Purr M for Murder Read online

  “Yep,” I said as I swung the door shut. “We heard, all right.”

  She eyed me. “That’s all you’ve got to say? It’s Littleton—you know, the king of mean, the guy who was giving you guys a hard time about Saturday’s event.”

  “What else is there to say?” I inclined my head toward the kitchen. “Want some coffee? I think there’s still some Mocha Java left from lunch.”

  “Sure.” She eased past me into the kitchen and plunked herself down at the table. “They’re calling it a suspicious death, from what I understand. Phil Cooper spent the afternoon down at the station. He tried to get more details out of the detective assigned to the case, but the guy was a real pill. Gave him the runaround.”

  I filled a mug with steaming coffee and then set it in front of my friend along with some creamers. “That sounds like Bennington. He was here earlier.”

  “He was? Why was he—oh, wait!” Leila paused, creamer in hand. “You and Kat were going to go see Littleton this morning, weren’t you?” Her eyes sparkled. “Don’t tell me you got to his shop at the same time as the police?”

  “Actually, we beat them to it. We found Littleton’s body.”

  “WHAT?” Leila squealed. Her arm shot out, nearly upending her mug, and her nails dug into my sleeve. “You and Kat found the body? And you weren’t going to tell me?”

  I grinned at her. “I was getting to it.”

  “Well, you know how we reporters are! Details please.”

  I lightly disengaged her nails from my sleeve. “Why are you so interested? Are you looking for a promotion to the crime beat?”

  “You bet I am. I’d love to get out of reporting on garden parties, social teas, and dog-and-cat shows—present company excepted, of course.”

  “Well, don’t get your promotion until after Saturday. We’re counting on you to give the shelter a stellar write-up.”

  She pushed the half-empty mug to one side. “Of course I will, you know that, but—come on, give!” She leaned in close to me and hissed, “Was it . . . murder?”

  “Not sure,” I replied. “And apparently neither are the police.”

  Leila frowned. “So I take it he wasn’t shot or stabbed—what about blood? Was there any blood spatter?”

  I rolled my eyes. What was this fascination everyone seemed to have with crime scenes and blood? “None that I could see, and I bent down and looked pretty close. His skin was still slightly warm, so I don’t think he died much before we got there. And there was a decidedly bluish cast to his skin.”

  “Bluish cast, huh?” Leila started digging in her massive brown-and-taupe Dooney and Bourke tote bag. She whipped out her iPhone, called up Google, and started to type.

  “I thought cyanosis,” I supplied. “It happens when the blood doesn’t get enough oxygen.”

  “Meaning what? Someone strangled Littleton?”

  “Maybe—I didn’t see any marks on his neck though.”

  My friend shot me a searching look. “Sounds like you took a real good look at that body.”

  “It was hard not to. He fell out of the armoire in his office practically at my feet.”

  “He—fell—out of an armoire?” she asked slowly, placing one hand over her heart. “Good God, no wonder they labeled his death suspicious. Sounds like someone did him in and then hid the body.” She tapped her phone against the counter. “I’ll bet the list of suspects is a mile long.”

  I took a sip of my own coffee and leaned forward. “Yeah? Like who?”

  Leila held up her hand and started to tick off on her fingers. “Well, for starters, there’s Petra. Isn’t the spouse always suspect number one?”

  “Sure, if there’s a motive,” I said. “But why would she want him dead? From what I’ve heard, it seems she had it made in the shade.”

  “Maybe she got tired of him holding the purse strings,” suggested my friend. “Or maybe she wanted the insurance money. I bet he had a whopper of a policy.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “Who else?”

  “Well, there’s his stepson, Trey.”

  “Stepson? So he’s Petra’s son?”

  Leila nodded. “I heard there’s bad blood there. Trey was pretty vocal about his dislike over the way Littleton treated his mother.”

  I tapped at my chin. “Unless the kid’s got a Norman Bates complex, that doesn’t seem like much of a motive to me. Next?”

  “His gallery partner. I heard they had some pretty public arguments.”

  I frowned. “Littleton had a partner? That’s interesting. What were they arguing over? Money?”

  “No, I think it had something to do with running the gallery—what?” she cried as I let out a sigh.

  “Nothing, just . . . money would be a more compelling motive. Anyone else?”

  Leila brushed her hand through her curls. “Only practically the entire town, which would include the other shopkeepers in that complex. None of ’em could stand him. And God knows how many customers and artists he might have pissed off over the years.” Her lips curved in a sly smile. “It will probably take your pal Bennington months to interview all of ’em.”

  “Hey,” I waggled a finger at her, “watch who you call my pal. Anyway, Bennington’s not the only detective on the case.”

  “No? Who’s working it with him?” Leila cut me an eye roll. “Not Silas French, I hope. I wonder sometimes how he even made detective. I doubt he’d know a dead body if he fell over one.” Her frown deepened. “I thought he got transferred to robbery, though?”

  “He did.” Kat had emerged from her office and now stood in the doorway, a sly grin spreading over her face. “There’s a new guy in town, and it’s someone we all know. Someone who went to Deer Park High with us, as a matter of fact.”

  Leila’s head jerked up. “Yeah? Who?”

  Kat walked over, gave me a sharp jab in the side. “Go on, tell her.”

  “Okay, okay. Will Worthington,” I mumbled.

  Leila let out a squeal. “Will? Your Will? He’s back in town? When did that happen? Oh my God! What does he look like? There’s no photo on his Facebook page.”

  I turned to give her an astonished look. “You check out his Facebook page?”

  “I check out lots of people. It’s the reporter in me.” She tossed me an impish grin. “I bet he finally lost that baby fat, huh? If he’s a detective, he would have had to.”

  “He said he transferred back here from Raleigh a few weeks ago,” Kat supplied. “I can see why he doesn’t post his photo, if he wants to maintain a low profile. He looks like a GQ model now.”

  “I can believe that,” Leila said. She gave me a lopsided grin. “Your Will wasn’t bad looking even when he was overweight.”

  “Please stop calling him my Will,” I sputtered. “After all, it’s been ages since we’ve seen each other.”

  “He used to be your Will, though,” Leila said teasingly. “And who knows, he could be again. You two were quite the item in high school.”

  “Yeah, high school, exactly. Over fifteen years ago. And I’m not sure a few Friday-night pizza dates and a prom night qualify us as being an ‘item.’” Or one memorable kiss. I cleared my throat. “Out of the two of them, though, I confess I’d much rather deal with Will. Bennington is too . . . too . . .”

  “Crude? Boorish? Overbearing? All of the above?” supplied Kat.

  “All good choices. However, the word that came to my mind was ‘mistrustful.’” I rapped my knuckles sharply on the counter. “He has a very suspicious nature.”

  Leila cocked her brow. “Pardon me, but isn’t that a good quality for a homicide detective?”

  “Maybe so, but I didn’t much care for his insinuation that Kat or I might have removed a clue from the scene of the crime,” I snapped.

  Kat and Leila both stared at me. “He said that?” Kat flared. “What a nerve.”

  “He didn’t come right out and accuse us, but that was the impression I got. But to tell the truth—he’s right. I did take something.”
I pulled out the crumpled note and laid it on the counter. “I found it on the floor.”

  Kat and Leila both bent their heads over the note. “Doesn’t look like much to me,” Leila said at last. “This writing is so cramped, you can hardly make out the words. Where did you find it?”

  “In the hallway leading to Littleton’s office.”

  Leila tapped a pink-tipped nail against the paper. “Technically, that wasn’t the crime scene. Plus, you don’t know if it’s any sort of clue or not. Anyone could have dropped it.”

  “True . . . including Littleton.” I fingered the note. “I should probably should show it to Will, though. Just in case.”

  Leila and Kat exchanged a glance. “Oh, by all means—show Will,” Leila crooned. “Any excuse to call him, right?”

  “Shut up.” I fished out my cell phone and the card that Bennington had given me with both their cell numbers on it. I punched in Will’s number and was directed to his voice mail. I left a quick message: “Hey Will, it’s Syd. Sydney McCall. From high school. We met at the crime scene this morning. I mean, we didn’t meet there—we already know each other. We ran into each other there. Ah—when you get a chance, give me a call. There’s something I’d like to run by you. Okay? Thanks.”

  “Oh, smooth!” Leila chuckled as I put the phone down. I stuck my tongue out at her, and she grinned. “Feel better now?”

  “Not particularly.” I stared moodily at the note. “It looks like K-A-H-N L-E-E. Someone’s name?”

  Leila brandished her phone. “Let’s find out.” She called up Google, typed in Kahn Lee, and hit Go. As the screen shifted, she let out a low whistle. “Wow. 991,000 results. It’ll take forever.”

  “Great,” I sighed. “Obviously this needs to be narrowed down somehow. What about trying it as one word?”

  Leila typed that in, then hit enter. “4,320, but look—most of them separate the words.”

  “Maybe the spelling’s off. Try it as one word and leave off the last e.”

  Leila plugged that in. “Here’s one for Tommy Kahnle, but I doubt that’ll do you much good. He’s a pitcher for the White Sox. Littleton hated sports, so I greatly doubt this refers to him.”

  I let out a deep sigh. “Maybe Will might have some ideas.”

  Leila snapped her fingers. “I’ve got one. You could ask Littleton’s partner. If it has anything to do with the business, he might know.”

  “Oh, yes. What do I do, walk up to him and say, ‘Excuse me, sir, but I found your partner’s body and this strange note on the floor. Do you have any idea what this might be about?’”

  “Of course you don’t say it like that. You query him subtly.”

  “Uh . . . How can I query him when I don’t even know his name?”

  “I think it’s Colin something. Myers, Mills—no, wait. Murphy. Colin Murphy.” Leila leaned back with a self-satisfied smile. “The police have probably gotten in touch with him by now—oh, and Petra. Poor, poor Petra.” She made a motion of wiping a tear from her eye. “I’d have loved to have been a fly on the wall and seen her reaction to the news.”

  “She was in the area,” I said thoughtfully. “I parked next to her car in the lot by the back alley. It was gone when we left—there’s no way she could have missed the ambulance and police cars. You’d think she would have wanted to know what happened.”

  “She was probably too busy dancing for joy and wondering how she was going to spend her inheritance—unless, of course, she’s the killer.” Leila rubbed both her hands together gleefully. “Everyone knows killers don’t inherit a dime.”

  * * *

  Leila left shortly afterward, and Kat and I returned to our respective offices. At five o’clock, she rapped on my office door and then stuck her head inside. “Hey! Want to grab some dinner? My treat.”

  I glanced up from the sheaf of papers that littered the top of my desk. “I really want to finish these press releases for the event tonight,” I said. “Tell you what—Leila’s working late, so how about you come over for dinner?”

  She gave me a dubious look. “You’re going to cook?”

  My lips twitched. As my sister well knew, my culinary skills are pretty much nonexistent. As a matter of fact, if it weren’t for TV dinners, I’d have starved in college. Preston had done the lion’s share of the cooking when we’d been together, although I have been known to put together a mean omelet—that is, if you like them slightly browned. “Of course not,” I assured her. “I’ll pick something up. What are you in the mood for?”

  “After the day we had today?” Kat rolled her eyes. “Surprise me.”

  “Fine. I’ll see you at seven.”

  Kat left and I spent another half hour writing up several different ads. Finally, I put my pen down, put the ad copy into a manila folder, and grabbed my jacket. I had to pass the cattery on my way out, and I paused briefly, then stuck my head in the door. Maggie and Viola each held a kitten in their arms, and Maggie was feeding hers with a tiny bottle. She looked up, saw me, and tossed me a grin.

  “Peggy Sue here is finicky. She doesn’t like mama’s milk. Isn’t that right, Peggy Sue?”

  “You gave the kittens names already?”

  “Oh, sure. This one is Peggy Sue, because she’s got red fur, just like Kathleen Turner. Viola’s got Elvis, and little Calvin and Hobbes are happy just feeding off Mama Cass.”

  I chuckled as I took note of the jet-black kitten in Viola’s arms. “I can see why you named him Elvis. Dare I ask where the other names came from?”

  “Well, I’ve always been a big Calvin and Hobbes fan,” admitted Maggie. “And Mama Cass just seemed to fit the mother somehow.” She winked. “And no, Toby isn’t back yet.”

  I frowned. “He’s been gone quite a while, hasn’t he?”

  Maggie shrugged. “If he were an ordinary cat, I’d say yes. Don’t worry, he’ll show up soon. I just hope he stays put for Saturday.”

  I said good-night and left, still wondering if it had been Toby that I’d seen in Littleton’s office and if so, how the heck he had gotten in there.

  * * *

  Since it was such a nice spring evening, I decided to leave my car in the shelter parking lot and walk the short distance to the square where most of the retail shops were located. It was Wednesday night, and The Fin and Claw always had a fish-and-chips special that was pretty good, so I headed in that direction. As I passed The Printed Word, the used bookstore, the door flew open, and a plump figure beckoned to me from the doorway.

  “Sydney! Got a minute?”

  I smiled at the woman who stood there. “For you, Natalie, I’ve got two.”

  Natalie Helms was a pleasant, round-faced woman in her mid-to-late fifties who, thanks to skillfully applied makeup and Lady Clairol Mahogany Brown, looked more like late forties. Kat had told me she’d worked as an art historian at a Boston museum for years, and when they’d downsized her job, she’d taken her savings, moved to Deer Park, and opened the used bookstore because, as she put it, “books are like an old friend you just can’t get enough of.” She still had a love of art in her blood too—she frequently visited the galleries and artists colonies in North Carolina and the surrounding areas, and she sold small prints and pieces of sculpture in her store.

  I stepped inside the store and breathed deeply. I’ve never been a big reader, but there’s just something about the smell of old books that I find comforting. There was another smell I detected, too, and I glanced down at the floor. “New rug?”

  Natalie nodded, wrapping her coral-colored sweater tightly around her. “Yep. I came into a little bit of money, so I thought I’d spruce the place up a bit.” She picked up a stack of books on a nearby table and motioned for me to follow her.

  The carpeting was a thick, lush shag pile that my feet sunk into as I followed Natalie to her office situated just in back of the counter. The office radiated cozy. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases covered one entire wall, jammed to overflowing with hardcovers and paperbacks. A beautiful cherryw
ood desk was in the far corner, two thick padded Queen Anne chairs in front of it. I had a quick glimpse of what appeared to be an ornate glass paperweight in a lovely shade of cobalt on a shelf directly behind the desk before Natalie plunked the stack of books down in front of it. She slid into the lush leather chair behind the desk and motioned for me to sit. “Looks like you did some revamping in your office too,” I said.

  “That I did. Life’s too short to be uncomfortable, wouldn’t you say?” She leaned back, steepled her hands underneath her chin, and shot me a questioning gaze. “I heard you and your sister found Littleton,” she said. “Are you okay? Want to talk about it?”

  “I’m fine, although I confess finding a dead body was the last thing I ever expected to do in my life.”

  Her shoulders hunched in a shudder. “I hear tell the police are regarding it as a suspicious death. That means it wasn’t natural causes, right?”

  “They’re not sure,” I said carefully. Natalie was a sweet woman, but I’d heard she liked to gossip. I didn’t need her repeating details that might get back to the police and entail another visit from Bennington. “I didn’t see any marks on the body, but of course I’m not a trained ME.”

  “Oh well.” She leaned back in her chair. The light from the desk lamp caught the stone in the massive ring on her pinky finger, made it twinkle. Natalie caught me staring at it, and her lips twisted into a wry smile. “Too showy? It was such a bargain, I couldn’t resist.”

  “No, it’s lovely. I’ve never seen a diamond that size.”

  “It’s not a diamond, it’s a white topaz. I’m a November baby, so topaz is my birthstone.” She cleared her throat. “I’m sorry that you had to go through that, but honestly it doesn’t surprise me that the old buzzard finally bought it. Lots of folks around here are mighty curious as to just what happened to him. And mark my words—they won’t be shedding too many tears.”

  The vehemence in her tone surprised me, and I suddenly wondered if Natalie might be one of the shopkeepers who had issues with Littleton. As I contemplated how to ask about her relationship with Littleton, she solved the problem for me. “I’m one of ’em,” she said softly. “I hate to speak ill of the dead, but all I can say is good riddance. The world’s a lot better place without Trowbridge Littleton in it.”