Undercover Kitty

by Sofie Ryan

  “Any problems here?”

  She shook her head. “Aside from two cats getting away from their owners, no.”

  “Any sign of the Lilleys?” I asked.

  Again Rose shook her head. “I haven’t seen hide nor hair of them and, according to Alfred, neither has anyone else.”

  “Where is Mr. P.?” I asked.

  “He’s having a meeting with Chloe,” she said.

  I remembered what Liz had told me about the Hartmans’ financial dealings. I shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. “About the Hartmans,” I began. “It’s none of my business how you run your business, but I have heard a rumor that they aren’t always good about paying their bills on time.”

  Rose smiled. “Let me guess. A little bird with blonde hair and high heels told you that.”

  I made a face. “Yes.”

  “Honestly,” she said in exasperation. “Sometimes I swear Liz still thinks I’m six years old trading my lunch for marbles.”

  “You traded your lunch for marbles?” I said.

  “You say that like I traded it for a handful of magic beans.”

  I held up one hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way.” The conversation was getting derailed. “How did you know about the Hartmans?”

  She stood a little straighter. “Channing,” she said. I’d seen that same self-satisfied look on Elvis when he’d conned me out of a treat.

  “Channing Caulfield? Liz’s Channing?”

  “The jury is still out on whether or not he’s Liz’s Channing, but yes.”

  The conversation may have been back on track, but I was lost. “Why did he tell you? How did he know the Hartmans had hired you?”

  “Channing told me because I asked him,” Rose said. “And he knew the Hartmans hired us because I told him.” She patted my arm. “It’s okay. I know you’re tired.”

  I rubbed the space between my eyebrows with two fingers. “When did you see Channing?”

  Rose looked over at Avery. “We’re leaving in a few minutes,” she said.

  Avery nodded and pulled the carrier bag out from under the table by catching the strap with her foot.

  Rose refocused her attention on me. “I didn’t see Channing. I called him.”

  We still didn’t seem to be getting anywhere. “Because?” I prompted.

  “Why don’t you and Elvis come and have supper with me?” she said. “Debra is having dinner with Tim and you can just relax.”

  I took a breath and let it out, trying to rein in my frustration. “It’s Thursday. I’m going to the jam. But thank you.”

  “All right,” she said. “But don’t stay out too late.” She shook her head. “And as for Channing, I called him because it’s easier than getting him to come to our office.”

  Finally something clicked into place and the conversation suddenly made sense. “So do you always check out clients with him?”

  “Most of the time. Channing is very knowledgeable.”

  “So everything’s fine?”

  She smiled again and for a moment I thought she might pat my cheek. “Of course it is. Don’t worry about a thing.”

  I was saved from answering by Mr. P., who rejoined us. He checked his watch. “I didn’t realize it was this late,” he said.

  “If you’re not ready to leave, I can come back for you,” I said.

  He smiled. “Thank you. I do have a couple of things I still need to take care of, but Memphis has already offered to drop me off.”

  Rose and Avery seemed to be debating over the contents of a box that Avery had set next to Elvis’s crate.

  “Have you found anything yet to support your hunch about the Lilleys?” I asked, lowering my voice a little.

  He shook his head. “Nothing yet, but I’m not giving up. Do you remember Jacqueline Beyer? You met her in Searsport.”

  I nodded. “I remember.”

  “She knows a lot of people in the cat show world. I’m going to see if she knows anything.”

  “Let me know if I can help,” I said.

  Rose and Avery were still looking in the cardboard box. “Nick came by the shop,” I said.

  Mr. P. nudged his glasses up his nose. “Am I correct that you didn’t like what you learned from him?”

  I explained what Nick had said about how the fire started. “I don’t see how the fire could be an accident if the battery had been taken out of the smoke detector. It wasn’t the kind of thing Christine would have done. Nick says the battery may have needed to be replaced and she was planning on doing it later.”

  “It’s Nicolas’s job to look at things that way,” Mr. P. said. “It’s not ours.”

  Just then a familiar-looking man approached Debra. He was heavyset, about average height with dark hair and a dark beard that were a little at odds with the lines on his face. He wore a gray tweed jacket with a white shirt and a blue and gray tie and seemed to be in his late sixties.

  “Hello, Jeffery,” Debra said.

  It was Jeffery Walker, I realized. The man I had seen arguing with Christine at the Searsport show. The man who owned Nikita, the cat who was Socrates’s main competition, along with Basil, the beautiful Bengal who belonged to Kimber Watson.

  “Debra,” he said. “I heard about Christine. I wanted to express my sympathies.”

  He had a beautiful voice, deep and smooth. “She was very kind and welcoming to me. I’ll miss her.”

  Debra swallowed. “Thank you,” she said.

  He nodded and went back down the aisle.

  “Are you all right?” Mr. P. asked.

  She managed a small smile. “I am. Thank you,” she said. “I’m going to have to get used to people coming to tell me how sorry they are. A lot of people liked Christine.”

  “She was very easy to like,” Mr. P. said. He gestured to the carrier bag on the table behind Debra. “Do you mind if I take a look at your carrier? I like the mesh panels at either end.”

  “So does Socrates,” she said. “He’s very inquisitive.” She undid the zipper on the top of the bag so Mr. P. could look inside.

  I walked over to Rose and Avery. The latter was putting Elvis’s dishes into Rose’s tote bag and talking to the cat.

  “What did Jeffery Walker want?” Rose asked.

  “He came to tell Debra how sorry he was to hear about Christine. He seemed nice.”

  “You mean he doesn’t seem like someone who would damage crates or set a fire.”

  I jiggled my keys in my jacket pocket. “I know Mr. P. has to have checked him out. What do you know?”

  “Jeffery is a retired science teacher who got involved in the cat show circuit after the death of his wife,” Rose said. “He’s pleasant, well-read and easy to get along with, but he does have a competitive streak. More than one person has heard him call second place ‘first loser.’”

  “Do you think the fact that he was a science teacher may be important?”

  “Maybe,” she said. “He taught chemistry and he was also the adviser for the student radio station.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Which means there’s a good chance he’d know how to tamper with a sound system.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Rose said. “So far, there’s nothing to suggest he’s behind the vandalism at the other shows, but there isn’t anything that says he wasn’t, either. I know a couple of people who taught at the same school. I have some feelers out.”

  The information superhighway had nothing on the Angels and their connections. They knew just about everyone in our half of the state, and if they didn’t, they knew someone who did. As Jess liked to put it, they knew who was doing what and with whom.

  As if she’d somehow known that I’d thought of Jess, Rose nudged my arm. “We need to get going if you’re going to get down to Sam’s on time.” She looked at Avery. �
��Time to get the lead out, child,” she said.

  * * *

  * * *

  I made it to the pub with time to spare. As usual, Jess was holding a table. “What took you so long?” she asked.

  “Sorry,” I said, sliding onto a chair beside her and wondering if I had time to order before the music started. “I had to pick up Rose and Elvis and Avery.”

  She shifted in her seat so she was facing me, one arm leaning on the back of the chair. “So today was just a setup day, am I right?”

  I nodded. “Yes. Competition starts tomorrow.”

  Jess grinned. “Go Elvis!”

  “Do I have time to get food?” I asked.

  “Absolutely.” She held up a finger, literally one finger, and all at once a waiter headed in our direction.

  “I will never understand how you do that.”

  “It’s one of my superpowers,” Jess said. “Aren’t you glad I use them for the forces of good and not for the forces of evil?”

  “Very glad,” I said as the waiter reached us. I ordered a spicy chicken burger with extra cheese and the biggest size of onion rings because I knew that Jess—and Nick, if he showed up—would decimate them.

  “So where’s tall, dark and handsome?” Jess asked.

  “Mac should be here anytime now.” My phone buzzed in my pocket. I fished it out. It was Mac. “Hi. Where are you?” I said.

  “I’m sorry, Sarah,” he began.

  “No,” I groaned, slumping against the back of my chair. “What happened?”

  “I’m on the way to Owl’s Head.”

  “Tell me you have a really good reason.”

  “I do,” he said. “Memphis had car trouble and he couldn’t reach Cleveland so I’m going to rescue him and Alfred.”

  “What are they doing in Owl’s Head?”

  “Technically, based on the directions Memphis gave me, they’re just outside of Owl’s Head and it seems to have something to do with the case. Alfred didn’t say what.” I could hear his footsteps, which told me he was probably walking to his truck. “I doubt I’ll be back in time to make it to the pub. I really am sorry.”

  I rested one arm on the top of my head. “I know you are,” I said. “I’m starting to think this whole idea is cursed.”

  “It’s not. I swear,” Mac said. “Next week. It doesn’t matter whose car breaks down or whose girlfriend threw all his clothes out on the highway. I will turn off my phone and I’ll be there.”

  “Whose girlfriend threw their clothes all over the highway?”

  Mac laughed. “A story for another time. I need to get going. Have fun with Jess and Nick.”

  “I will,” I said. “Drive safe.”

  I ended the call and blew out a breath, lifting my hair away from the side of my face.

  “I take it Mac’s not coming,” Jess said.

  I shook my head. “No. He had to go rescue Mr. P.”

  “I heard you say something about Owl’s Head. What’s in Owl’s Head?”

  I dug my fingers into the knot that had formed at the base of my skull. “Aside from Mr. P. and Cleveland’s brother Memphis, I don’t have a clue.” I looked around. “I’m hungry. Where’s my food and where’s Nick? He said he was going to be here.”

  “Your food’s coming.” Jess pointed at the waiter headed our way from the kitchen. “And Nick just came in the door.”

  The chicken burger, onion rings and Nick all arrived at the same time. Jess gave the waiter a smile that temporarily short-circuited his brain cells. “Beer?” she asked Nick.

  “Please,” he said, shrugging off his jacket.

  “Two of whatever you have local on tap and a small root beer when you have a minute, please,” she said to the waiter.

  “What if I didn’t want root beer?” I said. I was already on my second onion ring.

  “But you did,” Jess said, snagging one for herself.

  Nick dropped in the chair next to mine. “Where’s Mac?” he asked.

  “Rescuing Mr. P.” I took a bite of my spicy chicken burger. It was very spicy.

  Nick grabbed two onion rings. “Rescuing him from what?”

  “Not from what, from where,” I said. “Owl’s Head.”

  “Do I want to know what Alfred is doing in Owl’s Head? Does it have something to do with their case?”

  “I don’t know whether you want to know, but I don’t have the answer to either of those questions so . . .” I held up both hands and shrugged.

  The waiter was already on his way back with our drinks and just then I saw Sam headed for the small stage, holding his guitar.

  “Okay, no more talk about cases or people stuck in Owl’s Head—which I happen to think is a very nice place,” Jess said. “It’s time for food, music and beer!”

  * * *

  * * *

  Nick and I managed to go the whole evening without violating Jess’s rule. We talked about music. We talked about my brother, Liam, who was out of town. We talked about one of Nick’s paramedic buddies who had taken in a baby skunk he’d found by the side of the road because everyone knows baby skunks can’t spray until they’re at least six months old.

  “Number one: wrong,” Nick said. “And number two, this is a guy who thinks he can guess how old a woman is and who generally gets it wrong by at least five years too many. Why on earth did he think he could figure out how old a skunk was?”

  It was good to laugh, to not think about either case, to not be at odds with Nick; but in the back of my mind I kept wondering what was so important that Mr. P. and Memphis had driven down to Owl’s Head on a Thursday night.

  * * *

  * * *

  I didn’t have to wait that long to find out. I dropped off Nick and Jess at their respective apartments and I was in my kitchen looking in the refrigerator trying to figure out what to take for lunch tomorrow when there was a knock at the door. Elvis was at the top of his cat tree. He lifted his head and looked pointedly at me.

  “Yes, I heard that,” I said.

  I opened the door to find Mr. P. and Mac standing there. “I’m sorry to bother you this late,” Mr. P. said, “but I have some information to share and I don’t want to talk in front of Debra.”

  “Come in,” I said. “What’s going on?”

  They stood in the middle of the living room. Elvis sat up as though he wanted to know as well. I glanced at Mac, who raised a shoulder to show he didn’t know.

  Mr. P. pushed his glasses up his nose. His expression was grave. “I’m sorry, Sarah,” he said. “There isn’t any easy way to say this. You were right. Christine was murdered.”

  Chapter 13

  “What makes you say that?” I asked. Even though it was what I’d believed all along and even though Mr. P. hadn’t doubted that belief I was a bit surprised by his certainty.

  “It was what Nicolas told you about how the fire started,” he said.

  “The lamp falling over onto the sofa.”

  He nodded. “Yes, and the fact that it allegedly ignited a couple of spilled potato chips.”

  “So you don’t think that’s how the fire started?” Mac asked.

  The old man took off his glasses, adjusted the nosepiece slightly and set them on his face again. “I actually do think that’s how the fire started. I just don’t believe it was an accident.”

  “Why?” I said.

  “First of all, you said Nicolas told you the lamp was just like the one Charlotte has in her spare bedroom.”

  I nodded. “It’s the one Gram gave her.”

  “Rose and I were with Isabelle when she bought that lamp. It has a weighted bottom. It doesn’t tip over easily.”

  “No offense, Alfred, but you have to have more than that,” Mac said.

  Mr. P. regarded him with a quiet smile. “I do.”

  I gestured a
t the sofa. “We don’t have to stand in the middle of the room. Please, sit down.”

  Mr. P. took a seat on the couch. I sat down beside him and Mac pulled out one of the stools at the counter. Elvis jumped down from his tower. It seemed he didn’t want to be left out. He launched himself onto my lap and turned so he was facing Mr. P.

  The old man smiled and reached over to scratch behind the cat’s left ear. Elvis began to purr. Mr. P. turned his attention to me. “You said that Nick told you when the lamp fell over, the heat from the bulb caused some potato chips that had been spilled on the sofa to ignite.”

  “That’s right,” I said.

  “You know that I volunteer at a Legal Aid clinic.”

  I smiled. “Yes. That was one of the things that helped you get your private investigator’s license.”

  He nodded. “Indeed. I knew there was something about potato chips and fires but it took me a little time to remember.”

  “Remember what?” Mac asked, dark eyes narrowed in curiosity.

  “A client from several years ago, a young woman. We started talking and she told me about some of the ways people sometimes start fires.”

  “You mean arson?” I said.

  Alfred shifted in his seat and brought his attention back to me. “Yes, I do,” he said. “I remembered her telling me about a fire that looked like it was caused by a short in a wall outlet but had in fact been set using potato chips. I wanted to know more. So I called her. I’ve helped her with a couple of things over the past couple of years,” he added by way of explanation.

  “And she lives in Owl’s Head,” Mac said.

  Mr. P. glanced at him again. “Yes, she does. She has had some issues and she is a bit paranoid about conversations of any length over the phone in case the government is recording them. But she said I could come talk to her.”

  He held up a hand. “I know you may be thinking that she isn’t a good source of information, but I can assure you that’s not the case. She is extremely intelligent and very well-read.”

  Elvis shifted so he was leaning against me and I took over stroking his thick fur. “I trust your judgment,” I said.