Dial Meow for Murder

by Bethany Blake

  Moxie, meanwhile, couldn’t get inside the house fast enough. “Can we please get going?” she requested.

  I turned to see her warily scanning the sky, her hand over her head. She wore a white wool coat with wide lapels that were pulled up around a black turtleneck. Her hair, now an even lighter shade of platinum blond, was drawn back into a sleek helmet. I recognized Kim Novak’s character, Madeleine Elster, from the classic Hitchcock film, Vertigo.

  “What’s the rush?” I asked.

  Moxie kept her eyes trained upward. “Ever since the Fur-ever Friends fund-raiser, with all the creepy crows, I’ve really started to dislike birds. They’re the turtles of the sky!”

  “You might want to stop channeling Hitchcock’s muses soon,” Piper observed. She must’ve watched Vertigo, too, at some point. And she’d seen Moxie’s Tippi Hedren getup at the gala. “You can carry these things too far, you know.”

  “You might be right,” Moxie admitted, nevertheless wrapping her coat more tightly around herself and hurrying to the covered porch.

  Socrates and I joined her, followed by Piper, who lagged behind. She was skeptical about the adventure, although I’d assured her that, as a bona fide heiress to at least a tiny part of the Flynt estate, I had every right to check out my property, now that the house was no longer surrounded by crime scene tape.

  “How are we going to get inside?” Piper asked, glancing around, as if we might get arrested at any moment. “Do you have a key?”

  “No, but the lock is faulty and easy to spring,” I informed her. To prove my point, I rattled the knob, then turned it and swung open the tall, wooden door. “See?”

  Moxie ducked into the foyer, followed by Socrates, while Piper grabbed my arm, holding me back. “I don’t know about this, Daphne. Did you actually hear Larry Fox authorize you to do this?”

  Had I implied that I had official permission?

  Because that would’ve been a slight exaggeration.

  I was just about to tell Piper that if she was really concerned, she should follow her conscience and wait on the porch—when Moxie called to us, her voice practically quivering with excitement: “Please, please tell me you inherited the Tuttweiler !”

  Chapter 40

  “The what-weiler?” I asked, joining Moxie and Socrates in the mansion’s parlor. Piper had succumbed to curiosity and reluctantly come inside, too. Moxie stood in front of the painting of the woman in the red dress, appraising it with one gloved hand resting under her chin. She looked very elegant as Kim Novak, and if I hadn’t agreed with Piper that my best friend might be carrying her “homage” phase too far, I would’ve suggested she keep the look. “What is a Tuttweiler?”

  “Only a painting by one of the best portrait artists of the 1950s!” Moxie informed me. She really knew that decade inside out. I sometimes wondered if she’d been reincarnated and maintained some knowledge from a past life. “His work is very sought after!”

  “Really?” Piper asked. She cocked her head, just like Socrates was doing. I recalled that he’d studied the painting before, in a similar way, no doubt recognizing its quality, if not its pedigree. He was more discriminating than I was when it came to art. “It just looks like a regular old portrait to me.”

  “Oh, no,” Moxie objected, stepping closer to the painting and pointing to the woman’s severe eyes. “See how he used impasto to make her look so angry?” Moxie shook her head and sighed, in a bemused way. “Classic Tuttweiler!”

  “He used pasta?” I asked. “Like a kid in preschool, making macaroni art?”

  Moxie, Piper, and I went back a long way, and we normally had what I considered to be set roles in our relationship. Piper was the sensible, smart one; I was the carefree adventurer; and Moxie was the lovable ditz. But when it came to art—and the 1950s—Moxie was the expert. Now that those two things were intersecting, she sounded like a genius to me.

  “Impasto is a painting technique,” she said. “It’s all about using thick paint to create texture and mood. Davis Tuttweiler had a unique way of incorporating impasto into portraits. That’s how he got her to look so pretty, but mean.”

  “How do you know all this, Moxie?” Piper asked. She was also clearly thrown off, to be supplanted, even temporarily, by a new “smart one.” “Where did you learn about art?”

  Moxie beamed proudly. “I took oil painting lessons at Perfect Palette before I worked on Daphne’s van. I learned all kinds of techniques, and ate some really good tapas, too.”

  If only the people who ran the little art store on Market Street, where tourists and locals could take workshops accompanied by gourmet fare and wine, had taught Moxie to paint a realistic dog.

  At least she’d learned something, though.

  “Are you sure it’s a Tuttweiler?” I asked her.

  She pointed at the bottom of the portrait. “Well, even if I didn’t recognize his style, his signature is right there.”

  “Oh, yeah.” I had definitely assumed the “ditz” role.

  I hoped this version of Freaky Friday wouldn’t last too long.

  “Do you have any idea what it’s worth?” Piper asked Moxie.

  She shook her head. “No clue. Who can put a monetary value on art?”

  “Umm . . . lots of people,” Piper reminded her. “They’re called art dealers.”

  Okay, things were getting back to normal.

  “I wonder who she is,” I mused aloud, studying the woman’s face. The longer I looked at her, the more I judged her to be striking, as opposed to classically beautiful. Her jaw was a little wide, her dark eyebrows were a bit thick, and her eyes were . . . familiar, somehow.

  Piper apparently agreed. “You know, there’s something about her,” she observed quietly. “I feel like I recognize her, but I can’t say why, exactly.”

  “I don’t know who she is,” Moxie said, rubbing her arms like she’d suddenly gotten cold. She looked around the room. “But I bet she’s the ghost who haunts this place.”

  My pragmatic, logical sister snapped out of her reverie. She moved toward the staircase. “That’s just an old story. There’s no such thing as ghosts.”

  “Where are you going?” I asked.

  “I really need to use the bathroom, if you must know,” Piper said. “There must be two upstairs, right?”

  “Probably,” I said. I knew that she didn’t want to disturb the room where Lillian had died, not because she was afraid, but because, in spite of the lack of crime scene tape, the police might still be investigating. “Although, I didn’t open every door.”

  Piper wasn’t listening. She was halfway up the stairs.

  When she was out of earshot, Moxie said, “I don’t care what Piper says. I can feel the spirit of the woman in the painting in this room, right now. And she’s still angry about something.”

  I was open to the possibility of energy that lived on after we died, and I trusted Moxie’s paranormal instincts.

  Sensible Socrates disagreed. He finally dragged his attention away from the portrait so he could roll his eyes at us.

  “I wonder what made her so mad,” I mused aloud, ignoring Socrates and meeting the woman in red’s gaze. It felt like she was staring right back at me. Davis Tuttweiler really must’ve been a master of his technique. “It’s like a mystery within a mystery.” I faced Moxie again. “I almost feel like her story is linked to Miss Flynt’s murder.”

  “Maybe we should hold a séance,” Moxie suggested, growing excited, even as Socrates whined softly. He clearly thought that potential activity would be pure folly. Moxie ignored him, too, adding, “We could try to talk to both of them!”

  “First of all, you two are not breaking in here again,” Piper said. I hadn’t even heard her rejoin us. “And, second, this place isn’t haunted by ghosts. A living, breathing human being is staying here!”

  Chapter 41

  I had tons of questions churning around in my brain, which felt like the choppy waters of Lake Wallapawakee, and I moved restlessly around
Plum Cottage after dropping off Piper and Moxie.

  I couldn’t even concentrate on the Scrumptious Salmon Dinner I was making for Tinkleston, who’d found a comfortable spot among the herbs on the kitchen windowsill. Crouched down behind the rosemary and thyme, he looked like a miniature wildcat, spying on me from the jungle.

  “Did Lillian ever talk to you?” I asked him, while I mixed up canned salmon, mashed broccoli and carrots, some whole wheat bread crumbs, and a few pinches of brewer’s yeast, for an extra nutritional boost. “Did she tell you any of her secrets?”

  Tinkleston yawned, which was better than hissing. But that response didn’t answer my queries.

  Absently stirring the bowl of food, I stared out the window, hardly even noticing the red, gold, and orange leaves falling from the trees.

  What does Lillian want me to do with the painting?

  Who’s the strange woman who seems to be following me?

  Why was the shower wet, when Piper used the spare bathroom at Miss Flynt’s?

  What’s the insignia on the jacket mean?

  Why is a decade missing from Asa Whitaker’s history?

  Will Moxie ever be able to go outside again, without worrying about birds ?

  WHO THE HECK KILLED LILLIAN FLYNT ?

  The questions kept swirling around in my mind, randomly, and I finally realized that I needed to take some kind of action to solve at least a few of those puzzles.

  Leaving the salmon on the floor for Tinks and filling Socrates’ special bowl with his homemade dog food, too, in case he woke up from his postadventure nap while I was gone, I pulled on my boots and my denim jacket. Then I stepped out into the chilly afternoon, headed for the one place that might be able to provide me with some answers.

  If I didn’t get arrested the moment I walked in the door.

  Chapter 42

  The Sylvan Creek Public Library was located in a refurbished 1850s Italianate house on the edge of Pettigrew Park. The elegant yellow building—surrounded on all sides by a wide porch and topped with a square, four-windowed cupola—always reminded me of a wedding cake. When I was a child, I used to love exploring the many sun-drenched rooms, all filled with tall shelves overflowing with books, like a maze within a maze. Sometimes I’d hide from my mother, forcing her to search all three floors for me before I’d allow myself to be dragged home.

  I had given up that game long ago, but I still hoped no one would find me as I sat behind a computer monitor in the library’s only dark room, which was set aside for the few of us Sylvan Creek residents who didn’t have Internet access, maybe related to problems with a cell phone or a move into a cottage that had no Wi-Fi.

  Not surprisingly, I was alone, but I worked quickly in hopes of avoiding a certain librarian, whom I’d sneaked past once already on the way in. Fingers flying, I did a search for biographies of artists, which led to a site called americanartists. com. Moments later, I found a page dedicated to Davis Tuttweiler, and I scanned the text.

  American painter . . . 1927–2010 . . . Much sought after portrait artist in the 1950s and 1960s . . . mercurial personality . . . distinctive brushwork . . . impasto . . . Many works considered missing . . . likely forgotten in attics, their value unknown . . . one surviving daughter, Fidelia, from a late in life fifth marriage, quickly annulled . . . works valued from two hundred thousand to three hundred thousand dollars . . .

  I reread that last part, once I got my eyes popped back into my head.

  Was “my” painting worth that much?

  Was that really possible?

  I didn’t think so, and I refused to get excited until I had the portrait evaluated. For all I knew, someone else had painted Woman in Red Three and scrawled Tuttweiler on the bottom. Moxie wasn’t really an expert on art. Although impasto had turned out to be a real thing.

  I also didn’t know if I was supposed to sell the painting. And if I did, I wouldn’t keep the money. I seriously doubted that Lillian’s intent was to make me rich.

  “Moving on,” I said softly, clicking off that page and returning to the search engine. Typing rapidly again, I tried different combinations of the keywords bird, flames, pen, book, and insignia. But nothing came up. At least, nothing relevant. I did learn that the Alpha Sigma Pi fraternity at the University of Akron, Ohio, had a phoenix on their crest, but the bird looked nothing like the one on the jacket Mom had found at Flynt Mansion.

  “Interesting, if uninformative,” I said, sitting back and moving to shut down the browser for the day.

  Then I glanced at the clock on the bottom of the screen and decided I had a few more minutes to spare, not to mention curiosity to burn.

  I probably could’ve done some more investigating related to the murder while I had Internet access, but on impulse, I returned to the search engine one more time and did some research on another topic that would probably meet with Jonathan Black’s disapproval.

  Fingers hesitating just one extra second above the keyboard, I typed in Elyse Hunter-Black.

  Chapter 43

  It was late afternoon by the time I logged off as a guest user on the library’s computer, and I hurried through the stacks toward the exit, hoping that Martha Whitaker was on a break, or better yet, gone for the day.

  I was also taking stock of everything I’d learned about Elyse Hunter-Black, who was all over the Internet. I’d seen pictures of her air-kissing her sorority sisters at a Harvard homecoming, more traditionally kissing Jonathan at a fancy party at her parents’ house in the Hamptons, and even receiving one of those Daytime Emmy awards that nobody hears about, but which is still an Emmy.

  Even Elyse’s home was successful. Her sleek, modern Manhattan loft had been featured in the August 2015 edition of Fine Living magazine.

  All at once, I stopped short, recalling how Elyse had pressed for the inclusion of the Tuttweiler painting in the sale of Flynt Mansion, even though all of the artwork in her apartment was abstract and angular.

  I could hear Elyse’s rationale, and it didn’t ring true.

  “I believe it just belongs with the property. . . .”

  I resumed creeping through the shelves, whispering under my breath, “‘Belongs,’ my foot. I bet she knows the painting’s value.”

  Then I stopped talking, because I’d reached the building’s grand foyer, which now served as the library’s lobby.

  Bending slightly, I peeked around a column, trying to see the counter where Martha Whitaker usually stood, checking out books and collecting fines.

  Fortunately, she wasn’t at her post, and I quickly tiptoed across the gleaming parquet floor, wishing I’d worn different shoes. Maybe my moccasins.

  However, even with my boots on, it seemed that I was going to escape.

  I reached for the knob to open one of two massive, arched doors—the last things standing between me and freedom—only to hear Martha calling, way too loudly for a library, “Daphne Templeton! Stop right there!”

  Chapter 44

  “You should know that the computers are for patrons in good standing, Daphne,” Martha informed me. Scowling, she lowered the reading glasses she kept on a chain around her neck. Her expression was at odds with her black shirt, which featured a cute, green alien holding a book and the slogan, Take Me to Your Reader! “You are not to use the Internet if you have outstanding fines!”

  “How did you know I was using a computer?” I asked. I didn’t like the idea of her spying on me. “Were you watching me ?”

  “Yes,” she said, sounding smugly proud of herself. Then she pointed to a monitor on a desk behind the counter. The image on the screen changed every second or so to reveal a different part of the library. “Of course, we have security cameras everywhere. People are always trying to sneak in beverages.”

  Jeez, I’d almost done that, too. I liked to stay hydrated while I conducted research.

  “I’m sorry, Martha, but my fines are at least a decade old,” I reminded her. “At least! I don’t think I’ve had an overdue book since I wa
s a teenager!”

  And I hardly ever went to the library anymore. I got all my reading material from the Philosopher’s Tome, where Tom Flinchbaugh allowed me to borrow anything I wanted, without ever levying a fine if I kept something too long.

  He might not have had a degree in library science, but Tom had the true heart of a librarian. Martha Whitaker was more like a parody, always shushing people and nagging about fines, like she was doing right then.

  “We maintain records for thirty years,” she advised me, pulling a keyboard closer to herself and tapping rapidly on the keys. She stared at her computer screen, but continued lecturing me. “Funding for public libraries is limited and growing more scarce, thanks to government cutbacks. We can’t afford to let scofflaws abuse the library and its holdings.”

  I was pretty sure I’d just been insulted. “Hey, I was just a kid . . .”

  Martha wasn’t listening. She continued typing and shook her head, talking more to herself than me. “Now that Lillian is gone, I intend to pursue every last dime. She refused to be aggressive. Said the library should be a welcoming place. Well, a shuttered, empty, bankrupt building isn’t very welcoming!” Still shaking her head, she began to mutter, clearly forgetting that I was even there. “We’ve already lost the archives, thanks to Lillian and her policies and her will. The whole research wing will close next month. Not that Lillian cared!”

  Martha had drifted into her own world, and I held my breath, hoping she’d keep typing and oversharing.

  But she suddenly caught herself, and all the color drained from her face as her head jerked up and she met my gaze again. For once, she didn’t seem to know what to say. “I . . . I . . .”

  I took advantage of her uncertainty. “Why did you mention Miss Flynt’s will?” I asked, hoping she was unnerved enough to actually answer me.

  But she averted her eyes. “No reason.”

  “Did Lillian promise you the painting?” I pressed. “For the library? Because I heard you gasp when Larry Fox announced that I was getting the Tuttweiler.”