Dial Meow for Murder

by Bethany Blake

  I was afraid for my life, but I couldn’t help wondering again, Who was this new reporter who actually covered news in Sylvan Creek?

  Then I forced myself to focus on the conversation, to keep Larry talking and buy more time. “You were afraid that, if Pastor Pete got arrested, he’d take you down with him, right?”

  “Yes.” Larry nodded, solemnly. “I had to shut him up. The sooner the better.”

  Just like he’d silence me—and maybe Socrates—soon.

  I suddenly felt a different prickle of fear in my stomach. Over a memory. “You chased me at the orchard, didn’t you?”

  “I thought your dog saw me trying to sneak off after killing Kishbaugh,” he said, with a glance at Socrates. “I followed you, thinking I had to stop the thing from tattling.” Larry smiled wryly. “Then, when we were all running—risking making a scene that would attract some of Tamara’s other ghouls—I remembered that I was chasing down a stupid dog ! A beast that couldn’t talk! I turned back and left you to deal with the body.”

  I dared to look down at Socrates. The ridge of fur along his back stood straight up with anger in response to the insult. But he wisely remained quiet. I felt sure that he was trying to figure out how to leverage the fact that Larry underestimated him. And I was fairly confident that he’d find a way.

  I returned my attention to Larry. “What’s the deal with the jacket?” I noted. “Why’d you leave it behind after killing Miss Flynt? And what does the symbol mean?”

  Larry finally seemed less than proud of himself, because he’d made a mistake. “I had to ditch it. By the time I was done convincing Kishbaugh to keep his mouth shut, all you animal lovers were starting to show up on the lawn. I couldn’t leave in a wet, bloodstained jacket. I finished the note, making it look like Lillian had gone away for a while, then ditched the jacket—fast—and slipped out the back door. If your mother hadn’t ‘tidied up,’ nobody would’ve found that thing until long after the crime had been forgotten.”

  “You changed the will, didn’t you?” I asked. “Lillian never deeded the house back to the historical society, did she?”

  “No,” Larry admitted. “When she died, the house was still to be sold privately by your mother. But I thought it would be best if the mansion went to Asa, who thinks he knows all of the town’s secrets, but who would never really dig into this particular tale. He wanted the house too much to ask questions.”

  Socrates moved to stand in front of me, like he realized that time was running short. Larry would make a move soon. He’d taken another step farther into the bedroom.

  “What does the symbol on the jacket mean?” I asked again. I could hear the hint of desperation in my voice, and Larry found my fear amusing, too. “What do the flames, the bird, and the book represent?”

  “I am a member of the Munificent Order of the Phoenix,” he explained, grinning. “A very secret benevolent society.” The smile died on his lips, and the laughter in his eyes faded, replaced by malice. “Although, some of us are less benevolent than others.”

  Both Socrates and I took one more step backward, but there was nowhere to go, and I flinched as Larry grabbed my arm.

  Chapter 62

  “Where are you taking me?” I demanded, struggling as Larry dragged me out of the bedroom and down the dark corridor. I wished he’d never acquired that barrel chest or his biceps. I also didn’t understand why Socrates wasn’t helping more. He trotted along with us, but he wasn’t attacking Larry’s ankles, or even growling. I had to assume that he had a plan, but I hoped he’d put it into action soon. In the meantime, I continued to fight against Larry’s formidable grip. “Let me go!”

  “I’ll let you go—down the stairs,” Larry informed me, huffing slightly with exertion. I dug in my heels but, as usual, I’d worn my oversized cowboy boots, and one of them flew right off. “I might not have managed to make Lillian’s death look like an accident,” he added, “but no one will question how a klutz fell down a flight of old stairs in the dark!”

  Was my clumsiness becoming the stuff of local legend?

  “Socrates, do something!” I begged, because we’d reached the staircase. I was out of time. I glanced down at the basset hound, who’d never failed me, and urged, “Run! Get help!”

  But Socrates didn’t move. He lifted his head, raising his nose in the air, and barked, louder than I’d ever heard him bark. The deep, resounding “WOOF” seemed to fill the whole mansion. And just as Larry Fox hauled me backward, the better to toss me forward, I understood what Socrates was trying to tell me. He wasn’t sniffing, he was pointing.

  Using every last ounce of strength I possessed—plus a move from a martial arts discipline I’d tried, briefly, in Israel—I twisted my arms free, lunged, and grabbed the broken, decorative top of the newel post, clutching it tightly. Then, although I despised violence, I smacked that old piece of Victoriana into Larry Fox’s thick skull, just hard enough to send him reeling.

  I would never be sure if Socrates, a peacenik himself, purposely positioned his long, low body so Larry pitched over him and narrowly missed tumbling down the stairs himself. I suspected that Socrates might have suspended his principles for just a moment to save me. And with a rush of adrenaline still coursing through me, I bent down to offer him an impulsive, grateful hug, forgetting for a second that he didn’t like displays of affection.

  Unfortunately, I was already off balance and only wearing one boot, and the next thing I knew, I lost my footing and launched myself down the old staircase, if less violently than Larry would’ve done. I felt each riser smack my rear end as I bumped all the way to the landing. And when I managed to stop my momentum, I lay for a moment with my eyes closed, trying to make sure I hadn’t broken anything—only to feel a drop of drool on my nose, followed by a wet, slobbery tongue licking my face.

  I cautiously opened one eye to discover that a one-eared Chihuahua with a severe overbite was dancing around me on worried little paws.

  “I’m okay,” I promised Artie. “Nothing’s broken. I mainly bounced down on my butt.”

  Then I accepted the hand up that Jonathan Black offered me while noting drily, “You really need to buy shoes that fit.”

  Chapter 63

  “Are you sure he’s going to be okay?” I asked Jonathan, who stood with me in Flynt Mansion’s parlor, both of us watching uniformed officers lead Larry Fox out the door to a waiting squad car that illuminated the dark night with bursts of red and blue. “I hit him pretty hard.”

  “He’ll be fine,” Jonathan assured me. “He’s walking out on his own. And why are you so worried about a man who attempted to toss you down a flight of stairs?”

  I shrugged. “As the Dalai Lama once said, Our prime purpose in this life is to help others. And if you can’t help them, at least don’t hurt them. I don’t know who could’ve helped Larry Fox—he made some huge mistakes—but I didn’t want to harm him more than was necessary for me to survive.”

  Jonathan watched the door close behind Larry, who’d trudged out, his head hanging down. “He’s lucky he tried to kill a student of philosophy. I wouldn’t have shown quite as much mercy if he’d tried to break my neck.”

  I wasn’t sure about that, especially when he turned to me again and asked, with genuine concern, “Are you all right, Daphne?”

  “My butt will survive,” I said, resisting the urge to rub the wounded spot, which was starting to bruise. “I’ve endured worse falls.”

  Apparently, I hadn’t quite understood the question. “I was asking about more than your . . . posterior,” Jonathan clarified. “You nearly got killed—again.”

  “I’m fine,” I promised him, just as Artie, Axis, and Socrates ran past us. Of course, Socrates slowed to a lope when he passed me, lest I think he was having fun. Then, when he thought he was out of sight, he picked up the pace again. I smiled at Jonathan. “I knew Socrates would have a plan and save the day.”

  Jonathan wasn’t amused. “Daphne, you can’t trust a dog to take ca
re of you.”

  I disagreed, and I was sure he’d relied on Herod, but I let him continue.

  “Why did you come here alone?” he asked. “If you had to snoop, why couldn’t you at least wait until Elyse could tell me where you were going? Or, better yet, find a working cell phone and tell me yourself?”

  “I decided to make sure the slippers really existed, before I took any more steps to get you involved,” I said. “Plus I couldn’t imagine why Larry would return to the scene of a crime he’d committed. I had no idea he kept a bunch of incriminating clothes here. I assumed the house would be empty—discounting a possible ghost.”

  Jonathan shook his head. “You don’t really believe—”

  I spoke right over him, before we could get into a debate about spirits. “Regardless,” I said, grinning, “you have to admit that I did catch another killer for you.”

  Jonathan was ready to admit nothing of the sort.

  “I already knew Larry Fox committed the murder,” he informed me. “I matched the unusual LF on the note you took from the kitchen with his signature on the will.”

  “You saw that?”

  He nodded. “Yes. I noted the signature when your mother was contesting the will, at Fox’s office. I’d also identified Fox as a member of the Munificent Order of the Phoenix and knew the windbreaker belonged to him.”

  The news that Jonathan had also solved the crime was somewhat deflating. “So, what were you waiting for? Why didn’t you arrest him?”

  “Those of us who are actually authorized and paid to solve homicides like to wait until we build what’s called a ‘solid case,’” he advised me. I could see a welcome glimmer of amusement in his blue eyes. “We don’t bumble our way into dark mansions and risk getting tossed down staircases—only to fall ourselves.”

  “Okay, you made your point,” I said, hurrying after him, because he was walking away, toward the door. “But I did solve the crime simultaneous to you. You have to at least concede that.”

  “I’m not conceding anything,” he said, as on some silent cue that I hadn’t caught, Axis—and, to my shock, Artie—came running out of nowhere and fell in step with him. Artie actually pranced with pride, presumably over his success in obeying a command.

  “How did you train Artie to do that?” I asked, forgetting all about murder for a moment. “I didn’t think that was possible!”

  Jonathan didn’t share his secret to training the world’s most exuberant, independent Chihuahua. He merely looked over his shoulder at me and grinned. “Happy Halloween, Daphne. I hope you figure out what to do with your painting.”

  I stopped in my tracks.

  How had I forgotten about that thing?

  Chapter 64

  The rain moved in with a vengeance around midnight. Normally, I found the patter of raindrops on the cottage’s roof soothing, but that night the torrential downpour hammered against the tin so loudly that I couldn’t sleep. I also kept thinking about the painting downstairs.

  I wasn’t sure if the spirit of Violet Baumgartner really roamed around Flynt Mansion, but now that I no longer had a murder to preoccupy my thoughts, the Woman in Red was starting to haunt me.

  Sitting up and swinging my legs over the side of my bed, I pulled my soft flannel robe around myself, stood up, and tiptoed past Socrates, who was exhausted from the evening’s adventures and snoring in his bed. Quietly making my way to the kitchen, I brewed a cup of chamomile tea, then sat down on the love seat to contemplate the portrait by the light of the dying fire.

  “How can I figure out what Miss Flynt wants me to do with this?” I whispered, tucking my feet under myself to warm them. “I obviously didn’t know her at all!”

  Violet Baumgartner glared back at me, offering no answers.

  My eyes still trained on the painting, I took a sip of tea, nearly spilling hot liquid all over myself when, to my surprise, Tinkleston hopped lightly onto the cushion right next to me. I hadn’t even seen him prowling around the room.

  “Hey, you,” I said softly, not wanting to scare him off. Outside, the wind roared, and the branches of the plum tree scratched at the window. “Is the rain keeping you awake, too?”

  Tinkleston meowed, which I took for a “yes.” Then he blinked at me, and for the first time since I’d brought him to my home, I really had a chance to look into his big, orange eyes.

  Maybe it was wishful thinking, but I swore I saw gratitude there.

  “It’s my pleasure to take care of you,” I told him, as he settled behind my knees, curling into a ball.

  I knew that I was pushing things, but I dared to stroke his soft, black fur, earning a swipe from his little pom-pom paw. But the gesture seemed halfhearted, and he didn’t run away or even open his eyes.

  I studied Tinks’s sourpuss face while he slept, and all at once I realized that, while Lillian Flynt had certainly kept her share of secrets, I did know some things about her.

  She’d loved Tinkleston enough to bequeath him to me, knowing that—not to blow my own horn—I would give him a chance and not dump him in a shelter the first time he unsheathed his claws.

  Miss Flynt had also hated the way Bea ran Whiskered Away Home. I was sure that’s why she’d refused to support the “rescue.”

  And, although she’d lived in a mansion and never labored for money, Miss Flynt had believed in the value of hard work. That was why she hadn’t just given Fidelia the portrait. And why she always encouraged me to use my talents.

  My eyes had been fluttering shut, but I jolted and sat up straight, nearly dislodging Tinks, who growled in his sleep. I didn’t mean to disturb him, but I suddenly knew what I was supposed to do with the painting.

  Maybe my plans weren’t exactly what Lillian had in mind when she left the portrait to me, but I was pretty confident that I would at least come close to fulfilling her wishes.

  Or maybe Miss Flynt hadn’t ever had a specific plan of her own and had just trusted me to do something worthwhile with a despised piece of her family’s history.

  Either way, I felt happy with my decision, and after a few minutes, I pulled a warm, fringed throw over myself and Tinkleston, being careful to keep his pushed-in nose exposed. Then I drifted off to sleep to the sound of the waning storm.

  And when I awoke on a sunny, crisp November day, the first thing I did was go upstairs and call my mother, who wasn’t even fully awake—until I brought up her favorite topic, asking, “Can you meet me in town to talk about a property?”

  Chapter 65

  “This is a really nice party, for something you threw together in five minutes,” Moxie said, without a hint of insult. She seemed genuinely impressed by my housewarming, most of which took place outside, because the cottage was so small. But my guests appeared happy to linger around the table I’d set up under the plum tree. As the sun set, the votives in the Moroccan lanterns I’d hung from the branches glowed like fireflies, and the chilly air was warmed by a small bonfire burning in a circle of stones. “Don’t forget that my present is a mural,” Moxie added, pulling her hands out from under a 1960s striped poncho and holding them over the fire to warm them. “I’ll paint it whenever you want.”

  “I will keep that in mind,” I promised her, filing that reminder way, way in the back of my brain. Way back. “And I’m glad you’re having a good time.”

  I thought the open house was nice, too, for a last minute affair. The farmhouse table, which I’d found in Piper’s barn, was covered with spice-colored linens and practically buckling under the weight of two crock-pots filled with mulled wine and cider, three maple-apple upside-down cakes, a gingerbread-pear loaf, and some plum crostatas, as a nod to my cottage’s nickname. Anticipating that dogs would visit, I’d also whipped up some Honey, I’m Home cookies, cut into the shape of dog houses. The little honey-and-rolled-oat treats were going fast, as were the snacks for humans. My tiny home was overflowing with friends and family—and a few strangers, too. I didn’t recognize one tall man with longish, dark hair and a scr
uffy beard, who was helping himself to a crostata. When he bent over, I saw a notebook poking out of the back pocket of his worn jeans.

  “Who is that guy?” I asked Moxie.

  “Oh, that’s Gabriel Graham,” she told me. “He bought the Weekly Gazette. And he’s actually trying to fill it with news!”

  I narrowed my eyes, not sure if I wanted a journalist crashing my party. “So he’s the new reporter I’ve been hearing about . . . ?”

  I was just about to approach him when someone else drew my attention.

  My sister, who was talking with the man I knew only as “Roger.”

  Piper must’ve sensed me observing her, because she glanced in my direction, then lightly touched her date’s arm, excusing herself and walking toward me and Moxie.

  “So, who’s your new friend?” I asked, when she’d joined us by the fire. “And how’d you meet him?”

  “He’s a cutie,” Moxie added. “I like his naturally wavy hair—and his sweater vest!”

  Piper gave Moxie an uncertain look, but I was pretty sure the comment was meant as a compliment. Moxie liked all things argyle.

  “Not that it’s your business,” Piper told us both, “but his name is Dr. Roger Berendt, and he’s a new professor at Wynton. I met him when he brought his dog, Seymour, in for an emergency procedure. We’ve seen each other a few times since then.”

  For a person who hadn’t wanted to share much, Piper had spilled a lot. And her cheeks weren’t just rosy because there was a nip in the air or wine in her pretty, beveled-glass cup.

  She liked Dr. Berendt, but she wasn’t about to admit it yet.

  She’d also spoken somewhat sharply because she was genuinely upset with me.

  “Not to change the subject, but I can’t believe you almost got yourself killed again, Daphne,” she said, crossing her arms, like she needed to keep herself from waggling a finger at me. “What were you thinking, sneaking into that house alone, at night?”

  “I had to know if I’d really seen men’s slippers under Miss Flynt’s bed, the night she was murdered,” I explained. “I was returning my oversized shoes to Lighthouse Fellowship, and I remembered that when I found Tinkleston, he was sitting in a big, plaid slipper. That didn’t strike me as strange at the time, because so much was happening. But when I had a chance to reflect, I thought it seemed odd.” I looked at the cottage and saw Tinks perched in a window, his black body silhouetted and his orange eyes glowing. I turned back to Piper. “I swear, he was trying to point out the killer. I just had to figure out what he was trying to say.”