An Awful Cat-titude (MEOW FOR MURDER Book 1), Page 2

  I bang my head against the stall for a good long while. I’ve never been a horseshoe, but then I’ve never been such a magnet for bad luck either. Something tells me any luck I did have just ran out for good. And I flush the toilet to cement this theory.

  I hop back into the red catastrophe I’ve nicknamed Wanda. Roadkill was a more appropriate moniker, but I had the sneaking suspicion it wouldn’t be wise in the event my supernatural powers decided to manifest themselves in a whole new direction.

  We hit the highway again until my vision grows blurry and my long blinks start turning into short naps, so I pull over and curl into a fetal position until the sun comes up and screams for me to move again.

  I yawn to life as I drive out of New York and into Vermont. Winter just turned to spring and I can’t help but take in the beauty of the verdant fields dotted in honeysuckle and bluebells.

  I’m just about to crest the Canadian border when Wanda starts to sputter again. This time she’s blowing out steam and all of the gauges on the dashboard are spinning every which way at once, so I do exactly what she’s telling me to do—get the heck off the highway before she blows up.

  “Next exit, Starry Falls, Vermont,” I read as the highway turns into a thicket of woods on either side of me until low and behold a small blip of a town percolates to life and I end up on Main Street in hopes of spotting a mechanic’s shop. Heck, at this point I’d take a veterinarian’s office. A rabies shot or two, and Wanda just might be good to go.

  Then in a rather unceremonious burst, Wanda lets out a loud whistling scream and a rather obnoxious series of claps that don’t sound all that different from one of my brother’s flatulent episodes. She gives a hard jerk and I pull her to the side of the road where she rolls to a sputtering finish.

  “She’s dead.” I smack the steering wheel. “No, no, no, you can’t be dead. You can’t leave me in Podunk, Vermont to die along with you. We’ve got to get to Canada. We made a pact, remember?”

  Okay, so we didn’t make a pact.

  I pull forward the envelope Uncle Vinnie left me and shove my new bevy of IDs into one of the zipped pockets of my Lululemon running jacket and I grab the rest of the gas money and shove it into my other pocket. It takes great pains to uncoil myself from the driver’s seat. Every muscle in my body is sore and stiff from last night’s impromptu slumber party with the newly deceased automobile.

  A crisp breeze hits me where the sun shouldn’t shine, and I quickly tie my jacket around my waist to hide my newly acquired ripped seam. No use in scaring off the residents just yet. I’ll save that fun for later when the feds come at me with their weapons drawn.

  I head out and stagger my way down the innocent street lined with a happy looking yarn shop, a candy store, a realty office, a rundown diner, and a Chinese joint. There’s an Italian restaurant across the street, a post office, an aerobic studio, and yet there’s not a single auto mechanic in sight.

  The streets are lined with rows of maple trees with their branches full of young spring shoots a brilliant shade of green. I look down as far as my eye can see and spot two rather odd sights that force me to blink in the event I’m hallucinating.

  The first is a gray stone structure that looks as if it could easily dwarf any of the buildings lining the street. It sits crooked on a tiny hill and has a haunted mansion appeal. It’s clearly out of place and has that whole I-was-just-plucked-from-the-English-countryside-and-dropped-from-the-sky look about it. It’s either a castle or a mansion and it sits at the end of Main Street with a sign staked out front, but I’m too far to read it.

  The second odd sight is what’s nestled in the hillside behind the overgrown structure. A gorgeous set of double-tiered waterfalls stands proud, rushing with white streams of glittering liquid that never seems to end.

  My feet zoom in the direction of the overgrown stone building, and soon I’m close enough I spot an entire legion of cats napping on the lawn out front, dripping down the porch, and nestled in just about every window that faces the street. Cats of every shape and size, white, brown, orange, striped, spotted, angry looking, innocent looking, and a few that look as if they’re plotting to eat me for breakfast.

  A tan cat with both spots and stripes bravely traipses my way and juts its head out demanding to be petted.

  “Oh, aren’t you sweet,” I whisper as I do just that. “Something tells me this is your circus and these are your adorable monkeys. As soon as I get something in my belly, I’m going to roll around on the lawn with all of you and see if I can make any new furry friends. God knows you can’t be any cattier than the friends I left behind.”

  A sign up ahead catches my attention. Mortimer Manor— good coffee, good food, and more! Head on into the café!

  “Coffee,” the word hums out of me like a groan from the pit of my very being. “Coffee.”

  The sound of female voices escalating comes from somewhere inside the structure, but I’m undeterred. Yelling is my family’s love language. No matter how loud it gets, it won’t scare me away. If anything, it’ll draw me near and make me homesick in the process.

  A brass sign sits in front of the door that holds a poster with the picture of a decent looking guy in a ten-gallon hat holding a guitar. It reads Welcome country crooner Perry Flint, Friday night at seven! Tickets sold at the door.

  A couple of cathedral-style double doors sit open and welcome me inside. It’s cool in here. It holds the scent of cloying perfume and bacon, an unnerving combination if ever there was one.

  The interior is rife with dark wood and deep crimson carpeting with some sort of a navy paisley pattern that eats at my eyes. There’s a grand foyer and an even grander entry and it looks as if there are signs staked in front of the cavernous rooms that lie ahead. But I’m not interested in venturing off in that direction. Instead, I follow the sign that promises me one-dollar coffee.

  Up ahead, a glass door opens, amplifying the sounds of that raucous argument, and out speeds a body that quickly slams into me and I sail back, staggering and moaning as I struggle to keep from falling.

  “Whoa,” a deep voice strums as a pair of strong arms wrap themselves around my waist, and before I know it, I’m looking into a pair of light blue eyes rimmed with navy, giving them that Siberian husky appeal, and for a moment in time I forget about the mob, the feds, my idiot ex, and Wanda my dead Honda and swoon directly into those magical peepers. The rest of him isn’t so bad either. His dark hair and the appropriate amount of stubble peppering his cheeks highlight the fact he’s brutally handsome.

  He leans in and gasps. “Geez,” he belts it out as he takes a full step back. “My God, are you bleeding?”

  “What?” I lean over and inspect my reflection in the glass door before me, and what stares back has me gasping in horror as well.

  “Oh no.” I groan at the sight of myself. My hair is rising to the sky, disheveled and matted. My mascara has run down to my nose and there’s a red ring staining the skin that circles my hairline, giving off the effect of a head wound. “Oh God. How is this my life?”

  “Are you okay?” The man wastes no time in pulling out his phone. “I’ll call the paramedics.”

  “No!” I practically dive for his phone and he quickly holds it up over my head. “I’m not bleeding. I dyed my hair in a Denny’s last night, and as you can see, I had a little bit of a runoff.” I pat my forehead. “Hey, do you live here? I’m kind of homeless at the moment, and believe me when I say being homeless is a heck of a lot harder than it looks. I had to spend the night in Wanda last night. That’s the death trap my uncle gave me, but she’s dead now and I’m carless and houseless and I only have enough cash to keep me in hot coffee for thirteen days. You wouldn’t happen to know where I could spend the night on the cheap, would you?”

  He leans back as if he suddenly found me repulsive, and it’s only then I note his dark suit, that plain navy tie, and the fresh scent of his thick cologne. Leave it to me to find the town hottie and stumble in front of him like
the queen of hobos.

  “No.” He smacks his lips as the shouting rises from inside.

  “No? How about a job? I have a feeling I’m going to need to scrape together a few nickels and dimes to get Wanda back up on four wheels, if you know what I mean.”

  The sound of dishes breaking erupts from inside the café and he nods that way. “Something tells me they’ll be hiring a brand new manager in just a few minutes.”

  The door bursts open and a disheveled brunette stalks out with her hair falling out of a bun, her red lipstick smeared over her cheek, and the look of hellfire in her eyes.

  Nice to know I’m not the only brunette having a hell of a week.

  “You!” she shouts, jabbing her finger at the man in the suit. “I’ll see you tonight.” She takes off in a huff, and I can’t help but giggle.

  “Something tells me you like ’em rough and rowdy.” I give a cheeky wink.

  He frowns a moment before picking up a briefcase I never quite saw him set down.

  He nods my way. “What’s your name?”

  “Ste—Bowie. Bowie Bing—Bingham? No, that’s not right.” I squeeze my eyes shut tight a moment. “Binx!” I raise a fist as if calling out the correct answer on a quiz show.

  “Bowie Binx.” His cheek curls on one side. “Do you need me to call anyone for you? Where are you from?”

  “No!” I’m quick to stop up the dam before it truly bursts. “I’m from—Chicago. I drove all day yesterday and my car just died out of the blue.”

  He tips his head to the side, inspecting me with those soulful eyes. “It only took you one night to drive here from Illinois?”

  “Did I say Illinois?” A high-pitched laugh bubbles from me. “I meant Chicago… Connecticut.”

  “Chicago, Connecticut?” He gives a long blink.

  Shoot.

  “Oh yeah, it’s a small town. So small it’s not even on the map.” A nervous titter evicts from my throat. “Google Earth didn’t even waste its time with us, we’re that unimportant. So do you know of a place to stay?”

  “I’m sorry.” He shakes his head. “Good luck with the job,” he says as he takes off.

  “I didn’t get your name!” I shout, but he’s already outside, pretending he didn’t hear me.

  I guess it’s true what they say. The minute you start living on the streets, you’re invisible to the rest of society—especially hot men with briefcases.

  It takes everything in me to venture into that café with my wild hair, my staccato zombie walk, and overall air of a degenerate nature. It’s light and bright inside, not a single customer in sight. The tables are evenly dispersed, the wooden floors look as if they’ve been clawed by a thousand cats, and there’s a chipped counter up front with a couple of women standing behind. The tables are beat up, the booths and chairs are made from ripped up red Naugahyde and duct tape, and there’s a black and white checkered wallpaper border that looks as if it’s doing its best not to fall right off the walls.

  I make my way to the two women standing near the counter. One is older than my mother but not quite as old as Nana Rose was when she passed.

  Her silver hair is cut in a blunt bob and she has on a shock of dark red lipstick, lots of dark kohl lining her bright green eyes, and she has an overall soured expression about her. She’s wearing a crushed velvet blazer in gun metal gray and has a brooch in the shape of an overgrown ladybug that cinches her blouse at the neck.

  The younger one looks about my age, a bit more hardened by life, brown hair with thick, chunky blonde highlights, boobs bustling out of her unbuttoned blouse, and a pretty face, or at least it would be if she wasn’t busy scowling at me like I was about to rob the place.

  “This is a stickup,” the words bark out of me, partially because I couldn’t help it and partially because what the heck. I’m already fumbling around in some alternate universe. How much worse can it get?

  The two of them exchange a glance, and for a solid moment I’m convinced the register drawer is about to fly open. But instead, they burst into laughter and I plop down on the stool in front of them, failing at yet another criminal area in life.

  “All right, clown,” the older one drawls the words out, and if I’m not mistaken, with some sort of unidentified accent. It’s sort of a cross between an English accent and a hard-nosed socialite. “What are you really doing here? Would you like the breakfast special, perhaps?”

  The younger one shakes her head. “We don’t have a breakfast special.”

  The older one hushes her in haste and already I like the two of them.

  “I heard you were hiring.” I swallow hard as I look to the two of them. “The man with the suit and briefcase told me so.” I hitch my thumb to the door and they look twice as baffled. “The hot guy with the icy blue eyes?”

  The younger one waves me off. “That’s just Shep.”

  Shep. Now there’s a name that practically guarantees he won’t be allowed in a single mob family and I like him more because of it.

  The older woman leans in. “Do you know Shep? Is he recommending you? Have you worked in food service before?”

  “Oh yeah, lots of times.” If serving my brother and my idiot ex grilled cheese sandwiches at their beck and call for years counts for anything, I’m a seasoned pro. Not to mention my quasi-illegal stint at the donut shop. “So when can I start?”

  The older woman ticks her head to the younger girl and they seem to be having some sort of a silent conversation.

  The older woman plucks a dirty apron off the counter and tosses it my way.

  “How about now?”

  “You mean I’m hired as a waitress?” I quickly pull the apron over my head and the frilly thing fans out over my chest.

  “Nope.” The younger woman comes around the counter and plucks the apron off and ties it around my waist. “You’re the new manager.”

  “Manager?” I swallow hard. “Wow, that’s great. I think. So what are your names?”

  No paperwork? No questions regarding my head wound? Why do I get the feeling I just got handed the hot potato of managerial positions?

  My God, I’ll have access to those registers myself in less than an hour. But something tells me the spare change rolling around in there isn’t worth risking the pokey for.

  The older woman presses out a crimson smile. “I’m Opal Mortimer and this is waitress extraordinaire, Tilly Teasdale.”

  I wince to the younger woman at the mention of her unfortunate last name. Things couldn’t have been easy in school for her.

  Tilly juts her chin forward. “And who are you?”

  “Bowie Binx,” I answer just as the door to the café bursts open and a teenage girl with a long ponytail and cat-winged eyes flies to the counter next to me.

  “Mom,” she barks at Tilly. “I need six bottles of Jamison, two kegs, and a couple of cases of peppermint schnapps. It’s Friday and we’re having a party at Amanda’s.”

  “We don’t serve that here”—Tilly leans back, the look of boredom quickly taking over her features—“and you’re sixteen.” She folds her arms across her chest and her cleavage bursts forth with the threat of unleashing from any harness-like device she has restraining them.

  “Hey, you owe me!” The girl doesn’t waste any time in escalating the situation.

  “Owe you for what?” Tilly snaps back.

  “For the time you pretended to be a seventeen-year-old boy from Manhattan looking to hook up. Only a sick person makes their kid fall in love with an imaginary hottie. You’re not buying, are you?”

  Tilly shakes her head as she looks my way. “Boobie, this is my daughter, Jessie. Please ignore the tantrum she’s throwing. I don’t buy liquor for minors.” She gives the girl a wink like maybe she does.

  “It’s Bowie,” I whisper, but Boobie feels about right considering where I’ve ended up in life, so I don’t make a stink about correcting her.

  “Fine,” the girl snips. “I saw Regina screaming on the front lawn. I’ll as
k her. She hates you enough to do it, too.” She charges for the door.

  “Hey!” Tilly shouts after her. “Have her pick me up a couple of six packs while you’re at it!”

  My mouth falls open. As I live and breathe, I had no idea there were places in the world that could give my hometown a run for its dysfunctional money.

  I hitch my thumb toward the door. “Is Regina the girl that ran out screaming?”

  Opal nods. “That would be her. Regina Valentine.”

  “Are she and Shep a thing?” I’m not even sure why I asked. “I mean, she said something about seeing him later tonight, but it kind of sounded like a threat.” And it kind of sounded like a date all at the same time. A part of me respects women who can pull off a feat like that. Something tells me she’d fit in nicely in Jersey.

  Opal chortles. “Yes, well, she’s definitely his type.”

  Tilly rolls her eyes. “Everyone is Shep’s type. Have they knocked boots? Maybe. Shep does love the ladies.”

  Opal offers a sorrowful look my way. “You’ll get sick of him soon enough. He uses this place like an office. So where are you from? Where are you staying?”

  Tilly leans in. “You’re new in town, aren’t you?” There’s a dazed look in her eyes as if she’s seeing a slab of fresh meat—me.

  I’m about to answer when an all too familiar warm, fuzzy feeling takes over and spreads throughout my limbs, rendering me disabled for a moment. The room blinks in and out of focus as I get a serious bout of tunnel vision. And in my mind’s eye, I see Opal looking at me with fright as a gun dangles from her fingers. “Oh my God,” she says. “He’s dead.”

  The room snaps back into focus and a cool breeze washes over me as Opal shakes me by the shoulders.

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake, Tilly, get the girl a chocolate chip cookie. She nearly passed out.”

  “No.” I shake my head as I look to the sweet, somewhat kooky older woman beside me. “I saw something. You were standing there with a gun and you said, ‘oh my God, he’s dead.’” I glance to Tilly then Opal. “Look, I’ll leave town. On foot apparently. But sometimes I see things, and I think you’re too nice to do some serious time. Don’t do it. Whoever this man is, he’s not worth wearing an orange jumpsuit for life.” I should know, I’m working hard to avoid the same wardrobe malfunction.