Dial Meow for Murder

by Bethany Blake

  “It’s okay,” I said with a smile, although I was disappointed that she didn’t know more. “Thanks, anyhow.”

  A shadow crossed her lined face. “Is it important? Did I sponsor some objectionable cause?”

  “No, no,” I assured her. “At least, not that I know of.”

  She didn’t seem completely reassured, but she patted my shoulder with a grandmotherly hand. “If I think of anything, I will tell you.” She smiled at Dylan. “And if you two need anything more, please call for me.”

  “Thanks,” we both said, as she returned to the kitchen. When she was out of earshot, Dylan asked, “What was that all about?”

  “My mother found a jacket at Flynt Mansion, the night Lillian was killed. It was damp—which means someone might’ve worn it when he or she pushed Miss Flynt into the tub—and it had a weird insignia on it. A logo I thought I’d never seen before, until I remembered spotting it on Casita Burrito’s hot chocolate cart, at the parade. Proceeds from the sale of each drink and churro benefited whatever group the symbol represents.”

  “Interesting,” Dylan noted, scooping up a big spoonful of chili. I could smell earthy chipotle and cumin, herbaceous cilantro, and a hint of cinnamon. I almost wished I’d ordered the same thing, although I was also very happy with my gooey, melty mix of sharp Manchego and salty queso fresco, oozing out of rolled up corn tortillas. “I know a little something about iconography,” Dylan added. “Maybe we can decipher the logo?”

  I hadn’t known he was interested in the study of symbolic representation.

  I liked that topic, too. As an undergrad philosophy student, I’d taken an elective class on Eastern European iconography and nearly ditched school to spend a semester in Slovakia, so I could check out the Byzantine churches firsthand.

  Maeve Templeton had put a stop to that.

  “Why don’t you draw the insignia?” he suggested, sliding a napkin across the table. Since neither of us had a pen, he tapped the person sitting right next to us in the cramped room and a moment later handed me a ballpoint, too. “What’s it look like?”

  I wasn’t much of an artist, and I really wanted to dig into my enchiladas, but, setting pen to paper, I did my best to recreate the open book, the flames, and the bird with the pen in its beak.

  When I was done, I slid the napkin to the center of the table, so Dylan could check it out.

  “Not bad,” he said. “I totally see the hermit crab.”

  The sad thing was, I could see it, too, so I pointed out each of the various components I’d tried to execute. When I was done, we both sat back, and I noted that Dylan didn’t compliment me again.

  “That’s, like, the definition of ambiguous,” he observed. “I could see that being used by all kinds of groups.”

  I agreed, but I was interested in what he thought. “How so?”

  “Well, flame is often used as a religious symbol,” he said. “Like with Moses and the burning bush.” He turned the napkin slightly and bent his head, looking more closely at my artwork. “The book could also be a Bible, or just a book that might represent teaching or libraries. Meanwhile, the bird could be a dove of peace, or a phoenix, representing something or somebody soaring upward after a bad crash. Lots of groups, like the Alpha Sigma Pi brothers, at the University of Akron, use the phoenix. I think it’s because they lost their charter once and had to earn it back.”

  I was impressed by his analysis. I was also curious about how the heck he knew about the fraternity I’d run across while doing my Internet search.

  “Did you attend college in Ohio?” I asked, thinking maybe I didn’t know Dylan as well as I believed.

  “Nah. I just crashed at the Alpha Sig house for a couple weeks on my way to California, a few years back.” He crumbled some tortilla chips into his chili. “Nice guys.”

  I did know him. I’d expected an answer like that.

  “What about the pen?” I asked, tapping the napkin. “You didn’t mention that.”

  “That could also have a ton of meanings, don’t you think?” he pointed out. “Although the first thing that comes to mind is writing and writers. I could imagine some sort of writers’ group or book club using the pen as a symbol.”

  “So, basically, you’re saying that the jacket might’ve belonged to someone in a religious organization. Or to a writer. Or to somebody who belongs to an association of teachers or librarians.”

  “Lots of charities help lift people upward, too,” Dylan added. “Pretty much any charitable group could use a rising bird as a symbol. It’s trite, actually.”

  Sitting back, I sighed. If Dylan was right, the windbreaker could’ve belonged to almost any one of the people I suspected of killing Miss Flynt.

  Asa Whitaker was a writer, while Martha was a librarian.

  Pastor Pete was a man of the cloth.

  And Tamara Fox probably got freebie T-shirts and jackets all the time, for her work with “uplifting” charities.

  “Well, that wasn’t very helpful,” I said, crumpling up the napkin. I was getting tired of looking at the hermit crab I’d drawn. I was also grateful that at least the symbol didn’t contain a cat. Bea Baumgartner was probably off the hook, if the jacket really was the killer’s.

  Then Dylan, a thrift store shopper like Moxie, had to burst that bubble.

  “You know, whoever owns the jacket might not even belong to the group,” he noted. “I see windbreakers like that all the time at Goodwill. Eagles, Elks, Moose jackets . . . They always end up at thrift stores.”

  I pictured Bea’s outfit when I’d seen her at Whiskered Away Home. Her holey knit hat had featured a logo for a distant city’s sports team, and her sweatshirt had celebrated a high school she hadn’t attended for forty years. She probably wasn’t picky about the symbols on her windbreakers, either.

  “Yeah, you’re probably right,” I agreed. “The logo might seem like a huge clue, then mean nothing. Maybe Miss Flynt just kept an old windbreaker by the door, for taking out the garbage on rainy days. The ‘blood’ could turn out to be ketchup or something.”

  I said that, but those instincts Jonathan had complimented me on told me that the jacket was important.

  Then I glanced out the window and realized how dark it had grown while I’d been decoding symbols that might be meaningless.

  “Oh, my gosh,” I said, standing up. “I’ve got to go.”

  “But we didn’t get a chance to talk.” Dylan sounded uncharacteristically frustrated. “And you hardly ate anything, Daph.”

  “I’m really sorry,” I said, although part of me felt relieved. Of course, another part was disappointed to leave so much of my dinner behind. I had to get going, though. “I’m pretty sure I’m running late for this thing I have tonight.”

  Dylan was skeptical. “What thing?”

  “I’ve got to practice scaring innocent children,” I said, digging into my pockets and placing some money on the table. “We’ll talk later, okay? I promise.”

  Then I hurried out into one of the darkest nights I could remember, feeling a tiny bit guilty, because I might’ve been able to stay just a few minutes more. However, I wanted to make two quick stops before I “haunted” an orchard.

  And the first place I needed to visit?

  A rumored-to-be-truly-haunted house.

  Chapter 48

  “I’m telling you, I really do think there’s something creepy about Flynt Mansion,” I told Socrates, who was strapped into the front seat of my van. “I felt like I was being watched, the whole time I was getting the painting.” The road to Twisted Branch Orchard was narrow and winding, obscured by fog, and slick with fallen leaves, but I dared to glance at him. “Maybe Piper was correct about someone staying there. Or Moxie’s right, and there really is a ghost lurking around.”

  Socrates again rolled his brown eyes, indicating that he agreed with Piper about the existence of spirits, so I returned my attention to the road, wishing I could go faster. It had taken forever to lug the huge portrait down the
path to Plum Cottage, then drag a reluctant basset hound in the opposite direction, back to the van. It didn’t help that I’d taken time to don my clown costume, including the big shoes—but minus the mask, which I’d never found. I was going to be incredibly late for the hayride rehearsal. But I didn’t feel like I could increase my speed by even a few more miles per hour. The night was moonless, and although both of my temperamental headlights were working that evening, they barely penetrated the mist that swirled across the road.

  Leaning forward, I used my sleeve to wipe away some condensation that was forming inside my windshield, too, just as I spotted the sign for the orchard. Turning the wheel sharply, I steered us onto the last, rutted path through the trees. The VW jolted, and I looked at Socrates, who swayed back and forth on his squat legs, trying to keep his balance. “I wish I hadn’t agreed to this.”

  There was no question that Socrates also thought I’d made a poor decision in the heat of the moment, back at Wolf Hollow Mill.

  Leaning forward over the steering wheel again, and pushing the fluffy, orange wig I’d added to the costume off my forehead, so I could see, I spotted about ten cars parked near the orchard’s rustic cider house. That was reassuring. There was also a fire burning in a barrel that was surrounded by some hay bales. I assumed there’d been a meeting of the costumed ghouls before everyone had disappeared into the acres and acres of apple trees.

  At least, I thought no one was around, until I maneuvered the van into a rutted spot next to an old truck, and a chainsaw-wielding person in a blood-spattered lab coat stepped right in front of my headlights.

  Chapter 49

  “Wow, Tamara,” I said, still pressing my hand against my thumping chest as I tried to help Socrates out of the van. He eyed Tamara Fox warily and hung back, like he didn’t want to get down off his seat. Although I knew he wouldn’t be happy, I finally lifted his entire wrinkled body and set him onto my oversized shoes, by accident. Straightening, I added, “You are one terrifying doctor!”

  “And you are late,” Tamara complained. Now that my headlights were off, I could barely see her, but I could tell that she was looking me up and down with a critical, better adjusted eye. She handed me a flashlight. “And where is your mask? Who told you to add a—not scary at all—wig?”

  “There was a problem with the mask. . . .”

  Tamara shifted the chainsaw in her hands, and I recalled that a small part of me believed she might’ve killed Miss Flynt.

  Silently vowing to visit a costume shop as soon as possible, I hung my head and promised, “I’ll be in a mask tomorrow.”

  “Yes, you will,” she said evenly.

  She was in an extremely foul mood, and I was short on time, but I wasn’t sure when I’d get a chance to talk with her again, and I ventured to ask her one quick question.

  “Before I run to my spot, can you tell me what group Casita Burrito’s hot chocolate cart sponsored at the parade? It was an organization with a weird symbol, with a bird flying out of a burning book. I thought you might know, since you took over for Miss Flynt.”

  Tamara’s eyes looked ready to shoot flames. “There’s no time for this! And Lillian coordinated all the carts and charities this year. It was one of the last things she did, before she died.”

  “But you must’ve distributed the money raised. . . .”

  She hoisted the chainsaw, adjusting it in her hands, and took a step closer to me. “No, I haven’t yet. There’s a lot to sort through, now that Lillian is gone.”

  Tamara Fox’s voice was normally high and feminine. But right then, she sounded like Freddy Krueger.

  “Okay, thanks anyhow,” I said, backing up a few steps. Socrates stepped back, too. “Where do we go . . . ?”

  “Your spot is six rows of trees over, to the west,” she directed me, using the toothy tool to point through what looked like a wall of gnarled apple trees. I could smell fruit that had fallen to the ground and been left to rot. I could also hear the low, muffled rumble of a tractor, moving in the distance. Peering in that direction, through the fog, I saw headlights shining dimly through the trees. “And hustle, so you’re in place when the tractor goes by,” she added. “You’ll find a shed there, where you can hide.”

  “We’ll hurry,” I promised, adjusting my wig again. Switching on the flashlight, I looked down at Socrates, who shook his head in protest. I also wished we could hop back into the van, but I told him, “Come on. Let’s go.”

  He whined softly to express his misgivings, then he stood up and followed me, with his head down and his ears dragging.

  “Make sure you turn off the flashlight when you’re in place, and act scary!” Tamara called after us. “Just like you will tomorrow, when the kids are here—and you wear your mask!”

  I turned to see her standing by the flaming barrel, and my blood ran cold.

  Tamara Fox was intimidating enough when she was just her normal self. Add a few bloodstains and a chainsaw, and she was downright terrifying.

  What had I gotten myself into?

  I couldn’t back out, though, and I assured her, “I’ll do my best. Don’t worry.”

  “I’m serious, Daphne,” Tamara warned me. “When I realized you were late, I had to assign you the very last spot, long after the other characters have jumped out. Most kids will think the ride is over. Your scare is the grand finale.”

  “Great.”

  I wanted to sound enthusiastic, but my response rang weakly in my ears.

  Was I really going to be separated from the other volunteers and stuck waiting alone inside some creepy shed?

  And, seriously, what type of person was so eager to frighten church kids?

  “Let’s go,” I told Socrates again, bending down to tromp through the trees. Even though I stayed hunched over, my wig kept getting caught on the low-hanging branches, so I felt like hands were grabbing at me. The smell of decay intensified, too, when my oversized shoes squished the rotting fruit underfoot.

  With each step we took farther away from the fire and the safety of my van, I felt more uneasy. The trees, illuminated by the shaky, weak beam of the flashlight, seemed to be closing in on us, and the fog was growing thicker. I rubbed the back of my prickling neck, trying to dispel the eerie feeling that we were being followed.

  “There’s no one behind us,” I told Socrates, while silently reminding myself that I’d felt the same sensation at Flynt Mansion. Maybe I was getting paranoid after seeing that young woman at the park twice and once at the reading of the will. However, I hadn’t spotted her since, and I reassured Socrates—and myself—again, “This place is supposed to be spooky!”

  But I could tell he shared the feeling that we were being followed. He kept looking behind himself, the deeper we went into the orchard.

  That bothered me, because he had good senses and wasn’t normally fearful.

  Stopping for a moment, I straightened, trying to decide if we should go forward to the shed, which might offer some protection if something bad really was happening, or turn back, even if that meant facing Tamara’s wrath.

  Then I stiffened in place, and what felt like a ball of ice formed in my stomach.

  “Socrates?” I whispered. “Did you hear that?”

  Chapter 50

  Socrates wasn’t built for running, but on that terrain, his low-slung body and short but powerful legs allowed him to travel faster than I could. The beam from the flashlight moved jerkily as I stumbled forward, so I caught random views of dead leaves and knotty roots and murky, ominous spaces between the trees, but I was able to keep him in sight, just ahead of me, while I struggled to keep up, hampered by my big shoes. My wig got torn off by a branch, and my one sleeve was ripped, too. I didn’t really care. We just had to keep moving.

  Behind us, I could distinctly hear the sound of footsteps snapping small branches and crashing through the fallen leaves.

  “Leave us alone!” I begged, daring one glance over my shoulder. I couldn’t see anything, though, except my wig d
angling spookily in the fog. I spun around again, yelling louder. “Help! Somebody!”

  Nobody answered, though. I couldn’t even hear the tractor anymore.

  “Faster, Socrates!” I urged, finally spotting the shed that Tamara had mentioned. It sounded like the footsteps were drawing closer. “Run to the shed!”

  The gray, tilting outbuilding looked menacing itself, but it was the only refuge around, and I made a final, headlong dash toward the crooked door. Clutching the flashlight, my only potential weapon, I used my free hand to lift a wooden latch, my fingers shaking like crazy.

  Hauling open the door, I let Socrates run inside first, then I followed and slammed the weak barrier behind us, blocking it with my body and dropping the flashlight, which went out as it hit the floor.

  Then I braced myself, fully expecting someone to come crashing against the warped, wooden panels, knocking me forward.

  But the strange thing was, that didn’t happen.

  Suddenly, there was just . . . quiet.

  Standing in the dark, listening to my ragged breathing and Socrates’ shuffling feet, I realized that I couldn’t even say, for sure, when whoever had been behind us had given up the chase.

  I continued to drip cold sweat, and my chest was tight with fear, but gradually my breathing slowed. Sliding quietly down the door, with my back against the splintery planks, I fumbled for the flashlight. Locating it, I flipped the switch.

  To my surprise, the bulb hadn’t broken, and we had feeble light again.