A Thrift Shop Murder: A hilariously witchy reverse harem mystery (Cats, Ghosts, and Avocado Toast Book 1)

by N. M. Howell

  Agatha appeared in the doorway, looking smug. “Of course, I have a car. What do you take me for, a peasant?”

  “Well, thank you for failing to mention that before I hauled that heavy-ass crate all the way to the vet’s. You’re a sweetheart.” I turned back to the three men and glared at them. “And why didn’t any of you mention anything, either?”

  “You said you loved to exercise, right? Cardio-weight training combo, pretty sweet, like, workout, no?” Tom kept a straight face, but the barest hint of a grin flickered at the corner of his lips.

  Pussy raised his arms above his head and leaned back casually, eyeing me with his sharp stare. “Plus, cats don’t like cars. Most animals don’t, really,” he added.

  I turned to Finn who just gave me an apologetic grimace. “Cars really suck for cats.”

  I raised my hands high above my head in surrender and turned to storm out of the room, completely fed up with their nonsense. “Yeah, well, you’re men, not cats.” I called back to them. “I’m out of here.”

  Tom covered the space between us with effortless ease and blocked my path. His eyes blazed. “You’re not going anywhere without us.”

  “Oh, really?” I folded my arms over my chest. “Is that so?”

  “Yeah, it is,” Tom growled. “If Harlow is capable of killing Aggy, it’s not safe for you to face him alone.”

  I pursed my lips. “Firstly, he’s an old man. Secondly, she was an old woman.”

  “Agatha wasn’t just any old woman, Price.” Tom took a step closer and his hard abdomen brushed against my arm. His eyes were as blue as the ocean during a storm. “I know you don’t want to hear any of this witch shit, but it’s true, whether you like it or not. Agatha wasn’t some defenceless old broad. And we still have no idea how she was murdered, Harlow could have shot her with a poisoned dart from ten feet for all we know.”

  I dragged my gaze away from his brooding eyes and took a step back to find Finn and Pussy had closed in on me. I slithered between them with my hands raised. “Okay, guys, thanks for the protective house cat routine, but I’m pretty certain I’m woman enough to tackle Harlow.” Finn opened his mouth to argue with me, but I cut him off. “Stop, no arguments. This is my life, my reputation, and my mess to sort out, okay? But if you do want to help me…”

  “We do,” Pussy blurted out. Tom and Finn looked at him with a level of surprise on their faces that matched my own. Clearly, I wasn’t the only one who hadn’t figured leering Pussy for a boy scout. He shrugged one shoulder. “What? I’ve got nothing better to do now that I can’t lick my own—”

  “Yeah, we get it.” I smacked my hand over his mouth and he licked my palm in a long, firm stroke. I snatched my hand back. “You’re disgusting.”

  “You’re welcome,” he purred.

  Tom stepped between us with a stony expression. “What do you want us to do?”

  “I need you to find out everything you can about the case. I want to know what the murder weapon was, why the cops didn’t call the death as suspicious before now, what people are saying around town, basically anything you kind find out,” I said. The three men nodded and I held up my hand. “But, seriously, you need to change into normal clothes first. No more playing dress-up. We have no idea where or when you guys came from, so you need to keep a really low profile in case somebody recognises you as the local serial killer or something.”

  Finn frowned. “Can we please not assume we were criminals? I really don’t think I was a criminal.”

  A smile tugged at my lips as I examined his earnest eyes. I really didn’t think he had been a criminal either. My gaze slid to the right and connected with Tom’s ice-blue glower. That guy, on the other hand… I pointed my finger at the three men. “Just be discreet. I don’t need you three messing everything up for me.”

  Pussy saluted. “Yes, ma’am, your reverse harem won’t let you down. We know you’re relying on us to solve the case.”

  “Please,” I snorted. “I don’t need any men to help me get the job done.” I gave him a derisive once-over as I sashayed toward the front door.

  “Sure thing,” Pussy called after me in his sarcastic drawl. “Enjoy hot wiring the car.”

  I paused in the doorway, refusing to turn back to them. After a long moment of awkward silence, Finn said, “In the hall table. Beside Agatha’s address book. With Harlow’s address in it...”

  I marched down the hall and snatched the keys and the address book, shutting the drawer with a loud snap. “Thank you, jerkholes,” I muttered to myself when I was sure they couldn’t hear me.

  “You’re welcome,” the three men all called back at once. I slammed the door behind me.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I was still muttering and cursing my three not-so-feline friends under my breath when I shoved the door to the back lane open. I scanned the cracked asphalt until my gaze landed on a large object covered with a tatty old tarpaulin. “Great.” I stamped past the brightly painted wall and the strings of fairy lights, which I assumed were Frankie’s handiwork, and tugged on the corner of the heavy cloth. “Let’s get this old clunker on the road…” My voice trailed away to nothing as the tarp fell back to reveal a gleaming, bright red Mercedes-Benz convertible. “Holy crap,” I breathed. “Not bad for a grannymobile, that’s for sure.”

  I hopped in the driver’s seat and turned the key in the ignition, revelling in the purr of the powerful engine. A wide grin spread across my face; if I was going to drive across town chasing after murder suspects, I might as well do it in style. I wrapped my fingers around the soft leather steering wheel and grimaced. Minor problem: I had absolutely no idea where I was going.

  Too stubborn to ask the boys, I pulled out my phone and did a quick Google search to orient myself towards Harlow’s place, and then I was on my way. Traffic was light so it only took a few minutes to reach Mission Street. I circled the block a few times before spotting an exquisite Victorian mansion, freshly painted a bright shade of pink with a violet trim. I cocked an eyebrow as I eased the convertible into a vacant parking space; seemed like Agatha wasn’t the only one in her family who had a taste for over-the-top extravagance. I patted the car’s glossy red hood and made a silent promise that I’d bring it for a proper drive real soon before I straightened my shoulders and made my way toward Harlow’s colorful abode.

  A massive, lion-shaped metal knocker hung on the oversized violet front door. I took in a deep breath and knocked it three times, my heart racing in my chest as I waited for someone to answer. I jumped when not two seconds later the door cracked open and a short, silver-haired man appeared on the other side of the threshold.

  “Whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested.” His voice was hushed and hurried, and he pushed the door closed before I had a chance to respond.

  Seriously? I knocked again, and the door opened another crack. “I said, I’m not interested.”

  This time I was ready, and when he pushed the door closed I held my hand out to keep it open. “I’m not selling anything. My name is Price Jones, I’m looking for Agatha Bentley’s cousin.”

  The door remained still for a second, and then opened fully, revealing the man I assumed to be Harlow. He had an interesting face, not handsome exactly, but captivating all the same, his icy blue eyes, pale and eerie against the silver of his combed-back hair.

  “Pardon me?” His gaze remained fixed on my face, yet I had the unnerving feeling that I was still somehow being examined from head to toe. Like a jewel being inspected by a jeweller to determine its worth.

  I was almost certain I was standing in front of Agatha’s cousin, but a little voice in the corner of my mind urged me to be cautious. I cleared my throat. “Excuse me, I’m looking for a man called Harlow Bentley, and I was told I might be able to find him here?”

  The man’s silver eyebrows rose as he looked up at me. “Oh? And who might’ve told you that?”

  I paused. “Er…” I couldn’t exactly say the ghost of old Agatha Bentley fr
om the thrift store on Commercial. “Just, you know, some people. Somebody at Mrs. Bentley’s funeral, I can’t remember her name, sorry.” I affected my best vulnerable simper. “It’s been a pretty overwhelming few days.”

  After another few moments of studying me intently, the man opened the door wide and stepped aside with a flourish of his hand. “I’m Harlow, please, come inside, Miss Jones.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Bentley,” I said, trying not to gape at the lavish interior of his home. The inside of the house was just as grand as the outside, and I wondered just how much money this real estate man had.

  “Harlow Monroe,” he corrected me. “Bentley was Agatha’s married name.” He closed the door and led me into a grand sitting room with a small table and two elegant chairs arranged in a bright bay window. I took the seat closest to the door and perched on it uneasily. I felt uncomfortable, like I was imposing.

  I offered him an awkward smile, trying not to let the grandeur of the surroundings intimidate me. I felt the same way I used to when Gerard brought me to his business dinners; plain and cheap. I fumbled for something to say. “I didn’t realise Agatha was married.”

  The expression that flitted across Harlow’s face was so subtle that it vanished before I could put a name to it, but I watched closely as he pulled a handkerchief from his jacket and ran it over his mouth. “Yes, Agatha was married for a brief time in her youth.” He glanced out the window for a moment. “The marriage didn’t last, unfortunately, but Agatha kept the name. She thought it suited her.” I smiled. Typical Agatha. Harlow narrowed his eyes and leaned his weight on the small polished oak table that lay between us. “What do you want from me, Miss Jones?”

  I held his stare, battling the blush creeping its way up my neck. I wouldn’t be talked down to by another jerk in a fine suit. I was done with molasses and I was done with pussy-footing around. “I just moved to town. I was supposed to work for Agatha at the thrift shop. I arrived the day of her funeral.”

  Harlow arched one silver eyebrow. “I know who you are, young lady. You’re the girl that Agatha left her estate to.”

  I lifted my chin. “Yes, I am Mr. Monroe, and quite frankly, I’m having a difficult time understanding why.” Harlow slid back in his chair a little, his mouth slightly parted. “I initially assumed maybe she didn’t have any family, but…” I motioned toward him and raised my shoulders in a soft shrug. “Here you are. Which, as you can imagine, puts me in a very awkward position.” I folded my hands on the table. Agatha had seemed convinced her cousin had a lamb’s heart, but if he did, he was a lamb in snakes clothing. And if there was one thing that unsettled a snake, it was straight talking. “You probably thought Agatha was going to leave the house to you.”

  Harlow’s face split into a wide and grin and the room was filled with the sound of laughter so infectious that I felt my own lips curve. The old man coughed and smacked the table in front of him. “Oh dear,” he wheezed. “Oh dear, I’m sorry. If you knew my cousin you’d know why that’s funny.”

  I drew my eyebrows together. “I would?”

  The old man straightened himself and dabbed his eyes with his handkerchief. “My cousin was the very definition of contrary, Miss Jones. If you said that door was white, she’d swear down that it was black. If you told her she had pretty hair, she’d hack it off with a spoon just to prove you wrong. When I told her I’d buy the store and the apartment and let her move to a safe, secure retirement village...”

  “She told you, you’d never get your fingers on her house,” I finished.

  Harlow nodded. “She’d sooner lick a cat’s ass than let me get my greedy paws on the building, I think those were her exact words.” I grimaced, assaulted by the unfortunate image of Agatha and the three cats. Jebus. I forced my attention back to the silver-haired man. “Now, that’s not to say I wasn’t surprised when I heard she’d left everything to a total stranger.” Harlow gave me another appraising glance before turning back to the window, shadows lurking behind his eyes. “I mean, I knew I wasn’t getting a whiff of the inheritance, but I’d bet there were a few shocked people in Salem the day you were handed those keys.”

  My pulse raced, and I swallowed the lump that formed in my throat. I wanted to ask who he was talking about, but something about the set of his jaw made me hold my tongue. I decided to try flattery; it had always worked on Gerard. “This sure is a beautiful house. Do you own many homes?”

  Harlow shrugged as if the exquisite Victorian mansion was unremarkable. “This is just one of many, yes. I am a collector, of sorts. Can’t help myself. But I downsized to move out west, you know. Simplify life a little bit, if you know what I mean.”

  My eyebrows shot up at his words. If this was simple compared to where he lived before, I wasn’t sure I wanted to know much more. He lived in a world an entire league above my own, that was for sure. “You seem to have quite an eye for architecture. I think Agatha’s building is lovely too, or it could be.” Harlow nodded, noncommittal. “Were you ever interested in Agatha’s home? I mean, before she fell out with you.”

  Harlow made a face. “That ratty old thing? Not interested. As you can see, I have much grander tastes.” He grimaced, as if suddenly remembering the apartment was now mine. “Of course, it could be renovated to make a lovely home for somebody. That street has a real up-and-coming vibe. Very hip.”

  I suppressed a snicker. Hip. Yeah, he was Agatha’s cousin all right. Shifting on the chair, I wondered could Harlow really have anything to do with Agatha’s murder. I took in his portly physique and curved moustache, such a stark contrast to the hard lines of the room. I really couldn’t see him having any motive to kill Agatha. He could probably buy any house in town with cash out of his own hand-stitched silk suit pocket. He didn’t need an inheritance. He was a businessman, for sure, but that didn’t make him a murderer. I got to my feet and extended my hand. “Well, thanks for your time, Mr. Monroe. I should probably head home.”

  Harlow nodded politely and stood to lead me back to the front door. I glanced over my shoulders as I passed through the entryway, once again aware of the unnerving prickle at the base of my spine. The feeling of being watched by unseen eyes. I waved curtly at Harlow as I slipped onto the front porch, releasing a breath as the door closed behind me. Just as I was about to step onto the pavement, the door opened again, and Harlow’s voice called after me. “Oh, Miss Jones?”

  I turned. “Yes, sir?”

  “Have you spoken to Officer Fitzgerald yet?” Harlow asked, his blue eyes like quicksilver in the morning light. My throat constricted. The snake. The sneaky little snake. He’d known exactly why I was there all long. “If you want to ask anyone else questions about Agatha’s will, I suggest you have a little chat with her friends, especially good old lady D’Arcy.” The breeze suddenly vanished so Harlow’s final words hit my like a shout before he closed his door with a resounding snap. “There’s a reason I felt Agatha would be safer far away from Salem, and it was nothing to do with the price of tea in China.”

  I gaped at the bright violet door for a heartbeat before speed walking back to the car.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Driving back across town, thoughts gathered like pebbles at the base of my skull. There was something not quite right about the picture of Agatha’s life that was being painted for me by those who knew her; it was like a familiar melody being played on an un-tuned piano. My head ached and I could barely concentrate on the road. I flicked my blinkers and pulled into a parking lot in front of a liquor store.

  “Is noon too early for a liquid lunch?” I muttered to myself, eyeing the man carrying out a large bottle in a brown paper bag. He stumbled on the curb, almost losing his footing and I exhaled. “Yes, Price. Yes, it is. What you need to do is talk to somebody—somebody beside yourself.”

  To my utter frustration, the first image that popped into my mind was the three men-cats. I raised my eyebrows as I scrolled through my contacts, looking for the phone number Agatha had used in her job ad
vertisement, and wondered was talking to your pets better or worse than talking to yourself. Finn’s warm voice answered on the first ring and a smile pulled at my lips. Better. Definitely better. “Finn, you answered, I wasn’t sure if you guys knew how to use a cell.”

  Finn’s laughter filled my ears. “Yep, we’re super cats. We even managed to charge the damn thing.”

  “Color me impressed, Muffin,” I teased.

  Finn gave another chuckle before a voice barked something at him in the background. I patted the steering wheel as I heard the phone switch hands, preparing myself to talk to surly Tom. “Price, where are you?”

  I sat up straight and pressed the phone against my ear. “I’m in a parking lot off Mission Street, why?”

  “Listen, Pussy turned into a cat again, but we used it to our advantage and he managed to sneak into the Police Department and find out a bit more about Agatha’s case,” Tom said.

  I stared at the dashboard with my brows drawn together. “And?”

  “And Agatha was definitely murdered.” Tom’s voice was grave. “There were lesions and markings around her neck consistent with strangulation. Very deep injuries, Price. The cops are pretty certain it had to be a man or a particularly strong woman who attacked her, but there was no sign of forced entry, no defensive injuries, no sign of a struggle in the store, nothing missing from the till. Nothing of note, well, except the jumbo grape lodged in her throat and enough force to snap her spinal cord.”

  I stabbed at the buttons on the car door in a desperate attempt to roll down the window. I needed air. I couldn’t catch a breath. Tom called my name down the phone, his pitch rising as he began to curse. I forced myself to open my mouth. “I’m here, Tom. I’m okay.” He exhaled into the speaker of the phone and I shook my head. “I just… I don’t think I really believed it before. I know it sounds stupid, when I believed about ghosts and witches and talking cats, but somebody murdering Agatha?” I whispered. “How did they not figure it out straight away? I mean, they released her body and everything.”