When the Cat's Away

by Molly Fitz

"Zip! Zip!" Loki raced into the room. The dog left a trail of muddy footprints in his wake. "Hi! Guess what! Aunt Corliss let me dig in some dirt!"

  "Maybe next she can teach you how to mop a floor." Basil groomed his front paw.

  Aunt Corliss patted Basil on the head and took the seat across the table from me. "And maybe I can stop sharing the cream with you. Remember what I said about being nice to your brother, Basil. And Loki, yes, you did a good job. You're probably ready for a nap."

  "Yeah, okay!" The dog yawned and curled up under a ray of sun coming in through the open back door.

  "Dig in, Zip, before they get cold. I'm having mine with tea." Aunt Corliss demonstrated by dipping her scone into her teacup.

  Despite her attempts to get me to drink herbal tea, I was a coffee gal through and through, with the occasional cup of matcha. I raised my mug in a mock toast. "So, yesterday was pretty wild, huh?"

  "It certainly was. I'm still researching the magical mocha latte and am fairly certain that if you had consumed it, that you would have been fine. A little drowsy, perhaps, but nothing more serious than taking an over-the-counter antihistamine."

  "Who would do that? And why couldn't I find that town on the map?" I asked between bites of the orange-cranberry scone, savoring the cinnamon and thyme.

  Aunt Corliss took another sip of her tea. "My guess is that it was some competition with the family business."

  "The family what now?"

  "I promised your mother that if anything happened to her, I wouldn't share our family's legacy with you until you were ready. After last night, you're more than ready. Promise me that you won't be upset."

  "Okay, I guess?" I put the half-eaten scone on my plate and sat back in the chair. It was hard to know if I'd be upset without knowing all the details, but I trusted my aunt. "What is this legacy?"

  "Your interest in plants is hardly accidental. This whole piece of land atop Mulberry Mountain first belonged to my great-grandmother. She was the first Granny Woman to plant an herb garden in this soil. The land was then handed down from one generation to the next until your mother and I inherited it together."

  "So, you own this?" My mouth dropped open.

  Aunt Corliss grinned. "We own this, Zip. Your mother's share was bequeathed to you."

  Although I knew this new information should make me feel more secure about my future, it only served to remind me of how much I missed my mom. I'd much rather have my parents back instead of a stake in this mountain.

  "What does this mean? I suddenly own land?"

  "If we're being technical, you've owned land since you were nine years old. Do you think your desire to study botany was a coincidence?"

  Thoughts intertwined with memories of growing up here in my head like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle fitting together. "You really are a Granny Woman."

  "I am, and you are, too. It's in your blood. And there's something else."

  "Something else?" I echoed, unable to imagine what the other shoe was that Aunt Corliss prepared to drop on me.

  "You have a sizable trust, but your mother was insistent that in order to take ownership, you have to find a way to use the money to make a lasting contribution to Mulberry Mountain."

  "And if I don't?"

  "If you don't, then the bank will divide the money and donate it to various causes."

  "This is a lot to take in. How long do I have to decide?"

  "Three months."

  Something furry touched my wrist and I looked down to see Basil's paw reaching toward my scone. When he saw me looking, he sheepishly backed down.

  "That's a bad thing, Basil," I cautioned as he stalked out of the room. Then I whistled through my teeth. "Three months."

  Aunt Corliss reached across the table and patted my hand. "You've got this, Zip. I have faith in you."

  I was glad one of us did.

  Want More?

  We hope you enjoyed The Magical Mocha Latte! It's part of the the “Magickal Beans” series, which will be coming soon from Whiskered Mysteries.

  * * *

  If you liked this, then you'll also love the “Haunted Housekeeping” series, where Tori, her best friend, a magical cat clean up clues to solve big crimes in a small town. Escape into this cozy series today!

  * * *

  Looking for other zany mysteries starring talking cat sidekicks? Learn more about R. A. Muth, her awesome books, and where you can find her at www.BeckyMuth.com.

  Murder and Mice and Everything Vice

  by Patti Larsen

  About this Story

  MURDER & MICE & EVERYTHING VICE

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  A tabby cat travels to a remote island

  Persephone Pringle thought she was agreeing to share her wholistic therapy techniques during a retreat on Bright Point Island off the coast of Wallace, Maine. Instead, she finds herself at the center of a massive storm that knocks out power, an infestation of mice the resort's cat does her best to eliminate (while mysteriously leaving the bodies behind). Oh, and taking charge in a murder investigation when one of the guests turns up dead.

  * * *

  Not exactly the relaxing and educational weekend she had in mind. But with authorities and the ferry to the mainland cut off thanks to heavy seas and an inn full of frightened guests--and one murderer--Persephone seeks to uncover who committed the crime while making sure she'd not the next victim.

  Copyright © 2021 by Patti Larsen.

  * * *

  All rights reserved.

  * * *

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Chapter One

  “And inhale slowly, making sure to relax your shoulders, release your diaphragm. No one’s checking to see if your stomach is sticking out, ladies.” I grinned at the giggles that comment generated, demonstrating the technique with my own abs rounding forward as I drew in a long, deep breath through my nose. “Now the same in exhale, through your mouth, counting if you need to, all the way to the bottom of your lungs.” I finished the exhale and began again, the small class of women seated on meditation pillows in front of me copying with at least temporary focus. While I had no qualms about teaching in such a manner, I found one-on-one sessions with clients much more fulfilling and, for the patient, a sense of accountability that increased probability of regular practice.

  “Very nice,” I said. “Meditation isn’t about emptying your mind. It’s about recognizing the thoughts that pass through it, accepting them and letting them go.” Before I became a wholistic therapist, leaving my more traditional psychology practice and embracing all methods of therapy, I’d struggled to meditate, thinking I was doing something wrong. Only to discover I was just going about it the wrong way.

  “The thoughts are easy, Persephone,” one of the ladies said with a grin. “Letting them go, not so much.” That got a chuckle from the gathering, including me.

  Well, and excluding the woman in the back row on the far right who’d been scowling the entire time and, as far as I could tell, refused to participate in any way.

  “I thought we were here to learn to be quiet,” she sniped, silencing the others while she glared at me like it was my fault the gathered participants weren’t taking this seriously. As I was of many minds and techniques when it came to allowing those I worked with to evolve their own practice, I found her attitude irritating. Did the good leader thing and ignored her, though Natasha Lange had proven several times during this first class I guided she didn’t play well with others.

  “And inhale,” I said, wondering again why I’d agreed to this weekend my dear friend and hypnotherapist, Lou Ellen Mallory, decided was a good idea. Hack Your Habits! wasn’t the kind of event I typically participated in, let alone used as a means to gain patients. In fact, I’d never suffered for lack of those needing my services so putting mys
elf in this position felt a little like shining a spotlight on ego rather than any sort of successful transition for the women who attended.

  Well, as long as I helped at least one person, it was worth it. Right?

  The soft music playing in the background was meant to soothe, though I wondered if it was a little intrusive. About as much as the light giggling going on between two of the women who whispered between themselves during the next exhale. Not that I really cared if they took part or not, but I had to admit my inner control freak was already regretting I was here for the rest of today and all of Sunday if this was going to be the result.

  “Can’t you be quiet?” Natasha wasn’t helping, her barked question only making matters worse. She pinned me with an angry stare while the trendy track-suited women snorted their amusement at her temper. “If you can’t control the class, you shouldn’t be teaching.”

  So, I’d been in the game a long time, a far cry from my first encounter with those who didn’t necessarily want to partake of my offerings, even paying clients who came to see me sometimes only doing so thanks to court orders or their parents or for marriage counseling they didn’t think they needed. I was usually pretty quick to refer such reticent patients to other therapists, only keeping the ones that truly wanted to grow and change. I was in a fortunate position financially and professionally and didn’t have to tolerate such behavior. Chose not to.

  The problem being that this particular setup didn’t allow for my selective removal of misbehaving participants. If anything, I felt forced to accommodate and compromise, two of my least favorite words on the planet. Oh, and, “Whatever.” If you wanted to rile me up and set me off like nobody’s business, trained therapist or not? Shoot me a, “whatever,” with any kind of dismissive air and I’d be showing you the door.

  My ex-husband’s favorite brush-off still rankled and likely always would.

  And while I was well aware of my temper, typically able to keep it firmly in check, the circumstances I now found myself in, agreeing to this event despite myself and the fact I now felt resentful for caving in to Lou Ellen, forcing myself to hunkering down with twenty-four half-committed (and that was generous) women only here to drink excessively and pretend to better themselves already had me stirred to a bit of a froth.

  Natasha’s little snarky attack? Lit the fuse on the caldera of my bubbling anger. Not her fault, all mine. I’d agreed to this, chosen to say yes to Lou Ellen and her pleading, to be a good friend despite my reservations. After all, I wasn’t against a gin or two myself, nor a laugh here and there when seriousness wasn’t working. But I had already moved past patience and into annoyance so her challenge?

  Brought out the worst in me.

  “Perhaps if you’re not enjoying the class,” I said at my most calm and emotionless—which, if you knew me well, had deep subtext of the rude kind—“you’d prefer to exit and allow the rest of the participants to finish without you.”

  I knew I’d overstepped the moment the words left my mouth. Honestly, I’d known before I spoke. Natasha might have been new to me as an individual, but she certainly wasn’t as a stereotype. I attempted to keep my objectivity in a smothering blanket around my reactionism while her eyes went wide, mouth curving even further downward to the tittering laughter of the gathering that only made things more uncomfortable.

  She leaped to her feet, flinging her meditation pillow against the wall, temper tantrum a petulant display that cooled my own anger since it wasn’t hard to draw a parallel to the fact I’d acted badly, if in a less physical way. And, as a therapist, I knew better, than rarely was someone’s bad behavior aimed at the supposed target but came from deeper issues that had nothing to do with the moment.

  So why did I let the moment take over and run away with me?

  “Unacceptable!” She tossed her head, round body stuffed into a yoga suit she really needed to have purchased a size up. And before you judge me for body shaming, my continuing fight with my menopausal, fifty-year-old body meant I wasn’t a skinny Minnie, by any means, who debated constantly my choices of skinny jeans, cropped blonde hair, trending clothing my twenty-one-year-old daughter rolled her eyes at. I understood completely what it felt like to be on the other end of the microscope and that our own for ourselves was always worse than what we perceived from those around us. Which meant my judgement of her came, not from what she wore, but my own insecurities. I was aware of all of this, of course I was. Just because I helped others release their anger and sadness didn’t mean I was immune or anything.

  That’s why I felt myself relent a little, almost apologizing then and there. Until she scowled at the other participants, some of whom refused to look her way, others smirking as if this was exactly what they’d hoped for. “I’m going to report you to the organizers.” And, with that, Natasha marched out of the room and slammed the door to the parlor behind her.

  “Now,” I said with a smooth smile that hid the renewal of my temper. “Inhale, slowly through the nose…”

  Chapter Two

  If Natasha had hung on just fifteen minutes longer, she would have been present to join the clapping that greeted the end of the class, the laughter and chatter of the women who rose from their own cushions, stacking them politely against the wall near the tall windows overlooking the ocean, the towering lighthouse that filled in the bulk of the view behind us a white and red striped echo of the past no longer necessary now that the mainland’s automated system warned off ships along the coastline.

  I switched off the music playing through the sound pebble I’d brought, keying off my playlist, rising slowly from my crossed-legged position and nodding and smiling to the departing women. While I knew poor Lou Ellen was likely in the midst of fielding a protest from Natasha, I felt lighter despite the conversation I’d have to have with my dear friend once she was done being harangued. Make no mistake, Natasha was a haranguer (that had to be a word) of the most irritating kind and, sadly, was stuck here with us for the duration unless someone called the ferry to return to Bright Point Island and the inn and suites our host converted by building onto the historic lighthouse. Maybe that was part of my problem with the whole event, knowing I was trapped at the venue for two days and three nights with no means of escape unless I wanted to wander into the end of nowhere that was the rocky island. And while I could see my hometown of Wallace, Maine from the windows, it felt a very long way away indeed, at the tip of Blueberry Bay.

  “Ms. Pringle?” One of the women, seemingly in her mid-thirties, who’d struggled to rise using a chair next to her, approached me. Her rounded belly jutted aggressively in its development, enough she had to be in her final trimester. She smiled at me, both hands spread protectively over her baby bump, though I knew from experience with my own pregnancy (was it really twenty-one years ago?) such a touch wasn’t conscious but the instinctive caress of impending motherhood.

  “Persephone, please,” I said, smiling at her waistline. “I know we’re not supposed to ask, but I’m assuming there’s a baby in there.”

  She laughed, nodded, dark hair pulled into a ponytail, bright amber eyes alight, that almost-a-mommy glow of pregnancy encouraged by her happy attitude. “Three more weeks,” she groaned. “I’m ready now, but she’s not in a hurry so I guess I should be patient.” She held out one hand, fingers a little swollen, poor thing, so I was careful when I shook hers. “I’m Daphne Hampton. Thank you for the class. The breathing is a big help and I hear meditation can really calm things down when I’m waiting for labor to speed up.”

  “You’ll do just fine,” I said.

  “I’m not the most patient person,” she said. Glanced over her shoulder at the doorway and the mostly departed participants. Eye rolled and let out a breathless laugh. “Not like you. I’d have kicked her out ages ago.” She paused then while I hesitated over what to say since I was here as a facilitator and not a gossip, saving my griping for Lou Ellen. “I think I should warn you, though,” she said. “I know Natasha. She’s a bit of
an internet critic celebrity, in case you didn’t know. She makes it a habit to ruin people if they make her mad.” She bit her lower lip, shrugged as though making a decision, her tone falling flat, happiness gone when she went on. “She’s a monster. Loves making trouble.” Daphne glanced over her shoulder one more time. “If I’d known she was going to be here, I wouldn’t have come.”

  Sounded like Lou Ellen had her hands full and I’d made her job harder. Not that I felt badly for the way I dealt with Natasha, not in the least, despite that moment of hesitation and empathy I’d almost fallen into. While I could still feel compassion for the woman, if this was her bread and butter, she’d get nothing of the sort further from me. People like her couldn’t be fixed because they were happy being broken. However, I certainly owed my friend an apology if I made trouble for her. Lou Ellen’s hypnotherapy business was only beginning and I may have nipped any chance she had of success in the bud with my temper.

  “Thank you for the warning,” I said, a gentle hand on Daphne’s shoulder. “If you or the baby need anything, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

  We emerged together into the hall outside the parlor room where I’d held my first session, most of the participants already in the dining room, the loud sound of talking carrying from the doorway where coffee and snacks awaited us. Which meant nothing stood between us and the sight of the very woman we’d been discussing having a hissing and visibly nasty conversation with another guest.

  I gestured for Daphne to precede me into the dining room, jaw setting as I squared off to confront the troublemaker, but I was too late, Natasha storming off past the woman she’d been berating. I could have hunted down the former, but it seemed the latter’s distress was more immediate and my compassion kicked in over the surge of my pique.