Murder of the Cat's Meow: A Scumble River Mystery

by Denise Swanson

  After a lengthy verbal debate with herself, Miss Ophelia finally made her choice—completely changing her mind at the last minute and going with the butter crunch toffee. While Xylia was ringing up the older woman’s purchase, I began the process of herding the stragglers toward either the register for those who wanted to make a purchase or the exit for those who were sitting at the soda fountain using the free Wi-Fi and socializing.

  My clerk had one foot over the threshold as she said good-bye to me when an attractive thirtysomething brunette carrying a large package rushed past her into the store. I called out that we were closed, but the woman either didn’t hear me or ignored my admonishment. Xylia raised a questioning eyebrow, but I waved her away. Whatever the last-minute shopper wanted, she’d have to come back on Monday.

  I locked the door behind my assistant, not wanting another eleventh-hour customer sneaking in, then said to the brunette standing near the cash register, “I’m sorry, but we’re closed for the day.”

  “Do you own this store?” the woman demanded, making no move to leave.

  “Yes.” Considering the cardboard carton in her arms, I wondered if she had a complaint about a previous purchase. “I’m Devereaux Sinclair, and you are…?”

  “Elise Whitmore.” She thunked the box down on the marble counter and I heard a metallic clinking sound. “I understand you like old stuff.” She scrutinized me, her expression clearly indicating that she found wanting my less than fashionable jeans, yellow sweatshirt with “Devereaux’s Dime Store” embroidered across the chest, and frizzy cinnamon gold hair scraped into a ponytail. “Is that true?”

  “If you mean vintage and antique items, yes, I am interested in them. I both collect them and use them for the gift baskets I make.” When I had purchased the dime store, I had added the basket business.

  “Good.” Elise unfolded the carton’s flaps and reached inside.

  My treasure-hunting curiosity was piqued.

  “I’ve got some old chocolate molds I want to sell.” Elise pulled out a pair of metal Easter Bunny casts. “What do you think?”

  One bunny was close to a foot tall and had a basket attached to his back; the other bunny, about half the size of the first, was carrying a mushroom. I loved them. They would be perfect for my Easter window display and for the traditional basket orders I had for the holiday; the erotic baskets I made needed a vastly different type of merchandise.

  “They seem nice,” I answered neutrally, hoping to keep the price within a range I could afford. “How much do you want for them?”

  “You can have the whole box for a thousand bucks.” Elise put down the ones she held, then lined up three more Easter-themed molds—a girl bunny, a set of four eggs, and a rabbit riding a duck.

  I didn’t know much about these particular collectibles, but I had a hunch this was an extremely good deal. “Can you give me a second?” When she nodded, I slipped into the storeroom, bent over my computer, and typed “antique chocolate molds” into Bing.com. Zowie! According to several of the Web sites I clicked on, the largest rabbit alone was worth nine hundred and fifty dollars.

  Suddenly afraid that the woman would leave or change her mind about selling the molds, I hurried back out to the sales floor, and, keeping my voice cool, said, “Since they’re a seasonal item, and there’s only three weeks left until Easter, I’ll give you seven-fifty.”

  Elise frowned, then shrugged. “Eight hundred, but I want cash.”

  Since so many people used credit and debit cards, I wasn’t sure I had that much money in the till. “Eight-fifty if you’ll take a check.” I was willing to pay fifty bucks more to cinch the deal.

  “No.” She shook her head. “Cash or I take these to the pawn shop at the edge of town.”

  “Let me see what I have on hand.” I went behind the counter and opened the register. As I added up the contents of the drawer, I held my breath. I really wanted those molds.

  “I don’t have all day.” Elise tapped her foot. “Do we have a deal or not?”

  “One second.” I dug in my jeans pocket and pulled out a twenty, two fives, and a single. “Here you go.” After adding them to the stack in front of me, I handed the pile to Elise.

  She counted the money, nodded, and stuck it in her Dolce & Gabbana handbag, then turned on her heel and marched toward the exit. I followed her and unlocked it. She hesitated halfway through, and I nearly hit her with the door I was already closing.

  Elise took a swift step to avoid the collision, then said over her shoulder, “Do me a favor and don’t tell anyone where you got the molds.”

  “Why?” I called after her. A sinking feeling made my stomach clench. “They were yours to sell, weren’t they? You are the owner, right?”

  But it was too late; she had already gotten into her red Lexus and was backing into the street. As she sped away, I noticed her license plate read WUZ HIZ. Damn! I knew that had been too easy. Why hadn’t I asked more questions? Had I just committed a felony?

  After hastily sticking the chocolate molds into my safe, I finished locking up the store and jumped into my sapphire black Z4. It was one of the few possessions that I had kept from my old life—the one where I earned a six-figure salary as an investment consultant employed by Stramp Investments.

  I’d allowed myself to hang on to the BMW by rationalizing that in this economy I’d never get what it was worth if I sold it. However, the truth was, I loved that car, and I knew there was more chance of me winning the Miss Missouri contest than ever owning a vehicle like it again.

  Chuckling at the thought of being a beauty pageant queen, I put the Z4 in gear and headed home. I lived with my grandma Birdie just outside of Shadow Bend on the ten remaining acres of the property my ancestors had settled in the 1860s.

  Due to three generations before me producing only one child each, relatives who had moved away, and several Sinclair men who’d died in various wars, Gran and I were the last of our clan in Shadow Bend. My grandfather’s death fifteen years ago had forced Gran to begin selling off the land surrounding the old homestead to pay the taxes and support herself and me. Piece by piece, my heritage had been stripped away, and I treasured what we had left. Just as I cherished my grandmother.

  It was when Gran had started to have some memory issues that I had quit my job in Kansas City and purchased the dime store. Going from a sixty-hour, or more, workweek to a little over forty hours had given me the time I needed to be there for her. As had swapping my two-hour round-trip commute for a twenty-minute drive.

  Gran had taken me in thirteen years ago when my parents deserted me. Although my father hadn’t had a choice about it—he’d been sent to prison for manslaughter and possession of a controlled substance—my mom didn’t have any excuse.

  She had dumped me on Birdie’s doorstep with a suitcase and a fifty-dollar bill, and run off to California. I was sixteen at the time, and even though Gran had showered me with love and attention, I never got over my mother’s actions or the feelings of rejection and abandonment they instilled.

  Which is why when Gran’s doctor informed me that she needed me to be around more, I hadn’t hesitated to find another way to earn a living. I put in my two weeks’ notice at Stramp Investment as soon as the deal for the dime store purchase was complete. Some people thought I resigned from my job because I found out my boss, Ronald Stramp, was a crook, and that he paid for my silence. But I’d been as surprised as the rest of the world when his Ponzi scheme was revealed.

  Just as my father had claimed to have been set up—and was as innocent of committing manslaughter as he was of the bank embezzlement of which he’d also been accused but never convicted—Stramp also maintained his innocence. However, unlike Dad, the jury at my boss’s trial acquitted him—a fact that the people he had bilked out of millions still resented.

  Unfortunately, most people blamed me for the not-guilty verdict that freed him. I hadn’t been able to testify about Stramp’s scam because I hadn’t been aware of it. I don’t know w
hich I felt worse about: that my ignorance allowed him to get away with his crime or that I was so dumb I never noticed what he was doing. My only defense was that Stramp was an extremely secretive and clever man.

  All of this was on my mind as I made the short drive home. After both my father’s and my ex-boss’s scandals, I had struggled to rehabilitate my image. As a teenager, I had shunned any and all controversy—never getting so much as a detention at school or a speeding ticket around my hometown.

  And having made it through the Stramp disaster, I had pledged to avoid even the hint of dishonesty. Heck, I had solved a murder in which I was the prime suspect in order to escape being tainted by more gossip. Of course, my fear of being sent to prison might have also motivated me to find the real killer.

  Now, as I tore down the blacktop toward home, passing farmhouses, fields, and pastures of grazing cows, sheep, and goats, I wondered if my love of collectibles and antiques had led me to commit a crime. If I had, could I make things right before my reputation was damaged beyond all repair?

  Hitting the steering wheel, I groaned. Great! My good name was on the line again. And this time, it was my own damn fault.