Phone Kitten: A Cozy, Romantic, and Highly Humorous Mystery

by Marika Christian

  He held my hand in a comforting gesture and gave it a little squeeze. “Please keep my card in case you need another contact for work.”

  This detective stuff wasn’t so tough after all! So far I had a business card and an invitation to Jim’s home.

  A priestly, minister-looking guy (I’m not sure which, I’m bad at religions) worked his way through the crowd and people began to take seats. He stood beside the casket and started quoting the bible, speaking eloquently about what a God-fearing Christian Jim was. He was a pillar of the community, did good works, a true family man who loved his neighbor. I nearly choked on that one. Maybe that was why he was dead. Maybe Jim loved his neighbor a little too much. He told me a lot of stories about his neighbor Kaz. He always described her as being trashy, all blue eye-shadow and gum-popping. I didn’t see any trailer park vixen here, though.

  I drowned out much of what Preacher Man was saying. I was looking at faces. Rachel-Ann was easy to single out, as were a few other city officials and high profile citizens of St. Pete, but for the most part I had no idea who most of these people were. So what if I recognized the killer? Saying the guy in the charcoal suit and the pink tie did it wasn’t going to help me — I needed names and I decided to have a peek at the guestbook. I hadn’t signed it, but I bet everyone else had.

  Then I noticed her. She was hard not to notice. I was pretty sure every man in the place would have stared at her gaping, had they known she had snuck in. She was sitting in the back row too, so I assumed she, like me, didn’t want to be noticed either, and if that were the case, well, she’d have to come up with a different disguise. One thing was for sure: she had never been invisible a day in her life.

  She looked over and gave me a little smile, like she was telling me that she wasn’t really supposed to be there either. That’s when I realized who she was. She was Wonder Woman. Not the actress in that old TV show, but the comic book character, come to life. She had the same hair, the same eyes, and the same curvy Amazonian figure. Sure, she had on glasses and her hair was pulled back in a conservative bun, but all it did was give her that librarian look, as in I’m-going-to spank-you-until-you-learn-the-dewey-decimal-system-and-you’ll-like-it look. Her cleavage? I don’t know if it was real or fake, but boobs were busting out all over. Forget boobs, they were what thirteen-year-old Dennis had referred to as ‘bazooms,” and they were pretty incredible, even to me, a casual observer.

  I sat for a few extra moments, and then I left my seat and went out into the entrance hall of the chapel and began writing the names and addresses as fast as I could. I was worried about getting caught, my handwriting got worse as I turned the pages, and I began writing in my own form of shorthand. I hoped to God that I could figure out what I had written later. Then a little voice whispered in my ear Peyton wouldn’t waste time writing all this stuff down. Peyton would just take the book, and stick it into her purse.

  Yeah, right. Peyton would grab the priest by the collar and do him in the ladies bathroom before the eulogy, too. That didn’t mean it was something I should do.

  Peyton was the one that got me into this! I shouldn’t be thinking of “what would Peyton do.” It had gotten me nothing but trouble.

  I shoved the book into my purse and went to the ladies room to pray. It’s not every day I steal from a dead man. I needed a moment to just relax. I rushed into a stall when I heard footsteps coming towards the door. I peeked through the crack of the door and watched as Wonder Woman applied a fresh coat of glistening red lipstick in the mirror. She left as quickly as she had come in; I thumbed through to the back page of the guest book. She hadn’t signed her name, but then again, neither had I.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I didn’t want to get busted with a dead man’s guest registry in my bag, so I left the service a little bit early. It was too soon to go to the Alexander home. I was trying not to think of it as Jim’s place; after all, he didn’t live there any more. I could nose around the neighborhood until it was more appropriate for me to show up.

  I was white-knuckling the steering wheel when I turned from Coffee Pot Boulevard onto the bridge that connected the island to the rest of St Pete. Snell Isle was only a few minutes’ drive from my apartment, but it was really several worlds away. It wasn’t a place for an economically disadvantaged girl like me. I was a little surprised that there wasn’t a guard posted on the other side to stop and do a credit check on the drivers of little Toyotas.

  It was a peaceful, pretty waterfront community. There were some classic neighborhood homes, but there were also a lot of larger, more vulgar displays of wealth. McMansions were scattered all over the island. Everything was clean, manicured, and the streets were lined with trees. It was incredibly perfect, and that made it a little creepy. I parked my car a few blocks away, on a completely different street. Stealing the registry had made it official: I was on the case. It seemed like good detective smarts for me to park where no one at the Alexander home could get a view of my license plate.

  Being a good detective is a lot like being a good reporter, the difference being that reporters tell what they discover to a larger audience and win Pulitzer prizes for it. What I needed were clues.

  Clues would lead me to the killer. Journalistically, I needed the w’s: who, what, when, where, and why. I had three suspects: the mobbed-up lounge lizard, the man in black, and Rachel-Ann. The first two were on my list because I’d seen them the night of the murder. I didn’t even know who they were. I suspected Rachel-Ann because of the things Jim had told me about her. Of course, the problem with this was that I couldn’t trust a word he said.

  I checked my watch. It was time to go. People should be arriving now, and if they weren’t, I could always lurk in a bush until it was time to go in. I wanted maximum bodies there when I arrived; that made for maximum information. There was the possibility that since it was Jim’s house and guests had just attended his funeral, people might be respectful and only speak about Jim’s good works, his service to America, and his love of apple pie. But I remembered some of the faces I’d seen. That group wouldn’t miss a chance to talk a little smack about a dead man.

  I gasped when Jim’s house came into view. It looked like a small Moroccan palace done up Vegas style. There was a half-moon drive and three huge palm trees growing in the circular patch of grass in the front. I rushed to join three or four people who were waiting at the door. Slipping in with a group would make it easier to maintain my invisible status.

  It paid off. Before we were even in the house, I heard one woman whisper to another, “I don’t know how she’s going to pay for this. He left her with nothing.”

  “Nothing?” the other woman asked.

  The first woman shrugged. “That’s what I heard. You know that little boutique she runs isn’t going to pay for this place.”

  A woman in a maid’s uniform opened the door and whisked us inside.

  The Vegasy feel outside the house was nothing compared to the inside. White marble was everywhere. White marble floors, white marble walls, and expensive, uncomfortable furniture that probably had never been used until this afternoon. It offered all the luxury required in a gambler’s paradise and absolutely none of the warmth. A little neon and a slot machine in the corner would have cozied up the joint. There were no pictures on the walls or even on any of the tables. It was grand, but it was cold. If this was how the other half lived, then I wanted no part of it.

  For a woman who’d inherited nothing, Rachel-Ann put out a good spread. There were two bars, complete with bartenders dressed in black suits, and a small army of girls passing out little snacks. I didn’t touch the food, but not because I was being loyal and true to my diet. I knew rich people considered things like fish eggs and animal livers yummy. I’m just fine with deviled eggs and pigs in a blanket. There certainly were no piggies at this party. I got a glass of water from the bar and went outside. Having waterfront property with easy access to the Gulf and a pool just seemed like showing off to me. Why wou
ld anyone want a pool when they could go down to the beach? In this case, however, I got it. In front of me was a work of art. The pool was a mosaic of every imaginable color of blue, with thin threads of green, and orange fan-tailed goldfish on the sides. In the sunlight, the blues seemed to wave, the green threads of seaweed danced, and the fish really swam. Jim’s pool was beautiful. I was pretty sure he was going to miss it.

  That’s when I caught Brant Jenson looking at me. I smiled and gave him a little wave. He motioned me to join him and Rachel-Ann. This was it. It was time for me to gush. I walked over and reminded myself that this was old hat for me. I lied for a living. No big deal. There wasn’t much difference between pretending to be a gorgeous nymphomaniac and telling a grieving widow what a wonderful man her morally bankrupt husband had been. At least that was what I was telling myself.

  Brant introduced me. “Rachel-Ann, I want to introduce you to…” He paused and looked at me for a second. “Emily… Emily Summers.”

  Oh sure, the one time someone got my name right and it wasn’t even my real name. I shook Rachel-Ann’s hand. “I’m sorry to meet you under these circumstances.”

  Brant didn’t give Rachel-Ann a chance to ask me any questions. “Emily works for the newspaper.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Are you here covering the funeral?” She shot a dirty look at Brant.

  “Oh, no ma’am. I work in the research department. I check facts, that sorta thing. Whenever I had a question about some of the things that were going on downtown, Mr. Alexander would always help me. When I heard what happened, well I just wanted to pay my respects. He was always generous with me.”

  She nodded. “Yes, if there was one thing Jim was, it was generous with the ladies.”

  Did I hear her right? Could it be that and his neighbor Kaz and I were not Jim’s only indiscretions? I chose my words carefully. “I just meant that he was generous with his time. He was real nice to me on the phone.” That wasn’t exactly a lie. He was nice to me on the phone. He was pretty generous with his money, too. It was when I met him in person that he became a scurvy bastard.

  She gave a smile and, frankly, it scared me. Again, I thought, Rachel-Ann looked a little deranged, in that beauty pageant kind of way. Sure, she was going through a lot: the funeral; her financial prospects weren’t so good from what I’d heard at the door; and she had two kids to look out for. I’m sure a house full of people gossiping about the whole situation had her stressed out of her mind. Or it could be that killing her husband had pushed her to the edge of insanity.

  “Jim had a way with people. It’s nice to hear that he made a difference in your life, even if it was in a small way.”

  A voice boomed from behind me. “Rachel-Ann.”

  I turned around to see George Hamilton’s tanner, cheesier brother. At least that’s who he looked like. Rachel-Ann dropped me like a piece of bad news.

  Brant looked over my shoulder at George Jr. “Please excuse Rachel-Ann; that’s one of Jim’s business associates. She’s been a little anxious about seeing him. You’ll excuse me.” It was a statement, not a question. He left me standing there alone, and I liked it that way.

  I went back inside and looked around the room, trying to decide which conversations might be best to eavesdrop on. I was really looking for the group I’d come in with. That one lady seemed to know the skinny. I wanted to hear more about Rachel-Ann’s financial situation.

  “I can’t believe he had the nerve to show up.”

  Oh my. A hottie was standing next to me feeding me clues, and I didn’t even have to ask. The man who’d spoken to me was everything Brant Jenson wanted to be. This guy had the hot surfer thing down. He was tall, with short brown hair and light brown eyes. Sure, he was dressed in black right now, but in a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, he’d have any girl start whistling Margaritaville.

  “I guess I’m coming in a little late in the game. I’m not really sure who that is.” I said.

  He explained without hesitation. “The guy with the spray-on tan is Jake Harlan. He was in business with Jim until about two weeks ago. That’s when he shut Jim out.”

  “Shut him out?” Pulling out my reporter’s notebook would be a really bad thing to do, so I soaked in every word.

  He looked around and whispered in my ear. “Nothing has been proven yet, but apparently Jim was embezzling funds from the company, and the people he was in bed with were, shall we say, less than honest? Lots of shoddy construction work. Jake fired Jim.”

  I cleared my throat and tried to sound innocent. “How do you know all that?”

  He flashed me a predatory smile. “I was Jim’s assistant and soon I’ll have his job. I’m working my way up the corporate ladder pretty quickly.” He whipped out his card and gave it to me. “Damon McCormick.”

  Geesh, what was with these people and their business cards? For a second, I thought I should get some, but then, really, what would I put on it? Emily Summers: Erotic Conversationalist? I didn’t think that would work. Emily Summers wasn’t even my real name.

  Since I didn’t have a card to whip out and give to him, I had to settle for a simple introduction. “I’m Emily Summers.”

  “Nice to meet you, Emily. Can I buy you a drink?”

  “I think the drinks are free.”

  “Hey, I’m just trying to start a conversation with a pretty girl. You’re paying too much attention to the details.”

  Ick. There’s nothing that screams smarmy like trying to pick up someone at a funeral. I did my best to be cool. I wasn’t used to this cute-guy-talking-to-me-thing, and my natural instinct was to run away. But there was a murder to solve, and Mr. McCormick was feeding me information. I’d have to endure his handsome face for a little while longer.

  I decided to be coy. “Tell me, Damon, how did you know I wouldn’t be offended by what you said about Jim? Maybe he’s my beloved uncle.”

  He laughed at me. “Jim wasn’t ‘beloved’ by anyone. Half the people in the room are glad he’s dead, including the Widow Alexander. If he was embezzling, he didn’t share the money. He cheated on her and left her with nothing.” He leaned closer to me and whispered, “You don’t see anyone crying here, do you?”

  That was true. That made me feel bad for everything I’d thought about Jim. The only person I had seen crying for him was his daughter, Madi.

  It was like Damon was reading my mind. “Hey, that’s the way he lived his life. I take it you didn’t know Jim very well.”

  “I guess not.”

  “How about that drink?”

  Thus far Damon had been a good source of information, but I was getting a little creeped out, too. I was also experiencing a few pangs of guilt. What if Damon was right? What if all the people here were glad that Jim was dead?

  I also really had to pee.

  “A drink would be great, but first can you tell me where the bathroom is?” I watched as a woman went through the door he pointed to. “Oh, great.”

  When I had to go, I really had to go.

  “Why don’t you just go upstairs? There’s more than one bathroom in this place.”

  I hesitated. “I don’t know.”

  “Go ahead, no one will even know and no one will mind anyway.”

  He was right. No one was going to know and really what was with the sudden regard for the Alexanders’ privacy? I had lied. I had stolen. Going upstairs to use the bathroom was going to be the least intrusive thing I did today. I’d come back downstairs and continue with my Nancy Drew act. I’d get some more information from Damon, who seemed to be in the know.

  Damon smiled. “I’ll meet you back here for that drink.”

  I crept upstairs and found the master bedroom. It was everything I imagined a high roller’s suite would look like. It was lush with dark jeweled colors, soft fabrics, and not one trace of the people that lived there. The bathroom was equally grand, with a deep Roman tub and the fluffiest towels I had ever seen. Rachel-Ann was going to have a hard time giving all of this up. After
I had taken care of business, I decided just to look around. I had never been in a place like this before and I wanted to see a little more. Hey, it was detecting, not being nosy. I walked through the master bedroom and found walk-in closets the size of my entire apartment.

  Beyond that there was a little office. I assumed it was Jim’s office. Sitting right there on the desk was his day planner.

  Right there!

  In front of me!

  I couldn’t keep my sticky little fingers off that. I opened it and flipped to the day he died. The night we met. There was my name written big as life. In capital letters, no less.

  PEYTON.

  Okay, it wasn’t my name, but it was me. What the hell? He wrote down the name of his phone kitten in his planner, and brought it home? Where anyone could see it? I had to get that book. If I stole one book I could steal another, and there were probably a lot of clues in his planner. But why was Peyton the only name on the page? Of all the people he met that night, including his killer, Peyton was the one he wrote down. It would have been so much more convenient if he would’ve written the names of the lounge lizard and the man in black. I also felt a very sick sense of accomplishment. I must be good. I started to pick up the book, when I heard someone come into the bedroom. I dropped it back on the desk in my scramble to find a place to hide in Jim’s closet.

  “I can’t believe that Goddamn bastard showed up here.” It was Rachel-Ann.

  “Now Baby, I told you he was going to come.” Brant was trailing after her.

  “Well I didn’t think he’d have the cast iron balls to actually show up. At the funeral, yes, but not here. Not in my house.”

  Oh, was she pissed. I tried to hold my breath for as long as possible, and I started praying.

  Rachel-Ann continued. “I didn’t even know Jim had been fired. Now his boss comes here and demands some stupid file that Jim might have here? I should go down there and tell him to shove it right up his ass. “

  Nice talk from pageant royalty.