The Time for Murder Is Meow

by Toni LoTempio

  “I agree it wouldn’t hurt to question Mel Feller,” I said. “But I still can’t shake the feeling that Garrett Knute is involved to some degree. You didn’t see his face that day, but I did. He was really angry. Despite his assurances to me that there was nothing of interest in that envelope, I can’t help but feel otherwise.”

  “But was it enough to warrant killing Amelia over? That is the question,” Gary said.

  “Maybe, maybe not. At the very least, I’d like to see if I can get him to tell me why he thinks Mel should be suspect number one—besides the obvious reason, that he fired him for incompetence. I just feel in my gut”—I tapped at my stomach—“that there’s more to it.”

  “Okay, so which one first? Garrett or Melvin,” asked Olivia.

  Before I could answer, my cell phone vibrated. I fished it out of my pocket and saw the number for Secondhand Sue’s on the screen. “Hello, Shell McMillan.”

  “Hey, Shell, it’s Sue Bloodgood. I’ve run into a bit of a scheduling problem. Would it be all right if I had your Poe bust delivered this afternoon instead of tomorrow?”

  “Sure.” I glanced at my watch. “What time?”

  “Is it okay if they make you their last delivery? Around five thirty?”

  “That’ll work out good, thanks.” I hung up and relayed her message to the others. “That gives us a good four hours.”

  “We should be able to question both of ’em in that amount of time,” Gary said. “Or my name isn’t Gary Presser.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Let’s not start that again.”

  • • •

  A few minutes later we pulled up in front of Melvin Feller’s house, a small bungalow that looked in need of some major upkeep. The yard was scrubby and not well kept, and I wrinkled my nose at the faint smell of dog urine. A large tree stretched out across the weedy lawn and lifted feeble limbs to hover over the house. We walked up the dirty drive and onto the rickety front porch, where a trace of cigarette smoke lingered. I made a face as Gary rang the bell. We stood for a few moments, waiting. When nothing happened, Gary pressed the buzzer again. We could hear the chimes echo eerily through the house.

  He glanced at us over his shoulder. “Seems like no one’s home.”

  We turned and started down the steps. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a woman walking toward us across the lawn of the next house. “Say,” she shouted. “You looking for Melvin?”

  I paused to study the woman. She was heavyset, with brassy blonde hair, squinty little eyes, and a bulbous nose. I put her age at late fifties early sixties, maybe a bit older. She wore a loose-fitting housedress and bright pink flip-flops, displaying unpolished toes. “Yes. He’s not home?”

  “It’s Thursday,” she said, and then placed her hands on her ample hips and cocked her head at us as if that explained everything. We all must have looked totally blank, because she shook her head. “Thursday’s the day the Boar Lodge has their trip to the Indian Casino. They never get back till late. The last trip, he got back around midnight.” She chuckled. “Freddie Manson drives the van, and the return depends on how he’s doing at blackjack.”

  “Oh,” I said, trying to conceal my disappointment. “Thanks.”

  “I’m his neighbor, Mrs. Miller. If you want, I can leave him a note and tell him to call you,” she offered.

  “That would be great,” I said. I opened my tote and fished out a piece of paper and a pen. I scribbled down my number and handed it to the woman. “The top one’s my cell, the bottom my home.”

  Mrs. Miller squinted at the card. “Shell McMillan?” She peered at me over the rim of her glasses. “You look familiar. Have we met before?”

  “I don’t think so. I only moved here a week ago. My aunt passed away and I plan on taking over her business.”

  “Your aunt?”

  “Matilda Washburn.”

  Mrs. Miller’s eyes lit up. “Oh, yeah, Urban Tails. I love that store. My little Pookie-Poo especially loves the liver treats Tillie used to order special for him. Pookie is my poodle,” she added. She squinted her eyes at me again. “You remind me of someone,” she said. Her head swiveled and she turned her hawklike gaze on Gary. She pointed a stubby finger at him. “You too. I’m sure I’ve seen the two of you somewhere before.”

  Gary shrugged. “Sorry, not me. I only got here from LA a few days ago myself.”

  “LA, huh?” She scratched at her head. “It’ll come to me.” She started to shove my slip of paper into the pocket of her jacket, stopped as she pulled out another piece of paper. “Oy, I almost forgot. His friend was here earlier. She musta forgot today’s his casino day too.”

  “His friend?”

  “Yeah. Nice lady. Why she hangs around him, I’ll never know.” Mrs. Miller’s tone clearly said what she thought about Mel. “I think she picks his brain, what there is of it, that is, on certain things.” She shook her head. “That man’s head is full of the most useless facts, unless you want to be a contestant on Jeopardy!”

  Gary, Olivia and I exchanged a look. “You must mean Londra Lewis,” said Olivia.

  The woman shrugged. “Dunno her name,” she said.

  “Short, a bit on the plump side, dark hair and glasses,” I offered.

  “Hell, no. This one’s got light-colored hair, and she’s middle-aged, in her fifties, maybe? Always drives up in a maroon car.” Mrs. Miller shoved the paper and my card back into her pocket, then paused as the sound of a dog barking reached our ears. “Oops, I gotta go. Pookie wants his lunch.”

  She shuffled off, and Gary touched my arm. “Feller apparently has a way with the ladies.”

  Olivia wrinkled her nose. “Yeah, makes you wonder what they see in him.”

  “Especially that lady,” I said. “She just described Mayor Hart down to a T. Classy, light hair, maroon sedan.”

  “Mayor Hart and Mel?” Olivia’s laugh tittered out. “It must be some other woman. What would she want with him?”

  “I have no idea, but I wouldn’t be surprised, seeing some of the turns this mystery has taken.” I made a checkmark in the air. “One more thing to quiz him about.”

  “At this rate, we’re going to need a scorecard,” Gary said.

  Olivia glanced at her watch. “Well, I hate to cut this short, but I have a dance class in less than an hour.”

  “We might as well head back,” I said. “I can do some straightening up before Edgar Allan arrives.”

  “Edgar Allan? Oh, the bust.” Gary pulled his keys out of his pocket. “No problem. While you’re cleaning, maybe I’ll do a little internet surfing. I want to check out some knives of my own and see if I can get a handle on specialty shops in this area that might carry them.”

  “Good idea.” I chuckled. “You know, you have a bit of a flair for this sort of work.”

  “I ought to. I devoured the entire Hardy Boys series when I was a kid.” He waggled one eyebrow at me. “You’re not too bad either, Nancy Drew.”

  “Yeah, except Nancy always solved her cases. This one’s a long way off.”

  We dropped Olivia off and as Gary turned past the park, I suddenly spied a familiar figure ambling down the trail in the park.

  “Wait, let me out,” I cried.

  “What? I thought you wanted to clean?”

  I pointed. “That’s Garrett Knute. I want to try again, see if maybe I can get why that envelope was so important out of him.”

  “You are like a dog with a bone. Or in your case, a cat with a mouse.” He craned his neck around. “Well, it’s a busy day in downtown Fox Hollow today. Not a parking space in sight.”

  “You don’t have to come with me,” I said. “You can go back to the house and start your research. It’s only a ten-minute walk back if I cut through the park.” I fished the house keys out of my purse and dropped them in the cup holder. “I won’t be long.”

  His arm shot out. “Wait, I’m not sure I like the idea of you going after him alone. I should come with you. What if he’s the murderer?”

>   I glanced around. There was a small group of girls clustered around a nearby knoll, a young mother over by the bench with a toddler, and two older gentlemen taking an afternoon stroll down the trail. I pointed. “We’re in plain sight in the park, and there are lots of people around. I doubt he’ll pull his knife on me here.”

  He gave me a funny look and then said in a low tone, “Be careful, Shell. I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to you.” His lips twisted into a lopsided grin. “I’ve kind of gotten accustomed to your face, you know, after ten years of working together. Not to mention your lousy one-liners.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Wish me luck.”

  “Luck.” He hesitated, and I was sure he wanted to add you’ll need it, but he didn’t.

  I hopped out of the car and set off at a brisk pace through the park in the direction I’d seen Garrett heading. For a minute I feared I’d lost him and then I spied him sitting on a bench not far from the spot where I’d seen Londra and Amelia arguing. I quickened my steps and soon came abreast of him. He glanced up, did a double take, and then frowned.

  “Ms. McMillan. You certainly are persistent.”

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Knute. Mind if I join you?”

  He indicated the seat next to him. “You will anyway.”

  I seated myself and then said casually, “I was just wondering if you wouldn’t mind clearing up a few things for me.”

  He didn’t even look over at me. “What things?”

  “You mentioned the last time we met that if you were overseeing the investigation into Amelia’s death, you’d look at Mel Feller. I was wondering why.”

  His head jerked up, swiveled in my direction. “Why? Because Feller is an untrustworthy son-of-a-you-know-what, that’s why.”

  “What leads you to make that statement? Does it have something to do with the museum’s bookkeeping?” At his surprised look, I added, “I asked Rita Sakowski to check with her husband. Frank remembered that Mel did do the museum books briefly, but you took the task away from him, and fired him shortly thereafter.”

  Garrett nodded. “That’s true.” He gave a quick glance around and then, apparently satisfied no one else was within hearing distance, said, “I never mentioned anything. I didn’t want people knowing what a fool I was, to trust Mel with that account. Frank was away, and I had an opportunity. I trusted Mel with the books, then I found out while we were gone he’d siphoned some of the museum money to cover a large gambling debt he’d racked up. I was furious. I tried to cover it up as best I could. I gave him another chance, but when I did an audit, I found he’d moved money out again. I had no choice. I had to let him go.” He took a breath. “I replaced the money out of my own pocket. It was my responsibility.”

  “You kept it quiet all this time to save face.”

  “I tried.” He sighed. “But she found out.”

  “You mean Amelia?”

  He nodded. “She slammed me with it a few months ago, when she wanted to have Dr. Klein, a noted archaeologist, give a talk at the museum. She needed another vote. Said she knew I’d replaced the money so she couldn’t bring criminal charges, but she could tell people I was incompetent. Oh, she looked so smug.”

  “Is that what was in the envelope? Evidence that you’d fixed the books?”

  “So she said. She threatened to tell the other board members, said they might even vote to kick me out. I told her over my dead body. Oh, I was so mad that day.”

  “Mad enough to kill her?” I asked softly.

  He pinned me with his gaze. “Sorry to disappoint you, young lady. But at the time Amelia was murdered, I was in the back room at the Captain’s Club with some of the Lodge guys, playing chess. I’ve got at least eight witnesses who’ll swear I got there at nine thirty and didn’t leave until well after twelve. I’ve told Josh too.” He leaned down, brushing a piece of lint from his slacks. “Maybe you and the detective should talk to each other. It’d save you a lot of trouble.”

  I rose. “Maybe so, but I doubt he’d appreciate my help. Thanks, Mr. Knute.”

  I turned and walked back down the trail. Another dead end, and another suspect eliminated. I bit my lip in frustration. The pool was getting smaller by the second. I certainly hoped I’d fare better talking to Mel Feller, because as it stood right now, he was my only viable lead.

  Twenty-three

  I was halfway home when I got a text from Kathleen Power. She was in the area, could she stop by the store with some samples? I texted back, Sure. Meet me at Urban Tails in fifteen minutes. Might as well get something constructive done.

  Kathleen was an attractive woman in her early fifties. She was an accountant, and she did all the kitty and doggie clothing in her spare time. She commented briefly on Spy Anyone’s cancellation, saying that although she’d never watched the show, she’d certainly heard about it enough from Tillie. I appreciated her honesty and the fact she didn’t try to suck up just to get a consignment deal. Actually, she didn’t have to. The booties and capes she showed me were adorable, and I was already seeing in my mind’s eye how I’d display them. I told Kathleen I’d definitely be getting back to her with firm details, and we both left the store happy campers.

  Purrday was lounging by the front door when I arrived home. He wound his fat furry body around my ankles, then held up one front paw and blinked his blue eye.

  “My day was just great,” I said. “Not only do I keep losing suspects, I keep running into dead ends. Not exactly the kind of detective work that will clear my name, now, is it?”

  Purrday put his paw on my knee. “Ow-owrr,” he warbled.

  “Why is clearing my name so important, you ask? Well, for one thing, I doubt people will want to buy pet supplies from a person who’s a murder suspect.”

  Purrday cocked his head. “Ow-orr?”

  “Okay, okay. The main reason for me is so that Josh won’t look at me with that little bit of doubt in his eyes. I-I kind of like him, ya know. I mean really like him.”

  The corners of Purrday’s lips tipped up, and he leaned in to my hand. I gave him a quick scratch behind his ear. “On the plus side, I met with Kathleen Power. She makes the most adorable dog and cat clothes. I can’t wait to feature them in the store. Maybe you could even model one of the outfits?”

  Purrday looked at me, then turned his back.

  “Or not,” I said. “Anyway, I know I can always count on you to sympathize. Not like the other men in my life.”

  Purrday turned around and butted his head against my knee in reply.

  I got up and wandered into the den, Purrday at my heels, where I found Gary hunkered over my laptop, his fingers flying over the keyboard. Kahlua was perched on the edge of the desk, watching him. I flopped into the chair beside the desk; Gary was so intent on what he had up on the screen that it was a few minutes before he even acknowledged my presence, which he did with a quick glance and a muttered, “Huh.”

  “Wow, what a greeting!” I scooted forward in the chair and placed my hands on the desk. Kahlua sauntered over, butted her head against my hand. “I can only imagine it’s because you’ve found something really, really interesting.”

  “You could say that,” he murmured. He tapped at the keyboard again, then reached for a pad and pen next to the monitor and started to scribble something down.

  I waited a few more minutes, and when I got no other response, hitched my chair closer. “Care to share?”

  He stretched his arms wide, then laced his fingers behind his neck. “I found a few specialty shops in New York City that carry antique knives, but none of ’em had a Tuareg. One guy, though, recommended this store in New Hampshire. He said the owner goes on trips three times a year to find all sorts of odd knives, and if he didn’t have one, he’d know for sure where you could get one. I called, but I got an answering machine. I left a message.”

  “That sounds promising. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  “Maybe we will.” He gestured toward the pad. “I’ve got a couple more leads to trac
k down and then we can think about dinner.”

  I rose, hands on hips. “Do you ever think of anything except your stomach?”

  He bounced both eyebrows. “Sure, but you told me those topics are off-limits.”

  I made a face at him and returned to the parlor. I’d just started to sort through the day’s mail—advertisements, circulars, more advertisements—when the doorbell rang. I opened the front door and found a tall guy wearing jeans with holes in the knees and a well-worn sweatshirt standing there, holding a clipboard. “Shell McMillan? We’ve got a delivery for you from Secondhand Sue’s?”

  “Oh, right, thanks.” I took the proffered clipboard and signed my name by the X. The delivery guy took the clipboard, initialed the bottom, and then ripped off the pink copy and handed it to me. He hurried down the stairs to the large truck parked in my driveway, and a few minutes later he returned, a large box clasped in his arms.

  “Where do you want it?” he asked.

  I frowned. Since I’d planned on eventually bringing the bust to the pet shop, I hadn’t really thought about where to put it in the interim. I motioned to a small space by the staircase. “This’ll do for now.”

  He set the box down, then pulled a jackknife out of his pocket and slit open the lid. Out came the bubble wrap and Styrofoam, and a few minutes later Edgar Allan and his pal the Raven were sitting comfortably on my floor. I closed my eyes, visualizing where in the store I wanted to put it, and suddenly my eyes flew wide open.

  “Drat,” I said. “Now that I think about it, this bust is too big to fit behind the counter space.” I tapped at my chin with my nail. “I could set him up off to the side, by that display of cat wands, but I’ll need a really nice table to put him on.”

  “Sue has a tall, thin table with a marble top. That might still be there. Want me to have her hold it for you?” the deliveryman asked.

  “That would be great,” I said. “Please tell her I’ll try to get down there tomorrow or the next day to look at it.”