Dial Meow for Murder

by Bethany Blake

  The only light came from street lamps on the corners, and they did little to dispel the gloom. Most of the houses were dark and empty, too. And the “sanctuary for all,” which I was approaching, was, ironically, the least welcoming place on the block. The side entrance that Tamara had promised was always unlocked was hidden under an arch that cast the door in a deep shadow.

  The entrance looked so unwelcoming that I could hardly believe the door wasn’t locked up tight. Which was why I nearly fell backward when I yanked on the handle, and the glass door swung open.

  The church’s foyer was dark and eerily quiet, and I almost turned around without getting the costume.

  Then I pictured Artie’s eager, bulbous eyes and recalled how he’d been abandoned by no fewer than three families, somehow losing an ear along the way, and I couldn’t bear to disappoint him again.

  Taking a deep breath, I stepped inside—and let that breath out in the form of a short, sharp scream that echoed all the way to the church’s impressive vaulted ceilings.

  Chapter 31

  “Stupid clown outfit!” I grumbled, my fingers still shaking a little as I tried to button myself into a big yellow and red jumpsuit.

  In what I assumed was an effort to be helpful, Tamara had hung the costume on a coatrack just inside the door, so I’d come face to face with the leering rubber mask the moment I stepped inside the church.

  At least, I hoped Tamara had tried to be helpful. I hoped she hadn’t deliberately tried to scare me to death.

  “I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt, Tamara,” I said softly, as I struggled to pull on the oversized red rubber shoes she’d left neatly side by side under the nylon suit. The shoes fit tightly and awkwardly over my favorite cowgirl boots, but I managed to get them onto my feet. Then I picked up the mask, which I’d torn off the costume during a one-sided struggle with what I’d momentarily believed to be a real clown. Tamara had pinned the hideous face to the fabric, along with a sheet of paper. I took a second to study the clown’s expression again. He was smiling, but too broadly, in an evil way, revealing sharp, yellowed teeth. “I really don’t think this is right for a kids’ church event,” I muttered. “And I am not wearing the mask tonight. It’ll scare the dogs!”

  Tucking the rubber face under my arm, I next unpinned the paper from the costume. Squinting, I was able to see that I held a sign out sheet. A sticky note in Tamara’s handwriting told me to sign and date the line next to “Killer Clown,” indicating that I’d taken possession of the suit. There was a spot to initial when I returned the outfit, too.

  I had to admire Tamara’s organizational skills. I probably would’ve just let the volunteers take the costumes home and ended up costing the church money for rentals that were never returned.

  I wanted to help Tamara keep track of things. However, I didn’t have a pen, and I wasn’t sure where I was supposed to leave the sheet once I did sign it.

  Taking another moment to think, I looked around the church and noticed a very faint light glowing at the far end of a hallway that ran behind the sanctuary.

  I suspected that the light came from a computer monitor, maybe belonging to a church secretary or Pastor Pete, and I shuffled down the corridor in my clunky shoes, hoping to find a pen and a desk upon which I could leave the paper.

  And, sure enough, the room was someone’s office.

  Poking my head inside, I flicked a switch on the wall to turn on a brighter light—and immediately saw something that might help me solve, if not a murder, at least a mystery that surrounded Pastor Pete.

  Chapter 32

  “Where have you been?” Piper demanded, when I finally found her at the end of the parade route in Pettigrew Park, where everyone who’d marched, and half of the spectators, as well as all of the vendors were gathered. The parade always became something of an outdoor costume party. But Piper wasn’t having fun. She crossed her arms over her chest, and I saw two small red blotches on her cheeks, a telltale sign that she was angry. “I had to walk in the parade—without a costume. And so did Socrates. It was really embarrassing!”

  If Piper was mad at me, Socrates was furious. He wouldn’t even look at me. He sat with his butt planted on the grass and his face turned resolutely away.

  Only Artie didn’t seem to care that I’d missed the parade. He was running pell-mell through the park, his clown hat missing and his costume in tatters.

  I followed his path through the crowd and saw that Elyse Hunter-Black had taken part in the event with her two greyhounds. Elyse might’ve been new in town, but she was commanding a small audience, which was fitting, because she was dressed as an icy, imperious queen in a silver gown that looked like it came from a boutique on Park Avenue, as opposed to a costume shop. The tiara tucked into her sleek, blond hair didn’t look like plastic, either. And the dogs at her sides were regal princesses in jeweled collars and their own matching crowns. I wasn’t sure how Elyse kept the pretty, lacy circlets on Paris and Milan’s narrow heads, but every crystal was in place.

  Artie darted past my oversized shoe, and I saw that he’d drooled so much that the ruffle under his chin had completely collapsed.

  “Are you going to explain yourself ?” Piper prompted, snapping me back to our conversation. “I would really like to know how I got stuck walking Artie in a pet parade!”

  “I’m really sorry,” I told Piper—and Socrates, who was finally looking at me. He didn’t hold onto anger, and he would accept a logical explanation, if I had one. I wedged the rubber mask further under my arm. “I thought I’d be back from the church in plenty of time. But I found some interesting things in Pastor Kishbaugh’s office, and I had to check everything out.”

  Socrates no longer seemed angry about the parade, but he furrowed his already wrinkled brow, as if he disapproved of my snooping.

  Realizing that I’d probably said too much about my investigative efforts, I gestured to my feet. “And then it took forever to walk back in these big, red, floppy boats.”

  “Why didn’t you just take them off ?” Piper suggested, although she sounded more irate than helpful. “You are wearing shoes underneath them!”

  I looked down at my feet. “You can’t believe how much effort it took to put these things on. I would’ve wasted more time. . . .”

  I sensed that Socrates understood the dilemma I’d faced, but my sister wasn’t even listening. Her attention—and mine—had been drawn to a man who was tapping Piper’s shoulder, indicating that he wanted to speak with her.

  “I don’t mean to interrupt, Piper, but would you like to get some cider?” the man asked, smiling.

  I had no idea who he was, or how he knew my sister’s name, but she seemed very pleased to see him. She smiled brightly, too, so it was almost difficult to believe she’d just been scowling. I exchanged quick, confused glances with Socrates, who obviously didn’t know the guy, either. Then Piper blushed and tucked some of her hair behind her ear in a gesture that could’ve been considered nervous. Or flirtatious.

  I couldn’t ever recall Piper acting coy, and I took a moment to size up the stranger, who was about Piper’s age and kind of good looking, in a conservative way. He had neatly cut brown hair and wore a red fleece jacket, a plaid shirt, and khaki pants.

  “Aren’t you going to introduce . . . ?”

  My request fell on deaf ears. Piper totally ignored me.

  “I’d love something to drink, Roger,” she said, still smiling. “Thanks for offering.”

  I watched them walk away. Then I looked down at Socrates.

  “Who, exactly, is ‘Roger’?” I asked. “And how does Piper know him?”

  Socrates lifted his eyebrows, like he had no idea, so I resumed observing my sister and her friend as they threaded their way toward the cart that sold hot cider. And while I was distracted, I felt a tap on my shoulder, right before someone observed drily, “This costume is even better than ‘boxing witch.’”

  I turned around to see that, in spite of his deadpan
tone, Jonathan Black was laughing at me. And Socrates made a snuffling sound, too. I took his amusement to mean that all was forgiven.

  “This is a costume, right?” Jonathan added, giving my nylon jumpsuit a skeptical once over. Axis, who stood at Jonathan’s side, cocked his head, like he wasn’t sure about my getup, either. Then Jonathan finally succumbed to the urge to grin. “You’re not trying to make some unusual fashion statement, are you?”

  “Very funny,” I said, fighting the urge to kick his shin with my big shoe. “You know I’m dressed for the parade!”

  “And yet, you didn’t march with Artie,” he pointed out, reaching down to scratch Axis behind the ears. He next lifted Artie, who’d bounded over to greet his family. While slightly irritated to be the object of Jonathan’s mirth, I was pleasantly surprised by his show of affection for the little dog. Then Jonathan set Artie down before the excited Chihuahua could cover his face with kisses. Still, they’d come a long way. “You’re the one who was supposed to walk the canine clown, right?” Jonathan asked me. “Not Piper—who, for some reason, carried a perfectly able-bodied animal for a half mile, while the person who insisted that pets need to march in parades didn’t show up at all.”

  Wow, he packed a lot of criticism into a few short sentences.

  I wanted to fire back with some clever retort about his appearance, but, as usual, Jonathan looked just fine in a black down vest, a gray Henley, and jeans.

  Actually, he looked way more than just fine.

  “For your information, I missed the parade because I was at Lighthouse Fellowship Church,” I informed him, earning a low, cautionary whine from Socrates. I ignored the warning and told Jonathan, “I think you’ll want to know what I found in Pastor Pete’s office, too, because I’m pretty sure he really should be in jail.”

  Chapter 33

  “Why in the world were you at Lighthouse Fellowship tonight?” Jonathan asked. He was clearly skeptical about my recent visit to the church, but kindly buying us both Mexican hot chocolates from a cart operated by one of my favorite Sylvan Creek establishments, Casita Burrito. He pulled his wallet from his back pocket while I accepted two paper cups from a young man in a T-shirt that advertised the restaurant. However, a sign on the cart said the sale of each beverage and sugary churro would benefit a local charitable organization, which was identified only by an odd symbol that I didn’t recognize. That seemed like poor advertising to me. “Please tell me you were authorized to be in the building,” Jonathan added, putting away his wallet. “So I don’t have to worry about whether you should be in jail.”

  “First of all, thank you for the drink,” I said, handing him one of the cups as we walked away from the cart, followed by Axis, Artie, and Socrates. The dogs were sticking close to us, probably because Jonathan had also purchased some of the Pumpkin-Peanut-Butter Ghosts I’d baked to support the retired dalmatian fund. “And I don’t deserve jail time. Tamara Fox can attest to the fact that she told me to pick up my clown costume at the church whenever I wanted.”

  Jonathan looked askance at me. “The church rents evil clown outfits?”

  “I’m playing a diabolical killer clown for them in a few days,” I explained. “At their haunted hayride at Twisted Branch Orchard.”

  “Ah, yes.” Jonathan was obviously starting to put the story together. “The hayride that Tamara and Lillian Flynt argued about.” Resting his free hand on my elbow, he guided me toward a bench that overlooked Sylvan Creek. Then he frowned. “And now you’re involved.”

  I drew back and raised my hands, nearly spilling my drink. “Just as a volunteer ghoul,” I assured him. “And only by accident. I don’t even want to do it.”

  Jonathan didn’t seem convinced that my involvement in a controversial event spearheaded by one of Miss Flynt’s foes, who’d been at the mansion the night of her death, was purely innocent.

  He didn’t say anything more, though. We sat down on the bench, so I finally had a chance to sip my dark, rich hot chocolate, which was enhanced by hints of vanilla and nutmeg and finished off with a kick of cayenne pepper. The night was chilly, but I immediately began to feel warm inside. Jonathan sampled his drink, too, then took the dog treats out of his pocket and handed out three to the waiting canines. Socrates, Artie, and Axis quickly settled down to eat their snacks, which were made from pumpkin puree, peanut butter, eggs, and a touch of cinnamon.

  We all got quiet for a while, just enjoying the view of Sylvan Creek, which was illuminated by a huge, nearly full moon. Wispy, spooky clouds swept across the sky, and a rising wind plucked the last of the leaves from trees that arched over the water, which ran black and silent at our feet.

  The peaceful spell cast by the night seemed to have affected even Jonathan. He sounded more curious than accusing when he finally shifted slightly to ask me, “So. Why, exactly, were you in Pete Kishbaugh’s office? And what did you find?”

  “I didn’t really intend to go near his office,” I explained. “I needed a pen to fill out a form before I took my rental costume, so I followed the glow of a computer monitor down a hallway. I was trying to follow Tamara Fox’s instructions when I found the office.”

  Jonathan smiled wryly. “Yes, I know you’re a stickler for paperwork and would never wander off without completing a required form.”

  I could tell that he thought I’d wanted an excuse to nose around. Which, in retrospect, might’ve been partly true.

  “Anyhow, I went into the room, which turned out to be Pastor Pete’s office. And, right there, out in the open”—meaning tucked along with some other documents under a glass paperweight etched with the Ten Commandments—“was his passport.”

  I was getting excited, but Jonathan seemed baffled, and far from certain that I’d found anything worthwhile. “I have no idea where this is going,” he admitted, setting his hot chocolate on the bench and pulling a paper cone from the pocket of his vest. When he opened the top, I recognized the distinctive, delicious smell of cinnamon-and-sugar-roasted nuts. He held out the cone, and I reached in and grabbed about five still warm pecans. “What is so significant about a passport on a desk? Especially since Pete Kishbaugh travels frequently, by his own admission.”

  I tossed the pecans into my mouth and took a second to savor the sweet, salty snack. Then I explained, “The stamps were all wrong. At least three separate times, over the last few years, Pastor Pete wasn’t where he was supposed to be—”

  Jonathan spoke a little sharply. “You looked in the man’s passport ?”

  “I didn’t think it was a big deal,” I said, defending myself. “It’s not like a journal or a diary. It’s a government document, filled with nothing but stamps.”

  “Yet you felt compelled to open it.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I just had this hunch. . . .” I couldn’t exactly explain why I’d been drawn to read the history of Pastor Pete’s travels. Especially not to a logical person like Jonathan Black. “The point is, I found several inconsistencies.”

  Jonathan leaned forward, the better to see my face. “What do you mean by ‘inconsistencies’?”

  “Times when Pastor Pete wasn’t where he should’ve been,” I said. I had Jonathan’s full attention, and I set my nearly empty cup on the bench, too, so I could list the discrepancies on my sugary fingers. “First, the summer before last, when he was supposedly in Guatemala, helping orphans, he was in Italy. Then, last May, when he was ‘building a church in Haiti’”—I air quoted—“he was really in France. And just six weeks ago, when he was supposed to be distributing food to poor people in Sierra Leone, he was living it up in Switzerland. On his parishioners’ dime.”

  My sense of betrayal on behalf of Pastor Pete’s parishioners had grown as I’d outlined the minister’s obvious indiscretions, but Jonathan’s confusion had kept corresponding pace.

  “And you know about these discrepancies because. . . ?”

  “I sit for his golden retriever mix, Blessing,” I said, with a glance at our very patient dogs, who lay
quietly in a row, watching the creek. Even Artie was relatively still, presumably caught up in the hypnotic spell cast by the black, slow-moving water. I returned my attention to Jonathan. “And when he goes away, Pastor Pete always makes a point of letting me know, in his ‘humble’ way, about the good works he’s doing in the world’s poorest places. He also mentions how grateful he is for his ‘flock’s’ generous support, which pays for his travel.”

  All at once, I felt personally betrayed. I’d given Pastor Kishbaugh a discount on my already low fee, as my way of contributing to his charitable acts.

  He’d cheated me, too.

  “You’re sure about this?” Jonathan asked, watching my face carefully, even as he popped a few pecans into his mouth. I reached into the cone again, too. “You’re absolutely positive that you have your dates right? Because—no offense—but you are not the most organized person.”

  That was true, but I knew what I was talking about, this time.

  “I know for certain that he was supposed to be in Haiti in May,” I said. “I tested a new Cinco de Mayo treat recipe on Blessing, and he spit up the Cheese Enchi-paw-da all over Pastor Pete’s rug. I had to use most of my already discounted fee to rent a carpet cleaner.” I hung and shook my head, growing even more disappointed with a certain swindling minister. “He should’ve told me, at some point, that Blessing was lactose intolerant.”

  I looked up to see that Jonathan had a grave expression on his face. “These are serious allegations, Daphne.”

  “There’s more.”

  Jonathan’s eyes kept searching mine, like he was trying to figure out if I was a brilliant ally, or a crazy pain in the butt. Then he said, “Go ahead.”

  “Pastor Kishbaugh has one of those big blotter-style desk calendars,” I said. “The kind that cover the whole top of the desk.”