Amy King Cozy Mysteries- The Complete Series

by N. C. Lewis

  Victoria nodded.

  Now everyone spoke at once. Each talking over the other in a growing crescendo of excited chatter.

  "What?"

  "Are you sure?"

  "Could be triplets."

  "Or quadruplets!"

  "I read of a woman who had twelve."

  As the conversation died down Zach touched the arm of his wife. "Come on, honey, let's go for a walk. It will whip up our appetite for dessert."

  Victoria made a performance of standing to her feet. Everyone laughed.

  The couple wandered across the lawn and onto Lake Trail. A thick canopy of leaves blotted out the sunlight, casting long shadows which shimmered with the rustle of a light breeze.

  "Let's walk to Lake Austin," Zach said striding out in front along the narrow dirt trail.

  As the couple approached the final bend that led to the shoreline, they heard a desperate cry.

  "Help! Help! Help!"

  Victoria reached for her cell phone ready to dial 911.

  "Wait!" Zach said, raising a hand. "Let's see what's going on first." Zach had recently undergone first-aid training through his employer and had used his knowledge to save a life already on their vacation in Austin.

  In the opening that sloped gently down to the water was an old woman beating a walking stick against the lower branches of a tree. "You naughty thing. Come down now!"

  She was so focused on shouting and beating the tree she didn't notice the couple. "Charlie, come down from there else Mommy will not give you a grape."

  It was only when Zach and Victoria got close that the woman turned and explained. "It's Charlie! I bring him here every day, let him fly around. But today he won't go back in his cage." She pointed up into some low-hanging branches.

  A small, green-and-yellow bird with a dark beak peered down. Suddenly, it opened its beak wide. "Help! Help! Help!" It shrieked.

  Zach pointed, gasping. "It can speak!"

  "Trained him, myself," the old lady said regarding Zach from head to toe. "Now, you're a strapping, young man. Shimmy up that tree and scare Charlie down. I'll have the cage door open so he can fly in." She picked up a large bird cage from the ground, swinging open its door.

  Before Zach had time to object, Victoria shoved him toward the tree. "Up you go, honey," she said with a wicked grin.

  "No need to climb all the way to the top," the old woman said in the way of encouragement. "Just get to the lower branches. That should do the trick."

  Zach hesitated only a moment before indicating his approval with a wave of his hand. Although he hadn't climbed a tree since he was a teenager, he hadn't lost the knack and quickly found himself in the lowest branches, about six feet off the ground.

  The bird let out another shriek. "Help! Help! Help!" It stretched its wings and fluttered like a butterfly into the open bird cage.

  The cage door shut with a sharp snap.

  "I'm Florence," the old woman said, turning to Victoria. "But most people call me Auntie Folate. I bring Charlie here most days. He likes to stretch his wings in the open air. Today he was a little naughty." She peered into the cage at the bird. "Weren't you, Charlie?"

  The bird regarded its owner with an indifferent eye.

  Just then footsteps pounded along the trail.

  "What's all the shouting about?" asked Nick.

  Amy came into view. "We thought someone was drowning."

  ◆◆◆

  "Auntie Folate, would you like another slice of blackberry cobbler?"

  They were back at the picnic table. Amy had invited Auntie Folate to join them for dessert. She didn't know why, but it seemed the right thing to do.

  "Oh, that would be lovely," Auntie Folate replied. "I wonder, dear, if you can make it a little larger than last time."

  "For a small woman you've got a mighty fine appetite!" said Nick who had eaten his fill.

  "With a cobbler, peach, or blackberry, I can never have enough," grinned Auntie Folate. "Come on, gal, pile it high!"

  Amy dished out a double helping, with a mountainous swirl of fresh cream.

  "Now," said Auntie Folate, taking a spoonful and glancing at each member of the family. "I want to thank Zach for climbing up that old oak tree. Charlie would still be perched there squawking if it wasn't for you, my boy."

  Victoria squeezed Zach's arm. He blushed and mumbled, "Happy to oblige."

  "And what do you do, dear?" Auntie Folate asked Amy.

  "I run a staging business."

  "What's that?"

  Amy thought for a moment. "It's like tidying up a bird cage before you let Charlie into it."

  "Oh! I must tell all my friends about it. Do you have a business card?"

  "Word of mouth advertising," Amy said as she handed over a business card, "is the best type."

  Auntie Folate took another mouthful of cobbler. "Oh yes, there is nothing like it."

  Now Ruby, who had been eyeing the small caged bird nervously asked, "What type of bird is Charlie?" She wasn't a fan of birds, especially peacocks with whom she had a prior history.

  "Melopsittacus undulates," Auntie Folate answered between mouthfuls. "That's Latin for what is commonly called a budgerigar or English budgie." She raised a finger. "Not to be confused with the more common American parakeet."

  Silence fell over the table, as everyone thought of something interesting to say about melopsittacus undulates and failed.

  "Auntie Folate, I can see," said Amy at last, "you are very knowledgeable about birds." She didn't know an English budgie from an American parakeet, and marveled that anybody would spend the time to study the difference. "Where did you learn about them?"

  "Not from a book. I've gained my knowledge through hands-on experience." For a moment she chewed hard on a spoonful of cobbler. "I work as a volunteer in the bird aviary of the Hill Country Animal Sanctuary."

  "Fascinating," Amy said, more as a reaction than with any real interest.

  "Not many people think so, but I'm pleased you do," Auntie Folate said with enthusiasm. "Amy, we have an open house this coming Saturday. Why don't you join us, and I can tell you everything I know about our birds? It would make this little old lady's day."

  Once again Amy spoke before her mind got into gear. "Oh, that would be delightful. Of course I'll attend," she replied, instantly regretting her response.

  Chapter 7

  Three and a half hours sleep was a meager ration, but Kitty Clawfoot made a point of being up by six, showered, breakfasted, and at her work by seven fifteen. She owned Kitty's Café, an upscale restaurant that served gourmet dishes to pet cats. The café was less than a year old, and business hadn't exactly been booming.

  Kitty had spent the previous evening going over her company's financials. The picture that emerged was grimmer than she could have imagined. Now, this morning as she sipped coffee and stared bleary eyed at a spreadsheet on her laptop computer, the numbers seemed even worse.

  Kitty's first task this Thursday morning was to call her bank manager, Dorothy Romine, and plead for an increase in her line of credit. It wouldn't be easy, but she figured she had a better than a fifty-fifty chance of getting the much needed cash. Without it, the café was finished.

  Taking another sip of coffee Kitty recalled the day she first proposed the idea to Dorothy. "Austin is brimming with wealthy cat owners," Kitty had said. "They dress their animals in designer clothes and treat them like family. Why not serve gourmet food in a decadent restaurant designed for their every feline need?"

  "An interesting idea," Dorothy had replied tapping a pen on her leather-bound journal. "I'm a cat lover myself, have three. I read about a similar place in Los Angeles, and another in London, both very profitable."

  Kitty had relaxed at those words, knowing she'd sold the idea.

  "May I suggest," Dorothy had said, authorizing the loan, "you rent a unit in Domesticated Row."

  "Where is that?" Kitty had asked.

  Dorothy leaned forward and whispered as if sharing a con
fidential secret. "Under MoPac, by the Roy and Ann Butler trail on the edge of Town Lake. The storefronts are the most trafficked area in Austin by pet owners. I know Mr. Sartain, the landlord. I'm sure he'd be happy to offer you a week by week lease agreement on one of his units."

  Domesticated Row was a ragtag collection of converted 1920s wooden barns. Kitty rented a unit next to a dog pampering parlor—Rumpus House. Eager to get on good terms with her new neighbor Kitty shared her ideas about her café with the woman she came to know as Mrs. Foreman.

  But it wasn't long before Mrs. Foreman's success began to fill Kitty with jealousy. "It's not fair," she mumbled, as she did every day. " Why is Rumpus House so successful, while I'm struggling? If it wasn't for her, I'm certain I'd have more business." And it didn't seem to matter to Kitty's way of thinking that Rumpus House served dogs while she catered to cats.

  It was too early to call the bank, so Kitty went over the inventory. She tsked on the realization the café was low on toys. Last week she'd run a promotion and given away an expensive toy with every gourmet meal. As an added incentive, the meals were discounted by 75 percent. Cat owners showed up by the dozens. Kitty, and Trixie Nithercott, her only employee, had never served so many customers.

  "A great success at attracting customers but a total loss financially." Kitty snorted. She couldn't afford to order any new toys. Anyway, the last invoice from the supplier, three months old, sat unpaid on her desk. "The toys can wait until I get more credit from the bank."

  A sudden pang of guilt caused Kitty to stand up. It wasn't a sensation she often felt. Last week she didn't have the money to pay Trixie. She told her employee she would settle up with her today.

  Trixie's eyes had clouded over for an instant at the bad news." I need the money to pay for my medicine. What am I to do?"

  Trixie's medication wasn't Kitty's problem. She ran a business not a social welfare outfit. "I'm sure a few days won't make much difference." She paused recalling a story she'd read on the internet. "Did you know clinicians overprescribe drugs? It's costing this country billions of dollars every year. It's a damn disgrace!"

  Trixie had cried. As she wiped her eyes she blubbered, "Going forward, I'd like my pay by automatic bank transfer."

  "Okay," Kitty had agreed. "That's easy, I'll set it up today. Things will be much better next week."

  But Kitty hadn't set up automatic payments, and things weren't any better. The money wasn't there, not without the credit extension. If that didn't come through this morning, Kitty wasn't sure what she would say. "If Trixie took better care with her health, she wouldn't need pills!"

  An urgent pounding on the front door made Kitty jump. She glanced at the clock, it was too early for Trixie, and she wasn't expecting any visitors. The café opened at ten a.m., the first visitors showed up around eleven.

  Bang, bang, bang.

  "Anyone in there?"

  Kitty recognized the voice—Mr. Sartain. He'd want to discuss the overdue rent, maybe even demand payment today. It is unfair, Kitty thought as she considered not answering. Before she'd decided, she heard the jangle of keys followed by the creak of the front door opening.

  Mr. Sartain, a bristly, gray-haired man in his sixties, strode inside.

  "There you are Mrs. Clawfoot! I thought I saw the light on."

  Kitty's brain ran desperately over what to say. "Mr. Sartain, I'll have the rent payment—"

  The man waved his hand as if swatting a fly. "I'm not here to discuss the rent. We both agree it is overdue."

  "Oh," Kitty grunted in a mixture of surprise and relief. "How can I help you?"

  "I heard on the grapevine," Mr. Sartain began in a slow, careful voice, "you have an important call to discuss your finances with your bank manager this morning."

  "That's right," Kitty spluttered, growing angry at the realization that her private financial business had leaked out. "You'll get your rent money later today. I guarantee it."

  He shrugged. "I wanted to give you a heads-up. I'm ending your lease at the end of the week."

  That rocked Kitty back on her heels. "Whoa, what?"

  Mr. Sartain glanced around as if concerned someone would overhear the conversation. "I'm renting the unit to Mrs. Foreman. She is going to rename the place Rumpus Café and open it up to dog and cat owners."

  Chapter 8

  At nine a.m. Kitty called her bank. As she waited to be connected, she reflected on her situation. Surely Dorothy, her bank manager, would know of another unit she could rent. Maybe in a better location. Yes, she thought with rising confidence; she'd move the café and reopen in a larger space. If cat cafés worked in Los Angeles and London, she would make it work here in Austin. She could do it. Mr. Sartain and his ramshackle barns could go to hell. Kitty's Café had a bright future in a luxury building in downtown Austin with her, Kitty Clawfoot, at the helm.

  "No," Dorothy Romine said in a terse voice, "the bank will not extend your credit, and that's final!"

  When Trixie Nithercott came bustling into the café a little before ten a.m., Kitty, dry mouthed and sobbing, broke the news. "I'm so sorry, Trixie; I can't pay your back wages. The business has folded. I had no warning whatsoever… but as soon as we get through this mess I'll bring you back on board as my first employee in whatever I set up next."

  "It's okay," Trixie said. "No need to worry about me. I met Mrs. Foreman yesterday. She has offered me a job in her new café. She's even agreed to pay the back pay you owe me. I only came in to let you know I'm quitting. I start at Rumpus House in ten minutes."

  "That's wonderful," Kitty spluttered through gritted teeth, staring down at her trembling hands. "Trixie, I'm so relieved you landed on your feet."

  "I sure did," Trixie replied. "See you around."

  When Trixie Nithercott was gone Kitty sobbed. "I've got nowhere to go and no money!" She was utterly alone. "It's not my fault. It isn't fair." She muttered the sentences over and over like a ritualistic chant, her bony hands balled into fists. When the tears ceased, Kitty's lips twisted into a brittle smile, her eyes narrowed into slits of pure envy.

  "Mrs. Foreman killed my business. Now, I'm going to kill Mrs. Foreman."

  Chapter 9

  Duke Savage sat at the far end of the Shady Grove Tavern's worn mahogany bar thinking about Mrs. Chloe Foreman and staring absentmindedly up at the muted images of the ten o'clock evening news. He was wearing an old navy blue jacket and shapeless, matching flannel trousers. The collar of his faded white shirt was frayed and the dark blue tie carelessly knotted. He looked as though he didn't spend much time in front of a mirror.

  Mrs. Foreman presented him with a difficult problem. Tonight he hoped to come up with a solution. But as he stared at the television and considered what to do, he became more confused.

  "There you go, Mr. Savage," said the barman uncapping a bottle of cheap whiskey and carelessly slopping out a liberal shot. "This one's on the house."

  Duke stared for a few seconds at the amber liquid then took a deep swallow and looked up with a questioning eye. "That's mighty fine. What's the occasion?" His thin cheeks flushed, breath reeking of alcohol.

  The barman rifled through a pile of newspapers in a wire basket that sat close to the cash register. "Like to read the local rag. Few do these days. Folks prefer to stare at their cell phones or tablet computers, bad for the eyes if you ask me!" He picked up a newspaper, flipped to an inside story. "Me? I like the feel of paper in my hand. Don't buy them, though, pick 'em up from the back of the grocery store on Fridays. Keeps me goin' when the bar is quiet." He held out the newspaper—The Austin American Statesman. It was a week old. "I read an article about human trafficking by a Mr. Duke Savage. That you?"

  Duke peered at the article. The whiskey had settled in his stomach, and he was feeling good. "Yep, that's my handiwork. I'm mighty proud of it."

  "Fine piece of penmanship," the man behind the counter acknowledged. He had a knack of keeping his customers happy by agreeing with them. The more he agreed, the more
they drank, and the more money he made.

  "Y'all made fun of me when I told ya I was a reporter!"

  "Not me. I listen, agree, but don't make fun," he replied in a soothing tone. "Now, Mr. Savage, drink up."

  Duke took another sip. It burned all the way down to his stomach. "Maybe not you. But I told 'em I was a reporter, that I was working on a big story, but no one believed me." He swiveled on his stool and glared around the tavern. There were only two other customers. A weedy-looking teenager in baggy shorts, a torn T-shirt with a bandanna wrapped tight over his hair, threading quarters into a slot machine. At a small wooden table, in the far corner next to the window that looked out onto the street, sat a dejected-looking man. He wore a cheap, maroon, polyester suit, and at his side, a battered, brown, oversized suitcase.

  "I'm a big-shot reporter," Duke cried, slapping his chest.

  The teenager continued pushing coins into the slot machine. But the man in the maroon suit looked up. "I'm Mr. Robinson, selling water filters." The stoop of his shoulders, defeated stare in the eyes, gave him away. He'd made no sales today.

  Duke swiveled back to face the barman, who was now busy restocking shelves. As he watched, his mind drifted back to Mrs. Foreman. She rented a unit in Domesticated Row under the MoPac Expressway, painted the building bright red and called it Rumpus House. It must have been ten o'clock that night when she spotted him, called him over, said she knew about his secret. He denied it, but he knew she knew. "If you don't stop, I'm going to tell Mr. Sartain," she had said. But he couldn't stop, and there was nothing, he now realized, as he drained the last dribble from his glass, he could do to stop her from talking.

  "What story are you working on now?" The barman looked eager as if he wanted the inside scoop on a big secret.

  Duke placed a finger to his lips. He wasn't working any story, hadn't had an idea in months, he drank too much for that. "Can't say but watch this space."

  The barman wiped a filthy rag across the counter, pausing at a sticky patch, rubbing vigorously for an instant then giving up. "Look forward to hearing about it when it's not top secret." He sat on a tall stool, picked up a newspaper and randomly flipped through it.