I opened the door, and Axis, Artie, and Socrates scrambled to get inside.
“You’re still not locking your door?” Jonathan asked. “Don’t you worry about yourself at all?”
“Not my possessions,” I said. “If somebody needs my stuff badly enough to come here, break in, and take something . . . Well, they need it more than I do.”
Jonathan shook his head. “Philosophy programs must be very different from the police academy.”
“Are you coming in?” I asked, because he was lingering on the porch.
“No, I’ll wait here while you get the note, the cat food—and the ‘list’ you mentioned.”
“Oh, for crying out loud,” I said. “Are you afraid of me? Do you think I’m going to get a hammer, like Mr. Peachy, and knock you out?”
“I think we’ve established that you’re unpredictable,” he joked. “And it’s getting late.”
“Just come in for a minute,” I urged. “I want to give the dogs a treat. It won’t take long. And I promise I don’t bludgeon people—or bite.”
He stood there for one more second. Then—right before I slammed the door in his handsome face—he agreed. “All right. But I can’t stay long.”
We followed the dogs inside, and I fumbled around for the lamp I’d placed near the door.
But before I could switch it on, Jonathan said, “Daphne . . . you might not bite. But something in here does. And I’d appreciate it if you’d get it off me.”
Chapter 25
“I totally forgot Tinkleston was here,” I said, joining Jonathan in the kitchen, where he waited on a chair at the spindle-legged table. My cottage felt even smaller since his arrival. He had a way of claiming space, and there wasn’t much of that to claim in my house. It didn’t help that three dogs were stretched out in the living room, munching on Boo-Berry Biscuits in front of the fire, and an angry Persian cat was on top of the icebox, sulking and watching Jonathan with evil intent. I set some antiseptic and a clean cloth on the table. “I’m really sorry you got hurt.”
“It’s not that bad.” Jonathan removed the cap from the bottle of alcohol and poured some onto the rag. I winced, but he didn’t so much as blink as he cleaned the scratches and bites Tinks had inflicted, before Jonathan could subdue him. Folding the damp cloth neatly, he placed it on the table. “Where are the cat food and the papers?”
I went to the counter and retrieved all those things, setting them on the table, too. But as I handed everything over, I was suddenly confused. “How did you know the food and the instructions for Tinks’s care even existed?”
“I had a few more questions for your mother today,” Jonathan informed me. “She mentioned the note, explaining that she had believed Lillian was away on a trip, not dead in a bathtub, as she prepared to show the house the night of the murder. And she remembered the contents of the message quite well, because Lillian’s absence ‘vexed’ her, to use her own word.”
I almost agreed that my mother had been very agitated that evening, then thought better of it. Instead, I asked, “Why were you questioning her again?”
“Just part of the investigation,” he said vaguely, while scanning the list of supplements. His response wasn’t cause for alarm, but it wasn’t very reassuring, either. “Your mother also remembered that the message had been tucked under a can of cat food,” he added, turning his attention to the container of Cleopatra’s Choice Cuts. Frowning, he studied the label, like I’d recently done. “And she even recalled the brand. Apparently, Miss Flynt’s messy kitchen was also a source of irritation for her that night.”
I had a bad habit of speaking without thinking, but my mother didn’t seem like she was being very prudent, either. Why would she keep telling a detective that she’d been upset with a murder victim?
“So what compelled you to take these things?” Jonathan asked, slipping the can and the papers into a plastic evidence bag he’d pulled from the back pocket of his jeans. Immediately forgetting his own question, he shook his head as he began to write on the bag with a Sharpie he’d also brought along. “I don’t even know why I’m tagging these, at this point.” Looking up for a moment, he held up the bag for my inspection. “I have to put your name in one of these boxes marked chain of custody. What’s the first question even the most dim-witted defense attorney will ask, if these things are presented in court?”
“Umm . . . ‘Who’s Daphne Templeton?’” I guessed, filling the tea kettle and setting it on the stove.
Jonathan had insisted he couldn’t stay, but I was going to be a good hostess anyway. Although that ship had probably sailed when I let him get attacked by a cat. Regardless, I dropped two teabags—I pegged Jonathan for an Earl Grey type of guy—into my favorite earthenware mugs, then placed those on the table, along with plates bearing big slices of pear-cranberry streusel I’d made that morning.
“I’m not staying,” Jonathan said, pushing aside the tainted evidence and seeming to finally notice that he’d been served. “You didn’t have to . . .”
I ignored him and sat down at the table, too. “You didn’t let me tell you why I took the stuff from Miss Flynt’s. Don’t you want to know?”
Jonathan sat back in the chair again and studied me with his intelligent, sometimes impossible-to-read, blue eyes. “Yes. I am curious.”
“The instructions for Tinkleston’s care ended up with me by accident,” I explained. “I was holding the paper when my mother ordered me to remove Tinks’s litter box from the kitchen, and I crammed the message into my pocket, fully intending to put it back on the counter later. But then Tinkleston darted past me, and I followed him and found Miss Flynt’s body.”
“I suppose I can understand how you got distracted,” Jonathan admitted, to my surprise. In fact, I saw a rare flash of sympathy in his eyes. Then he prompted, “And the other things?”
“I took the food and the list of supplements when I retrieved Tinks from the mansion,” I told him. The kettle finally whistled, and I rose to make the tea. “I thought he needed the food and might need the vitamins. It never occurred to me that two such little things could be evidence.” I poured boiling water into the waiting mugs, then set the kettle back on the stove. “That is, until I read the ingredients in Cleopatra’s Choice Cuts and studied the pet-sitting instructions again. Then I realized nothing added up.”
“How so?” Jonathan asked, sounding somewhat intrigued. He picked up his fork and took a bite of streusel. When he’d swallowed, he explained, “Because I also think something is strange about all three of those objects.”
My heart started beating a little faster, and I sat down across from him again. “Really? What bothers you?”
“The cat food isn’t exactly made from ‘choice cuts,’” he said, with a glance at the can in the plastic bag. “It’s hard for me to believe that a woman who fed her pet a steady, regimented diet of supplements would buy such cheap food.”
“I’m almost certain that Miss Flynt didn’t buy that food,” I told Jonathan. “I was at Whiskered Away Home today—”
Jonathan was about to take another bite, but he paused, fork in midair, and interrupted me. He sounded suspicious. “You went to Bea Baumgartner’s . . . questionable cat shelter? Why?”
“To pick up Tinkleston, who was staying there temporarily,” I said, looking around the kitchen for the Persian in question. Unfortunately, he had disappeared from the top of the icebox. That was worrisome. I returned my attention to Jonathan. “And when I was there, I saw a case of Cleopatra’s Choice Cuts. And Bea admitted that she’d taken the food to Miss Flynt’s to show her how low the shelter had sunk, in hopes of convincing Miss Flynt to make a donation to Whiskered Away.”
I could tell that Jonathan was torn between chastising me for investigating and admitting that I’d uncovered a potential lead. “I’ll talk to Bea again,” he finally said. “Although, if you’d never taken the cat food in the first place, I would’ve made that connection, myself, earlier. I also saw the case of food wh
en I visited Ms. Baumgartner at Whiskered Away Home, but had no reason to even think about it.”
I felt my cheeks flush. “Sorry.” Then I remembered something else that might be important. “Bea also told me that Lillian Flynt was her sister.”
Jonathan didn’t visibly jolt, but I saw his eyes widen, just slightly. “Interesting,” he conceded quietly. “She certainly didn’t mention that to me.”
I knew he’d follow up on that lead, too, and I glanced at the clear evidence bag, which held the instructions for Tinkleston’s care.
. . . feed the cat at least once a day and change the litter when necessary.... If you have any trouble, please call a veterinarian....
“The message is also strange,” I noted. “Don’t you think a woman like Lillian Flynt would give precise instructions for Tinkleston’s care?” I saw another flicker of genuine interest in Jonathan’s eyes, like—in spite of himself—he was enjoying our discussion. “Don’t you think someone who typed up a schedule for her cat’s vitamins would mention that, and leave the containers on the counter, in an orderly row?”
Jonathan nodded. “Yes. And if I’m getting an accurate picture of Lillian Flynt, she would’ve been particular about how often the litter box was changed, too. And she would’ve left contact information for your sister.” He arched an eyebrow. “I’m assuming that Piper is Tinkleston’s vet?”
“Yes.” Looking around the kitchen, I finally located Tinks, who was hiding among the herbs I grew on my windowsill and observing us with narrowed eyes and his omnipresent scowl. He flattened his ears at me. Relieved to have him in my sights again, I returned my attention to Jonathan. “But why would someone leave a note with fake instructions?” I asked. “I don’t get it.”
“Maybe to buy time?” Jonathan surmised. He pushed his empty plate away. “Maybe the person who killed Miss Flynt knew that people would start looking for her. What better way to keep anyone from nosing around upstairs than to leave a note, supposedly from the victim, saying that she was away for a while—and out of touch?”
“Yeah, really.” I’d also finished my streusel, and I pushed my plate aside, too. “Who can’t be reached by cell phone these days?”
As soon as I said that, I realized I was often impossible to contact. Fortunately, Jonathan didn’t mention that. He stood up and took his plate and mug to the sink, then he picked up the evidence bag. “Thanks for the dessert,” he said. “You should forget amateur detecting and open a bakery.”
“Thanks. You’re not the first person to suggest that.” I followed him toward the door. “And you have to admit, I gave you some good leads tonight.”
“Please don’t go looking for more,” he requested, holding up the bag to remind me that I wasn’t always the best amateur sleuth. “You’ve done enough.”
As we passed through the living room, Axis and Artie stood up, shook themselves, and followed Jonathan. Socrates sat up, too. I thought he seemed sorry to see his friends go.
“Please, lock this door behind me,” Jonathan added. He looked past me, toward the kitchen. “And good luck with the cat.”
I turned around to see that Tinks had followed us. He stood just inside the living room, his tail twitching. “We’ll be okay. I think,” I said uncertainly. Then I reluctantly turned my back on Tinks and bent to pick up Artie, who wriggled at my feet. “Will you be taking Artie to the Howl-o-Ween Parade tomorrow night?” I asked, grinning at the little dog, whose eyes bugged out even more than usual, in response to being cuddled. “I’m sure he’d love to march through town in a costume!”
“Really, Daphne?” Jonathan said. He was trying to sound stern, but the corners of his mouth twitched with amusement. “You honestly think I’m going to put a costume on a dog?”
No, I didn’t really expect that.
“I could walk him,” I suggested. “Socrates doesn’t ‘do’ costumes, either. He threw his wizard hat out the window the other night.”
Once again, I’d said something that earned me a funny look from Jonathan. But he told me, “If you really want to walk Artie in the parade, it’s fine with me. He probably would like to be the center of attention.”
“He can stay here tonight, and I can figure out his costume tomorrow,” I offered. “Socrates would love a sleepover. Axis is welcome, too.”
“I’ll take Axe with me.” Jonathan reached down to rumple the Lab’s ears, and Axis lifted his nose to gaze worshipfully up at the man who’d taken him in. Those two had definitely bonded. “But I suppose Artie can stay.”
“That’s great!” I set down the Chihuahua, and I swore he’d understood the discussion. He pranced back to Socrates’s side, and the two dogs nudged each other in an almost conspiratorial way. “I promise I’ll dress Artie tastefully,” I added. “I won’t subject him to anything too demeaning.”
“He usually demeans himself,” Jonathan observed. “I’m not too worried.”
Then he opened the door, and we both noticed something on the porch. An envelope, tucked under a pumpkin I’d bought to carve before handing out treats with Moxie on Halloween night.
“Looks like you’ve got mail,” Jonathan said. He stepped onto the porch, bent to retrieve the note, and handed it to me. “And again, please lock your door when I’m gone.”
“There is no lock,” I finally admitted. “The door dates back about a hundred years.”
“They had locks then. . . .” Jonathan seemed to give up on arguing. He bent his head, rubbed his eyes, then told me, “I will come install a lock, all right? Something sturdy, with a deadbolt, which you should use, all the time.”
I was touched that he was worried about me. But I was also distracted and hardly paying attention to his safety directives. My fingers were fumbling nervously to open the envelope, which was from Larry Fox, Esq., according to the return address.
Letters from attorneys? Not usually good news, for me.
Pulling out a crisp, white piece of heavy-stock paper, I unfolded and read the message, then frowned.
“What’s wrong?” Jonathan asked.
“Maybe nothing,” I said, confused.
Jonathan appeared puzzled, too, by my behavior. “Then why do you have that strange look on your face?”
“Because,” I told him, “I’ve been summoned to attend the reading of Miss Flynt’s will.”
Chapter 26
“Maybe you’re going to be a millionairess, Daph!” Moxie said, trapping some of my mother’s hair between two fingers and neatly snipping off ends that already looked perfectly trimmed, to me. But Mom had burst through the door of Spa and Paw, insisting that she was “not presentable” and had to be “styled” immediately—during my scheduled appointment. After that, Moxie and I were going to shop for a costume for Artie. The Chihuahua and Socrates waited impatiently by the salon’s door. “Maybe you’re getting the whole Flynt fortune,” Moxie added. “Maybe you’re going to be rich!”
“Or, more likely, I’m getting Tinkleston, whom I already have,” I said, worrying for a moment about the cat I’d last seen hissing at Socrates, then running under my bed. “Lillian knew that I care for pets.”
“Daphne is probably right,” Mom agreed. “I’m to be at the reading, too, and I doubt that I’m in line to inherit a million dollars.”
I was sitting in Moxie’s small waiting area, flipping through her unusual selection of reading material, which included three TV Guides from 1953, lots of oversized books with pictures of hairstyles, and a stack of old Sylvan Creek Weekly Gazettes, but I paused to give my mother a quizzical glance. “Why are you invited?”
“Hopefully to learn that the sale of the house can go for ward,” Mom said. “Elyse is very eager to get her hands on the mansion, but we can’t do anything until the estate is settled.”
Moxie cut a big chunk of hair from Mom’s head, then frowned in a way that would’ve alarmed my mother, if she’d been facing the mirror. “That’s not the only thing Elyse Hunter-Black wants to get her hands on,” she noted.
&n
bsp; Mom turned slightly, risking another wayward snip. “What are you talking about?”
I shot my best friend a silencing look. I didn’t want her to spread potentially unfounded rumors about Elyse and Jonathan, because I would probably get blamed for starting them. I’d already nearly lost Jonathan’s friendship once for sticking my nose into his personal business.
Moxie understood my unspoken communication. “It’s nothing,” she told my mom. Then Moxie stepped back and observed her handiwork. “The cut is looking good. And whoever’s doing your Botox does a great job, too. Where do you go?”
I stifled a laugh as Maeve Templeton sputtered and stammered, struggling for a reply. “Why, I never . . . ! Of course, I wouldn’t . . . !”
I hadn’t seen my mother show that much emotion since I’d brought home my fifth-grade science class’s tarantula and promptly lost it in our house.
“Hey, Mom,” I interrupted, thinking that she was going to be really unhappy when she saw what Moxie was doing to her hair. “Getting back to the will and Flynt Mansion . . .”
“Yes?” she asked, calming down now that the conversation had returned to real estate. Still, she reached out from under the black cape Moxie had draped around her shoulders and felt her hair, as if she realized things were going wrong. The corners of her mouth turned slightly downward. “What about those things?”
“Did you ever hear why Miss Flynt was selling the property? Or where she was going to live once the mansion sold?”
“As I told Detective Black, I honestly don’t know,” she said, twisting again in an attempt to check the mirror. Moxie shifted to block her view, then continued snipping. “I’ve no idea what her plans were. We didn’t discuss them.”
“That’s too bad.” I resumed perusing the Gazette. “I guess we’ll never know, now.”
“Unless it all comes out at the reading of the will,” Moxie pointed out. “Those things can get crazy, you know.”
Dial Meow for Murder Page 11
