A Claw-some Affair (MEOW FOR MURDER Book 3)

by Addison Moore

  Shep’s chest thumps. “She did it for the money. Madeline Swanson was drowning in debt, wasn’t she?”

  Lucas closes his eyes a moment. “I know what you’re thinking. Some financial advisor I turned out to be, right? But let me make it clear, Maddie didn’t allow anyone to tell her how to spend her money. Her family is wealthy, but they cut her off once she turned twenty-five. It happened to a lot of our friends. Our fathers are into that whole leave no wealth behind for the next generation movement. Instead, it’s all being funneled out through philanthropist efforts.”

  “Like the one Madeline was working for.”

  “Exactly.”

  Shep’s lips twitch, and I can tell his sexy wheels are turning and churning.

  “Lucas”—he leans forward— “does your father’s firm handle Wallace Hathaway’s finances?”

  “Oh no.” He gives a dark chuckle. “My father and Wallace are competitors through and through. Wallace has his money over at Financial Premier.”

  Financial Premier… why does that sound familiar?

  “Financial Premier,” Shep says it as if he’s more than familiar himself. “My sister works there. It happens to be where I have my own portfolio.”

  “Good place to cast your finances.” He nods. “But before you migrate in that direction,” he pulls out a packet of information and slides it my way, “I’d really like for you to consider us first.”

  “I certainly will,” I say.

  Shep and I stand and my window of questioning Lucas Lane is quickly closing.

  There are still so many things I’m dying to know, like what’s going on between him and Kiera? And what about Sophia? Are they still having an affair?

  Lucas walks us to the door, and I pause a moment.

  “Lucas? Who do you think killed Madeline? Sophia inadvertently pointed a finger at Parker. What do you think about that?”

  He rocks back on his heels as he thinks on it a minute.

  “I don’t know who killed Madeline. But I do know that Madeline was having financial problems. I didn’t think she was desperate enough to steal and make a buck off someone I once considered a friend.”

  His expression grows dark, and I wonder if Lucas knew that Madeline and Parker were having a fling?

  Shep shifts his body. “It doesn’t sound like the two of you are friends anymore.”

  “We’re not close.” He shakes his head. “Let’s just say, Parker was inserting himself where he doesn’t belong. If you ask me, the killer got the wrong person.” His expression lightens on a dime. “Then again, maybe he’s your killer, Detective.” He nods to Shep then me. “I’ll see you at the memorial mixer.”

  Shep and I hightail it out of there and out of the building into the crisp fall air as papery leaves in a rainbow of citrine colors trickle from the trees.

  “Well?” I ask. “What do you think?”

  “I don’t think we learned anything new.” Shep glances back at the building. “Do you think that guy is having it with both Kiera and Sophia?”

  “Jealous?” I ask.

  “Not me. I’m happily married, remember?”

  A laugh bubbles from me. “Our relationship got a demotion no thanks to Kiera, but I liked plan A better myself, too.”

  “So what’s next, Detective Binx?”

  “I think there’s a hedge fund manager at Financial Premier we need to speak with. If Madeline was desperate enough to sell out an old friend, maybe she was desperate enough to steal from old man Hathaway?”

  “No can do. I’m leaving my sister out of this.”

  “Have it your way.” I’m not leaving my newfound sister-in-law out of anything, but Shep doesn’t need to know that.

  His shoulders sag as he looks my way.

  “I know that look, Bowie. You’re thinking about the things you’re going to do once my guard is down.”

  “Only every morning when you wake up by my side, sweetheart,” I toss his words right back at him and he offers the hint of a devilish grin as we head for his truck.

  He’s right, though.

  But I don’t need to blow up his ego with that tidbit just yet.

  Chapter 12

  The entire next day the Manor Café is bustling.

  Tilly and I added five new menu items, and each one has been a huge hit with the hungry crowd. Pumpkin spice pancakes for the breakfast menu, creamy chicken pot pie, a calzone—delicious folded pizza with tangy sauce and enough mozzarella to stretch from New York to Los Angeles—and for dessert, glazed apple dumplings and pumpkin brownies. Of course, the lasagna is now a staple on the menu, too. And if business picks up, Opal has approved the hiring of a couple more cooks and waitresses.

  It’s a little after seven in the evening, and Tilly heads my way while taking off her apron.

  “Take it off, Bowie Binx.” She motions to my apron as well. “Tonight’s the kickoff of the fall festival.”

  “What’s the fall festival?”

  “Every year, on the first day of autumn, all of Starry Falls heads to the Abernathy Farm and knocks back spiked hot apple cider while taking a roll in the hay.”

  “Why do I get the feeling the truth is a little more G-rated than that?”

  Thea waddles by with an enormous tray of dirty dishes.

  “Because it is!” Thea shouts on her way to the kitchen. “And if the two of you go, get me one of those honey apple fritters. They’re to die for. I won’t be able to go until Saturday.”

  “Will do,” I say, taking off my apron and grabbing my purse. “Come on, Tilly.” I thread my arm through hers. “Take me to your fritter.”

  The Abernathy Farm is located southeast of the famed waterfalls themselves. And as soon as we get out of Tilly’s car, we’re treated to miles of oaks and maples with their leaves in every fiery hue as they pay homage to the season. The air is crisp and scented with sugary fresh baked goods, and there are throngs of people roaming an expanse of the farm with its craft booths and food tents.

  But the most majestic sight of all is the white rush of water that flows freely down the mountainside to the left. There is nothing grander, purer, and more heavenly than the twin falls this town holds near and dear in its very own moniker.

  Tilly drove to her place first and did a quick change into a pair of jeans so tight it took both Jessie and me to help button them up. She also donned a pair of chocolate brown boots that hit just below her knee and a low-cut orange sweater. Normally, I wouldn’t be so attentive to Tilly’s wardrobe choices, but it just so happens that fall fashion has always been my favorite.

  “I miss this,” I say as we make our way through the crowds. “I miss boots and holey jeans—that I paid a mint for—flannels, cable knit sweaters, my lambskin leather jacket that fits as if an Italian tailor made it just for me, and my collection of Hermes scarves.”

  “What’s a Hermie?” She elbows me before I can answer and points to a tent on the left where a sign reads, welcome local authors. “Well, look who’s here!”

  We thread our way through the thicket of people and spot S.J. Wexler himself seated at the most popular table by far. A line of about sixteen people deep snakes all the way to the churro stand next door.

  “Let’s get a churro, Tilly. And by the time we finish our treats, we can say hi to Shep.”

  “No can do,” she says while fiddling around with her phone. “Jackson just texted and he’s here somewhere with friends. I’ve got to find that boy. My lips have been missing him something fierce all day.”

  “He’s here with friends? Which friends?” Considering the fact Jackson’s friends are all suspects at this point, I’m pretty interested in finding that boy myself. “Wait—hold the phone.” I’m being literal as I pluck the phone right out of her hand. “Did you just say your lips have been missing him all day? As in they’ve become intimately acquainted?”

  “More intimately than you’ll ever know, Bowie Binx.” Tilly ticks her head to the side as a wicked grin takes over. “That vision of yours w
as a good luck charm. We hit his place that night and then we hit all the bases.”

  “Hang onto the details,” I’m quick to tell her. “I’ve been in a bit of a dry spell ever since I rolled into town, and I’d hate to get hot to trot with no one to blow any of that steam off with.”

  Tilly’s phone buzzes and she examines the text.

  “Sophia’s the friend.” She wags the phone in my face and I can see the text from Jackson. “And I’m calling your bluff. You’ve got one hot author to blow some sexy steam off with.” She hitches her head toward the tent. “Go get yourself a churro and then get yourself a man. Sexy Wexy is ripe for the picking. I’ve seen the way he looks at you. He hasn’t looked at a girl that way since—” She squints out at the tangerine sky as evening gives way to a star-filled night.

  “Since Regina?” My stomach cinches at the thought of Shep’s stunning yet annoying ex. “Since Nora?” He was engaged to the woman. Surely he gave her a noteworthy glance or two.

  “Nope to both. I guess there’s just you.” Her phone buzzes again, and she gives a little squeal. “Jackson’s near the tractor pull. I can smell a roll in the hay less than two minutes away.” She leans in. “Mud is running the cider press. Slip him a bill or two and he’ll deliver it more spiked than spiced. And don’t forget to take a bite out of that shepherd pie! It’s long overdue.” Her voice trails as she saunters into the crowd.

  I make my way over to the churro stand, pick up two, and eat them both while waiting in line for Shep’s latest book. No sooner do I get to the front of the line than I spot a familiar, crafty yet sultry brunette.

  “Regina?” For reasons unbeknownst to me, I choose to address the vampy vixen by his side rather than the author himself. Her hair is wild, her makeup accentuated with glittery eye shadow, and she’s wearing a skintight red dress that’s more lady of the night than it is night out at the pumpkin patch.

  “Bowie.” Her glossy red lips expand with delight. “I’m Shepherd’s table helper for the night.”

  “Hello, Bowie,” Shep says as my attention shifts his way.

  He’s donned a tweed jacket, tan shirt, and navy tie. His thick hair is slicked back with a sheen, but it’s those hooded lids and that dangerous smile flirting with his lips that sends a heat wave washing over me. Normally, I’d enjoy the heated sensation, but at the moment, I’m not all too thrilled with anything that has to do with Shepherd Wexler.

  Clearly, he could have asked me to be his table helper.

  I would have said no. But still, it’s nice to be asked.

  “I bought you a churro,” I say as his eyes widen with a touch of hope. “And then I ate it.”

  “Someone’s grumpy.” Regina shoves a copy of The Made Man my way. “I bet you’re here looking for something to keep you company in bed. Happy reading, Bowie.” Her lips expand with a caustic smile. “Shep here tells me you have a cat you can snuggle with. Sounds as if weekends are pretty wild at your place.”

  I growl over at her. Why do I get the feeling that vision I had about finding the two of them in a compromising position is about to come true?

  “No thanks. I’ve already got a copy.” I lean in a notch as I squint over at the good author. “You should really find someone who can fact check your mobster knowledge. You never know who’s reading your books.” I cinch a smile. “I’d better get going. Rumor has it, my new friend Sophia Hathaway is out there somewhere just waiting for some company.”

  Shep fiddles with the pen in his hands, his icy eyes never leaving mine.

  “Bowie.” It’s all he says as the muscles in his jaw flex tight.

  The woman behind me shoves her way to the front, and in a blink the table is mobbed with a pack of literature hungry ladies.

  I don’t bother sticking around for the Sexy Wexy Show. Instead, I head back out into the breezy autumn night and admire the lights strung high over the festivities. The fall leaves, the bales of hay dotting the periphery, Mud and his dicey cider press in the distance, it’s all giving me a pinch of nostalgia for better falls gone by.

  In truth, the origin of every bad relationship I’ve ever been in can be traced back to this pumpkin spiced season.

  Some say spring is king when it comes to falling in love, but for me the flames of passion have always been stoked under the duress of a harvest moon.

  There’s just something about jumping into the fall foliage, apple picking, getting lost in a pumpkin patch, going for a hayride, and making a scarecrow that screams romance.

  Not that any of my exes and I ever did any of those things, but maybe if we had we would have sizzled more than we fizzled.

  A redhead strides by with her chin tucked into a mustard yellow scarf and an orange pea coat wrapped tightly around her torso.

  “Sophia!” I call out as I run to catch up with her.

  “Chloe?” She backs up a notch as I inadvertently land us in a line for fresh dipped caramel apples.

  “Bowie.” I shrug. “Fancy meeting you here. Are you here with your boyfriend? There’s nothing like a caramel apple that screams true love.”

  She belts out a laugh. “No. Parker isn’t into this kind of thing.” Her expression sours. “Jackson is. But he found someone to hit the hay with, so I was about to head home.”

  “Well, you might as well take an ooey gooey apple with you. We’re about five minutes from caramel dipped heaven,” I say as a couple of teenagers walk past us with everything but the kitchen sink adhered to their sticky apples.

  “Fine. But I’m on the one bite diet when it comes to dessert.”

  “But what a bite it will be,” I say as I inspect her a moment.

  The lights up above wash her complexion white as snow and her red lipstick takes center stage. Her clothes look as if they were ripped off the runways of Milan, and there’s an overall expressive look about her. Even her warm scented perfume holds an exotic appeal that you can bet your britches cost a diamond or two.

  “I get it,” I say. “The diet thing. Last year, I went on the all-beef diet. My boyfriend loved it. We had steaks for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”

  True as grass-fed gospel. But it only lasted a week and a half. You can’t manage a donut shop and not eat your way through the inventory.

  The donuts not only crashed my diet, but they spelled out my doom in other ways, too. It was there Johnny and I thought it best to help ourselves to the money we were helping the Morettis launder. But you know what they say, nothing goes better with a felony than carbs.

  Fine. They don’t say that, but they should.

  Sophia blinks my way. “Is that the moos and booze diet?” She marvels. “I was thinking of trying that next.”

  “That’s the one. I inhaled the moos while my boyfriend inhaled the booze. He cheated on both the diet and me by having a few dozen women for dessert. He was pretty much a louse. I would’ve loved to have dipped his head in hot caramel and rolled it in marshmallows—or a spike strip.”

  She lets a sharp laugh fly. “I know exactly what you mean.” She straightens as if catching herself. “Not with Parker, of course.”

  “Of course.” Why the lie? Why not toss him under the cheating bus? And here I thought we were bonding over our skeezy exes.

  She studies me a moment. “I mean, we didn’t have a conventional relationship. We were sort of feeling things out with other people.”

  Now there’s something that might actually make sense.

  Her eyes coast down my arm and pause at the truckload of diamonds strung together on my wrist.

  “Now that’s a sparkler,” she muses with approval. “I can spot the real deal from a mile away. I used to wear one, too, until it went out of vogue. But I’m sure your darlings were mined responsibly.”

  “Oh, right.” I gasp and sputter as I bring the bracelet close to my chest. “Harmless harvest, ethically plucked from the earth until a dollar hollers and all that good stuff.” Something Lucas said yesterday comes to mind. “It was the last gift my father gave me before
I was cut off.” I roll my eyes as if I meant it. “You know, that whole billionaire pact that demands the children of the rich and infamous spend the rest of their days working in a no-name diner so that their parents can feel good about themselves?”

  Her crimson lips fall open. “You too?” She gasps. “Of course! Why else would you be friends with Jackson and Opal?” She shakes her head as if her entire life, and mine, were suddenly coming into focus. “It’s deplorable, really. That entire billionaire pact is ridiculous. I mean, we didn’t ask to be born with a silver spoon in our mouths. Nobody asked anyone to bathe us in hundred dollar bills for twenty-five years and then pull the plug. It’s as if we’re a part of some cruel social experiment at the hands of our parents.”

  “Oh, I get it.” That entire social experiment at the hands of our parents thing rings true when your father is in the mob, too. And once my daddy was hauled off to prison, the gilded ride was over. It was frozen pizza and clipping coupons from there on out. And that reversal of fortune was a deciding factor in why I decided to siphon a few bucks off the top of the mob’s already siphoned off the top take. “But like it or not, our parents’ lifestyles influenced us in more ways than one. I mean, look at you, you’re running the Hathaway Foundation now and following in your father’s footsteps.”

  I guess you could say I was following in my father’s footsteps when I inadvertently became a felon.

  She shrugs. “My father has never enjoyed the business end of wealth building. He retired early. And the only reason he’s a philanthropist is because he just so happens to be a little too good at making money. The more he gives away to charitable foundations, the bigger the tax deduction.” She gives a scrutinizing look my way as she takes a step in. “Just before Maddie was killed, the Hathaway Foundation donated five hundred thousand dollars to Goober, Inc.”

  “Kiera’s company?” I inch back. “That’s a half a million dollars. Why on earth?”

  She takes a deep breath as a smile curls on her lips.

  “That’s exactly what I’d like to know. Funny thing is, I asked my father about it and he didn’t seem to know what that was about.” She shrugs as we step up, next in line. “He didn’t seem to care either.”