Cat Scratch Cleaver, Page 3

  Juniper Moonbeam, or Juni as I call her, was once married to my father. She’s twice as quirky as Georgie but in a whole other direction.

  Georgie takes off and Macy lifts a finger in her direction. “Don’t forget about dress shopping!”

  “Would you shush?” I pull my sister to the side. “Are you nuts? Someone was just slaughtered. I’m not going shopping for anything tomorrow, let alone shouting it from the rooftop in the middle of a homicide investigation.”

  Macy rolls her eyes. “Believe me, nobody cares.” Her lips part as if she were about to say something else, but her attention has been hijacked by something behind me.

  I glance that way to find Bates Barlow standing near the waterline to get a better look at Heather and he’s holding his phone out, his arm ticking a notch every few seconds.

  “He’s taking pictures of her,” I say.

  Macy grunts, “He’s probably going to sell them. That’s what they all do. It’s a part of the Hollywood culture.”

  “I certainly hope that’s not what he’s up to.” I focus all of my mental energy his way and yet his thoughts seem to be muddled and snowy.

  Ring, caught, end of it.

  That’s all I can get. Cryptic words for sure.

  Sherlock barks and nods with his nose behind me. She’s back, Bizzy. And she looks determined to find you.

  I turn and spot Fish flying this way, quick as lightning.

  Bizzy—Fish stops short, out of my reach—I was heading back with Georgie, but I heard arguing. Come quick. I think you’ll want to see this.

  Sherlock barks and we follow as Fish leads us back toward the café, but just before we head on in, Fish slows down and the sound of escalating voices drifts through the night.

  “You chose a fine time to tell me this,” a decidedly male voice bellows.

  “Don’t worry,” a female voice gives an incredulous laugh. “I won’t ruin your reputation or your fun. Go on, get out of here.”

  I am getting out of here. As far away as I can, until this whole thing blows over.

  Peter Olsen darts past me before pausing to turn my way. He glances to the crowd murmuring at the edge of the cove.

  Great. I’ve been seen. I can’t just leave now. He scowls over at me.

  “What’s going on?” He nods to the cove.

  “You haven’t heard?”

  His crystal blue eyes begin to bulge.

  It’s not going to look good if I say yes. “Heard what?”

  “Someone attacked Heather,” I say. “She’s gone.”

  Peter takes a deep breath as if I had thrown a glass of water over his head.

  “I’d better see about this.” He stalks off and Fish and Sherlock twitch their heads up at me.

  Told you. Fish yowls.

  Sherlock groans. She told you nothing. I saw the guy in the kitchen just a little while ago, right before I ran down to find you.

  “Sherlock, what was he doing?”

  Fish scoffs. What all human men do. He was probably eating a donut.

  Sherlock growls. He was washing his hands. And Jasper only eats donuts in the morning—with bacon, because he’s smart.

  Washing his hands?

  The sound of whimpering and sniffing comes from behind the café and I step into the sand as I make my way around the building, only to find the figure of a woman looking for something in the bushes.

  I can only surmise it’s Peter’s wife, Jane Olsen. That conversation sounded intimate. And judging by that tall, thin body and that dark hair glinting in the night, I’m right.

  “Can I help you?” I ask as I turn on the flashlight on my phone.

  Her hands are already buried in the shrubbery.

  “Oh,” she says as she jerks something out of the bushes. “You could have, but you’re too late.” She pulls out a couple of ballet flats and quickly puts them on. I shine my flashlight down over her legs and her feet are covered with sand. It’s late and the sand we’re standing on is bone dry. The only way she could have sugarcoated her feet in that manner is if she got them wet—if she was at the waterline.

  Those footsteps in the sand near Heather’s body come to mind.

  “What were your shoes doing in the bushes?” A dull laugh bounces from me in a weak attempt to sound as if I was making light conversation, but I fail by a mile.

  She slaps them together before putting them on.

  “Went for a walk.” She makes a face as she strides past me and takes a look down at the activity near the edge of the cove. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a lawyer to call.”

  “A lawyer?” I try to block her path, but she circles around me.

  “You know what they say—when the dead come a knockin’, the vultures come a flockin’.” She takes off and she doesn’t pause to examine the scene taking place at the edge of the sandy beach.

  No. I have never heard that expression. And by the sound of what Jane Olsen just said, it seems she very much knows about Heather Kent’s untimely demise.

  That’s funny. Her husband denied it.

  It’s almost as if they can’t keep their stories straight.

  Fish looks up at me and whimpers. She did it, didn’t she, Bizzy?

  “I have no idea. But it certainly seemed fishy. No offense.” I wrinkle my nose down at my sweet cat.

  Sherlock makes a grunting sound as if he were about to sniff out a nefarious creature. I sense something, Bizzy. Something in the café. He trots back and takes a look in the window as Fish and I do our best to scurry after him. He lets out a soft bark. There’s someone in there.

  I amble up, and sure enough, he’s right. In an otherwise desolate café, Faith Grayson, the production assistant, is wiping down the front of the counter with what looks to be a paper towel before she stuffs it into her purse and heads out through the entry that leads to the inn.

  What was she doing? Sherlock barks.

  “Cleaning,” I say. The exact spot where I last saw that cleaver before it made its way into Heather Kent’s back, I’m presuming.

  I sincerely doubt Faith Grayson felt the need to tidy up the café. But what I don’t doubt is the fact she was wiping down her fingerprints.

  Somebody murdered Heather Kent tonight, and the signs of suspicion point just about everywhere.

  Chapter 4

  The morning air is humid and searing, a sure sign that we’re about to coast to the top of the thermometer.

  It’s not unusual this time of year for Cider Cove to feel as if someone just tossed the entire lot of us into the dryer and forgot to turn it off. The weather might be unpredictable in other parts of the country, in other parts of Maine for that matter, but it doesn’t take a fortuneteller or a weatherman to let you know what you’ll experience in our end of the world at any given day. And this day happens to land in the middle of a sweltering summer.

  As much as I’d like to believe the guests of the inn don’t have a clue as to what transpired last night, I know that’s not the case. No sooner did Jasper and I step into the café than I noticed that the guests were already clustered among themselves, whispering with long faces. Unfortunately, I’ve learned one too many times that word of a homicide travels fast. I should know. We’ve had our fair share of homicides right here at the inn over the last few months. Okay, fine. It’s bordering on a year—a year of dead bodies piling up. I shudder just thinking about it.

  I wonder how long it will take for the owner to hear of this and give me my walking papers? The owner is a wealthy earl in England and he has little to nothing to do with the place other than having his accounting firm handle the bills. And I rather like it that way. This inn very much feels like my own. It was me who implemented Critter Corner, a pet daycare facility open to guests and townies alike who want to ensure their pet has their needs met during the day while they’re at work or on vacation.

  In fact, I was the one that opened the rooms to pets as well. The internet lists it as the most pet-friendly resort in Maine even though technic
ally it’s not a resort.

  “Tell me everything that happened when you went to the station last night,” I say as I pour Jasper a cup of coffee and quickly dish up a handful of s’mores bars for him as well. I let him know about the missing cleaver last night, and he had the forensics team dust the counter for prints, but it was after the fact Faith wiped it down.

  The sheriff’s department cleared the café to open today, so there’s that.

  Jasper has donned a fresh suit, his hair is still damp from the shower, and he looks heart-stoppingly arresting in just about every way. About five female guests nearly tripped over their feet as they tracked him with their eyes on our way over. I’ll admit, Jasper’s good looks are so caustic they can cause a traffic accident on the road or right here inside the inn.

  Sherlock lets out a bark before Jasper has a chance to answer. He just got home two hours ago. I doubt he’ll remember much of anything today.

  Jasper lands on a barstool at the counter and takes the coffee I give him.

  “I just got home two hours ago,” he moans. “I doubt I’ll remember much of anything today. You wouldn’t have this in a gallon to go, would you?” he says, toasting me with his mug.

  A little laugh strums from me. “Sherlock all but said the same thing, sans the coffee. I’m betting he wants bacon instead.”

  Sherlock vocalizes a happy little yip, ensuring me I’m right.

  Emmie strides by with her apron in place, holding an empty carafe of orange juice as she heads toward the kitchen. She wishes us both a good morning. Her hair is up in a messy bun with wisps falling around her cheeks, softening her face.

  “Why does Sherlock look as if he hasn’t had his bacon?”

  Jasper looks her way. “Because you’re a mind reader,” he teases as he looks my way.

  “That I am,” she chirps as she heads into the kitchen. “I’ve got you covered, Sherlock.”

  Thank heavens someone is thinking about me. The adorable pooch curls up into a ball at the base of Jasper’s feet.

  Fish is still up front at the reception area greeting guests—or more to the point, napping on the marble counter where it’s nice and cool.

  I lean toward Jasper. “So what happened down at the station? Any updates on the case?”

  Jasper is the lead homicide detective down in Seaview County. He worked tirelessly last night alongside the coroner, and apparently, didn’t sleep but an hour.

  Jasper sighs. “Bizzy, I know you’re interested in this case. And I know better than to think you’re not going to try to question as many people as you can, but this case is still in an infantile state. It needs to be coddled, and I’m asking kindly for you to quell any urges you might have to put on your sleuthing hat.”

  “Fine.” I make a face. “And I know you better than to think you’re going to hold back on me—seeing that you’re an expert at quelling desire.” I waggle my brows and manage to squeeze a wry smile from him. “Now, details, please.”

  His gray eyes penetrate mine a moment too long.

  “Okay, fine.” He takes a quick look around. “Last night, before the murder, Camila was telling me that she knew Heather.”

  My mouth falls open. “My God, Camila did it!” I say with a touch too much glee. “Could you please lock her up and throw away the key as an early wedding gift to your soon-to-be bride?”

  A dark laugh rumbles through his chest. “You do realize I’d much rather talk about our upcoming wedding. Did you find a dress?”

  “You’re trying to change the subject. You were about to arrest Camila, remember?”

  “No.” He frowns. “I don’t think she did it. She took off for the restroom just as I took off to find you.”

  “And then you didn’t see her again, so she’s a suspect.” Okay, so my sleuthing math may be off a bit, but it doesn’t have to be exact when his ex is concerned. “How about it, big boy?” I say in the sultriest voice I can manage. “A little handcuff action can get you a long way.” I wince. “Wait. That didn’t come out right.”

  His lids hood dangerously low. “I think it came out just right.” He leans over the counter and lands a kiss to my lips. “Hold that thought. Hopefully, I won’t be at the station until four in the morning again.” He toasts me with his cup of coffee. “Don’t hold your breath. Stay out of trouble.” He gives a quick wink before he takes off.

  “Stay out of trouble,” I mutter just as Emmie delivers Sherlock a strip of bacon.

  Tell Emmie she’s my favorite. He tucks himself back under the stool and gets to the task of gobbling it down.

  “I think you’re Sherlock’s favorite person right about now.”

  Emmie laughs as she hands me a strip of bacon as well.

  “That was some night, huh?”

  I can’t help but give her a side-glance. “It was. How are things going with you and Leo?”

  Her eyes light up as she bites down on her lip—two obvious signs of trouble.

  “Spill it,” I say, rocking my hip to hers.

  “I think we’re getting pretty serious. I’m ready to take things to the next level.”

  I squint over at her. “What next level?” As much as I like Leo, I don’t know how much I like him with my bestie. I can’t help it. Emmie is more like my sister than Macy has ever been. I suck in a quick breath. “You’re going to do the deed?”

  She waves me off. “Not that. The deed has been done. Have you met me?”

  “Good point. So what’s left?” I’m about to nosh on a s’mores bar before I hit the brakes and suck in another quick breath. “Cinnamon and Gatsby are getting married?” Emmie adopted an adorable redheaded labradoodle cutie a few months back and Leo just adopted a dapper looking golden retriever. “It makes sense. I don’t know why I didn’t see it coming. We can have the wedding right at the gazebo that overlooks the cliff.” That’s the precise spot where Jasper and I will be doing the matrimonial deed ourselves in a little over a month. Of course, Fish and Sherlock will play a part in the wedding day festivities. “Ohh, I just had a thought. We can go shopping for pet clothes together. Fish and Sherlock need to get gussied up for my wedding, too.”

  Sherlock gives a riotous roar as if he suddenly morphed into a lion. That’s a hard no, Bizzy. We’ve already played dress up, remember?

  Emmie makes a face. “I think he’s still traumatized from that doggy fashion show.” She tosses him another piece of bacon to quell him. “But no, Cinnamon and Gatsby, unlike their owners, are taking things slow. As for Leo and me, I think I’m going to tell him I love him.”

  A crowd rushes the counter and Emmie takes off to tend to them.

  She loves him? As in the big L word that typically comes before a major commitment? My heart thuds hard inside my chest as if it were looking for an escape route. My God, Emmie is getting in way too deep.

  I take a moment to catch my breath.

  If Emmie and Leo exchange I love yous, Leo might just be moved to let her in on his telepathic secret.

  I look over at my sweet bestie and groan. I’m not entirely sure why I’ve never shared with Emmie the fact I’m transmundane, further classified as telesensual. I wasn’t always able to pry into other people’s thoughts. But when I was about thirteen, Mackenzie Woods, aka Mayor Mackenzie Woods, pushed me into a whiskey barrel full of water during a Halloween party and darn near drowned me. And after that, I’ve been privy to people’s wandering thoughts. I can pretty much control who I hear unless I’m stressed, then it’s open season and it feels as if I’m listening to the whole world at once. If I focus in on someone, I can try to pry into their mind, but typically most people come in clear and easy—unless, of course, they’re having unsavory thoughts, thus the white noise I get now and again.

  No sooner does the thought of how I came to have this supernatural quirk drift through my mind than in walks Mayor Woods in a powder blue power suit, her go-to accouterment, and a snarl on her face, her go-to expression.

  “Bizzy Baker,” she hisses my name out
like a reprimand as she trots on over. “How dare you have another homicide right here in our innocent cove?” She bites the air with her words as she gives a quick look around as if expecting to find a body.

  Mackenzie used to be great friends with both Emmie and me right up until high school when she made a sport out of stealing our boyfriends.

  And in the mother of all boyfriend ironies, Mackenzie was dating Leo right up until Emmie snatched him away.

  I’d say I was sorry, but I’d be lying.

  I make a face at her. “Would you like cheese to go with that whine?”

  “That’s tired and boring.” She squints over at me. “Just like you.”

  Mack is pretty in a Disney villain sort of way, with her full-bodied dark chestnut hair that seems to have a life of its own, those sharp pointy brows, and the perpetual scowl on her blood red lips.

  I’d offer her a s’mores bar, but that might mean she’d stay a while.

  “What do you want, Mack? You do realize I don’t kill people for a living. I can’t help you with the homicide at the cove.”

  “It happened on your watch. While they were filming at your café. Look, I don’t know what you’re up to, or what voodoo princess you’ve upset, but I don’t need this kind of bad press in my town. And here I thought it was a great idea to have the film industry welcomed with open arms. I should have known you were going to find a way to putz this up for me. And I see you went with an old standby. A body.”

  I give a few quick blinks in her direction. “If it means anything, production trailers are still parked in the lot. And no one other than you has blamed me, or the inn, for what was a grisly murder on public property.” I give a quick smile as I lob the ball her way.

  “Fine.” She takes a deep breath before scowling over at Emmie.

  Emmie Crosby. As if having Bizzy to deal with wasn’t enough, I have Em to gouge my emotional eyes out as well. I don’t know what Leo sees in her. I’m the mayor of this damn town. All she does is wait tables.