Cat Call (Crazy Cat Lady Cozy Mysteries Book 4)

by Mollie Hunt

  “So that’s not your gun?” Ray pointed to the small pearl-handled pistol lying near where Jason must have tumbled into the water. I gasped. I’d forgotten about the gun. I should never have resisted the man.

  Morton blanched.

  “It’s your gun, isn’t it?” Tourney put out.

  “No—‌I don’t know. Well, yes, it looks like my gun, but I have no idea how it got there. Someone must have stolen it out of my desk.”

  “Sure, buddy,” the security officer harrumphed.

  “It’s true. It’s really true!” Morton turned to Ray Anderson, his kohl-lined eyes pleading. “You’ve got to believe me, Ray. Please?”

  I became aware of sirens culminating below, the clamor of voices, booted feet on the stairs, running men, a profusion of them. Two flack-vested officers, firearms poised, stormed the door, then positioned themselves to either side. Another pair followed, thrusting a little farther into the room. Everyone, including me, automatically raised their hands.

  “Olaf Tourney, Edgefield Security. All under control here.”

  The second pair made their way around the perimeter, checking the adjoining rooms and finally the patio.

  “Clear,” said one.

  “Clear,” echoed the other.

  Tourney shifted slightly toward the officer by the pool. “Body’s in there. Alleged to be one Jason Prince. A firearm on the ground to your right. I found these two engaged in a physical dispute.” He nodded to Morton and me. “The man by the door is Ray Anderson, who accompanied me to the scene.”

  Four pair of steely eyes swept the space once more, then turned on me.

  “Lynley Cannon,” I offered.

  “And you, Ma’am...uh, I mean Sir?”

  “Oh, bollocks!” Morton swore. “Don’t you recognize me? I’m a famous, best-selling author. I’m Angela T. Moore.”

  * * *

  The day was beginning to dawn through the high south-facing windows of the McCaffrey & Jack office set. I squirmed on an uncomfortable leather couch while Detective Marsha Croft of the Portland Police Department sat across from me, right at home in McCaffrey’s big chair. She had her elbows on the oak desk, her fingers steepled. Her dark eyes skewered me, absorbing my guilt like two black holes.

  “Lynley Cannon,” she said finally.

  I made to smile but the social thing was just too hard to pull off at the moment. “Yup, it’s me.”

  With that slight, indistinct accent of hers, she said it again. “Lynley Cannon. I have not seen you for, oh, let me see... a little over a year?”

  “I guess that would be about it,” I replied, counting up the time since our last association. Murder had been involved in that meeting as well, which made sense since Croft was a homicide detective. What didn’t make sense was that here we were again. “How have you been?” I said, wincing at the banality of my salute.

  Croft ignored me, her slim fingers skimming across her laptop keyboard as she began to type. I waited, dog-tired yet antsy at the same time. The combination was making me nauseated and I hoped I wasn’t going to throw up.

  Marsha Croft was a substantial woman, tall and muscled. She wore a neutral gray business suit, probably the same one I’d seen her in last time we met. Croft wasn’t big on fashion as her blunt-chopped black hair and dated red lipstick attested. She was, however, an extraordinary detective as I’d come to know from more first-hand experience than I would care to admit.

  The faux office made a good incident room and I had the dreamy feeling that, instead of in a real police interview for an actual murder, I was part of a show. Which meant it didn’t matter what I said. So I said quite a lot.

  I told Detective Croft all about the hex and the progressively dangerous incidents blamed on the hexter. I told her about the catnapping, the heated argument I’d overheard between Jason Prince and the man I now knew to be Angela T. Moore. I told her about my misadventure in the hidden tunnels and the rescue of the show cats. I’d gotten a little sidetracked describing the wondrous beauty of Clark Gable and Cary Grant—‌how their golden fur shone in the sun; the expressiveness of their jewel-like eyes—‌when Croft began to tap a fingernail on the desk.

  “Lynley Cannon,” she said for a third time, “Why are you here?”

  “I... um.” I was sure I had covered that bit of background in my monologue, but for Croft, I didn’t mind telling it again. “I took over the job of cat handler when my friend, Rhonda Kane, was hospitalized...”

  “Yes, you said. What I mean is, what are you doing mixed up in yet another murder, and with all too much information to boot? You must realize this sort of amateur involvement with killings is not a statistical norm.”

  I sat up with a start. “You don’t suspect I had something to do with Jason Prince’s death, do you?”

  She let the question stand for a few seconds, then gave a brief smile. “No, Ms. Cannon. We are currently looking at Mr. Morton for that offense. No, it is merely the coincidence. When I am summoned to a scene of crime, I usually know none of the principles, yet here you are again.”

  Croft rose, pulling down her suit jacket in a maneuver reminiscent of Captain Picard in Star Trek, the Next Generation. Perching on the edge of the big desk, she studied me. “Your instincts have proven uncannily fair in the past. Do you have any insights on this one?”

  “Me, no. Well, yes, one thing. When I first found Angela... Davit Morton at the pool, he told me he was innocent. He was quite adamant about it.”

  “And you believed him?”

  I hesitated, recalling the empathy I’d felt for the man’s raw emotion. “Let’s just say I didn’t disbelieve him. Something about his grief at Jason’s death. It didn’t seem staged.”

  “Killers can feel grief, especially for a crime of passion, one they had not intended to commit.”

  “Yes, but he looked so shocked, so surprised.”

  “His gun was beside the pool, right where you reported discovering the suspect when you first entered the suite. His fingerprints were on it.”

  “Were there any other fingerprints?”

  She gave me a quizzical look. “As a matter of fact, there were. Those of the deceased, somewhat smudged. We deduce some sort of struggle.”

  “Or maybe Jason Prince had the gun and was threatening Angela. Maybe Angela shot him in self-defense.”

  “According to your statement, that was never Morton’s story.”

  “Maybe he’s covering. Maybe he’s scared to tell the truth.”

  “Why are you working so hard to defend him, Ms. Cannon? He attacked you, for goodness sake. Why would he do that if he had nothing to hide?”

  I stood, stretching the ache out of my battle-worn muscles, and moved to the window where I could see the bustle of the Pearl district revving into full swing as the day progressed. A garbage truck lumbered loud and tortoise-like down the street below. A brightly-decaled delivery van came up from the other direction, on its way to one of the 23rd Street boutique stores. A bike messenger whipped in between the traffic, careless and death-defying.

  “That’s just it though. If Davit had really wanted to stop me from leaving, why didn’t he just shoot me? Why did he physically strike? It wasn’t something he was used to or even especially good at.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  I tuned and faced her. “Because I managed to get the better of him. Granted I’ve been taking self-defense classes, but that only makes me more certain he had no idea what he was doing in a fight. His move was purely instinctive, to stop me from calling the police.”

  “If he were innocent, why would he object to your calling us? In fact, why would he not have done it himself? Most people do not hesitate to report a crime, especially one with such magnitude as murder. They fear the perpetrator may still be nearby and may harm them as well. They want the person caught. Not calling us points to guilt.”

  I sighed. “I know.”

  “And he seems to have motive,” she went on, “if what you say is true ab
out Prince being a disgruntled ex-partner. His actions threatened Morton’s very lucrative television venture. His sabotage was a form of emotional blackmail. Blackmail victims are known to go to extreme measures to rid themselves of their blackmailer.”

  “But Jason Prince said he quit the hex pranks after Juno Jones died. That was no accident, by the way, though I know your investigators don’t agree.”

  “The case of Jones’ death is being reopened, and whoever is responsible will be charged. However, if it turns out to be Prince, there is little to be done at this time.”

  “It had to have been him—‌he so much as admitted it. I had the impression he became overwhelmed with guilt that one of his tricks led to someone’s death.”

  “And you got all this from the eavesdropped conversation? Are you absolutely certain you heard correctly and completely? That he was not talking about something else?”

  “I’m, uh, pretty sure. I suppose I could be mistaken.”

  “You will have to show me where this conversation took place. My forensics team should be able to discern whether your account is feasible or not. Memory can be deceptive, Lynley, and you were under a fair amount of stress at the time.”

  Croft was being uncharacteristically chatty so I ventured, “Do you think Davit Morton is the killer?”

  She reseated herself at the desk and looked at me, cop eyes veiled, not a single tell in her straight-backed stance. “That’s all for now, Ms. Cannon. Please make yourself available for further questioning.”

  So that was the end of the interview. Davit Morton aka Angela T. Moore was the suspect, and I was free to go. I nodded to Croft, slipped past the silent officer standing watch beside the door, and ducked out of the room. Even as I limped across the mezzanine to the elevator, my steps quickened; suddenly I couldn’t be rid of that makeshift interview room fast enough. All I wanted was to get to the trailer and see the cats, then call Seleia and check on my own clowder. It felt like forever since I’d been home. How was old Harry doing? Was Tinkerbelle’s asthma flaring up? Did Big Red pine for me in my absence; he really was a one-person cat. Seleia would be great with them and they all knew her well. They were okay without me, I told myself, then added, But I’m not alright without them.

  * * *

  That was it. I needed to get out of there. I needed to go home, rest and try to put this whole thing behind me. By the time the elevator hit the basement floor, I had it all planned. I’d seek out Gerrold or whoever was taking charge of the fractured production. I would find out what was happening—‌they couldn’t be forging ahead after this, could they? I would take Clark Gable and Cary Grant to my house where Vera could pick them up when—‌and if—‌filming resumed. My days as a cat handler were over. I would never return. Never!

  Clark and Cary greeted me at the door of the trailer. They told me, Cary with meows and Clark with unmistakable body language, all about how I’d been gone for way too long and had completely missed their usual breakfast time. With head butts and smoothing of my ankles, they promised to forgive me provided there was no more delay.

  I kicked off my sandals and got busy serving them their fancy pate in the pretty little bowls. Blank with exhaustion, my mind retreated into the mundane details of feeding cats. I worked slowly, my hands shaking, and eventually the meows subsided into the slurping of food. I switched out their water with fresh from the Britta machine and rinsed the old bowls, leaving them to dry by the little sink.

  Next order of business was to call Seleia. I took my phone out of my pocket, then checked the clock and was surprised to see it was only six-thirty; most likely the teenager would still be in bed. I decided to shower first and get dressed in real clothes; I’d had enough of bumbling about in Rhonda’s oversized caftan. The garment would need some repair and a good wash after the trials of the night. As I shed the ill-fitting costume, I made a mental note to take it home with me.

  I put the phone on the dresser, hoping it still worked after its collision with the penthouse floor. I’d managed to retrieve it as I left the murder room, probably not exactly lawful since the place had become a crime scene and everything should by rights have been left as it was. But I needed it. The phone was mine—‌at least temporarily—‌and totally unrelated to the crime. Besides, no one saw me pick it up.

  Chapter 25

  Do you tell cute stories about your cats on social media? More than one study claims that viewing cat photos and videos may boost energy and positive emotions.

  I’m not a great fan of showers, preferring to lounge in the steaming hot luxury of a bath, but in this particular instance, the feel of the warm, penetrating waterfall working its magic down my tired and, in some places, bruised body felt marvelous. I leaned against the slick fiberglass wall and closed my eyes, then opened them again as the image of Jason Prince’s floating body came unbidden to my memory, blood swirling through the water, dark and poisonous as nicotine.

  Sternly banishing the image, I washed my hair with an organic shampoo I’d never heard of that smelled slightly of lilac and soaped down with amber Neutrogena from a pump bottle. Rinsing as the flow began to go cool and wrapping in a fluffy towel, I had fully intended to get dressed, but when I came out of the bathroom and saw Clark and Cary beckoning me from the bed, I decided to relax for just a little longer. Lying down between them, I pulled the fleece quilt up over me, then cuddled with the cats, thanking my lucky stars that we were safe, that Prince’s killer was apprehended, and that I would soon be back to the boring, normal life I loved so much.

  It was after seven by now and I decided to take a chance on calling Seleia. Though not exactly an early riser, the young girl often had a busy schedule and I didn’t want to miss her. Besides, after the shock of the night, I needed to hear her voice, hear her tell me little stories about the cats: Violet did this; Emilio did that; Tinkerbelle was so cute when...

  I picked up the phone from the bedside table and clicked it to life. I began to punch the icon for the dial pad, then stopped mid-poke. Something was off about the placement on the screen. I remembered that particular icon being in the upper right-hand corner—‌now it was lower center. Of course these things have been known to shift around by themselves at some wily whim of the phone gods. And I could easily be wrong about the position. I’d had the generic loaner for less than a day, not really enough time to memorize the layout.

  But that was just it; since it had been new to me, I’d paid extra attention as I navigated its unfamiliar territory. I closed my eyes and visualized the bright and colorful grid. I was almost certain the little dial pad symbol had been at the top.

  I looked at the screen again. Other icons were mixed up as well, and there were several that I’d never seen before, a twitter birdie, an IMDb icon, and a Gmail account to name a few. I’d never added a Gmail account, of that I was certain. I didn’t even have a Gmail account, preferring to stick with my regular email, the one I got with my first computer, back in the olden days.

  Out of curiosity, I punched up the item. The opening screen appeared with its two boxes for user ID and password. The fields were populated, the save password box checked. The password was the usual cryptic series of round black dots but the user ID caught my eye and held it. Rlogan preceded the universal gmail.com.

  Rlogan. Who the heck was Rlogan?

  Clark Gable had curled up beside me, purring heartily, and Cary Grant was nosing around the edge of the blankets, trying to push his handsome bulk underneath, but in spite of the warmth of the cats and comfort of the fleece quilt, I felt a sudden chill. It made no sense, no sense at all, but I was quickly coming to the realization that this was not my phone.

  * * *

  All the studio phones looked alike and everyone had one, from director to grips. Grace the costume supervisor was using one in her trailer, and I’d seen another lying on Hana’s make-up table in the basecamp tent. Freddie had one, though he also had his own phone, a sleek blue smartphone, the number he had so sweetly given my granddaughter
. But none of those had the first initial of R. In fact the only people I could think of offhand with a first name beginning with R were Ray Anderson and Roger.

  I knew it wasn’t Ray’s phone because he was the exception to the rule and used only his own model. Besides, his last name began with A, not L. I couldn’t remember ever hearing Roger’s last name however. Could it be Logan? Of course there were probably other Rs on set. Many common names began with R—‌Rick, Ron, Robbie, Rutger. Okay, maybe Rutger wasn’t exactly common, but the possibilities were endless.

  Kicking off the quilt, I rose and dressed, much to the disgust of the cats who thought I made a nice heated pillow. I needed to return the phone to Roger, or if it didn’t belong to him, give it to lost and found. And I had to find my own phone before I got in trouble for losing it—‌was it still on the floor of the murder room?

  I was midway into buttoning my shirt when I stopped dead. That chill was back, but this time it turned my blood to ice. The thought that was forming unbidden in my mind was so diabolical that at first I couldn’t take it in. Dropping like stone into a convenient chair, one hand still on a pearly button, I thought it through, then I thought it through again.

  I had lost my phone when it fell from the pocket of Rhonda’s caftan during the struggle with Davit Morton. After the police came and I was dismissed to talk to Detective Croft in the McCaffrey office set, I had discretely picked up what I believed to be my phone from where it lay on the parquet floor. It was not my phone. It presumably belonged to someone named R. Logan, if the Gmail account handle could be believed. Whoever R. Logan was, they had also been in the penthouse suite.

  They could be the murderer.

  He could be the murderer.

  Roger could be the murderer!

  My mind was racing. I was jumping to conclusions. Morton was the murderer, wasn’t he? The police thought so, but I couldn’t accept that. Circumstantial evidence might point to his guilt, but I’d been there. I’d heard his sobs, his story. Taking a deep breath, I tried to calm down and failed—‌I could very well be holding a piece of vital evidence in my hot little hand.