The Time for Murder Is Meow

by Toni LoTempio

  “Oh God,” I burst out. “You didn’t! You slept with Amelia again!”

  He had the grace to flush. “I’m not proud of what I did, and Amelia swore no one would ever know the truth.” He rubbed at his chin. “Fast-forward to a few years ago, when my wife underwent a brief illness. It was around the same time I got on the museum board. Mazie had been appointed director, and Amelia was fit to be tied because it had been done in her absence. Anyway, a post opened and Mazie nominated Melvin Feller. Amelia came to me and asked me to side with her voting against him. She said that he wasn’t the type of person she wanted on the board.” Larry shook his head. “She always talked about that board like it was her personal property. Anyway, I told her that I didn’t see anything wrong with him and I’d vote the way I damn well wanted to. That’s when she showed me the photos, and the video that she’d taken when we were making love.”

  Gary and I both let out a gasp. “She filmed it?” Gary cried.

  Larry nodded. “Oh, Amelia was a clever one. She had a camera set up in her bedroom, can you believe that? I didn’t even know you could buy a home video recorder back then. She told me that unless I voted with her, and continued to give her my support, she’d tell my wife about our brief liaison.” His gaze met mine, and I’d never seen a man look so miserable. “I couldn’t let that happen,” he whispered. “Ona’s heart is weak. Something like that, well, it could kill her.” He curled his fingers into a fist and banged it against the side of the recliner. “Don’t you see! I had no choice! I had to go along with whatever she wanted, damn her.”

  I bit down hard on my lower lip. While I simply couldn’t condone this man’s behavior, I could see how tortured he was, and how much he did love his wife.

  I also saw that Amelia’s blackmail gave him a perfect motive for murder.

  Gary leaned forward and said, “I’m sorry, sir, I realize how upsetting all this is, and how much courage it took for you to tell us the entire story, but I have to ask: where were you between eleven fifteen and eleven forty-five last Sunday morning?”

  Larry stared at us, and then broke into a laugh. “Of course, you have to ask. I’ve got the perfect motive for murder, right? Well, Josh Bloodgood already asked me, and I’ll tell you just what I told him.

  “Between eleven fifteen and eleven forty-five every Sunday I am at church with my wife, our daughter, her husband, and her two children. We go to the eleven o’clock service every Sunday and it doesn’t get out until five minutes to twelve—even later if Father Randall gets wordy. Last Sunday I was there until five minutes past twelve. My wife wanted to talk to Father Randall about his sermon. I’ve plenty of witnesses who will swear I was in plain sight at that time. I couldn’t have killed Amelia, although don’t get me wrong. I wanted to kill her, many times. She always said that if anything ever happened to her, those photos would be made public. I must tell you, when I heard she was dead I was on pins and needles but, apparently, her threat was an empty one. Had I known that sooner, things might have gone a lot differently for a lot of people.” He pointed his finger at me. “I’d have voted to display your aunt’s posters. I know how proud she was of that collection, and it’s one of the more extensive ones around.” He spread his hands. “Things just didn’t work out that way.”

  “What about Andy or Ginnifer?”

  He passed a hand across his eyes. “Hard to tell with those two. Amelia had something on them, too. I couldn’t tell you what, just like I couldn’t tell you if their voting against you was their own opinion or Amelia’s. But it doesn’t matter. Neither of them could have killed her.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because,” he chuckled, “we all go to the same church, and they happened to be at the eleven o’clock service that day as well. I saw them when they arrived around a quarter to eleven, and they were sitting together two aisles in front of my family. Neither of them moved a muscle.”

  I sighed. Just like that, three of my suspects were eliminated. I wasn’t sure whether that made me happy or sad, or just plain determined to ferret out the real killer from the ones who remained.

  Twenty

  “Okay, three down. How many more to go?”

  Gary took his eyes off the road and his hand off the wheel long enough to give me a wink and my arm a quick squeeze. For my part, I’d been relatively silent ever since we’d left Larry’s house. Now I shifted slightly in my seat to look at him.

  “You know, I was kind of hoping it was him,” I said. “There’s just something about that man that irritates me.”

  “No doubt you sense he’s a kindred spirit to Patrick,” Gary said.

  “If you mean they both suffer from overactive libido, then absolutely.”

  Gary chuckled. “Pat never was very good at resisting temptation, and Peabody seems cut from the same cloth. Your aunt was probably all the better off for not marrying him. He obviously didn’t love her.”

  “True,” I agreed. “She and Uncle Bertrand were much better suited to each other. Now there was a real love story. Uncle Bertrand was her boss for years, did you know that? They ran the gamut from boss to subordinate to friends to lovers. They had one of the best marriages I’ve ever seen, unlike my own parents’.”

  “But they’re happy now, right?”

  “I suppose so.” I drooped forward, chin in hand. “Dad and Darlene certainly seem to be happy, anyway. Mother is, well, Mother. I doubt she’ll ever change.”

  “People rarely do,” Gary remarked. “Now, getting back to our original subject. Who’s left in our suspect pool?”

  “Not enough,” I said grimly. “I would really like to have another chat with Garrett Knute. He never answered me on the contents of that mysterious envelope.”

  “He might feel it’s none of your business.”

  “To quote Inspector Godfrey from our show: ‘Murder makes everything my business.’ Particularly when I’m still in that suspect pool.”

  “I’d still like to know how your friend Quentin Watson found out about the murder weapon.”

  “Probable murder weapon,” I amended. “They haven’t found it yet.”

  “Hm. That could mean the murderer took it with him or her. Indicating to me this was definitely something premeditated and not a crime of passion.”

  “Yeah.” I slumped down farther in my seat. “Premeditated with me as the intended scapegoat. You know, it really galls me that someone would go to such lengths to frame someone they hardly know.”

  “They probably thought it would be easier than framing someone they did know,” Gary said and laughed. “Ships that pass in the night and all that.”

  “I suppose I have no one to blame but myself,” I said. “Arguing with her on the sidewalk in the middle of town was a poor decision. But Quentin Watson didn’t help things with his little article about me in the paper.”

  “It’s more likely whoever murdered Amelia witnessed your tiffs with her and with Peabody and McHardy, instead of learning about it in the next day’s paper,” said Gary.

  “The way gossip flies around this town, that could be anyone.”

  He clucked his tongue. “You should have stayed in LA, Shell. At least there the gossip’s out front, not behind your back.”

  “Yeah, usually on the front page of some supermarket rag.” I slumped back against the leather headrest. “You know, I was really looking forward to leading a quieter life, and then this had to happen.”

  He reached across again and lightly brushed my fingers with his. “If that’s what you really want, Shell, then you shall have it. We’ll get your name cleared and find the murderer, or my name isn’t Gary Presser.”

  “It’s not.” I slid him a glance. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but per your official studio biography, you changed it from Philip Tewksbury, didn’t you?”

  His grin was enigmatic. “A mere technicality.”

  • • •

  I was still full from our hearty breakfast of a double stack of pancakes, sausage, and bacon,
but Gary of the bottomless pit stomach wanted a snack, so we pulled up in front of Sweet Perks. Rita’s niece was behind the register and she gave us a wave as we walked in. I assumed it was aimed more at Gary than me. I saw Olivia sitting at a table near the window and made a beeline right for her while Gary went to put in our orders: a skim mocha latte for me, God knew what for him.

  “Hey, Shell,” Olivia said as I approached. She frowned as she studied my face. “You look a bit upset. Anything wrong?”

  “Nothing much, except the suspect pool is getting smaller. Soon I may be the only one left in it.”

  “Uh-oh.” Olivia pushed her cup to the side and propped her chin in her hands. “Tell Auntie Olivia all about it.”

  I recounted the day’s adventures, starting with Purrday’s find and ending with Larry’s alibi for Amelia’s time of death. I ended it with, “So now it appears he, Ginnifer, and Andy all have alibis.”

  “Well, we never really figured on Ginnifer and Andy anyway, right? It’s just Larry’s alibi that’s frosting your cookies.” Olivia waved her hand. “That type never murders. If he were the kind to do violence, he would have offed Amelia long ago, photos or no photos.”

  Gary appeared, balancing a tray on which rested three coffee cups and a plate containing a very appetizing muffin. He set my latte in front of me and passed one across to Olivia. “I’m sure you’re ready for a refill.” He smiled. “Rita told me what you were drinking.”

  Olivia took the cup and smiled. “Bless her heart, and yours too.”

  I sniffed the air and eyed the muffin. “That smells great. What is it?” I asked, reaching for it.

  He swatted my hand away. “Oh, no. It’s an apple crumb muffin. Go get your own.” He picked it up and deliberately took a huge bite. I stuck my tongue out at him.

  “Children, children, calm down. So, what’s our next step?” Olivia asked. “Who do we investigate now?”

  “I would love to know what’s in that envelope that Garrett Knute and Amelia had the shouting match over,” I said. “But I have no idea how I’m going to get that information. Garrett just ignored me when I asked about it.”

  “Whdugeweassatsn,” Gary mumbled around his mouthful of muffin.

  I gave Olivia an eye roll and turned to him. “Chew, swallow, and then repeat that.”

  He did and then said, “Why don’t you ask Watson? He seems to have his finger on the pulse of everything that goes down in this town.”

  “Haven’t you been paying attention? Quentin Watson does not like me. He wouldn’t give me the time of day.”

  “No, Quentin Watson merely got back at you the only way he knew how because you didn’t jump to give him an interview. That’s happened to you before, Shell.”

  “That’s true,” I said slowly. “Remember Emily Burgess from the LA Examiner?” I chuckled. “She printed that story about me and Nathan Fillion having a torrid affair, and I’d never even met the guy.”

  “Exactly. And how did you handle that situation?”

  “Well, first Max talked me out of suing them.” I laughed. “And then I called her and said that I was sorry, I had a busy schedule, but I’d love to get together with her. And she printed one of the best articles that’s ever been written about me.” I looked at Gary. “So, what. You think I should wave the white flag at Quentin?”

  “Can’t hurt. After all, look what happened with Emily.” He popped the last of the muffin into his mouth.

  “Emily was reasonable, at least. Quentin is a sleaze.”

  Gary grinned at Olivia. “It’s a prerequisite in Hollywood. Every actor refers to every reporter as a sleaze. It’s in our contracts.” He turned back to me. “Give the guy an interview, get on his good side, and maybe you can catch him off guard and find out where he got his info on the murder weapon.”

  “It’s a nice plan,” I admitted. “I can think of one downside to it, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “If he turns out to be Amelia’s murderer, I might find out about that murder weapon firsthand.”

  “I wouldn’t want you to have a go at him alone,” Gary said.

  “What did you have in mind? A double interview? You and me?”

  “I was thinking more along the lines of you wearing a wire.”

  I goggled at him. “A wire? Now who’s watching too many detective shows?”

  “Hey, it would work. We’ll have a code word, and if things start getting too sticky, you say it and I’ll get there with the police faster than you can say Gary Presser’s a star.”

  I looked at Olivia. She shrugged. I looked back at Gary.

  “Say I agree to this cockamamie plan, just where are you going to get a wire?”

  He grinned mysteriously. “Leave that detail to me. You just arrange a time and place with the sleaze.”

  I chewed my lip, thinking, and then whipped out my cell phone. “Why do I think I’m gonna be sorry for this?” I punched in a number, then wiggled my fingers at Gary. “You’d better know what you’re doing—hello, Mr. Watson? This is Shell McMillan. Shell Marlowe. If you’re still willing, I’d love to give you that interview you wanted.”

  Twenty-one

  I arranged an interview with Quentin Watson at noon the next day at the Captain’s Club. True to his word, Thursday morning Gary had a wire all rigged up—inside a Victoria’s Secret push-up bra.

  “Do I want to even know how you accomplished this?” I asked, staring at the apparatus dubiously.

  Gary chuckled. “Probably not.”

  I held the bra up, turned it over in my hand. “This had better work.”

  “It’s been tested. Trust me,” he said with a maddening grin and then took off before I could quiz him any further.

  Olivia came by and helped me get ready. I chose a flowing black tunic with a split neckline over a pair of deep coral crop pants. I did full makeup: foundation, blush, eyeliner, shadow, mascara, the works—something I hadn’t done since I left Hollywood. Olivia helped me style my hair into a low chignon at the nape of my neck. Gary greeted me with a wolf whistle when I finally walked down the stairs.

  “I know, I know.” He grinned as I cut him a look. “It would mean so much more if it were another male making eyes at you. Like, say, Detective Bloodgood, perhaps?”

  I stuck my tongue out at him and self-consciously patted my bust, where the wire reposed. “You’re positive this will work?”

  “I’ll go into the kitchen, and you and Olivia say something. You can talk about how fabulous I am.” He gave us a broad wink and vanished.

  I looked at Olivia. “Gary is fabulous,” I said. “A fabulous pain in the butt.”

  Olivia started to giggle. “With an even more fabulous head of hair.”

  “And a fabulous giant-sized ego.”

  Gary emerged from the kitchen, a frown on his face. “Enough about my butt and my ego.” He smiled, though, when he looked at Olivia. “You, however, can talk about my hair, and anything else you want, anytime.”

  “Great, you can hear the conversation,” I cut in, as the two of them started to make goo-goo eyes at each other. Olivia was more age-appropriate than some of Gary’s past girlfriends, but that didn’t mean I wanted to watch them flirt.

  “Yes, I can not only hear you, I’m taping you.” He pressed a button on the tiny device he held, and Olivia’s voice came over, clear as crystal: “With an even more fabulous head of hair.”

  “Okay,” I said. “So, what’s my code word for if I get in trouble, or Quentin decides to pull a knife on me?”

  “I doubt he’ll be pulling a knife on you in the middle of the day at a public place.”

  “No, but he can pull one out under the table and tell me to walk outside. Now, what’s the code word?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. It should be something fairly easy to use in a sentence.” He tapped his chin with his forefinger. “You seem to like the word fabulous.”

  “Fine,” I grumbled, as I snatched up my light jacket. “Fabulous it is. Let’s
get this party started.”

  • • •

  Sure enough, Quentin Watson was waiting at a table near the kitchen door when I arrived. Another girl, a lanky blonde with legs that seemed to go on forever, was the hostess this afternoon, and she showed me to the table with a quizzical look that said more plainly than words, Why are you wasting your time with him?

  I slid into the seat opposite Quentin and flashed him my megawatt television star smile. “Thank you so much for agreeing to meet with me, Mr. Watson,” I cooed. “I just feel as if we got off on the wrong foot.”

  Quentin studied me, his beady eyes taking in every detail of my outfit, lingering perhaps a moment too long on my more than generous expanded bustline. “Don’t mention it, my dear. I am always more than willing to give people a second chance.”

  I had to bite down hard on my lower lip to stop the nasty retort that wanted oh so badly to come out. I set my purse down and leaned across the table, cupping my chin with one hand, and batted my eyelashes (lengthened within an inch of their life with my Mally mascara) at him. “Where would you like to begin?”

  The waitress appeared at that moment. Quentin glanced up at her and then turned to me with a smile. “I think I’ll begin with a Manhattan, very dry. Ms. Marlowe?”

  Straight Scotch would have been good, but I needed all my wits about me. I gulped and smiled. “White wine spritzer, please.”

  Quentin tapped at the menu. “We’ll need a few minutes before we order,” he said. The waitress nodded and withdrew to the bar area. I gave a quick glance over in that direction. There was a girl tending bar, but she had bright red hair. Not Josh’s sister. Damn.

  Quentin was wearing his customary peacoat. Now he unbuttoned it so that I could see a brown V-necked sweater underneath. He reached inside the pocket of the coat and whipped out a thick notebook and pen. He flipped through the notebook until he found a blank page and then looked expectantly at me, his pen poised.