Murder of the Cat's Meow: A Scumble River Mystery (31 page)

“What I don’t understand is the sequence of events,” Loretta said, setting her cup of herbal tea down. “How did Todd Urick even know Alexis would be at the cat show, let alone figure out how to set up his DJ Wonka identity?”

Skye started at the beginning, mostly because the circumstances were confusing even to her. “Alexis was on the phone with Bunny about the show during the month she was working for the mayor. During that time, Alexis answered Urick’s private phone and discovered his embezzlement scheme. Once she started to blackmail him, he remembered that she was going to attend the Cat’s Meow event, and decided that was the perfect place to confront her.”

“So he got himself hired as the deejay by Bunny so he could attend without anyone seeing the real him there,” Frannie interjected. “How did he pull that off? Most people don’t have deejay paraphernalia just sitting around their garage.”

“He borrowed the equipment from his coconspirator Garth Anders, who had deejayed in college. Urick thought that he could intimidate Alexis into backing down.”

“But why didn’t Urick just call Alexis or text her or e-mail her or even go talk to her at her apartment?” Trixie demanded.

“He didn’t want any record that he’d had any contact with her.” Skye crossed her legs. “He was really very clever.” She shook her head. “But Alexis didn’t give an inch, so Urick came up with the plan to kill her and blame Elijah, because there was no way he was going to pay her a hundred thousand dollars.”

“Why do men constantly underestimate women?” May asked. “Do they really think that there would ever be a second-born child if we were afraid of a little pain?”

“The problem is if they ever admitted to themselves how strong we are, they’d have to treat us like equals,” Skye said with a half smile.

After they all agreed with Skye’s statement, Loretta asked, “How did Urick manage to kill Alexis and set Elijah up for the murder?”

“Just before the disco bowler party ended, Urick sent Alexis a note via one of the cocktail waitresses saying that the blackmail money she had demanded from him was in the utility closet.” Skye glanced at the door, not wanting the salon consultant to hear them talking about murder. She might be too frightened to be any help finding the perfect dress. “Once Urick gave the server the note for Alexis, he put on the last song, hurried to the basement, and waited in the dark for his victim to arrive.”

“And he garroted her with the wire part of the cat toy when she walked into the room,” Frannie guessed.

“Right.” Skye nodded. “He used the cat toy because he hadn’t come prepared to kill her.” She paused, gathering her thoughts. “Then, having already drugged Elijah’s drink, Urick, claiming to be God, texted the ex-doctor to come to the basement.”

“How did Urick have the drugs handy?” Loretta asked.

“He told Wally that he always carried those roofie pill things in his pocket,” May answered, then quoted Urick,
“He said, ‘You never know when a girl in a bar will need a little chemical persuasion to put out and spread her legs.’” May’s mouth puckered in distaste. “He really is a crude and vulgar man.”

“Ew.” Frannie made a gagging sound. “That’s just totally gross.”

“Yes, it is. And something you should remember when you go down to U of I in the fall,” Skye told Frannie, who had announced on the drive that she’d been accepted into the University of Illinois journalism school.

“Yes, Mother,” Frannie shot back, then added, “as if I’d ever be that stupid.”

Skye raised a brow, then went on. “Urick watched Elijah come to the closet and pass out; then he wiped his prints from everything and hid until the cleaners were finished and Bunny went to bed. Once the coast was clear, he simply unlocked the front door—the dead bolt has a thumbturn on the inside—and left. He lucked out that Bunny hadn’t set the alarm, but even if she had, he’d have been long gone by the time the police arrived, and Elijah would still have been the prime suspect.”

“As you said, he’s a clever one all right,” Loretta commented. “The criminals I end up defending are usually dumb as dirt.”

Skye gave her sister-in-law a thoughtful glance. Was Loretta getting tired of being a defense lawyer? Mentally shrugging, Skye resumed her account of the crime. “After Urick killed Alexis, he took her car key from her purse, drove her MINI Cooper to Kyle O’Brien’s, and parked it in front of the house. Next he wiped his prints off the car, jogged back to Scumble River, picked up his own vehicle, and drove home as if nothing had happened.”

“Urick’s wife told Wally that he’d suggested she visit her mother that weekend,” May added. “So Urick didn’t have anyone wondering where he’d been or why he was so late getting home.”

“Right,” Skye nodded. “Urick knew from when Alexis worked for him that she had dated Kyle, and he wanted a second suspect in case Elijah somehow wiggled off the hook.”

“So let me see if I have this straight.” Trixie jumped in, her eyes gleaming. “Sometime later, Elijah wakes up, sees the body, thinks he killed Alexis per God’s instructions, and goes home?”

“Yes.” Skye looked at her watch. It was almost eleven. She needed to wrap this up so she could concentrate on selecting a dress. “Then the next day, Urick texted Elijah for the last time and told him to park his car at the rec club, turn his cell phone off and throw it into one of the lakes, and then walk into the wilderness.”

“Why did he do that?” Frannie asked.

“So Elijah would look even guiltier.” Skye shook her head. “What a creep.”

“True, but he was really ingenious.” Loretta’s voice held a hint of admiration. “How did you and Wally get into city hall to save Spike?”

“The back door was open,” Skye lied. Wally had sworn her to secrecy regarding his lock-picking skills. “Now
I
have a couple of questions.”

“Oh?” Loretta looked nervous, which made Skye wonder what her sister-in-law had been up to, but she decided that was a subject for another day. Instead, she turned to Frannie and asked, “What’s the deal with Bunny’s mysterious boyfriend?”

“Why do you think I know?” Fannie’s expression was innocence personified. “Miss Bunny says she doesn’t have a boyfriend.”

“If you ever want another scoop from me you’ll spill,” Skye threatened.

“Fine. Be like that.” Frannie exhaled noisily. “He’s some old-timey movie or television star with oodles of money. He was one of the few who realized that
CupidsCatsMeow.com was a dating service, and it turned out he had seen Miss Bunny dance in Las Vegas.”

“Why all the cloak-and-dagger?” Skye demanded. “The guy sounds like a good catch.”

“We-e-ell…” Frannie drew out the word. “The thing is, he’s not quite divorced and so he’s afraid his wife will try to get a bigger settlement if she finds out he’s dating.” She grinned. “Believe me, it’s killing Miss Bunny not to be able to show him off.”

“Okay.” Skye could understand that. “One more thing. Have you and Justin made up?”

“Yeah.” Frannie’s grin widened. “He called me the other night and admitted he was wrong.”

“Good.” Skye beamed back, glad the two young people had patched up their differences.

There was a knock on the door and while everyone was distracted by the consultant’s introductions, Trixie whispered to Skye, “Did you ever talk to Father Burns about an exorcism for your house?”

“Nope.” Skye shook her head. “I decided to wait and see if your theory about Mrs. Griggs’s aversion to premarital sex is correct. I really hate to kick the old lady out of her own home.”

“Do you think that’s a good idea? After all, the wedding is
nine
months away.”

“All I know is that you have to lead with your heart and everything else in life will follow.” Skye shrugged, then winked. “And there’s always Wally’s place.”

As Trixie giggled, Skye turned and saw the beautiful wedding dress the consultant had brought into the room. Her throat closed and tears of happiness welled up in her eyes. This was it. She was really getting married.

I
mentally tapped my toe as I waited for Miss Ophelia to make her selection from the glass candy case. As the foremost authority on etiquette in Shadow Bend, Missouri—population four thousand and twenty-eight—she’d been whipping the future generations of my hometown into excruciatingly correct behavior for the past fifty years. And since I had bought the dime store ten months ago, it had become her habit to stop in to purchase a single treat for herself every Saturday afternoon. Her last class on the proper way to dine, dance, and flirt with the opposite sex ended promptly at three thirty, and she arrived at my store exactly seven minutes later.

While Miss Ophelia dithered between a hand-dipped dulce de leche truffle and this month’s signature candy, a red velvet bonbon, I glanced at the vintage Ingraham schoolhouse regulator hanging on the wall behind the front counter. Although the clock had been manufactured in the 1920s, its beautiful carved oak case, convex glass, and brass pendulum still looked brand-new, and it kept perfect time. It was now 3:52 p.m.

Eight more minutes and my weekend clerk, Xylia Locke, and I could shoo the loiterers out, flip off the
neon
OPEN
sign, and bolt the door. Devereaux’s Dime Store and Gift Baskets closed at four on Saturday, and today I wasn’t letting the customers linger a single second longer. I had smoking-hot plans for the evening, and only ninety minutes to make myself beautiful enough to fulfill them.

After a lengthy verbal debate with herself, Miss Ophelia finally made her choice—completely changing her mind at the last minute and going with the butter crunch toffee. While Xylia was ringing up the older woman’s purchase, I began the process of herding the stragglers toward either the register for those who wanted to make a purchase or the exit for those who were sitting at the soda fountain using the free Wi-Fi and socializing.

My clerk had one foot over the threshold as she said good-bye to me when an attractive thirtysomething brunette carrying a large package rushed past her into the store. I called out that we were closed, but the woman either didn’t hear me or ignored my admonishment. Xylia raised a questioning eyebrow, but I waved her away. Whatever the last-minute shopper wanted, she’d have to come back on Monday.

I locked the door behind my assistant, not wanting another eleventh-hour customer sneaking in, then said to the brunette standing near the cash register, “I’m sorry, but we’re closed for the day.”

“Do you own this store?” the woman demanded, making no move to leave.

“Yes.” Considering the cardboard carton in her arms, I wondered if she had a complaint about a previous purchase. “I’m Devereaux Sinclair, and you are…?”

“Elise Whitmore.” She thunked the box down on the marble counter and I heard a metallic clinking sound. “I understand you like old stuff.” She scrutinized me, her expression clearly indicating that she found wanting my less than fashionable jeans, yellow sweatshirt with “Devereaux’s
Dime Store” embroidered across the chest, and frizzy cinnamon gold hair scraped into a ponytail. “Is that true?”

“If you mean vintage and antique items, yes, I am interested in them. I both collect them and use them for the gift baskets I make.” When I had purchased the dime store, I had added the basket business.

“Good.” Elise unfolded the carton’s flaps and reached inside.

My treasure-hunting curiosity was piqued.

“I’ve got some old chocolate molds I want to sell.” Elise pulled out a pair of metal Easter Bunny casts. “What do you think?”

One bunny was close to a foot tall and had a basket attached to his back; the other bunny, about half the size of the first, was carrying a mushroom. I loved them. They would be perfect for my Easter window display and for the traditional basket orders I had for the holiday; the erotic baskets I made needed a vastly different type of merchandise.

“They seem nice,” I answered neutrally, hoping to keep the price within a range I could afford. “How much do you want for them?”

“You can have the whole box for a thousand bucks.” Elise put down the ones she held, then lined up three more Easter-themed molds—a girl bunny, a set of four eggs, and a rabbit riding a duck.

I didn’t know much about these particular collectibles, but I had a hunch this was an extremely good deal. “Can you give me a second?” When she nodded, I slipped into the storeroom, bent over my computer, and typed “antique chocolate molds” into Bing.com.
Zowie!
According to several of the Web sites I clicked on, the largest rabbit alone was worth nine hundred and fifty dollars.

Suddenly afraid that the woman would leave or
change her mind about selling the molds, I hurried back out to the sales floor, and, keeping my voice cool, said, “Since they’re a seasonal item, and there’s only three weeks left until Easter, I’ll give you seven-fifty.”

Elise frowned, then shrugged. “Eight hundred, but I want cash.”

Since so many people used credit and debit cards, I wasn’t sure I had that much money in the till. “Eight-fifty if you’ll take a check.” I was willing to pay fifty bucks more to cinch the deal.

“No.” She shook her head. “Cash or I take these to the pawn shop at the edge of town.”

“Let me see what I have on hand.” I went behind the counter and opened the register. As I added up the contents of the drawer, I held my breath. I really wanted those molds.

“I don’t have all day.” Elise tapped her foot. “Do we have a deal or not?”

“One second.” I dug in my jeans pocket and pulled out a twenty, two fives, and a single. “Here you go.” After adding them to the stack in front of me, I handed the pile to Elise.

She counted the money, nodded, and stuck it in her Dolce & Gabbana handbag, then turned on her heel and marched toward the exit. I followed her and unlocked it. She hesitated halfway through, and I nearly hit her with the door I was already closing.

Elise took a swift step to avoid the collision, then said over her shoulder, “Do me a favor and don’t tell anyone where you got the molds.”