The Tail of the Secret Identity: A Beatrice Young Cozy Cat Mystery (Beatrice Young Cozy Cat Mysteries Book 3)

by Alannah Rogers

  “Well ma’am,” Noah said, as unruffled as ever. “The cop was no fool either. He knocked away that gun and managed to wrestle him back to the station where he was charged with attempted capital murder. And that’s when I find out about the whole business.”

  “You bailed him out,” the sheriff said.

  “I did, and Lord knows what I was thinking. He was my brother—I wasn’t thinking. Even after all his hijinks I still remembered that little boy in the foster home. John went through a lot of bad stuff. What’s more, he was the only brother I had. So yeah, I bailed him out and took him back to my apartment so at least he’d have somewhere homey to stay while he waited for the trial. Then one night we went to play pool. He stepped out for a moment and next thing I knew he, and the car, were gone.”

  “The car we just found in his storage locker,” the sheriff put in.

  “Yes sir. I was just a hotel desk clerk. Didn’t have a lot of cash. Had to ride around on buses for a year after that until I could afford to buy a car again. I was right mad at him. It was at that point I decided that John and I needed to part ways. Not that he gave me a choice—he never contacted me again. Maybe he knew how angry I was.”

  Noah sighed and leaned back, his angular form fitting uncomfortably into the old chair. “Well, that’s what I can tell you. After that, the FBI kept in touch with me. There were all these random reports: oh, he’s in northern California. He’s been spotted up in Canada. They just missed him in New Orleans. One cop told me they went to his apartment and fresh toast popped out of the toaster, just made. He’d slipped out seconds before. There were lots of different names, different jobs, but he moved around so much he was always one step ahead of the police.”

  Beatrice was so stunned about what she had just heard that she did what a cat owner naturally does when confused—looks to their cats for advice. But Hamish, Lucky, and Petunia weren’t any help. Petunia was busy washing her leg, which stuck straight up in the air like a chicken drumstick. Hamish and Lucky were trying to look interested in what the sheriff was saying but they kept sneaking looks back at Petunia.

  “Thank goodness I got you both fixed,” Beatrice said, despite herself.

  “What was that?” Noah asked.

  There was a sharp rap on the front door. The cats immediately straightened to attention.

  16

  Deputy Parker Smith opened the door. “Sheriff, we’ve got the FBI here to see you.”

  “Well, that doesn’t happen every day,” he replied, one eyebrow aloft. “Let ‘em in.”

  A man and a woman walked in, both trim, tall, and in dark suits. The former was African-American with a shaved head, the latter a redhead with her hair tightly pulled back into a bun. They both looked surprised to see so many people in the sheriff’s office—well, several people and three cats.

  “Sheriff, I’m Agent Croft, this is Agent Macklin,” the man said. “Might we have a word with you? Privately?”

  The sheriff crossed his arms. “I don’t see why they can’t stay. This here is Noah Sanders, John’s brother. And this is Beatrice Young, my subcontractor.”

  Beatrice choked back a laugh. Subcontractor? It sounded like he’d hired her to renovate his bathroom. The agents apologized to Noah, who they hadn’t recognized immediately—after all, they’d worked with him before to try to track down Bernie.

  “And the cats?” asked the woman. Hamish and Lucky nosed her pant legs like a couple of drug-sniffing dogs.

  “I’m pretty sure these beasts here won’t tell a soul about what’s said within these four walls,” said Beatrice.

  The redhead gave her an odd look. The two of them settled into chairs at the side of the room. The cats followed them, sitting at their feet like little guard dogs. Petunia, who remained in the cat bed, was momentarily forgotten in the excitement.

  “Your friend in Portland tipped us off that you’d found John Henson—dead, not alive unfortunately,” said Agent Macklin, crossing her legs. “We’ve been tracking him for years. You can imagine how surprised we were that he’s been living under the name Bernie Sullivan, as the mayor of your town, no less.”

  “Let me tell you, we’re just as shocked,” the sheriff said. “To us here in Ashbrook, Bernie was a good guy. Loved his community.”

  “Well, that’s certainly new to us, because he did a lot of bad things before that,” said Agent Croft.

  “I filled them in on everything that happened before he stole my car,” Noah told the agents.

  “Well then, maybe we can shed light on what happened after. Especially one incident that we think might be connected to his murder. ” The redheaded agent leaned in, elbows resting on her knee. There was a smattering of freckles across her nose.

  “John was in New Jersey for a time, running a laundromat. He even got married. Then he became friendly with a member of the local mafia who frequented his favorite bar. The guy offered to make his business a front to launder mafia money, told him he’d get a big cut of the proceeds.”

  “And we all know John was never one to waste an opportunity,” said Noah.

  “Well, that’s just it,” said Agent Croft. “Our sources told us that he ran that laundromat for many months as a front for the mob. But John wasn’t satisfied. He started buying up other businesses nearby, converting them into money laundering joints in partnership with the mob. The problem started when the mafia caught on that he was skimming their cash.”

  A ghost of a smile slid over the agent’s face. “It’s funny because those mafia guys seriously trusted him. They’d hang out, drink together. He became real buddies with them. And as soon as he got wind that they were onto him, he lit out and left everything behind. Too bad, because we were onto him too and planning to swoop in and finally make an arrest.”

  “So you think these mob men finally figured out that Bernie Sullivan was John Henson, came in and offed him?” asked the sheriff, one eyebrow raised in disbelief.

  “That’s the best lead we have. We talked to the crime scene investigators. Seems like a pretty clean job,” Agent Croft said, his dark eyes intense. “A professional job.”

  “Well, the sheriff and I were thinking that John likely knew his killer, since there was no sign of struggle,” Beatrice said. “Though you’d think that if a mob man you’d screwed over walked into your office, you’d put up a bit of a fight.”

  Agent Macklin shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe John was so overconfident that he thought he could talk his way out of it. After all, he managed to get himself elected as a public representative all while being wanted by the FBI. Who knows? We’re waiting for the DNA evidence back to see if it matches any number of mob men who used to be affiliated with John.”

  “So what’s next?” Noah asked.

  “Well, we’re taking over the case,” Macklin said, gaze levelled at the sheriff.

  The cop put up his hands. “Be my guest. Got my hands full rescuing cats from trees anyway.”

  Macklin frowned. “Don’t worry, we’ll keep you in the loop. Now if you don’t mind sheriff, I’d like to learn everything we can about this ‘Bernie Sullivan’ and his life here.”

  17

  Beatrice took that as her cue to go back to the Cozy Cat Café. She’s promised herself that, as wrapped up as she became in her mysteries, she wouldn’t let the business slide. Zoe and the waitresses could handle things well enough but they still needed a guiding hand from time to time.

  She pushed her way back into the café, the cats running ahead of her. It was a chilly, overcast day and Beatrice was happy to get back to the warmth of the café. The spicy scent of cinnamon, with an undercurrent of sweetness, wafted towards her. Zoe appeared out of the kitchen, cinnamon buns dripping with white icing held aloft on a tray.

  “How’re you feeling, boss?” she asked, sliding the tray into the display case.

  Beatrice shed her navy pea coat and scarf. “Better. I took some ibuprofen and my head cleared up a bit. I’ve definitely had better days, though. Please remind me
the next time we go to the Ashbrook Grape that one glass is my limit?”

  “Aw, you’re no fun,” Zoe said, smiling crookedly. She wiped her floury hands on her chef’s whites. “Did you hear from Matthew?”

  “Hear from him? He showed up at my house last night!” she said, going behind the case to fetch a cup of coffee. The earthy aroma floated up to her nose, immediately jolting her awake.

  Zoe’s brown eyes widened in alarm. “Uh oh. Were you in trouble?”

  Beatrice sighed as she added a splash of milk to her cup. “That would be easier. He started going on that he thought I felt bad about the divorce. That maybe this whole friendship thing was about me gunning for a second chance? I dunno, he really blew me out of the water. I didn’t know what to say.”

  Apparently Zoe didn’t either because she simply stared at Beatrice as if she’d never seen her before. Her boss frowned.

  “Why are you being so quiet? It’s freaking me out.”

  “Matthew liiiikkesss you!” she said, all moon eyes.

  “Oh God no. No. Matthew is confused and lonely. Aren’t we all? Listen, you weren’t there when we divorced, Zoe. We definitely weren’t best friends right away. There were a lot of hurt feelings.” Beatrice took a long sip of coffee for fortification.

  “You never talk much about your marriage.”

  “And there’s a very good reason for that. You’d have to get me pretty tipsy for that to happen. On second thought, don’t. I’ve had enough of being hung over for one year.”

  Beatrice’s back pocket vibrated. She took out her phone. She didn’t recognize the number but answered it anyway.

  “Uh hi, is this Beatrice Young? The cat woman?” a young voice said.

  “Um, yes, I guess—and this is?”

  “It’s Madison. ‘Member, from the grocery store? You interviewed me about Amy.”

  The memory came flooding back. Madison was the best friend of Amy White, part of a counterfeiting operation Beatrice had cracked open in September. “Listen I am so sorry about Amy…”

  “Yeah, let’s not talk about that. It’s just, my girl Alisha works at the Mountain View Motel. She’s called the cops but she told me to get a hold of you too because apparently, like, your cats are magic or something. Anyway, I’m only calling ‘cuz I’m worried about her. There’s some nutty lady making trouble at the motel and she’s scared.”

  “Madison, I’m glad you called me. I’ll be right over.”

  Zoe rolled her eyes as her boss hung up. “Super Beatrice to the rescue? Next thing you know, people are gonna be calling you to resolve their marital disputes.”

  “Believe me, that’s one thing I’m not qualified for. I’ll be back soon. I kind of feel like I owe Madison one—after all, I did help put her best friend behind bars.”

  “Fair enough. Don’t get shot.”

  “It’s not that kind of situation.”

  Yet as Beatrice pulled up to the Mountain View Motel, a ramshackle L-shaped building with peeling white paint that was on the main road that led into town, the situation didn’t appear so simple.

  The sheriff’s cruiser was parked there, lights flashing. A black Land Rover nearby indicated the FBI was there too. Noah stood next to the car, looking lost. Beatrice pulled up next to him and jumped out.

  “Noah, what are you doing here?”

  He shrugged. “Didn’t have anything else to do. Thought I would tag along. Hey, cats.”

  Hamish meowed loudly in response.

  “Where’s the sheriff? And the men in black?”

  “Looking for the woman. FBI decided to tag along—sheriff’s mad. Anyway, she’s hiding somewhere in the motel. The desk clerk said that she had something like a psychotic break. Checked in a few days ago and the clerk barely saw her. But today, people started complaining because it sounded like she was throwing things around the room. The clerk tried to get in but the woman put the chain on. From what she saw inside, the place was completely destroyed. No idea what happened. Woman refused to talk.”

  Beatrice scratched her head. “You’d think there was a full moon right about now. Do we know her name at least?”

  “Fay DeWitt.”

  “So, obviously a fake name.”

  Noah cracked a weak smile. “Imagine so.”

  “Alright, well, I got two, sorry, three of the best sniffers in the county here. We’ll sort this out.”

  She heard a crash and then a woman darted out from a room at the far end and ran by. She was a slight thing with stringy blonde hair. She was wearing ripped clothes that looked like at one point they had been fancy—an expensive tracksuit and sneakers that had seen better days.

  “Stop!” yelled Agent Croft.

  But the woman showed no signs of stopping for anyone. She darted into another room and slammed the door shut. They could hear the bolt sliding into place.

  “Alisha, we need the key!” said the sheriff.

  A girl with brown hair and hot pink highlights poked her head out of the office at the far end. “Nope, I’m not coming out there for nothing.”

  The sheriff whistled in frustration. “Then at least go get the key and we’ll come get it.”

  “Oh. Okay.” She disappeared. There was a crashing sound within the room that sounded like a lamp smashing. Her head popped out again. “Don’t have that key, sorry.”

  “No wonder the rates here are so cheap,” Beatrice mumbled. “They don’t even have keys to their own doors.”

  “Can’t you just break the door down?” Alisha yelled.

  “You want us to break down a deadbolt?” the deputy asked.

  “Yeah, like with a karate kick or something.”

  Beatrice looked at the agents. “They teach you fancy karate kicks at the FBI academy?”

  “We don’t really call them that, but sure. Move aside.” He stepped back, pushed up his sleeves, and charged at the door before delivering it a resounding shove with his powerful leg.

  It didn’t budge.

  “Who knew for such a crappy motel they’d have such strong doors?” Beatrice muttered.

  “Stop trying to kick down my door!” wailed a voice from inside.

  “Ma’am, we need to know if you’re okay,” said Agent Macklin, ear to the door. “You’ve got a lot of people worried.”

  “I’m fine, damn you. Just leave me alone.”

  Beatrice walked up to the door, despite the sheriff’s warning gaze. “Ms. DeWitt, listen my name’s Beatrice Young and me and my cats are kind of like, well, community watchdogs. Or community watch cats. I’m not the police. If you just want to talk to a woman, maybe about woman things, I can totally do that.”

  The deadbolt slid back and the door opened, though the chain was still on. “Cats you say? I love cats. Just lost mine, in fact. I’ll talk to the cats. That’s it, though.”

  “You don’t want me to come along?” Beatrice hedged.

  “Nope, just the cats.”

  Beatrice looked down doubtfully at her three friends. “How do you feel about doing a little recon work?” she asked them. “I mean, this could be pretty dangerous.”

  Hamish and Lucky hesitated for a moment, fixated on the concerned look in their owner’s face. Petunia, on the other hand, who seemed to be used to taking orders from nobody, promptly darted into the room. The door slammed shut.

  The humans looked at each other, perplexed, while the remaining cats charged the door and scratched at it frantically.

  “Croft, that woman, or what I saw of her—she looks familiar,” said Agent Macklin all of a sudden.

  He paused, thinking. “You’re right, she does. Where have we seen her before?”

  The female cop snapped her fingers. “Why, she’s John Henson’s ex-wife, Avery! He left her when he skipped town in New Jersey. We interviewed her a couple of times, trying to get some idea of where he might be. But she was real unstable. Kept raving on and on about how John had left her with nothing, that he owed her, that he’d promised to take care of her, that he’d pay
for what he did…”

  He paused. They all looked at each other.

  “Oh my God, I think Petunia’s in there with a, with a, murderer,” Beatrice said.

  “Now ma’am, we don’t know if she’s the killer…” began Agent Croft.

  “Don’t ma’am me! We have a disturbed ex-wife kilometers from a dead ex-husband. Didn’t you learn anything in cop school?”

  As if sensing Beatrice’s distress, Hamish began to scratch eagerly at the door. Lucky soon joined him. They both started to yowl. Even worse, there came an excruciating series of screams from the other side of the door.

  “We have to break down this door!” said Agent Macklin. “It’s not made of steel, after all.”

  The cats ducked aside as he charged the door again and again. The two agents took turns throwing their full force against the door. After many tense minutes, the door crashed down.

  Everyone froze as they took in the sight within. Fluffy Petunia sat on top of the small blonde woman, paw outstretched, occasionally batting at the cowering woman underneath her in a playful way. The woman was whimpering.

  “Help! My cat’s attacking me!”

  “Your cat?” Beatrice said. The agents rushed over to cuff the culprit. “Petunia’s yours?”

  “Who’s Petunia?” the woman sniffed. “This here’s Lady. Lady was my cat until the stupid thing ran out on me a couple of days ago. She was my only friend, and now she’s turned on me.”

  She looked up at the agents. “Hey, I know you guys.”

  “You bet you do,” said Agent Macklin grimly. “And we know your ex-husband too.”

  “Ex-husband? John? John and I never divorced,” she said, as the agents made her stand up. “How is a ghost supposed to sign divorce papers? I never had anywhere to send them. Couldn’t even get rid of the sad sack, never mind get an ounce of alimony. And then when I heard that he was some fancy-pants mayor with lots of money and another wife…”

  Beatrice’s hand clapped over her mouth. “Ohhhhh. Nancy is going to be so mad!”

  “John’s a bigamist too?” Noah asked. “Well of all the stupid things he’s done…”