Purr M for Murder

  Also Available by T. C. LoTempio

  Nick and Nora Mysteries

  Crime and Catnip

  Claws for Alarm

  Meow If It’s Murder

  Purr M for Murder

  A CAT RESCUE MYSTERY

  T. C. LoTempio

  NEW YORK

  This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, organizations, places, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real or actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 by T. C. LoTempio.

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Crooked Lane Books, an imprint of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.

  Crooked Lane Books and its logo are trademarks of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.

  Library of Congress Catalog-in-Publication data available upon request.

  ISBN (hardcover): 978-1-68331-092-1

  ISBN (ePub): 978-1-68331-093-8

  ISBN (Kindle): 978-1-68331-094-5

  ISBN (ePDF): 978-1-68331-095-2

  Cover design by Louis Malcangi.

  Cover illustration by Rob Fiore.

  www.crookedlanebooks.com

  Crooked Lane Books

  34 West 27th St., 10th Floor

  New York, NY 10001

  First Edition: March 2017

  To all my furbabies past over the years: Phyllis, Misty, Trixie, Gata, and Zee . . . and to my current boys, ROCCO and Maxx! You are my inspiration!

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  “Sir Walter Scott said it best—cats are mysterious kind of folk.”

  I reached out a hand as I spoke to stroke the head of the silver-and-black-striped tabby that lay in my sister’s arms. My sister Katherine (Kat for short) and I have always been confirmed animal lovers, which is why the job of director of Friendly Paws, the animal shelter located in our hometown of Deer Park, North Carolina, suited her to a T. Kat grinned at me and shifted the tabby so that its head was cradled against her chest, then reached over and squeezed my hand. “Oh, Sydney, I knew bringing you on board as a publicity consultant was a stroke of genius.”

  I held up my hand. “Better save all that praise until we see how the event turns out. Who knows, I might end up making lattes at Dayna’s.”

  Kat shook her head vehemently, causing her blonde hair to fall across one shoulder. “Not a chance. Once the shelter’s finances are back on track, I’m sure the mayor will make room in the budget to bring you on full time. Especially since advertising and publicity are your areas of expertise.”

  “Let’s hope so.” Up until a few weeks ago, I’d been the director of marketing at Reid and Renshaw, a prestigious New York ad agency. The agency had been exceptionally busy, and I’d just finished a grueling ad campaign and was looking forward to a quiet weekend getaway with my fiancé . . . until I walked in on him and my secretary in—ahem—a very compromising position. It didn’t help matters either that my fiancé was Preston Renshaw the Third—the boss’s son. I turned in my resignation that same afternoon, packed up my things, and moved out of the apartment we’d shared and into a hotel. One good thing Preston had done for me was share the name of his financial advisor; as a result, I had quite a tidy little nest egg saved up. I was mulling over my career options when my sister called. “If you haven’t found another job yet, I’ve a proposition for you, Syd,” she’d said. “The shelter’s in trouble. Some of our donors didn’t come through with expected donations, and our last two fundraisers have been duds. If this keeps up, we’ll have to cut back on accepting homeless animals, and we might have to transfer some of the ones who’ve been here over six months. We need help. What do you say?”

  What could I say? Kat was the one who’d stayed behind in Deer Park after high school, giving up college to take care of our ailing parents and run the family business so I could get the fancy education. One thing my sister and I had always shared was a deep love for animals. The thought of the shelter having to turn away helpless animals or turn some of their existing ones over to other shelters, many of which didn’t have a no-kill policy like Friendly Paws, made me sick to my stomach.

  And so I’d returned home to my roots, to Deer Park, to the sleepy town I’d once been so eager to escape. Its southern charm seemed a welcome respite now, after living with the hustle and bustle of New York City the past few years. And even though it might take a bit of getting used to, I had to admit, slow and sleepy sounded good after fast and frantic.

  I leaned back in the leather chair. Kat and I were seated at a long table in the room abreast of the cattery that served as a playroom, which smelled of kitty litter, kibble, and pine-scented air freshener. I took a minute to study my sister. Two years my senior, she’s tall and slender, a natural blonde with the kind of good looks that turn heads. Me, I’m the opposite. Petite, a bit on the curvy side, what most would call average looking. My only distinctive feature is my mane of long, wavy dark-brown hair that I try to soften by adding gold highlights. Right now, said hair was pulled into a chignon at the nape of my neck, a tribute to the superhot, humid North Carolina weather. “I’m so glad Dayna wanted to be a part of this,” I said. “I mean, it’s not like we gave her a lot of notice.”

  “True.” Kat laced her fingers behind her neck and leaned back in her chair. “Dayna loves animals, and she thought it was a great idea—not only for the shelter but for her business as well. I’d like to see her succeed. After all, when you get down to it, the coffee shop was originally McCall’s.”

  I nodded. When my father had passed away two years ago, Dayna Harper had bought the family business, McCall’s Sweet Shoppe, after both Kat and I had declined wanting to try to make a go of it. She’d changed the name to Dayna’s Sweets and Treats and had done pretty well. Of course, acquiring my dad’s built-in clientele hadn’t hurt, but lately it seemed business had been slacking off. Dayna attributed it to people veering away to buy coffee at kiosks and specialty shops, courtesy of the recently renovated supermall on the highway. Excited to revitalize the business, she’d been more than eager to give our idea a try.

  “Honestly, I don’t see how it can miss. Cat cafés are all the rage in Europe,” I said. “Patrons who are interested in the interaction pay a cover fee that is split between the café and the shelter providing the animals. Think of it as a sort of supervised indoor pet rental. It’s been a big success abroad, providing hundreds of otherwise homeless cats with loving humans and good homes.”

  The little tabby let out a plaintive merow, and my sister shifted the cat in her arms just as the door to the cattery opened and Maggie Shayne, Kat’s assistant and general right-hand person around the shelter, stuck her head in. “Hello, McCall sisters. Look what just came,” she cried, holding up a large pasteboard sign. “Deer Park’s First Cat Café Event—Where Cats and Humans Meet and Greet” was emblazoned across the top of the sign in large black letters. Underneath were photos of some
of the shelter cats in different poses, playing with each other and with some of the shelter volunteers.

  “Ooh, that came out great!” Kat squealed.

  I bobbed my head up and down and shot Maggie a big grin. “Those photos you donated add a nice touch, Maggie. They make the posters seem more personal. Good job.”

  Maggie blushed right to the roots of her henna-tinted hair. “Thanks. I’m glad I could help.”

  I leaned in for a closer look at the poster and then pointed to the photo at the top of a large gold-and-white cat. “All the cats are adorable, but I have to say, I’m kind of partial to this one.”

  Maggie peered at the picture over the rims of her violet-framed glasses. “Ah, that’s Toby. He’s been here for a while.” She shot Kat a quick look. “Sort of our unofficial mascot, right?”

  Kat gently disengaged the tabby’s claws from her blouse and passed the cat across to Maggie. “Put Sheila back in her cage, won’t you? And yes, I guess you could call Toby that—sort of.”

  I felt a pang of disappointment. “Oh, so he’s not available for adoption then? I thought all the cats in the photos were.”

  “Oh, no, no.” Maggie shook her head. “Every cat here at Friendly Paws is available for adoption. Toby’s just . . . fussy.” She made a shooing motion with her free hand. “I don’t know how else to describe it. He’s had plenty of people interested in him, but . . . he always manages to do something to discourage them. As a matter of fact . . .” She leaned forward and said in a conspiratorial tone, “We call him the Wanderer.”

  The lyrics of the popular Dion song from the fifties floated through my brain. “The Wanderer? Why, does he roam around a lot?”

  Maggie walked across the hall to the cattery. I saw her pause before a large cage, open the door, and gently deposit Sheila inside. She moved over to another cage, opened that door, and scooped its occupant, a pretty brown-and-white-striped tabby, into her arms. She walked back into the playroom and said, “Oh, yes. And not only inside the shelter. Every now and then, he manages to sneak outside. We’re not quite sure how he does it. Once, he was gone two days. But he always comes back.”

  I touched the cat’s picture lightly with my forefinger. “He looks like he’s got wanderlust in his soul,” I murmured. “I wonder what he’s searching for?”

  “Some say the perfect mouse, but I like to think he’s searching for the perfect human, the one who will make his life complete,” Maggie said. “One day, he’ll find just the right one. I checked his cage before. He’s out wandering now, or I’d introduce you.”

  I dragged my eyes reluctantly away from Toby’s photo and tapped a nail against the poster. “Getting back to the event . . . our full-page ad will run in the Deer Park Herald on Thursday and Friday, and I also placed smaller ones in the surrounding towns’ papers. That should attract cat lovers here. Plus, I’ve arranged to have a reporter from the Herald cover the event.”

  Kat chuckled. “This reporter wouldn’t happen to be your roommate, now would she?”

  I flashed her a wide smile. “None other. Leila said she’d be thrilled to do it. It beat the garden show that her editor wanted her to cover.” Leila Addams had been my best friend all through grammar and high school. We’d lost touch after graduation, when I went to NYU and she went off to study journalism at East Carolina University in Greenville. We’d managed to reconnect in recent years, and she was the first one I called after discovering Preston’s infidelity. “I never liked him,” she’d declared in her slow southern accent. “I never trusted him. Spoiled rich playboy. Don’t you dare waste a minute crying over him. Men!” When I called her a few days later to tell her about my decision to move back to Deer Park, she immediately insisted I move in with her. “Grandad’s house is way too big for me,” she’d insisted when I demurred. “Honestly, I’m tired of rattling around there all by my lonesome. You’d be doing me a favor, Syd.”

  In the end I acquiesced. Kat and I had sold the family house along with the business, and Kat’s three-room apartment was way too small for a roomie. The idea of living alone after cohabitating with Preston for the last two years didn’t thrill me, and I had to admit I was looking forward to being with my best bud again. Although, between Leila’s erratic hours and the time I put in at the shelter, we’d seen precious little of each other. I was hopeful, though, that once the shelter was back on track, that would change.

  Maggie snuggled her face into the cat’s fur. “Delilah is especially looking forward to Saturday. She’s been at the shelter for almost two years now. She needs—no, she deserves—a chance at a good home.”

  I bit back a grin. “The cat’s looking forward to Saturday, huh? Did she tell you that?”

  Maggie chuckled and adjusted the hem of her bright-pink T-shirt that read, “Friendly Paws Animal Shelter.” “She didn’t have to. Body language, Syd, body language. She used to skitter to the back of the cage when I went to pick her up. Now she comes right into my arms. Plus, she’s purring like a race car.”

  I leaned forward. The cat was indeed purring loudly and had a look of kitty contentment on her pretty face.

  I glanced at my watch and motioned to Kat. “We should get going. We promised Dayna we’d stop by the café so she could give us samples of the goodies she’s making for Saturday, remember?”

  Kat grinned as she pushed back her chair. “How could I forget? I hope those deluxe brownies of hers are on the menu. They’re always a crowd pleaser.” My sister has a sweet tooth the size of Texas; one would never guess to look at her, because she’s thin as a rail. I, on the other hand, only have to look at a brownie and I gain ten pounds.

  “Ooh,” Maggie squealed as we headed for the door, “this is all so exciting. This fundraiser is going to be the biggest event that Deer Park has seen in a long time. If this doesn’t pull Friendly Paws out of the red, nothing will.”

  I touched two fingers to my forehead in a salute as I followed Kat out the door. “Let’s hope so.”

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, Kat and I entered Dayna’s Sweets and Treats. Aside from changing the name, Dayna had kept the shop pretty much as my father had left it: The wide counter took up most of one wall, with high-backed stools in front of it. The glass case next to it showcased dozens of mouthwatering treats, all baked by Dayna and Louise, her niece-slash-assistant. The tables were still covered with the familiar red-and-white-checked tablecloths I remembered from my childhood. Dayna, an attractive African American woman, was behind the counter, ringing up a brownie and a coffee for a tall gentleman, and as soon as he paid and shuffled off to a table in the rear of the store, she came out from behind the counter and bustled over to us.

  “The sisters McCall. Let me guess. You’re here to check on the pop-up’s progress?” she asked in her melodic voice. Dayna was about five foot seven, slight build, with straight black hair that she wore in a bob that framed her heart-shaped face. No one on this planet would have ever taken her for fifty-seven years old; I’d almost fallen over when she whispered her age to me. Her face was clear and unlined, her skin dewier than a twenty-year-old’s. She parted her thick red lips in a smile, revealing straight white teeth any movie starlet would envy. “I think you’ll be pleased. McGee’s Hardware really came through.”

  “Eddie McGee said all that was left was the carpeting,” Kat remarked. She held out one of the signs. “We brought this for you.”

  Dayna took the sign with a wide smile. “I’ll put it up in the window. It came out great. I’ll eat my hat if every one of those cats doesn’t get adopted.”

  Kat grinned. “That’s the point, right? To make a profit to benefit both businesses and to find the kitties good homes.”

  “Absolutely. Now about the pop-up.” Dayna spread her arms wide and motioned us toward her back room. “Come see the transformation for yourself. Eddie finished laying the carpet down last night, and we brought some of those cat towers and scratching posts in. Pet Palace donated three boxes of squeaky toys.”

>   I wasn’t prepared for the sight that met my eyes as I stepped over the threshold, and judging from my sister’s sharp intake of breath, she hadn’t been either. “My gosh,” I said. “This is amazing.”

  It really was. Eddie McGee, the proprietor of McGee’s Hardware, had always been a loyal customer of McCall’s and now Dayna’s. He’d volunteered his own time and managed to turn the room that Dayna had been using as a sort of second-office-slash-coffee-storeroom into a gigantic playroom for cats and humans. There were some folding chairs and tables set up so that people could bring their goodies into the room. Scattered throughout were cat climbers, cat trees, scratching posts, and boxes with various toys designed to appeal to feline sensibilities. The rug was a soft rose color that went perfectly with the soft eggshell-white walls. It looked just perfect, and I told Dayna so.

  “I’ll pass your praise on,” she grinned. “It sure was nice of Eddie to donate his time to this project.”

  “He said he wouldn’t trust anyone else to do a good job. When you get right down to it, everyone wants to help animals in need,” I said.

  “Either that or he just wanted free coffee and doughnuts,” Dayna said with a chuckle.

  I grinned back at her. “Probably a little of both.”

  We walked back out into the main part of the café and took seats at the counter. “Did you finalize the menu for Saturday?” Kat asked Dayna.

  “Sure did.” Dayna reached beneath the counter and whipped out a sheet of paper. “Look that over and tell me what you think. And while you’re doing that, how about some coffee? I just finished brewing a pot of Kona Royal . . .”

  Dayna stopped speaking abruptly, her gaze fastened on the front door. A look of annoyance flashed across her face. I turned my head slightly, and the source of Dayna’s discomfiture became quite clear.

  Trowbridge Littleton.

  Littleton was one of Deer Park’s most influential citizens, if not the most. He was what southerners like to refer to as “old money.” His father had made a pile of it in various investments, and upon his death, the entire fortune passed to Trowbridge as the sole heir. Kat had always said he was “richer than King Midas, with the personality of Ebenezer Scrooge.” The stories I’d heard through the years certainly bore that out. Littleton was also the proprietor of The Brush and Canvas, an art gallery located just down the street. There had always been speculation about just why he’d entered into that venture when he didn’t need the money. Some said it was because he had a passion for art; others thought it was more likely a tax write-off. I was inclined to agree with the latter observation.