordelia and I were close and the town was so different then. So cultured.”

  “Cultured?” I said. “In what way?”

  “There was a literary society and an art appreciation club. Every year the local theater troupe put on spring and fall shows. We had brass and jazz bands and a marvelous choir.” Her eyes glazed with nostalgia. “There was always something going on. A reason to dress up and get out. Now the best we can do is the county fair.”

  “I had no idea,” I said. “Mom never mentioned any of that.”

  Hazel sighed. “As happens with most small towns, I suppose, the most accomplished people moved on to bigger centers. And eventually, the homesteaders started taking us back to the land. Sometimes I think we’ve reverted to pioneering days.”

  I laughed. “Well, maybe we can start a literary society again. Or at least a book club.”

  “Count me in,” Jilly said. “And how about a gastro club? Wine tasting? We could hold events here.”

  “What a splendid way to revitalize the community,” Hazel said. “And bring some business to the inn. You need to spread the word far and wide about this wonderful place.”

  “We’ll post reviews online,” Caroline said. “The food is stupendous and the atmosphere so welcoming.”

  “Thank you,” Jilly and I chimed at once.

  “We’d love to stay here next time we’re in town,” Michael said. “It’s a shame we didn’t know about you sooner, because we’ve booked a rather dubious motel outside of Dorset Hills. It was all we could find on short notice and we want to be here to support Aunt Hazel.”

  Jilly and I exchanged glances and reached silent agreement. “You’re welcome to stay here if you prefer,” Jilly said.

  “Really?” Caroline said, her smile giving away how she felt about the “dubious” motel. “That would be so lovely. But it’s such short notice and we’d hate to put you out.”

  I preferred to have time to gear up for guests, but I knew Hazel was struggling over losing Portia, and now the police were picking over her family home. When her eyes lit up, I knew we’d made the right choice.

  “Not at all,” Jilly said. “I have some new recipes I’m dying to try. You can be my guinea pigs.”

  “Deal,” Michael said. “I know we’re in skilled hands.”

  “Tell me about your old tree house,” I asked Michael, as Jilly rose to clear the plates. “I can’t imagine Hazel built it.”

  The old woman gave a hearty laugh, but her smile fled quickly. “That was my brother Aaron. He was a skilled cabinetmaker and fond of Michael.” She looked at her nephew and added, “In his own way. Aaron was… well, eccentric.”

  “He actually avoided me whenever I visited,” Michael said. “I don’t think he knew how to talk to kids.”

  “He wasn’t much of a talker, period,” Hazel said. “These days they call it social anxiety. He was almost a hermit, although he did get out to visit antique shows and estate sales. He was a collector of strange and wonderful things.”

  “What kind of things?” Jilly asked. “Stamps? Postcards?”

  Hazel shook her head. “Figurines, mostly. He had a vast menagerie of handblown glass animals by an Italian artist from New York. I can’t recall his name.”

  “Bertucci?” Michael asked. “Bartolini?”

  “Batoli,” Hazel said. “That’s it. They were pretty but so fragile. I was always afraid to touch them because they became valuable after the artist died. Aaron was such a nature lover. He was always off wandering in the woods, and I think that’s why these spoke to him.”

  “And the stacking things?” Michael said, grinning. “What did those say to Uncle Aaron?”

  “What kind of stacking things?” I asked.

  “They were like Russian nesting dolls,” Hazel said, “only in the shape of animals. The circus animals were his biggest finds. He’d correspond with people in Europe and have them shipped. He’d sell some and buy more.”

  “What happened to the collection?” Jilly said. “Are they with you at Sunny Acres?”

  Hazel arranged and then rearranged her linen napkin in her brocade lap. Keats seemed to sense he was needed and moved from my side to hers. He was unusually subdued tonight, perhaps because Percy was roaming around like a lost soul and wailing from time to time. I’d thought about shutting the cat in a bedroom but then he’d only wail louder.

  “I’m afraid I had to sell the collection years ago to keep up the manor,” she said. “Some of my investments failed and the place was falling apart. Later, when the market turned, I regretted doing it. Aaron would have been so upset to see his treasures end up in strange hands.”

  “Aunt Hazel, you had no choice,” Michael said. “And honestly, those things were…”

  “Michael.” She stared at him over her glasses. “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”

  He shrugged. “Well, nesting elephants aren’t art in my books.”

  “I thought they were cute,” Caroline said. Her comment surprised me because she’d barely said a word through dinner. In fact, she’d pulled some needlework out of her bag between courses and started stitching and I hadn’t noticed till now. She was probably used to Hazel and Michael getting on a roll, but as host, I should have done more to draw her out.

  Hazel folded the napkin and set it beside her plate. “I wouldn’t want all those eyes watching me from my dresser in Sunny Acres, I must admit. There are plenty of spies as it is.”

  “I’m sure Aaron would have understood,” I said. “He sounded like a good brother.”

  “Oh, he was. I never felt entirely safe at the manor after he left.”

  “Left?” Jilly picked up. “Where did he go?”

  “That’s just it,” Hazel said, her eyes filling. “No one knows. One day he was just… gone.”

  Caroline stuck her needle into the fabric circle and reached across the table to pat Hazel’s hand. “Don’t upset yourself all over. It was more than thirty years ago.”

  “To me it was just yesterday.” She dabbed at her eyes with the napkin. “I was so sure he’d just taken a jaunt around the country. Every day for a decade I opened the mailbox with hope. But he was truly gone.”

  “You don’t think he…” I let the words trail off.

  Michael also reached out to pat his aunt’s arm before picking up the story. “Uncle Aaron’s suitcase and some of his clothes were missing.”

  “And the police never suspected foul play?” I asked, despite a warning glance from Jilly.

  “They investigated and eventually closed the case,” Michael said, wringing his own napkin. “It’s difficult to grieve properly when there are no answers. For years I was angry at Aaron for leaving my mom and Aunt Hazel like that. But I’ve made my peace with it now. I always wondered if he ended up in Europe, surrounded by art.”

  “That’s what I thought, too,” Hazel sa
id. “In my vision, there was a wife.”

  Michael laughed. “Always the romantic, Auntie.”

  “Well, why not? I gave the story my own happy ending after enough time had passed.”

  Jilly skillfully changed the subject after that and kept it out of dangerous channels all through dessert. She was still steering when we saw them out to the driveway, and Michael helped his aunt into the front passenger seat of the car.

  Caroline reached out to hug me but stopped when Keats slipped into her path. He knew I wasn’t big on that sort of thing with people I didn’t know well. In fact, it was a sentiment the dog and I shared.

  Jilly covered for me by hugging Caroline herself, and I had to sidestep the dog just to shake Michael’s hand.

  “He looks after you well,” Michael said, as Percy insinuated himself into the goodbye ritual by weaving between feet and yowling plaintively. “You’re lucky.”

  “So lucky,” I said, smiling. “But it doesn’t take him long to warm up to guests. You’ll see that soon enough. We look forward to welcoming you officially tomorrow.”

  As they drove down the lane, Jilly hugged me, which neither Keats nor I minded at all.

  “We’re back in business, my friend,” she said. “And finally it feels safe, right and good.”

  “It’s about time we caught a break,” I said, laughing as the dog and the cat took off in a huge circle in the damp grass. They clearly felt our luck turning, too.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I was dreaming about handblown glass figurines dancing in green meadows under a rainbow when something woke me. More specifically, two things woke me. One was staring at me with an eerie blue eye in the square of dim light from the window. The other was sitting on my chest with two paws pressing my windpipe with just a slight hint of 10 claws.

  “Percy, are you trying to choke me? And Keats, if he is, why are you just sitting there?”

  The cat backed up a little and kneaded my rib cage, purring. He was well satisfied with his efforts to drag me from pleasant dreams at two a.m. By the looks of things, Keats felt the same way. I’d seen that expression before plenty of times.

  “Nope. Uh-uh,” I told him. “I promised Jilly I wouldn’t take any middle-of-the-night joyrides alone and she needs her beauty sleep to be ready for the guests tomorrow.”

  Keats put his muzzle on the side of the bed and whined.

  “I know it seems vitally important in this moment, but it can wait till daylight. I’m trying to be more sensible, Keats. You should help me, not lead me into temptation.”

  Now he mumbled something that sounded very persuasive. He was making a good case for whatever it was he thought we needed to be doing at two a.m. What I heard in my head was, “Have I ever led you wrong before?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “It depends on your definition of wrong, I guess. You’ve led me to some interesting clues, no doubt about that. But sometimes things get a little hairy, wouldn’t you agree?”

  If the dog had shoulders, they’d shrug. He added a mumble that I took as a taunt.

  “Don’t you mock me just because I’m showing a little self-restraint. I was a very sensible person before you came along.”

  I let my head drop back on the pillow and thought about my life before Keats. My stomach roiled a little, and it wasn’t just from the rich dinner with the Binghams. There were no green meadows and dancing figurines back in Boston. The days of unrelenting drudgery were broken only by moments of sheer misery as I fired people and destroyed their lives. In the evening, I’d drown my sorrows and loneliness in mindless TV. It was a good thing I hadn’t inherited my absentee father’s propensity for booze.

  Keats waited for me to come to the right decision on my own, but patience wasn’t Percy’s strong suit. The cat flexed all 10 claws at once and I sat up abruptly. It felt as if I’d been electrocuted. “Hey, that hurt!”

  I swung my legs over the side of the bed and dumped the cat to the floor as I stood. He landed with a soft thump and an indignant meow.

  “Better than you deserve,” I said, pulling my overalls right over my pajamas and then slipping my arms into a fleece hoodie.

  I followed the pair downstairs, with Keats in the lead and Percy close behind. Their tails were up in apparent celebration of their victory. Grabbing a parka, and slipping my feet into boots, I reached for the keys.

  “Here’s where I draw the line... No golf cart. If you want to go somewhere, we take the safest vehicle. And as much as it pains me to say it, that’s Buttercup.”

  Keats threw me a look of disgust that said, “Wimp.”

  “We call that compromising, buddy. You want to run off on some mission in the night, but I’ve made commitments to people who care about me. Us, actually.”

  He resigned himself and trotted ahead of me to Buttercup and waited. For the first time, I noticed Percy weaving around and through Keats’ paws. The cat rose on his hind legs to try to head butt the dog under his chin, but Keats was having none of that. He backed away with a low mumble verging on a growl.

  “Too much too soon, Percy,” I said. “It’s always better to wait till you’re invited to get that friendly.”

  Keats mumbled something like, “Never going to happen.”

  I drove partway down the lane with the lights out. By now I knew each curve like an old friend so it wasn’t a huge challenge. Once I was well beyond the house, I flicked on the lights and said, “Where to, boys?”

  For some reason, I expected Keats to signal for me to turn right at the highway and head to Edna’s house. Instead he put his paw on my lap and stared left.

  “Into town?” I asked. “Or the Bingham manor?”

  He put his paws on the dashboard to urge me on without answering. Meanwhile, Percy got up behind the rear passenger seat and stared out into the darkness. Watching for tails, I assumed.

  “Fine,” I said. “You’ll let me know when I get there.”

  The dog grumbled as I slowed at the crossroad leading to the old Bingham manor. The message was clear to keep going.

  By the time we entered the town, I had a good idea where we were going, and I didn’t like it one bit.

  “You’re going to get me in trouble,” I said. “You’re like the bad little brother who starts the mischief and the older kid gets stuck with the blame.”

  He glanced at me with his blue eye and blinked. The rumble in his throat was something new that sounded like a chuckle.

  “Here’s the thing,” I said. “Some people think the owner is the lead dog. They expect me to make good decisions for both of us.” I tipped my head to the back. “And now Percy, too. Instead I’m taking dicey advice from two opinionated animals now.”

  I passed Bloomers and turned down a side street to park well out of sight.

  “You rarely steer me wrong, Keats, so I’m going to take a leap of faith here. The jury’s still out on the cat. I can totally see him turning me in if he thinks he can get a better deal.”

  Percy gave an indignant meow as he slid between the seats and left the car first.

  “No offence, Percy. You can’t help it. Cats are known for looking out for number one.”

  He stood on the sidewalk, looking up with eyes that glowed in the darkness. Keats’ blue eye was often visible in low light but it didn’t reflect as eerily as Percy’s.

  “Okay, let’s make this super fast,” I whispered as we hurried toward the salon. “Asher told Jilly the police finished their investigation so at least I’m not disturbing an active crime scene. Bloomers should be cleared to reopen soon.”

  My key worked in the back door, but I congratulated myself on making the safer choice by entering through the front door. I locked it behind me, keeping my gloves on and phone at the ready. The dog and cat didn’t hesitate for a moment, walking swiftly ahead of me to the basement stairs.

  “Oh man, I was afraid of this. You want to check out the basement.” Percy did a figure eight around my boots. “My heart’s going like a jackhammer and you
have time for dance moves?”

  Keats gave a mumble that normally inspired confidence. Not tonight. Not when there had been a body down there so recently. I didn’t want to be next. But I knew well that Keats wouldn’t want me to be next, either. His ears and tail were up and his ruff was down. There was no looming threat.

  “Fine,” I said. “But you’d better come up with something Kellan and his team couldn’t find. Use your noses, whiskers and claws, boys.”

  The animals had tools and talents I never would. Moreover, Keats, at least, had remarkable intuition. He’d probably sensed something the night of the murder and gave Kellan a chance to find it. Now he had to do his officious border collie spot check. He was always the smartest field agent on the case.

  Pulling open the basement door, I flipped on my light and held it against my pant leg. “Overhead lights or not, Keats?”

  He grumbled a no, as I suspected he would. There were two windows down there that would reveal us to passersby. That was unlikely, though. After the three pubs closed at one a.m., Main Street was always dead.

  “Dead. That is not a good word in this situation.” I took the first two steps and then turned to close the door behind me. “But that’s all behind Bloomers now. We just need to inspect for clues, right boys?”

  My voice sounded nervous and high, but maybe it was just the acoustics of the unfinished basement. It was little more than a brick box with a concrete floor. There were stacked boxes of beauty products in one corner, half a dozen folding chairs no one claimed after the party in another, and cases of bottled water in between.

  “Okay, nothing to see here,” I said, carefully sidestepping the spot Portia died. “Satisfied?”

  At first, Keats and Percy stuck together as they did their survey. They sniffed the boxes first, and Percy leapt on top, probably just because he could. Then he jumped off and landed lightly beside the dog as he moved on to the folding chairs. Keats looked up at me and mumbled an order to move them.

  “Yes, sir!” I offered a mock salute and shifted them about a yard along the wall, making a mental note to move them back to the same place so that Kellan would never know I was here.