The Time for Murder Is Meow
When her TV series is canceled, struggling actress Shell McMillan considers it a blessing in disguise. A beloved aunt who recently died left her a pet shop in her will, and she sees it as the perfect chance to walk away from Hollywood and make a fresh start in the sleepy town of Fox Hollow.
But adjusting to small-town life won’t be easy, as Shell realizes when the head of the museum board is found murdered not long after Shell had a very public argument with her. And when the new kid in town is fingered for the crime, she’ll have to rely on her own wit and pluck and the kindness of strangers to get herself off the hook.
Desperate to exonerate herself and catch the real culprit, Shell begins digging into the lives of the local residents, and she quickly discovers that the victim had no shortage of enemies. As the suspect list grows and time runs short, Shell and her cats will have to claw their way out of danger—and it’s meow or never . . .
Title Page
Copyright
The Time for Murder Is Meow
T. C. LoTempio
This is a fully revised edition of a book originally published by Midnight Ink in August 2019 as The Time for Murder Is Meow, Purr N’ Bark Mystery #1, copyright © 2019 by T. C. LoTempio.
Cover design and illustration by Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs
Published by Beyond the Page at Smashwords
Beyond the Page Books
are published by
Beyond the Page Publishing
www.beyondthepagepub.com
ISBN: 978-1-954717-18-3
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of both the copyright holder and the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
Acknowledgments
I owe a ton of thanks to my fabulous agent, Josh Getzler, and his assistant, Jon Cobb, for always putting up with all my questions and concerns, many at six a.m.!. Thanks also to Bill Harris and the people at Beyond the Page, for breathing new life into Shell and company. Thanks also to furbabies Rocco and Maxx, and to the real Mel Feller and Londra Lewis for lending their names to characters in this story (neither are like those characters, they’re nice people!). A shout-out to my mentor and friend, Carole Nelson Douglas, and to all the readers of Rocco’s blog, Cats, Books and . . . More Cats, and to all the wonderful authors who have guested on the blog over the years. Last but not least, a shout-out to all my fans and to everyone who has bought and read my books. A writer cannot survive without readers, and I thank each and every one of you from the bottom of my heart.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Books by T. C. LoTempio
About the Author
One
“Excuse me. Do you have any Tomkins Hairball Remedy?”
I glanced up from the pile of catnip balls I’d been sorting and smiled at the short gray-haired woman who stood uncertainly at my counter. She reminded me of my late aunt—iron gray hair done into a severe bun at the nape of her neck, a smooth, unlined face, and sharp blue eyes that peered at me over the rims of her tortoiseshell glasses.
I smiled at her. “I’m sorry, we’re not open for business yet.”
Her penciled brows drew together and the corners of her lips drooped down. “Oh? I saw the lights on, and the door wasn’t locked.”
“My bad. I forgot to lock it after me, I’m afraid.” I pushed a stray curl out of my eyes. “I am planning on reopening the store, but I only came into town a few days ago. As for your question, I really don’t know what we have. I was just taking an inventory, trying to determine what stock I need to order.”
“Oh.” She adjusted her glasses on her nose and peered at me more closely. “You’re Tillie’s niece.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yes.” I wiped my hand on the side of my jeans and extended it to her. “Crishell McMillan.”
“Grace Poole.” She took my hand, shook it briefly, then released it and leaned against the counter. Her head cocked to one side. “You’re the actress.” Once again, not a question. Although the way Grace Poole said it, it sounded more like a death sentence.
“Right again,” I said, “although I guess you could say I’m an ex-actress. I’ve retired.”
Grace Poole stared at me. “Retired? But you’re so young! You can’t be more than twenty-five!”
“You’re very kind. I’m thirty-eight.” Unlike most actresses, I’d never been shy about revealing my real age. “Still young, true, only trust me, not by Hollywood standards.”
Up until two months ago I was better known as Shell Marlowe, one of the stars of a popular cable TV show, Spy Anyone. My character, Hermione DuVal, had been a large part of my life for ten years, yet that role seemed a lifetime ago. I’d gotten word the series had been canceled two days before receiving a telegram from my mother informing me of my Aunt Tillie’s passing. Out of the two events, my aunt’s passing was the more traumatic to me. When I’d found out she’d left me not only her Victorian mansion in Fox Hollow, Connecticut, with all its contents, but also a healthy assortment of stocks and bonds and the Urban Tails Pet Shop, I’d felt as if a huge weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I’d grown sick and tired of the phony Hollywood scene. I jumped at the chance to make a fresh start three thousand miles away.
Besides, I’d always harbored a secret desire to be a veterinarian. Managing a pet store seemed like the next best thing.
The woman looked so forlorn that I held up one finger. “Just a minute, Ms. Poole. I thought I saw something here before . . .” I ran my finger along the boxes that graced the shelf in back of me, grabbed one, and held it out to her. “It’s not the Tomkins brand, but I have used this on my own cat. It’s pretty good.”
Grace Poole’s eyes brightened as she snatched the box from my outstretched hand. “Jordan’s. I’ve heard of it. This’ll do.” She started to reach inside her purse. “How much?”
I waved my hand. “Consider it a free sample. And I do hope you’ll come back and visit once we’re officia
lly open for business.”
“Oh, you can bet on that.” Grace stuffed the box into the voluminous floral tote slung over one arm. “We’ve been hoping and praying that the business would continue. Fox Hollow needs their pet store. The others on the highway are so . . . impersonal.” She paused. “Not to mention a pain in the you know where to get to. Do you have an opening date in mind?”
“There’s a lot of straightening up I need to do first, but I’m hoping by the end of the month.”
“Wonderful. I’ll tell my friends. They were all worried too.” She turned, paused, and looked at me over her shoulder. “Nice to meet you, Crishell.”
“Call me Shell.”
Grace tossed me a wave and bustled out the door. I uncrossed my legs and stood up with a groan. “Boy, not going to the gym every day sure takes a toll on your muscles,” I observed.
“Ow-orrr!”
I glanced down and saw a sleek brown form wriggle out from underneath the counter. My coffee-colored seal point Siamese had been a birthday gift from my mother two years ago, after I’d hinted at adopting a shelter cat. “No daughter of mine is going to have a mutt animal,” she’d hissed as she’d pressed the basket into my arms. Actually, the name on the cat’s papers is Her Royal Highness Tao T’Sung, but there was no way I was going to call a cat Your Royal Highness, so instead I’d started searching the internet for suitable names. The problem was solved the next morning when I found her curled up in my liquor cabinet, her paws wrapped around a bottle of Kahlua, my favorite liqueur.
I reached down and gave Kahlua a scratch behind her ear. She jumped up on the counter and licked my hand with her rough tongue. I picked her up and cuddled her against my chest. “What do you think, Kahlua?” I whispered. “We’ve got our work cut out for us, but I can just visualize the finished product. We’ll make Aunt Tillie proud yet.”
Kahlua head-butted my chin. “Merow.”
I chuckled. “I’m glad you agree.”
My pants pocket started to vibrate. I set Kahlua back on the floor and fished out my iPhone. I took a look at the Caller ID and stifled a groan. I was so tempted to let it go to voicemail, but he’d only keep calling. This was his fiftieth call in two days. I squared my shoulders and hit the Answer button. “Yes, Max?”
“Oh my God. Did I finally get you and not a recording? I thought you’d have come to your senses by now. What’s gotten into you? Why have you thrown away a promising career to tend to the needs of cats and dogs? Why? Tell me why!”
My agent Max Molenaro’s nasally whine reminded me just why I’d been avoiding taking his calls. I’d started to forget just how pitchy his voice could get when he didn’t get his way. “I guess it all depends on your definition of a promising career,” I said.
“Your aunt didn’t say you had to run that business personally, did she?” Max snapped. “I’m sure you could find someone capable to run it, and you could fly in once or twice a month to check up on things. I know you, Shell. You’re used to bustle and bright lights. Small-town living isn’t for you.”
I exhaled a long breath. “This has nothing to do with small-town living, as you put it, does it, Max? This is about the Spy Anyone cable reboot, isn’t it?”
The silence stretched on for so long that I thought we’d somehow gotten disconnected (which wouldn’t have bothered me in the least, by the way) and then Max spoke up. “The cable reboot could be your door, Shell, not that pet store. Aw, Shell, you weren’t cut out to sell dog food and kitty litter. You were born to act.”
I stifled a laugh. “I think you have me confused with my mother.” My mother, Clarissa McMillan, was a classically trained actress who’d enjoyed a long career on the Broadway stage. She’d always had opinions about my career and had never approved of my role choices. She’d always had something derogatory to say about the cable show, calling it “a cheap James Bond ripoff.” I had no doubt she’d be even less thrilled about my selling dog food and kitty litter, which was one reason why I hadn’t told her about my decision yet. “No doubt she would agree with you, but my answer is still the same. No.”
A few more seconds of silence and then Max blurted out, “Tell me the truth, Shell. Is Gary the reason you don’t want to do the new series? Because if it is, we . . . we can do something about him.”
I switched the phone to my other ear. “Do something about him? That sounds ominous.” Not that I hadn’t been tempted to do away with Gary Presser many times myself. He could be a sweetheart, but he could also be a royal pain in the you know where. “Relax. My decision has nothing to do with Gary, Max. I just want to do something different with my life. I want to be my own boss for a change.”
“I can understand that. But does it have to be running a pet store?”
“The people of Fox Hollow have always been big animal lovers. They cherish their pets, and my aunt knew that. Max, you should see this place! It’s got every type of pet need one could ever imagine!” As I spoke, my eyes roamed over the store’s vast shelves, stocked to the brim with toys for cats and dogs, beds, litter pails, and the like. My aunt hadn’t catered solely to cats or dogs, either. There was a section for parakeets and parrots, some fish tanks, and cages where hamsters, guinea pigs, and even rats had been kept. They were all empty right now, but I was hopeful to have them refilled within the next few weeks. I’d also planned to contact several local shelters to see if we could arrange to hold Adopt A Pet Saturdays once a month. “You know I’ve always loved animals. Besides becoming a veterinarian, this is the next best thing.” I snapped my fingers. “Which reminds me: I have to put an ad in the paper for an assistant. Know anyone in Connecticut who’d be interested in giving dogs a bath and clipping cats’ claws?”
“Not off the top of my head,” he said dryly. He hesitated briefly and then said, “Would this life-altering decision of yours have anything to do with Patrick?”
My throat constricted and my heart skipped a beat at the mention of my former director slash fiancé. I swallowed over the lump and replied, “I won’t deny that putting distance between me and Patrick Hanratty held a certain amount of appeal, but it wasn’t the only deciding factor.”
I could hear Max snicker, although he tried to hide it. “I’ll bet you my next commission you’ll be on a plane to LA within a month.”
I laughed. “I hate to take your money, Max. You work so hard for it.”
“So your mind is made up? There’s nothing I can do to change it?”
“Nope.”
Another long sigh. “Well, then, I wish you luck, Shell, although . . . I’ve got to warn you, Gary probably won’t be thrilled by this news.”
My nose wrinkled. I could well imagine my former costar’s reaction, which was one of the reasons I hadn’t told him I was moving either. Don’t get me wrong, Gary and I had always gotten along. He’d been a good friend over the years, and a confidant when my relationship with Patrick started to blow up. But he also has a very intense personality and an ego the size of Texas, which can get a bit crazy at times. And right now, crazy was the last thing I needed. Aloud I said, “Gary will be fine. He’s like a cat. He always lands on his feet. Trust me, he’ll be thrilled. Now he can convince the new producers to hire a young chippie as his new sidekick.”
“It’s not that easy.” He hesitated and then said, “I might as well tell you the truth. You were the one the producers really wanted. Without you, I doubt there’ll be much interest in the new series. But that’s not your problem. Take care, Shell—oh, wait! Are guest roles totally off the table?”
Click.
• • •
After I hung up with Max I flopped down in the worn chair behind the register and leaned back, my hands laced behind my neck. Max’s words bothered me more than I cared to admit, and a twinge of guilt arrowed through me at the thought I might possibly cost Gary this job. Kahlua hopped up on my lap and swatted my chin with her paw. “You’re right, Kahlua,” I said. “Max might have been exaggerating, hoping to play on my sympathy. Gary’s
a big boy and a good actor. He might balk a bit at first, but he’ll understand . . . eventually. He’ll push through no matter what the role.”
I needed to think about what was best for me for a change. As Aunt Tillie used to say, “If you don’t put yourself first, it’s a sure bet no one else will.” Well, it was high time I did that. I’d put everyone else’s needs above mine, far too often, most recently with disastrous results. I glanced at my hand—the empty third finger of my left hand, specifically—and a small sigh escaped my lips.
Everything happens for a reason.
A mental picture of Patrick rose in my mind’s eye, and I resolutely pushed it away. I’d been so certain he was the one. I’d spend hours in my trailer between scenes, fantasizing about the perfect life we’d have together and then, in one afternoon, it had all come crashing down. I’d flung my four-carat diamond ring at Patrick and the script girl he was in bed with, stormed out of the apartment, and never looked back. A month later the show was canceled, and three weeks after that I was on a plane to Fox Hollow for a funeral. And now here I sat, sorting through boxes of catnip balls and doggie chew toys. Go figure.
The bell above the shop door tinkled, jostling me out of my reverie and reminding me once again I’d forgotten to lock the door. “I’m sorry, we’re not open for business yet,” I began and then stopped short.
Three people stood grouped in the doorway, two women and a man. One woman was short and stout. She had flame-colored hair (think Lucille Ball, only redder) teased up off her head and anchored with what had to be at least a pound of hairspray. She wore an aqua and orange flowered caftan a size too small, which served to accentuate her generous frame instead of hiding it. Her age was hard to judge, but I placed her as approximately ten years older than myself, late forties to mid-fifties.
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