The Time for Murder Is Meow

by Toni LoTempio

  I grimaced. “I know. It’s my own fault. I’m afraid I got a bit pushy with them.”

  Mazie made a clicking sound with her tongue. “It’s understandable. I want you to know that I’m going to do everything I can to ensure that things go smoothly.”

  She rose, an indication the brief interview was over. I hesitated, wanting to broach the subject of her relationship with Amelia but not quite sure how to do it. She noticed my hesitation and smiled at me. “You look as if you want to ask me something else, Crishell. What is it?”

  I decided that perhaps a straightforward approach might be best. “How did you get along with Amelia?” I asked her.

  For a second she looked startled. Then she smiled again. “As well as could be expected. We weren’t friends, but we weren’t enemies, either. I think deep down we probably respected each other. Why do you ask?”

  I shrugged. “No reason. From what I’ve heard, Amelia seemed to know most everyone’s secrets in this town.”

  Mazie laughed. “She did, didn’t she? Fortunately I had no secrets for her to hold over my head.” She sat back down and opened her file folder. “If you’ll excuse me, I have some matters I must attend to right away.”

  I took the dismissal with good grace and walked back into the main office. Londra was at the file cabinet. She pulled a fat folder from it, but as she turned, her sleeve caught on the edge of the drawer. The file fell to the floor, scattering papers across the carpet.

  “Damn,” she muttered and then, realizing I was standing nearby, choked out a soft, “Sorry.”

  “No need,” I assured her. “I say lots worse, especially when someone cuts me off driving.”

  I bent down to help her gather up the scattered papers. I noted that most of them were bills and memos, all signed by Mazie Madison. I also noticed that after some of the signatures there was a miniscule checkmark, positioned so it looked like part of the M in Madison. Londra saw me looking and smiled.

  “It’s my code,” she said, taking the papers I’d gathered up.

  “Your code?”

  She nodded. “Yes. Mazie’s so busy that most times I sign the memos and correspondence. Occasionally, even a check.”

  “You can imitate her signature that well?” I knew such a thing wasn’t unheard of. I’d heard my mother complain many times that her admin could sign her name better than she could.

  “Oh, yes. Mazie’s often joked she has to hide her personal checkbook from me.” She lifted her chin. “That’s why I add that little checkmark. It’s hard to spot unless you know to look for it, but it’s how I can tell what ones I’ve signed.” She shoved all the papers back in the folder and tucked it under her arm. “I guess things are looking up for you, Ms. McMillan, what with your aunt’s posters being a shoo-in now.” She paused and then added in a low tone, “Amelia Witherspoon was a terrible person.”

  I decided what the heck and leaned closer. “I noticed you arguing with her in the park on Saturday. You certainly seemed upset.”

  A look came into her eyes. Fear? But it was gone in an instant. “I happened to run into her and I made the mistake of voicing my opinion. I told her that I didn’t think the vote against you was fair.”

  “You did? Well, thank you.” I paused and then added, “I understand that you wanted a docent position here.”

  Her laugh was bitter. “I tried several times, and each time Amelia had a better candidate. She was just pissed because I would take Mazie’s side instead of hers. Amelia hated it when she couldn’t bend people to her way.” She picked up a pen and shoved it into a pencil cup, then raised her gaze to meet mine. Her eyes were as hard as stones.

  “I’ll tell you the same thing I told Detective Bloodgood when he asked. At the time of Amelia’s death, I was home, making breakfast. I’m afraid the only person who saw me was Happy, my parakeet. I have no alibi. I didn’t kill her, but I can’t say I wasn’t tempted at times. I’m not sorry she’s dead, not one whit. It couldn’t have happened to a better person.”

  • • •

  I returned home to find Gary and Olivia sitting in my parlor, having a drink. I flopped down on the edge of the love seat and looked at them. “You two are back early. How did your investigation go?”

  “Everything depends how you look at it,” said Olivia. “Ginnifer never showed up for class.”

  “No, but I got a good workout.” Gary patted his stomach. “And we had an interesting afternoon, anyway.”

  “Oh? How so?”

  “When we were leaving the studio, I suggested going out the back way and cutting across over to the bike run in the park,” said Olivia. “Guess who was there! Your pal Quentin Watson.”

  “Ugh,” I said. “What did he want?”

  “Oh, he didn’t see us,” Olivia said with a smile.

  “No,” cut in Gary. “We walked around behind him. He was so intent on his phone conversation he never noticed us. But we sure paused when we heard him say the word dagger.”

  I sat up straighter in my seat. “Dagger?”

  They both nodded and then Olivia said, “He was talking to someone on the phone about, quote unquote, the dagger that killed Amelia. He was describing it to someone. I heard something about it being serrated with a double edge.”

  “Really?” My brow wrinkled as I thought. “I don’t recall seeing anything anywhere about the murder weapon itself. Every account I read just said she’d been stabbed multiple times.”

  Olivia’s lips curved in a triumphant grin. “Exactly.”

  “So, the question is, how did this guy know that?” Gary waved his finger in the air dramatically. “I can think of one way: if he were the one who used it to kill Amelia.”

  Sixteen

  As appealing as the thought of Quentin being Amelia’s killer was, I hesitated. “We still don’t know if he had a motive,” I said. “As for knowing about the knife, that man’s like a bloodhound, or a stalker. For all we know he could have a mole in the police station.”

  Olivia snapped her fingers. “I know how I can find out. Gladys Ficke takes my evening modern jazz class. She works the reception desk at the Gazette. Quentin always has her running his errands. She hates him, and she’ll be more than happy to share any gossip she can.”

  “Okay,” I said. “That sounds like a plan.”

  Gary looked at me. “You didn’t tell us how you made out down at the museum.”

  I related my interview with Mazie and Londra Lewis’s parting comment to me. When I finished, Gary let out a low whistle. “Sounds as if this Lewis woman certainly had an axe to grind. Plus, she has no alibi for the time of death.”

  “True, but I can’t see it. Londra’s pretty petite, and shorter than Amelia,” Olivia hastened to point out. “I can’t really see her attacking Amelia and slashing her throat from ear to ear, like Josh described.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I looked that ‘smile’ wound up on the internet,” said Gary. “You would bend the head forward and cut deep all the way across from ear to ear. If she attacked her from behind, she’d have the element of surprise. Strength would have nothing to do with it.”

  “Yuck.” Olivia suppressed a shudder. “It’s amazing what one can find on the internet.”

  I pursed my lips. “I’m not entirely sure I buy her explanation of the argument I witnessed between her and Amelia in the park. It certainly seemed like more than just a mere difference of opinion.”

  “Probably not, but with Amelia dead and no other witnesses, there’s no way you’ll be able to find out for sure,” said Olivia. “Not that Amelia would have told you anything anyway.” She rose and stretched. “I guess I should be getting back to the studio. I’ll let you know if I find out anything from Gladys.”

  Once she’d gone I looked at Gary. “What’s next?”

  He rubbed his stomach. “I don’t know about you, but detective work gives me a ravenous appetite. Plus, I skipped lunch.”

  My stomach chose that moment to growl, reminding me I’d only had a piec
e of quiche. “Well, I bought some nice steaks and chicken breasts at the General Store,” I offered. “I could whip us up a nice steak salad, or a chicken Caesar.”

  Gary made a face. “No, thanks. I’ve sampled your cooking, remember?”

  I swatted at his arm. “That dinner party was two years ago. I’ve vastly improved since then.”

  “What, so now you don’t burn the steaks? You just overcook them so they taste like shoe leather?”

  I wrinkled my nose at him. “Very funny.”

  He rose and grabbed my hand, pulling me up alongside him. “Come on. The least I can do is treat you to dinner, since you’re giving me free room and board. What’s a good restaurant around here?”

  Free room and board. Heck, I’d forgotten about that. With my luck, Gary might never leave. I put that depressing thought from my mind and said, “Good question. Since I’ve only lived here a week, I haven’t had much opportunity to find out.”

  “Tsk tsk. You certainly have changed in a short space of time. The Shell Marlowe I knew would have all the local restaurants on speed dial by now.”

  I laughed at him. “True. But Crishell McMillan is much more discerning.”

  He pulled out his iPad. “No matter. I’ll just look some up.”

  “There is an upscale pub in town. The Captain’s Club. That’s where I had my unfortunate encounter with Peabody and McHardy, as a matter of fact. And met Quentin Watson for the first time.” I paused and then added in an offhand tone, “The bar looked really nice. One of Josh—Detective Bloodgood’s sisters bartends there.”

  Gary wasn’t buying my casual act. He bounced an eyebrow at me and crowed, “Oho, so that’s the big attraction there, is it? You figure the good detective might stop by for a drink and to see his sister?”

  “No, that’s not what I was thinking,” I protested. “You asked about a nice place to eat. That seemed like a nice place.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  I widened my eyes as much as I could without looking like the victim of a serial killer. “What, you don’t believe me?”

  “I believe you’d like to see the good detective again, and not when he’s questioning you about the case. You do know you could pick up the phone and call him, right?”

  “I could,” I said, “but I really shouldn’t. After all, I am technically a person of interest in a murder case he’s investigating. I don’t want to put him in an awkward position.”

  “But it’s okay to accidentally run into him, right?” He glanced at his iPad. “Well, maybe some other time. I’ve found a better place for us to try.”

  He passed me his iPad. I looked at the screen and burst out laughing. “The Hairy Lemon? Really?”

  “It’s in a town called Appleton, about twenty minutes from here.” He fiddled some more with the screen. “It says they serve the best Reuben in the county. And look, they’ve got your favorite, shepherd’s pie.” As I hesitated, he gave me the eye. “I doubt we’ll hear from Rita and Ron today, and we can stop by Olivia’s studio on the way back, see what she found out.”

  “How can I refuse shepherd’s pie,” I said. I threw up my hands. “Okay. You win. Let’s go check out the Hairy Lemon. Maybe a change of scenery is what we need to get our detecting juices flowing.”

  • • •

  I changed into beige linen slacks and a sleeveless back-button tangerine-colored top, and Gary put on dark green dress slacks and a matching open-collared polo shirt. Purrday and Kahlua were squatted shoulder to shoulder at the bottom of the staircase, and meowed loudly to remind me they hadn’t been fed since this morning. I was happy to see they appeared to be getting along, although I was a bit resentful of their ganging up on me. Purrday’s loud yowl of approval when I filled his bowl to the rim definitely rivaled Kahlua’s.

  “That should hold the two of you. Oh, and don’t wait up,” I told them. “After dinner we’re going to stop by Olivia’s dance studio. Maybe Quentin Watson will turn out to be a viable suspect after all.”

  “Merow,” said Purrday. Kahlua was too busy gobbling down food to respond. I noticed the button lying not far from Purrday’s dish. There appeared to be a fresh toothmark in the wood.

  “I’m not even going to bother taking it away from you this time, but I’ve got to get you some new toys,” I said, giving his head a pat. “I wonder what else you might have hidden somewhere around here.”

  Gary stood behind me, arms crossed over his chest. He shook his head. “Do you really think they understand you?”

  I straightened up and turned. “As crazy as it sounds, yes.”

  Gary rolled his eyes. “When either one of them answers you, let me know. I’ll get you all on late night and we’ll make a fortune. Oh, wait.” He threw his hands up. “I forgot. You’ve retired from show business. Guess it’ll just be me and the cats.”

  I stuck my tongue out at him. “Very funny.”

  We piled into Gary’s convertible and less than twenty minutes later found ourselves in the Hairy Lemon’s overflowing parking lot. “Must be a great place,” he said, pocketing the keys. “You can always tell how good a restaurant is by how full their parking lot is. Or how many cop cars are here.”

  I glanced around at the sea of cars. There were two cop cars parked near the back entrance. “Then this place must be five stars at least.”

  The building looked like a traditional British pub. It was made of polished stone, a British flag and an American one waving above its mahogany doors. Gary held the door for me and made a low bow. We walked into a large room that was wide open, with tables scattered all around. The bar was a shining block of mahogany wood, accentuated by droplights and a long mirror. Padded stools in gold and purple flanked it. The lighting was dim, but cozy. On a small stage near the back, a band was in the process of warming up. A blackboard to the left of the bar listed a large variety of specials. We hadn’t been standing there for more than two minutes when a young girl with long black hair, wearing a bright red maxi dress that matched her lip gloss, sidled up to us, menus tucked under her arm. “Welcome to the Hairy Lemon.” She gave us both an appraising glance. “First time?”

  Gary gave her his triple-wattage full-grille smile. “Yep.”

  “Excellent. You’ll enjoy it, I’m sure. Will you be having dinner?”

  “Oh, absolutely.” He leaned forward and closed one eye in a wink. “We’re dying to try your shepherd’s pie and the Reuben. Best in the county, right?”

  She smiled, showing off teeth I was certain had been professionally whitened. “Absolutely. Would you like a table for two? Or would you like to have a drink at the bar first?”

  My gaze flicked to the bar, and I started as my eye fell upon a man seated on a stool directly off to the left. I knew that prominent nose, and those ears, even though a cell phone seemed glued to one of them.

  It was Melvin Feller.

  “We’re pretty hungry, so I think a tab would be best.” He flinched as I grabbed his hand and squeezed it hard. I inclined my head toward the bar and widened my eyes. Gary turned back to the hostess and smiled. “Maybe we will start off at the bar.”

  She moved aside and I pushed forward, homing in on the two empty stools three seats down from where Melvin sat. I hopped up onto a stool and Gary slid onto the one next to me. The bartender, a young man with close-cropped blonde hair and a tiny mustache, turned to us with a smile. “Good evening, and welcome to the Hairy Lemon. What are you two drinking tonight?”

  “A good question.” Gary made a low bow to me. “Ladies first.”

  There was a small book shoved off to one end, the words Drink Menu engraved in embossed gold on its cover. I snatched it up and thumbed through it. “Oh, my,” I said. “There’s a drink called the Hairy Lemon?”

  The bartender laughed. “Sure is. Fresh lemon and blueberries, seltzer, vodka, and ice. Want to try one?”

  I set the book back. “Sure. Why not?”

  “Frozen or straight up?”

  I cocked my head to one side. “Fr
ozen.”

  He glanced at Gary. “And you, sir?”

  “I’m not that adventurous,” Gary said. “I’ll just have vodka and tonic with a twist.”

  “Coming right up.”

  Once he’d moved away Gary leaned into me. “Okay, Shell, give. Why were you so anxious to sit at the bar? I thought you were hungry.”

  “I am, but”—I raised my hand and made a pointing motion—“don’t look now, but Melvin Feller is three seats over.” As Gary turned casually in that direction I added, “He certainly seems engrossed in his phone conversation. I sure would like to know who’s on the other end.”

  The bartender returned and set our drinks in front of us. I had to admit, the Hairy Lemon certainly looked cool and refreshing. I picked it up, took a sip, and set it back down. “Whew. That’s strong.”

  “Too much?” The bartender reached for the glass. “Sorry, I can tone it down a bit if you want. The owner doesn’t like us to skimp on the liquor.”

  I pushed the glass toward him. “That’s odd. Usually they want the drinks watered down. Makes for more of a profit.”

  “True. Not this owner, though. He thinks full-bodied drinks make for happy customers, and happy customers keep coming back.”

  I glanced around the crowded area. “He might have something there, at that.”

  The bartender picked up the glass and turned to add a bit more seltzer.

  Gary took a sip of his vodka and tonic and made a wry face. “A little on the strong side, but I can handle it. Although it’d be a lot easier if I had a Reuben in front of me,” he grumbled.

  “Just one drink, and then we can get a table.” I nibbled at my lower lip. “I’d love to know what he’s talking about. Judging from his facial expression, it seems intense.”

  Mel’s brows were drawn together, and his lips were pressed together as he listened to whoever was on the other end. His short, stubby fingers fiddled with the handle of the frosty beer mug in front of him. He seemed engrossed.