An Awful Cat-titude (MEOW FOR MURDER Book 1)

by Addison Moore

  “Hey?” She points her finger at my midsection. “I used to own a dress just like that.” She leans in a notch, scrutinizing my bustline. “What do you know, that is mine. I took the buttons off the neckline to open it up. You’re welcome.” She snarls my way before looking to Shep. “The things you did to me in that dress.” Her fingers walk up his chest as if they had a right to. “You just couldn’t wait to take it off.”

  “That’s funny,” I mutter. “I’m suddenly feeling the same way.”

  Just the thought of Shep doing things to Regina in this dress makes me want to gag myself with a pitchfork.

  “I think I’m going to have a nice little fire when I get home.” I’m pretty sure the manmade materials this demented dress is made from will set off all kinds of noxious fumes. If the visual of Shep undressing Regina doesn’t land me in the ER, the toxins seeping into my lungs will.

  Wait a minute. Why would I care what Shep does with who, while she’s wearing God knows what?

  I catch him in a full scowl.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” I snap.

  “Why are you here? And how did you arrive?” he snaps right back.

  About ten different women swoon as soon as he barks my way. Something tells me they’d much rather prefer it if he barked their way, and come to think of it, so would I.

  Shep’s blue eyes siren out an icy shade of sexy, and that perennial scowl only seems to add to his wicked charm. He’s by far the hottest man in this tumbleweed catastrophe, and probably all of Vermont if you want to get technical.

  “Tilly gave me a ride,” I confess. “Opal and I were just enjoying drinks at the bar. But since I chose not to imbibe, Opal is taking one for the team and downing my drink as well.”

  Regina looks to her right. “And since I do imbibe, I volunteer to help her do just that.” She zooms off at the prospect of free liquor and Shep takes a full step closer to me. I can feel the warmth of his body, heating me like an inferno, and his spiced cologne just put my ovaries on high alert.

  He leans in. “I saw you speaking to Devin O’ Malley. You’re here questioning a suspect, aren’t you?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Because you want to clear your name.”

  “Don’t forget about Opal.” I cringe as I stuff my fingers into my mouth. “Okay, so what’s it to you? I need that killer behind bars so I can get on with the rest of my life.”

  “Your life in Chicago, Connecticut?” He folds his arms across his chest and gets this know-it-all look in his eye.

  I hold my breath a moment too long.

  “Yes,” I say. “Or, the one in Starry Falls. It’s none of your business where I lay my head at night.”

  “It is if I’m your landlord.”

  “You’re not my landlord. Are you?”

  He gives a single nod.

  “Okay, fine. I questioned Devin and I’m about to question Richard Broadman, too. And there’s not a darn thing you can do to stop me.”

  “Bowie.” He navigates us out of the dancing line of fire and his arm heats the right side of my body like a brushfire tearing its way through a pile of autumn leaves. “Somebody shot Perry Flint dead in cold blood. They’ve already killed once. There’s no telling if they’ll do it again. Believe me when I say, you don’t want to try them. Leave this to the professionals.”

  A husky laugh rips through me. “No offense to your ex, but she’s not my knight in shining armor. I’ve learned the hard way that sometimes in life you need to save yourself.”

  His cheek flinches and he looks unfairly handsome in the process.

  “That sounds great for a greeting card, Bowie. But whoever killed Perry undoubtedly knows you were left holding the murder weapon. And once they figure out you’re fishing around trying to throw your net around them, they’re going to come after you.” He dips his chin down a notch. “Do you want that?”

  Shepherd Wexler has parts of me quivering that haven’t quivered in a good long while. I’m tempted to nod and let him know I want whatever he’s selling. He can take all the money I don’t have. Heck, he can take the dress right off my back, seeing that he’s an expert at it.

  “No.” I clear my throat. “I guess I don’t want a killer coming after me.” I can’t help but glower over at him. “Don’t you have a date to find? You’d better scoop her up before someone else decides to disrobe her.”

  He gives a long blink. “I’m not seeing Regina. She came by the cabin, and I told her I was going out.”

  “Oh? So she essentially invited herself?”

  “Something like that.”

  My mouth rounds out. “So what were you going to do here?” I suck in a quick breath. “You were coming to investigate this case, weren’t you? What happened to leaving it to the professionals?”

  His lids hood a notch and all sorts of fireworks go off inside me.

  “Bowie, I am a professional. Or at least I was. Up until six months ago, I was the lead homicide detective down at the Woodley Sheriff’s Department.”

  “You were?” My mouth falls open with delight. “Why’d they fire you?”

  He frowns hard. “Nobody fired me. I retired early.”

  “Oh, I guess that writing gig is working out pretty well for you then.”

  “Something like that. Anyway, this is not for you. Steer clear, got it?”

  Devin spins her way back to the dance floor, and no sooner does she catch my eye than I get that old familiar tunnel vision. A warm feeling washes over my body, and in my mind’s eye, I see Devin looking right at me, panting, her hair and clothes disheveled. “Okay, fine,” she shouts. “You caught me. I’m guilty. Are you happy? Perry left me no choice. I had to do it. He forced my hand. And you’re not going to tell anyone, you hear me?”

  “Bowie?” Shep leans in. “Do us both a favor and steer clear of this case.”

  I wobble on my feet, and he wraps his hand around my waist.

  “Whoa.” His warm breath caresses my cheek. “Easy there. Let’s get some coffee in you.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” I say as we pass Devin up and head for the bar.

  It looks as if I’ll be steering clear of the case soon enough.

  Just as soon as they arrest Devin O’Malley.

  She’s the killer, and I just had the vision to prove it.

  Shep offers to drive Opal and me back to Starry Falls. Tilly and Regina each found a partner to spin them round and round.

  No sooner do I get settled in my cabin than I hear a muffled ringing sound coming from the cookie jar on the kitchen counter, and I freeze solid for a moment because that just so happens to be where I hid that burner phone Uncle Vinnie gave me.

  I speed over and pull it out, jumping on the balls of my feet to hear my sweet Uncle Vinnie’s voice.

  “Hello!” I trill. “I miss you so much! I just can’t wait to tell you all about my crazy adventure. First of all—”

  “Stella? Shut up, Stella! This is Johnny. Where the hell are you? We gotta talk.”

  It’s Johnny.

  I hold the phone out as if it just morphed into a viper. I have to get rid of it. I can’t have Johnny tracking me down. I don’t want to speak to him ever again.

  My feet traipse over to the bathroom and I drop the phone into the toilet as Johnny screams my name, and then I flush.

  My heart jackhammers against my chest as I watch the phone go down.

  If only it could take my past along with it.

  Chapter 9

  The entire next day I’m shaken to the core. I somehow managed to muddle through the morning rush, the lunch rush, and the stragglers who showed up for dinner.

  I also managed to avoid any undue contact with Shepherd Wexler. He came in about ten in the morning and set up shop with his laptop and banged on his keyboard for a majority of the day as if it owed him money. Nice work if you can get it. But I didn’t dare serve him coffee or plop myself down on the seat in front of him the way my hormones demanded.

>   In truth, I was terrified he might see right through Bowie and spot Stella hiding there. Retired or not, he’s a detective. He’s got his radar sharpened to pick up even the most miniscule misgiving, and Lord knows there’s nothing minuscule about my misgivings. If I’m smart, I’ll find a mechanic asap and get Wanda whipped back into shape before they tow her away and I never see her again.

  Once Shep packed up and went home, I asked Mud, the handyman, if he could help me find someone to look at my car and he mentioned he had a cousin who might be able to kick-start it back to life. He said he’d let me know when he got in touch with him.

  No sooner does seven o’clock arrive than Opal strides in dressed to the oddball nines with a black glittery feathered number that enrobes her like a fur coat and a thick encrusted cuff of a necklace with purple and red stones.

  “Come.” She claps her hands and Tilly, Thea, Flo, and I gather around. “It’s tea time, girls.”

  “We’re on it!” Tilly announces as she and the girls head to the back and each emerges with a set of fine china set on large silver platters. Tilly’s tea set is off-white with a spray of colorful flowers printed on the pot and teacups. Thea’s china is a green damask pattern with a holiday feel, and Flo has blue and white china with tiny delicate flowers printed all over it. “Get one off the rack,” Tilly barks my way. “Stitch Witchery starts in half an hour, but the women come early.”

  “And stay late,” Opal adds as she exits the café.

  I pick up an off-white set of china decorated with gold trim and dainty pink roses as I follow Tilly’s lead and a small army of cute fluffy cats all the way to the library.

  The library is a monolithic room with lots of dark wood shelves brimming with books, hardbacks, paperbacks, and leather-bound copies of God knows what. You name it and it’s most likely in here. There’s a marble reception counter to the right that looks as if it could have been used as a checkout desk once upon a time, but at the moment it’s where we’re laying out the tea.

  In the middle of the room, several dark mahogany tables have conjoined, and there are already a few women knitting and doing other crafty-inspired things that require yarn and copious amounts of gossip.

  Opal nods my way. “I insist on having the teapots refilled and reheated periodically throughout the night. Tilly has them labeled.” She points as Tilly lays out a sign in front of each one—chamomile, Earl Grey, Darjeeling, orange spice, and peppermint—and the final makeshift sign reads choose your own adventure. Next to it sits a variety of triangular fancy teabags in a silver bowl.

  “Of course, I add a little spice to mine.” Opal gives a little wink as she pulls a small bottle of whiskey from the inside of her coat.

  Tilly, Thea, and Flo busy themselves with the crowd at hand, asking each woman what kinds of tea they would like while I watch Opal spike her Darjeeling.

  “So this is what you do?” I glance to the women pouring in. “You knit?”

  “Oh, I don’t knit. I tried and tangled my fingers in a knot. Tilly had to call 911. It wasn’t pretty. Heavens no. I cross-stitch. It’s much easier since Flo bought me a magnifying glass to use along with it.”

  The room begins to flood with bodies, and soon almost all the seats at the ginormous table are filled.

  “Opal, you have a lot of women coming to this event. Do you charge them for it?”

  “Why would I charge?” She takes a careful sip of one hundred proof Darjeeling. “It’s strictly medicinal. Most of these poor things are still married to men.” She says men as if it were a four-letter word and, believe me, after that Johnny debacle, I can commiserate. “I wanted to do something for the community—especially the community of women. I wanted to give them a place to come where they could complain about their miserable lives and find a comradery in one another and maybe pet a cat or two.”

  I think on this a moment. “And that’s good. Very altruistic of you. I like that. But the businesswoman in me says we should be charging them.”

  “What? Oh heavens, I can’t.” Her dark crimson lips contort into all sorts of odd shapes. “I mean, I haven’t, and if I start doing so now, they’ll just find somewhere else to get together and Stitch Witchery will be no more, and horror upon horrors they may not invite me.”

  “You’re right. You’ve set a precedent and it’s too late to charge them admission.” I glance down to that brown bottle still in her hands. “But it’s not too late to switch up the menu.”

  She snaps her fingers. “I knew I should have brought scones and teacakes into this, but, to be truthful, the expense has held me back.” She wrinkles her nose. “And no offense to the chefs at the café, but teacakes are not really their thing.”

  The room begins to buzz with murmurs and sporadic bouts of laughter as the women all tend to their chosen projects at hand.

  “I have an idea and it doesn’t involve teacakes. Trust me on this one.”

  “Thank you for coming tonight,” I say, stepping over to the table, and the room quiets down as all eyes turn my way. “Opal wanted to extend her appreciation to all of you here and let you know that in addition to the tea and free access to the myriad of books in the library, not to mention friendly felines”—I glance her way and she nods—“you can also add a touch of comfort to your tea—for medicinal purposes, of course.” I look back to Opal and she brandishes that small bottle of whiskey to the women in the room and is met with a hum of approval. “If you’re interested in adding a touch of comfort to your beverage, I’ll be coming around and adding just a nip. For a small fee, of course.”

  A sharp murmur erupts around the table as the women all talk amongst themselves. I guess it is mostly women over sixty-five, but there’s a smattering of every age and they all look equally excited.

  “And”—I raise my voice just a notch as all eyes revert my way—“if you’ve had more than a nip, Tilly, Mud, and I will gladly offer rides home. We do encourage you to select a designated driver for next week’s meeting.”

  A blue-haired granny raises her hand. “I have a touch of a sore throat. I could use a little comfort in my tea.” She quickly brandishes a couple of bills, and Opal is off to the races.

  A younger woman with glasses and her hair in a bun lifts a hand as well. “I have a cough coming on and it’s hard enough to teach the third grade when you’re in perfect health. I’d better have a nip of comfort myself.”

  Soon enough, the entire room has an ailment they’re ready and willing to flaunt, and Opal is forced to break into the stash she has below the reception area. Within the first twenty minutes, we’re swimming in dollar bills.

  “Stop salivating.” Opal smacks me on the nose with the wad of bills in her hands. “It’s still just fifteen percent.”

  “How about a bounty of a hundred off the top each time I come up with a new moneymaking venture?”

  Opal tips her head and glances to the ceiling. “Okay.”

  “Okay? Just like that?” Obviously, I shouldn’t look this glittering gift horse in the socialite mouth, but Opal hasn’t been so easily accommodating. Come to think of it, it’s probably the liquor that’s talking.

  “Okay, under one condition.” She solidifies the look of a woman who has some serious business acumen. “The ideas need to be spectacular, and if they bomb on the third try, I get my money back.”

  I make a face. “Deal. My ideas don’t bomb.” That is, unless the feds or the mob gets involved. Then we’ll both be on the run.

  Opal takes a seat at the table and her furry Bengal cat King hops in her arms. I take a seat between Flo and Thea in hopes to go unnoticed for the next craft-riddled hour.

  Flo is working on a cross-stitch project herself, a cat snuggled at the foot of a grandfather clock, and the words time to—followed by a salty four-letter word that I’m sure doesn’t lose its charm with Flo. She grunts over to me while blowing a dark lock of hair out of her eye, her lipstick per usual matches her sooty tresses.

  “Don’t judge.” She glowers at me. �
��It’s going to be a pillow. I’ll get to turn it over when I want to—”

  “I get it,” I say as I look to Thea who is happily hooking together a fuzzy rug that seems to be taking shape as a picture of a brook with a deer standing near it.

  “Latch hook.” She nods my way. “This is the easiest, if you ask me.”

  Flo grunts again, “Nope. This is the easiest. All you have to do is follow the pattern already printed on the canvas and make tiny X’s in each box with the right color floss. I’ve got software that lets me design them any way I want.”

  A thought comes to me. “You mean I can have it say whatever I want?”

  “Yup. You wanna make a pillow, too?”

  It seems small enough. No bigger than a foot in either direction.

  “Yes. Yes, I do. Same design, but how about we just have it say one word? Meow.”

  She shrugs. “Suit yourself. I’ll have it ready by next week.”

  “Perfect.” A twinge of excitement builds in my stomach. There has to be a way to communicate with my Uncle Vinnie. I’m sure he’s worried sick. And all he needs is to hear or see the code word, meow. Who’s to say a pillow couldn’t do just that?

  “Smile!” Tilly waves us to attention before snapping a picture. “Hashtag Stitch Witchery as usual.” I hop out of my seat and head on over to her.

  “Where are you uploading that?” My stomach spears with heat.

  “Just the usual suspects. My social media sites. Don’t worry.” She leans in, her fingers still working their fastest to blast that evidence of my existence onto the internet. “You look amazing. I’d kill for your hair and skin.” Her finger taps the screen before she holds her phone my way.

  And there I am, in a crowd—but nonetheless, my face is in the wild. My God, if Johnny hasn’t been apprehended by the feds yet, or killed, he could hunt me down and turn me in. I’ll have to do something to remedy that pronto. And something tells me deleting that picture is the answer.