I gestured toward the Crock-Pot. “Would you like some gumbo? Or a cup of coffee?”
“Nothing for me, thanks.” He leaned an elbow against my counter, still studying me. “Tillie talked about you quite a bit.”
“You knew my aunt, then?”
“Everyone knew Tillie Washburn. She was a large contributor to the policeman’s fund, of which I’m a committee member.”
I cleared my throat. “I understand Amelia was on that committee, too. You knew her as well.”
“Let’s just say there are very few people in Fox Hollow who didn’t know Amelia.” He paused. “I’m curious. Why does a successful actress chuck her career in Hollywood to move to a small town like Fox Hollow?”
I shrugged. “My show was recently canceled. I’ve been acting most of my life. I decided it was time for a change. I have plans to reopen Urban Tails.” Unless, of course, I’m in jail for a murder.
He pulled his notebook and a pen out of his pocket, flipped a couple of pages. “You said you’d met the deceased one other time,” he asked abruptly, his tone casual.
“You know I did,” I replied evenly. “You saw me.”
He tapped the end of the pen against his notebook. “I did.” He raised his gaze to mine. “You threatened her, if I recall.”
I gripped the edge of the counter. “She threatened me first. I was just responding in kind.”
“Mind telling me what the argument was about?”
“I attempted to ask her why she’d voted against me, and I didn’t agree with her reasoning. I tried to convince her to change her mind, but . . .” I lifted my shoulders in a shrug. “I wasn’t successful.”
“Apparently.” He glanced toward my coffeepot. “I think I will take that coffee, if you don’t mind. Black, two sugars.”
I motioned for him to take a seat at the table and I pulled two mugs out of the cabinet. I filled them both up with coffee, added half-and-half to one and sugar to the other, and went over to the table. I set his mug down in front of him and eased into the chair opposite, wrapping my hands around my mug. He took a long, slow sip out of his before he set it down and reached for his notebook again.
“I understand you met with the other board members who voted against you yesterday as well.”
My, he had been busy! “You must be very good at your job,” I said dryly, “to learn so much in such a short space of time.”
“It’s a small town. People love to talk, and this apparently was a very hot topic yesterday. You got Peabody and McHardy pretty hot under the collar.”
I shifted in my chair. “That wasn’t my intention. When it seemed Amelia wasn’t going to change her mind, I felt I should try and convince one or more of the others to change theirs.”
He picked up the mug again, took another sip, set it down. “You told them you intended to file a complaint against them, didn’t you?”
“I said I might if they didn’t listen to reason. I never actually said I was going to. As it happened, I’d spoken to Ginnifer Rubin and she seemed willing to re-review my request. I was going to hold off on anything until I’d heard from her. I probably should have let her talk to the other two but—” I shrugged. “I’ve always been a very proactive person.”
He scribbled something else on his pad.
I cleared my throat. “I feel I should mention something that I overheard yesterday.”
He glanced up. “Go on.”
“When I went to confront Amelia across the street from Sweet Perks, she was arguing with another board member, Garrett Knute. Mr. Knute was trying to get an envelope away from her. She shoved it in her tote bag and laughed at him. As I approached I heard him mutter, ‘over my dead body.’”
Josh looked expectantly at me as I stopped. “That’s it?”
I stared at him. “Yes.”
“And you think that’s significant?”
“I certainly do. It shows that I wasn’t the only person Amelia had an argument with yesterday.”
His lips twitched slightly. “Amelia’s disagreed vehemently with over half the town on one thing or another. It doesn’t necessarily mean that Garrett wanted to kill her over it.”
I felt exasperation well up inside me and I bit down on my lower lip, hard. “And just because we disagreed over my aunt’s collection doesn’t mean I killed her, either. After all, I only just met the woman.”
He leaned back in his chair and tented his fingers. I couldn’t help noticing how long and slim they were. Perfect piano-player fingers. I wondered how they would feel, twining through my hair, running across my body . . .
“How did Amelia sound when she called you today?”
I shook my head quickly to clear my mind, pursed my lips as I thought. “She sounded smug.”
“Smug?”
“Yes. I told you she said she thought we could come to an amicable arrangement. But—” I broke off, frowned.
“What are you thinking?” he prompted.
“I’m thinking that the only thing we could arrive at an amicable arrangement about was displaying the posters. But Amelia denied that was the reason for the meeting. Still, if she had that photograph in her hand . . .” I shrugged. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“No, it doesn’t.” Josh flipped a page in his notebook. “What time did you say you arrived at the museum?”
“Eleven ten. I know because I looked at my dashboard clock and then at my watch before going into the museum.”
“And Amelia called you at what time?”
“A few minutes past ten. She said she wanted to meet me in an hour, and I looked at my watch when I hung up. It was just ten fifteen, so I assumed I had to be at the museum by eleven fifteen.”
“Hm,” he said again, and scribbled something else in his notebook. Then he leaned back in the chair. “Per the coroner, the time of death was somewhere between ten forty-five and ten fifty-five.” He looked at me and I knew what he was thinking. From my driveway to the museum parking lot was a twenty-minute drive, give or take a few minutes. It would be cutting it close, but it was doable.
“I don’t own a gun,” I blurted out.
He looked up, startled, and then said, “Good to know.”
I tapped at the table with my fingernail. “I want to go on record as voluntarily giving you this information before you ask.”
His lips twitched. “Very forthcoming of you; however, a gunshot wound wasn’t the cause of death.”
“She wasn’t shot?” I frowned. “With all that blood, I just assumed . . .”
“The autopsy’s not complete, so we can’t release details yet, but . . .” He hesitated, then made a slashing motion across his throat. “Two stab wounds. One across the throat, what’s often called ‘a smile beneath the chin,’ and the other in the chest.”
“Ooh.” I shut my eyes, trying to ward off that vision of Amelia lying there covered in blood. My eyes snapped open as a thought occurred to me. “Well, that should convince you I had nothing to do with it. If I’d killed her, I’d have known she was stabbed and not shot.”
His lips twitched slightly. “True. Then again, you are an actress. You could be trying to throw me off the track.”
I flushed. “Okay, how about the fact I had no blood on me. If I’d killed her, there would have been some spatter on my clothes and person.”
“True, unless you wore some sort of plastic covering when you stabbed her and then ditched it before we came.”
I leveled a look at him. “Wow, you have an answer for everything, don’t you?”
His lips quirked again. “That’s why I’m such a good detective. And for the record, I said you could have, not that you did.”
He sat silently for a moment, sipping coffee. Obviously, he’d shared all he was going to. I cleared my throat. “How’s Rocco?”
If he was surprised by the change in topic, he gave no outward indication. “He’s fine. Hopefully my sister won’t require my services for a while. That dog’s a handful.”
“He
belongs to the sister who owns the secondhand shop, right? Not the one who bartends at the Captain’s Club?”
He looked momentarily surprised and then let out a soft chuckle. “You’re somewhat of a detective yourself, I see. Yes, Rocco is Sue’s dog. She got custody of him in the divorce.” He gave a rueful grin. “Jason sure knew what he was doing there.”
Purrday came out from around a corner, rubbed against Josh’s leg, and let out a soft meow. Josh bent over and petted him on the head.
“Hello, fella. Guess you miss Tillie, huh?”
I watched Purrday rub up against Josh. “He seems to know you, and like you, too.”
“As I said, your aunt was a regular contributor to the policeman’s fund, and she spearheaded a few fundraisers for us, so yeah, I’ve been here before. Purrday’s quite a cat.”
“Yes, I’m finding that out.”
He glanced up at me. “You plan to keep him, then?”
“So long as he and Kahlua get along. Kahlua’s my Siamese. She’s been an only cat for two years, but so far so good. Besides, I’m sure my aunt would want me to take care of Purrday.”
“Yes, I’m sure she would. And I’m sure your cat will learn to love Purrday. He’s the kind of cat that grows on you.” He flipped his notebook shut. “That’s all the questions I have for now.”
I eyed him. “Is this the part where you tell me not to leave town?”
His lips twitched ever so slightly. He wanted to smile, I just knew he did. He pushed his chair back and stood up. “Should I? You’re not going anywhere, are you?”
I shook my head. “Nope.”
“Then I don’t see a problem.”
I pressed my palms together. “But I am a suspect?”
“Let’s see . . . you argued with the victim in public, you went around threatening to file a formal complaint against her and those other board members, and then you found the body. Let’s just call you a person of interest for now.”
I let out a silent sigh of relief. “I didn’t kill her, Detective.”
“Maybe not.”
I raised both eyebrows.
“Probably not,” he amended. He looked deeply into my eyes. “I still have the sense you’re holding something back.”
I widened my eyes and returned his gaze. “I’ve told you all I know.”
He gave me a long, searching look, and then turned toward the door. “Well, hopefully all this will be resolved soon.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a card, which he pressed into my hand. “If you think of anything else, call me. Day or night.”
I glanced at the card, then shoved it into the pocket of my hoodie. “I will.”
He twisted the doorknob, then paused. “If I have any more questions, I’ll follow up with you. In the meantime, my advice to you is be careful. There’s a murderer out there. It could be someone hoping that you’ll take the fall for what he or she did. If I were you, I’d be doubly cautious dealing with people.”
I paled. “What are you saying? That I could be in danger too?”
He quirked a brow at me. “You were pretty public with your dislike of Amelia, and Quentin Watson certainly exploited it. I wouldn’t rule anything or anyone out.” His hand shot out, briefly grazed my cheek before dropping back to his side. When he was halfway out the door he turned and said, “I’d hate to see anything happen to you. Good night, Shell.”
He left, closing the door behind him. I reached up to touch my cheek. It was still warm from his touch. “Good night, Josh,” I whispered.
Eleven
A special edition of the Fox Hollow Gazette was out Monday morning. I winced as I read the headline: Foul Play Suspected at Museum. Local Committee Member Murdered. I took the paper into the kitchen, slapped the teapot on the stove, and read the account, standing up.
Fox Hollow—Amelia Witherspoon, local philanthropist and daughter of town scion Winston Witherspoon, was found dead Sunday afternoon at the Fox Hollow Museum, the victim of multiple stab wounds.
Resident Homicide Det. Joshua Bloodgood responded to a 911 call made by Fox Hollow’s newest resident, Ms. Crishell McMillan, who found the body. No suspects have yet been identified, but Detective Bloodgood is interrogating some “persons of interest” and following several leads.
Amelia Witherspoon, who was 87 at the time of her death, is a descendant of one of the original founders of Fox Hollow, Cunningham Witherspoon. Her father, Winston, was a lawyer and then a judge for many years before his passing fifteen years ago.
Ms. Witherspoon is survived by a distant cousin, Ms. Aggie Wharton of Kennebunkport, Maine. A memorial service will be held in the town square Monday evening. No funeral arrangements have been finalized.
I let out a sigh of relief. I’d expected Watson to somehow sensationalize my part in all this, but the article was brief and to the point. I was curious, though, who his source was, who the other “persons of interest” might be, and what leads Josh might be tracking down. I’d spent quite a bit of time looking at his business card the night before. I debated calling him, but I doubted he’d share any information, especially since he’d told me I was one of the persons of interest.
I set the paper down and busied myself making a cup of hopefully soothing English Breakfast tea and putting an English muffin in the toaster. Purrday appeared and lofted onto the counter. He nosed at the paper and flipped it onto the floor, then hopped down and stretched out on top of it, claws curled inward.
“Hey,” I admonished the cat. “I wasn’t done reading that.” I attempted to pull the paper out from under him, but he only rolled over on his side, dug his claws deeper, and blinked his eye at me. I grasped the paper with both hands and gave a hard tug. Purrday rolled off it, shot me an injured look, and stalked over to his food bowl. He glared at the empty bowl and then at me.
“Good Lord, Purrday, what’s the problem?” I grumbled. I went to the cupboard and pulled out the kibble. I shook some into his bowl and then Kahlua came running into the kitchen. She stopped, eyed the kibble in my hand, and let out a sharp meow. “Fine,” I said. “You too.” I poured kibble into her bowl and they both hunkered down, shoulder to shoulder, and dug in. I glared at them, my hands on my hips. “One of these days I’m going to find a cat who’ll wait on its owner, not the other way around.”
They both stopped eating and swiveled their heads to look at me. I could visualize a bubble over both their heads with the unspoken words Fat Chance. I shook my head and bent to gather up the paper Purrday had so unceremoniously knocked down. As I gathered it up my eye fell upon the part Purrday had clawed, the article at the top of the page. I squatted down on the floor in front of the cabinet and began to read, my eyes getting wider with each sentence.
Washburn/Witherspoon Feud Lives On?
The years-long feud between the two paragons of our town, Matilda Washburn and Amelia Witherspoon, should have come to an apparent end with the sudden and untimely death of Ms. Witherspoon yesterday, yet this person fears it might not have.
Sources tell me that Tillie Washburn’s niece, Crishell McMillan, aka Shell Marlowe, was right in the thick of things with Amelia, even to the point of a public argument. A sanction against our own museum board has even been mentioned. Can anyone say sour grapes?
Ms. Marlowe, or Ms. McMillan, as she prefers to be known now, has not hidden her dissatisfaction at the museum’s declining to showcase her aunt’s extensive movie poster collection, leaving this writer to wonder just how far she’d take her grudge to exact revenge.
Alas, old feuds do not die, they live on in other guises.
I read the article once, twice, and then a third time before throwing the paper away with a strangled cry. “Aah,” I said, so loudly that Purrday put his paws over his ears. “That man is so infuriating. He’s practically accusing me of murdering Amelia! I’m going to sue him.” I scrambled up from the floor and started looking around for where I’d chucked my cell phone, when it started to ring. I found it behind the cereal box, saw the number, and
answered. “Hello,” I snapped.
“Uh-oh,” Olivia’s voice rang out. “Someone’s read the morning paper.”
“Yes, and I was just about to get my aunt’s lawyer on the phone. Quentin Watson is a fungus that’s got to be stopped.”
“Hold on, Shell. Take a breath. He doesn’t actually come out and say you murdered Amelia.”
“No, but the intent is there.”
“I’m not sure there’s all that much you can do. Freedom of the press and all that.”
“Are you kidding? This article is libelous!”
“Is it?” Olivia asked in a matter-of-fact tone. “You were right in the thick of things with Amelia, so to speak, and you did threaten Larry and Andy with a sanction. The way he’s phrased the article is more along the lines of his opinion than a slur against you. And as we all know, everyone’s entitled to their opinion.”
Much as I hated to admit it, Olivia was right. “It’s just so unfair. It puts me in a very bad light. I’m trying to start a life here. I can’t possibly reopen Urban Tails with this hanging over my head. No one will come to the store if they think it’s run by a killer.”
“Hey, now.” Olivia clicked her tongue. “You can’t let that creep get the best of you. He wasn’t exactly a fan of Amelia’s, either. He’s just trying to get under your skin because you wouldn’t give him an interview. You’ve got to hold your head up high and act like he’s an old coot blowing off steam. Which he is.”
I had to laugh. “Yeah, if anyone’s holding a grudge, it’s him, not me.”
“That’s right. You be the bigger person, sweetie.”
I paused as a sudden thought occurred to me. “Maybe he knows what their feud was all about.”
“Possible, but I doubt it. Your aunt always was a very private person, and Amelia was closemouthed as well when it came to your aunt and their disagreement. Quentin Watson probably only knows as much as the rest of us—that something happened a long time ago that made ’em hate the sight of each other.”
The Time for Murder Is Meow Page 10
