My mother rushed on without waiting for me to answer. “You said you had some questions? Funny thing, I’ve got some for you, too.”
Uh-oh. “You do?”
“Yes. Like why you turned down a six-figure deal to star in a reboot of that series. Offers like that don’t grow on trees, you know.”
“First off, the offer was not six figures. Oh, wait, maybe it is if you count the cents. Secondly, I don’t have to take on just anything anymore. I can afford to be selective now.”
“Ah.” There was a moment of silence and then, “I wonder if Matilda would have left you her entire fortune if she’d realized it would be the ruination of your acting career. She was very proud of you.”
I wondered if my mother would share that opinion if she knew I intended to reopen Urban Tails. Obviously that tidbit of news wasn’t on her radar . . . yet. I gritted my teeth and silently counted to ten before I answered. “I know she was. Which brings me to the question I had for you—” I began, but she cut me off again.
“I think you should reconsider that series. It seems like a wonderful opportunity and”—she lowered her voice—“it’s a good role for a woman, and they’re hard to come by these days. You’re not getting any younger, you know.”
I let out a huge sigh. “Let it go, Mother. There are other things I can do besides acting, you know.”
This time the sigh was dramatic. “Such as running that smelly pet shop of Matilda’s? Oh, yes, I know, Crishell. People tell me things.”
“I’m sure they do.” Thank you, Max, I fumed silently. If he weren’t three thousand miles away, I’d hunt him down and throttle him.
“Please tell me you’re not going to do that.”
“I can’t, because that’s exactly what I am going to do. Very shortly, too.”
“Oh, for God’s sakes, Crishell! You’ve too much talent to waste slaving away catering to the needs of cats and dogs.”
I scrubbed one hand across my eyes. “You wouldn’t understand, Mother, and I didn’t call you to discuss my career choice. I need your help.”
“Really? My help?” The tone turned wary. “With what?”
“Did Aunt Matilda have any enemies?”
Dead silence, and then my mother burst into laughter. “You’re still an actress at heart, dear. So melodramatic! What makes you think Matilda had enemies?”
“Because . . .” I hesitated, then plunged ahead. “Because the museum turned down displaying Aunt Tillie’s Cary Grant poster collection, and I have the feeling it’s got something to do with some sort of feud she had with one of the museum board members.”
“Well, goodness, why didn’t you say that? A feud’s different than having enemies.”
I rolled my eyes and mentally counted to ten before continuing. “Did you ever hear anything about Aunt Matilda feuding with anyone?”
My mother cleared her throat loudly. “I do seem to recall something about her and a woman in the town. She always referred to her as ‘the wicked witch.’”
Well, that sure sounded like Amelia. “She never mentioned a name?”
“Well, she might have. Truthfully, I don’t really remember. I wasn’t all that interested.”
Of course, I should have known. If Clarissa McMillan wasn’t the main topic of conversation, then the topic wasn’t worth squat. “You don’t know what the feud was about, then?”
“Oh, of course I do. It was over a man. What else?” She let out a long sigh. “I know she talked to your father about it. I suppose you could call him.”
I ignored the frosty tone in her voice. It was par for the course whenever the topic of my father came up, the miscreant who’d dumped her after she’d given him the best years of her life. “I would, but he’s on that photo shoot in Africa.”
“Africa, huh? Did he take Darlene with him?”
“I don’t know, Mother.” Did I mention that a week after the divorce my dad had hightailed it off to Vegas with Darlene Rule, my mom’s best friend, and they were married in one of those all-night chapels? My mother has refused to set foot in Las Vegas ever since.
“No matter. So, now that I’ve answered your questions, quid pro quo, Crishell. Are you even remotely considering that reboot?”
“No, Mother, I told you . . .”
“Patrick isn’t going to direct.”
I almost lost my grip on my phone. “What?”
“Patrick isn’t going to be the director. They hired someone else. Wait. You didn’t know?”
“Know my ex-fiancé was on tap to direct that series? Hell, no.”
“Oh, goodness.” Did I imagine it or did she sound contrite? “I thought for sure that was the real reason you turned it down . . .”
Uh-huh. One thing I can say about my mother, she’s a firm believer in misery loves company. Thankfully, my call waiting buzzed at that moment. I frowned at the unfamiliar number. Usually I let them go to voicemail, but right now . . . any port in a storm. “Oops, sorry, Mom. I’ve got another call. I’ve got to take this, but thanks for your help. We’ll talk soon.”
“Crishell, we haven’t finished—”
I cut her off mid-sentence, aware that I’d pay for that at some point, and took the other call. “Crishell McMillan.”
“Hi, it’s Rita Sakowski.”
“Oh, yes, hi, Rita. I stopped by Sweet Perks yesterday. Fabulous coffee.”
I could hear the pleasure in the woman’s voice as she responded, “Yes, Olivia told me. I’m sorry I couldn’t join you.” She hesitated and then said, “I heard you had an . . . unfortunate encounter with some of the museum board?”
Oh my God! Gossip certainly did travel at the speed of light in Fox Hollow. “Do you mean Lawrence Peabody and Andy McHardy? Where did you hear that?”
A much longer pause, and then . . . “Well, I guess you didn’t see the Fox Hollow Gazette, then?”
“The town newspaper?” I recalled my brief encounter with Quentin Watson. He must have witnessed the whole thing, and he hadn’t looked happy when I’d put him off for an interview. “Oh, no,” I whispered.
“Oh, yes. It should be outside on your stoop. Newbies always get a complimentary Sunday copy. Page six.”
“Thanks. I’ll talk to you later.” After I kill Quentin Watson, I thought grimly. I chucked the phone onto the couch and raced outside. Sure enough, a fat paper lay on my steps. I snatched it up, set the pile of advertisements and circulars to one side, and riffled the pages to six. There it was, in bold, right at the top of the page.
Frenemies, Anyone?
What new resident of Fox Hollow is making “frenemies” of the members of our museum board before she logs twenty-four hours into our little town? Said resident was spotted at the Captain’s Club yesterday getting two of FH’s finest, Lawrence Peabody and Andy McHardy, hot under the collar and was spotted earlier in a heated altercation with one of our more prominent citizens, initials AW. Who might this rabble-rouser be, you ask? Far be it from us to name names, but hint: Our new resident has graced the small screen for years, and recently was laid off from her hit series. Rumor also has it she’s planning to reopen one of Fox Hollow’s most popular shops. Tip for the Newbie: Don’t take out your frustration over a failed career out on the natives. Your energies would be better concentrated on reopening a beloved store that has been regarded as a landmark here for years.
“Great,” I muttered. “Fricking great.” I grabbed my phone and eyed Purrday, who was lounging across the brocaded love seat, busily washing his tail. “I’ve got to be able to sue. This . . . this is libel. Failed career, my a—”
“Merow,” said Purrday.
“He doesn’t mention me by name, but come on! Graced the small screen for years, recently laid off from her hit series? And the part about concentrating my energy on reopening a beloved store? Who else could it be?”
Purrday’s response was to flick his tail, hop off the love seat, and stalk off toward the kitchen in search of his food bowl.
“Okay, you’re r
ight. It kinda did happen, so it’s not libel. So, what? Invasion of privacy?”
I sighed. Probably no more an invasion than my listening in on their conversation, although that had been an accident. Another pitfall of fame: your life was an open book and you pretty much walked around with a target on your back.
My iPhone rang again and I snatched it up and tapped the screen without even looking at the number. “Yes,” I growled. “If this is about that article . . .”
“Hardly that,” a harsh voice snapped, “although I did find it amusing.”
I blinked as I recognized the growly tone on the other end. “Ms. Witherspoon? How did you get my cell number?”
“I can usually get pretty much anything I set my mind to. Plus, it was in your file at the museum.” There was a pause and then Amelia cleared her throat. “I’m calling you because I think it’s time the two of us discussed . . . a certain matter. I think you know to what I’m referring.”
I almost dropped the phone. Purrday had come back into the room and now he rubbed impatiently against my black pants leg, leaving a smattering of fine white hairs. “Owrrr,” he said.
“Yes, yes.” I waved my hand at him. “I’ll fill your bowl in a minute,” I said.
Something else butted against my other leg. I looked down and saw Kahlua squatted there. “Ma-row!” she trilled.
“Yes, I’ll feed you too,” I hissed.
“Pardon?” Amelia asked.
“Sorry, I was talking to the cats. So, Ms. Rubin spoke to you then?”
“Ginnifer?”
“Yes. I spoke with her and she said she would try and talk to you.”
“I know nothing about that,” Amelia snapped. “This matter has nothing to do with your aunt’s collection, as you well know. I’m offering to clarify certain things for you, so you don’t end up making a fool of yourself and drag me down along with you.”
I frowned. None of what Amelia had just said made the slightest bit of sense. “I’m sorry, I have no idea what you’re talking about. If it’s not about the display . . .”
“Good God, stop sounding like a broken record,” Amelia spat. “You needn’t play dumb with me, young lady,” Amelia snapped. “What I want to know is just how you became aware of these erroneous facts. Who you’ve been talking to.”
This conversation was getting worse by the minute. I felt like Alice, just dropped through the rabbit hole, and I pushed my hair out of my eyes with the heel of my hand. “I’m sorry. I haven’t the vaguest . . .”
“Oh, save it. Just meet me at the museum in an hour. I’ll leave the side door open for you. I’m sure we can come to an amicable agreement.”
“What sort of agreement? I don’t—”
I was talking to air. Amelia had hung up. I heard a plaintive merow and I looked down at Purrday, who stood glaring up at me, his majestic plume of a tail waving to and fro. “Owrr,” he said again.
I bent down to stroke his head absently. “Yes, yes, I know. You’re hungry. I have no idea what that woman was talking about. Come to an agreement over what?”
Kahlua appeared and meowed loudly, so I headed for the kitchen, both cats close behind. “Okay, okay,” I said as I opened the cupboard door. “Your food’s coming.” I filled both bowls with kibble and set them down next to each other. Both cats regarded each other warily for a second, then hunger won out and they hunkered down in front of the bowls. A minute later the only sound was their contented slurping. My job done, I dialed Mazie Madison’s number. The call went straight to voicemail. I hung up without leaving a message and dialed Ginnifer Rubin’s number. That too went to voicemail.
“Well,” I said, tapping my iPhone against my palm, “I guess there’s only one way to get to the bottom of this. Confront the witch in her lair.” I glanced over at the cats. They’d finished eating and were now stretched out on the floor, not close but not far away from each other either. Purrday was lying on his side and Kahlua was washing her paws. “Wish me luck, guys,” I called.
Both cats lifted their heads, and then two paws went up in the air. “Er-Owl!” said Purrday.
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll need it.”
• • •
Exactly fifty-five minutes later I parked my car in the lot of the Fox Hollow Museum. I climbed out, locked it, and took a quick look around. There was a big black Caddy parked at the far end of the lot, and I figured that must be Amelia’s car. There were no others around that I could see.
The museum was a handsome, L-shaped brick building that took up most of the block. I walked around to the side door and pulled on it. Locked. I frowned. Amelia had distinctly said she’d leave it open, hadn’t she? Or maybe I’d misunderstood, and she’d said the back door? I walked around the building and over to a brown door marked Service. I pulled on the door handle and it swung out on squeaky hinges.
In between my two television series, I’d done a low-budget horror film called Night of the Stalker. In it, an axe murderer targeted a group of teens who’d violated what he considered his home, a shack in the woods. I’d played the gang leader’s girlfriend, and I’d had exactly twenty minutes onscreen, fifteen of them trying to avoid being axed in a deserted building. As I stood uncertainly in the museum hallway, I was reminded of that movie. And how I’d screamed when I’d found the body of Jasmine, my BFF, right before the axe landed in my back. I shivered.
“Amelia,” I called, my voice just a shade above a whisper. “It’s Crishell McMillan. I’m here for our meeting, as you requested.”
I glanced at my watch. Of course, it was possible the Caddy wasn’t her car, and she wasn’t here yet, but . . . Amelia somehow didn’t strike me as the tardy type. I moved cautiously down the long hallway, peering this way and that, looking for some sign of life. I rounded a corner and saw a door straight ahead, slightly ajar. I bit back a sigh and quickened my steps. The placard on the door read Library. I gave the door a push and it swung gently inward. I stood for a minute, letting my eyes adjust to the dim lighting. I had an impression of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves in front of me, and some low-slung display cases off to my right. The room appeared deserted, and I started to turn away when I caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of my eye.
An arm. A very still arm. And a hand that clutched what looked like a photograph.
For the next few seconds, I couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. The room spun before my eyes, and when it stopped I opened my mouth and let out a long, bloodcurdling scream that movie director would have been proud of.
Amelia Witherspoon lay on her back in the far corner of the room, in front of a large bust of William Shakespeare. Her eyes were wide open, her white hair fanned out like a flag around her head and shoulders, and her thick lips formed a perfect O of surprise. Judging from the red stain that spread halfway across the front of her white shirt, she was also quite, quite dead.
Eight
“I’ve told you twice, Amelia Witherspoon called me and asked me to meet her in the museum office. We had an appointment.”
Once I’d screamed myself hoarse, I’d managed to pull myself together to whip out my cell to dial 911. The policeman who’d shown up ten minutes later, Officer Riley, looked as if he’d just graduated from the police academy. Sandy hair with a stubborn cowlick, slightly mottled skin that spoke of a bout with acne, and a firm, prominent jaw. It wasn’t so much his looks, though, that bespoke his youth and inexperience, but rather his take-no-prisoners attitude. His clear blue eyes widened, though, at the sharpness in my tone, and when he spoke again he managed to sound very apologetic indeed.
“I’m sorry about all the repetition, ma’am. It’s just I’ve only been on the force two weeks and this”—he scratched at his sideburn with the tip of his pen—“is my first dead body.” From the pained expression on his face, I had a feeling he also hoped it would be his last.
I barked out a short laugh. “Mine too,” I said. “At least, it’s my first real one.” At his puzzled look I added, “I, ah, used to be
an actress on a spy series. Over the years my character stumbled across tons of dead bodies. At the end of the day, though, they get up and walk away.”
He cast a glance over at Amelia’s white-sheeted body. The paramedics had arrived right after him, and now they were just waiting for the coroner’s wagon “She’s not going to do that,” he said. “Anyway, this is my first homicide, and I want to have all the facts straight for Detective Bloodgood. I’ve never worked with him before, but I hear he’s a stickler for detail.”
Bloodgood, huh? It sounded like a perfect name for a homicide detective. I pictured a gray-haired guy with a close-clipped mustache, a bit of a paunch, and an even worse attitude than Officer Riley. “So, is this Bloodgood guy in charge of Homicide?”
“You could say that.” The officer’s lips twisted into a wry half grin. “He’s the only detective assigned to Homicide. We share him with the other county towns. Don’t get very many murders in this neck of the woods.” He flipped a page in his notebook. “You knew the deceased?”
“Not really. We only met once.”
He scribbled something down. “Over museum business?”
“Yes.”
“And that’s why you were meeting her here this morning as well?”
“She requested we meet,” I said carefully. “She didn’t say as to the meeting’s nature.” Or at least she hadn’t said anything that made sense.
He frowned, looked at his notes. “O-kay.” Then he scribbled something else down.
I glanced out the window at movement and saw a dark sedan pull up, followed closely by a black SUV with Coroner printed in gold letters on the side. Two men got out of the SUV, pulling on disposable gloves. I couldn’t see the occupant of the sedan yet, but I figured that must be Detective Bloodgood. The sedan door opened and I caught a glimpse of a man’s leg, and then I jumped a mile high as Officer Riley’s hand clamped down on my shoulder. I spun around, gasping for breath.
The Time for Murder Is Meow Page 7
