Purrfectly Deadly (The Mysteries of Max Book 2)

by Nic Saint

  These and other thoughts were now swirling in Harry’s head as Inspector Watley told her tersely to please remain available for questioning—probably the Scotland Yard equivalent for ‘Don’t leave town!’

  She nodded quickly, her face now completely devoid of color and her extremities of blood, and wobbly got to her feet the minute Watley left.

  And as she made her way out of the store, which was still swarming with police, she feebly wondered what she was going to do now. For one thing, she was most definitely out of a job. Which was something she should have told Watley, she now saw. Clearly she had no motive for murder; it simply meant unemployment. Then again, she’d just tucked a million pounds of motive into the shop till, and who knew how much more money Buckley kept in his safe, along with countless other valuables? Plenty of motive there.

  As she rode her bicycle home, the rain was coming down again in sheets, and even before she’d reached the street where she lived, she was soaked to the skin. A fitting ending to a lousy day, she thought miserably.

  Arriving home at Valentine Street No. 9, she quickly fastened her bike to the cellar window grille, wiped the rain from her eyes, and jogged up the steps to the front door. Letting herself in, she stood leaking rainwater on the black and white checkered floor for a moment, then slammed the heavy door shut, and quickly checked the mailbox. A magazine had arrived—the historical magazine she subscribed to—and a bill from the electric company, probably announcing another rate hike.

  She hurried up the stairs, already shucking off her jacket, and when she arrived on the landing wasn’t surprised to find her neighbor patiently awaiting her arrival, Harry’s snowy white Persian in her arms.

  “Oh, shoot,” she said, taking the cat from the elderly lady. “Did Snuggles sneak into your flat again, Mrs. Peak? I thought I locked her up this time.”

  Mrs. Peak, the wizened old prune-faced lady who lived next door, gave her a wistful smile. “I don’t mind, Harry. I only wish she visited me more often. I wouldn’t mind having a darling like Snuggles myself, you know.”

  “Perhaps one day you will,” said Harry as she pulled Snuggles’s ear. “If she keeps this up, I just might have to give her away.”

  Mrs. Peak didn’t seem to mind one bit. “Snuggles can drop by any time,” she assured her.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Peak,” she said, letting herself into her flat. And as she closed the door, she whispered, “What’s the matter with you, little one? Why do you keep sneaking off to the neighbors, huh? Don’t you like it here?”

  She put the cat down on the floor and looked around her modest flat. It wasn’t even a flat, really, more of a studio apartment. One living room with kitchenette, a small bedroom, and an even smaller bathroom. Just enough for the student she’d been when she took it, and currently all she could afford on her meager earnings. She’d told herself back then that once she got her first paycheck she was going to find something bigger. But then she’d seen the paltry sum on her paycheck and had realized that it would be a long time before she’d be able to afford anything more than what she had. In fact she was lucky to have a place as nice as this one, London quickly becoming too costly for anyone without a millionaire mum or dad to foot the bill.

  She watched as Snuggles haughtily stalked to the window, which was open to a crack, hopped out onto the small balcony, and started to make her way over to Mrs. Peak again. Harry quickly hurried after her and managed to snatch her just before she hopped from her balcony to the next.

  “What’s wrong with you?” she asked as she took the cat indoors again and closed the window. “Do you get special treats next door? Is that it?”

  She checked Snuggles’s bowl, but it was still filled to capacity. Possibly she was simply bored with the same dry food and needed something fresh?

  And she was just scooping some canned food into a second bowl, much to Snuggles’s delight, when she remembered she’d scheduled a call with her cousin.

  She hurried over to her laptop, flipped it open and switched it on. And as she made herself a jam sandwich and carried it on a plate to the laptop, she kicked off her soggy sneakers, then hopped into the bedroom to change into something dry. She was just wrapping a towel around her head when the telltale sound of Skype warned her that Alice was online and calling her.

  Video image of her cousin flickered to life, and she gave her a jolly wave.

  “Hey, honey,” Alice said. “Did you just step out of the shower?”

  “No, I just stepped out of London, which is basically the same thing.”

  Alice laughed. She was a perky blonde with remarkable green eyes, and perennially in a good mood. “You should come and visit, Harry. It’s about eighty degrees out here and not a single cloud in sight.”

  Harry sighed. “That sounds like heaven. I wish I could, but…”

  “The antique shop, huh? Too much work? I can relate, honey. I’m actually holding down three jobs right now if you can believe it. The mortuary, the gun store, and the bakery. Never worked so hard in my life!” Harry nodded absently, and Alice’s face fell. “Are you all right? You look very pale.”

  She shook her head. “Something horrible happened to me today, Alice.”

  She proceeded to tell her cousin about the murder of her boss, and Alice cried, “Oh, no! You must have been terrified! How are you holding up?”

  “I’m… fine, actually. Though at the moment I seem to be the only suspect the police have.” She tucked a leg beneath her and told Alice the whole story.

  She and her cousin had no secrets from each other. They’d always been close, ever since Alice’s father, Curtis Whitehouse, had been stationed in London, working at Scotland Yard in an advisory capacity for five years. Since Uncle Curtis and Aunt Demitria had lived right next door to Harry’s parents, she and Alice had been like sisters. The bond had never been broken, even now, when they were thousands of miles apart.

  “So they think you have something to do with the murder?”

  “Judging from the look on Inspector Watley’s face, yes. And I can’t even give him an alibi, as my client would never forgive me.”

  “Who is he?”

  She shrugged. “Probably some rich businessman who doesn’t want to pay full price for his works of art. Most of them are, Buckley once told me.”

  “Can’t you ask? This No-Neck person must be traceable, right?”

  “Actually I have no idea how to get in touch with him. Buckley always made all the arrangements. I just had to show up to make the exchange.”

  “If I were you I’d try to find the guy,” Alice suggested. “Otherwise you’re in big trouble, honey. The police will be very suspicious if you won’t tell them where you were.” She shook her head. “Oh, how I wish I could help you.”

  She didn’t see how she could, though. Even though Alice’s father was now chief of police in the small town where he and his family lived, he had no clout with Scotland Yard. Unless…

  “Does your father still keep in touch with his old colleagues?”

  “He might,” Alice admitted. “Do you want me to ask him?”

  “Could you? Perhaps if I can just talk to someone, I can explain what happened without betraying the client’s confidence.”

  “All right. Sit tight, hon. I’ll give him a call now.” Then she paused, looking thoughtful. “You know? There’s actually someone else who might be able to help you.”

  Harry took a bite from her sandwich. She suddenly found she was starving. “There is? Who?”

  “He’s, um…” Alice bit her lip. “He’s a guy who knows people, you know.”

  “Yes?”

  Alice stared at her for a beat. “I’ll have to discuss it with him first, though.”

  “Okay,” she said, a little puzzled. It wasn’t like Alice to suddenly go all mysterious on her. “Is he from England?”

  “No, he’s American, but he might know someone over there who can help you.” She eyed her anxiously. “I worry about you. You’re all alone out there.�
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  “I’ll be fine,” she said, though she realized that she didn’t sound very convincing. It was true that she was quite alone out here. Her parents had died in a car crash the day of her graduation, and since she didn’t have any sisters or brothers she basically had to rely on herself. She had an aunt and uncle up in Scotland but hadn’t heard from them in ages. The only family she kept in touch with was Alice, which was at least something to be thankful for.

  Alice seemed to make up her mind. “I’m going to talk to Brian. I’m going to ask him to pull a few strings.”

  “Oh, okay,” she said. “Who’s Brian?”

  Alice closed her lips, her face turning red. “I, um, didn’t I mention him?”

  “No, you didn’t.” She laughed. “What? Is he, like, your new boyfriend or something?”

  “No, of course not! Reece and I are still very much together. You know that.”

  Alice was engaged to Reece Hudson, a famous movie star. Even Harry had seen a couple of his movies. He was a great guy and loved to goof around with Harry when he and Alice came to London. The couple usually stayed at the Ritz-Carlton, just about the swankiest place Harry had ever seen. Reece wasn’t impressed, though. Said he’d stayed in far more luxurious hotels in other parts of the world. Which just went to show how the other half lived.

  “Look, I’ve gotta go,” Alice suddenly said.

  All this talk about this mysterious Brian had apparently made her nervous, for she flinched when Harry protested, “You still haven’t told me who this Brian guy is.”

  “I’ll tell you all about him, honey. But first I need to get him to agree to something.” She gave her a long look before asking her the most outrageous question of all. “Do you still… see things, Harry?”

  She frowned. “See things? What do you mean? What things?”

  “You know. When we were kids, sometimes you used to tell me you saw people who weren’t really there, remember? Like… dead people?”

  She laughed. “Come on, Alice. You know that was just my overactive imagination.”

  “No, but you said you saw Gran, remember? You even talked to her.”

  She did remember, though only vaguely. It was true that when her and Alice’s grandmother had passed away, she’d imagined seeing her, after she had supposedly passed on. The old lady had visited ten-year-old Harry’s bedroom the night she died. She’d told her that everything would be fine, and that she was moving on to a different plane but that she’d always watch over her and Alice. Later she’d begun to think she’d imagined the whole thing.

  “You know that was just a dream,” she told her cousin, but Alice didn’t seem convinced. “I mean, what else could it have been, right?”

  A slight smile played about her cousin’s lips, but then she nodded. “Yeah, probably a dream. Anyway, I’ve got to go.”

  “Let me know what your father has to say, all right? I really hope he knows someone on this side I can talk to.”

  “Will do, honey. Love you! Bye-bye!”

  She rang off and stared out the window for a while. The rain was lashing the single pane, and the sky was pitch black, even though it wasn’t even fully evening yet. Snuggles jumped on her lap and installed herself there, purring contentedly. She stroked her behind the ears. “So it was the food, huh?” she murmured as she settled back.

  She thought about what Alice had said about Brian, and wondered what that was all about. But then she figured it had nothing to do with her, and decided not to expect too much. Alice had a habit of making a lot of promises before promptly forgetting all about them. And seeing as she was so busy, it would be a small miracle if she even remembered to ask her father about his Scotland Yard contacts. If he still had any left. It’d been almost ten years since he’d returned to the States and became Happy Bays’s chief of police.

  She thought back to Inspector Watley, and the dark looks he’d given her. It was obvious that if it were up to him, he’d have arrested her on the spot.

  She heaved a deep sigh. “We’re in deep trouble, Snuggles,” she murmured. “If things don’t look up it’s not such a bad idea to head on over to Mrs. Peak for your kibble. She might just be your new owner from now on.”

  She shivered and moved over to the window to close the curtains. For the first time in a long time she didn’t have anywhere to be the next day.

  Chapter Three

  Jarrett Zephyr-Thornton III was perfecting his ice skating technique when his personal valet beckoned him from the side of the rink. As per his instructions, the rink had been closed off to the public to allow Jarrett to practice in private. It was his dream to become the next big thing in figure skating, and since he’d never been on the skates before, but he’d seen all the movies, he knew that practice made perfect, so practice it was.

  He was a spindly young man with wavy butter-colored hair and pale blue eyes that regarded the world with child-like wonder. As the son of the richest man in England he was in the unique position to do whatever he wanted whenever he wanted to do it, and what he wanted more than anything right now was to be the next British figure skating Olympic champion.

  He groaned in annoyance when he caught sight of his valet Deshawn’s urgent wave. “I told you to hold all my calls!” he cried, but the music pounding from the speakers drowned out his voice. It was the soundtrack of Ice Princess, of course, playing on a loop. Motivation was key, he knew, and he watched the movie at least once a day to keep him in the right frame of mind.

  Reluctantly he finished his pirouette and swished over to the side.

  “Yes, yes, yes,” he grumbled when Deshawn handed him the phone. “This is Jarrett!” he called out pleasantly when it was finally pressed to his ear. “Oh, it’s you, Father,” he said with an exaggerated eye roll. “What am I doing?” He frowned at Deshawn, who shrugged. Father never asked him what he was doing. Just as Jarrett made it his aim in life to do as little as possible, his pater made it his habit to interfere as infrequently as possible, lest he develop a heart condition. “I’m ice skating, if you must know,” he said a little huffily, fully expecting a barrage of criticism to be poured into his ear at this confession. “For what? The Olympic Games, of course. What else?”

  “Look, son, something’s come up,” the author of his being now grated in his ear. “I need you to listen to me and listen to me very carefully, you hear?”

  He did listen very carefully, even though he was quite sure that whatever the old man had to impart was probably a load of poppycock as usual. “Yes, Father. I am listening,” he announced with another eye roll. There was a crackling noise on the other end, and then his father said, “I need you or that valet of yours to go over to…” There was that crackle again.

  “There seems to be some sort of noise. What did you just say?”

  “I need you to pick up the parcel and bring it to…”

  “I’m losing you,” he said, quickly losing patience.

  “The parcel is at… right now, and if you don’t pick it up… it’s going to… along with your mother’s… and that’ll be the end of…”

  “You’re not making any sense,” he said, staring down at his nice new blue spandex outfit. He’d bought seven, a different color for each day of the week. He particularly liked the one he was wearing now. It looked exactly like the one Michelle Trachtenberg, the star of Ice Princess, wore in the movie. “What package? And what does Mother have to do with anything?”

  “Will you just listen!” the old man yelled, now audibly irritated. “If you don’t pick up that package right now… then… and… unmitigated disaster!”

  He sighed. Whatever his old man was involved in, it could probably wait, so he said, “First get decent reception, Father, and call me back, all right?”

  And he deftly clicked off the phone and handed it back to Deshawn. He then gave his valet a look of warning. “No more phone calls, Deshawn.”

  Deshawn, a rather thickset smallish man with perfectly coiffed thinning brown hair and an obsequious man
ner, had been in Jarrett’s employ for many years, and the two formed rather an odd couple. One thin and tall, the other short and stout, they resembled Laurel & Hardy in their heyday.

  The valet now muttered, “I know, sir. My apologies. But your father said it was extremely urgent.”

  “It’s always urgent,” said Jarrett with an airy wave of the hand. “But he’ll just have to wait, for I…” He glided away. “… am on my way to greatness!”

  And with these words, he allowed the wonderful music of Ice Princess to guide him back onto the rink and launch him into his most complicated movement yet: the twizzle, a one-foot turn. He usually worked with Vance Crowdell, trainer to the stars, but the man had some other arrangement tonight, so he’d been forced to train alone. Not that he minded. The crusty old trainer had already taught him so many new movements he needed to practice until he’d perfected those before learning any new ones.

  And as he closed his eyes and allowed the music to take him into a new and wonderful world of glitter and glamor and thunderous applause, he saw himself as the first male Olympic figure skating gold medalist to come out of Britain in quite a long time.

  Philo eyed the woman darkly. “I’m not asking, Madame Wu. I’m telling you. Take the package and hand it over as soon as you’re told.”

  “But I can’t,” the proprietress of Xing Ming lamented in nasal tones. Her jet-black hair clearly came from a bottle and her horn-rimmed glasses were too large for her narrow face. She’d been running the small family restaurant for thirty years, one of the mainstays of London’s Chinatown in the City of Westminster. “I have other matters tonight. I can’t do package right now.”

  He thrust the package back into her hands. “Just take it already. Lives depend on this,” he added with a meaningful look. A look that said it was her own life that depended on it.

  She rattled the package, her eyes unnaturally large behind the glasses. “What is it? Is it bomb?”

  “No, is not bomb,” he said, mimicking her accent. “It’s just something very important.” He leaned in. “Very important to Master Edwards.”